Clarissa: Or, the history of a young lady: comprehending the most important concerns of private life. ... Published by the editor of Pamela. ... [pt.2]

THE HISTORY OF Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE. VOL. II.

LETTER I. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Wednesday Night, March 22.

_ANGRY!—What should I be angry for?—I am mightily pleased with your freedom, as you call it. I only wonder at your patience with me; that's all. I am sorry I gave you the trouble of so long a letter upon the occasion (a) 1.1; notwithstanding the pleasure I received in reading it.

I believe, you did not intend reserves to me: For two reasons, I believe you did not: First, because you say, you did not: Next, because you have not, as yet, been able to convince yourself, how it is to be

with you; and, persecuted as you are, how so to se|parate the effects that spring from the two causes (Persecution and Love), as to give to each its particular due. But this I believe I hinted to you once before. And so will say no more upon that subject at present.

Robin says, you had but just deposited your last parcel when he took it: For he was there, but half an hour before, and found nothing. He had seen my impatience; and loiter'd about, being willing to bring me something from you, if possible.

My cousin Jenny Fynnett is here, and desires to be my bedfellow to-hight. So I shall not have an opportunity to sit down with that seriousness and at|tention, which the subjects of yours require. For, she is all prate, you know, and loves to set me a prating: Yet comes upon a very grave occasion:—On purpose to procure my mamma to go with her to her grand|mother Larkin, who has been long bed-ridden; and, at last, has taken it into her head, that she is mortal; and therefore will make her will; a work she was, till now, extremely averse to; but it must be upon condition, that my mamma, who is her distant re|lation, will go to her, and advise her, as to the par|ticulars of it: For, she has a high opinion, as every one else has, of my mamma's judgment in all matters relating to wills, settlements, and such-like notable affairs.

Mrs. Larkin lives about seventeen miles off; and as my mamma cannot abide to lie out of her own house, she proposes to set out early in the morning, in order to get back again at night. So, to-morrow I shall be at your devotion from day-light to day-light; nor will I be at home to any-body.

As to the impertinent man, I have put him upon escorting the two ladies, in order to attend my mamma home at night: Such expeditions as these, and to give our sex a little air of vanity and assuredness at public places, is all that I know these dangling fellows are good for.

I have hinted before, that I could almost wish my mamma and Mr. Hickman would make a match of it: And I here repeat my wishes. What signifies a difference of fifteen or twenty years; especially when the Lady has spirits that will make her young a long time, and the gentleman is a mighty sober man?—I think verily, I could like him better for a papa, than for a nearer relation: And they are strange admirers of one another.

But allow me a perhaps still better (and, as to years, more suitable and happier) disposal; for the man at least:—What think you, my dear, of compromizing with your friends, by rejecting both your men, and encouraging my parader?—If your liking of one of the two go no farther than conditional, I believe it will do.—A rich thought, if it obtain your appro|bation. In this light, I should have a prodigious re|spect for Mr. Hickman; more by half than I can have in the other. The vein is open'd—Shall I let it flow?—How difficult to withstand constitutional foibles!—

Hickman, is certainly a man more in your taste, than any of those who have hitherto been brought to ad|dress you. He is mighty sober! mighty grave! and all that. Then you have told me, that he is your fa|vourite!—But that is, because he is my mamma's, perhaps.—The man would certainly rejoice at the transfer: Or he must be a greater fool than I take him to be.

O but your fierce lover would knock him o' the head—I forgot that!—What makes me incapable of seriousness when I write about this Hickman?—Yet the man so good a sort of man in the main?—But who is perfect? This is one of my foibles. And something for you to chide me for.

You believe me very happy in my prospects, in relation to him: Because you are so very unhappy in the foolish usage you meet with, you are apt (as I su|spect) to think that tolerable which otherwise would

be far from being so. I dare say, you would not with all your grave airs, like him for yourself; except being addressed by Solmes and him, you were obliged to have one of them. I have given you a test; let me see what you'll say to it.

For my own part, I confess to you, that I have great exceptions to Hickman. He, and wedlock never yet once enter'd into my head at one time. Shall I give you my free thoughts of him?—Of his best and his worst; and that as if I were writing to one, who knows him not? I think I will. Yet it is impossible I should do it gravely. The subject won't bear to be so treated, in my opinion. We are not come so far as that yet, if ever we shall? And to do it in another strain, ill becomes my present real concern for you.

HERE I was interrupted on the honest man's ac|count. He has been here these two hours—courting my mamma for her daughter, I suppose—Yet she wants no courting neither: Tis well one of us does; else the man would have nothing but halcyon; and be remiss, and saucy of course.

He was going. His horses at the door.

My mamma sent for me down, pretending to want to say something to me.

Something she said when I came, that signify'd no|thing—Evidently, for no reason called me, but to give me an opportunity to see what a fine bow he could make; and that he might wish me a good-night. She knows I am not over-ready to oblige him with my presence, if I happen to be otherwise engag'd. I could not help an air a little upon the fretful, when I found she had nothing of moment to say to me, and when I saw her end.

She smiled off the visible fretfulness, that the man might go away in good humour with himself.

He bow'd to the ground, and would have taken my hand, his whip in the other: I did not like to

be so companion'd: I withdrew my hand, but touched his elbow with a motion, as if from his low bow I had supposed him falling, and would have help'd him up. A sad slip, it might have been, said I!

A mad girl, smil'd it off my mamma!

He was put quite out; took his horse-bridle, stump'd back, back, back, bowing, till he run against his servant: I laughed; he mounted his horse; rid away: I mounted up stairs, after a little lecture.—And my head is so filled with him, that I must resume my intention; in hopes to divert you for a few moments.

Take it then—His best, and his worst, as I said before.

Hickman is a sort of fiddling, busy, yet to borrow a word from you, un-busy man: Has a great deal to do, and seems to me to dispatch nothing. Irresolute, and changeable in every thing, but in teazing me with his nonsense; which yet, it is evident, he must continue upon my mamma's interest, more than his own hopes; for none have I given him.

Then I have a quarrel against his face, though in his person, for a well-thriven man, tolerably genteel:—Not to his features so much neither—For what, as you have often observed, are features in a man?—But Hickman, with strong lines, and big cheek and chin bones, has not the manliness in his aspect, which Lovelace has with the most regular and agreeable features.

Then what a set and formal mortal is he in some things!—I have not been able yet to laugh him out of his long bib and beads: Indeed, that is, because my mamma thinks it becomes him; and I would not be so free with him, as to own I should choose to have him leave it off. If he did, so particular is the man, he would certainly, if left to himself, fall into a King-William-Cravat, or some such antique chin-cushion, as, by the pictures of that Prince, one sees was then the fashion.

As to his dress, in general, he cannot, indeed, be

called a sloven, but sometimes he is too gaudy, at other times too plain, to be uniformly elegant. And for his manners, he makes such a bustle with them, and about them, as would induce one to suspect that they are more strangers to him, than familiars. You, I know, lay this to his fearfulness of disobliging, or offending. Indeed your Over-does generally give the offence they endeavour to avoid.

The man, however, is honest: Is of family: Has a clear and good estate; and may one day be a Ba|ronet, and please you. He is humane and benevolent, tolerably generous, as people say; and as I might say too, if I would accept of his bribes; which he offers in hopes of having them all back again, and the bribed into the bargain: A method taken by all corruptors, from old Satan, to the lowest of his servants.—Yet, to speak in the language of a person I am bound to honour, he is deemed a prudent man; that is, a good manager.

Then, I cannot say, that now I like any-body better, whatever I did once.

He is no fox-hunter: Keeps a pack indeed, but prefers not his hounds to his fellow-creatures. No bad sign for a wife, I own. Loves his horse, but dislikes racing in a gaming way, as well as all sorts of gaming. Then he is sober; modest; They say, vir|tuous; in short, has qualities that mothers would be fond of in a husband for their daughters; and for which, perhaps, their daughters would be the happier could they judge as well for themselves, as experience, possibly, may teach them to judge for their future daughters.

Nevertheless, to own the truth, I cannot say I love the man; nor ever shall, I believe.

Strange! that these sober fellows cannot have a decent sprightliness, a modest assurance with them! Something debonnaire; which need not be separated from that awe and reverence, when they address a

woman, which should shew the ardor of their passion, rather than the sheepishness of their nature; for who knows not, that Love delights in taming the Lyon-hearted? That those of the sex, who are most con|scious of their own defect, in point of courage, na|turally require, and therefore as naturally prefer, the man who has most of it, as the most able to give them the requisite protection? That the greater their own cowardice, as it would be called in a man, the greater is their delight in subjects of heroism? As may be observed in their reading; which turns upon difficulties encounter'd, battles fought, and enemies overcome, 4 or 500 by the prowess of one single hero, the more improbable the better: In short, that their man should be a hero to every one living but themselves; and to them know no bound to his hu|mility. A woman has some glory in subduing a heart no man living can appall; and hence too often the bravo, assuming the hero, and making himself pass for one, succeeds as only a hero should.

But as for honest Hickman, the good man is so generally meek, as I imagine, that I know not whe|ther I have any preference paid me in his obsequi|ousness. And then, when I rate him, he seems to be so naturally fitted for rebuke, and so much expects it, that I know not how to disappoint him, whether he just then deserve it, or not. I am sure, he has puzzled me many a time when I have seen him look penitent for faults he has not committed, whether to pity or laugh at him.

You and I have often retrospected the faces and minds of grown people; that is to say, have formed images from their present appearances, outside and in, (as far as the manners of the persons would justify us in the latter) what sort of figures they made when boys and girls. And I'll tell you the lights in which Hickman, Solmes, and Lovelace, our three heroes, have appeared to me, supposing them boys at school.

Solmes I have imagin'd to be, a little, sordid, pil|fering rogue, who would purloin from every-body, and beg every boy's bread and butter from him; while, as I have heard a reptile brag, he would in a winter-morning, spit upon his thumbs, and spread his own with it, that he might keep it all to himself.

Hickman, a great over-grown, lank-hair'd, chubby boy, who would be hunch'd and punch'd by every-body; and go home, with his finger in his eye, and tell his mother.

While Lovelace I have supposed a curl-pated villain, full of fire, fancy, and mischief; an orchard-robber, a wall-climber, a horse-rider without saddle or bridle, neck or nothing: A sturdy rogue, in short, who would kick and cuff, and do no right, and take no wrong of any-body; would get his head broke, then a plaister for it, or let it heal of itself; while he went on to do more mischief, and if not to get, to deserve, broken bones. And the same dispositions have grown up with them, and distinguish the men, with no very material alteration.

Only, that all men are monkeys more or less, or else that you and I should have such baboons as these to choose out of, is a mortifying thing, my dear.

I am sensible, that I am not a little out of season in treating thus ludicrously the subject I am upon, while you are so unhappy; and if my manner does not divert you, as my flightinesses used to do, I am inexcusable both to you, and to my own heart: Which, I do assure you, notwithstanding my seeming levity, is, wholly in your case.

As this letter is intirely whimsical, I will not send it until I can accompany it with something more solid and better suited to your unhappy circumstances; that is to say, to the present subject of our correspondence. To-morrow, as I told you, will be wholly yours, and of consequence, your

ANNA HOWE'S.

LETTER II. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Thursday Morn. 7 o'Clock.

MY mamma and cousin are already gone off in our chariot and four, attended by their doughty 'Squire on horseback, and he by two of his own ser|vants, and one of my mamma's. They both love parade, when they go abroad, at least in compliment to one another; which shews, that each thinks the other does. Robin is your servant and mine, and nobody's else: And the day is all my own.

I must begin with blaming you, my dear, for your resolution not to litigate for your right, if occasion were to be given you. Justice is due to one's self, as well as to every-body else. Still more must I blame you for declaring to your aunt and sister that you will not: Since (as they will tell it to your father and brother) the declaration must needs give advan|tages to spirits who have so little of that generosity for which you yourself are so much distinguished.

There never was a spirit in the world that would insult where it dared, but it would creep and cringe where it dared not. Let me remind you of a sentence of your own, the occasion for which I have forgotten:

'That little Spirits will always accommodate them|selves to the subject they would work upon:—Will sawn upon a sturdy-temper'd person: Will insult the meek:'

And another given to Miss Biddulph, upon an occasion you cannot forget:—

'If we assume a dignity in what we say and do; and take care not to disgrace by arrogance our own assumption, every-body will treat us with respect and deference.'

I remember that you once made an observation, which you said, you was obliged to Mrs. Norton for, and she to her father, upon an excellent preacher,

who was but an indifferent liver:

'That to excell in theory, and to excell in practice, generally required different talents; which not always met in the same person.'

Do you, my dear (to whom theory and practice are the same thing, in almost every laudable quality) apply the observation to yourself, in this particular case, where Resolution is required; and where performance of the will of the defunct is the question—No more to be dispensed with by you, in whose favour it was made, than by any-body else, who have only Themselves in view, by breaking thro' it.

I know how much you despise riches in the main: But yet it behoves you to remember, that in one in|stance you yourself have judged them valuable—

'In that they put it into one's power to lay obligations; while the want of them puts a person under a ne|cessity of receiving favours; receiving them, perhaps from grudging and narrow spirits, who know not how to confer them with that grace, which gives the principal merit to a beneficent action.'

—Reflect upon this, my dear, and see how it agrees with the declaration you have made to your aunt and sister, that you would not resume your estate, were you to be turned out of doors, and reduced to indigence and want. Their very fears that you will resume, point out to you the necessity of resuming, upon the treat|ment you meet with.

I own, that I was much affected (at first reading) with your mamma's letter sent with the patterns!—A strange measure, however, from a mother; for she did not intend to insult you; and I cannot but la|ment that so sensible and so fine a Lady should stoop to so much art, as that letter is written with: And which also appears in some of the conversations you have given me an account of. See you not in her passiveness, what boistrous spirits can obtain from gentler, merely by teazing and ill-nature?

I know the pride they have always taken in calling you an Harlowe—Clarissa Harlowe, so formal and so set, at every word, when they are grave, or proudly solemn.—Your mamma has learnt it of them—And as in marriage, so in will, has been taught to bury her own superior name and family in theirs. I have often thought that the same spirit govern'd them, in this piece of affectation, and others of the like nature (as Harlowe-Place, and so-forth, tho' not the elder brother's or paternal seat) as govern'd the tyrant Tudor (a) 1.2, who marrying Elizabeth, the Heiress of the House of York, made himself a title to a throne, which he would not otherwise have had (being but a base descendant of the Lancaster Line); and proved a gloomy and vile husband to her; for no other cause, than because she had laid him under obligations, which his pride would not permit him to own.—Nor would the unprincely wretch marry her till he was in pos|session of the crown, that he might not be supposed to owe it to her claim.

You have chidden me, and again will, I doubt not, for the liberties I take with some of your re|lations. But, my dear, need I tell you, That pride in ourselves must, and for-ever will, provoke con|tempt, and bring down upon us abasement from others?—Have we not, in the case of a celebrated Bard, observed, that those who aim at more than their due, will be refused the honours that they may justly claim?—I am very loth to offend you; yet I cannot help speaking of them, as well as of others, as I think they deserve. Praise or Dispraise, is the Reward or Punishment which the world confers or inflicts on Merit or Demerit; and, for my part, I neither can nor will confound them in the ap|plication. I despise them All, but your mamma: Indeed I do:—And as for her—But I will spare the good Lady for your sake—And one argu|ment, indeed, I think may be pleaded in her favour,

in the present contention—She who has for so many years, and with such absolute resignation, borne what she has borne, to the sacrifice of her own will, may think it an easier task, than another person can ima|gine it, for her daughter to give up her's.—But to think to whose instigation all this is originally owing—God forgive me; but with such usage I should have been with Lovelace before now—Yet remember, my dear, that the step which would not be wonder'd at from such an hasty-temper'd creature as me, would be inexcusable in such a considerate person as you.

After your mamma has been thus drawn in against her judgment, I am the less surprised, that your aunt Hervey should go along with her; since the two sisters never separate. I have inquired into the nature of the obligation which Mr. Hervey's indifferent con|duct in his affairs has laid him under:—It is only, it seems, that your brother has paid off for him a mortgage upon one part of his estate, which the mortgagee was about to foreclose; and taken it upon himself: A small favour (as he has ample security in his hands) from kindred to kindred: But such a one, it is plain, as has laid the whole family of the Herveys under obligation to the ungenerous lender; who has treated him, and his aunt too (as Miss Dolly Hervey has privately complain'd) with the less ceremony ever since.

Must I, my dear, call such a creature your brother?—I believe I must—Because he is your father's son. There is no harm, I hope, in saying That.

I am concerned, that you ever wrote at all to him. It was taking too much notice of him: It was adding to his self-significance; and a call upon him to treat you with insolence: A call which you might have been assured he would not fail to answer.

But such a pretty master as this, to run riot against such a man as Lovelace; who had taught him to put his sword into his scabbard, when he had pulled it

out by accident!—These in-door insolents, who, turning themselves into bugbears, frighten women, children, and servants, are generally cravens among men. Were he to come fairly cross me, and say to my face some of the free things, which, I am told, he has said of me behind my back, or that (as by your account) he has said of our sex, I would take upon myself to ask him two or three questions; altho' he were to send me a challenge likewise.

I repeat, You know that I will speak my mind, and write it too. He is not my brother. Can you say, he is yours?—So, for your life, if you are just, you can't be angry with me: For would you side with a false brother against a true friend? A brother may not be a friend: But a friend will be always a brother.—Mind That, as your uncle Tony says!

I cannot descend so low, as to take very particular notice of the epistles of those poor souls, whom you call uncles.—Yet I love to divert myself with such grotesque characters too.—But I know them, and love you; and so cannot make the jest of them, which their absurdities call for.

Now I have said so much on these touching topics, (as I am but too sensible you will think them) I must add one reflection more, and so intitle myself to your correction for all at once.—It is upon the conduct of those women (for you and I know more than one such) who can suffer themselves to be out-bluster'd and out-gloom'd, till they have no will of their own; instead of being prevailed upon, by acts of tenderness and complaisance, to be fooled out of it.—I wish, that it does not demonstrate too evidently, that, with some of the sex, insolent controul is a more efficacious subduer than kindness or concession.—Upon my life, my dear, I have often thought, that many of us are mere babies in matrimony: Perverse fools, when too much indulg'd and humour'd; creeping slaves, when treated harshly. But shall it be said, that fear

makes us more gentle obligers than love?—Forbid it, honour! forbid it, gratitude! forbid it, justice! that any woman of sense should give occasion to have this said of her!

Did I think you would have any manner of doubt, from the style or contents of this letter, whose saucy pen it is that has run on at this rate, I would write my name at length; since it comes too much from my heart to disavow it:—But at present the initials shall serve; and I will go on again directly.

A. H.

LETTER III. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Thursday morn. 10 o' clock (Mar. 23).

I Will postpone, or perhaps pass by, several observa|tions which I had to make on other parts of your letters; to acquaint you, that Mr. Hickman, when in London, found an opportunity to inquire after Mr. Lovelace's town-life and conversation.

At the Cocoa-tree in Pall-mall he fell in with two of his intimates, the one named Belton, the other Mowbray; very free of speech, and rakish gentlemen both: But the waiter, it seems, paid them great re|spect, and, on his inquiry after their characters, cal|led them men of fortune and honour.

They began to talk of Mr. Lovelace of their own accord; and upon some gentlemen in the room ask|ing, when they expected him in town, answer'd, That very day. Mr. Hickman (as they both went on praising Lovelace) said, He had indeed heard, that Mr. Lovelace was a very fine gentleman—and was pro|ceeding, when one of them, interrupting him, said,—Only, Sir, the finest gentleman in the world; that's all.

And so he led them on to expatiate more particu|larly on his qualities; which they were very fond of

doing: But said not one single word in behalf of his morals—Mind that also, in your uncle's style.

Mr. Hickman said, That Mr. Lovelace was very happy, as he understood, in the esteem of the Ladies; and, smiling, to make them believe he did not think amiss of it, that he push'd his good fortune as far as it would go.

Well put, Mr. Hickman! thought I; equally grave and sage—Thou seemest not to be a stranger to their dialect, as I suppose this is!—But I said nothing; for I have often try'd to find out this mighty sober man of my mamma's: But hitherto have only to say, that he is either very moral, or very cunning.

No doubt of it, reply'd one of them; and out came an oath, with a Who would not?—That he did as every young gentleman would—

Very true! said my mamma's puritan—But I hear he is in treaty with a fine lady—

So he was, Mr. Belton said—The d—I fetch her! (Vile brute!) for she ingrossed all his time!—But that the Lady's family ought to be—something—(Mr. Hickman desired to be excused repeating what,—tho' he had repeated what was worse)—and might dearly repent their usage of a man of his family and merit.

Perhaps they may think him too wild a gentleman, cry'd Hickman: And theirs is, I hear, a very sober family—

SOBER! said one of them: A good honest word, Dick!—Where the devil has it lain all this time?—D—me if I have heard of it in this sense, ever since I was at college! And then, said he, we bandy'd it about among twenty of us, as an obsolete—

There's for you, my dear!—These are Mr. Love|lace's companions: You'll be pleased to take notice of that!

Mr. Hickman said, this put him out of countenance.

I stared at him, and with such a meaning in my

eyes, as he knew how to take; and so was out of countenance again.

Don't you remember, my dear, who it was that told a young gentleman designed for the gown, who own'd he was apt to be too easily put out of countenance, when he came among free company;

'That it was a bad sign; that it looked as if his morals were not proof; but that his good disposition seemed rather the effect of accident and education, than of such a choice as was founded upon principle?'

And don't you know the lesson the very same young Lady gave him,

'To endeavour to stem and discountenance vice, and to glory in being an advocate in all com|panies for virtue;'

particularly observing,

'That it was natural for a man to shun, or give up, what he was ashamed of?'

Which she should be sorry to think his case on this occasion: Adding,

'That vice was a coward, and would hide its head, when opposed by such a virtue as had presence of mind, and a full persuasion of its own rectitude, to support it.'

The Lady, you may remember, modestly put her doctrine into the mouth of a worthy preacher, Dr. Lewin, as she uses to do, when she has a mind not to be thought to be what she is at so early an age; and that it may give more weight to any-thing she hit upon, that might appear tolerable, was her modest manner of speech.

Mr. Hickman, upon the whole, professed to me, upon his second recovery, that he had no reason to think well of Mr. Lovelace's morals, from what he heard of him in town: Yet his two intimates talked of his being more regular than he used to be: That he had made a very good resolution; That of old Tom Wharton was the expression, That he would never give a challenge, nor refuse one; which they praised in him highly: That, in short, he was a very brave fellow, and the charming'st companion in the world:

And would one day make a great figure in his coun|try; for there was nothing he was not capable of—

I am afraid that this is too true. And this, my dear, is all that Mr. Hickman could pick up about him: And is it not enough to determine such a mind as yours, if not already determined?

Yet it must be said too, that if there be a woman in the world that can reclaim him, it is you. And, by your account of his behaviour in the interview be|tween you, I own I have some hope of him. At least, This I will say, That all his arguments with you, then, seem to be just and right: And if you are to be his—But no more of That▪ He cannot, after all, deserve you.

LETTER IV. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Thursday afternoon, March 23.

AN unexpected visitor has turned the course of my thoughts, and chang'd the subject I had intended to pursue. The only one for whom I would have dispensed with my resolution not to see any-body all the dedicated day: A visitor, whom, according to Mr. Hickman's report from the expectations of his libertine friends, I supposed to be in town.—Now, my dear, have I saved myself the trouble of telling you, That it was your too-agreeable Rake. Our sex is said to love to trade in surprizes: Yet have I, by my over-promptitude, surprised myself out of mine.—I had intended, you must know, to run twice the length, before I had suffer'd you so much as to guess who, and of which sex, my visitor was: But since you have the discovery at so cheap a rate, you are welcome to it.

The end of his coming was, to engage my interest with my charming friend; and as he was sure, that I

knew all your mind, to acquaint him what he had to trust to. He mentioned what had passed in the inter|view between you:—But could not be satisfy'd with the result of it, and with the little satisfaction he had obtained from you; the malice of your family to him increasing, and their cruelty to you not abating.—His heart, he told me, was in tumults, for fear you should be prevailed upon in favour of a man despised by every-body. He gave me fresh instances of indigni|ties cast upon himself by your uncles and brother; and declared, that if you suffered yourself to be forced into the arms of the man for whose sake he was loaded with undeserved abuses, you should be one of the youngest, as you would be one of the loveliest, widows in Eng|land: And that he would moreover call your brother to account for the liberties he takes with his character to every-one he meets with.

He proposed several schemes, for you to choose some one of them, in order to enable you to avoid the persecutions you labour under: One I will men|tion; That you will resume your estate; and if you find difficulties, that can be no otherwise surmounted, that you will, either avowedly or privately, as he had proposed to you, accept of his aunt Lawrance's, or Lord M's, assistance to instate you in it. He declared, that, if you did, he would leave it absolutely to your own pleasure afterwards, and to the advice which your cousin Morden on his arrival should give you, whe|ther to encourage his address, or not, as you shall be convinced of the sincerity of the reformation which his enemies make him so much want.

I had now a good opportunity to sound him (as you wish'd Mr. Hickman would Lord M.), as to the con|tinued or diminished favour of the Ladies, and of his Uncle, towards you, upon their being acquainted with the animosity of your relations to them, as well as to their kinsman. I took the opportunity; and he satis|fy'd me, by reading some passages of a letter he had

about him, from Lord M, That an alliance with you, and that on the foot of your own single merit, would be the most desirable event to them, that could hap|pen: And so far to the purpose of your wished inquiry does his Lordship go, in this letter, that he assures him, that whatever you suffer in fortune from the violence of your relations, on his account, he and his sisters will join to make it up to him. And yet the reputation of a family so splendid, would, no doubt, in a case of such importance to the honour of both, make them prefer a general consent.

I told him, as you yourself I knew had done, that you were extremely averse to Mr. Solmes; and that, might you be left to your own choice, it would be the Single Life. As to himself, I plainly said, That you had great and just objections to him, on the score of his careless morals: That it was surprising, that young gentlemen, who gave themselves the liberties he was said to take, should presume to think, that, whenever they took it into their heads to marry, the most virtuous and worthy of the sex were to fall to their lot: That as to the Resumption, it had been very strongly urged by myself, and would be more; tho' you had been averse to it hitherto: That your chief reliance and hopes were upon your cousin Mor|den: And that to suspend or gain time, till he arrived, was, as I believed, your principal aim.

I told him, That with regard to the mischief he threatened, neither the act nor the menace could serve any end but theirs who persecuted you; as it would give them a pretence for carrying into effect their compulsatory projects; and that with the appro|bation of all the world; since he must not think the public would give its voice in favour of a violent young man, of no extraordinary character as to morals, who should seek to rob a family of eminence of a child so valuable; and who threatened, if he could not obtain her in preference to a man chosen by themselves, that

he would avenge himself upon them All, by acts of violence.

I added, That he was very much mistaken, if he thought to intimidate you by such menaces: For that, tho' your disposition was all sweetness, yet I knew not a steadier temper in the world than yours; nor one more inflexible (as your friends had found, and would still farther find, if they continued to give occasion for its exertion), whenever you thought yourself in the right; and that you were dealt ungenerously with, in matters of too much moment to be indifferent about. Miss Clarissa Harlowe, Mr. Lovelace, let me tell you, said I, timid as her foresight and prudence may make her in some cases, where she apprehends dangers to those she loves, is above fear, in points where her ho|nour, and the true dignity of her sex, are concerned.—In short, Sir, you must not think to frighten Miss Cla|rissa Harlowe into such a mean or unworthy conduct, as only a weak or unsteady mind can be guilty of.

He was so very far from intending to intimidate you, he said, that he besought me not to mention one word to you, of what had passed between us: That what he had hinted at, that carried the air of a me|nace, was owing to the fervor of his spirits, raised by his apprehensions of losing all hope of you for ever; and on a supposition, that you were to be actually forced into the arms of a man you hated: That were this to be the case, he must own, that he should pay very little regard to the world, or its censures: Espe|cially as the menaces of some of your family now, and their triumph over him afterwards, would both pro|voke and warrant all the vengeance he could take.

He added, that all the countries in the world were alike to him, but on your account: So that whatever he should think fit to do, were you lost to him, he should have nothing to apprehend from the Laws of this.

I did not like the determined air he spoke this with: He is certainly, my dear, capable of great rashness.—

He palliated a little this fierceness (which by the way I warmly censured) by saying, That while you remain single, he will bear all the indignities that shall be cast upon him by your family. But would you throw yourself, if you werer still farther driven, into any other protection, if not his uncle's, or that of the ladies of his family (into my mamma's, suppose); or would you go to London to private lodgings, where he would never visit you, unless he had your leave; and from whence you might make your own terms with your relations; he would be intirely satisfy'd; and would, as he had said before, wait the effect of your cousin's arrival, and your free determination, as to his own fate.—Adding, That he knew the family so well, and how much fixed they were upon their measures, as well as the absolute dependence they made upon your temper and principles, that he could not but apprehend the worst, while you remained in the power of their persuasion and menaces.

We had a great deal of other discourse: But as the reciting of the rest would be but a repetition of many of the things that passed between you and him, in the interview between you in the woodhouse, I refer myself to your memory on that occasion (a) 1.3.

And now, my dear, upon the whole, I think, it behoves you to make yourself independent: All then will fall right. This man is a violent man. I should wish, methinks, that you should not have either him or Solmes. You will find, if you get out of your brother's and sister's way, what you can or can-not do, with regard to either. If your relations persist in their foolish scheme, I think I will take his hint, and, at a proper opportunity, sound my mamma. Mean time, let me have your clear opinion of, and reason|ings upon, the Resumption, which I join with Love|lace in advising. You can but see how your demand will work. To demand, is not to litigate. But be

your resolution what it will, do not by any means repeat, that you will not assert your right. If they go on to give you provocation, you may have suffi|cient reason to change your mind: And let them ex|pect that you will change it. They have not the generosity to treat you the better for disclaiming the power they know you have. That, I think, need not now be told you.

I am, my dearest friend, and will be ever,

Your most affectionate and faithful ANNA HOWE.

LETTER V. Miss CLARISSA. HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Wedn. Night, March 22.

ON my aunt's and sister's report of my obstinacy, my assembled relations have taken an unanimous resolution (as Betty tells me it is) against me. This resolution you will find signify'd to me in the in|closed letter from my brother, just now brought me. Be pleased to return it, when perused. I may have occasion for it, in the altercations between my rela|tions and me.

Miss CLARY,

I AM commanded to let you know, that my father and uncles having heard your aunt Hervey's account of all that has passed between her and you: Having heard from your sister what sort of treatment she has had from you: Having recollected all that has passed between your mamma and you: Having weighed all your pleas and proposals: Having taken into consider|ation their engagements with Mr. Solmes; that gentle|man's patience, and great affection for you; and the lit|tle opportunity you have given yourself to be acquainted either with his merit, or his proposals: Having considered two points more; to wit, The wounded authority of

a father; and Mr. Solmes's continual intreaties (little as you have deserved regard from him), that you may be freed from a confinement to which he is desirous to attribute your perverseness to him (averseness I should have said, but let it go), he being unable to account otherwise for so strong a one, supposing you told truth to your mamma, when you asserted, that your heart was free; and which Mr. Solmes is willing to believe, tho' no-body else does.—For all these rea|sons, it is resolved, that you shall go to your uncle Antony's: And you must accordingly prepare your|self so to do. You will have but short notice of the day, for obvious reasons.

I will honestly tell you the motive for your going: It is a double one; first, That they may be sure, that you shall not correspond with any-body they do not like; for they find from Mrs. Howe, that, by some means or other, you do correspond with her daughter; and, thro' her, perhaps with somebody else: And next, That you may receive the visits of Mr. Solmes; which you have thought fit to refuse to do here; by which means you have deprived yourself of the opportunity of knowing whom and what you have hitherto refused.

If after one fortnight's conversation with Mr. Solmes, and after you have heard what your friends shall fur|ther urge in his behalf, unharden'd by clandestine correspondencies, you shall convince them, that Vir|gil's amor omnibus idem (for the application of which I refer you to the Georgic, as translated by Dryden) is verify'd in you, as well as in the rest of the animal creation; and that you cannot, or will not, forego your prepossession in favour of the moral, the virtuous, the pious Lovelace (I would please you if I could!), it will then be considered, whether to humour you, or to renounce you for ever.

It is hoped, that, as you must go, you will go chearfully. Your uncle Antony will make every|thing at his house agreeable to you. But indeed he

won't promise, that he will not, at proper times, draw up the bridge.

Your visitors, besides Mr. Solmes, will be myself, if you permit me that honour; your sister; and, as you behave to Mr. Solmes, your aunt Hervey, and your uncle Harlowe; and yet the two latter will hardly come neither, if they think it will be to hear your whining vocatives.—Betty Barnes will be your attendant: And, I must needs tell you, Miss, that we none of us think the worse of the faithful maid, for your dislike of her: Which Betty, however, who would be glad to oblige you, laments as a misfortune.

Your answer is required, whether you chearfully consent to go? And your indulgent mamma bids me remind you from her, That a fortnight's visits from Mr. Solmes are all that is meant at present.

I am, as you shall be pleased to deserve,

Yours, &c. JAMES HARLOWE, jun.

So here is the master-stroke of my brother's policy! Called upon to consent to go to my uncle Antony's, avowedly to receive Mr. Solmes's visits!—A chapel!—A moated house!—Deprived of the opportunity of corresponding with you!—or of any possibility of escape, should violence be used to compel me to be that odious man's!

Late as it was, when I received this insolent letter, I wrote an answer to it directly, that it might be ready for the writer's time of rising. I inclose the rough draught of it. You will see by it how much his vile hint from the Georgic, and his rude one of my whining vocatives, have set me up. Besides, as the command to get ready to go to my uncle's is in the name of my father and uncles, it is but to shew a piece of the art they accuse me of, to resent the vile hint, I have so much reason to resent, in order to palliate the refusal of obeying, what would otherwise

be interpreted an act of rebellion by my brother and sister: For, it seems plain to me, that they will work but half their ends, if they do not deprive me of my father's and uncles favour, altho' I should even comply with terms, which it is impossible I should ever comply with.

YOU might have told me, Brother, in three lines, what the determination of my friends was; only, that then you would not have had room to display your pedantry by so detestable an allusion or reference to the Georgic. Give me leave to tell you, Sir, That if humanity were a branch of your studies at the Uni|versity, it has not found a genius in you for master|ing it. Nor is either my Sex or my self, tho' a sister, I see, intitled to the least decency from a brother, who has studied, as it seems, rather to cultivate the male|volence of his natural temper, than any tendency which one would have hoped his parentage, if not his education, might have given him, to a tolerable politeness.

I doubt not, that you will take amiss my freedom: But as you have deserved it from me, I shall be less and less concerned on that score, as I see you are more and more intent to shew your wit at the expence of justice and compassion.

The time is, indeed, come, that I can no longer bear those contempts and reflections, which a brother, least of all men, is intitled to give. And let me beg of you one favour, officious Sir:—It is this, That you will not give yourself any concern about a hus|band for me, till I shall have the forwardness to pro|pose a wife to you. Pardon me, Sir; but I cannot help thinking, that could I have the art to get my papa of my side, I should have as much right to pre|scribe for you, as you have for me.

As to the communication you make me, I must take upon me to say, That altho' I will receive, as

becomes me, any of my papa's commands; yet, as this signification is made me by a brother, who has shewn of late so much of an unbrotherly animosity to me (for no reason in the world that I know of, but that he believes he has, in me, one sister too many for his interest) I think myself intitled to conclude, that such a letter as you have sent me, is all your own—And of course to declare, that, while I so think it, I will not willingly, nor even without vio|lence, go to any place avowedly, to receive Mr. Solmes's visits.

I think myself so much intitled to resent your in|famous hint, and this as well for the sake of my Sex, as for my own, that I ought to declare, as I do, that I will not receive any more of your letters, unless commanded to do so, by an authority I never will dispute; except in a case, where I think my future, as well as present happiness concerned—And were such a case to happen, I am sure my father's harsh|ness will be less owing to himself, than to you; and to the specious absurdities of your ambitious and selfish schemes.—Very true, Sir!

One word more, provoked as I am, I will add: That had I been thought as really obstinate and per|verse, as of late I am said to be, I should not have been so disgracefully treated as I have been—Lay your hand upon your heart, Brother, and say, By whose instigations—And examine what I have done to deserve to be made thus unhappy, and to be obliged to style myself,

Your injured Sister, CL. HARLOWE.

When, my dear, you have read my answer to this letter, tell me, what you think of me?—It shall go!—

LETTER VI. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Thursday Morning, Mar. 23.

MY letter has set them all in tumults: For, it seems, none of them went home last night; and they all were desired to be present to give their advice, if I should refuse compliance with a command thought so reasonable as, it seems, this was.

Betty tells me, That, at first, my father, in a rage, was for coming up to me himself, and for turning me out of his doors directly. Nor was he restrained, till it was hinted to him, that That was no doubt my wish, and would answer all my perverse views. But the result was, That my brother (having really, as my mamma and aunt insisted, taken wrong measures with me) should write again in a more moderate man|ner: For nobody else was permitted or cared to write to such a ready scribbler. And, I having declared that I would not receive any more of his letters with|out command from a superior authority, my mamma was to give it hers: And accordingly has done so in the following lines, written on the superscription of his letter to me: Which letter also follows: Toge|ther with my reply.

Clary Harlowe,

RECEIVE and read This, with the temper that becomes your sex, your character, your educa|tion, and your duty: And return an answer to it, directed to your brother.

CHARLOTTE HARLOWE.

To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Thursday Morning.

ONCE more I write, altho' imperiously prohibited by a younger sister. Your mamma will have me do so, that you may be destitute of all defence, if you persist in your pervicacy. Shall I be a pedant, Miss, for this word? She is willing to indulge in you the least appearance of that delicacy for which she once, as well as every-body else, admired you—Before you knew Lovelace; I cannot, however, help saying that: And she, and your aunt Hervey, will have it (They would fain favour you, if they could), that I may have provoked from you the answer they nevertheless own to be so exceedingly unbecoming. I am now learning, you see, to take up the softer language, where you have laid it down. This then is the case:

They intreat, they pray, they beg, they supplicate—(Will either of these do, Miss Clary?) That you will make no scruple to go to your uncle Antony's: And fairly I am to tell you, for the very purpose mentioned in my last—or, 'tis presumable, they need not intreat, pray, beg, supplicate.—Thus much is promised to Mr. Solmes, who is your advocate, and very uneasy, that you should be under constraint, supposing that your dislike to him arises from That▪ And, if he finds you are not to be moved in his fa|vour, when you are absolutely freed from That you call a controul, he will forbear thinking of you, what|ever it costs him. He loves you too well: And in this, I really think his understanding, which you have reflected upon, is to be questioned.

Only for one fortnight, therefore, permit his visits Your Education (you tell me of mine, you know ought to make you incapable of rudeness to any-body. He will not, I hope, be the first man, myself ex|cepted, whom you ever treated rudely, purely because

he is esteemed by us all. I am, what you have a mind to make me, Friend, Brother, or Servant—I wish I could be still more polite, to so polite, so delicate, a Sister.

JA. HARLOWE.

You must still write to me, if you condescend to reply. Your mamma will not be permitted to be disturbed with your nothing-meaning Vo|catives!—Vocatives, once more, Madam Clary, repeats the pedant your brother!

To JAMES HARLOWE, jun. Esq

Thursday, March 23.

PERMIT me, my ever-dear and honoured papa and mamma, in this manner to surprise you into an audience (presuming This will be read to you) since I am deny'd the honour of writing to you di|rectly. Let me beg of you to believe, that nothing but the most unconquerable dislike could make me stand against your pleasure. What are riches, what are settlements, to happiness? Let me not thus cruelly be given up to a man my very soul is averse to. Permit me to repeat, that I cannot honestly be his. Had I a slighter notion of the matrimonial duty than I have, perhaps I might. But when I am to bear all the misery, and That for life; when my heart is less concerned in this matter, than my soul; my temporal, perhaps, than my future good; why should I be deny'd the liberty of refusing? That liberty is all I ask.

It were easy for me to give way to hear Mr. Solmes talk for the mentioned fortnight, altho' it is im|possible for me, say what he would, to get over my dislike to him. But the Moated house, the Chapel there, and the little mercy my brother and sister, who are to be there, have hitherto shewn me, are what I

am extremely apprehensive of. And why does my brother say, my restraint is to be taken off (and that too at Mr. Solmes's desire), when I am to be a still closer prisoner than before; the Bridge threaten'd to be drawn up; and no dear papa and mamma near me, to appeal to, in the last resort?

Transfer not, I beseech you, to a brother and sister your own authority over your child—To a bro|ther and sister, who treat me with unkindness and re|proach; and, as I have too much reason to appre|hend, misrepresent my words and behaviour; or, greatly favour'd as I used to be, it is impossible I should be sunk so low in your opinions, as I un|happily am!

Let but this my hard, my disgraceful confinement be put an end to. Permit me, my dear mamma, to pursue my Needleworks in your presence, as one of your maidens, and you shall be witness, that it is not wilfulness or prepossession that governs me. Let me not, however, be put out of your own house. Let Mr. Solmes come and go, as my papa pleases: Let me but tarry or retire when he comes, as I can; and leave the rest to Providence.

Forgive me, Brother, that thus, with an appearance of art, I address myself to my father and mother, to whom, I am forbid to approach, or to write. Hard it is to be reduced to such a contrivance! Forgive likewise the plain-dealing I have used in the above, with the nobleness of a gentleman, and the gentleness due from a brother to a sister. Altho', of late, you have given me but little room to hope for your favour or compassion; yet, having not deserved to forfeit either, I presume to claim both: For I am confident it is, at present, much in your power, altho' but my brother (my honoured parents both, I bless God, in being), to give peace to the greatly disturbed mind of

Your unhappy Sister, CL. HARLOWE.

Betty tells me, my brother has taken my letter all in pieces; and has undertaken to write such an answer to it, as shall confirm the wavering—So, it is plain, that I should have moved somebody by it, but for this hard-hearted brother; God forgive him!

LETTER VII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Thursday Nighty, Mar. 23.

I Send you the boasted confutation-letter, just now put into my hands—My brother and sister, my uncle Antony and Mr. Solmes are, I understand, ex|ulting over the copy of it below, as an unanswerable performance.

To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

ONCE again, my inflexible sister, I write to you▪ It is to let you know, that the pretty piece of art you found out to make me the vehicle of your whining pathetics to your father and mother, has not had the expected effect.

I do assure you, that your behaviour has not been misrepresented: Nor need it. Your mamma, who is sollicitous to take all opportunities of putting the favourablest constructions upon all you do, has been forced, as you well know, to give you up, upon full proof: No need then of the expedient of pursuing your Needleworks in her sight. She cannot bear your whining pranks: And it is for her sake, that you are not permitted to come into her presence; nor will be, but upon her own terms.

You had like to have made a simpleton of your aunt Hervey yesterday: She came down from you, pleading in your favour: But when she was asked,

What concession she had brought you to? she look'd about her, and knew not what to answer. So your mamma, when surprised into the beginning of your cunning address to her and to your papa, under my name (for I had begun to read it, little suspecting such an ingenious subterfuge) and would then make me read it thro', wrung her hands, Oh! her dear child, her dear child, must not be so compelled!—But when she was asked, Whether she would be willing to have for her Son-in-law, the man who bids defiance to her whole family; and who had like to have mur|der'd her son? And what concessions she had gain'd from her beloved, to occasion this tenderness? And that for one who had apparently deceived her, in as|suring her that her heart was free? then could she look about her, as her sister had done before: Then was she again brought to herself, and to a resolution to assert her authority; not to transfer it, witty pre|sumer! over the rebel who of late, has so ingrate|fully struggled to throw it off.

You seem, child, to have a high notion of the matrimonial duty; and I'll warrant, like the rest of your sex (one or two, whom I have the honour to know, excepted) that you will go to church to promise what you will never think of afterwards. But, sweet child! as your worthy mamma Norton calls you, think a little less of the matrimonial (at least, till you come into that state) and a little more of the filial, duty.

How can you say, you are to bear all the misery, when you give so large a share of it to your parents, to your uncles, to your aunt, to myself, and to your sister; who all, for Eighteen years of your life, loved you so well?

If of late I have not given you room to hope for my favour or compassion, it is because of late you have not deserved either. I know what you mean, little reflecting fool, by saying, it is much in my

power, altho' but your brother (a very slight degree of relation with you) to give you that peace, which you can give yourself whenever you please.

The liberty of refusing, pretty Miss, is deny'd you, because we are all sensible, that the liberty of choosing, to every one's dislike, must follow. The vile wretch you have set your heart upon, speaks This plainly to every-body, tho' you won't. He says you are His, and shall be His, and he will be the death of any man who robs him of his PROPERTY. So, Miss, we have a mind to try this point with him. My father supposing he has the right of a father in his child, is absolutely determin'd not to be bully'd out of that right. And what must that child be, who prefers the Rake to a Father?

This is the light in which this whole debate ought to be taken. Blush, then, Delicacy! that cannot bear the Poet's Amor omnibus idem!—Blush then, Purity! Be ashamed, Virgin modesty! And if capable of conviction, surrender your whole will to the will of the honoured pair, to whom you owe your being: And beg of all your friends to forgive and forget the part you have of late acted.

I have written a longer letter, than ever I designed to write to you, after the insolent treatment and pro|hibition you have given me: And now I am com|mission'd to tell you, that your friends are as weary of confining you, as you are of being confin'd. And therefore you must prepare yourself to go in a very few days, as you have been told before, to your uncle Antony's; who, notwithstanding your appre|hensions, will draw up his bridge when he pleases, will see what company he pleases in his own house; nor will he demolish his chapel to cure you of your foolish late-commenc'd antipathy, to a place of Divine Worship.—The more foolish, as, if we intended to use force, we could have the ceremony pass in your chamber as well as any where else.

Prejudice against Mr. Solmes has evidently blinded you, and there is a charitable necessity to open your eyes: Since no one but you thinks the gentleman so contemptible in his person; nor, for a plain country gentleman, who has too much solid sense to appear like a coxcomb, justly blameable in his manners.—And as to his temper, it is necessary you should speak upon fuller knowlege, than at present it is plain you can have of him.

Upon the whole, it will not be amiss, that you prepare for your speedy removal, as well for the sake of your own conveniency, as to shew your readiness, in one point, at least, to oblige your friends; one of whom you may, if you please to deserve it, reckon, tho' but a Brother,

JAMES HARLOWE.

P. S. If you are disposed to see Mr. Solmes, and to make some excuses to him for your past conduct, in order to be able to meet him somewhere else with the less concern to yourself for your freedoms with him; he shall attend you where you please. If you have a mind to read the settlements, before they are read to you for your signing, they shall be sent you up—Who knows, but they will help you to some fresh objections?—Your heart is free you know—It must—For, did you not tell your mo|ther it was? And will the pious Clarissa Harlowe fib to her mamma?

I desire no reply. The case requires none. Yet I will ask you, Have you, Miss, no more proposals to make?

I was so vexed when I came to the end of this letter (the postscript to which, perhaps, might be written, after the rest had seen the letter) that I took up my pen, with an intent to write to my uncle Harlowe about resuming my own estate, in pursuance

of your advice: But my heart failed me, when I re|collected, that I had not one friend to stand by or support me in my claim; and that it would but the more incense them, without answering any good end. O that my cousin were but come!

Is it not a sad thing, beloved as I thought myself, so lately, by every one, that now I have not one person in the world to plead for me, to stand by me, or who would afford me refuge, were I to be under the necessity of seeking for it?—I, who had the vanity to think I had as many friends as I saw faces, and flatter'd myself too, that it was not altogether un|merited, because I saw not my Maker's Image, ei|ther in man, woman, or child, high or low, rich or poor, whom, comparatively, I loved not as myself.—Would to heaven, my dear, that you were marry'd! Perhaps, then, you could have induc'd Mr. Hick|man, upon my application, to afford me protection, till these storms were over-blown. But then this might have involv'd him in difficulties and dangers; and that I would not have had done for the world.

I don't know what to do, not I!—God forgive me, but I am very impatient!—I wish—but I don't know what to wish, without a sin!—Yet I wish it would please God to take me to his mercy!—I can meet with none here!—What a world is this! What is there in it desireable? The good we hope for, so strangely mix'd, that one knows not what to wish for: And one half of mankind tormenting the other, and being tormented themselves in tormenting!—For here in this my particular case, my relations cannot be happy, tho' they make me unhappy!—Except my brother and sister, indeed—and they seem to take delight in, and enjoy, the mischief they make!

But it is time to lay down my pen, since my ink runs nothing but gall.

LETTER VIII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Friday Morning, Six o'Clock.

MRS. Betty tells me, there is now nothing talked of but of my going to my uncle Antony's. She has been order'd, she says, to get ready to attend me thither. And, upon my expressing my averse|ness to go, had the confidence to say, That having heard me often praise the romantic-ness of the place, she was astonish'd (her hands and eyes lifted up) that I should set myself against going to a house so much in my taste.

I asked, if this was her own insolence, or her young mistress's observation?

She half-astonish'd me by her answer; That it was hard she could not say a good thing, without being robbed of the merit of it.

As the wench looked as if she really thought she had said a good thing, without knowing the boldness of it, I let it pass. But, to say the truth, this crea|ture has surprised me on many occasions with her smartness: For, since she has been imploy'd in this controuling office, I have discover'd a great deal of wit in her assurance, which I never suspected before. This shews, that insolence is her talent; and that For|tune, in placing her as a servant to my sister, has not done so kindly by her as Nature; for that she would make a better figure as her companion. And, indeed, I can't help thinking sometimes, that I myself was better fitted by Nature to be the servant of both, than the mistress of the one, or the sister of the other. And within these few months past, Fortune has acted by me, as if she were of the same mind.

Friday, Ten o'Clock.

Going down to my Poultry-yard, just now, I heard my brother and sister, and that Solmes laughing and triumphing together. The high Yew Hedge between us, which divides the yard from the garden, hinder'd them from seeing me.

My brother, as I found, had been reading part, or the whole perhaps, of the copy of his last letter—Mighty prudent and consistent, you'll say, with their views, to make me the wife of a man, from whom they conceal not, what, were I to be such, it would be kind in them to endeavour to conceal, out of re|gard to my future peace: But I have no doubt, that they hate me heartily.

Indeed you was up with her there, brother, said my sister! You need not have bid her not write to you. I'll engage, with all her wit, she'll never pre|tend to answer it.

Why, indeed, said my brother, with an air of College-sufficiency, with which he abounds, (for he thinks nobody writes like himself) I believe I have given her a choak-pear. What say you, Mr. Solmes?

Why, Sir, said he, I think it is unanswerable. But will it not exasperate her more against me?

Never fear, Mr. Solmes, said my brother, but we'll carry our point, if she do not tire you out first. We have gone too far in this method to recede. Her cousin Morden will soon be here; so all must be over, before that time, or she'll be made independent of us all.

There, Miss Howe, is the reason given for their Jehu-driving!

Mr. Solmes declar'd, that he was determin'd to persevere while my brother gave him any hopes, and while my father stood firm.

My sister told my brother, that he hit me charm|ingly on the reason why I ought to converse with

Mr. Solmes. But that he should not be so smart up|on the sex, for the faults of this perverse girl.

Some lively, and I suppose, witty answer, my bro|ther return'd; for he and Mr. Solmes laugh'd out|rageously upon it, and Bella laughing too, call'd him a naughty gentleman: But I heard no more of what they said; they walking on into the garden.

If you think, my dear, that what I have related, did not again fire me, you will find yourself mis|taken, when you read at this place the inclosed copy of my letter to my brother; struck off, while the iron was red-hot.

No more call me meek and gentle, I beseech you.

To Mr. JAMES HARLOWE.

Friday Morning.

SIR,

IF, notwithstanding your prohibition, I should be silent on occasion of your last, you would perhaps conclude, that I was consenting to go to my uncle Antony's, upon the condition you mention. My fa|ther must do as he pleases with his child. He may turn me out of his doors, if he thinks fit, or give you leave to do it; but, (loth as I am to say it) I should think it very hard to be carry'd by force to any-body's house, when I have one of my own to go to.

Far be it from me, notwithstanding your's and my sister's provocations, to think of taking my estate into my own hands, without my papa's leave: But why, if I must not stay any longer here, may I not be per|mitted to go thither? I will engage to see nobody they would not have me see, if this favour be per|mitted. Favour I call it, and am ready to receive and acknowlege it as such, altho' my grandfather's will has made it matter of right.

You ask me, in a very unbrotherly manner, in the postscript to your letter, if I have not some new pro|posals

to make. I HAVE (since you put the question) three or four:—New ones all, I think; tho' I will be so bold as to say, that, submitting the case to any one impartial person, whom you have not set against me, my old ones ought not to have been rejected. I think This, why then should I not write it?—Nor have you any more reason to storm at your sister, for telling it you (since you seem, in your letter, to make it your boast how you turned my mamma and my aunt Hervey against me) than I have to be angry with my brother, for treating me as no brother ought to treat a sister.

These are my new proposals then:

That, as above, I may not be hinder'd from going to reside (under such conditions as shall be prescribed to me, which I will most religiously observe) at my grandfather's late house. I will not again in this place call it mine. I have reason to think it a great mis|fortune, that ever it was so! Indeed I have!

If this be not permitted, I desire leave to go for a month, or for what time shall be thought fit, to Miss Howe's. I dare say her mamma will consent to it, if I have my papa's permission to go.

If this, neither, be allowed, and I am to be turned out of my father's house, I beg I may be suffer'd to go to my aunt Hervey's, where I will inviolably ob|serve her commands, and those of my papa and mamma.

But if this, neither, is to be granted, it is my humble request, that I may be sent to my uncle Har|lowe's, instead of my uncle Antony's. I mean not by this any disrespect to my uncle Antony: But his Moat, with his Bridge threaten'd to be drawn up, and perhaps his Chapel, terrify me beyond expression, not|withstanding your witty ridicule upon me for that ap|prehension.

If this likewise be refused, and I must be carried to the Moated house, which used to be a delightful one

to me, let it be promised me, that I shall not be com|pelled to receive Mr. Solmes's visits there; and then I will as chearfully go, as ever I did.

So here, Sir, are my new proposals. And if none of them answer your end, as each of them tends to the exclusion of that ungenerous persister's visits, be pleased to know, that there is no misfortune I will not submit to, rather than yield to give my hand to the man, to whom I can allow no share in my heart.

If I write in a style different from my usual, and different from what I wished to have occasion to write, an impartial person, who knew what I have acci|dentally, within this hour past, heard from your mouth, and my sister's, and a third person's (particu|larly the reason you give for driving on at this violent rate; to wit, my cousin Morden's soon-expected ar|rival), would think, I have but too much reason for it. Then be pleased to remember, Sir, that when my whining vocatives have subjected me to so much scorn and ridicule, it is time, were it but to imitate exam|ples so excellent as you and my sister set me, that I should endeavour to assert my character, in order to be thought less an alien, and nearer of kin to you both, than either of you have of late seemed to suppose me.

Give me leave, in order to empty my female quiver at once, to add, that I know no other reason you can have, for forbidding me to reply to you, after you have written what you pleased to me, than that you are conscious you cannot answer to reason and to justice the treatment you give me.

If it be otherwise, I, an un-learned, un-logical girl, younger by near a third than yourself, will venture (so assured am I of the justice of my cause) to put my fate upon an issue with you: With you, Sir, who have had the advantage of an academical education; whose mind must have been strengthen'd by obser|vation, and learned conversation; and who, pardon

my going so low▪ have been accustomed to give choak-pears to those you vouchsafe to write against.

Any impartial person, your late Tutor, for instance; or the pious and worthy Dr. Lewin, may be judge be|tween us: And if either give it against me, I will pro|mise to resign to my destiny: Provided, if it be given against you, that my father will be pleased only to allow of my negative to the person so violently sought to be imposed upon me.

I flatter myself, Brother, that you will the readier come into this proposal, as you seem to have a high opinion of your talents for argumentation; and not a low one of the cogency of the arguments contained in your last letter. And as I can possibly have no ad|vantage in a contention with you, if the justice of my cause affords me not any, (as you have no opinion it will) it behoves you, methinks, to shew to an im|partial moderator, that I am wrong, and you not so.

If this be accepted, there is a necessity for its being carry'd on by the pen; the facts to be stated, and agreed upon by both; and the decision to be given, according to the force of the arguments each shall produce in support of their side of the question: For, give me leave to say, I know too well the manliness of your temper, to offer at a personal debate with you.

If it be not accepted, I shall conclude, that you cannot defend your conduct towards me: And shall only beg of you, that, for the future, you will treat me with the respect due to a sister from a brother, who would be thought as polite as learned.

And now, Sir, if I have seem'd to shew some spirit, not quite foreign to the relation I have the honour to bear to you, and to my sister; and which may be deem'd not altogether of a piece with that part of my cha|racter which once, it seems, gained me every one's love; be pleased to consider to whom, and to what it is owing; and that this part of that character was not dispensed with, till it subjected me to that scorn

and those insults, which a brother, who has been so tenacious of an independence, that I voluntarily gave up, and who has appeared so exalted upon it, ought not to have shewn to any-body, much less to a weak and defenceless sister: Who is, notwithstanding, an affectionate and respectful one, and would be glad to shew herself to be so upon all future occasions; as she has in every action of her past life, altho' of late she has met with such unkind returns.

CL. HARLOWE.

See the force and volubility, as I may say, of pas|sion; for the letter I send you is my first draught, struck off without a blot or erazure.

Friday, Three o' Clock.

AS soon as I had transcribed it, I sent it down to my brother by Mrs. Betty.

The wench came up soon after, all aghast, with her Lord, Miss! What have you done?—What have you written? For you have set them all in a joyful uproar!

MY Sister is but this moment gone from me: She came up, all in a flame, which obliged me abruptly to lay down my pen: She run to me—

O Spirit! said; she tapping my neck a little too hard. And is it come to this at last!—

Do you beat me, Bella?

Do you call this beating you? Only tapping your shoulder thus, said she; tapping again more gently—This is what we expected it would come to—You want to be independent—My papa has lived too long for you!—

I was going to speak with vehemence; but she put her handkerchief before my mouth, very rudely—You have done enough with your pen, mean listener, as you are! But, know, that neither your inde|pendent

scheme, nor any of your visiting ones, will be granted you. Take your course, perverse one; call in your Rake to help you to an in-dependence up|on your parents, and a dependence upon him!—Do so!—Prepare this moment—Resolve what you will take with you!—To-morrow you go!—Depend up|on it, to-morrow you go!—No longer shall you tarry here, watching, and creeping about to hearken to what people say!—'Tis determin'd, child!—You go to-morrow!—My brother would have come up to tell you so!—But I persuaded him to the contrary—For I know not, what had become of you, if he had—Such a letter!—Such an insolent, such a con|ceited challenger!—O thou vain creature!—But pre|pare your self, I say—To-morrow you go—My brother will accept your bold challenge; but it must be personal; and at my uncle Antony's—Or perhaps at Mr. Solmes's—

Thus she ran on, almost foaming with passion, till, quite out of patience, I said, No more of your vio|lence, Bella—Had I known in what a way you would come up, you should not have found my cham|ber-door open!—Talk to your servant in this man|ner: Unlike you, as I bless God I am, I am never|theless your sister—And let me tell you, that I won't go to-morrow, nor next day, nor next day to that—except I am dragg'd away by violence.

What! not if your papa, or your mamma com|mands it—Girl? said she; intending another word, by her pause, and manner, before it came out.

Let it come to that Bella—Then I shall know what to say—But it shall be from either of their own mouths, if I do.—Not from yours, nor your Betty's—And say another word to me, in this manner, and be the consequence what it may, I will force myself into their presence; and demand what I have done to be used thus!

Come along, child!—Come along, meekness—

taking my hand, and leading me towards the door—Demand it of them now—You'll find both your de|spised parents together!—What! does your heart fail you?—[for I resisted being thus insolently led, and pulled my hand from her.]

I want not to be led, said I; and since I can plead your invitation, I will go: And was posting to the stairs, accordingly, in my passion—But she got be|tween me and the door, and shut it—

Let me first, bold one, apprise them of your visit:—For your own sake, let me—For my brother is with them. But yet opening it again, seeing me shrink back—Go if you will!—Why don't you go!—Why don't you go, Miss—following me to my closet, whither I retired, with my heart full, and pulled the sash-door after me; and could no longer hold in my tears.

Nor would I answer one word to her repeated ag|gravations, and demands upon me to open my door (for the key was on the inside) nor so much as turn my head towards her, as she looked thro' the glass at me. And at last, which vex'd her to the heart, I drew the silk curtain, that she should not see me, and down she went muttering all the way.

Is not this usage enough to provoke one to a rash|ness one had never thought of committing?

As it is but too probable, that I may be hurry'd away to my uncle's, without being able to give you previous notice of it; I beg, that as soon as you shall hear of such a violence, you will send to the usual place, to take back such of your letters, as may not have reached my hands, or to fetch any of mine, that may be there. May you, my dear, be always happy, prays your▪

CL. HARLOWE.

I have received your four letters. But am in such a ferment, that I cannot at present write to them.

LETTER IX. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Friday Night, March 24.

I Have a most provoking letter from my sister.—I might have supposed, she would resent the con|tempt she brought upon herself in my chamber. Her conduct, surely, can only be accounted for by the rage of a supposed rivalry.

To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I Am to tell you, That your mamma has begg'd you off for the morrow:—But that you have effectually done your business with her, as well as with every-body else.

In your proposals, and letter to your brother, you have shew'd yourself so silly, and so wise; so young, and so old; so gentle, and so obstinate; so meek, and so violent; that never was there so mix'd a character.

We all know of whom you have borrowed this new spirit. And yet the seeds of it must be in your heart, or it could not all at once shew itself so ram|pant. It would be doing Mr. Solmes a spight, to wish him such a shy, un-shy girl; another of your contradictory qualities—I leave you to make out what I mean by it.

Here, Miss, your mamma will not let you remain: She cannot have any peace of mind while such a rebel of a child is so near her: Your aunt Hervey will not take a charge all the family put together cannot ma|nage: Your uncle Harlowe will not see you at his house till you are marry'd: So, thanks to your own stubbornness, you have nobody that will receive you but your uncle Antony: Thither yon must go in a very few days, and when there, your brother will settle with you, in my presence, all that relates to

your modest challenge:—For it is accepted, I will assure you. Dr. Lewin will possibly be there, since you make choice of him; Another gentleman like|wise, were it but to convince you, that he is another sort of man than you have taken him to be: Your two uncles will possibly be there too, to see that the poor, weak, and defenceless sister has fair play. So, you see, Miss, what company your smart challenge will draw together.

Prepare for the day. You'll soon be called upon.

Adieu, mamma Norton's sweet child!

ARAB. HARLOWE.

I transcrib'd this letter, and sent it to my mamma, with these lines.

A very few words, my ever-honour'd Mamma!

IF my sister wrote the inclosed by my father's di|rection, or yours, I must submit to the usage, with this only observation, That it is short of the per|sonal treatment I have received from her. If it be of her own head:—Why then, Madam—But I knew, that when I was banish'd from your presence—Yet, till I know, if she has or has not authority for this usage, I will only write further, that I am

Your very unhappy Child, CL. HARLOWE.

This answer I receiv'd in an open slip of paper, but it was wet in one place. I kiss'd the place; for I am sure it was blister'd, as I may say, with a mo|ther's tear!—The dear Lady must (I hope she must) have wrote it reluctantly.

TO apply for protection, where authority is defy'd, is bold!—Your sister, who would not in your circumstances have been guilty of your perverseness, may, allowably, be angry at you for it.—However,

we have told her to moderate her zeal for our insulted authority. See, if you can deserve another behaviour, than That which cannot be so grievous to you, as the cause of it is, to

Your more unhappy Mother.

How often must I forbid you any address to me!

GIVE me, my dearest friend, your opinion, what I can, what I ought to do. Not what you would do (push'd as I am push'd) in resentment or passion—for in That spirit you tell me, you should have been with somebody before now.—And steps made in passion, hardly ever fail of leading to repentance: But ac|quaint me with what you think cool judgment, and after-reflection, whatever be the event, will justify.

I doubt not your sympathizing love: But yet you cannot possibly feel indignity and persecution so very sensibly as the immediate sufferer feels them: Are fitter therefore to advise me, than I am myself.

I will here rest my cause. Have I, or have I not, suffer'd or borne enough? And if they will still per|severe; if that strange persister against an antipathy so strongly avow'd, will still persist, say, What can I do?—What course pursue?—Shall I fly to London, and endeavour to hide myself from Lovelace, as well as from all my own relations, till my cousin Morden arrives? Or shall I embark for Leghorn in my way to my cousin? Yet, my Sex, my Youth, consider'd, how full of danger is that!—And may not my cousin be set out for England, while I am getting thither?—What can I do?—Tell me, tell me, my dearest Miss Howe; for I dare not trust myself!—

Eleven o'Clock at Night.

I HAVE been forced to try to compose my angry passions at my Harpsichord; having first shut close my doors and windows, that I might not be heard

below. As I was closing the shutters of the windows, the distant whooting of the Bird of Minerva, as from the often-visited Woodhouse, gave the subject in that charming ODE to WISDOM, which does honour to our Sex, as it was written by one of it. I made an essay, a week ago, to set the three last stanza's of it, as not unsuitable to my unhappy situation; and after I had re-perused the Ode, those three were my lesson: And, I am sure, in the solemn address they contain to the All-wise, and All-powerful Deity, my heart went with my fingers.

I inclose the Ode, and my Effort with it. The subject is solemn: My circumstances are affecting; and I flatter myself, that I have not been quite un|happy in the performance. If it obtain your appro|bation, I shall be out of doubt: And, should be still more assured, could I hear it try'd by your voice, and by your finger.

ODE to WISDOM,

By a LADY.

I.

THE solitary Bird of Night Thro' the thick Shades now wings his Flight▪ And quits his Time-shook Tow'r; Where, shelter'd from the Blaze of Day, In Philosophic Gloom he lay, Beneath his Ivy Bow'r.

II.

With Joy I hear the solemn Sound, Which midnight Echoes waft around, And sighing Gales repeat. Fav'rite of PALLAS! I attend, And, faithful to thy Summons, bend At WISDOM's awful Seat.

III.

She loves the cool, the silent Eve, Where no false Shews of Life deceive, Beneath the Lunar Ray. Here Folly drops each vain Disguise, Nor sport her gaily-colour'd Dyes, As in the Beam of Day.

IV.

O PALLAS! Queen of ev'ry Art, That glads the Sense, and mends the Heart, Blest Source of purer Joys! In ev'ry Form of Beauty bright, That captivates the mental Sight With Pleasure and Surprize;

V.

To thy unspotted Shrine I bow: Attend thy modest Suppliant's Vow, That breathes no wild Desires; But taught by thy unerring Rules, To shun the fruitless Wish of Fools, To nobler Views aspires.

VI.

Not FORTUNE's Gem, AMBITION's Plume, Nor CYTHEREA's fading Bloom, Be Objects of my Pray'r: Let Av'rice, Vanity, and Pride, Those envy'd glitt'ring Toys divide, The dull Rewards of Care.

VII.

To me thy better Gifts impart, Each moral Beauty of the Heart, By studious Thought refin'd; For WEALTH, the Smiles of glad Content, For POW'R, its amplest, best Extent, An Empire o'er my Mind.

VIII.

When Fortune drops her gay Parade, When Pleasure's transient Roses fade,

And wither in the Tomb, Unchang'd is thy immortal Prize; Thy ever-verdant Laurels rise In undecaying Bloom.

IX.

By Thee protected, I defy The Coxcomb's Sneer, the stupid Lye Of Ignorance and Spite: Alike contemn the leaden Fool, And all the pointed Ridicule Of undiscerning Wit.

X.

From Envy, Hurry, Noise, and Strife, The dull Impertinence of Life, In thy Retreat I rest: Pursue thee to the peaceful Groves, Where PLATO's sacred Spirit roves, In all thy Beauties drest.

XI.

He bad Ilyssus' tuneful Stream Convey thy Philosophic Theme Of PERFECT, FAIR, and GOOD: Attentive Athens caught the Sound, And all her list'ning Sons around In awful Silence stood:

XII.

Reclaim'd her wild, licentious Youth, Confess'd the potent Voice of TRUTH, And felt its just Controul. The Passions ceas'd their loud Alarms, And Virtue's soft persuasive Charms O'er all their Senses stole.

XIII.

Thy Breath inspires the POET's Song, The PATRIOT's free, unbiass'd Tongue, The HERO's gen'rous Strife; Thine are RETIREMENT's silent Joys, And all the sweet engaging Ties Of STILL, DOMESTIC Life.

XIV. 〈♫〉〈♫〉No more to fabled Names confin'd; To the Supreme all-perfect Mind, My Thoughts direct their Flight My 〈♫〉〈♫〉Thoughts direct their Flight. Wisdom's Thy Gift & all her force From thee deriv'd E-〈♫〉〈♫〉••ernal Source of Intel-lectual Light. Of Intel-lectual Light.

XV

Ofend her sure, her steady Ray, To regulate my doubtful Way, Thro' Life's perplexing Road: The Mists of Error to controul, And thro' its Gloom direct my Soul To Happiness and Good.

XVI

Beneath Her clear discerning Eye The visionary Shadows fly Of Folly's painted Show. She sees thro' ev'ry fair Disguise, That All but VIRTUE's solid Joys, Are Vanity and Woe.

LETTER X. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Friday Midnight.

I Have now a calmer moment. Envy, Ambition, high and selfish Resentment, and all the violent Passions, are now, most probably, asleep all around me; and shall not my own angry ones give way to the silent hour, and subside likewise?—They have given way to it; and I have made use of the gentler space to re-peruse your last letters. I will touch up|on some passages in them: And that I may the less endanger the but just-recovered calm, I will begin with what you write about Mr. Hickman.

Give me leave to say, That I am sorry you can|not yet persuade yourself to think better, that is to say, more justly, of that gentleman, than your whim|sical picture of him shews you do; or, at least, than the humorousness of your natural vein would make one think you do.

I do not imagine, that you yourself will say, he sat for the picture you have drawn. And yet, upon the whole, it is not greatly to his disadvantage. Were I at ease in my mind, I would venture to draw a much more amiable and just likeness.

If Mr. Hickman has not that assurance which some men have, he has that humanity and gentleness, which many want: And which, with the infinite value he has for you, will make him one of the properest husbands in the world for a person of your vivacity and spirit.

Altho' you say I would not like him myself, I do assure you, if Mr. Solmes were such a man as Mr. Hickman, in person, mind, and behaviour, my friends and I had never disagreed about him, if they would not have permitted me to live single; Mr. Lovelace

(having such a character as he has) would have stood no chance with me. This I can the more boldly aver, because, I plainly perceive, that of the two passions, Love and Fear, This man will be able to inspire one with a much greater proportion of the latter, than I imagine is compatible with the former, to make a happy marriage.

I am glad you own, that you like no one better than Mr. Hickman. In a little while, I make no doubt, you will be able, if you challenge your heart upon it, to acknowlege, that you like not any man so well: Especially, when you come to consider, that the very faults you find in Mr. Hickman, admirably fit him to make you happy: That is to say, If it be necessary to your happiness, that you should have your own will in every thing.

But let me add one thing: And that is this:—You have such a sprightly turn, that, with your admirable talents, you would make any man in the world, who loved you, look like a fool, except he were such a one as Lovelace.

Forgive me, my dear, for my frankness: And for|give me also, for so soon returning to subjects so im|mediately relative to myself, as those I now must touch upon.

You again insist, strengthen'd by Mr. Lovelace's opinion, upon my assuming my own estate: And I have given you room to expect, that I will consider this subject more closely than I had done before.—I must however own, that the reasons that I had to offer against your advice, were so obvious, that I thought you would have seen them yourself, and been determin'd by them, against your own hastier counsel.—But since this has not been so; and that both you and Mr. Lovelace call upon me to assume my own estate, I will enter briefly into the subject.

In the first place, let me ask you, my dear, sup|posing I were inclined to follow your advice, Whom

have I to support me in my demand?—My uncle Harlowe is one of my trustees. He is against me. My cousin Morden is the other. He is in Italy, and may be set against me too. My brother has declar'd, that they are resolved to carry their point before he arrives: So that, as they drive on, all will probably be decided before I could have an answer from him, were I to write: And, confined as I am, if the answer were to come in time, and they did not like it, they would keep it from me.

In the next place, parents have great advantages in every eye over the child, if she dispute their plea|sure in the disposing of her: And so they ought: Since out of twenty instances, perhaps two could not be produced, where they were not in the right, the child in the wrong.

You would not, I am sure, have me accept of Mr. Lovelace's offer'd assistance in such a claim. If I would embrace any other person's, who else would care to appear for a child against parents, ever, till of late, so affectionate? But were such a protector to be found, what a length of time would it take up in a course of litigation?—The Will and the Deeds have flaws in them, they say: My brother sometimes talks of going to reside at The Grove: I suppose with a design to make ejectments necessary, were I to offer at assuming; or should I marry Lovelace, in order to give him all the opposition and difficulty the Law would help him to give.

These cases I have put to myself, for argument-sake: But they are all out of the question, altho' any-body were to be found who would espouse my cause: For, I do assure you, I would sooner beg my bread, than litigate for my right with my papa: Since I am convinc'd, that whether or not the parent do his duty by the child, the child cannot be exempted from do|ing hers to him. And to go to law with my Father, what a sound has That? You will see, that I have

mention'd my wish (as an alternative, and as a favour) to be permitted, if I must be put out of his house, to go thither: But not one step further can I go. And you see how This is resented.

Upon the whole then, what have I to hope for, but a change in my father's resolution? And is there any probability of that; such an ascendency as my brother and sister have obtained over every-body; and such an interest to pursue the enmity they have now openly avow'd against me?

As to Mr. Lovelace's approbation of your as|sumption-scheme, I wonder not at it. He, very probably, penetrates the difficulties I should have to bring it to effect, without his assistance. Were I to find myself as free as I would wish myself to be, per|haps that man would stand a worse chance with me, than his vanity may permit him to imagine; not|withstanding the pleasure you take in raillying me on his account. How know you, but all that appears to be specious and reasonable in his offers—Such as, standing his chance for my favour, after I became in|dependent, as I may call it (by which, I mean no more, than having the liberty to refuse a man in that Solmes, whom it hurts me but to think of as a husband); and such as his not visiting me but by my leave; and till Mr. Morden came; and till I were satisfy'd of his reformation;—How know you, I say, that he gives not himself these airs purely to stand better in your graces as well as mine, by offering, of his own accord, conditions which he must needs think would be insisted on, were the case to happen?

Then am I utterly displeased with him. To threaten as he threatens—Yet to pretend, that it is not to in|timidate me; and to beg of you not to tell me, when he must know you would, and no doubt must intend that you should, is so meanly artful!—The man must think he has a frighted fool to deal with.—I, to join hands with such a man of violence!—My own bro|ther

the man he threatens!—And Mr. Solmes!—What has Mr. Solmes done to him?—Is he to be blamed, if he thinks a person would make a wife worth having, to endeavour to obtain her?—Oh! that my friends would but leave me to my own way in this one point!—For have I given the man encourage|ment sufficient to ground these threats upon? Were Mr. Solmes a man to whom I could be but indifferent, it might be found, that to have the merit of a sufferer given him, from such a flaming spirit, would very little answer the views of that flaming spirit.—It is my fortune to be treated as a fool by my brother: But Mr. Lovelace shall find—Yet I will let him know my mind; and then it will come with a better grace to your knowlege.

Mean time, give me leave to tell you, that it goes against me, in my cooler moments, wicked as my brother is to me, to have you, my dear, who are myself, as it were, write such very severe reflections upon him, in relation to the advantage Lovelace had over him. He is not indeed your brother: But you write to his sister, remember!—Upon my word, Miss, you dip your pen in gall, whenever you are offended: And I am almost ready to question, when I read some of your expressions, against others of my relations as well as him (altho' in my favour), whether you are so thoroughly warranted, by your own pa|tience, as you think yourself, to call other people to account for their warmth. Should we not be par|ticularly careful to keep clear of the faults we cen|sure?—And yet I am so angry at both my brother and sister, that I should not have taken this liberty with my dear friend, notwithstanding I know you never loved them, had you not made so light of so shocking a transaction, where a brother's life was at stake: Where his credit in the eye of the mis|chievous sex, has received a still deeper wound, than he personally sustained; and when a revival of the

same wicked resentments (which may end more fa|tally) is threaten'd.

His credit, I say, in the eye of the mischievous Sex: Who is not warranted to call it so; when it is reckon'd among the men, such an extraordinary piece of self-conquest, as the two libertines his companions gloried, to resolve never to give a challenge; and among whom duelling is so fashionable a part of brutal bra|very, that the man of temper, who is, mostly, I be|lieve, the truly brave man, is often at a great loss how to behave in some cases, to avoid incurring ei|ther a mortal guilt, or a general contempt.

To inlarge a little upon this subject, may we not infer, That those who would be guilty of throwing these contempts upon a man of temper, for avoiding a greater evil, know not the measure of true mag|nanimity: Nor how much nobler it is to forgive, and even how much more manly to despise, than to resent. Were I a man, methinks, I should have too much scorn for a person, who could wilfully do me a mean injury, to put a value upon his life, equal to what I put upon my own. What an absurdity, Because a man had done me a small injury, that I should put it in his power (at least, to an equal risque) to do me, and those who love me, an irreparable one?—Were it not a wilful injury, nor avow'd to be so, there could not be room for resentment.

How willingly would I run away from myself, and what most concerns myself, if I could! This digres|sion brings me back again to the occasion of it.—And That to the impatience I was in, when I ended my last letter; for my situation is not alter'd. I renew therefore my former earnestness, as the new day ap|proaches, and will bring with it perhaps new tryals, that you will (as undivestedly as possible of favour or resentment) tell me what you would have me do:—For if I am obliged to go to my uncle Antony's,

All, I doubt, will be over with me. Yet how to avoid it—That's the difficulty!

I shall deposite this the first thing: When you have it, lose no time, I pray you, to advise (lest it be too late

Your ever-obliged, CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER XI. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Sat. March 25.

WHAT can I advise you, my noble creature? Your merit is your crime. You can no more change your nature, than your persecutors can theirs. Your distress is owing to the vast disparity between you and them. What would you have of them? Do they not act in character?—And to whom? To an Alien. You are not one of them.—They have two dependencies—Upon their own impenetrableness, one (I'd give it a properer name, if I dared); the other, on the regard you have always had for your character (Have they not heretofore own'd as much?) and upon your apprehensions from that of Lovelace, which would discredit you, should you take any step by his means to extricate yourself. Then they know, that resentment and unpersuadableness are not natural to you; and that the anger they have wrought you up to, will subside, as all extraordinaries soon do; and that once marry'd, you'll make the best of it.

But surely your father's eldest son and eldest daugh|ter have a view to intail unhappiness for life upon you, were you to have the man who is already more near|ly related to them, than ever he can be to you, should the shocking compulsion take place; by commu|nicating to so narrow a soul all they know of your just aversion to him.

As to that wretch's perseverance, those only, who know not the man, will wonder at it. He has not the least delicacy. When-ever he shall marry, his view will not be for mind. How should it? He has not a mind: And does not Like seek its Like?—And if it finds something beyond itself, how shall that be valued, which cannot be comprehended? Were you to be his, and shew a visible want of tenderness to him; it is my opinion, he would not be much con|cerned at it; since that would leave him the more at liberty to pursue those sordid attachments which are predominant in him. I have heard you well observe, from your Mrs. Norton, That a person who has any over-ruling passion, will compound by giving up twenty secondary or under-satisfactions, tho' more laud|able ones, in order to have that gratify'd.

I'll give you the substance of a conversation (no fear you can be made to like him worse than you do already) that passed between Sir Harry Downeton and this Solmes, but three days ago, as Sir Harry told it but yesterday to my mamma and me. It will con|firm to you that what your sister's insolent Betty re|ported he should say, of governing by fear, was not of her own head.

Sir Harry told him, he wonder'd he should hope to carry you so much against your inclination, as every-body knew it would be, if he did.

He matter'd not That, he said: Coy maids made fond wives (A sorry fellow!) It would not at all grieve him to see a pretty woman make wry faces, if she gave him cause to vex her. And your estate, by the convenience of its situation, would richly pay him, for all he could bear with your shyness.

He should be sure, after a while, of your com|plaisance, at least, if not of your love: And in That should be happier than nine parts in ten of his marry'd acquaintance.

What a wretch is this!

For the rest, your known virtue would be as great a security to him, as he could wish for.

She will look upon you, said Sir Harry (who is a reader), if she be forced to marry you, as Elizabeth of France did upon Philip II. of Spain, when he received her on his frontiers, as her husband, who was to have been but her father-in-law: That is, with fear and terror, rather than with complaisance and love: And you will, perhaps, be as surly to her, as That old Monarch was to his bride.

Terror and Fear, the wretch, the horrid wretch, said, looked pretty in a bride, as well as in a wife: And, laughing (yes, my dear, the hideous fellow laughed immoderately, as Sir Harry told us, when he said it), It should be his care, to perpetuate the oc|casion for that fear, if he could not think he had the love. And, for his part, he was of opinion, that if LOVE and FEAR must be separated in matrimony, the man who made himself feared, fared best!

If my eyes would carry with them the execution which the eyes of the Basilisk are said to do, I would make it my first business to see this creature.

My mamma, however, says, it would be a pro|digious merit in you, if you could get over your aver|sion to him. Where, asks she, as you have been ask'd before, is the praise-worthiness of obedience, if it be only paid in instances where we give up no|thing?

What a fatality, that you have no better an op|tion!—Either a Scylla or a Charybdis!

Were it not YOU, I should know how (barbarously used, as you are used) to advise you in a moment. But such a noble character to suffer from a (supposed) rashness and indiscretion of such a nature, would be a wound to the Sex, as I have heretofore observed.

While I was in hope, that the asserting of your own independence would have helped you, I was pleased, that you had one resource, as I thought: But

now, that you have so well proved, that such a step would not avail you, I am intirely at a loss what to say. I will lay down my pen, and think.

I HAVE considered, and considered again; but, I protest, I know no more what to say, than before. Only this: That I am young, like yourself; and have a much weaker judgment, and stronger passions, than you have.

I have heretofore said, that you have offer'd as much as you ought to offer in living single. If you Were never to marry, the estate they are so loth should go out of their name, would, in time, I sup|pose, revert to your brother: And he or his would have it, perhaps, much more certainly this way, than by the precarious reversions Solmes makes them hope for. Have you put this into their odd heads, my dear?—The tyrant word AUTHORITY, as they use it, can be the only objection against this offer.

One thing you must consider, that, if you leave your parents, your duty and love to them will not suffer you to appeal against them, to justify yourself for so doing; and so you'll have the world against you. And should Lovelace continue his wild life, and behave ungratefully to you, how will That justify their conduct to you (which nothing else can), as well as their resentments against him?

May heaven direct you for the best! I can only say, that, for my own part, I would do any-thing, go any-whither, rather than be compelled to marry the man I hate; and, were he such a man as Solmes, must always hate. Nor could I have borne, what you have borne, if from father and uncles, not from brother and sister.

My mamma will have it, that after they have try'd their utmost efforts to bring you into their measures, and find them ineffectual, they will recede. But I

cannot say I am of her mind. She does not own, she has any other authority for this, but her own con|jecture. I should otherwise have hoped, that your uncle Antony and she had been in one secret, and that favourable to you:—Woe be to one of them at least (your uncle I mean), if they should be in any other!

You must, if possible, avoid being carried to that uncle's. The man, the parson, the chapel, your brother and sister present!—they'll certainly there marry you to Solmes. Nor will your newly-raised spirit support you in your resistance on such an oc|casion. Your meekness will return; and you will have nothing for it but tears (tears despised by them all), and ineffectual appeals and lamentations:—And these, when the ceremony is profaned, as I may say, you must suddenly put a stop to, and dry up: And endeavour to dispose yourself to such an humble frame of mind, as may induce your new-made Lord to for|give all your past declarations of aversion.

In short, my dear, you must then blandish him over with a confession, that all your past behaviour was maidenly reserve only: And it will be your part to convince him of the truth of his impudent sarcasm, That the coyest maids make the fondest wives. Thus will you begin the state with a high sense of obli|gation to his forgiving goodness! And if you will not be kept to it by that fear he proposes to govern by, I am much mistaken.

Yet, after all, I must leave the point undetermin'd, and only to be determin'd, as you find they recede from their avowed purpose, or resolve to remove you to your uncle Antony's. But I must repeat my wishes, that something may fall out, that neither of these men may call you his! And may you live single, my dearest friend, till some man shall offer, that may be as worthy of you, as man can be.

But yet, methinks, I would not, that you, who

are so admirably qualify'd to adorn the matrimonial state, should be always single. You know I am in|capable of flattery; and that I always speak and write the sincere dictates of my heart. Nor can you, from what you must know of your own merit (taken in a comparative light with others), doubt my sincerity. For why should a person who delights to find out and admire every thing that is praise-worthy in an|other, be supposed ignorant of like perfections in her|self, when she could not so much admire them in another, if she had them not herself? And why may not one give her those praises, which she would give to any other, who had but half of her own excel|lencies?—Especially when she is incapable of pride and vainglory; and neither despises others for the want of her fine qualities, nor over-values herself up|on them?—Over-values, did I say!—How can that be?—

Forgive me, my beloved friend. My admiration of you (increased, as it is, by every letter you write) will not always be held down in silence; altho' in order to avoid offending you, I generally endeavour to keep it from flowing to my pen, when I write to you, or to my lips, whenever I have the happiness to be in your company.

I will add nothing, tho' I could an hundred things, on occasion of your latest communications, but that I am,

Your ever-affectionate and faithful, ANNA HOWE.

I hope I have pleased you with my dispatch. I wish I had been able to please you with my requested advice.

You have given new beauties to the charming Ode which you have transmitted to me. What pity that the wretches you have to deal with, put

you out of your admirable course; in the pursuit of which, like the sun, you was wont to chear and illuminate all you shone upon.

LETTER XII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Sunday Morning, Mar. 26.

HOW soothing a thing is praise from those we love!—Whether conscious or not, of deserving it, it cannot but give us great delight, to see one's self stand high in the opinion of those whose favour we are ambitious to cultivate. An ingenuous mind will make this farther use of it, that if it be sensible, that it does not already deserve the charming attributes, it will hasten, before its friend finds herself mistaken, to obtain the graces it is complimented for: And this it will do, as well in honour to itself, as to pre|serve its friend's opinion, and justify her judgment!—May This be always my aim!—And then you will not only give the praise, but the merit; and I shall be more worthy of that friendship, which is the only pleasure I have to boast of.

Most heartily I thank you for the kind dispatch of your last favour. How much am I indebted to you! and even to your honest servant!—Under what ob|ligations does my unhappy situation lay me!

But let me answer the kind contents of it, as well as I may.

As to getting over my disgusts to Mr. Solmes, it is impossible to be done; while he wants Generosity, Frankness of Heart, Benevolence, Manners, and every qualification that distinguishes a worthy man. O my dear! what a degree of patience, what a great|ness of soul, is required in the wife, not to despise a husband who is more ignorant, more illiterate, more low-minded, than herself?—The wretch, vested

with prerogatives, who will claim rule in virtue of them (and not to permit whose claim, will be as dis|graceful to the prescribing wife, as to the govern'd husband); How shall such a husband as This be borne, were he, for reasons of convenience and interest, even to be one's CHOICE? But, to be compelled to have such a one, and that compulsion to arise from motives as unworthy of the prescribers as of the prescribed, who can think of getting over an aversion so justly founded? How much easier to bear the temporary persecutions I labour under, because temporary, than to resolve to be such a man's for life? Were I to comply, must I not leave my relations, and go to him? One month will decide the one perhaps: But what a duration of woe will the other be!—Every day, it is likely, rising to witness to some new breach of an Altar-vow'd duty!

Then, my dear, the man seems already to be me|ditating vengeance upon me for an aversion I cannot help: For yesterday, my saucy gaoleress assured me, That all my oppositions would not signify that pinch of snuff, holding out her genteel finger and thumb: That I must have Mr. Solmes: That there|fore, I had not best carry my jest too far; for that Mr. Solmes was a man of spirit, and had told HER, that as I should surely be his, I acted very unpoliticly; since, if he had not more mercy (that was her word; I know not if it were his) than I had, I might have cause to repent the usage I gave him, to the last day of my life.

But enough of this man; who, by what you re|peat from Sir Harry Downeton, has all the insolence of his Sex, without any one quality to make that in|solence tolerable.

I have received two letters from Mr. Lovelace, since his visit to you; which made three that I had not answer'd. I doubted not his being very uneasy; but in his last he complains in high terms of my silence; not in the still small voice, or rather style, of

an humble Lover, but in a style like that, which would probably be used by a slighted Protector. And his pride is again touched, that like a thief or eves|dropper, he is forced to dodge about in hopes of a letter, and return five miles, and then to an incon|venient lodging, without any.

His letters, and the copy of mine to him, shall soon attend you: Till when, I will give you the sub|stance of what I wrote to him yesterday.

I take him severely to task, for his freedom in threatening me, thro' you, with a visit to Mr. Solmes, or to my brother. I say,

'That, surely, I must be thought to be a creature fit to bear any-thing: That violence and menaces from some of my own family are not enough for me to bear, in order to make me avoid him; but that I must have them from him too, upon a supposition that I will oblige those, whom it is both my inclination and duty to oblige in every-thing that is reasonable, and in my power.

'Very extraordinary, I tell him, that a violent spirit shall threaten to do a rash and unjustifiable thing, which concerns me but little, and himself a great deal, if I do not something as rash, my character and sex consider'd, to divert him from it.'

'I even hint, that, however it may affect me, if any mischief shall be done on my account, yet there are persons, as far as I know, who, in my case, would not think there would be reason for much regret, were such a committed rashness as he threat|ens Mr. Solmes with, to rid her of two persons, whom had she never known, she had never been unhappy.'

This is plain-dealing, my dear! And I suppose he will put it into still plainer English for me.

I take his pride to task, on his disdaining to watch for my letters; and for his eves-dropping language: And say,

'That, surely, he has the less reason to think so hardly of his situation, since his faulty mo|rals

are the original cause of all; and since faulty morals deservedly level all distinction, and bring down rank and birth to the Canaille; and to the necessity, of which he complains, of appearing, if I must descend to his language, as an eves-dropper and a thief. And then I sorbid him ever to expect another letter from me, that is to subject him to such disgraceful hardships.

'That as to the solemn vows and protestations, he is so ready, upon all occasions, to make, they have the less weight with me, as they give a kind of de|monstration, that he himself thinks, from his own character, there is reason to make them. Deeds are to me the only evidences of intentions. And I am more and more convinced of the necessity of break|ing-off a correspondence with a person, whose ad|dresses I see it is impossible either to expect my friends to encourage, or him to deserve that they should.

'What therefore I repeatedly desire is, That since his birth, alliances, and expectations, are such, as will at any-time, if his immoral character be not an objection, procure him, at least, equal advantages, in a woman whose taste and inclinations, moreover, might be better adapted to his own; I insist upon it, as well as advise it, that he give up all thoughts of me: And the rather, as he has all along, by his threatening and unpolite behaviour to my friends, and whenever he speaks of them, given me reason to conclude, that there is more malice to them, than regard to me, in his perseverance.'

This is the substance of the letter I have written to him.

The man, to be sure, must have the penetration to observe, that my correspondence with him hitherto is owing more to the severity I meet with, than to a very high value for him. And so I would have him think. What a worse than Moloch-deity is That,

which expects an offering of reason, duty, and dis|cretion, to be made to its shrine!

Your mamma is of opinion, that at last my friends will relent. Heaven grant that they may!—But my brother and sister have such an influence over every-body, and are so determin'd; so pique themselves upon subduing me, and carrying their point; that I despair that they will:—And yet, if they do not, I frankly own, I would not scruple to throw myself upon any not disreputable protection, by which I might avoid my present persecutions, on one hand, and not give Lovelace advantage over me, on the other.—That is to say, were there manifestly no other way left me: For, if there were, I should think the leaving my father's house, without his consent, one of the most inexcusable actions I could be guilty of, were the protection to be ever so unexceptionable; and This notwithstanding the independent fortune willed me by my grandfather. And indeed I have often reflected with a degree of indignation and dis|dain, upon the thought of what a low, selfish crea|ture that child must be, who is to be rein'd-in only by what a parent can or will do for her.

But notwithstanding all this, I owe it to the sin|cerity of friendship to confess, that I know not what I should have done, had your advice been conclusive any way. Had you, my dear, been witness to my different emotions, as I read your letter, when, in one place, you advise me of my danger, if I am car|ry'd to my uncle's; in another, when you own you could not bear what I bear, and would do any thing rather than marry the man you hate: yet, in an|other, represent to me my reputation suffering in the world's eye; and the necessity I should be under to justify my conduct, at the expence of my friends, were I to take a rash step: in another, insinuate the dishonest figure I should be forced to make, in so com|pell'd a matrimony; endeavouring to cajole, fawn

upon, and play the hypocrite with a man I have an aversion to; who would have reason to believe me an hypocrite, as well from my former avowals, as from the sense he must have (if common sense he has) of his own demerits:—The necessity you think there would be for me, the more averse I really was, to seem the fonder of him: A fondness, were I capable of so much dissimulation, that would be imputable to the most disgraceful motives; as it would be too visi|ble, that love, either of person or mind, could be neither of them:—Then his undoubted, his even constitutional narrowness: His too probable jealousy, and unforgivingness, bearing in mind my declared aversion, and the unfeigned despights I took all oppor|tunities to do him, in order to discourage his address: A preference avow'd against him from the same mo|tive: with the pride he professes to take in curbing, and sinking the spirits of a woman he had acquired a right to tyrannize over:—Had you, I say, been wit|ness of my different emotions as I read; now leaning This way; now That; now perplexed; now appre|hensive; now angry at one, then at another; now re|solving; now doubting,—you would have seen the power you have over me; and would have had reason to believe, that, had you given your advice in any de|termin'd or positive manner, I had been ready to have been concluded by it. So, my dear, you will find, from these acknowlegements, that you must justify me to those Laws of Friendship, which require undisguised frankness of heart; altho' your justification of me in that particular, will perhaps be at the expence of my prudence.

But, upon the whole, This I do repeat—That no|thing but the last extremity shall make me abandon my father's house, if they will permit me to stay; and if I can, by any means, by any honest pretences, but keep off my evil destiny in it, till my cousin Morden arrives. As one of my trustees, his is a protection

that I may, without discredit, throw myself into, if my other friends should remain determin'd. And This (altho' they seem too well aware of it) is all my hope: For, as to Lovelace, were one to be sure of his tenderness to one's-self, and even of his reforma|tion, must not the thoughts of embracing the offer'd protection of his family, be the same in the world's eye, as accepting of his own?—Could I avoid re|ceiving his visits at his own relations? Must I not be his, whatever, on seeing him in a nearer light, I should find him out to be. For you know, it has always been my observation, that both sexes too generally cheat each other, by the more distant. Oh! my dear! how wise have I endeavour'd to be! how an|xious to choose, and to avoid every-thing, precau|tiously, as I may say, that might make me happy, or unhappy; yet all my wisdom now, by a strange fa|tality, likely to become foolishness.

Then you tell me, in your usual, kindly-partial manner, what is expected of me, more than would be of some others. This should be a lesson to me. What|ever my motives, the world would not know them: To complain of a brother's unkindness, that one might do: It is too common a case, where interests clash: But where the unkind father cannot be separated from the faulty brother; who could bear to lighten herself, by loading a father?—Then, in this parti|cular case, must not the hatred Mr. Lovelace ex|presses to every-one of my family, altho' in return ••or their hatred of him, shock one extremely? Must it not shew, that there is something implacable, as well ••s highly unpolite, in his temper?—And what creature ••an think of marrying so as to live at continual en|mity with all her own relations?

But here, having tir'd myself, and I dare say you, will lay down my pen.

Mr. Solmes is almost continually here: So is my

aunt Hervey: So are my two uncles. Something is working against me, I doubt. What an uneasy state is suspense!—When a naked sword, too, seems hang|ing over one's head!

I hear nothing but what this confident creature, Betty, throws out in the wantonness of office. Now it is, Why, Miss, don't you look up your things? You'll be call'd upon, depend upon it, before you are aware!—Another time she intimates darkly, and in broken sentences, as if on purpose to teaze me, what one says, what another; with their inquiries, how I dispose of my time? And my brother's insolent question comes frequently in, Whether I am not writing a history of my sufferings?

But I am now used to her pertness: And as it is only thro' that, that I can hear of any thing intended against me, before it is to be put in execution; and as she pleads a commission, when she is most imper|tinent; I bear with her: Yet, now-and-then, not without a little of the heart-burn.

I will deposite thus far. Adieu, my dear.

CL. HARLOWE.

Written on the Cover, after she went down, with a pencil:

On coming down, I found your second letter of yesterday's date (a) 18.1. I have read it; and am in hopes, that the within will, in a great measure, an|swer your mamma's expectations of me.

My most respectful acknowlegements to her for it, and for her very kind admonitions.

You'll read to her what you please of the inclosed.

LETTER XIII. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Sat. Mar. 25.

I Follow my last of this date, by command. I men|tioned in my former, my mamma's opinion of the merit you would have, if you could oblige your friends, against your own inclination. Our conference upon this subject was introduced by the conversation we had had with Sir Harry Downeton; and my mamma thinks it of so much importance, that she injoins me to give you the particulars of it. I the rather com|ply, as I was unable in my last to tell what to advise you to; and as you will in this recital have my mam|ma's opinion, at least; and, perhaps, in hers, what the world's would be, were it to know only what she knows; and not so much as I know.

My mamma argues upon this case in a most dis|couraging manner, for all such of our sex as look for|ward for happiness in marriage with the man of their choice.

Only, that I know, she has a side-view to her daughter; who, at the same time that she now pre|fers no one to another, values not the man her mam|ma most regards, of one farthing; or I should lay it more to heart.

What is there in it, says she, that all this bustle is about? Is it such a mighty matter for a young Lady to give up her own inclinations to oblige her friends?

Very well, my mamma, thought I! NOW, may you ask this—At FORTY, you may—But what would you have said at EIGHTEEN, is the question!

Either, said she, the Lady must be thought to have very violent inclinations (and what nice young crea|ture would have That supposed?) which she could not give up; or a very stubborn will, which she

would not; or, thirdly, have parents she was indif|ferent about obliging.

You know my mamma now and then argues very notably: always very warmly at least. I happen of|ten to differ from her; and we both think so well of our own arguments, that we very seldom are so happy as to convince one another. A pretty com|mon case, I believe, in all vehement debatings. She says, I am too witty; Anglicè, too pert: I, That she is too wise; that is to say, being likewise put into Eng|lish, Not so young as she has been: In short, is grown so much into mother, that she has forgotten she ever was a daughter. So, generally, we call another cause by consent—Yet fall into the old one half a dozen times over, without consent:—Quitting and Resume|ing, with half-angry faces, forced into a smile, that there might be some room to piece together again: But go to bed, if bed-time, a little sullen, neverthe|less; or, if we speak, her silence is broke, with an Ah! Nancy! You are so lively! so quick! I wish you were less like your papa, child!—

I pay it off with thinking, that my mamma has no reason to disclaim her share in her Nancy: And if the matter go off with greater severity on her side than I wish for, then her favourite Hickman fares the worse for it, next day.

I know I am a saucy creature: I know, if I do not say so, you will think so; so no more of This, just now. What I mention it for, is to tell you, that on this serious occasion, I will omit, if I can, all that passed between us, that had an air of flippancy on my part, or quickness on my mamma's, to let you into the cool and the cogent, of the conversation.

'Look thro' the families, said she, which we both know, where the Gentleman and Lady have been said to marry for Love; which, at the time it is so called, is perhaps no more than a passion begun in folly, or thoughtlesness, and carried on from a

spirit of perversness and opposition [Here we had a parenthetical debate, which I omit;] and see, if they appear to be happier than those whose principal inducement to marry, has been convenience, or to oblige their friends; or even whether they are ge|nerally so happy: For convenience and duty, where observed, will afford a permanent and even an in|creasing satisfaction, as well at the time, as upon the reflection, which seldom fail to reward themselves: While Love, if Love be the motive, is an idle pas|sion—[Idle in ONE SENSE my mamma cannot say; for Love is as busy as a monkey, and as mischievous as a school-boy—] It is a fervor, that, like all other fer|vors, lasts but a little while; a bow over-strained, that soon returns to its natural bent.

'As it is founded generally upon mere national ex|cellencies, which were unknown to the persons themselves, till attributed to either by the other; one, two, or three months, usually sets all right on both sides; and then with open'd eyes they think of each other—just as every-body else thought of them before.

'The lovers imaginaries [Her own word! Notable enough! i'n't it?] are by that time gone off; Na|ture, and Old habits, painfully dispensed with or con|cealed, return: Disguises thrown aside, all the moles, freckles, and defects in the minds of each, discover themselves; and 'tis well if each do not sink in the opinion of the other, as much below the common standard, as the blinded imagination of both had set them above it. And now, said she, the fond pair, who knew no felicity out of each other's company, are so far from finding the never-ending variety each had proposed in an unrestrained conversation with the other (when they seldom were together; and always parted with something to say; or, on recollection, when parted, wishing they had said); that they are continually on the wing in pursuit

of amusements out of themselves; and those, con|cluded my sage mamma [Did you think her wisdom so very moderne?], will perhaps be the livelier to each, in which the other has no share.'

I told my mamma, that if you were to take any rash step, it would be owing to the indiscreet violence of your friends: I was afraid, I said, that these reflections upon the conduct of people in the married state, who might set out with better hopes, were but too well-grounded: But that this must be allowed me, that if children weighed not these matters so thoroughly as they ought, neither did parents make those allow|ances for youth, inclination, and inexperience, which were necessary to be made for themselves at their childrens time of life.

I remember'd a letter, I told her hereupon, which you wrote a few months ago, personating an anony|mous elderly Lady (in Mr. Wyerley's day of plaguing you) to Miss Drayton's mamma, who, by her se|verity and restraints, had like to have driven the young Lady into the very fault, against which her mother was most sollicitous to guard her. And, I dared to say, she would be pleased with it.

I fetched the copy of it, which you had favoured me with at the time; I would have read only that par•• of it, which was most to my purpose: But she would hear it all (a) 18.2.

My mamma was pleased with the whole letter; and said, It deserved to have the effect it had. But asked me, what excuse could be offer'd for a young Lady capable of making such reflections; and who, at her time of life, could so well assume the character of one of riper years; if she should rush into any fatal mis|take herself?

She then touched upon the moral character of Mr. Lovelace; and how reasonable the aversion of your relations is, to a man, who gives himself the li|berties he is said to take; and who, indeed, himself, denies not the accusation; having been heard to de|clare, that he will do all the mischief he can to the Sex, in revenge for the ill usage and broken vows of his first love, at a time when he was too young (his own expression, it seems) to be insincere.

I reply'd, That I had heard every one say, that that Lady really used him ill; that it affected him so much at the time, that he was forced to travel upon it; and, to drive her out of his heart, ran into courses, which he had ingenuity enough himself to condemn: That, however, he had denied the menaces against the Sex, which were attributed to him, when charged with them by me in your presence; and declared himself incapable of so unjust and ungenerous a resent|ment against all, for the perfidy of one.

You remember this, my dear; as I do your in|nocent observation upon it, That you could believe his solemn asseveration and denial:

'For, surely, said you, the man who would resent, as the highest indignity, that could be offer'd to a gentleman, the imputation, of a wilful falshood, would not be guilty of one.'

I insisted upon the extraordinary circumstances in your case, particularizing them: Observing, that Mr. Lovelace's morals were, at one time, no ob|jection with your relations for Miss Arabella: That then much was built upon his family, and more upon his parts and learning, which made it out of doubt, that he might be reclaim'd by a woman of virtue and prudence: And [Pray forgive me for mentioning it] I ventured to add, that altho' your family might be good sort of folks, as the world went, yet no-body imputed to any of them, but yourself, a very pun|ctilious concern for religion or piety—Therefore were they the less intitled to object to the defects of that kind in others. Then, what an odious man, said I, have they picked out, to supplant, in a Lady's af|fections, one of the finest appearances of a man in England, and one noted for his brilliant parts, and other accomplishments (whatever his morals might be); as if they were determined upon an act of power and authority, without rhyme or reason!

Still my mamma insisted, that there was the greater

merit in your obedience on that account, and urged, that there hardly ever was a very handsome and a sprightly man who made a good husband: For that they were generally such Narcissus's, as to imagine every woman ought to think as highly of them, as they did of themselves.

There was no danger from that consideration here, I said, because the Lady had still greater advantages, both of person and mind, than the Man; graceful and elegant, as he must be allowed to be, beyond any of his sex.

She cannot endure to hear me praise any man but her favourite Hickman: Upon whom, nevertheless, she generally brings a degree of contempt, which he would escape, did she not lessen the little merit he has, by giving him on all occasions, more than I think he can deserve, and entering him into com|parisons, in which it is impossible but he must be a sufferer. And now, preposterous partiality! She thought, for her part, that Mr. Hickman, 'bating, that his face indeed was not so smooth, nor his com|plexion quite so good, and saving that he was not so presuming and so bold (which ought to be no fault with a modest woman!), equalled Mr. Lovelace at any hour of the day.

To avoid entering further into such an incomparable comparison, I said I did not believe, had they left you to your own way, and treated you generously, that you would have had the thought of encouraging any man, whom they disliked.

Then, Nancy, catching me up, the excuse is less—For, if so, must there not be more of contra|diction, than love, in the case?

Not so, neither, Madam: For I know Miss Clarissa Harlowe would prefer Mr. Lovelace to all men, if morals—

If, Nancy!—That If is every-thing!—Do you really think she loves Mr. Lovelace?

What would you have had me to say, my dear?—I won't tell you what I did say—But had I not said what I did, who would have believed me?

Besides, I know you love him!—Excuse me, my dear: Yet, if you deny it, what do you but reflect upon yourself, as if you thought you ought not?

Indeed, said I, the man is worthy of any woman's love (If, again, I could say)—But her parents, Madam—

Her parents, Nancy—[You know, my dear, how my mamma, who accuses her daughter of quickness, is evermore interrupting!—]—

May take wrong measures, said I—

Cannot do wrong—They have reason, I'll warrant, said she—

By which they may provoke a young Lady, said I, to do rash things, which otherwise see would not do.

But if it be a rash thing (returned she), should she do it! A prudent daughter will not wilfully err, be|cause her parents err, if they were to err: If she do, the world, which blames the parents, will not acquit the child. All that can be said, in extenuation of a daughter's error, arises from a kind consideration, which Miss's letter to Lady Drayton pleads for, to be paid to her daughter's youth and inexperience. And will such an admirable young person as Miss Clarissa Harlowe, whose prudence, as we see, qua|lifies her to be an adviser of persons much older than herself, take shelter under so poor a covert?

Let her know, Nancy, out of hand, what I say; and I charge you to represent farther to her, That let her dislike one man, and approve another, ever so|much, it will be expected of a young Lady of her unbounded generosity, and greatness of mind, that she should deny herself, when she can oblige all her family by so doing: No less than ten or a dozen, perhaps, the nearest and dearest to her of all the persons in the

world, an indulgent father and mother at the head of them. It may be fancy only on her side; but parents look deeper: And will not Miss Clarissa Harlowe give up her fancy to her parents judgment?

I said a great deal upon this judgment-subject: All that you could wish I should say; and all that your extraordinary case allowed me to say. And my mamma was so sensible of the force of it, that she charged me not to write to you any part of my answer to what she said; but only what she herself had ad|vanced; lest, in so critical a case, it should induce you to take measures, that might give us both rea|son (I for giving it, you for following it) to repent it as long as we lived.

And thus, my dear, I set my mamma's arguments before you. And the rather, as I cannot myself tell what to advise you to do!—You know best your own heart; and what That will let you do!

Robin undertakes to deposite This very early, that you may receive it by your first morning airing.

Heaven guide and direct you for the best, is the in|cessant prayer, of

Your ever-affectionate, ANNA HOWE.

LETTER XIV. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Sunday Afternoon.

I Am in great apprehensions. Yet cannot help re|peating my humble thanks to your mamma, and you, for your last favour. I hope her kind end is answer'd by the contents of my last. Yet I must not think it enough to acknowlege her goodness to me, with a pencil only, on the cover of a letter sealed up. A few lines give me leave to write with

regard to my anonymous letter to Lady Drayton—If I did not at that time tell you, as I believe I did, that my excellent Mrs. Norton gave me her assistance in that letter; I now acknowlege that she did.

Pray let your mamma know this, for two reasons: One, that I may not be thought to arrogate to my|self a discretion which does not belong to me; the other, that I may not suffer by the severe, but just inference she was pleased to draw; doubling my faults upon me, if I myself should act unworthy of the ad|vice I was supposed to give.

Before I come to what most nearly affects me, I must chide you, once more, for the severe, the very severe things, you mention of our family, to the disparagement of their morals, as I may say: Indeed, my dear, I wonder at you!—A slighter oc|casion might have passed me, after I have written to you so often to so little purpose, on this topic. But, affecting as my own circumstances are, I cannot, without a breach of duty, let slip the reflection I need not repeat in words.

There is not a worthier person in England than my mamma. Nor is my papa that man you some|times make him. Excepting in one point, I know not any family which lives up more to their duty, than the principals of ours. A little too uncom|municative for their great circumstances—that is all.—Why, then, have they not reason to insist up|on unexceptionable morals in a man whose relation|ship to them, by a marriage in their family, they have certainly a right to allow of, or disapprove?

Another line or two, before I am ingross'd by my own concerns:—Upon your treatment of Mr. Hick|man.—Is it, do you think, generous, to revenge upon an innocent person, the displeasure you receive from another quarter, where I doubt you are a tres|passer too?—But one thing I can tell him; and you had not best provoke me to it; That no woman uses

a man ill whom she does not absolutely reject, but she has it in her heart to make him amends, when her tyranny has had its run, and he has completed the measure of his services and patience. But my mind is not enough at ease, to push this matter further.

I will now give you the occasion of my present apprehensions.

I had reason to fear, as I mention'd in mine of this morning, that a storm was brewing. Mr. Solmes came home this afternoon, from church, with my brother. Soon after, Betty brought me up a letter, without saying from whom. It was in a cover, and directed by a hand I never saw before; as if it was supposed, I would not have received and open'd it, had I known it came from him. These are the contents.

To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Sunday, Mar. 26.

Dearest Madam,

I Think myself a most unhappy man, in that I have never yet been able to pay my respects to you with youre consent, for one halfe hour. I have something to communicate to you that concernes you much, if you be pleased to admitt me to youre speech. Youre honour is concerned in itt, and the honour of all youre familly. Itt relates to the designes of one whom you are sed to valew more then he deserves; and to some of his reprobat actions; which I am reddie to give you convincing proofes of the truth of. I may ap|pear to be interessed in itt: But neverthelesse, I am reddy to make oathe, that every tittle is true: And you will see what a man you are sed to favour. But I hope not so, for youre owne honour.

Pray, Madam, vouchsafe me a hearing, as you va|lew your honour and familly: Which will oblidge, dearest Miss,

Youre most humble and most faithfull Servant, ROGER SOLMES.

I waite below for the hope of admittance.

I have no manner of doubt, that this is a poor de|vice, to get this man into my company. I would have sent down a verbal answer; but Betty refused to carry any message, which should prohibit his visiting me. So I was obliged either to see him, or to write to him. I wrote, therefore, an answer, of which I shall send you the rough draught. And now my heart akes for what may follow from it; for I hear a great hurry below.

To ROGER SOLMES, Esq

SIR,

WHatever you have to communicate to me, which concerns my honour, may as well be done by writing, as by word of mouth. If Mr. Lovelace is any of my concern, I know not that, therefore, he ought to be yours▪ For the usage I receive on your account (I must think it so!) is so harsh, that were there not such a man in the world as Mr. Lovelace, I would not wish to see Mr.Solmes, no, not for one half-hour, in the way he is pleased to be desirous to see me. I never can be in any danger from Mr. Lovelace; and, of consequence, cannot be affected by any of your discoveries, if the proposal I made be accepted. You have been acquainted with it, no doubt. If not, be pleased to let my friends know, that if they will rid me of my apprehensions of one gentleman, I will rid them of theirs of another: And then, of what consequence to them, or to me, will it be, whether Mr. Lovelace be a good man, or a bad▪ And, if to neither of us, I see not how it can be of any to you. But if you do, I have nothing to say to That; and it will be a Christian part, if you will ex|postulate with him upon the errors you have discover'd, and endeavour to make him as good a man, as, no doubt, you are yourself, or you would not be so ready to detect and expose him.

Excuse me, Sir:—But after my former letter to

you, and your ungenerous perseverance; and after this attempt to avail yourself at the expence of another man's character, rather than by your own proper merit, I see not that you can blame any asperity in Her, whom you have so largely contributed to make unhappy.

CL. HARLOWE.

Sunday night.

MY father was for coming up to me, in great wrath, it seems; but was persuaded to the contrary. My aunt Hervey was permitted to send me This that follows.—Quick work, my dear!

To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Niece,

EVery-body is now convinc'd, that nothing is to be done with you by way of gentleness or per|suasion. Your mamma will not let you stay in the house; for your papa is so incensed by your strange letter to his friend, that she knows not what will be the consequence, if you do. So, you are commanded to get ready to go to your uncle Antony's, out of hand.

Your uncle thinks he has not deserv'd of you this unwillingness to go to his house.

You don't know the wickedness of the man you think it worth while to quarrel with all your friends for.

You must not answer me. There will be no end of That.

You know not the affliction you give to every|body; but to none more than to

Your affectionate Aunt, DOROTHY HERVEY.

Forbid to write to my aunt, I took a bolder liber|ty. I wrote a few lines to my mamma; imploring

her to procure me leave to throw myself at my fa|ther's feet, and hers, if I must go (no-body else pre|sent), to beg pardon for the trouble I had given them both, and their blessings; and to receive their com|mands, as to my removal, and the when, from their own lips.

'What new boldness This!—Take it back; and bid her learn to obey,'

was my mamma's angry an|swer, with my letter return'd, unopen'd.

But that I might omit nothing that was in my power, or heart, to do, that had an appearance of duty, I wrote a few lines to my papa himself, to the same purpose; begging he would not turn me out of his house, without his blessing. But This, torn in two pieces, and unopen'd, was brought me up again by Betty, with an air, one hand held up, the other extended, the torn letter in her open palm; and a See here!—What a sad thing is This!—Nothing will do but duty, Miss!—Your papa said, Let her tell me of deeds!—I'll receive no words from her: And so he tore the letter, and flung the pieces at my head.

So desperate my case, I was resolved not to stop even at this repulse. I took my pen, and addressed myself to my uncle Harlowe, inclosing that which my mamma had return'd unopen'd, and the torn unopen'd one sent to my papa; having first scratch'd thro' a transcript for you.

My uncle was going home, and it was deliver'd to him just as he stepped into his chariot. What may be the fate of it, therefore, I cannot know till to-morrow.

The following is a copy of it.

To JOHN HARLOWE, Esq.

My dear and ever-honoured Uncle,

I Have no-body now but you, to whom I can apply, with hope, so much as to have my humble ad|dresses

open'd and read. My aunt Hervey has given me commands which I want to have explain'd; but she has forbid me writing to her. Hereupon I took the liberty to write to my papa and mamma: You will see, Sir, by the torn one, and by both being re|turn'd un-open'd, what has been the result. This, Sir, perhaps you know: But, as you know not the contents of the disgraced letters, I beseech you to read them both, that you may be a witness for me, that they are not filled with complaints, with expostu|lations, nor contain any thing undutiful. Give me leave to say, Sir, That if deaf-ear'd anger will nei|ther grant me a hearing, nor what I write a perusal, some time hence the hard-heartedness may be regret|ted. I beseech you, dear, good Sir, to let me know what is meant by sending me to my uncle Antony's, rather than to your house, or to my aunt's, or else|where? If it be for what I apprehend it to be, life will not be supportable upon the terms: I beg also to know, WHEN I am to be turned out of doors!—My heart strongly gives me, that once I am compelled to leave this house, I never shall see it more.

It becomes me, however, to declare, that I write not This thro' perverseness, or in resentment; God knows my heart, I do not!—But the treatment I ap|prehend I shall meet with, if carried to my other uncle's, will, in all probability, give the finishing stroke to the distresses, the undeserved distresses I will be bold to call them, of

Your once highly favour'd, But now most unhappy, Kinswoman, CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER XV Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Monday morning, March 27.

THIS morning early my uncle Harlowe came hi|ther. He sent me up the inclosed very tender letter. It has made me wish I could oblige him!—You'll see how Mr. Solmes's ill qualities are gloss'd over in it. What blemishes does affection hide!—So, perhaps, may they say to me, What faults does antipathy bring to light! Be pleased to send me back this letter of my uncle's, by the first return. I may possibly try to account for, and wish to obviate, my being such a formidable creature to my whole family, as I am represented in it.

Sunday night, or rather Monday morning.

I Must answer you, tho' against my own intention. Every-body loves you; and you know they do. The very ground you walk upon is dear to most of us. But how can we resolve to see you? There is no standing against your looks and language. It is the strength of our love makes us decline to see you. How can we, when you are resolved not to do, what we are resolved you shall do? I never, for my part, loved any creature, as I loved you from your youth till now. And indeed, as I have often said, Never was there a young creature so deserving of our love. But what is come to you now!—Alas! alas, my dear! How you fail in the trial!

I have read the letters you inclosed. At a proper time, I may shew them to my brother and sister. But they will receive nothing from you at present.

For my part, I could not read your letter to myself, without being unmann'd. How can you be so unmov'd yourself, yet be so able to move every-body else? How could you send such a letter to Mr. Solmes? Fie upon you!—How strangely are you alter'd?

Then to treat your brother and sister as you did, that they don't care to write to you, or to see you.—Don't you know where it is written, That soft an|swers turn away wrath? But if you will trust to your sharp-pointed wit, you may wound: But a club will beat down a sword: And how can you expect, that they who are hurt by you will not hurt you again?—Was this the way you used to take to make us all adore you, as we did?—No, it was your gentle|ness of heart and manners, that made every-body, even strangers, at first sight, treat you as a Lady, and call you a Lady, tho' not born one, as your mamma was, any more than your sister; while she was only plain Miss Harlowe, or Miss Arabella. If you were en|vied, why should you sharpen envy, and file up its teeth to an edge?—You see I write like an impartial man, and as one that loves you still!

But since you have display'd your talents, and spared no-body, and moved every-body, without be|ing moved, you have but made us stand the closer and firmer together. This is what I likened to an imbattled Phalanx, once before. Your aunt Hervey forbids your writing, for the same reason that I must not countenance it. We are all afraid to see you, because we know we shall be made as so many fools. Nay, your mamma is so afraid of you, that once or twice, when she thought you was coming to force yourself into her presence, she shut the door, and locked herself in, because she knew she must not see you upon your terms, and you are resolved you will not see her upon hers.

Resolve but to oblige us all, my dearest Miss Clary, and you shall see how we will clasp you every one by turns, to our rejoicing hearts!—If the one man has not the wit, and the parts, and the person, of the other, no one breathing has a worse heart than that other: And is not the love of all your friends, and a sober man (if he be not so polished), to be preferred

to a debauchee, tho' ever so sine a man, to look at? You have such fine talents, that you will be adored by the one: But the other has as much advantage in those respects, as you have yourself, and will not set by them one straw: For husbands are sometimes jealous of their authority, with witty wives. You will have, in one, a man of virtue. Had you not been so rudely affronting to him, he would have made your ears tingle, with what he could have told you of the other.

Come, my dear niece, let me have the honour of doing with you what no-body else yet has been able to do. Your father, mother, and I, will divide the pleasure, and the honour, I will again call it, between us; and all past offences shall be forgiven; and Mr. Solmes, we will engage, shall take nothing amiss hereafter, that is just.

He knows, he says, what a jewel that man will have, who can obtain your favour; and he will think light of all he has suffer'd, or shall suffer, in obtain|ing you.

Dear, sweet creature, oblige us: And oblige us with a grace. It must be done, whether with a grace or not. I do assure you it must. You must not con|quer father, mother, uncles, every-body: Depend upon That.

I have sat up half the night to write This. You don't know how I am touch'd at reading yours, and writing this. Yet will I be at Harlowe-place early in the morn|ing. So, upon reading this, if you will oblige us all, send me word to come up to your apartment: And I will lead you down, and present you to the embraces of every-one: And you will then see, you have more of a brother and sister, than of late your prejudices will let you think you have. This from one who used to love to stile himself

Your paternal Uncle, JOHN HARLOWE.

In about an hour after this kind letter was given me, my uncle sent up to know, if he should be a welcome visitor, upon the terms mention'd in his letter? He bid Betty bring him down a verbal an|swer: A written one, he said, would be a bad sign; and he bid her therefore not bring a letter. But I had just finish'd the inclosed transcription of one I had been writing. She made a difficulty to carry it; but was prevailed upon to oblige me, by a token which these Mrs. Betty's cannot withstand.

Dear and honoured Sir,

HOW you rejoice me by your, condescending goodness!—So kind, so paternal a letter!—so soothing to a wounded heart; and of late what I have been so little used to!—How am I affected with it! Tell me not, dear Sir, of my way of writing: Your letter has more moved me, than I ever could move any-body!—It has made me, with all my heart, wish I could intitle myself to be visited upon your own terms; and to be led down to my papa and mamma, by so good and so kind an uncle.

I will tell you, dearest Sir, what I will do to make my peace. I have no doubt that Mr. Solmes would greatly prefer my sister to such a strange, averse crea|ture as me: His chief, or one of his chief motives to address me, is, as I have reason to believe, the contiguity of my grandfather's estate to his own: I will resign it; for ever I will resign it: And the resignation must be good, because I will never marry at all: I will make it over to my sister, and her heirs for ever. I shall have no heirs, but my brother and her; and I will receive, as of my papa's bounty, such an annuity (not in lieu of the estate, but as of his bounty), as he shall be pleased to grant me, if it be ever so small; and whenever I disoblige him, he shall withdraw it, at his pleasure.

Will not This be accepted?—Sure it must!—Sure

it will!—I beg of you, dearest Sir, to propose it; and second it with your interest. This will answer every end. My sister has a high opinion of Mr. Solmes. I never can have any in the light he is proposed to me. But as my sister's husband, he will be always intitled to my respect; and shall have it.

If this be accepted, grant me, Sir, the honour of a visit; and do me then the inexpressible pleasure of leading me down to the feet of my honoured pa|rents, and they shall find me the most dutiful of chil|dren; and to the arms of my brother and sister, and they shall find me the most obliging and most affec|tionate of sisters.

I wait, Sir, for your answer to this proposal, made with the whole heart of

Your dutiful and most obliged Niece, CL. HARLOWE.

Monday noon.

I HOPE this will be accepted: For Betty tells me, that my uncle Antony and my aunt Hervey are sent for; and not Mr. Solmes, which I look upon as a fa|vourable circumstance. With what chearfulness will I assign over this envied estate!—What a much more valuable consideration shall I part with it for!—The love and favour of all my relations!—That love and favour, which I used for eighteen years together to rejoice in, and be distinguished by!—And what a charming pretence will this afford me of breaking with Mr. Lovelace! And how easy will it possibly make him, to part with me!

I found this morning, in the usual place, a letter from him, in answer, I suppose, to mine of Friday, which I deposited not till Saturday. But I have not opened it; nor will I, till I see what effect this new offer will have.

Let me but be permitted to avoid the man I hate; and I will give up, with all my heart, the man I

could prefer. To renounce the one, were I really to value him, as you seem to imagine, can give but a temporary concern, which time and discretion will make light: This is a sacrifice which a child owes to parents and friends, if they insist upon its being made. But the other, to marry a man one cannot endure, is not only a dishonest thing, as to the man; but it is enough to make a creature, who wishes to be a good wife, a bad or indifferent one, as I once wrote to the man himself: And then she can hardly be either a good mistress; a good friend; or any thing but a discredit to her family, and a bad example to all around her.

Methinks I am loth, in the suspense I am in at present, to deposite this, because I shall then leave you in as great: But having been prevented by Betty's officiousness twice, I will now go down to my little poultry; and if I have an opportunity, will leave it in the usual place, where I hope to find something from you.

LETTER XVI. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Monday afternoon, March 27.

I HAVE deposited my narrative down to this day noon; but I hope soon to follow it with another letter, that I may keep you as little a while as possible in that suspense, which I am so much affected by at this moment: For my heart is disturbed at every foot I hear stir; and every door below, that I hear open or shut.

They have been all assembled some time, and are in close debate, I believe: But can there be room for long debate upon a proposal, which, if accepted, will so effectually answer all their views?—Can they insist a moment longer upon my having Mr. Solmes,

when they see what sacrifices I am ready to make, to be freed from his addresses?—O but I suppose the struggle is, first, with Bella's nicety, to persuade her to accept of the estate, and of the husband; and next, with her pride, to take her sister's refusals, as she once phrased it!—Or, it may be, my brother is in|sisting upon equivalents, for his reversion in the estate: And these sort of things take up but too much the attention of some of our family. To these, no doubt, one, or both, it must be owing, that my proposal admits of so much consideration. I want, methinks, to see, what Lovelace, in his letter, says. But I will deny myself this piece of curiosity, till that which is raised by my present suspense is answered.—Ex|cuse me, my dear, that I thus trouble you with my uncertainties. But I have no employment, nor heart, if I had, to pursue any other but what my pen af|fords me.

Monday evening.

WOULD you believe it?—Betty, by anticipation, tells me, that I am to be refused. I am

'a vile, art|ful creature. Every-body is too good to me. My uncle Harlowe has been taken-in, that's the phrase. They knew how it would be, if he either wrote to me, or saw me. He has, however, been made ashamed to be so wrought upon.—A pretty thing, truly, in the eye of the world, were they to take me at my word. It would look as if they had treated me thus hardly, as I think it, for this very purpose. My peculiars, particularly Miss Howe, would give it that turn; and I myself could mean nothing by it, but to see if it would be accepted, in order to strengthen my own arguments against Mr. Solmes. It was amazing, that it could admit of a moment's deliberation: That any thing could be supposed to be done in it. It was equally against Law and Equity: And a fine security Miss Bella

would have, or Mr. Solmes, when I could resume it when I would!—My brother and she my heirs! O the artful creature!—I to resolve to live single, when Lovelace was so sure of me!—and every|where declared as much!—and could, whenever he pleased, if my husband, claim under the Will!—Then the insolence—the confidence—(as Betty mincingly told me, that one said; you may easily guess who) that she, who was so justly in disgrace for downright rebellion, should pretend to prescribe to the whole family!—should name a husband for her elder sister!—What a triumph would her obsti|nacy go away with, to delegate her commands, not as from a prison, as she called it, but as from her throne, to her elders and betters; and to her father and mother too!—Amazing, perfectly amazing! that any-body could argue upon such a plan as this! It was a master-stroke of finesse!—It was ME in perfection!—Surely my uncle Harlowe will never be so taken-in again!'

All this was the readier told me, because it was against me, and would teaze and vex me. But as some of this fine recapitulation implied, that some|body spoke up for me, I was curious to know who it was: But Betty would not tell me, for fear I should have the consolation to find, that all were not against me.

But do you not see, my dear, what a sad creature she is whom you honour with your friendship!—You could not doubt your influence over me: Why did you not let me know myself a little better?—Why did you not take the friendly liberty I have always taken with you, and tell me my faults, and what a specious hy|pocrite I am? For if my brother and sister could make such discoveries, how is it possible, that faults so enormous [You could see others, you thought, of a more secret nature!] could escape your penetrating eye?

Well, but now, it seems, they are debating how and by whom to answer me: For they know not, nor are they to know, that Mrs. Betty has told me all these fine things. One desires to be excused, it seems: Another chooses not to have any thing to say to me: Another has enough of me: And of writing to so ready a scribbler, there will be no end.

Thus are those imputed qualifications, which used so lately to gain me applause, now become my crimes; so much do disgust and anger alter the property of things.

What will be the result of their debate, I suppose, will, some-how or other, be communicated to me by-and-by. But let me tell you, my dear, that I am made so desperate, that I am afraid to open Mr. Love|lace's letter, lest, in the humour I am in, I should do something, if I find it not exceptionable, that may give me repentance as long as I live!

Monday night.

THIS moment the following letter is brought me by Betty.

Monday, 5 o' clock.

Miss Cunning-ones,

YOUR fine, new proposal is thought unworthy of a particular answer. Your uncle Harlowe is ashamed to be so taken-in. Have you no new fetch for your uncle Antony? Go round with us, child, now your hand's in. But I was bid to write only one line, that you might not complain, as you did, of your worthy sister, for the freedoms you provoked: It is This;—Prepare yourself. To-morrow you go to my uncle Antony's. That's all, child.

JAMES HARLOWE.

I was vexed to the heart at this: And immediately, in the warmth of resentment, wrote the inclosed to my uncle Harlowe; who, it seems, stays here this night.

To JOHN HARLOWE, Esq.

Monday night.

Honoured Sir,

I Find I am a very sad creature, and did not know it. I wrote not to my Brother. To you, Sir, I wrote. From you I hope the honour of an answer. No one reveres her uncles more than I do. Never|theless, I will be bold to say, that the distance, great as it is, between uncle and niece, excludes not such a hope: And I think I have not made a proposal that deserves to be treated with scorn.

Forgive me, Sir—My heart is full.—Perhaps one day you may think you have been prevailed upon (for that is plainly the case!) to join to treat me, as I do not deserve to be treated. If you are ashamed, as my brother hints, of having expressed any returning ten|derness to me, God help me! I see I have no mercy to expect, from any-body! But, Sir, from your pen let me have an answer; I humbly beseech it of you.—Till my brother can recollect what belongs to a sister, I will take no answer from him, to the letter I wrote to you, nor any commands whatever.

I move every-body! This, Sir, is what you are pleased to mention:—But whom have I moved?—One person in the family has more moving ways than I have, or he could never so undeservedly have made every-body ashamed to shew any tenderness to a poor distressed child of the same family.

Return me not this with contempt, or torn, or unanswer'd, I beseech you. My papa has a title to do that, or any-thing, by his child: But from no other person in the world, of your sex, ought a young creature, of mine (while she preserves a supplicating spirit), to be so treated.

When what I have before written in the humblest strain has met with such strange constructions, I am afraid, that this unguarded scrawl will be very ill-received. But I beg, Sir, you will oblige me with

one line, be it ever so harsh, in answer to my pro|posal. I still think it ought to be attended to. I will enter into the most solemn engagements to make it valid, by a perpetual single life. In a word, any thing I can do, I will do, to be restored to all your favours. More I cannot say, but that I am, very undeservedly,

A most unhappy creature.

Betty scrupled again to carry this letter; and said, she should have anger; and I should but have it re|turned in scraps and bits.

I must take That chance, I said: I only desired she would deliver it as directed.

Sad doings! very sad! she said, that young Ladies should so violently set themselves against their duty!

I told her, she should have the liberty to say what she pleased, so she would but be my messenger that one time—And down she went with it.

I bid her, if she could, slide it into my uncle's hand, unseen; at least, unseen by my brother or sister, for fear it should meet, thro' their good offices, with the fate she had bespoken for it.

She would not undertake for That, she said.

I am now in expectation of the result. But having so little ground to hope for either favour or mercy, I opened Mr. Lovelace's letter.

I would send it to you, my dear (as well as those I shall inclose, by this conveyance; but not being able at present to determine in what manner I shall answer it, I will give myself the trouble of abstracting it here, while I am waiting for what may offer from the letter just gone down.

'He laments, as usual, my ill opinion of him, and readiness to believe every thing to his disadvantage. He puts into plain English, as I supposed he would, my hint, that I might be happier, if, by any rashness he might be guilty of to Solmes, he should come to an untimely end himself.'

He is concerned, he says,

'That the violence he had expressed on his extreme apprehensiveness of losing me, should have made him guilty of any thing I had so much reason to resent.'

He owns,

'That he is passionate: All good-na|tured men, he says, are so, and a sincere man can|not hide it.'

But appeals to me,

'Whether, if any occasion in the world could excuse the rashness of his expressions, it would not be his present dread|ful situation, thro' my indifference, and the malice of his enemies.'

He says,

'He has more reason than ever, from the contents of my last, to apprehend, that I shall be prevailed upon by force, if not by fair means, to fall in with my brother's measures; and sees but too plainly, that I am preparing him to expect it.

'Upon this presumption, he supplicates, with the utmost earnestness, that I will not give way to the malice of his enemies.

'Solemn vows of reformation, and everlasting truth and obligingness, he makes; all in the style of desponding humility; yet calls it a cruel turn upon him, to impute his protestations to a consciousness of the necessity there is for making them from his bad character.

'He despises himself, he solemnly protests, for his past follies: Thanks God he has seen his error; and nothing but my more particular instructions, are wanting to perfect his reformation.

'He promises, that he will do every thing that I shall think he can do with honour, to bring about a reconciliation with my father; and will even, if I insist upon it, make the first overture to my bro|ther, and treat him as his own brother, because he is mine, if he will not, by new affronts, revive the remembrance of the past.

'He begs, in the most earnest and humble man|ner, for one half-hour's interview; undertaking by

a key, which he owns he has to the garden-door, leading into the Coppice, as we call it (if I will but unbolt the door) to come into the garden at night, and wait till I have an opportunity to come to him, that he may re-assure me of the truth of all he writes, and of the affection, and, if needful, protection, of all his family.

'He presumes not, he says, to write by way of menace to me; but, if I refuse him this favour, he knows not (so desperate have some strokes in my letter made him) what his despair may make him do.'

He asks me,

'Determined, as my friends are, and far as they have already gone, and declare they will go, what I can propose to do, to avoid having Mr. Solmes, if I am carried to my uncle Antony's; un|less I resolve to accept of the protection he has of|fered to procure me; or except I will escape to London, or elsewhere, while I can escape?'

He advises me,

'To sue to your mamma, for her private reception of me; only till I can obtain pos|session of my own estate, and procure my friends to be reconciled to me; which he is sure they will be desirous to be, the moment I am out of their power.'

He apprises me [It is still my wonder, how he comes by his intelligence!],

'That my friends have written to my cousin Morden, to represent matters to him in their own partial way; nor doubt they to influence him on their side of the question.

'That all this shews I have but one way, if none o•• my own friends or intimates will receive me.

'If I will transport him with the honour of my choice of this one way, settlements shall be drawn with proper blanks, which I shall fill up as I please▪ Let him but have my commands from my own mouth; all my doubts and scruples from my own lips; and only a repetition, that I will not, on any

consideration, be Solmes's wife; and he shall be easy.—But, after such a letter as I have written, no|thing but an interview can make him so.'

He be|seeches me, therefore,

'To unbolt the door, as that very night.—If I receive not this time enough, this night;—and he will in a disguise, that shall not give a suspicion who he is, if he should be seen, come to the garden-door, in hopes to open it with his key; nor will he have any other lodging than in the Cop|pice both nights: watching every wakeful hour for the propitious unbolting, unless he has a letter with my orders to the contrary, or to make some other appointment.'

This letter was dated yesterday: So he was there last night, I suppose; and will be there this night; and I have not written a line to him: And now it is too late, were I determined what to write.

I hope he will not go to Mr. Solmes!—I hope he will not come hither!—If he does, I will break with him for ever.

What have I to do, with such headstrong spirits! I wish I had never—But what signifies wishing?—I am strangely perplexed—But I need not have told you this, after such a representation of my situation.

LETTER XVII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Tuesday Morning, 7 o'Clock.

MY uncle has vouchsafed to answer me. This is his letter; but just now brought me, altho' written last night; late, I suppose.

Monday Night.

Miss Clary,

SINCE you are grown such a bold challenger, and teach us all our duty, tho' you will not practise your own, I must answer you.—No-body wants your estate from you. Are you, who refuse every-body's advice, to prescribe a husband to your sister? Your letter to Mr. Solmes is inexcusable. I blam'd you for it before. Your parents will be obey'd. It is fit they should. Your mamma has nevertheless prevailed to have your going to your uncle Antony's put of till Thursday: Yet owns you deserve not that, or any other favour from her. I will receive no more of your letters. You are too artful for me. You are an ingrateful and unreasonable child! You will have your will paramount to every-body's. How are you alter'd!

Your displeased Uncle, JOHN HARLOWE.

To be carry'd away on Thursday—To the moated House—To the Chapel—To Solmes! How can I think of this!—They will make me desperate!

Tuesday Morn, Eight o'Clock.

I HAVE another letter from Mr. Lovelace. I open'd it, with the expectation of its being filled with bold and free complaints, on my not writing to pre|vent his two nights watching, in weather not ex|tremely agreeable. But, instead of complaints, he is

'full of tender concern lest I may have been pre|vented by indisposition, or by the closer confinement which he has frequently caution'd me that I may expect.'

He says,

'He had been in different disguises loi|tering about our garden and park wall, all the day on Sunday last; and all Sunday-night was wandering about the coppice, and near the back-door. It rain'd

and he has got a great cold, attended with feverish|ness, and so hoarse, that he has almost lost his voice.'

Why did he not flame out in his letter?—Treated, as I am treated by my friends, it is dangerous for me to lie under the sense of an obligation to any one's patience, when that person suffers in health for my sake.

'He had no shelter, he says, but under the great overgrown Ivy, which spreads wildly round the heads of two or three Oaklings; and that was soon wet through.'

You and I, my dear, once thought ourselves obliged to the natural shade they afforded us, in a sultry day.

I can't help saying, I am sorry he has suffer'd for my sake.—But 'tis his own seeking!

His letter is dated last night at eight:

'And in|disposed as he is, he tells me, That he will watch till ten, in hopes of my giving him the meeting he so earnestly requests. And after that, he has a mile to walk to his horse and servant; and four miles then to ride to his inn.'

He owns,

'That he has an intelligencer in our family; who has failed him for a day or two past: And not knowing how I do, or how I may be treated, his anxiety is the greater.'

This circumstance gives me to guess who this trea|cherous man is: One Joseph Leman: The very crea|ture imploy'd and confided in, more than any other, by my brother.

This is not an honourable way of proceeding in Mr. Lovelace.—Did he learn this infamous practice of corrupting the servants of other families at the French Court, where he resided a good while?

I have been often jealous of this Leman in my little airings and poultry-visits: I have thought him (doubly obsequious, as he was always to me) my brother's spy

upon me; and, altho' he oblig'd me by his hastening out of the garden, and poultry-yard, whenever I came into either, have wonder'd, that from his reports my liberties of those kinds have not been abridged. So, possibly, this man may take a bribe of both, and yet betray both. Worthy views want not such obliquities as these on either side. An honest mind must rise in|to indignation both at the traitor-maker and the traitor.

'He presses with the utmost earnestness for an in|terview. He would not offer, he says, to disobey my last personal commands, that he should not endeavour to attend me again in the wood-house. But says, he can give me such reasons, for my permitting him to wait upon my father or uncles, as he hopes will be approved by me: For be cannot help observing, that it is no more suitable to my own spirit than to his, that he, a man of fortune and family, should be obliged to pursue such a clan|destine address, as would only become a vile for|tune-hunter. But, if I will give my consent for his visiting me like a man, and a gentleman, no treat|ment shall provoke him to forfeit his temper.

'His uncle will accompany him, if I please: Or his aunt Lawrance will first make the visit to my mamma, or to my aunt Hervey, or even to my uncles, if I choose it. And such terms shall be of|fer'd, as shall have weight upon them.

'He begs, that I will not deny him making a visit to Mr. Solmes. By all that's good, he vows, that it shall not be with the least intention either to hurt or affront him; but only to set before him calmly and rationally, the consequences that may possibly flow from so fruitless a perseverance; as well as the ungenerous folly of it; to a mind so noble as mine. He repeats his own resolution to attend my pleasure, and Mr. Morden's arrival and advice, for the re|ward of his own patience.

'It is impossible, he says, but one of these me|thods? must do. Presence, he observes, even of a dis|liked person, takes off the edge from resentments which absence whets, and makes keen.

'He therefore most earnestly repeats his impor|tunities for the supplicated interview.'

Says,

'He has business of consequence in London: But cannot stir from the inconvenient spot, where he has for some time resided in disguises unworthy of himself, until he can be absolutely certain, that I shall not be prevailed upon, either by force or otherwise; and until he finds me deliver'd from the insults of my brother. Nor ought This to be an indifferent point to one, for whose sake, all the world reports me to be used so unworthily as I am used.—But one remark, he says, he cannot help making; That did my friends know the little favour I shew him, and the very great distance I keep him at, they would have no reason to confine me, on his account: And another, that they themselves seem to think him intitled to a different usage, and expect that he receives it; when, in truth, what he meets with from me is exactly what they wish him to meet with, excepting in the favour of the correspondence I ho|nour him with: upon which, he says, he puts the highest value, and for the sake of which he has chearfully submitted to a thousand indignities.

'He renews his professions of reformation: He is convinc'd, he says, that he has already run a long and dangerous course; and that it is high time to think of returning: It must be from proper convic|tions, he says, that a person who has lived too gay a life resolves to reclaim, before age or sufferings come upon him.

'All generous spirits, he observes, hate compulsion. Upon this observation he dwells; but regrets, that he is likely to owe all his hopes to this compulsion; this injudicious compulsion, he justly calls it; and

none to my esteem for him. Altho' he presumes upon some merit, In his implicit regard to my will: In the bearing the daily indignities offer'd not only to him, but to his relations, by my brother: In the nightly watchings, and risques which he runs, in all weathers; and which his present indisposition makes him men|tion, or he had not debased the nobleness of his passion for me, by such a selfish instance.'

—I can|not but say, I am sorry the man is not well.

I am afraid to ask you, my dear, what you would have done, thus situated. But what I have done, I have done. In a word, I wrote,

'That I would, if possible, give him a meeting to-morrow night, be|tween the hours of nine and twelve, by the ivy-sum|mer-house, or in it, or near the great cascade, at the bottom of the garden; and would unbolt the door, that he might come in by his own key. But that, if I found the meeting impracticable, or should change my mind, I would signify as much by another line; which he must wait for until it were dark.'

Tuesday, Eleven o' Clock.

I AM just return'd from depositing my billet. How diligent is this man! It is plain he was in waiting: For I had walked but a few paces, after I had de|posited it, when, my heart misgiving me, I return'd, to have taken it back, in order to reconsider it as I walked, and whether I should, or should not, let it go: But I found it gone.

In all probability, there was but a brick wall, of a few inches thick, between Mr. Lovelace and me, at the very time I put the letter under the brick.

I am come back dissatisfy'd with myself. But I think, my dear, there can be no harm in meeting him: If I do not, he may take some violent measures: What he knows of the treatment I meet with in ma|lice to him, and with a view to frustrate all his hopes, may make him desperate. His behaviour last time I

saw him, under the disadvantages of time and place, and surprised as I was, gives me no apprehension of any thing but discovery. What he requires is not unreasonable, and cannot affect my future choice and determination: It is only to assure him from my own lips, that I will never be the wife of a man I hate. If I have not an opportunity to meet without hazard or detection, he must once more bear the disappoint|ment. All his trouble, and mine too, is owing to his faulty character. This, altho' I hate tyranny and arrogance in all shapes, makes me think less of the risques he runs, and the fatigues he undergoes, than otherwise I should do; and still less, as my sufferings (derived from the same source) are greater than his.

Betty confirms the intimation, that I must go to my uncle's on Thursday. She was sent on purpose to direct me to prepare myself for going, and to help me to get up every thing in order to it.

LETTER XVIII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Tuesday, Three o' Clock, March 28.

I HAVE mention'd several times the pertness of Mrs. Betty to me; and now, having a little time upon my hands, I will give you a short dialogue that passed just now between us: It may, perhaps, be a little relief to you from the dull subjects with which I am perpetually teazing you.

As she attended me at dinner, she took notice, That Nature is satisfy'd with a very little nourishment: And thus she complimentally proved it:—For, Miss, said she, you eat nothing; yet never looked more charm|ingly in your life.

As to the former part of your speech, Betty, said I, you observe well; and I have often thought, when

I have seen how healthy the children of the labour|ing poor look, and are, with empty stomachs, and hardly a good meal in a week, that Providence is very kind to its creatures, in this respect, as well as in all others, in making Much not necessary to the support of life; when three parts in four of its creatures, if it were, would not know how to obtain it. It puts me in mind of two proverbial sentences, which are full of admirable meaning.

What, pray, Miss, are they? I love to hear you talk, when you are so sedate as you seem now to be.

The one is to the purpose we are speaking of; Poverty is the mother of health: And let me tell you, Betty, if I had a better appetite, and were to en|courage it, with so little rest, and so much distress and persecution, I don't think I should be able to pre|serve my reason.

There's no inconvenience but has its convenience, said Betty, giving me proverb for proverb. But what is the other, Madam?

That the pleasures of the mighty are obtain'd by the tears of the poor: It is but reasonable therefore, me|thinks, that the plenty of the one should be followed by distempers; and that the indigence of the other should be attended with that health, which makes all its other discomforts light on the comparison. And hence a third proverb, Betty, since you are an ad|mirer of proverbs; Better a bare foot, than none at all; that is to say, than not to be able to walk.

She was mightily taken with what I said: See, said she, what a fine thing scholarship is!—I, said she, had always, from a girl, a taste for reading, tho' it were but in Mother Goose, and concerning the Fairies [And then she took genteelly a pinch of snuff]: Could but my parents have let go as fast as I pulled, I should have been a very happy creature.

Very likely, you would have made great improve|ments, Betty: But as it is, I cannot say, but since I

have had the favour of your attendance in this intimate manner, I have heard smarter things from you, than I have heard at table from some of my brother's fel|low-collegians.

Your servant, dear Miss; dropping me one of her best courtesies: So fine a judge as you are!—It is enough to make one very proud. Then, with an|other pinch—I cannot indeed but say, bridling upon it, that I have heard famous scholars often and often say very silly things: Things I should be ashamed myself to say—But I thought they did it out of humi|lity, and in condescension to those who had not their learning.

That she might not be too proud, I told her, I would observe, that the liveliness and quickness she so happily discovered in herself, was not so much an honour to her, as what she owed to her Sex; which, as I had observed in many instances, had great ad|vantages over the other, in all the powers that related to imagination: And hence, Mrs. Betty, you'll take notice, as I have of late had opportunity to do, that your own talent at repartee and smartness, when it has something to work upon, displays itself to more ad|vantage, than could well be expected from one whose friends, to speak in your own phrase, could not let go so fast as you pulled.

The wench gave me a proof of the truth of my observation, in a manner still more alert than I had expected: If, said she, our sex have so much advan|tage in smartness, it is the less to be wondered at, that you, Miss, who have had such an education, should outdo all the men and women too, that come near you.

Bless me, Betty, said I, what a proof do you give me of your wit and your courage at the same time! This is outdoing yourself. It would make young Ladies less proud, and more apprehensive, were they generally attended by such smart servants, and their

mouths permitted to be unlocked upon them, as yours has lately been upon me!—But, take away, Mrs. Betty.

Why, Miss, you have eat nothing at all:—I hope you are not displeased with your dinner for any thing I have said.

No, Mrs. Betty, I am pretty well used to your freedoms, now, you know.—I am not displeased in the main, to observe, that, were the succession of modern fine Ladies to be extinct, it might be supplied from those whom they place in the next rank to them|selves, their chambermaids and confidants. Your young mistress has contributed a great deal to this quickness of yours. She always preferred your company to mine. As you pulled, she let go; and so, Mrs. Betty, you have gained by her conversation what I have lost.

Why, Miss, if you come to that, no-body says better things than Miss Harlowe. I could tell you one, if I pleased, upon my observing to her, that you lived of late upon air, and had no stomach to any thing, yet looked as charmingly as ever.—

I dare say, it was a very good-natured one, Mrs. Betty!—Do you then please that I shall hear it?

Only this, Miss, That your stomachfulness had swallowed up your stomach; and, That obstinacy was meat, drink, and cloth to you.

Ay, Mrs. Betty; and did she say This?—I hope she laughed when she said it, as she does at all her good things, as she calls them. It was very smart, and very witty. I wish my mind were so much at ease, as to aim at being witty too. But if you ad|mire such sententious sayings, I'll help you to an|other; and that is, Encouragement and Approbation make people shew talents they were never suspected to have; and This will do both for mistress and maid: And another I'll furnish you with, the contrary of the former, that will do only for me; That Persecution

and Discouragement depress ingenuous minds, and blunt the edge of lively imaginations.—And hence may my sister's Brilliancy and my Stupidity be both accounted for. Ingenuous, you must know, Mrs. Betty, and ingenious, are two things; and I would not arrogate the latter to myself.

Lord, Miss, said the Foolish, you know a great deal for your years.—You are a very learned young Lady!—What pity—

None of your pities, Mrs. Betty. I know what you'd say. But tell me, if you can, Is it resolved that I shall be carry'd to my uncle Antony's on Thursday?

I was willing to reward myself for the patience she had made me exercise, by getting at what intelligence I could from her.

Why, Miss, seating herself at a little distance (ex|cuse my sitting down), with the snuff-box tapp'd very smartly, the lid opened, and a pinch taken with a dainty finger and thumb, the other three fingers di|stendedly bent, and with a fine flourish—I cannot but say, that it is my opinion, you will certainly go on Thursday; and this noless foless, as I have heard my young Lady say in FRENCH.

Whether I am willing or not willing, you mean, I suppose, Mrs. Betty?

You have it, Miss.

Well but, Betty, I have no mind to be turned out of doors so suddenly. Do you think I could not be permitted to tarry one week longer?

How can I tell, Miss?

O Mrs. Betty, you can tell a great deal, if you please. But here I am forbid writing to any one of my family; none of it now will come near me; nor will any of it permit me to see them: How shall I do to make my request known, to tarry here a week or fortnight longer!

Why, Miss, I fansy, if you were to shew a com|pliable

temper, your friends would shew a compliable one too. But would you expect favours, and grant none?

Smartly put, Betty! But who knows what may be the result of my being carried to my uncle An|tony's?

Who knows, Miss!—Why any-body will guess what may be the result.

As how, Betty?

As how! repeated the pert wench, Why, Miss, you will stand in your own light, as you have hitherto done: And your parents, as such good parents ought, will be obeyed.

If, Mrs. Betty, I had not been used to your oughts, and to have my duty laid down to me, by your ora|culous wisdom, I should be apt to stare at the liberty of your speech.

You seem angry, Miss. I hope I take no un|becoming liberty.

If thou really think'st thou dost not, thy ignorance is more to be pitied, than thy pertness resented. I wish thou'd'st leave me to myself.

When young Ladies fall out with their own duty, it is not much to be wondered at, that they are angry at any-body who do theirs.

That's a very pretty saying, Mrs. Betty!—I see plainly what thy duty is in thy notion, and am obliged to those who taught it thee.

Every-body takes notice, Miss, that you can say very cutting words in a cool manner, and yet not call names, as I have known some gentlefolks, as well as others, do, when in a passion. But I wish you had permitted 'Squire Solmes to see you; he would have told you such stories of 'Squire Lovelace, as would have turned your heart against him for ever.

And know you any of the particulars of those sad stories?

Indeed, I don't; but you'll hear all at your uncle Antony's, I suppose; and a great deal more, perhaps, than you will like to hear.

Let me hear what I will, I am determined against Mr. Solmes, were it to cost me my life.

If you are, Miss, the Lord have mercy on you! For what with this letter of yours to 'Squire Solmes, whom they so much value, and what with their anti|pathy to 'Squire Lovelace, whom they hate, they will have no patience with you.

What will they do, Betty? They won't kill me? What will they do?

Kill you! No!—But you will not be suffered to stir from thence, till you have complied with your duty. And no pen and ink will be allowed you, as here; where they are of opinion you make no good use of it: Nor would it be allowed here, only as they intend so soon to send you away to your uncle's. No|body will be permitted to see you, or to correspond with you. What farther will be done, I can't say; and, if I could, it may not be proper. But you may prevent it all, by One word: And I wish you would, Miss. All then would be easy and happy. And, if I may speak my mind, I see not why one man is not as good as another: Why, especially, a sober man is not as good as a rake.

Well, Betty, said I, sighing, all thy impertinence goes for nothing. But I see I am destined to be a very unhappy creature. Yet will I venture upon one request more to them.

And so, quite sick of the pert creature, and of my|self, I retired to my closet, and wrote a few lines to my uncle Harlowe, notwithstanding his prohibition; in order to get a reprieve, from being carried away so soon as Thursday next, if I must go. And This, that I might, if comply'd with, suspend the appoint|ment I have made with Mr. Lovelace; for my heart misgives me, as to meeting him; and that more and

more, I know not why. Under the superscription of the letter, I wrote these words: 'Pray, dear Sir, 'be pleased to give This a reading.

This is the copy of what I wrote:

Tuesday Afternoon.

Honoured Sir,

LET me this once be heard with patience, and have my petition granted. It is only, that I may not be hurried away so soon as next Thursday.

Why should the poor girl be turned out of doors so suddenly, so disgracefully? Procure for me, Sir, one fortnight's respite. In that space of time, I hope you will all relent. My mamma shall not need to shut her door, in apprehension of seeing her disgraced child. I will not presume to think of entering her presence, or my papa's, without leave. One fortnight's respite is but a small favour for them to grant, except I am to be refused every-thing I ask: But it is of the highest import to my peace of mind. Procure it for me, therefore, dear Sir, and you will exceedingly oblige

Your dutiful, tho' greatly afflicted, Niece, CL. HARLOWE.

I sent this down: My uncle was not gone: And he now stays to know the result of the question put to me in the inclosed answer, which he has given to mine:

YOUR going to your uncle's was absolutely con|cluded upon for next Thursday. Nevertheless, your mamma, seconded by Mr. Solmes, pleaded so strongly to indulge you, that your request for a delay will be comply'd with, upon one condition; and whether for a fortnight, or a shorter time, that will depend upon yourself. If you refuse this condition, your mamma declares, she will give over all fur|ther intercession for you.—Nor do you deserve

this favour, as you put it upon our relenting, not your own.

This condition is, That you admit of a visit from Mr. Solmes, for one hour, in company of your bro|ther, your sister, or your uncle Antony, choose which you will.

If you comply not, you go next Thursday to a house which is become so strangely odious to you of late, whether you get ready to go, or not. Answer therefore directly to the point. No evasion. Name your day and hour. Mr. Solmes will neither eat you, nor drink you. Let us see, whether we are to be comply'd with in any thing, or not.

JOHN HARLOWE.

After a very little deliberation, I resolved to consent to this condition. All I fear is, that Mr. Lovelace's intelligencer may inform him of it; and that his ap|prehensions upon it may make him take some despe|rate resolution: Especially as now (having more time given me, here) I think to write to him to suspend the interview he is possibly so sure of. I sent down the following to my uncle:

Honoured Sir,

ALtho' I see not what end the proposed condition can answer, I comply with it. I wish I could with every thing expected of me. If I must name one, in whose company I am to see the gentleman, and that one not my mamma, whose presence I could wish to be honoured by on the occasion, let my un|cle, if he pleases, be the person. If I must name the day (a long day, I doubt▪ will not be permitted me), let it be next Tuesday. The hour, four in the after|ternoon. The place, either the ivy-summer-house, or in the little parlour I used to be permitted to call mine.

Be pleased, Sir, nevertheless, to prevail upon my

mamma to vouchsafe me her presence on the occa|casion. I am, Sir,

Your ever-dutiful CL. HARLOWE.

A reply is just sent me. I thought it became my averseness to this meeting, to name a distant day: But I did not expect they would have comply'd with it. So here is one week gain'd!—This is it:

YOU have done well to comply. We are will|ing to think the best of every slight instance of your duty. Yet have you seem'd to consider the day as an evil day, and so put it far off. This ne|vertheless is granted you, as no time need to be lost, if you are as generous after the d••y, as we are conde|scending before it. Let me advise you, not to har|den your mind; nor take up your resolution before|hand. Mr. Solmes has more awe, and even terror, at the thoughts of seeing you, than you can have at the thoughts of seeing him. His motive is Love; let not yours be Hatred. My brother Antony will be present, in hopes you will deserve well of him, by behaving well to the friend of the family. See you use him as such. Your mamma had permission to be there, if she thought fit: But says, she would not, for a thousand pounds, unless you would encourage her beforehand, as she wishes to be encouraged. One hint I am to give you, mean time. It is this: To make a dis|creet use of your pen and ink. Methinks a young creature of niceness should be less ready to write to one man, when she is designed to be another's.

This compliance, I hope, will produce greater; and then the peace of the family will be restored: Which is what is heartily wished by

Your loving Uncle, JOHN HARLOWE.

Unless it be to the purpose our hearts are set upon, you need not write again.

This man have more terror at seeing me, than I can have at seeing him!—How can that be? If he had half as much, he would not wish to see me!—HIS motive Love!—Yes indeed! Love of himself!—He knows no other!—For Love, that deserves the name, seeks the satisfaction of the beloved object, more than its own!—Weighed in this scale, what a profana|tion is this man guilty of!

Not to take up my resolution beforehand!—That advice comes too late!

But I must make a discreet use of my pen. That, I doubt, as they have managed it, in the sense they mean it, is as much cut of my power, as the other.

But to write to one man, when I am designed for another! What a shocking expression is That!

Repenting of my appointment with Mr. Lovelace, before I had this favour granted me, you may believe I hesitated not a moment about revoking it now, that I had gained such a respite. Accordingly, I wrote,

'That I found it inconvenient to meet him, as I had intended: That the risque I should run of a dis|covery, and the mischiefs that might flow from it, could not be justified by any end that such a meet|ing could answer: That I found one certain ser|vant more in my way, when I took my morning and evening airings, than any other: That he knew not but that the person who might betray the secrets of a family to him, might be equally watchful to oblige those whom he ought to oblige; and so, if oppor|tunity were given him, might betray me, or him, to them: That I had not been used to a conduct so faulty, as to lay myself at the mercy of servants: And was sorry he had measures to pursue, that made steps necessary in his own opinion, which, in mine, were very culpable, and which no end could justify: That things drawing towards a crisis between me and my friends, an interview could avail nothing; especially as the method by which this correspond|ence

was carried on, was not suspected, and he could write all that was in his mind to write: That I expected to be at liberty to judge of what was proper and fit upon this occasion: Especially as he might be assured, that I would sooner choose death, than Mr. Solmes.'

Tuesday Night.

I HAVE deposited my letter to Mr. Lovelace. Threatening as things look against me, I am much better pleased with myself, than I was before. I reckon he will be a little out of humour upon it, however. But as I reserved to myself the liberty of changing my mind; and as it is easy for him to ima|gine there may be reasons for it within-doors, which he cannot judge of without; and I have suggested to him some of them; I should think it strange, if he acquiesces not, on this occasion, with a chearfulness, which may shew me, that his last letter is the genuine product of his heart: For if he be really so much concerned at his past faults, as he pretends, and has for some time pretended, must he not, of course, have corrected, in some degree, the impetuosity of his tem|per? The first step to reformation, as I conceive, is to subdue sudden gusts of passion, from which fre|quently the greatest evils arise, and to learn to bear disappointments. If the irascible passions cannot be overcome, what opinion shall one have of the person's power over those to which bad habit, joined to greater temptation, gives stronger force?

Pray, my dear, be so kind, as to make inquiry by some safe hand, after the disguises Mr. Lovelace as|sumes at the inn he puts up at in the poor village of Neale, he calls it. If it be the same I take it to be, I never knew it was considerable enough to have a name; nor that it has an inn in it.

As he must be much there, to be so constantly near us, I would be glad to have some account of his be|haviour;

and what the people think of him. In such a length of time, he must give scandal, or hope of reformation. Pray, my dear, humour me, in this inquiry: I have reasons for it, which you shall be ac|quainted with another time, if the result of the in|quiry discover them not.

LETTER XIX. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Wednesday Morning, Nine o'clock.

I AM just return'd from my morning walk, and already have received a letter from Mr. Lovelace in answer to mine deposited last night. He must have had pen, ink, and paper, with him; for it was writ|ten in the coppice; with this circumstance; On one knee, kneeling with the other. Not from reverence to the written-to, however, as you'll find.

Well are we instructed early to keep this sex at a distance. An undesigning open heart, where it is loth to disoblige, is easily drawn in, I see, to oblige more than ever it designed. It is too apt to govern itself by what a bold spirit is encouraged to expect of it. It is very difficult for a good natured young person to give a negative where it disesteems not.

One's heart may harden and contract, as one gains experience, and when we have smarted perhaps for our easy folly: And so it ought, or it would be upon very unequal terms with the world.

Excuse these grave reflections. This man has vex'd me heartily. I see his gentleness was art; fierceness, and a temper like what I have been too much used to at home, are nature in him. In the mind I am in, nothing shall ever make me forgive him, since there can be no good reason for his impatience on an ex|pectation given with reserve, and absolutely revo|cable.

—I so much to suffer thro' him; yet, to be treated as if I were obliged to bear insults from him!—

But here you will be pleased to read his letter; which I shall inclose.

To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Good God!

WHAT is now to become of me!—How shall I support this disappointment!—No new cause!—On one knee, kneeling with the other, I write!—My feet benumbed with midnight wanderings thro' the heaviest dews, that ever fell: My wig and my linen dripping with the hoar-frost dissolving on them!—Day but just breaking—Sun not risen to exhale—May it never rise again!—Unless it bring healing and comfort to a benighted soul!—In proportion to the joy you had inspired (ever lovely promiser!), in such proportion is my anguish!

And are things drawing towards a crisis between your friends and you?—Is not this a reason for me to ex|pect, the rather to expect, the promised interview?

CAN I write all that is in my mind, say you?—Impossible!—Not the hundredth part of what is in my mind, and in my apprehension, can I write!

O the wavering, the changeable sex!—But can Miss Clarissa Harlowe—

Forgive me, Madam!—I know not what I write!—Yet, I must, I do, insist upon your promise—Or that you will condescend to find better excuses for the failure—Or convince me, that stronger reasons are imposed upon you, than those you offer.—A promise once given; upon deliberation given!—the promise-ed only can dispense with;—or some very apparent ne|cessity imposed upon the promise-er, which leaves no power to perform it.

The first promise you ever made me! Life and

Death, perhaps, depending upon it—My heart de|sponding from the barbarous methods resolved to be taken with you, in malice to me!

You would sooner choose death than Solmes (How my soul spurns the competition!) O my beloved creature, what are these but words!—Whose words?—Sweet and ever-adorable—What?—Promise-breaker—must I call you?—How shall I believe the asseveration (your supposed Duty in the question! Persecution so flaming! Hatred to me so strongly avow'd!) after this instance of your so lightly dispensing with your promise!

If, my dearest life! you would prevent my dis|traction, or, at least distracted consequences, renew the promised hope!—My fate is indeed upon its crisis.

Forgive me; dearest creature, forgive me!—I know I have written in too much anguish of mind!—Writing this, in the same moment that the just-dawning light has imparted to me the heavy dis|appointment!

I dare not re-peruse what I have written.—I must deposite it—It may serve to shew you my distracted apprehensions, that This disappointment is but a pre|lude to the greatest of All.—Nor, having here, any other paper, am I able to write again, if I would, on this gloomy spot. Gloomy is my soul; and all na|ture round me partakes of my gloom!—I trust it, therefore, to your goodness! If its fervor excites your displeasure, rather than your pity, you wrong my passion; and I shall be ready to apprehend, that I am intended to be the sacrifice of more miscreants than one!—Have patience with me, dearest creature!—I mean Solmes, and your Brother only—But, if, exert|ing your usual generosity, you will excuse and re-appoint, may That God, whom you profess to serve, and who is the God of Truth and of Promises, protect

and bless you, for both; and for restoring to Him|self, and to Hope,

Your ever-adoring, yet almost desponding LOVELACE!

Ivy-Cavern in the Coppice—day but just breaking.

This is the Answer I shall return.

Wednesday Morning.

I AM amazed, Sir, at the freedom of your re|proaches. Pressed and teazed, against convenience and inclination, to give you a private meeting, am I to be thus challeng'd and upbraided, and my Sex reflected upon, because I thought it prudent to change my mind?—A liberty I had reserved to myself, when I made the appointment, as you call it. I wanted not instances of your impatient spirit to other people: yet may it be happy for me, that I have this new one; which shews, that you can as little spare me, when I pursue the dictates of my own reason, as you do others, for acting up to theirs. Two motives you must be governed by in this excess. The one my easiness; the other your own presumption. Since you think you have found out the first, and have shewn so much of the last upon it, I am too much alarmed, not to wish and desire, that your letter of this day may conclude all the trouble you have had from, or for,

Your humble Servant, CL. HARLOWE.

I BELIEVE, my dear, I may promise myself your approbation, whenever I write or speak with spirit, be it to whom it will. Indeed, I find but too much rea|son to exert it, since I have to deal with people, who measure their conduct to me, not by what is fit or decent, right or wrong, but by what they think my

temper will bear. I have, till very lately, been praised for mine; but it has always been by those who never gave me opportunity to return the compliment to themselves: Some people have acted, as if they thought forbearance on one side absolutely necessary for them and me, to be upon good terms together; and in this case have ever taken care rather to owe that obligation than to lay it. You have hinted to me, that resentment is not natural to my temper, and that therefore it must soon subside. It may be so, with respect to my relations: But not to Mr. Love|lace, I assure you.

Wednesday Noon, March 29.

WE cannot always answer for what we can do: But to convince you, that I can keep my above re|solution, with regard to This Lovelace, angry as my letter is, and three hours as it is since it was written, I assure you, that I repent it not, nor will soften it, altho' I find it is not taken away. And yet I hardly ever before did any-thing in anger, that I did not re|pent in half an hour; and question myself in less than that time, whether I was right or wrong.

In this respite till Tuesday, I have a little time to look about me, as I may say, and consider of what I have to do, and can do. And Mr. Lovelace's in|solence will make me go very home with myself. Not that I think I can conquer my aversion to Mr. Solmes. I am sure I cannot. But, if I absolutely break with Mr. Lovelace, and give my friends convincing proofs of it, who knows but they will restore me to their favour, and let their views in relation to the other man go off by degrees?—Or, at least, that I may be safe till my cousin Morden arrives: To whom, I think, I will write; and the rather, as Mr. Lovelace has assured me, that my friends have written to him to make good their side of the question.

But, with all my courage, I am exceedingly ap|prehensive

about Tuesday next, and about what may result from my stedfastness; for stedfast I am sure I shall be. They are resolved, I am told, to try every means to induce me to comply with what they are determin'd upon. I am resolved to do the like, to avoid what they would force me to do. A dreadful contention between parents and child!—Each hope|ing to leave the other without excuse, whatever the consequence may be.

What can I do? Advise me, my dear! Something is strangely wrong somewhere! to make parents, the most indulgent till now, seem cruel in a child's eye; and a daughter, till within these few weeks, thought unexceptionably dutiful, appear, in their judgment, a rebel!—O my ambitious and violent brother!—What may he have to answer for to both!—

Be pleased to remember, my dear, that your last favour was dated on Saturday. This is Wednesday: And none of mine have been taken away since, Don't let me want your advice. My situation is ex|tremely difficult.—But I am sure you love me still▪ And not the less on that account. Adieu, my be|loved friend.

CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER XX. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Thursday Morning, Day-break, March 30.

AN accident has occasioned my remissness, as, till you know it, you may justly think my silence.

My mamma was sent for on Sunday night, with the utmost earnestness, by her cousin Larkin, whom I mentioned in one of my former.

This poor woman was always afraid of Death, and was one of those weak persons who imagine that the

making of their Will must be an undoubted fore|runner of it.

She had always said, when urged to the necessary work, That whenever she made it, she should not live long after; and, one would think, imagined she was under an obligation to prove her words: For, tho' she had been long bed-rid, and was, in a man|ner, worn out before, yet she thought herself better, till she was persuaded to make it: And from that moment, remembering what she used to prognosticate (her fears helping on what she feared, as is often the case, particularly in the Small-Pox), grew worse; and had it in her head once to burn her Will, in hopes to grow better upon it.

She sent my mamma word, That the Doctors had given her over: But that she could not die till she saw her. I told my mamma, That if she wish'd her a chance for recovery, she should not, for that reason, go. But go she would; and, what was worse, would make me go with her; and that, at an hour's warning [Had there been more time for argumenta|tion, to be sure I had not gone!] for she said nothing of it to me, till she was rising in the morning early, resolving to return at night. So that there was a kind of necessity, that my preparation to obey her, should, in a manner, accompany her command.—A com|mand so much out of the way, on such a solemn oc|casion! And this I represented—But to no purpose:—There never was such a contradicting girl in the world—My wisdom always made her a fool!—But she would be obliged this time, proper or improper.

I have but one way of accounting for this sudden whim of my mamma—She had a mind to accept of Mr. Hickman's offer to escorte her:—And I verily believe [I wish I were quite sure of it] had a mind to oblige him with my company—as far as I know, to keep me out of worse.

For, would you believe it,?—As sure as you are

alive, she is afraid for her favourite Hickman, be|cause of the long visit your Lovelace, tho' so much by accident, made me in her absence, last time she was at the same place. I hope, my dear, you are not jealous too. But, indeed, I now and then, when she teazes me with praises which Hickman cannot deserve, in return, fall to praising those qualities and personalities in Lovelace, which the other never will have. Indeed I do love to teaze a little bit, that I do.—My mamma's girl!—I had like to have said.

As you know she is as passionate, as I am pert, you will not wonder to be told, that we generally fall out on these occasions: She flies from me, at the long run: It would be undutiful in me to leave her first—And then I get an opportunity to pursue our correspondence.

For, now I am rambling, let me tell you, that she does not much favour that;—for two reasons, I be|lieve: One, that I don't shew her all that passes be|tween us; the other, That she thinks I harden your mind against your duty, as it is called; and with her, for a reason at home, as I have hinted more than once, parents cannot do wrong; children cannot op|pose, and be right. This obliges me now-and-then to steal an hour, as I may say, and not let her know how I am employ'd.

You may guess from what I have written, how averse I was to comply with this stretch of motherly authority, made so much against rhyme and reason.—But it came to be a test of duty; so I was obliged to yield, tho' with a full persuasion of being in the right.

I have always your reproofs upon these occasions: In your late letters stronger than ever. A good rea|son why, you'll say, Because more deserved than ever. I thank you kindly for your correction. I hope to make cor-rection of it—But let me tell you, that

your stripe's, whether deserved or not, have made me sensible deeper than the skin—But of this another time.

It was Monday afternoon before we reached the old gentlewoman's. That fiddling, parading fellow, you know who I mean, made us wait for him two hours (and I to go a journey I disliked!) only for the sake of having a little more tawdry upon his housings; which he had hurry'd his saddler to put on, to make him look fine, being to escorte his dear Madam Howe, and her fair daughter.—I told him, that I supposed he was afraid, that the double solemnity in the case, that of the visit to a dying woman, and that of his own countenance, would give him the appearance of an undertaker; to avoid, which, he ran into as bad an extreme, and I doubted would be taken for a mountebank.

The man was confounded. He took it as strongly, as if his conscience gave assent to the justice of the remark.—Otherwise, he would have borne it better: For he is used enough to this sort of treatment. I thought he would have cry'd. I have heretofore ob|served, that on this side of the contract, he seems to be a mighty meek sort of creature.—And tho' I should like it in him hereafter, perhaps, yet I can't help despising him a little in my heart for it now. I believe, my dear, we all love your blustering fellows best; could we but direct the bluster, and bid it roar when, and at whom, we pleased.

The poor man looked at my mamma. She was so angry [My airs upon it, and my opposition to the journey, having all helped], that for half the way she would not speak to me. And when she did, it was, I wish I had not brought you!—You know not what it is to condescend. It is my fault, not Mr. Hick|man's, that you are here, so much against your will.—Have you no eyes for this side of the chariot?

And then he far'd the better from her, as he always

does, for faring worse from me: For there was, how do you now, Sir? And how do you now, Mr. Hick|man? as he ambled now on this side of the chariot, now on that, stealing a prim look at me; her head half out of the chariot, kindly smiling as if marry'd to the man but a fortnight herself: While I always saw something to divert myself, on the side of the chariot where the honest man was not, were it but old Robin at a distance, on his Roan Keffel.

Our courtship-days, they say, are our best days. Favour destroys courtship. Distance increases it. Its essence is distance. And to see how familiar these men-wretches grow upon a smile, what an awe they are struck into when one frowns! Who would not make them stand off? Who would not enjoy a power, that is to be so short-lived?

Don't chide me one bit for this, my dear. It is in nature. I can't help it: Nay, for that matter, I love it, and wish not to help it. So spare your gra|vity, I beseech you on this subject. I set not up for a perfect character. The man will bear it. And what need you care? My mamma over-balances all he suf|fers: And if he thinks himself unhappy, he ought never to be otherwise.

Then, did he not deserve a fit of the sullens, think you, to make us lose our dinner, for his parade, since in so short a journey one would not bait, and lose the opportunity of coming back that night, had the old gentlewoman's condition permitted it? To say no|thing of being the cause, that my mamma was in the glout with her poor daughter all the way.

At our alighting I gave him another dab; but it was but a little one. Yet the manner, and the air, made up (as I intended they should) for that defect. My mamma's hand was kindly put into his, with a simpering altogether bridal; and with another, How do you now, Sir?—All his plump muscles were in motion, and a double charge of care and obsequious|ness

fidgetted up his whole form, when he offer'd to me his officious palm. My mamma, when I was a girl, always bid me hold up my head. I just then remember'd her commands, and was dutiful: I ne|ver held up my head so high. With an averted su|percilious eye, and a rejecting hand, half-flourishing—I have no need of help, Sir!—You are in my way.

He ran back, as if on wheels; with a face exces|sively mortify'd: I had thoughts else to have follow'd the too gentle touch, with a declaration, that I had as many hands and feet as himself: But this would have been telling him a piece of news, as to the latter, that I hope, he had not the presumption to guess at.

WE found the poor woman, as we thought, at the last gasp. Had we come sooner, we could not have got away, as we intended, that night. You see I am for excusing the man all I can; and yet, I assure you, I have not so much as a conditional liking to him. My mamma sat up most part of the night, expecting every hour would have been her poor cousin's last. I bore her company till two.

I never saw the approaches of death in a grown person before; and was extremely shock'd. Death, to one in health, is a very terrible thing. We pity the person for what she suffers: And we pity our|selves for what we must some time hence, in like sort, suffer; and so are doubly affected.

She held out till Tuesday morning, eleven; and having told my mamma, that she had left her an exe|cutrix, and her and me rings and mourning; we were employ'd all that day, in matters of the Will; [By which my cousin Jenny Fynnett is handsomely provided for]; so that it was Wednesday morning early, before we set out on our return.

It is true, we got home (having no housings to stay for) by noon: But tho' I sent Robin away be|fore

he alitt; and he brought me back a whole packet, down to the same Wednesday noon; yet was I really so fatigued (and shock'd, as I must own, at the hard death of the old gentlewoman); my mamma likewise [who has no reason to dislike this world] being in|disposed from the same occasion; that I could not set about writing, time enough, for Robin's return that night.

But having recruited my spirits, my mamma hav|ing also had a good night, I arose with the dawn, to write this, and get it dispatched time enough for your breakfast-airing; that your suspense may be as short as possible.

I WILL soon follow This with another. I will employ a person directly to find out how Lovelace behaves himself at his inn. Such a busy spirit must be traceable.

But, perhaps, my dear, you are indifferent now about him, or his employments; for this request was made before he mortally offended you. Neverthe|less, I will have inquiry made. The result, it is very probable, will be of use to confirm you in your present unforgiving temper.—And yet, if the poor man [Shall I pity him for you, my dear?] should be depriv'd of the greatest blessing any man on earth can receive, and which he has the presumption, with so little merit, to aspire to; he will have run great risques; caught great colds; hazarded fevers; sustained the highest indignities; brav'd the inclemencies of skies, and all for—nothing!—Will not this move your ge|nerosity (if nothing else) in his favour?—Poor Mr. Lovelace!—

I would occasion no throb; nor half-throb; no flash of sensibility, like lightning darting in, and as soon suppress'd, by a discretion that no one of the Sex ever before could give such an example of—I

would not, I say; and yet, for a trial of you to your|self, rather than as an impertinent overflow of raillery in your friend, as money-takers try a suspected guinea by the sound, let me, on such a supposition, sound you, by repeating, Poor Mr. Lovelace!—

And now, my dear, how is it with you? How do you now, as my mamma says to Mr. Hickman, when her pert daughter has made him look sor|rowful?

LETTER XXI. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Thursday Morning.

I Will now take some notice of your last favour. But being so far behind-hand with you, must be brief.

In the first place, as to your reproofs, thus shall I discharge myself of that part of my subject: Is it likely, think you, that I should avoid deserving them now-and-then, occasionally, when I admire the man|ner in which you give me your rebukes, and love you the better for them? And when you are so well in|titled to give them? For what faults can you possibly have, unless your relations are so kind as to find you a few to keep their many in countenance?—But, They are as kind to me in This, as to you; for I may venture to affirm, That any one who should read your letters, and would say, you were right, would not, on reading mine, condemn me for be|ing quite wrong.

Your resolution, not to leave your father's house, is right—if you can stay in it, and avoid being Solmes's wife.

I think you answer'd Solmes's letter, as I should have answer'd it.—Will you not compliment me and yourself at once; by saying, that That was right?

You have, in your letters to your uncle, and the rest, done all that you ought to do. You are wholly guiltless of the consequence, be it what it will. To offer to give up your estate!—That would not I have done!—You see, this offer stagger'd them: They took time to consider of it: They made my heart ake in the time they took: I was afraid they would have taken you at your word: And so, but for shame, and for fear of Lovelace, I dare say, they would.—You are too noble by half for them. This, I repeat, is an offer I would not have made. Let me beg of you, my dear, never to repeat the temptation to them.

I freely own to you, that their usage of you upon it, and Lovelace's different behaviour in his letter received at the same time, would have made me his, past re|demption. The duce take the man, I was going to say, for not having had so much regard to his cha|racter and morals, as would have intirely justify'd such a step in a Clarissa Harlowe, persecuted as she is!

I wonder not at your appointment with him. I may further touch upon some part of this subject by-and-by.

Pray, pray, I pray you now, my dearest friend, contrive to send your Betty Barnes to me!—Does the Coventry-act extend to women, know ye?—The least I would do, should be, to send her home well soused in, and dragged thro', our deepest horse-pond. I'll engage, if I get her hither, that she shall keep the anniversary of her deliverance as long as she lives.

I wonder not at Lovelace's saucy answer, saucy as it really is. If he loves you as he ought, he must be vex'd at so great a disappointment. The man must have been a detestable hypocrite, I think, had he not shewn his vexation. Your expectations of such a Christian command of temper in him, in a disap|pointment of this nature especially, are too early, by

almost half a century, in a man of his constitution. But, nevertheless, I am very far from blaming you for your resentment.

I shall be all impatience to know how this matter ends between you and him. But a few inches of brick-wall between you so lately; and now such mountains!—And you think to hold it!—May be so!—

You see the temper he shew'd in his preceding letter was not natural to him, you say. And did you before think it was? Insolent creepers and in|sinuators! Inch-allow'd, ell-taking incroachers!—This very Hickman, I make no doubt, will be as saucy as your Lovelace, if ever he dare. He has not half the arrogant bravery of the other, and can better hide his horns; that's all. But whenever he has the power, depend upon it, he will butt at one as valiantly as the other.

If ever I should be persuaded to have him, I shall watch how the imperative Husband comes upon him; how the obsequious Lover goes off; in short, how he ascends, and how I descend, in the matrimonial wheel, never to take my turn again, but by fits and starts, like the feeble struggles of a sinking state for its dying liberty.

All good-natured men are passionate, says Mr. Love|lace. A pretty plea to a beloved object in the pleni|tude of her power! As much as to say, Greatly as I value you, Madam, I will not take pains to curb my passions to oblige you.—Methinks, I should be glad to hear from Mr. Hickman such a plea for good-nature as this!

Indeed, we are too apt to make allowances for such tempers as early indulgence has made uncon|troulable; and therefore habitually evil. But if a boistrous temper, when under obligation, is to be thus allowed for, what, when the tables are turned, will it expect? You know a husband, who, I fancy,

had some of these early allowances made for him: And you see, that neither himself, nor any-body else, is the happier for it!

The suiting of the tempers of two persons who are to come together, is a great matter: And yet there should be boundaries fixed between them, by consent, as it were, beyond which neither should go: And each should hold the other to it; or there would pro|bably be incroachments in both. If the boundaries of the Three Estates that constitute our Political Union were not known, and occasionally asserted, what would become of each? The two branches of the Legislature would incroach upon each other; and the Executive power would swallow up both.

If two persons of discretion, you'll say, come to|ther—

Ay, my dear, that's true: But, if none but per|sons of discretion were to marry—And would it not surprise you if I were to advance, that the persons of discretion are generally single?—Such persons are apt to consider too much, to resolve.—Are not you and I complimented as such?—And would either of us marry, if the fellows, and our friends, would let us alone?

But to the former point;—Had Lovelace made his addresses to me (unless, indeed, I had been taken with a liking for him more than conditional), I would have forbid him, upon the first passionate instance of his good-nature, as he calls it, ever to see me more:

'Thou must bear with me, honest friend, might I have said (had I condescended to say any thing to him), an hundred times more than This:—Begone, therefore;—I bear with no passions that are predo|minant to That thou hast pretended for me.'

But to one of your mild and gentle temper, it would be all one, were you marry'd, whether the man be a Lovelace or a Hickman in his spirit.—You are so obediently principled, that perhaps you would

have told a mild man, that he must not intreat, but command; and that it was beneath him not to exact from you the obedience you had so solemnly vow'd to him at the altar.—I know of old, my dear, your meek regard to that little piddling part of the mar|riage-vow, which some prerogative-monger foisted into the office, to make That a duty, which he knew was not a right.

Our way of training-up, you say, makes us need the protection of the brave: Very true: And how ex|tremely brave and gallant is it, that this brave man will free us from all insults, but Those which will go nearest to us; that is to say, His own!

How artfully has Lovelace, in the abstract you give me of one of his letters, calculated to your me|ridian; Generous spirits hate compulsion!—He is cer|tainly a deeper creature by much than once we thought him. He knows, as you intimate, that his own wild pranks cannot be concealed; and so owns just enough to palliate (because it teaches you not to be surprised at) any new one, that may come to your ears; and then, truly, he is (however faulty) a mighty inge|nuous man; and by no means an hypocrite: A cha|racter, when found out, the most odious of all others, to our sex, in the other; were it only because it teaches us to doubt the justice of the praises such a man gives us, when we are willing to believe them to be our due.

By means of this supposed ingenuity, Lovelace ob|tains a praise, instead of a merited dispraise; and, like an absolved confessionaire, wipes off, as he goes along, one score, to begin another: For an eye favourable to him will not magnify his faults; nor will a woman, willing to hope the best, forbear to impute to ill-will and prejudice all t••at charity can make so imputable. And if she even give credit to such of the unfavour|able imputations, as may be too flagrant to be doubt|ed; she will be very apt to take in the future hope,

which he inculcates, and which to question would be to question her own power, and perhaps merit: And thus may a woman be inclined to make a slight, or even a fancied, virtue atone for the most glaring vice.

I have a reason, a new one, for this preachment upon a text you have given me. But, till I am better inform'd, I will not explain myself. If it come out, as I shrewdly suspect it will, the man, my dear, is a devil; and you must rather think of—I protest I had like to have said—Solmes, than him.

But let This be as it will, shall I tell you, how, after all his offences, he may creep in with you again?

I will.—Thus then: It is but to claim for him|self the good-natur'd character: And This, granted, will blot out the fault of passionate insolence: And so he will have nothing to do, but This hour to accu|stom you to insult; the Next, to bring you to forgive him, upon his submission: The consequence will be, that he will, by this see-saw teazing, break your re|sentment all to pieces: And then, a little more of the insult, and a little less of the submission, on his part, will go down, till nothing else but the first will be seen, and not a bit of the second: You will then be afraid to provoke so offensive a spirit; and at last will be brought so prettily, and so audibly, to pronounce the little reptile word OBEY, that it will do one's heart good to hear you. The Muscovite wife takes place of the managed mistress.—And; if you doubt the progression, be pleased, my dear, to take your mamma's judgment upon it.

But no more of This just now. Your story is be|come too arduous to dwell upon these sort of topics. And yet this is but an affected levity with me. My heart, as I have heretofore said, is a sincere sharer in all your distresses. My sunshine darts but thro' a drizly cloud. My eye, were you to see it, when it seems to you so gladden'd, as you mention in a for|mer, is more than ready to overflow, even at the

very passages, perhaps, upon which you impute to me the archness of exultation.

But now the unheard of cruelty and perverseness of some of your friends[Relations, I should say; I am always blundering thus!]; the as strange determined|ness of others; your present quarrel with Lovelace; and your approaching interview with Solmes, from which you are right to apprehend a great deal; are such considerable circumstances in your story, that it is fit they should ingross all my attention.

You ask me to advise you how to behave upon Solmes's visit. I cannot for my life. I know they expect a great deal from it: You had not else had your long day comply'd with. All I will say is, That if Solmes cannot be prevailed for, now, that Love|lace has so much offended you, he never will. When the interview is over, I doubt not but that I shall have reason to say, that All you did, that All you said, was right, and could not be better: Yet, if I don't think so, I won't say so; that I promise you.

Only, let me advise you, to pull up a spirit, even to your uncle, if there be occasion. Resent the vile and foolish treatment you meet with, in which he has taken so large a share, and make him asham'd of it, if you can.

I know not, upon recollection, but This interview may be a good thing for you, however design'd. For when Solmes sees (if that is to be so), that it is im|possible he should succeed with you; and your rela|tions see it too; the one must, I think, recede, and the other come to terms with you; upon offers, that it is my opinion, will go hard enough with you to comply with; when the still harder are dispensed with.

There are several passages in your last letters, as well as in your former, which authorize me to say This. But it would be unseasonable to touch this subject further just now.

But, upon the whole, I have no patience to see you thus made the sport of your brother's and sister's cruelty: For what, after so much steadiness on your part, in so many trials, can be their hope?

I approve of your intention to send out of their reach all the letters and papers you would not have them see. Methinks, I would wish you to deposite likewise a parcel of cloaths, linen, &c. before your interview with Solmes; lest you should not have an opportunity for it afterwards. Robin shall fetch it away on the first orders, by day or by night.

I am in hopes to procure from my mamma, if things come to extremity, leave for you to be pri|vately with us.

I will condition to be good-humour'd, and even kind, to HER favourite, if she will shew me an in|dulgence, that shall make me serviceable to MINE. It has been a good while in my head. But I cannot promise that I shall succeed in it.

Don't absolutely despair, however, my dear. Your quarrel with Lovelace may be a help to it. And the offers you made, in your answer to your uncle Har|lowe's letter of Sunday night last, may be another.

I depend upon your forgiveness of all the, perhaps unseasonable, flippancies of your naturally too lively, yet most sincerely sympathizing,

ANNA HOWE.

LETTER XXII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Friday, March 31.

YOU have very kindly accounted for your silence. People in misfortune are always in doubt. They are too apt to turn even unavoidable accidents into slights and neglects; especially in those whose favour|able opinion they wish to preserve.

I am sure I ought evermore to exempt my Anna Howe from the supposed possibility of her becoming one of those who bask only in the sunshine of a friend: But nevertheless her friendship is too precious to me, not to doubt my own merits on the one hand, and not to be anxious for the preservation of it, on the other.

You so generously give me liberty to chide you, that I am afraid of taking it, because I could sooner mistrust my own judgment, than that of a beloved friend, whose ingenuity in acknowleging an imputed error, sets her above the commission of a wilful one. This makes me half afraid to ask you, If you think you are not too cruel, too ungenerous shall I say, in your behaviour to a man who loves you so dearly, and is so worthy and so sincere a man?

Only it is by YOU, or I should be asham'd to be outdone in that true magnanimity, which makes one thankful for the wounds given by a true friend. I believe I was guilty of a petulance, which nothing but my uneasy situation can excuse; if that can. I am almost afraid to beg of you, and yet I repeatedly do, to give way to that charming spirit, whenever it rises to your pen, which smiles, yet goes to the quick of one's fault. What patient shall be afraid of a probe in so delicate a hand?—I say, I am almost afraid to pray you to give way to it, for fear you should, for that very reason, restrain it. For the edge may he taken off, if it does not make the subject of its rail|lery wince a little. Permitted or desired satire may be apt, in a generous satirist, mending as it raillies, to turn too soon into panegyric. Yours is intended to instruct; and tho' it bites, it pleases at the same time: No fear of a wound's rankling or festering by so delicate a point, as you carry; not invenom'd by personality, not intending to expose, or ridicule, or exasperate.—The most admired of our moderns know nothing of this art; Why? Because it must be founded

in good-nature, and directed by a right heart. The man, not the fault, is the subject of their satire: And were it to be just, how should it be useful? How should it answer any good purpose? When every gash (for their weapon is a Broad-sword, not a Lan|cet) lets in the air of public ridicule, and exasperates where it should heal. Spare me not therefore, be|cause I am your friend. For that very reason spare me not. I may feel your edge, fine as it is; I may be pained: You would lose your end if I were not: But after the first sensibility (as I have said more than once before), I will love you the better, and my amended heart shall be all yours; and it will then be more worthy to be yours.

You have taught me what to say to, and what to think of, Mr. Lovelace. You have, by agreeable anti|cipation, let me know how it is probable he will ap|ply to me to be excus'd. I will lay every thing before you that shall pass on the occasion, if he does apply, that I may take your advice, when it can come in time; and when it cannot, that I may receive your correction, or approbation, as I may happen to merit either.—Only one thing must be allow'd for me; that whatever course I shall be permitted or he forced to steer, I must be considered, as a person out of her own direction. Tost to and fro, by the high winds of passionate controul, and, as I think, unreasonable severity, I behold the desired Port, the single state, which I would fain steer into; but am kept off by the foaming billows of a brother's and sister's envy; and by the raging winds of a supposed invaded autho|rity; while I see in Lovelace, the Rocks on one hand, and in Solmes, the Sands on the other; and tremble, lest I should split upon the former, or strike upon the latter.

But you, my better pilot, what a charming hope do you bid me aspire to, if things come to extre|mity!—I will not, as you caution me, too much

depend upon your success with your mamma, in my favour: For well I know her high notions of impli|cit duty in a child.—But yet I will hope too;—because her seasonable protection may save me perhaps from a greater rashness: And, in This case, see shall direct all my ways: I will do nothing but by her orders, and by her advice and yours: Not see any-body: Not write to any-body: Nor shall any living soul, but by her direction and yours, know where I am. In any cottage place me, I will never stir out, unless, dis|guised as your servant, I am now-and-then permitted an evening-walk with you: And this private pro|tection to be granted me for no longer time than till my cousin Morden comes; which, as I hope, cannot be long.

I am afraid I must not venture to take the hint you give me, to deposite some of my cloaths; altho' I will some of my linen, as well as papers.

I will tell you why. Betty had for some time been very curious about my wardrobe, whenever I took out any of my things before her.

Observing this, I once left my keys in the locks, on taking one of my garden-airings; and on my re|turn, surprised the creature with her hand upon the keys, as if shutting the door.

She was confounded at my sudden coming back. I took no notice: But, on her retiring, I found my cloaths did not lie in the usual order.

I doubted not, upon this, that her curiosity was an effect of their orders to her; and being afraid they would abridge me of my airings, if their suspicions were not obviated, it has ever since been my custom (among other contrivances), not only to leave my keys in the locks; but to employ the wench now-and-then, in taking out my cloaths, suit by suit, on pretence of preventing their being rumpled or creased, and to see that the flower'd silver suit did not tarnish; some|times declaredly as a wile-away-time, having little

else to do: With which employment (super-added to the delight taken by the low as well as the high of our sex in seeing fine cloaths) she seem'd always, I thought, as well pleased, as if it answer'd one of the offices she had in charge.

To this, and to the confidence they have in a spy so diligent, and to their knowing, that I have not one confidante in a family, where, I believe, nevertheless, every servant in it loves me; nor have attempted to make one; I suppose, I owe the freedom I enjoy of my air|ings: And, perhaps (finding I make no movements towards going off), they are the more secure, that I shall at last be prevailed upon to comply with their measures: Since they must think, that, otherwise, they give me provocations enough to take some rash step, in order to free myself from a treatment so dis|graceful; and which (God forgive me, if I judge amiss!), I am afraid my brother and sister would not be sorry to drive me to take.

If therefore such a step should become necessary (which I yet hope will not!) I must be contented to go away with the cloaths I shall have on at the time. My custom to be dress'd for the day, as soon as break|fast is over, when I have had no houshold-employ|ments to prevent me, will make such a step, if I am forced to take it, less suspected. And the linen I shall deposite, in pursuance of your kind hint, cannot be miss'd.

This custom, altho' a prisoner, as I may too truly say, and neither visited nor visiting, I continue. One owes to one's-self, and to one's sex, you know, to be always neat; and never to be surprised in a way one should be pained to be seen in.

Besides, people in adversity, which is the state of trial of every good quality, should endeavour to pre|serve laudable customs, that, if sunshine return, they may not be losers by their trial.

Does it not, moreover, manifest a firmness of mind, in an unhappy person, to keep hope alive?

To hope for better days, is half to deserve them: For could we have just ground for such a hope, if we did not resolve to deserve what that hope bids us aspire to?—Then, who shall befriend a person who forsakes herself?—These are reflections by which I sometimes endeavour to support myself.

I know you don't despise my grave airs, altho' (with a view, no doubt, to irradiate my mind in my misfortunes) you railly me upon them. Every-body has not your talent of introducing serious and import|ant lessons, in such a happy manner, as at once to de|light and instruct.

What a multitude of contrivances may not young people fall upon, if the mind be not engaged by acts of kindness and condescension! I am not used by my friends, of late, as I always used their servants.

When I was intrusted with the family-manage|ment, I always found it both generous and just, to re|pose a trust in them. Not to seem to expect or de|pend upon justice from them, is, in a manner, to bid them take opportunities, whenever they offer, to be un-just.

Mr. Solmes (to expatiate a little on this low, but not unuseful, subject), in his more trifling solicitudes, would have had a sorry key-keeper in me. Were I mistress of a family, I would not either take to my|self, or give to servants, the pain of keeping those I had reason to suspect. People low in station have often minds not sordid.—Nay, I have sometimes thought, that, even take number for number, there are more honest low people, than honest high. In the one, honesty is their chief pride. In the other, the love of power, of grandeur, of pleasure, mislead; and that love, and their ambition, induce a para|mount pride, which too often swallows up the more laudable one.

Many of the former would scorn to deceive a con|fidence. But I have seen, among the most ignorant of their class, a susceptibility of resentment, if their honesty has been suspected: And have more than once been forced to put a servant right, whom I have heard say, That, altho' she valued herself upon her honesty, no master or mistress should suspect her for nothing.

How far has the comparison I had in my head, be|tween my friends treatment of me, and my treatment of their servants, carried me! But we always allowed ourselves to expatiate on such subjects, whether low or high, that might tend to inlarge our minds, or mend our management, whether notional or prac|tical, and whether they respected our present, or might respect our probable future situations.

What I was principally leading to, was to tell you, how ingenious I am in my contrivances and pretences to blind my gaoleress, and to take off the jealousy of her principals, on my going down so often into the garden and poultry-yard. People suspiciously treated never, I believe, want invention. Sometimes I want air, and am better the moment I am out of my cham|ber—Sometimes spririts; and then my Bantams and Pheasants, or the Cascade, divert me; the former, by their inspiriting liveliness; the latter, more solemnly, by its echoing dashings, and hollow murmurs.—Some|times, solitude is of all things my wish, and the aw|ful silence of the night, the spangled element, and the rising and setting sun, how promotive of contem|plation!—Sometimes, when I intend nothing, and expect not letters, I am officious to take Betty with me; and at others, bespeak her attendance, when I know she is otherwise employ'd, and cannot give it me.

These more capital artifices I branch out into lesser ones, without number. Yet all have not only the face of truth, but are real truth; altho' not the prin|cipal

motive. How prompt a thing is will! What impediments does dislike furnish!—How swiftly, thro' every difficulty, do we move with the one!—How tardily with the other!—Every trifling obstruction weighing one down, as if lead were fastened to our feet!

Friday Morning, Eleven o'Clock.

I HAVE already made up my parcel of linen; my heart aked all the time I was employ'd about it; and still akes, at the thoughts of its being a necessary precaution.

When it comes to your hands, as I hope it safely will, you will be pleased to open it. You will find in it two parcels sealed up; one of which contains the letters you have not yet seen; being those written since I left you; in the other are all the letters, and copies of letters, that have passed between you and me, since I was last with you; with some other pa|pers, on subjects so much above me, that I cannot wish them to be seen by any-body whose indulgence I am not so sure of, as I am of yours. If my judg|ment ripen with my years, perhaps I may review them.

Mrs. Norton used to say, from her reverend Father, that there was one time of life for imagination and fancy to work in: Then, were the writer to lay by his works till riper years and experience should direct the fire rather to glow, than to flame out; something between both, might, perhaps, be produced, that would not displease a judicious eye.

In a third division, folded up separately, are all Mr. Lovelace's letters, since he was forbidden this house, and copies of my answers to them. I expect that you will break the seals of this parcel, and when you have perused them all, give me your free opinion of my conduct.

By the way, not a line from that man!—Not one

line!—Wednesday I deposited mine. It remained there on Wednesday night. What time it was taken away yesterday I cannot tell. For I did not concern myself about it, till towards night; and then it was not there. No return at ten this day. I suppose he is as much out of humour, as I. With all my heart!

He may be mean enough, perhaps, if ever I should put it into his power, to avenge himself for the trouble he has had with me.—But that now, I dare say, I never shall.

I see what sort of a man the incroacher is,—And I hope we are equally sick of one another!—My heart is vexedly-easy, if I may so describe it. Vexedly—because of the apprehended interview with Solmes, and the consequences it may have: Or else I should be quite easy; for why? I have not deserved the usage I receive:—And could I be rid of Solmes, as I presume I am of Lovelace, their influence over my father, mother, and uncles against me, could not hold.

The five guineas ty'd up in one corner of a hand|kerchief under the linen, I beg you will let pass, as an acknowlegement for the trouble I give your trusty servant. You must not chide me, my dear. You know I cannot be easy, unless I have my way, in these little matters.

I was going to put up what little money I have, and some of my ornaments; but they are portable, and I cannot forget them. Besides, should they, suspecting me, desire to see any of the jewels, and were I not able to produce them, it would amount to a demonstration of an intention, which would have a guilty appearance to them.

Friday, One o'Clock, in the Woodhouse.

No letter yet from this man!—I have luckily de|posited my parcel, and have your letter of last night.

If Robert takes This without the parcel, pray let him return immediately for it. But he cannot miss it, I think; and must conclude that it is put there for him to take away.—You may believe, from the contents of yours, that I shall immediately write again.—

CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER XXIII. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Thursday Night, March 30.

THE fruits of my inquiry after your abominable wretch's behaviour and baseness, at the paltry ale-house, which he calls an inn; prepare to hear.

Wrens and Sparrows are not too ignoble a quarry for this villainous goshawk!—His assiduities; his watchings; his nightly risques; the inclement wea|ther he travels in; must not be all placed to your account. He has opportunities of making every thing right to him of that sort. A sweet pretty girl, I am told:—Innocent till he went thither—Now!—Ah! poor girl!—who knows what?

But just turn'd of Seventeen!—His friend and bro|ther Rake; a man of humour and intrigue, as I am told, to share the social bottle with. And sometimes another disguised Rake or two. No sorrow comes near their hearts. Be not disturbed, my dear, at his hearsenesses. His pretty Betsey, his Rose-bud, as the vile wretch calls her, can hear all he says.

He is very fond of her. They say she is innocent even yet!—Her father, her grandmother, believe her to be so. He is to fortune her out to a young lover!—Ah! the poor young lover!—Ah! the poor simple girl!

Mr. Hickman tells me, that he heard in town, that he used to be often at Plays, and at the Opera, with women; and every time with a different one!—Ah! my sweet friend!—But I hope he is nothing to you,

if all this were truth—But this intelligence will do his business, if you had been ever so good friends before.

A vile wretch! Cannot such purity in pursuit, in view, restrain him? But I leave him to you!—There can be no hope of him. More of a fool, than of such a one. Yet I wish I may be able to snatch the poor young creature out of his villainous paws. I have laid a scheme to do so; if indeed she is hitherto in|nocent and heart-free.

He appears to the people as a military man, in disguise, secreting himself on account of a duel fought in town; the adversary's life in suspense. They be|lieve he is a great man. His friend passes for an inferior officer; upon a foot of freedom with him: He, accompany'd by a third man, who is a sort of subordinate companion to the second. The wretch himself but with one servant. O my dear! How pleasantly can these devils, as I must call them, pass their time, while our gentle bosoms heave with pity for their supposed sufferings for us!

I AM just now inform'd, that, at my desire, I shall see this girl, and her father: I will sift them thoroughly. I shall soon find out such a simple thing as This, if he has not corrupted her already—And if he has, I shall soon find that out too.—If more Art than Na|ture in either her or her father, I shall give them both up—But, depend upon it, the girl's undone.

He is said to be fond of her.—He places her at the upper end of his table—He sets her a-pratling.—He keeps his friend at a distance from her.—She prates away.—He admires for nature all she says.—Once was heard to call her charming little crea|ture!—An hundred has he called so no doubt.—Puts her upon singing—Praises her wild note.—O my dear, the girl's undone!—must be undone!—The

man, you know, is LOVELACE-Let 'em bring Wyer|ley to you, if they will-have you marry'd—Any-body but Solmes and Lovelace be yours!—So advises

Your ANNA HOWE.

My dearest friend, consider this ale-house as his garison. Him as an enemy. His brother-rakes as his assistants and abetters: Would not your brother, would not your uncles, tremble, if they knew how near them, as they pass to and fro!—I am told, he is resolv'd you shall not be carry'd to your uncle Antony's,—What can you do, with, or without such an enterprizing—

Fill up the blank I leave.—I cannot find a word bad enough.

LETTER XXIV. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Friday, Three o'Clock.

YOU incense, alarm, and terrify me, at the same time! Hasten, my dearest friend, hasten to me, what further intelligence you can gather about this vilest of men!

But never talk of innocence, of simplicity, and this unhappy girl together! Must she not know, that such a man as That, dignify'd in his very aspect; and no disguise able to conceal his being of condition—must mean too much, when he places her at the upper end of his table, and calls her by such tender names?—Would a girl, modest as simple, above Seventeen, be set a singing at the pleasure of such a man as That? A stranger? and professedly in disguise!—Would her father and grandmother, if honest people, and careful of their simple girl, permit such freedoms?

Keep his friend at distance from her!—To be sure his designs are villainous, if they have not been already effected.

Warn, my dear, if not too late, the unthinking father, of his child's danger.—There cannot be a father in the world, who would sell his child's vir|tue.—No mother!—The poor thing!

I long to hear the result of your intelligence. You shall see the simple creature, you tell me.—Let me know what sort of a girl it is.—A sweet pretty girl, you say.—A sweet pretty girl, my dear!—They are sweet, pretty words from your pen. But are they yours, or his, of her?—If she be so simple, if she have Ease and Nature in her manner, in her speech, and warbles prettily her wild notes [How affectingly you mention this simple Thing, my dear!] why, such a girl as That, must engage such a profligate wretch, as now, indeed, I doubt this man is; accustom'd, per|haps, to town-women, and their confident ways!—Must deeply, and for a long season, engage him! Since, perhaps, when her innocence is departed, she will endeavour by art to supply the natural charms that engaged him.

Fine hopes of such a wretch's reformation!—I would not, my dear, for the world, have any thing to say—But I need not make resolutions.—I have not open'd, nor will I open, his letter.—A syco|phant creature!—With his hoarsenesses—got, per|haps, by a midnight revel, singing to his wild-note singer.—And only increased in the coppice!

To be already on a foot!—In his esteem, I mean, my dear.—For myself, I despise him.—I hate my|self almost for writing so much about him, and of such a simpleton as This sweet pretty girl: But no|thing can be either sweet or pretty, that is not modest, that is not virtuous.

This vile Joseph Leman had given a hint to Betty, and she to me, as if Lovelace would be found out

to be a very bad man, at a place where he had been lately seen in disguise. But he would see further, he said, before he told her more; and she promised se|crecy, in hope to get at further intelligence. I thought it could be no harm, to get you to inform yourself, and me, of what could be gather'd. And now I see, his enemies are but too well warranted in their reports of him: And, if the ruin of this poor young creature is his aim, and if he had not known her, but for his visits to Harlowe-place, I shall have reason to be doubly concerned for her; and doubly incensed against so vile a man. I think I hate him worse than I do Solmes himself.—But I will not add one other word about him; after I have wished to know, as soon as possible, what further occurs from your inquiry;—because I shall not open his letter till then; and because then, if it come out, as I dare say it will, I'll directly put the letter unopen'd into the place I took it from, and never trouble myself more about him. Adieu, my dearest friend.

CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER. XXV. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Friday Noon, March 31.

JUSTICE obliges me to forward This after my last, on the wings of the wind, as I may say.—I really believe the man is innocent. Of this one accusation, I think, he must be acquitted; and I am sorry I was so forward in dispatching away my intelligence by halves.

I have seen the girl. She is really a very pretty, a very neat, and what is still a greater beauty, a very innocent young creature. He who could have ruin'd such an undesigning home-bred, must have been in|deed

infernally wicked. Her father is an honest sim|ple man; intirely satisfy'd with his child, and with her new acquaintance.

I am almost afraid for your heart, when I tell you, that I find, now I have got to the bottom of this in|quiry, something noble come out in this Lovelace's favour.

The girl is to be marry'd next week; and This promoted and brought about by him. He is resolv'd, her father says, to make one couple happy, and wishes he could make more so. [There's for you, my dear!] And having taken a liking also to the young fellow whom she professes to love, he has given her an hundred pounds: The grandmother actually has it in her hands, to answer to the like sum, given to the youth by one of his own relations: While Mr. Lovelace's companion, attracted by the example, has presented twenty-five guineas to the father, who is poor, towards cloaths to equip the pretty Rustic.

They were desirous, the poor man says, when they first came, of appearing beneath themselves; but now he knows the one (but mention'd it in confidence) to be Colonel Barrow, the other Capt. Sloane. The Colonel he owns, was at first, very sweet upon his girl: But upon her grandmother's begging of him to spare her innocence, he vow'd, that he never would offer any thing but good counsel to her; and had kept to his word: And the pretty fool acknowleged, that she never could have been better instructed by the mi|nister himself from the Bible-Book!—The girl, I own, pleased me so well, that I made her visit to me worth her while.

But what, my dear, will become of us now?—Lovelace not only reform'd, but turn'd preacher!—What will become of us now?—Why, my sweet friend, your generosity is now engaged in his fa|vour!—Fie, upon this Generosity!—I think in my heart, that it does as much mischief to the noble-minded,

as Love to the ignobler.—What before was only a conditional liking, I am now afraid will turn to liking unconditional.

I could not endure to turn my invective into pa|negyric all at once, and so soon. We, or such as I, at least, love to keep ourselves in countenance for a rash judgment, even when we know it to be rash. Every-body has not your generosity in confessing a mistake. It requires a greatness of soul to do it. So I made still farther inquiry after his life and manners, and behaviour there, in hopes to find something bad: But all uniform!

Upon the Whole, Mr. Lovelace comes out with so much advantage from this inquiry, that were there the least room for it, I should suspect the whole to be a plot set on foot to wash a blackmoor white. Adieu, my dear.

ANNA HOWE.

LETTER XXVI. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Saturday, April 1.

HASTY censurers do indeed subject themselves to the charge of variableness and inconsistency in judgment: And so they ought; for, if you, even you, were really so loth to own a mistake, as, in the instance before us, you pretend to say you were, I believe I should not have loved you so well as I really do love you. Nor could you, my dear, have so frankly thrown the reflection I hint at, upon yourself, had you not had one of the most ingenuous minds that ever woman boasted.

Mr. Lovelace has faults enow to deserve very severe censure, altho' he be not guilty of this. If I were upon such terms with him, as he would wish me to be, I should give him a hint, that this treacherous

Joseph Leman cannot be so much his friend, as per|haps he thinks him. If he had, he would not have been so ready to report to his disadvantage (and to Betty Barnes too) this slight affair of the pretty Rustic. Joseph has engaged Betty to secrecy; promising to let her, and her young master too, know more, when he knows the whole of the matter: And this hinders her from mentioning it, as she is nevertheless agog to do, to my sister or my brother. And then she does not choose to disoblige Joseph; for altho' she pretends to look above him, she listens, I believe, to some love-stories he tells her. Women having it not in their power to begin a courtship, some of them very frequently, I believe, lend an ear where their hearts incline not.

But to say no more of these low people, neither of whom I think tolerably of; I must needs own, that as I should for ever have despised this man, had he been capable of such a vile intrigue in his way to Har|lowe-place; and as I believed he was capable of it, it has indeed engaged my generosity, as you call it, in proportion (—I own it has—) in his favour: Perhaps more than I may have reason to wish it had. And, railly me, as you will, pray tell me fairly, my dear, would it not have had such an effect upon you?

Then the real generosity of the act.—I protest, my beloved friend, if he would be good for the rest of his life from this time, I would forgive him a great many of his past errors, were it only for the demonstration he has given in This, that he is capable of so good and bountiful a manner of thinking.

You may believe I made no scruple to open his letter, after the receipt of your second on this subject: Nor shall I of answering it, as I have no reason to find fault with it: An article in his favour, procured him, however, so much the easier (as I must own) by way of amends for the undue displeasure I took against him; tho' he knows it not.

It is lucky enough that this matter was cleared up

to me by your friendly diligence so soon: For had I wrote at all before that, it would have been to reinforce my dismission of him; and perhaps the very motive mentioned; for it had affected me more than I think it ought: And then, what an advantage would that have given him, when he could have clear'd up the matter so happily for himself?

When I send you This letter of his, you will see how very humble he is: What acknowlegements of natural impatience: What confession of faults, as you prognosticated. A very different appearance, I must own, all these make, now the story of the pretty Rustic is clear'd up, than they would have made, had it not.—And, methinks too, my dear, I can allow the girl to be prettier than before I could, tho' I ne|ver saw her—For Virtue is Beauty in perfection.

You will see how he accounts to me, thro' indis|position,

'that he could not come for my letter in person; and he labours the point, as if he thought I should be uneasy that he did not.'

I am sorry he should be ill on my account; and I will allow, that the suspense he has been in, for some time past, must have been vexatious enough to so impatient a spirit. But all is owing originally to himself.

You will find him (in the presumption of being forgiven)

'full of contrivances and expedients for my escaping the compulsion threatened me.'

I have always said, that next to being without fault, is the acknowlegement of a fault; since no amend|ment can be expected, where an error is defended: But you will see, in this very letter, an haughtiness even in his submissions. 'Tis true, I know not where to find fault, as to the expression, yet cannot I be satisfy'd, that his humility is humility; or even an humility upon such conviction as one should be pleased with.

To be sure, he is far from being a polite man: Yet is he not directly and characteristically un-polite.

But his is such a sort of politeness, as has, by a care|lessness founded on a very early indulgence, and per|haps on too much success in riper years, and an arro|gance built upon both, grown into assuredness, and, of course, as I may say, into indelicacy.

The distance you recommend, at which to keep this sex, is certainly right in the main: Familiarity destroys reverence: But with whom?—Not with those, surely, who are prudent, grateful, and gene|rous.

But it is very difficult for persons, who would avoid running into one extreme, to keep clear of another. Hence Mr. Lovelace, perhaps, thinks it the mark of a great spirit to humour his pride, tho' at the expence of delicacy: But can the man be a deep man, who knows not how to make such distinctions, as a per|son of moderate parts cannot miss?

He complains heavily of my

'readiness to take mor|tal offence at him, and to dismiss him for ever: It is a high conduct, he says he must be sincere enough to tell me; and what must be very far from contri|buting to allay his apprehensions of the possibility that I may be persecuted into my relations measures in behalf of Mr. Solmes.'

You will see how he puts his present and his future happiness,

'with regard to both worlds, intirely up|on me.'

The ardour with which he vows and pro|mises, I think the heart only can dictate: How else can any one guess at a man's heart?

You'll also see,

'that he has already heard of the interview I am to have with Mr. Solmes;'

and with what vehemence and anguish he expresses himself on the occasion.— I intend to take proper notice of the ignoble means he stoops to, to come at his early in|telligence out of our family. If persons pretending to principle, bear not their testimony against unprincipled actions, who shall check them?

You'll see, how passionately he presses me to oblige

'

him with a few lines, before the interview between Mr. Solmes and me take place (if it must take place) to confirm, his hope, that I have no view, in my dis|pleasure to him, to give encouragement to Solmes. An apprehension, he says, that he must be excused for repeating; especially as it is a favour granted to that man, which I have refused to him; since, as he infers, were it not with such an expectation, why should my friends press it?'

Saturday, April 1.

I HAVE written; and to this effect:

'That I had never intended to write another line to a man, who could take upon himself to reflect upon my sex and myself, for having thought fit to make use of my own judgment.

'That I have submitted to this interview with Mr. Solmes, purely as an act of duty, to shew my friends, that I will comply with their commands as far as I can; and that I hope, when Mr. Solmes himself shall see how determin'd I am, he will no longer prosecute a sute, in which it is impossible he should succeed with my consent.

'That my aversion to him is too sincere to permit me to doubt myself on this occasion. But, never|theless, he, Mr. Lovelace, must not imagine, that my rejecting of Mr. Solmes is in favour to him. That I value my freedom and independency too much, if my friends will but leave me to my own judgment, to give them up to a man so uncontroul|able, and who shews me beforehand, what I have to expect from him, were I in his power.

'I express my high disapprobation of the methods he takes to come at what passes in a private family: That the pretence of corrupting other people's ser|vants, by way of reprisal for the spies they have set upon him, is a very poor excuse; a justification of one meanness by another.

'That there is a right and a wrong in every thing, let people put what glosses they please upon their actions. To condemn a deviation, and to follow it by as great a one, what is This doing but propa|gating a general corruption? A Stand must be made by somebody, turn round the evil as many as may, or virtue will be lost: And shall it not be I, a wor|thy mind will say, that shall make this Stand?

'I leave it to him to judge, whether his be a wor|thy one, try'd by this rule: And whether, know|ing the impetuosity of his disposition; and the im|probability there is, that my family will ever be re|conciled to him, I ought to encourage his hopes?

'That these spots and blemishes give me not ear|nestness enough for any sake but his own, to wish him in a juster and nobler train of thinking and acting; for that I truly despise many of the ways he allows himself in: Our minds are therefore infinitely dif|ferent: And as to his professions of reformation, I must tell him, that profuse acknowlegements, with|out amendment, are but to me as so many stop- mouth concessions, which he may find much easier to make, than either to defend himself, or amend his errors.

'That I have been lately made acquainted [And so I have by Betty, and she by my brother] with the foolish liberty he gives himself of declaiming against matrimony. I severely reprehend him on this occasion: And ask him, with what view he can take so witless, so despicable a liberty, worthy only of the most abandon'd, and yet presume to address me?

'I tell him, That if I am obliged to go to my uncle Antony's, it is not to be inferr'd, that I must therefore necessarily be Mr. Solmes's wife: Since I may not be so sure, perhaps, that the same ex|ceptions lie so sstrongly against my quitting a house to which I shall be forcibly carry'd, as if I left my

father's house: And, at the worst, I may be able to keep them in suspense till my cousin Morden comes, who will have a right to put me in possession of my grandfather's estate, if I insist upon it.'

This, I doubt, is somewhat of an artifice; being principally design'd to keep him out of mischief. For I have but little hope, if carry'd thither, whe|ther sensible or senseless, if I am left to my brother's and sister's mercy, but they will endeavour to force the solemn obligation upon me. Otherwise, were there but any prospect of avoiding this, by delaying (or even by taking things to make me ill, if nothing else would do) till my cousin comes, I hope I should not think of leaving even my uncle's house. For I should not know how to square it to my own principles, to dispense with the duty I owe to my father, where|ever it shall be his will to place me.

But while you give me the charming hope, that, in order to avoid one man, I shall not be under the ne|cessity of throwing myself upon the friends of the other; I think my case not absolutely desperate.

I see not any of my family, nor hear from them in any way of kindness. This looks, as if they them|selves expected no great matters from that Tuesday's conference which makes my heart flutter every-time I think of it.

My uncle Antony's intended presence I do not much like: But That is preferable to my brother's or sister's. My uncle is very impetuous in his anger. I can't think Mr. Lovelace can be much more so; at least, he cannot look it, as my uncle, with his harder features, can. These sea-prosper'd gentlemen, as my uncle has often made me think, net used to any but elemental controul, and even ready to buffet That; bluster often as violently as the winds they are ac|customed to be angry at.

I believe both Mr. Solmes and I shall look like a couple of fools, if it be true, as my uncle Harlowe

writes, and Betty often tells me, that he is as much afraid of seeing me, as I am of seeing him.

Adieu, my happy, thrice happy, Miss Howe, who have no hard terms affixed to your duty!—Who have nothing to do, but to fall in with a choice your mamma has made for you, to which you have not, nor can have, a just objection: Except the froward|ness of sex, as our free censurers would perhaps take the liberty to say, makes it one, that the choice was your mamma's, at first hand. Perverse nature, we know, loves not to be prescribed to; altho' youth is not so well qualify'd, either by sedateness or experience, to choose for itself.

To know your own happiness; and that it is now, nor to leave it to after-reflection to look back upon the preferable past with a heavy and self-accusing heart, that you did not choose it when you might have chosen it, is all that is necessary to complete your felicity!—And this power is wish'd you by

Your CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER XXVII. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Sunday, April 2.

I Ought yesterday to have acknowleged the receipt of your parcel: Robin tells me, that the Joseph Leman whom you mention as the traitor, saw him. He was in the poultry-yard, and spoke to Robin over the bank which divides that from the Green-Lane. What brings you hither, Mr. Robert?—But I can tell. Hie away, as fast as you can.

No doubt but their dependence upon this fellow's vigilance, and upon Betty's, leaves you more at li|berty in your airings, than you would otherwise be: But you are the only person I ever heard of, who, in such circumstances, had not some faithful servant, to

trust little offices to. A poet, my dear, would not have gone to work for an Angelica, without giving her her Violetta, her Cleanthe, her Clelia, or some such pretty-nam'd confidante.—An old nurse at the least.

I read to my mamma several passages of your let|ters. But your last paragraph, in your yesterday's, charm'd her quite. You have won her heart by it, she told me. And while her fit of gratitude for it lasted, I was thinking to open my proposal, and to press it with all the earnestness I could give it, when Hickman came in, making his legs, and stroking his cravat and ruffles in turn.

I could most freely have ruffled him for it.—As it was—Sir—saw you not some one of the servants?—Could not one of them have come in before you?

He begg'd pardon: Looked as if he knew not whe|ther he had best keep his ground, or withdraw:—Till my mamma. Why, Nancy, we are not upon par|ticulars.—Pray, Mr. Hickman, sit down.

By your le—ave, good madam, to me.—You know his drawl, when his muscles give him the re|spectful hesitation—

Ay, ay, pray sit down, honest man, if you are weary!—But by my mamma, if you please. I desire my hoop may have its full circumference. All they're good for, that I know, is to clean dirty shoes, and to keep ill-manner'd fellows at a distance.

Strange girl! cry'd my mamma, displeased; but with a milder turn, Ay, ay, Mr. Hickman, sit down by me. I have no such forbidding folly in my dress.—I looked serious; and in my heart was glad this speech of hers was not made to your uncle Antony.

My mamma, with the true widow's freedom, would mighty prudently have led into our subject, and have had him see, I question not, that very paragraph in your letter, which is so much in his favour. He was highly

obliged to dear Miss Harlowe, she would assure him; that she did say—

But I asked him, If he had any news by his last letters from London: A question he always under|stands to be a subject-changer; for otherwise I never put it. And so if he be but silent, I am not angry with him, that he answers it not.

I choose not to mention my proposal before him, till I know how it will be relish'd by my mamma. If it be not well received, perhaps I may employ him on the occasion. Yet I don't like to owe him an obligation, if I could help it. For men who have his views in their heads, do so parade it, so sstrut about, if a woman condescend to employ them in her affairs, that one has no patience with them. But if I find not an opportunity this day, I will make one to-morrow.

I shall not open either of your sealed-up parcels, but in your presence. There is no need. Your con|duct is out of all question with me: And by the ex|tracts you have given me from his letters and your own, I know all that relates to the present situation of things between you.

I was going to give you a little flippant hint or two. But since you wish to be thought superior to all our sex, in the command of yourself; and since indeed you deserve to be so thought; I will spare you.—You are, however, at times, more than half inclin'd to speak out. That you do not, is only owing to a little bashful struggle between you and yourself, as I may say. When that is quite got over, I know you will favour me undis|guisedly with the result.

I cannot forgive your taking upon you (at so extra|vagant a rate too) to pay my mamma's servant. In|deed I am, and I will be, angry with you for it. A year's wages at once well nigh (only as, unknown to my mamma, I make it better for the servants, accord|ing

to their merits)!—How it made the man stare!—And it may be his ruin too, as far as I know. If he should buy a ring, and marry a sorry body in the neighbourhood with the money, one would be loth, a twelvemonth hence, that the poor old fellow should think he had reason to wish the bounty never conferr'd!

I MUST give you your way in these things, you say.—And I know there is no contradicting you: For you were ever putting too great a value upon little offices done for you, and too little upon the great ones you do for others. The satisfaction you have in doing so, I grant it, repays you. But why should you, by the nobleness of your mind, throw reproaches upon the rest of the world?—Particularly, upon your own family, and upon ours too?

If, as I have heard you say, it is a good rule to give WORDS the hearing, but to form our judgments of men and things by DEEDS ONLY; what shall we think of one, who seeks to find palliatives in words, for nar|rowness of heart in the very persons her deeds so silently, yet so forcibly, reflect upon? Why blush you not, my dear friend, to be thus singular?—When you meet with another person, whose mind is like your own, then display your excellencies as you please: But till then, for pity's sake, let your heart and your spirit suffer a little contraction.

I intended to write but a few lines; chiefly to let you know, your parcels are come safe. And accordingly I began in a large hand; and I am al|ready come to the end of my second sheet. But I could write a quire without hesitation, upon a subject so copious, and so beloved, as is your praise.—Not for this single instance of your generosity; since I am really angry with you for it; but for the benevo|lence exemplified in the whole tenor of your life and actions; of which This is but a common instance. God direct you, in your own arduous trials, is all

I have room to add; and make you as happy, as you think to be

Your own ANNA HOWE.

LETTER XXVIII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Sunday Night, April 2.

I Have many new particulars to acquaint you with, that shew a great change in my friends behaviour to me. I did not think we had so much art among us, as I find we have. I will give them to you as they offer'd.

All the family was at church in the morning. They brought good Dr. Lewin with them, in pursuance of a previous invitation. And the doctor sent up to desire my permission to attend me in my own apartment.

You may believe it was easily granted.

So the doctor came up.

We had a conversation of near an hour before din|ner: But, to my surprize, he waved every thing that would have led to the subject I supposed he wanted to talk about. At last, I asked him, If it were not thought strange I should be so long absent from church? He made me some handsome compliments upon it: But said, For his part, he had ever made it a rule, to avoid interfering in the private concerns of families, unless desired to do so.

I was prodigiously disappointed: But supposing that he was thought too just a man to be made a judge of in this cause; I led no more to it: Nor, when he was called to dinner, did he take the least notice of leaving me behind him there.

But this was the first time, since my confinement, that I thought it a hardship not to dine below. And when I parted with him on the stairs, a tear would burst

its way; and he hurried down; his own good-natured eyes glistening; for he saw it.—Nor trusted he his voice, lest the accent, I suppose, should have disco|ver'd his concern; departing in silence; tho' with his usual graceful obligingness.

I hear, that he praised me, and my part in the conversation we had held together.—To shew them, I suppose, that it was not upon the interesting sub|jects which I make no doubt he was desired not to enter upon.

He left me so dissatisfy'd, yet so perplexed with this new way of treatment, that I never found my|self so puzzled, and so much out of my train.

But I was to be more so. This was to be a day of puzzle to me. Pregnant puzzle, if I may so say:—For there must great meaning lie behind it.

In the afternoon, all but my brother and sister went to church with the good doctor; who left his com|pliments for me. I took a walk in the garden: My brother and sister walked in it too, and kept me in their eye a good while, on purpose, as I thought, that I might see how gay and good-humour'd they were together. At last they came down the walk that I was coming up, hand-in-hand, lover-like.

Your servant, Miss—Your servant, Sir—passed between my brother and me.

Is it not cold-ish, sister Clary? in a kinder voice than usual, said my sister, and stopp'd.—I stopp'd, and courtesy'd low to her half-courtesy.—I think not, sister, said I.

She went on. I courtesy'd without return; and proceeded; turning to my poultry-yard.

By a shorter turn, arm-in-arm, they were there before me.

I think, Clary, said my brother, you must present me with some of this breed, for Scotland.

If you please, brother.

I'll choose for you, said my sister.

And while I fed them, they picked out half a dozen: Yet intending nothing by it, I believe, but to shew a deal of love and good-humour to each other, before me.

My uncles next (after church was done, to speak in the common phrase) were to do me the honour of their notice. They bid Betty tell me, they would drink tea with me in my own apartment. Now, thought I, shall I have the subject of next Tuesday in|forced upon me.

But they contradicted the tea-orders, and only my uncle Harlowe came up to me.

Half-distant, half-affectionate, was the air he put on to his daughter-niece, as he used to call me; and I threw myself at his feet, and besought his favour.

None of these discomposures, child! None of these apprehensions! You'll now have every-body's favour! All is coming about, my dear!—I was impatient to see you!—I could no longer deny myself this satis|faction. And raised me, and kissed me, and called me, Charming creature!

But he waved entering into any interesting subject. All will be well now! All will be right!—No more complainings! Every-body loves you!—I only came to make my earliest court to you, were his conde|scending words, and to sit and talk of twenty and twenty fond things, as I used to do.—And let every past disagreeable thing be forgotten; as if nothing had happen'd.

He understood me as beginning to hint at the dis|grace of my confinement.—No disgrace, my dear, can fall to your lot: Your reputation is too well esta|blished.—I long'd to see you, repeated he.—I have seen no-body half so amiable, since I saw you last.

And again he kissed my cheek, my glowing cheek, for I was impatient, I was vexed, to be thus, as I thought, play'd upon: And how could I be grateful for a visit, that, it now was evident, was only a too

humble artifice, to draw me in against the next Tues|day, or to leave me inexcusable to them all!

O my cunning brother!—This is his contrivance! And then my anger made me recollect the triumph in his and my sister's loves to each other, acted before me; and the mingled indignation flashing from their eyes, as, arm in arm, they spoke to me, and the forced condescension playing upon their lips, when they called me Clary, and Sister.

Do you think I could, with these reflections, look upon my uncle Harlowe's visit as the favour he seem'd desirous I should think it to be?—Indeed I could not; and seeing him so studiously avoid all recrimination, as I may call it, I gave into the affectation; and fol|lowed him in his talk of indifferent things:—While he seemed to admire This thing and That, as if he had never seen them before; and now and then, condescend|ingly kissed the hand that wrought some of the things he fixed his eyes upon; not so much to admire them, as to find subjects to divert what was most in his head, and in my own heart.

At his going away—How can I leave you here by yourself, my dear?—You, whose company used to enliven us all.—You are not expected down indeed! But I protest, I had a good mind to surprise your papa and mamma!—If I thought nothing would arise, that would be disagreeable—My dear, my love! [O the dear artful gentleman! how could my uncle Harlowe so dissemble?] What say you?—Will you give me your hand?—Will you see your father?—Can you stand his first displeasure, on seeing the dear creature who has given him and all of us so much dis|turbance?—Can you promise future—

He saw me rising in my temper—Nay, my dear, if you cannot be all resignation, I would not have you think of it!

My heart, struggling between duty and warmth of temper, was full. You know, my dear, I never could

bear to be dealt meanly with!—How,—how can you, Sir!—You, my papa-uncle!—How can you, Sir!—The poor girl!—For I could not speak with connexion.

Nay, my dear, if you cannot be all duty, all re|signation—better stay where you are.—But after the instance you have given—

Instance, I have given!—What instance, Sir?

Well, well, child, better stay where you are, if your past confinement hangs so heavy upon you—But now there will be a sudden end to it.—Adieu, my dear!—Three words only—Let your compliance be sincere!—And love me, as you used to love me—Your grandfather did not do so much for you, as I will do for you.

Without suffering me to reply, he hurry'd away, I thought, as if he had an escape, and was glad his part was over.

Don't you see, my dear, how they are all deter|min'd?—Have I not reason to dread next Tuesday?

Up presently after came my sister:—To observe, I suppose, the way I was in—She found me in tears.

Have you not a Thomas à Kempis, sister? with a stiff air.

I have, Madam.

Madam! How long are we to be at this distance, Clary?

No longer, if you allow me to call you, sister, my dear Bella! And I took her hand.

No fawning neither, girl!

I withdrew my hand as hastily, as I should do, if, reaching at a parcel from under the wood, I had been bit by a scorpion.

I beg pardon.—Too, too ready to make advances, I am always subjecting myself to contempts!

People who know not how to keep a middle be|haviour, said she, must ever-more do so.

I will fetch you the Kempis—I did—Here it is.—You will find excellent things, Bella, in that little book.

I wish, retorted she, you had profited by them.

I wish you may, said I. Example from a sister older than one's self is a fine thing.

Older! Saucy little fool!—And away she flung.

What a captious old woman will my sister make, if she lives to be one!—Demanding the reverence; yet not aiming at the merit; and asham'd of the years, that only can intitle her to the reverence.

It is plain from what I have related, that they think they have got me at some advantage, by obtaining my consent to this interview: But if it were not, Betty's impertinence just now would make it more evident. She has been complimenting me upon it; and upon the visit of my uncle Harlowe. She says, the difficulty now is more than half over with me. She is sure I would not see Mr. Solmes, but to have him. Now shall she be soon better imploy'd than of late she has been. All hands will be at work. She loves dearly to have weddings go forward!—Who knows whose turn will be next?

I found in the afternoon a reply to my answer to Mr. Lovelace's letter: It is full of promises, full of gratitude, of eternal gratitude, is his word, among others still more hyperbolic. Yet Mr. Lovelace, the least of any man whose letters I have seen, runs into those elevated absurdities. I should be apt to despise him for it, if he did. Such language looks always to me, as if the flatterer thought to find a woman a fool, or hop'd to make her one.

'He regrets my indifference to him; which puts all the hope he has in my savour, upon my friends shocking usage of me.

'As to my charge upon him of unpoliteness and uncontroulableness—What (he asks) can he say? since being unable absolutely to vindicate himself,

he has too much ingenuity to attempt to do so: Yet is struck dumb by my harsh construction, that his acknowleging temper is owing more to his care|lesness to defend himself, than to his inclination to amend. He had never before met with the ob|jections against his morals which I had raised, justly raised. And he was resolved to obviate them. What is it, he asks, that he had promised, but re|formation by my example? And what occasion for the promise, if he had not faults, and those very great ones, to reform of? He hopes, acknowlege|ment of an error is no bad sign; altho' my severe virtue has interpreted it into one.

'He believes I may be right (severely right, he calls it) in my judgment against making reprisals in the case of the intelligence he receives from my fa|mily: He cannot charge himself to be of a temper that leads him to be inquisitive into any-body's pri|vate affairs; but hopes, that the circumstances of the case, and the strange conduct of my friends, will excuse him; especially, when so much depends upon his knowing the movements of a family so violently bent, by measures right or wrong, to carry their point against me, in malice to him. People he says, who act like Angels, ought to have Angels to deal with. For his part, he has not yet learn'd the difficult lesson of returning good for evil: And shall think himself the less encourag'd to learn it, by the treatment I have met with, from the very spirits, which, were he to lay himself under their feet, would trample upon him, as they do upon me.

'He excuses himself for the liberties he owns he has heretofore taken in ridiculing the marriage-state. It is a subject, he says, that he has not of late treated so lightly. He owns it to be so trite, so beaten, a topic with all libertines and witlings; so frothy, so empty, so nothing-meaning, so worn-out a theme, that he is heartily ashamed of himself, ever to have

made it his. He condemns it as a stupid reflection upon the laws and good order of society, and upon a man's own ancestors: And in himself, who has some reason to value himself upon his descent and alliances, more censurable, than in those who have not the same advantage to boast of. He promises to be more circumspect than ever, both in his words and actions, that he may be more and more wor|thy of my approbation; and that he may give an assurance before-hand, that a foundation is laid in his mind, for my example to work upon, with equal reputation and effect to us both;—if he may be so happy as to call me his.

'He gives me up, as absolutely lost, if I go to my uncle Antony's: The close confinement; The Moated-house; The Chapel; the implacableness of my brother and sister, and their power over the rest of my family, he sets forth in strong lights, and plainly hints, that he must have a struggle to pre|vent my being carry'd thither.'

Your kind, your generous interesting of yourself in your mamma's favour for me, I hope, will prevent those harsher extremities which I might otherwise be driven to. And to you I will fly, if permitted, and keep all my promises, of not corresponding with any-body, not seeing any-body, but by your mamma's direction and yours.—I will close, and deposite at This place. It is not necessary to say, How much I am

Your ever-affectionate and obliged CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER XXIX. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Monday, April 3.

I Am glad my papers are safe in your hands. I will make it my endeavour to deserve your good opi|nion, that I may not at once disgrace your judgment, and my own heart.

I have another letter from Mr. Lovelace. He is extremely apprehensive of the meeting I am to have with Mr. Solmes to-morrow. He says,

'That the airs that wretch gives himself on the occasion, add to his concern; and it is with infinite difficulty that he prevails upon himself, not to make him a visit, to let him know what he may expect, if compulsion be used towards me in his favour. He assures me, That Solmes has actually talked with tradesmen of new equipages, and names the people in town, with whom he has treated: That he has even (Was there ever such a horrid wretch!) allotted This and That apartment in his house, for a nursery, and other offices.'

How shall I bear to hear such a creature talk of love to me? I shall be out of all patience with him!—Besides, I thought that he did not dare to make or talk of these impudent preparations—So inconsistent as such are with my brother's views—But I fly the shocking subject.

Upon this confidence of Solmes, you will less won|der at That of Lovelace,

'in pressing me, in the name of all his family, to escape from so determined a violence, as is intended to be offer'd to me at my uncle's: That the forward contriver should propose his uncle's chariot-and-six to be at the stile that leads up to the lonely coppice, adjoining to our paddock. You will see how audaciously he men|tions

settlements ready drawn; horsemen ready to mount; and one of his cousins Montague to be in the chariot, or at the George in the neighbouring village, waiting to accompany me to Lord M's, or to either of his aunts, or to town, as I please; and upon such orders, or conditions, and under such re|strictions, as to himself, as I shall prescribe.'

You will see how he threatens

'To watch and way-lay them, and rescue me, as he calls it, by an armed force of friends and servants, if they attempt to carry me against my will to my uncle's; and this, whether I give my consent to the enterprise, or not:—Since he shall have no hopes if I am once there.'

O my dear friend! Who can think of these things, and not be extremely miserable in her apprehensions!

This mischievous sex! What had I to do with any of them; or they with me!—I had deserv'd This, were it by my own seeking, by my own giddiness, that I had brought myself into this situation—I wish, with all my heart—But how foolishly we are apt to wish, when we find ourselves unhappy, and know not how to help ourselves.

On your mamma's goodness, however, is my re|liance. If I can but avoid being precipitated on ei|ther hand, till my cousin Morden arrives, a recon|ciliation must follow; and all will be happy!

I have deposited a letter for Mr. Lovelace; in which

'I charge him to avoid any rash step, any visit to Mr. Solmes, which may be followed by acts of violence, as he would not disoblige me for ever.

I re-assure him,

'That I will sooner die than be 'that man's wife.

'Whatever be my usage, whatever the result of this interview, I insist upon his not presuming to offer violence to any of my friends: And express myself highly displeased, that he should presume up|on such an interest in my favour, as to think him|self intitled to dispute my father's authority in my

removal to my uncle's; altho' I tell him, that I will omit neither prayers nor contrivance, even to the making of myself ill, to avoid going.'

To-morrow is Tuesday!—How soon comes up|on us the day we dread!—O that a deep sleep of twenty-four hours would seize my faculties—But then the next day would be Tuesday, as to all the effects and purposes, for which I so much dread it. If this reach you before the event of this so much ap|prehended interview can be known, pray for

Your CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER XXX. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Tuesday Morning, Six o'Clock.

THE day is come!—I wish it were happily over. I have had a wretched night. Hardly a wink have I slept, ruminating upon the approaching inter|view. The very distance of time they consented to, has added solemnity to the meeting, which otherwise it would not have had.

A thoughtful mind is not a blessing to be coveted, unless it had such a happy vivacity with it, as yours: A vivacity, which enables a person to enjoy the pre|sent, without being over-anxious about the future.

Tuesday, Eleven o'Clock.

I HAVE had a visit from my aunt Hervey. Betty, in her alarming way, told me, I should have a Lady to breakfast with me, whom I little expected; giving me to believe it was my mamma. This flutter'd me so much, on hearing a Lady coming up-stairs, sup|posing it was she (not knowing how to account for her motives in such a visit, after I had been so long banish'd from her presence) that my aunt, at her en|trance,

took notice of my disorder, and after the first salutation,

Why, Miss said she, you seem surpriz'd!—Upon my word, you thoughtful young Ladies have strange apprehensions about nothing at all. What, taking my hand, can be the matter with you?—Why, my dear, tremble, tremble, tremble at this rate? You'll be fit to be seen by no-body. Come, my love, kissing my cheek, pluck up a courage! By this need|less flutter on the approaching interview, when it is over, you will judge of your other antipathies, and laugh at yourself for giving way to so apprehensive an imagination.

I said, that whatever we strongly imagin'd, was, in its effects at the time, more than imaginary, altho' to others it might not appear so: That I had not rested one hour all night: That the impertinent set over me had flutter'd me, with giving me room to think, that it was my mamma who was coming up to me: And that, at this rate, I should be very little qualify'd to see any-body I disliked to see.

There was no accounting for these things, she said. Mr. Solmes last night suppos'd he should be under as much agitation as I.

Who is it, then, Madam, that so reluctant an in|terview on both sides, is to please?

Both of you, my dear, I hope, after the first flurries are over. The most apprehensive beginnings, I have often known, make the happiest conclusions.

There can be but one happy conclusion to the in|tended visit, and that is, That both sides may be sa|tisfy'd it will be the last.

She then represented, how unhappy it would be for me, if I did not suffer myself to be prevailed upon: She pressed me to receive him as became my edu|cation: And declar'd, that his apprehensions at see|ing me, were owing to his love and his awe; inti|m••ting, that true love was best known by fear, and

reverence; and that no blustering, braving lover could deserve encouragement.

To this I answered, That constitution was a great deal to be considered: That a man of spirit would act like one, and could do nothing meanly: That a creep|ing mind would creep in every-thing, where it had a view to obtain a benefit by it; and insult, where it had power, and nothing to expect:—That this was not a point now to be determin'd with me: That I had said as much as I could possibly say on this sub|ject: That this interview was imposed upon me: By those, indeed, who had a right to impose it; but that it was sorely against my will comply'd with, and for this reason, That there was aversion, not wilfulness, in the case; and so nothing could come of it, but a pretence, as I much apprehended, to use me still more severely than I had been used.

She was then pleased to charge me with prepos|session, and prejudice: Expatiated upon the duty of a child: Imputed to me abundance of fine qualities; but told me, that, in this case, that of persuadable|ness was wanting to crown All. She insisted upon the merit of obedience, altho' my will were not in it. From a little hint I gave of my still greater dislike to see Mr. Solmes, on account of the freedom I had treated him with, she talked to me of his forgiving disposition; of his infinite respect for me; and I-can-not-tell-what of this sort.—

I never found myself so fretful in my life. I told my aunt so; and begg'd her pardon for it. But she said, it was well disguised then; for she saw nothing but little tremors usual with young Ladies, when they were to see their admirers for the first time, as this might be called: For that it was the first time I had consented to see him in that light.—But that the next—

How, Madam, interrupted I!—Is it then imagined I give this meeting upon that foot?—

To be sure it is, child.—

To be sure it is, Madam!—Then do I yet desire to decline it!—I will not, I cannot, see him, if he expects me to see him upon those terms.

Niceness, punctilio!—Mere punctilio, niece!—Can you think that your appointment, Day, Place, Hour, and knowing what the intent of it was, is to be interpreted away as a mere ceremony, and to mean nothing?—Let me tell you, my dear, your father, mother, uncles, every-body, respect this appointment as the first act of your compliance with their wills; and therefore recede not, I desire you; but make a merit of what cannot be help'd!—

O the hideous wretch!—Pardon me, Madam,—I to be suppos'd to meet such a man as that, with such a view! and he to be arm'd with such an ex|pectation!—But it cannot be that he expects it, what|ever others may do.—It is plain he cannot, by the fear he tells you all, he shall have to see me: If his hope were so audacious, he could not fear so much.

Indeed, he has this hope; and justly founded too. But his fear arises from his reverence, as I told you before.

His reverence!—his unworthiness!—'Tis so appa|rent, that he himself sees it, as well as every-body else. Hence the purchase he aims at!—Hence is it, that settlements are to make up for acknowleg'd want of merit!—

His unworthiness, say you!—Not so fast, my dear. Does not this look like setting a high value upon yourself?—We all have exalted notions of your me|rit, niece; but nevertheless, it would not be wrong, if you were to arrogate less to yourself; tho' more were to be your due, than your friends attribute to you.

I am sorry, Madam, it should be thought arro|gance in me, to suppose I am not worthy of a better man than Mr. Solmes, both as to person and mind:

And as to fortune, I thank God I despise all that can be insisted upon in his favour, from so poor a plea.

She told me, It signify'd nothing to talk: I knew the expectation of every-one—

Indeed I did not.—It was impossible I could think of such a strange expectation, upon a compliance made only to shew, I would comply in all that was in my power to comply with.

I might easily, me said, have supposed, that every-one thought I was beginning to oblige them all, by the kind behaviour of my brother and sister to me in the garden, last Sunday; by my sister's visit to me afterwards in my chamber; altho' both more stiffly received by me, than were either wished or expected; by my uncle Harlowe's affectionate visit to me the same afternoon; not indeed so very gratefully received, as I used to receive his favours:—But this he kindly imputed to the displeasure I had conceived at my con|finement, and to my coming-off by degrees, that I might keep myself in countenance for my past oppo|sition!

See, my dear, the low cunning of that Sunday-management, which then so much surprised me! And see the reason why Dr. Lewin was admitted to visit me, yet forbore to enter upon a subject that I thought he came to talk to me about!—For, it seems, there was no occasion to dispute with me on a point I was to be supposed to have conceded to.—See, also, how unfairly my brother and sister must have represented their pretended kindness, when (tho' they had an end to answer by appearing kind) their antipathy to me seems to have been so strong, that they could not help insulting me by their arm-in-arm lover-like behaviour to each other; as my sister afterwards likewise did, when she came to borrow my Kempis.—

I lifted up my hands and eyes!—I cannot, said I, give this treatment a name!—The end so unlikely to be answer'd by means so low!—I know whose the whole

is!—He that could get my uncle Harlowe to contri|bute his part, and procure the acquiescence of the rest of my friends to it, must have the power to do any thing with them against me!—

Again my aunt told me, that talking and invective, now I had given the expectation, would signify no|thing. She hoped I would not shew them all, that they had been too forward in their constructions of my desire to oblige them. She could assure me, that it would be worse for me, if now I receded, than if I had never advanced—

Advanced, Madam! How can you say advanced? Why, this is a trick upon me!—A poor, low trick! Pardon me, Madam, I don't say you have a hand in it.—But, my dearest aunt, tell me, Will not my mamma be present at this dreaded interview?—Will she not so far favour me?—Were it but to qualify—

Qualify, my dear, interrupted she—Your mamma, and your uncle Harlowe, would not be present on this occasion for the world—

O then, Madam, how can they look upon my consent to this interview as an advance?

My aunt was displeased at this home push. Miss Clary, said she, there is no dealing with you. It would be happy for you, and for every-body else, were your obedience as ready as your wit. I will leave you—

Not in anger, I hope, Madam! interrupted I—All I meant was, to observe, that let the meeting issue as it must issue, it cannot be a disappointment to any-body.

O Miss! you seem to be a very determin'd young creature.—Mr. Solmes will be here at your time▪ And remember once more, that upon the coming afternoon depends the peace of your whole family▪ and your own happiness.—

And so saying, down she hurried.

Here I stop. In what way I shall resume, or when, is not left to me to conjecture; much less to deter|mine. I am excessively uneasy!—No good news from your mamma, I doubt!—I will deposite thus far, for fear of the worst.

Adieu, my best, my only friend!

LETTER XXXI. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Tuesday Evening; and continued thro' the night.

WELL, my dear, I am alive, and here! But how long I shall be either here, or alive, I can|not say!—I have a vast deal to write; and perhaps shall have little time for it. Nevertheless, I must tell you how the saucy Betty again fluttered me, when she came up with this Solmes's message; altho', as you will remember from my last, I was in a way before, that wanted no additional surprizes.

Miss! Miss! Miss! cry'd she, as fast as she could speak, with her arms spread abroad, and all her fingers distended, and held up, will you be pleased to walk down into your own parlour?—There is every-body, I'll assure you, in full congregation!—And there is Mr. Solmes, as fine as a Lord, with a charming white peruke, fine laced shirt and ruffles, coat trimmed with silver, and a waistcoat standing an end with lace!—Quite handsome, believe me!—You never saw such an alteration!—Ah! Miss, shaking her head, 'tis pity you have said so much against him!—But you know how to come off, for all that!—I hope it will not be too late!—

Impertinence! said I,—Wert thou bid to come up in this fluttering way?—And I took up my fan, and fann'd myself.

Bless me! said she, how soon these fine young Ladies will be put into flusterations!—I meant not either to offend or frighten you, I am sure.—

Every-body there, do you say?—Who do you call every-body?—

Why, Miss, holding out her left palm opened, and with a flourish, and a saucy leer, patting it with the fore-finger of the other at every mentioned per|son, There is your papa!—There is your mamma!—There is your uncle Harlowe!—There is your uncle Antony!—Your aunt Hervey!—My young Lady!—And my young master!—And Mr. Solmes, with the air of a great courtier, standing up, because he named you:—Mrs. Betty, said he, [Then the ape of a wench bowed, and scraped, as awkwardly as I sup|pose the person she endeavoured to imitate] Pray give my humble service to Miss, and tell her, I wait her commands.

Was not this a wicked wench?—I trembled so, I could hardly stand. I was spiteful enough to say, that her young mistress, I supposed, bid her put on these airs, to frighten me out of a capacity of behaving so calmly, as should procure me my uncle's com|passion.

What a way do you put yourself in, Miss, said the insolent!—Come, dear Madam, taking up my fan, which I had laid down, and approaching me with it, fanning, shall I—

None of thy impertinence!—But say you, all my friends are below with him? And am I to appear be|fore them all?

I can't tell if they'll stay when you come. I think they seemed to be moving when Mr. Solmes gave me his orders.—But what answer shall I carry to the 'Squire?

Say, I can't go!—But yet, when 'tis over, 'tis over! Say, I'll wait upon—I'll attend—I'll come presently—Say any thing; I care not what—But give me my fan, and fetch me a glass of water.

She went, and I fanned myself all the time; for I was in a flame; and hemm'd, and struggled with my|self,

all I could; and, when she returned, drank my water; and finding no hope presently of a quieter heart, I sent her down, and followed her with preci|pitation; trembling so, that, had I not hurried, I question if I could have gone down at all. O, my dear, what a poor, passive machine is the body, when the mind is disorder'd!

There are two doors to my parlour, as I used to call it. As I entered at one, my friends hurried out at the other. I saw just the gown of my sister, the last who slid away. My uncle Antony went out with them; but he staid not long, as you shall hear: And they all remained in the next parlour, a wain-scot-partition only parting the two. I remember them both in one: But they were separated in favour of us girls, for each to receive her visitors in, at her pleasure.

Mr. Solmes approached me as soon as I entered, cringing to the ground; a visible confusion in every feature of his face. After half a dozen choak'd-up Ma|dams,—He was very sorry—he was very much con|cerned—It was his misfortune—And there he stopp'd, being unable presently to complete a sentence.

This gave me a little more presence of mind. Cow|ardice in a foe begets courage in one's-self:—I see that plainly now;—Yet perhaps, at bottom, the new-made bravo is a greater coward than the other.

I turned from him, and seated myself in one of the fire-side chairs, fanning myself. I have since recol|lected, that I must have looked very saucily. Could I have had any thoughts of the man, I should have despised myself for it. But what can be said in the case of an aversion so perfectly sincere?

He hemmed five or six times, as I had done above; and these produced a sentence—That I could not but see his confusion. This sentence produced two or three more. I believe my aunt was his tutoress: For it was his awe, his reverence for so superlative a

Lady—[I assure you]—And he hoped—he hoped—Three times he hoped, before he told me what—that I was too generous [Generosity, he said, was my character], to despise him for such—for such—true tokens of his love.—

I do indeed see you under some confusion, Sir; and this gives me hope, that altho' I have been compelled, as I may call it, to this interview, it may be attended with happier effects than I had apprehended from it.

He had hemmed himself into more courage.

You could not, Madam, imagine any creature so blind to your merits, and so little attracted by them, as easily to forego the interest and approbation he was honoured with by your worthy family, while he had any hope given him, that one day he might, by his perseverance and zeal, expect your favour.

I am but too much aware, Sir, that it is upon the interest and approbation you mention, that you build such hope. It is impossible, otherwise, that a man, who has any regard for his own happiness, would persevere against such declarations as I have made, and think myself obliged to make, in justice to you, as well as to myself.

He had seen many instances, he told me, and had heard of more, where Ladies had seemed as averse, and yet had been induced, some by motives of com|passion; others by persuasion of friends, to change their minds; and had been very happy afterwards: And he hoped this might be the case here.

I have no notion, Sir, of compliment, in an ar|ticle of such importance as this: Yet am I sorry to be obliged to speak my mind so plainly, as I am going to do.—Know then, that I have invincible objections, Sir, to your address. I have declared them with an earnestness that I believe is without example: And why?—Because I believe it is without example, that any young creature, circumstanced as I am, was ever treated as I have been treated on your account.

It is hoped, Madam, that your consent may, in time, be obtained: That is the hope; and I shall be a miserable man if it cannot.

Better, Sir, give me leave to say, you were mi|serable by yourself, than that you should make two so.

You may have heard, Madam, things to my dis|advantage.—No man is without enemies.—Be pleased to let me know what you have heard, and I will either own my faults, and amend; or I will convince you, that I am basely bespattered: And once I understand you overheard something that I should say, that gave you offence:—Unguardedly, perhaps; but nothing but what shewed my value, and that I would persist so long as I could have hope.

I have indeed heard many things to your disad|vantage:—And I was far from being pleased with what I overheard fall from your lips: But as you were not any thing to me, and never could be, it was not for me to be concerned about the one or the other.

I am sorry, Madam, to hear this: I am sure you should not tell me of any fault, that I would be un|willing to correct in myself.

Then, Sir, correct this fault:—Do not wish to have a poor young creature compelled in the most material article of her life, for the sake of motives she despises; and in behalf of a person she cannot value: One that has, in her own right, sufficient to set her above all offers, and a spirit that craves no more than what it has, to make itself easy and happy.

I don't see, Madam, how you would be happy, if I were to discontinue my address: For—

That is nothing to you, Sir, interrupted I: Do you but withdraw your pretensions: And if it be thought fit to start up another man for my punish|ment, the blame will not lie at your door. You will be intitled to my thanks; and most heartily will I thank you.

He paused, and seemed a little at a loss: And I

was going to give him still stronger and more personal instances of my plain-dealing; when in came my un|cle Antony!

So, niece, so!—sitting in state like a Queen, give|ing audience!—haughty audience!—Mr. Solmes, why stand you thus humbly?—Why this distance, man? I hope to see you upon a more intimate footing before we part.

I arose, as soon as he entered—and approached him with a bent knee: Let me, Sir, reverence my uncle, whom I have not for so long a time seen!—Let me, Sir, bespeak your favour and compassion!

You'll have the favour of every-body, niece, when you know how to deserve it.

If ever I deserved it, I deserve it now.—I have been hardly used—I have made proposals that ought to have been accepted; and such as would not have been asked of me. What have I done, that I must be banished and confined thus disgracefully? That I must be allowed to have no free-will, in an article that concerns my present and future happiness?—

Miss Clary, replied my uncle, you have had your will in every-thing till now; and this makes your parents will sit so heavy upon you.

My will, Sir! Be pleased to allow me to ask, What was my will till now, but my father's will, and yours, and my uncle Harlowe's will?—Has it not been my pride to obey and oblige?—I never asked a favour, that I did not first sit down and consider, if it were fit to be granted. And now, to shew my obedience, have I not offered to live single? Have I not offered to divest myself of my grandfather's bounty, and to cast myself upon my papa's; to be withdrawn, when|ever I disoblige him? Why, dear good Sir, am I to be made unhappy in a point so concerning to my happiness?

Your grandfather's estate is not wished from you. You are not desired to live a single life. You know

our motives, and we guess at yours. And let me tell you, well as we love you, we would much sooner choose to follow you to the grave, than that yours should take place.

I will engage never to marry any man, without my father's consent, and your's, Sir, and every|body's. Did I ever give you cause to doubt my word?—And here I will take the solemnest oath that can be offered me—

That is the matrimonial one, interrupted he, with a big voice—and to this gentleman.—It shall, it shall, cousin Clary!—And the more you oppose it, the worse it shall be for you.

This, and before the man, who seem'd to assume courage upon it, highly provoked me.

Then, Sir, you shall sooner follow me to the grave indeed.—I will undergo the cruelest death: I will even consent to enter into the awful vault of my an|cestors, and to have that bricked up upon me, than consent to be miserable for life.—And, Mr. Solmes, (turning to him) take notice of what I say; This, or any death, I will sooner undergo (That will soon be over), than be yours, and for ever unhappy!

My uncle was in a terrible rage upon this: He took Mr. Solmes by the hand, shocked as the man seemed to be, and drew him to the window—Don't be surprised, Mr. Solmes, don't be concerned at this. We know, and rapp'd out a sad oath, what women will say: The wind is not more boistrous, nor more changeable: And again he swore to That! If you think it worth your while to wait for such an ungrate|ful girl as This, I'll engage she'll veer about; I'll en|gage she shall: And a third time violently swore to it.

Then coming up to me (who had thrown myself, very much disordered by my vehemence, into the contrary window), as if he would have beat me; his face violently working, his hands clenched, and his

teeth set—Yes, yes, yes, hissed the poor gentleman, you shall, you shall, you shall, cousin Clary, be Mr. solmes's; we will see that you shall; and this in one week at farthest.—And then a fourth time he con|firmed it. Poor gentleman, how he swore!—Strange! that people who have suffered in their time so much by storms, should be so stormy!—

I am sorry, Sir, said I, to see you in such a pas|sion. All This, I am but too sensible, is owing to my brother's instigation; who would not himself give the instance of duty that is exacted from me. It is best for me to withdraw. I shall but provoke you farther, I fear: For though I would gladly obey you, if I could, yet This is a point determined with me; and I cannot so much as wish to get it over.

How could one help these strong declarations, the man in presence?

I was going out at the door I came in at; the gentle|men looking upon one another, as if referring to each other what to do, or whether to engage my stay, or suffer me to go: And who should I meet at the door but my brother, who had heard all that had passed.

Judge my surprize, when he bolted upon me so unexpectedly, and taking my hand, which he grasped with violence, Return, pretty Miss, said he; return, if you please!—You shall not yet be bricked up!—Your instigating brother shall save you from That!—O thou fallen angel, said he, peering up to my down|cast face,—such a sweetness here!—and such an ob|stinacy there, tapping my neck!—O thou true wo|man!—tho' so young—But you shall not have your Rake: Remember that; in a loud whisper, as if he would be decently indecent before the man!—You shall be redeemed, and this worthy gentleman, raising his voice, will be so good as to redeem you from rain—and hereafter you will bless him, or have rea|son to bless him, for his condescension; that was the brutal brother's word!

He had led me up to meet Mr. Solmes, whose hand he took, as he himself held mine. Here, Sir, said he, take the rebel daughter's hand; I give it you now; She shall confirm the gift in a week's time; or will have neither father, mother, nor uncles, to boast of.

I snatched my hand away.

How now, Miss!—

And how now, Sir—What right have YOU to dispose of my hand?—If you govern every-body else, you shall not govern me; especially in a point so im|mediately relative to myself, and in which you neither have, nor ever shall have, any thing to do.

I would have broke from him, but he held my hand too fast.

Let me go, Sir;—Why am I thus treated?—You design, I doubt not, with your unmanly gripings, to hurt me, as you do: But again I say, Wherefore is it that I am to be thus treated by YOU?

He tossed my hand from him with a whirl, that pained my very shoulder. I wept, and held my other hand to the part.

Mr. Solmes blamed him; so did my uncle.

He had no patience, he said, with such a perverse|ness; and to think of my reflections upon himself, before he entered. He had only given me back the hand, I had not deserved he should touch. It was ene of my arts, to pretend to be pained.

Mr. Solmes said, He would sooner give up all his hopes of me, than that I should be used unkindly: And he offered to plead in my behalf to them both; and applied himself with a bow, as if for my appro|bation of his interposition.

But, I said, I am obliged to your intention, Mr. Solmes, to interpose to save me from my brother's violence: But I cannot wish to owe so poor an obli|gation to a man whose ungenerous perseverance is the occasion, or at least the pretence, of that violence, and of all my disgraceful sufferings.

How generous in you, Mr. Solmes, said my bro|ther to him, to interpose in behalf of such an im|moveable spirit! But I beg of you to persist!—For all our family's sake, and for her sake too, if you love her, persist!—Let us save her, if possible, from ruining herself. Look at her person! Think of her fine qualities!—All the world confesses them, and we all gloried in her till now: She is worth saving!—And, after two or three more struggles, she will be yours, and, take my word for it, will reward your patience!—Talk not, therefore, of giving up your hopes, for a little whining folly. She has entered upon a parade, which she knows not how to quit with a female grace. You have only her pride and her ob|stinacy to encounter: And, depend upon it, you will be as happy a man in a fortnight, as a marry'd man can be.

You have heard me say, my dear, that my brother has always taken a liberty to reflect upon our Sex, and upon Matrimony!—He would not, if he did not think it wit!—Just as poor Mr. Wyerley, and others, we both know, prophane and ridicule Scripture; and all to evidence their pretensions to the same pernicious talent, and to have it thought, that they are too wise to be good.

Mr. Solmes, with a self-satisfied air, presumptu|ously said, He would suffer every thing, to oblige my family, and to save me. And doubted not to be amply rewarded, could he be so happy as to succeed at last.

Mr. Solmes, said I, if you have any regard for your own happiness [Mine is out of the question: You have not generosity enough to make That any part of your scheme] prosecute no further your ad|dress. It is but just to tell you, that I could not bring my heart to think of you, without the utmost dis|approbation, before I was used as I have been:—And can you think I am such a slave, such a poor slave,

as to be brought to change my mind by the violent usage I have met with?

And you, Sir, turning to my brother, if you think that meekness always indicates tameness; and that there is no magnanimity without bluster, own yourself mis|taken for once: For you shall have reason to judge from henceforth, that a generous mind is not to be forced; and that—

He lifted up his hands and eyes: No more, said the imperious wretch, I charge you!—Then turning to my uncle, Do you hear, Sir? This is your once fault|less niece! This is your favourite!

Mr. Solmes looked as if he knew not what to think of the matter; and had I been left alone with him, I saw plainly, I could have got rid of him easily enough.

My uncle came up to me, looking up to my face, and down to my feet: And is it possible This can be you? All this violence from you, Miss Clary?

Yes, it is possible, Sir—And, I will presume to say, this vehemence on my side, is but the natural consequence of the usage I have met with, and the rudeness I am treated with, even in your presence, by a brother, who has no more right to controul me, than I have to controul him.

This usage, cousin Clary, was not till all other means were try'd with you.

Try'd! to what end, Sir—Do I contend for any thing more than a mere negative? You may, Sir (turn|ing to Mr. Solmes) possibly you may, be induced the rather to persevere, thus ungenerously, as the usage, I have met with, for your sake, and what you have now seen offered to me by my brother, will shew you what I can bear, were my evil destiny ever to make me yours!

Lord, Madam, cried Solmes, all this time distorted into twenty different attitudes, as my brother and my uncle were blessing themselves, and speaking only to

each other by their eyes, and by their working features; Lord, Madam, what a construction is This!

A fair construction, Sir, interrupted I: For he that can see a person he pretends to value, thus treated, and approve of it, must be capable of treating her thus himself. And that you do approve of it, is evi|dent by your declared perseverance, when you know I am confined, banished, and insulted in order to make me consent to be what I never can be—And this, let me tell you, as I have often told others, not from motives of obstinacy, but aversion.

Excuse me, Sir, turning to my uncle!—To you, as to my papa's brother, I owe duty. I beg your par|don, that I cannot obey you: But as for my brother; he is but my brother; he shall not constrain me. And, turning to my brother, Knit your brows, Sir, and frown as you will, I will ask you, Would you, in my case, make the sacrifices I am willing to make, to obtain every one's favour? If not, what right have you to treat me thus? and to procure me to be treated as I have been, for so long past?

I had put myself by this time into great disorder. They were silent, and seemed to want to talk to one another by their looks, walking about in violent dis|orders too, between whiles.—I sat down fanning my|self (as it happened, against the glass) and I could per|ceive my colour go and come; and being sick to the very heart, and apprehensive of fainting, I rung. Betty came in. I called for a glass of water, and drank it:—But no-hody minded me—I heard my brother pronounce the words, Art! d—d Art! to Solmes; which, I suppose, kept him back, together w••th the apprehension, that he would not be welcome.—Else I could see the man was more affected than my brother. And I, still fearing I should faint, rising, took hold of Betty's arm, staggering with extreme disorder, yet courtesying to my uncle, Let me hold by you, Betty, said I; Let me withdraw.

Whither go you, niece, said my uncle? We have not done with you yet. I charge you depart not. Mr. Solmes has something to open to you, that will astonish you:—And you shall hear it.

Only, Sir, by your leave, for a few minutes into the air—I will return, if you command it—I will hear all that I am to hear; that it may be over Now, and for-Ever.—You will go with me, Betty?

And so, without any farther prohibition, I retired into the garden; and there, casting myself upon the first seat, and throwing Betty's apron over my face, leaning against her side, my hands between her's, I gave way to a violent burst of grief, or passion, or both; which, as it seemed, saved my heart from break|ing, for I was sensible of an immediate relief.

I have already given you specimens of Mrs. Betty's impertinence. I shall not, therefore, trouble you with more: For the wench, notwithstanding this my di|stress, took great liberties with me, after she saw me a little recovered, and as I walked further into the garden; insomuch, that I was obliged to silence her by an absolute prohibition of saying another word to me; and then she dropped behind me quite sullen and gloomy.

It was near an hour before I was sent for in again. The messenger was my cousin Dolly Hervey, who, with an eye of compassion and respect [for Miss Her|vey always loved me, and calls herself my scholar, as you know] told me, my company was desired.

Betty left us.

Who commands my attendance, Miss, said I?—Have you not been in tears, my dear?

Who can forbear tears, said she?

Why, what's the matter, cousin Dolly?—Sure, no|body is intitled to weep in this family, but I!

Yes, I am, Madam, said she, because I love you.

I kissed her; And is it for me, my sweet cousin, that you shed tears?—There never was love lost be|tween

us: But tell me, what is designed to be done with me, that I have this kind instance of your com|passion for me?

You must take no notice of what I tell you: But my mamma has been weeping for you, too, with me; but durst not let any-body see it: O my Dolly, said my mamma, there never was so set a malice in man, as in your cousin James Harlowe. They will ruin the flower and ornament of their family.

As how, Miss Dolly?—Did she not explain her|self?—As how, my dear?

Yes, she said, Mr. Solmes would have given up his claim to you; for he said, you hated him, and there were no hopes; and your mamma was willing he should; and to have you taken at your word, to re|nounce Mr. Lovelace, and to live single: My mam|ma was for it too; for they heard all that passed be|tween you and my uncle Antony, and my cousin James; saying, it was impossible to think of prevail|ing upon you to have Mr. Solmes. My uncle Har|lowe seemed in the same way of thinking; at least, my mamma says, he did not say any thing to the con|trary. But your papa was immoveable, and was angry at your mamma and mine upon it: And here|upon your brother, your sister, and my uncle Antony, joined in, and changed the scene intirely. In short, she says, that Mr. Solmes had great matters ingaged to him. He owned, that you were the finest young Lady in England, and he would be content to be but little beloved, if he could not, after marriage, engage your heart, for the sake of having the honour to call you his but for one twelvemonth—I suppose he would break your heart in the next—For he is a cruel-hearted man, I am sure.

My friends may break my heart, cousin Dolly; but Mr. Solmes will never have it in his power.

I don't know That, Miss: You'll have good luck to avoid having him, by what I can find; for my

mamma says, they are all now of one mind, herself excepted; and she is forced to be silent, your papa and brother are both so outragious.

I am got above minding my brother, cousin Dolly: He is but my brother:—But to my papa I owe duty and obedience, if I could comply.

We are apt to be fond of any-body, who will side with us, when oppressed, or provoked: I always loved my cousin Dolly; but now she endeared herself to me ten times more, by her soothing concern for me. I asked what she would do, were she in my case?

Without hesitation she replied, Have Mr. Lovelace out-of-hand, and take up her own estate, if she were me; and there would be an end of it—And Mr. Lovelace, she said, was a fine gentleman;—Mr. Solmes was not worthy to buckle his shoes.

Miss Hervey told me further, that her mamma was desired to come to me, to fetch me in; but she ex|cused herself. I should have all my friends, she said, she believed, sit in judgment upon me.

I wish it had been so. But, as I have been told since, neither my papa, nor my mamma, would trust themselves with me: The one for passion-sake, it seems; my mamma, for tenderer considerations.

By this time we entered the house. Miss accom|panied me into the parlour, and left me, as a person devoted, I just then thought.

No-body was there. I sat down, and had leisure to weep; reflecting, with a sad heart, upon what my cousin Dolly had told me.

They were all in my sister's parlour adjoining: For I heard a confused mixture of voices, some louder than others, drowning, as it seemed, the more com|passionating accents.

Female accents I could distinguish the drowned ones to be. O my dear! What a hard-hearted Sex is the other! Children of the same parents, how came they by their cruelty?—Do they get it by travel? Do

they get it by conversation with one another?—Or how do they get it?—Yet my sister too, is as hard-hearted as any of them. But this may be no exception neither: For she has been thought to be masculine in her air, and in her spirit. She has then, perhaps, a soul of the other Sex in a body of ours.—And so, for the honour of our own, will I judge of every wo|man for the future, who, imitating the rougher man|ners of men, acts unbeseeming the gentleness of her own sex.

Forgive me, my dear friend, breaking into my story by these reflections. Were I rapidly to pursue my narration, without thinking, without reflecting, I believe I should hardly be able to keep in my right mind: Since vehemence and passion would then be al|ways uppermost; but while I think as I write, I cool, and my hurry of spirits is allayed.

I believe I was above a quarter of an hour enjoy|ing my own comfortless contemplations, before any-body came in to me; for they seemed in full de|bate. My aunt looked in first; O my dear, said she, are you there? and withdrew hastily to apprise them of it.

And then (as agreed upon, I suppose) in came my uncle Antony, crediting Mr. Solmes with the words, Let me lead you in, my dear friend; having hold of his hand; while the new-made Beau aukwardly fol|lowed, but more edgingly, as I may say, setting his feet mincingly, to avoid treading upon his leader's heels. Excuse me, my dear, this seeming levity; but those we do not love, in every thing are ungrace|ful with us.

I stood up. My uncle looked very surly.—Sit down!—sit down, girl!—And drawing a chair near me, he placed his dear friend in it, whether he would or not, I having taken my seat. And my uncle sat on the other side of me.

Well, niece, taking my hand, we shall have very little more to say to you than we have already said, as to the subject that is so distasteful to you—Unless, indeed, you have better considered of the matter—And first, let me know if you have?

The matter wants no consideration, Sir.

Very well, very well, Madam! said my uncle, withdrawing his hands from mine: Could I ever have thought of this from you?

For God's sake, dearest Madam, said Mr. Solmes, folding his hands—And there he stopped.

For God's sake, what, Sir?—How came God's sake, and your sake, I pray you, to be the same?

This silenc'd him. My uncle could only be angry; and that he was before.

Well, well, well, Mr. Solmes, said my uncle, no more of supplication. You have not confidence enough to expect a woman's favour.

He then was pleased to hint what great things he had designed to do for me; and that it was more for my sake, after he returned from the Indies, than for the sake of any other of the family, that he had resolved to live a single life.—But now, concluded he, that the perverse girl despises all the great things it was once as much in my will, as in my power, to do for her, I will change my measures.

I told him, that I most sincerely thanked him for all his kind intentions to me: But that I was willing to resign all claim to any other of his favours than kind looks, and kind words.

He looked about him this way and that.

Mr. Solmes looked pitifully down.

But both being silent, I was sorry, I added, that I had too much reason to say a very harsh thing, as it might be thought; which was, That if he would but be pleased to convince my brother and sister, that he was absolutely determined to alter his generous pur|poses towards me, it might possibly procure me

better quarter from both, than I was otherwise likely to have.

My uncle was very much displeased. But he had not the opportunity to express his displeasure, as he seemed prepared to do; for in came my brother in exceeding great wrath; and called me several vile names. His success hitherto, had set him above keep|ing even decent measures.

Was This my spiteful construction, he asked?—Was This the interpretation I put upon his brotherly care of me, and concern for me, in order to prevent my ruining myself?

It is, indeed it is, said I: I know no other way to account for your late behaviour to me: And before your face, I repeat my request to my uncle, and I will make it to my other uncle, whenever I am per|mitted to see him, that they will confer all their fa|vours upon you, and my sister; and only make me happy [It is all I wish for!] in their kind looks, and kind words—

How they all gazed upon one another!—But could I be less peremptory before the man?

And, as to your care and concern for me, Sir, turn|ing to my brother; once more, I desire it not. You are but my brother. My papa and mamma, I bless God, are both living; and, were they not, you have given me abundant rea••on to say, that you are the very last person I would wish to have any concern for me.

How, Niece? And is a Brother, an only Brother, of so little consideration with you, as this comes to? And ought he to have no concern for his sister's ho|nour, and the family's honour?

My honour, Sir!—I desire none of his concern for That! It never was endanger'd till it had his undesired concern!—Forgive me, Sir—But when my brother knows how to act like a brother, or behave like a gen|tleman, he may deserve more consideration from me, than it is possible for me to think he now does.

I thought my brother would have beat me upon this—But my uncle stood between us.

Violent girl, however, he called me!—Who, said he, would have thought it of her?

Then was Mr. Solmes told, that I was unworthy of his pursuit.

But Mr. Solmes warmly took my part: He could not bear, he said, that I should be treated so roughly.

And so very much did he exert himself on this oc|casion, and so patiently was his warmth received by my brother, that I began to suspect, that it was a con|trivance to make me think myself obliged to him; and that it might, perhaps, be one end of the pressed-for interview.

The very suspicion of this low artifice, violent as I was thought to be before, put me still more out of patience; and my uncle and my brother again praising his wonderful generosity, and his noble re|turn of good for evil, You are a happy man, Mr. Solmes, said I, that you can so easily confer obliga|tions upon a whole family, except one ingrateful per|son of it, whom you seem to intend most to oblige; but who, being made unhappy by your favour, de|serves not to owe to you any protection from the vio|lence of a brother.

Then was I a rude, an ingrateful, an unworthy creature.

I own it all!—All, all you can call me, or think me, brother, do I own. I own my own unworthi|ness with regard to This gentleman: I take your word for his abundant merit, which I have neither leisure nor inclination to examine into—It may, perhaps, be as great as your own—But yet I cannot thank him for his mediation: For who sees not, looking at my uncle, that this is giving himself a merit with every|body at my expence?

Then turning to my brother, who seemed surprised into silence by my warmth, I must also acknowlege,

Sir, the favour of your superabundant care for me. But I discharge you of it; at least, while I have the happiness of nearer and dearer relations. You have given me no reason to think better of your prudence, than of my own. I am independent of You, Sir; tho' I never desire to be so of my Father: And altho' I wish for the good opinion of my Uncles, it is All I wish for from Them: And This, Sir, I repeat, to make you and my sister easy.

Instantly almost came in Betty, in a great hurry, looking at me as spitefully as if she were my sister: Sir, said she to my brother, my master desires to speak to you this moment at the door.

He went to that which led into my sister's parlour; and this sentence I heard thundered from the mouth of one who had a right to all my reverence: Son James, let the rebel be this moment carried away to my brother's—This very moment—She shall not stay one hour more under my roof!

I trembled; I was ready to sink. Yet, not knowing what I did, or said, I flew to the door, and would have opened it—But my brother pulled it to, and held it close by the key—O my papa!—my dear papa, said I, falling upon my knees, at the door—admit your child to your presence!—Let me but plead my cause at your feet!—O reprobate not thus your distressed daughter!

My uncle put his handkerchief to his eyes: Mr. Solmes made a still more grievous face than he had be|fore. But my brother's marble heart was untouched.

I will not stir from my knees, continued I, without admission.—At this door I beg it!—O let it be the door of mercy! And open it to me, ho|noured Sir, I beseech you!—But this once, this once! altho' you were afterwards to shut it against me for ever!

The door was endeavoured to be opened on the inside, which made my brother let go the key on a

sudden, and I pressing against it (all the time remain|ing on my knees) fell flat on my face into the other parlour; however, without hurting myself. But every|body was gone, except Betty, who helped to raise me up; and I looked round that apartment, and seeing no|body there, re-entered the other, leaning upon Betty; and then threw myself into the chair which I had sat in before; and my eyes overflowed, to my great re|lief: While my uncle Antony, my brother, and Mr. Solmes, left me, and went to my other relations.

What passed among them, I know not: But my brother came in by the time I had tolerably recovered myself, with a settled and haughty gloom upon his brow—Your father and mother command you in|stantly to prepare for your uncle Antony's. You need not be solicitous about what you shall take with you. You may give Betty your keys: Take them, Betty, if the perverse-one has them about her, and carry them to her mother. She will take care to send every thing after you that you shall want. But another night you will not be permitted to stay in this house.

I don't choose to give my keys to any-body, except to my mamma, and into her own hands. You see how much I am disordered. It may cost me my life, to be hurried away so suddenly. I beg to be indulged, till next Monday at least.

That will not be granted you. So prepare for this very night. And give up your keys. Give them to me, Miss. I'll carry them to your mamma.

Excuse me, brother. Indeed, I won't.

Indeed you must. In no one instance comply, Madam Clary?

Not in this, Sir.

Have you any thing you are afraid should be seen by your mamma?

Not, if I be permitted to attend my mamma.

I'll make a report accordingly.

He went out.

In came Miss Dolly Hervey: I am sorry, Madam, to be the messenger!—But your mamma insists upon your sending up all the keys of your cabinet, library, and drawers.

Tell my mamma, that I yield them up to her com|mands; Tell her, I make no conditions with my mamma: But if she finds nothing she disapproves of, I beg that she will permit me to tarry here a few days longer.—Try, my Dolly [the dear girl sobbing with grief]; Try, if your gentleness cannot prevail for me.

She wept still more, and said, It is sad, very sad, to see matters thus carried!

She took the keys, and wrapped her arms about me; and begged me to excuse her.—And would have said more; but Betty's presence awed her, as I saw.

Don't pity me, my dear, said I. It will be imputed to you as a fault. You see who is by.

The insolent wench scornfully smiled: One young Lady pitying another in things of this nature, looks promising in the youngest, I must needs say.

I bid her, for a saucy creature, begone from my presence.

She would most gladly, she said, were she not to stay about me by my mamma's order.

It soon appeared for what she staid; for I offering to go up stairs to my apartment when my cousin went from me with the keys, she told me she was commanded, (to her very great regret, she must own) to desire me not to go up at present.

Such a bold-face, as she, I told her, should not hinder me.

She instantly rang the bell, and in came my brother, meeting me at the door.

Return, return, Miss—No going up yet.

I went in again, and throwing myself upon the window-seat, wept bitterly.

Shall I give you the particulars of a ridiculously spiteful conversation that passed between my brother

and me, while he, with Betty, was in office to keep me in play, and my closet was searching?—But I think I will not. It can answer no good end.

I desired several times, while he stay'd, to have leave to retire to my apartment; but it was not per|mitted me. The search, I suppose, was not over. Bella was one of those employ'd in it. They could not have a more diligent searcher. How happy it was they were disappointed!

But when my sister could not find the cunning crea|ture's papers; I was to stand another visit from Mr. Solmes—preceded now by my aunt Hervey, sorely against her will, I could see that; accompany'd by my uncle Antony, in order to keep her steady, I suppose.

But being a little heavy (for it is now past Two in the morning), I will lie down in my cloaths, to in|dulge the kind summons, if it will be indulged.

Three o'Clock, Wednesday Morning.

I COULD not sleep—Only dozed away one half-hour.

My aunt Hervey accosted me thus—O my dear child, what troubles do you give to your parents, and to every-body!—I wonder at you!

I am sorry for it, Madam.

Sorry for it, child!—Why then so very obstinate?—Come, sit down, my dear. I will sit next you, taking my hand.

My uncle placed Mr. Solmes on the other side of me: Himself over-against me, almost close to me. Finely beset now, my dear! Was I not?

Your brother, child, said my aunt, is too passion|ate—His zeal for your welfare pushes him on a little too vehemently.

Very true, said my uncle: But no more of This. We would now be glad to see if milder means will do with you—Tho', indeed, they were tried before.

I asked my aunt, If it were necessary, that That gentleman should be present?

There is a reason, that he should, said my aunt, as you will hear by-and-by. But I must tell you, first, that, thinking you was a little too angrily treated by your brother, your mamma desired me to try what gentler means would do upon a spirit so generous as we used to think yours.

Nothing can be done, Madam, I must presume to say, if This gentleman's address be the end.

She looked upon my uncle, who bit his lip, and looked upon Mr. Solmes, who rubbed his cheek; and shaking her head, Good, dear creature, said she, be calm:—Let me ask you, If something would have been done, had you been gentler used, than you seem to think you have been?

No, Madam, I cannot say it would, in this gentle|man's favour. You know, Madam, you know, Sir, to my uncle, I ever valued myself upon my sincerity: And once, indeed, had the happiness to be valued for it.

My uncle took Mr. Solmes aside. I heard him say, whisperingly, She must, she shall, be still yours!—We'll see, who'll conquer, parents, or child, un|cles, or niece!—I doubt not to be witness to all this being got over, and many a good-humour'd jest made of this high phrensy!

I was heartily vexed.

Tho' we cannot find out, continued he, yet we guess, who puts her upon this obstinate behaviour. It is not natural to her, man. Nor would I concern myself so much about her, but that I know what I say to be true, and intend to do great things for her.

I will hourly pray for that happy time, whisper'd, as audibly, Mr. Solmes. I never will revive the remem|brance of what is now so painful to me.

Well, but, niece, I am to tell you, said my aunt, that the sending up your keys, without making any conditions, has wrought for you what nothing else

could have done.—That, and the not finding any|thing that could give them umbrage, together with Mr. Solmes's interposition—

O, Madam, let me not owe an obligation to Mr. Solmes.—I cannot repay it, except by my thanks; and those only on condition that he will decline his suit. To my thanks, Sir, (turning to him) if you have a heart capable of humanity, if you have any esteem for me, for my own sake, I beseech you to intitle yourself!—I beseech you, do!—

O Madam, cry'd he, believe, believe, believe me, it is impossible!—While you are single, I will hope. While that hope is encouraged by so many worthy friends, I must persevere!—I must not slight them, Madam, because you slight me.

I answered him with a look of high disdain; and, turning from him—But what favour, dear Madam, (to my aunt) has the instance of duty you mention procur'd me?

Your mamma and Mr. Solmes, replied my aunt, have prevailed, that your request, to stay here till Monday next, shall be granted, if you will promise to go chearfully then.

Let me but choose my own visitors, and I will go to my uncle's house with pleasure.

Well, niece, said my aunt, we must wave this subject, I find. We will now proceed to another, which will require your utmost attention. It will give you the reason why Mr. Solmes's presence is re|quisite.—

Ay, said my uncle, and shew you what sort of a man Somebody is. Mr. Solmes, pray favour us, in the first place, with the letter you received from your anonymous friend.

I will, Sir. And out he pulled a letter-case, and, taking out a letter, It is written in answer to one sent to the person. It is superscribed, To Roger Solmes, Esq. It begins thus: Honoured Sir—

I beg your pardon, Sir, said I: But what, pray, is the intent of reading this letter to me?

To let you know, what a vile man you are thought to have set your heart upon, said my uncle, in an audible whisper.

If, Sir, it be suspected, that I have set my heart upon any other, why is Mr. Solmes to give himself any farther trouble about me?

Only hear, niece, said my aunt: Only hear what Mr. Solmes has to read, and to say to you, on this head.

If, Madam, Mr. Solmes will be pleased to declare, that he has no view to serve, no end to promote, for himself, I will hear any thing he shall read. But if the contrary, you must allow me to say, That it will abate with me a great deal of the weight of whatever he shall produce.

Hear it but read, niece, said my aunt.—

Hear it read, said my uncle.—You are so ready to take part with—

With any-body, Sir, that is accused anonymously; and from interested motives.

He began to read; and there seemed to be a heavy load of charges in this letter, against the poor cri|minal: But I stopped the reading of it, and said, It will not be my fault, if this vilified man be not as indifferent to me, as one whom I never saw. If he be otherwise at present, which I neither own, nor deny, it proceeds from the strange methods taken to prevent it. Do not let one cause unite him and me, and we shall not be united. If my offer to live single be accepted, he shall be no more to me than this gen|tleman.

Still—Proceed, Mr. Solmes—Hear it out, niece, was my uncle's cry.

But, to what purpose, Sir? said I—Has not Mr. Solmes a view in this? And, besides, can any-thing

worse be said of Mr. Lovelace, than I have heard said for several months past?

But this, said my uncle, and what Mr. Solmes can tell you besides, amounts to the fullest proof—

Was the unhappy man, then, so freely treated in his character before, without full proof? I beseech you, Sir, give me not too good an opinion of Mr. Lovelace; as I may have, if such pains be taken to make him guilty, by one who means not his reforma|tion by it; nor to do good, if I may presume to say so in this case, to any-body but himself.

I see very plainly, said my uncle, your preposses|sion, your fond prepossession, for the person of a man without morals.

Indeed, my dear, said my aunt, you too much justify all our apprehensions. Surprising! that a young creature of virtue and honour should thus esteem a man of a quite opposite character!

Dear Madam, do not conclude against me too hastily. I believe Mr. Lovelace is far from being so good as he ought to be: But if every man's private life were searched into by prejudiced people, set on for that purpose, I know not whose reputation would be safe. I love a virtuous character, as much in man, as in woman. I think it as requisite, and as meritorious, in the one as in the other. And, if left to myself, I would prefer a person of such a cha|racter to Royalty, without it.

Why then, said my uncle—

Give me leave, Sir—But I may venture to say, that many of those who have escaped censure, have not merited applause.

Permit me to observe further, That Mr. Solmes himself may not be absolutely faultless. I never heard of his virtues. Some vices I have heard of—Excuse me, Mr. Solmes, I speak to your face—The text about casting the first stone affords an excellent lesson.

He looked down; but was silent.

Mr. Lovelace may have vices you have not. You may have others, which he has not.—I speak not this to defend him, or to accuse you. No man is bad, no one is good, in every-thing. Mr. Lovelace, for example, is said to be implacable, and to hate my friends; that does not make me value him the more. But give me leave to say, That they hate him as bad. Mr. Solmes has his antipathies, likewise, very strong ones! and those to his own relations! which I don't find to be the other's fault; for he lives well with his.—Yet he may have as bad:—Worse, pardon me, he cannot have, in my poor opinion: For what must be the man, who hates his own flesh?

You know not, Madam; All in one breath.

You know not, Niece; All in one breath.

You know not, Clary; All in one breath.

I may not, nor do I desire to know his reasons: It concerns me not to know them: But the world, even the impartial part of it, accuses him. If the world is unjust, or rash, in one man's case, why may it not be so in another's? That's all I mean by it. Nor can there be a greater sign of want of merit, than where a man seeks to pull down another's character, in order to build up his own.

The poor man's face was all this time overspread with confusion; it appearing as if he were ready to cry; twisted, as it were, and all awry, neither mouth nor nose standing in the middle of it. And had he been capable of pitying me, I had certainly tried to pity him.

They all three gazed upon one another in silence. My aunt, I saw (at least I thought so), looked as if she would have been glad she might have appeared to approve of what I said. She but feebly blamed me, when she spoke, for not hearing what Mr. Solmes had to say. He himself seemed not now very earnest to be heard. My uncle said, There was no talking to me. And I should

have absolutely silenced both gentlemen, had not my brother come in again to their assistance.

This was the strange speech he made at his entrance his eyes flaming with anger; This prating girl has struck you all dumb, I perceive. Persevere how|ever, Mr. Solmes. I have heard every word she has said: And I know no other method of being even with her, than, after she is yours, to make her as sensible of your power, as she now makes you of her insolence.

Fie, cousin Harlowe! said my aunt—Could I have thought a brother would have said this to a gentleman, of a sister?

I must, tell you, Madam, said he, that you give the rebel courage. You yourself seem to favour too much the arrogance of her sex in her; otherwise she durst not have thus stopp'd her uncle's mouth by re|flections upon him; as well as denied to hear a gen|tleman tell her the danger she is in from a libertine, whose protection, as she has plainly hinted, she in|tends to claim against her family.

Stopped my uncle's mouth, by reflexions upon him, Sir! said I, How can that be! How dare you to make such an application as This!

My aunt wept at his reflection upon her.—Cousin, said she to him, If This be the thanks I have for my trouble, I have done: Your father would not treat me thus:—And I will say, that the hint you gave was an unbrotherly one.

Not more unbrotherly than all the rest of his con|duct to me, of late, Madam, said I. I see, by this specimen of his violence, how every-body has been brought into his measures. Had I any the least ap|prehension of ever being in Mr. Solmes's power, this might have affected me. But you see, Sir, to Mr. Solmes, what a conduct is thought necessary to en|able you to arrive at your ungenerous end. You see how my brother courts for you!

I disclaim Mr. Harlowe's violence, Madam, with all my soul. I will never remind you—

Silence, worthy Sir! said I; I will take care you never shall have the opportunity.

Less violence, Clary, said my uncle. Cousin James, you are as much to blame as your sister.

In then came my sister. Brother, said she, you kept not your promise. You are thought to be to blame within, as well as here. Were not Mr. Solmes's generosity and affection to the girl well known, what you have said would be inexcusable. My papa desires to speak with you; and with you, aunt; and with you, uncle; and with you, Mr. Solmes, if you please.

They all four withdrew into the next apartment.

I stood silent, as not knowing, till she spoke, how to take this intervention of my sister's.—O thou perverse thing, said she, (poking out her angry face at me, when they were all gone, but speaking spitefully low)—What troubles do you give to us all!

You and my brother, Bella, said I, give trouble to yourselves; for neither you nor he have any business to concern yourselves about me.

She threw out some spiteful expressions, still in a low voice, as if she chose not to be heard without; and I thought it best to oblige her to raise her tone a little, if I could. If I could, did I say? It is easy to make a passionate spirit answer all our views upon it.

She accordingly flamed out in a raised tone: And this brought my cousin Dolly in to us. Miss Har|lowe, your company is desired.

I will come presently, cousin Dolly.

But again provoking a severity from me which she could not bear, and calling me names; in once more came Dolly, with another message, that her company was desired.

Not mine, I doubt, Miss Dolly, said I.

The sweet-temper'd girl burst out into tears, and shook her head.

Go in before me, child, said Bella (vexed to set her concern for me), with thy sharp face like a new moon: What dost thou cry for? Is it to make thy keen face look still keener?

I believe Bella was blamed, too, when she went in; for I heard her say, The creature was so provoking there was no keeping a resolution.

Mr. Solmes, after a little while, came in again by himself, to take leave of me: Full of scrapes and compliments; but too well tutored and encouraged, to give me hope of his declining. He begged me not to impute to him any of the severe things to which he had been a sorrowful witness. He besought my compassion, as he called it.

He said, the result was, That he had still hopes given him; and, altho' discouraged by me, he was re|solved to persevere, while I remained single:—And such long and such painful services he talk'd of, as never were heard of.

I told him, in the strongest manner, what he had to trust to.

Yet still he determined to persist.—While I was no man's else, he must hope.

What! said I, will you still persist, when I de|clare, as I now do, that my affections are engaged?—And let my brother make the most of it.—

He knew my principles, and adored me for them.

He doubted not, that it was in his power to make me happy: And he was sure I would not want the will to be so.

I assured him, that, were I to be carried to my uncle's, it should answer no end; for I would never see him; nor receive a line from him; nor hear a word in his favour, whoever were the person who should mention him to me.

He was sorry for it. He must be miserable, were I to hold in that mind. But he doubted not, that I might be induced by my father and uncles to change it.—

Never, never, he might depend upon it.

It was richly worth his patience, and the trial.

At my expence?—At the price of all my happiness, Sir?

He hoped I should be induced to think otherwise.

And then would he have run into his fortune, his settlements, his affection—Vowing, that never man loved a woman with so sincere a passion, as he loved me.

I stopp'd him, as to the first part of his speech: And to the second, of the sincerity of his passion;—What then, Sir, said I, is your love to one, who must assure you, that never young creature looked upon man with a sincerer disapprobation, than I look upon you: And tell me, What argument can you urge, that this true declaration answers not beforehand?

Dearest Madam, what can I say?—On my knees I beg—

And down the ungraceful wretch dropp'd on his knees.

Let me not kneel in vain, Madam: Let me not be thus despised.—And he looked most odiously sor|rowful.

I have kneeled too, Mr. Solmes: Often have I kneeled: And I will kneel again—Even to you, Sir, will I kneel, if there be so much merit in kneeling; provided you will not be the implement of my cruel brother's un|deserved persecution.—

If all the services, even to worship you during my whole life—You, Madam, invoke and expect mercy, yet shew none—

Am I to be cruel to myself, to shew mercy to you?—Take my estate, Sir, with all my heart, since you are such a favourite in This house!—Only leave me myself—The mercy you ask for, do you shew to others.

It you mean to my relations, Madam—unworthy as they are, all shall be done that you shall prescribe.

Who, I, Sir, to find you bowels you naturally have not? I to purchase their happiness, by the forfeiture

of my own? What I ask you for, is mercy to myself: That, since you seem to have some power over my relations, you will use it in my behalf. Tell them, that you see I cannot conquer my aversion to you: Tell them, if you are a wise man, that you value too much your own happiness, to risque it against such a determin'd antipathy: Tell them, that I am unwor|thy of your offers: And that, in mercy to yourself, as well as to me, you will not prosecute a suit so im|possible to be granted.

I will risque all consequences, said the fell wretch, rising, with a countenance whiten'd over, as if with malice, his hollow eyes flashing fire, and biting his under-lip, to shew he could be manly. Your hatred, Madam, shall be no objection with me: And I doubt not in a few days to have it in my power to shew you—

YOU have it in your power, Sir—

He came well off—To shew you more generosity, than, noble as you are said to be to others, you shew to me.

The man's face became his anger: It seems form'd to express the passion.

At that instant, again came in my brother—Sister, sister, sister, said he, with his teeth set, act on the termagant part you have so newly assumed—Most wonderfully well does it become you. It is but a short one, however. Tyranness in your turn! accuse others of your own guilt!—But leave her, leave her, Mr. Solmes; her time is short. You'll find her hum|ble and mortify'd enough very quickly!—Then, how like a little tame fool will she look, with her conscience upbraiding her, and begging of you [with a whining voice, the barbarous brother spoke] to forgive and forget!—

More he said, as he flew out, with a face as red as scarlet, upon Shorey's coming in to recal him, on his violence.

I removed from chair to chair, excessively frighted and disturbed, at this brutal treatment.

The man attempted to excuse himself, as being sorry for my brother's passion.

Leave me, leave me, Sir, fanning—or I shall faint. And indeed I thought I should.

He recommended himself to my favour with an air of assurance; augmented, as I thought, by a di|stress so visible in me; for he even snatched my trembling, my struggling hand; and ravish'd it to his odious mouth.

I flung from him with high disdain: And he with|drew, bowing and cringing; self-gratify'd, and en|joying, as I thought, the confusion he saw me in.

The creature is now, methinks, before me; and now I see him aukwardly striding backward, as he retired, till the edge of the open'd door, which he run against, remember'd him to turn his welcome back upon me.

Upon his withdrawing, Betty brought me word, that I was permitted to go up to my own chamber: And was bid to consider of every-thing: For my time was short. Nevertheless, she believed I might be per|mitted to stay till Saturday.

She tells me, That altho' my brother and sister were blam'd for being so hasty with me, yet when they made their report, and my uncle Antony his, of my provocations, they were all more determin'd than ever in Mr. Solmes's favour.

The wretch himself, she tells me, pretends to be more in love with me than before; and to be rather delighted, than discouraged, with the conversation that passed between us. He run on, she says, in raptures, about the grace wherewith I should dignify his board; and the like sort of stuff, either of his saying, or her making.

She closed all with a Now is my time to submit with a grace, and to make my own terms with him:—

Else, she can tell me, were she Mr. Solmes, it should be worse for me: And who, Miss, of our sex, pro|ceeded the saucy creature, would admire a rakish gen|tleman, when she might be admired by a sober one to the end of the chapter?

The creature tells me, I have had amazing good luck, to keep my writings concealed so cunningly▪ I must needs think, that she knows I am always at my pen: And as I endeavour to hide that knowlege from her, she is not obliged to keep my secret. But that she loves not to aggravate. She had rather recon|cile by much. Peace-making is her talent, and ever was. And had she been as much my foe, as I ima|gined, I had not perhaps been here now.—But this, however, she said not to make a merit with me: For, truly, it would be better for me the sooner every|thing was over with me. And better for her, and every-one else; that was certain.—Yet one hint she must conclude with; that my pen and ink, she would assure me (soon as I was to go away), would not be long in my power. And then, having lost that amuse|ment, it would be seen, how a mind so active as mine, would be able to employ itself.

This hint has such an effect upon me, that I shall instantly begin to conceal, in different places, pens, ink, and paper; and to deposite some in the ivy-summer-house, if I can find a safe place; and, at the worst, I have got a pencil of black, and another of red, lead, which I use in my drawings; and my pat|terns shall serve for paper, if I have no other.

How lucky it was, that I had got away my papers! They made a strict search for them; That I can see, by the disorderly manner they have left all things in: For you know that I am such an observer of method, that I can go to a bit of ribband, or lace, or edging, blindfold: The same in my books; which they have strangely disordered and mismatched, to look behind them, and in some of them, I suppose. My cloaths,

too, are rumpled not a little. No place has escaped them. To your hint, I thank you, are they indebted for their disappointment.

The pen, thro' heaviness and fatigue, dropp'd out of my fingers, at the word indebted. I resume it, to finish the sentence; and to tell you, that I am,

Your for-ever obliged and affectionate CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER XXXII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Wednesday, Eleven o' Clock, April 5.

I Must write as I have opportunity; making use of my concealed stores: For my pens and ink (all of each, that they could find) are taken from me; as I shall tell you more particularly by-and-by.

About an hour ago, I deposited my long letter to you; as also, in the usual place, a billet to Mr. Lovelace, lest his impatience should put him upon some rashness; signifying, in four lines,

'That the interview was over; and that I hoped my steady re|fusal of Mr. Solmes would discourage any further applications to me in his favour.'

Altho' I was unable, through the fatigue I had un|degone, and by reason of sitting up all night to write to you, (which made me lie longer than ordinary this morning) to deposit my letter to you sooner; yet I hope you will have it in such good time, as that you will be able to send me an answer to it this night, or in the morning early; which, if ever so short, will in|form me, whether I may depend upon your mamma's indulgence, or not. This it behoves me to know as soon as possible; for they are resolved to hurry me away on Saturday next, at farthest; perhaps to-mor|row.

I will now inform you of all that happen'd previous

to their taking away my pen and ink, as well as of the manner in which that act of violence, as I may call it, was committed; and this as briefly as I can.

My aunt, (who with Mr. Solmes, and my two uncles) lives here, I think, came up to me, and said, she would fain have me hear what Mr. Solmes had to say of Mr. Lovelace—Only that I might be apprised of some things, that would convince me what a vile man he is, and what a wretched husband he must make.—I might give them what degree of credit I pleased; and take them with abatement for Mr. Solmes's interestedness, if I thought fit.—But it might be of use to me, were it but to question Mr. Love|lace indirectly upon some of them, that related to myself.

I was indifferent, I said, about what he could say of me, as I was sure it could not be to my disad|vantage; and as he had no reason to impute to me the forwardness which my unkind friends had so cause|lesly taxed me with.

She said, That he gave himself high airs on ac|count of his family; and spoke as despicably of ours, as if an alliance with us were beneath him.

I reply'd, That he was a very unworthy man, if it were true, to speak slightingly of a family, which was as good as his own, 'bating that it was not allied to the peerage: That the dignity itself, I thought, convey'd more shame than honour to descendents, who had not merit to adorn, as well as to be adorned by it: That my brother's absurd pride, indeed, which made him every-where declare, he would never marry but to quality, gave a disgraceful preference against ours: But that were I to be assured, that Mr. Love|lace were capable of so mean a pride, as to insult us, or value himself, on such an accidental advantage, I should think as despicably of his sense, as every-body else did of his morals.

She insisted upon it, that he had taken such liber|ties;

and offer'd to give some instances, which, she said, would surprise me.

I answer'd, That were it ever so certain, that Mr. Lovelace had taken such liberties, it would be but common justice, (so much hated as he was by all our family, and so much inveighed against in all compa|nies by them) to inquire into the provocation he had to say what was imputed to him; and whether the value some of my friends put upon the riches they possess, (throwing perhaps contempt upon every other advantage, and even discrediting their own pretensions to family, in order to depreciate his) might not pro|voke him to like contempts. Upon the whole, Ma|dam, said I, can you say, that the inveteracy lies not as much on our side, as on his? Can he say any-thing of us more disrespectful, than we say of him?—And as to the suggestion, so often repeated, that he would make a bad husband, is it possible for him to use a wife worse than I am used; particularly by my brother and sister?

Ah, niece! ah, my dear! how firmly has this wicked man attached you!

Perhaps not, Madam. But really great care should be taken by fathers and mothers, when they would have their daughters of their minds in these particu|lars, not to say things that shall necessitate the child, in honour and generosity, to take part with the man her friends are averse to. But, waving all this, as I have offered to renounce him for ever, I see not why he should be mentioned to me, nor why I should be wished to hear any-thing about him.

Well, but still, my dear, there can be no harm to let Mr. Solmes tell you what Mr. Lovelace has said of you. Severely as you have treated Mr. Solmes, he is fond of attending you once more: He begs to be heard on this head.

If it be proper for me to hear it, Madam—

It is, eagerly interrupted she, very proper.

Has what he has said of me, Madam, convinced you of Mr. Lovelace's baseness?

It has, my dear: And that you ought to abhor him for it.

Then, dear Madam, be pleased to let me hear it from your mouth: There is no need that I should see Mr. Solmes, when it will have double the weight from you. What, Madam, has the man dared to say of me?

My aunt was quite at a loss.

At last, Well, said she, I see how you are attached I am sorry for it, Miss. For I do assure you, it will signify nothing. You must be Mrs. Solmes; and that in a very few days.

If consent of heart, and assent of voice, be neces|sary to a marriage, I am sure I never can, nor ever will be married to Mr. Solmes. And what will any of my relations be answerable for, if they force my hand into his, and hold it there till the Service be read; I perhaps insensible, and in fits, all the time?

What a romantic picture of a forced marriage have you drawn, niece! Some people would say, you have given a fine description of your own obstinacy, child.

My brother and sister would: But you, Madam distinguish, I am sure, between obstinacy and aversion.

Supposed aversion may owe its rise to real obstinacy my dear.

I know my own heart, Madam. I wish you did.

Well, but see Mr. Solmes, once more, niece. It wil•• oblige, and make for you, more than you imagine.

What should I see him for, Madam?—Is the man fond of hearing me declare my aversion to him?—Is he desirous of having me more and more incense my friends against myself?—O my cunning, my ambition brother!

Ah, my dear!—with a look of pity, as if she under+stood the meaning of my exclamation:—But mus•• That necessarily be the case?

It must, Madam, if they will take offence at me for declaring my stedfast detestation of Mr. Solmes, as a husband.

Mr. Solmes is to be pitied, said she. He adores you. He longs to see you once more. He loves you the better for your cruel usage of him yesterday. He is in raptures about you.

Ugly creature, thought I! He in raptures!—

What a cruel wretch must He be, said I, who can enjoy the distress he so largely contributes to!—But I see, I see, Madam, that I am consider'd as an animal to be baited, to make sport for my brother, and sister, and Mr. Solmes. They are all, all of them, wanton in their cruelty.—I, Madam, see the man!—the man so incapable of pity!—Indeed I won't see him, if I can help it.—Indeed I won't.

What a construction does your lively wit put upon the admiration Mr. Solmes expresses of you!—Pas|sionate as you were yesterday, and contemptuously as you treated him, he dotes upon you for the very se|verity he suffers by. He is not so ungenerous a man as you think him: Nor has he an unfeeling heart.—Let me prevail upon you, my dear (as your father and mother expect it of you), to see him once more, and hear what he has to say to you.—

How can I consent to see him again, when yester|day's interview was interpreted by you, Madam, as well as by every other, as an encouragement to him? When I myself declared, that if I saw him a second time by my own consent, it might be so taken? And when I am determined never to encourage him?

You might spare your reflections upon me, Miss. I have no thanks either from one side, or the other.

And away she flung.

Dearest Madam! said I, following her to the door—

But she would not hear me further; and her sud|den breaking from me occasioned a hurry to some

mean listener; as the slipping of a foot from the land|ing-place on the stairs discovered to me.

I had scarcely recovered myself from this attack, when up came Betty, with a, Miss, your company is desired below-stairs in your own parlour.

By whom, Betty?

How can I tell, Miss?—Perhaps by your sister; perhaps by your brother—I know they won't come up-stairs to your apartment again.

Is Mr. Solmes gone, Betty?

I believe he is, Miss:—Would you have him sent for back, said the bold creature?

Down I went: And who should I be sent for down to, but my brother and Mr. Solmes? The lat|ter standing sneaking behind the door, that I saw him not, till I was mockingly led by the hand into the room by my brother. And then I started as if I had beheld a ghost.

You are to sit down, Clary.

And what then, brother?

Why, then, you are to put off that scornful look, and hear what Mr. Solmes has to say to you.

Sent for down to be baited again, thought I!

Madam, said Mr. Solmes, as if in haste to speak, lest he should not have opportunity given him; and he judged right; Mr. Lovelace is a declared marriage-hater, and has a design upon your honour, if ever—

Base accuser! said I, in a passion, snatching my hand from my brother, who was insolently motion|ing to give it to Mr. Solmes; he has not!—he dares not! But you have! if endeavouring to force a free mind, is to dishonour it!

O thou violent creature! said my brother—But not gone yet—for I was rushing away.

What mean you, Sir (struggling vehemently to get away), to detain me thus against my will?

You shall not go, violence, clasping his unbro|therly arms about me.

Then let not Mr. Solmes stay.—Why hold you me thus? He shall not, for your own sake, if I can help it, see how barbarously a brother can treat a sister, who deserves not evil treatment.

And I struggled so vehemently to get from him, that he was forced to quit my hand; which he did with these words—Begone, then, Fury!—How strong is will!—There is no holding her.

And up I flew to my chamber again, and locked myself in, trembling, and out of breath.

In less than a quarter of an hour, up came Betty. I let her in, upon her tapping, and asking (half out of breath too) for admittance.

The Lord have mercy upon us! said she.—What a confusion of a house is This!—Hurrying up and down, fanning herself with her handkerchief—Such angry masters and mistresses! Such an obstinate young lady!—Such an humble lover!—Such enraged un|cles!—Such—O dear! dear! What a topsy-turvy house is This?—And all for what, trow?—Only be|cause a young Lady may be happy, and will not?—Only because a young Lady will have a husband, and will not have a husband?—What hurly-burlies are here, where all used to be peace and quietness?

Thus she ran on, talking to herself; while I sat as patiently as I could (being assured that her errand was not designed to be a welcome one to me), to observe when her soliloquy would end.

At last, turning to me—I must do as I am bid: I can't help it—Don't be angry with me, Miss. But I must carry down your pen and ink: And that, this moment.

By whose order?

By your papa's and mamma's.

How shall I know that?

She offered to go to my closet: I stept in before her: Touch it, if you dare.

Up came my cousin Dolly—Madam!—Madam! said the poor weeping good-natured creature, in broken sentences—You must—indeed you must—deliver to Betty—or to me—your pen and ink.

Must I, my sweet cousin? Then I will to you; but not to this bold body. And so I gave my standish to her.

I am sorry, very sorry, said Miss, to be the mes|senger: But your papa will not have you in the same house with him: He is resolved you shall be carried away to-morrow, or Saturday at farthest. And there|fore your pen and ink is taken away, that you may give no-body notice of it.

And away went the dear girl very sorrowfully, carrying down with her my standish, and all its fur|niture, and a little parcel of pens beside, which hav|ing been seen when the great search was made, she was bid to ask for: As it happened, I had not di|minished it, having half a dozen Crow-quills, which I had hid in as many different places. It was lucky; for I doubt not they had told how many were in the parcel.

Betty run on, telling me, that my mamma was now as much incensed against me, as any-body—That my doom was fixed!—That my violent be|haviour had not left one to plead for me. That Mr. Solmes bit his lip, and mumbled, and seemed to have more in his head, than could come out at his mouth; that was her phrase.

And yet she also hinted to me, that the cruel crea|ture took pleasure in seeing me; altho' so much to my disgust.—And so wanted to see me again. Must he not be a savage, my dear?

The wench went on—That my uncle Harlowe said, That now he gave me up.—That he pitied Mr. Solmes—Yet hoped he would not think of This to my detriment hereafter: That my uncle Antony was of opinion, That I ought to smart for it: And, for

her part—And then, as one of the family, she gave her opinion of the same side.

As I have no other way of hearing any thing that is said, or intended, below, I bear sometimes more patiently, than I otherwise should do, with her im|pertinence. And, indeed, she seems to be in all my brother's and sister's counsels.

Miss Hervey came up again, and demanded an half-pint ink-bottle, which they had seen in my closet.

I gave it her without hesitation.

If they have no suspicion of my being able to write, they will, perhaps, let me stay longer than otherwise they would.

This, my dear, is now my situation.

All my dependence, all my hopes, is in your mam|ma's favour. But for That, I know not what I might do: For who can tell what will come next?

LETTER XXXIII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Wednesday, Four o'Clock in the Afternoon.

I Am just returned from depositing the letter I so lately finished, and such of Mr. Lovelace's letters as I had not sent you. My long letter, I found remain|ing there.—So you'll have both together.

I am concerned, methinks, it is not with you.—But your servant cannot always be at leisure. However, I'll deposite as fast as I write: I must keep nothing by me now; and when I write, lock myself in, that I may not be surprised, now they think I have no pen and ink.

I found, in the usual place, another letter from this diligent man: And by its contents, a confirmation, that nothing passes in this house, but he knows it; and that, as soon as it passes. For this letter must have been written before he could have received my

billet; and deposited, I suppose, when that was taken away; yet, he compliments me in it, upon asserting myself, as he calls it, on that occasion, to my uncle and to Mr. Solmes.

'He assures me, however, that they are more and 'more determin'd to subdue me.

'He sends me the compliments of his family; and acquaints me with their earnest desire to see me amongst them. Most vehemently does he press for my quitting This house, while it is in my power to get away: And again craves leave to order his uncle's chariot-and-six to attend my orders at the style leading to the coppice, adjoining to the pad|dock.

'Settlements to my own will, he again offers. Lord M. and both his aunts to be guaranties of his ho|nour and justice. But, if I choose not to go to ei|ther of his aunts, nor yet to make him the happiest of men so soon, as it is nevertheless his hope that I will, he urges me to withdraw to my own house; and to accept of my Lord M. for my guardian and protector, till my cousin Morden arrives. He can contrive, he says, to give me easy possession of it, and will fill it with his female relations,, on the first invitation from me; and Mrs. Norton, or Miss Howe, may be undoubtedly prevailed upon to be with me for a time. There can be no pretence for litigation, he says, when I am once in it. Nor, if I choose to have it so, will he appear to visit me; nor presume to mention marriage to me till all is quiet and easy; till every method I shall prescribe for a reconciliation with my friends, is try'd; till my cousin comes; till such settlements are drawn, as he shall approve of for me; and that I have unexceptionable proofs of his own good behaviour.'

As to the disgrace a person of my character may be apprehensive of, upon quitting my father's house, he observes, too truly, I doubt,

'That the treatment

I meet with, is in every one's mouth: Yet, he says, that the public voice is in my favour: My friends themselves, he says, expect that I will do myself, what he calls, this justice; why else do they confine me? He urges, that, thus treated, the independence I have a right to, will be my sufficient excuse, go|ing but from their house to my own, if I choose that measure; or, in order to take possession of my own, if I do not: That all the disgrace I can receive, they have already given me: That his concern, and his family's concern, in my honour, will be equal to my own, if he may be so happy ever to call me his: And he presumes to aver, that no family can better supply the loss of my own friends to me, than his, in whatever way I do them the honour to accept of his and their protection.

'But he repeats, that, in all events, he will oppose my being carried to my uncle's; being well assured, that I shall be lost to him for ever, if once I enter into that house.'

He tells me,

'That my brother and sister, and Mr. Solmes, design to be there to re|ceive me: That my father and mother will not come near me, till the ceremony is actually over: And that then they will appear, in order to try to re|concile me to my odious husband, by urging upon me the obligations I shall be supposed to be under, from a double duty.'

How, my dear, am I driven between both!—This last intimation is but a too probable one. All the steps they take, seem to tend to this! And, indeed, they have declared almost as much.

He owns,

'That he has already taken his measures upon this intelligence:—But that he is so desirous, for my sake [I must suppose, he says, that he owes them no forbearance for their own], to avoid coming to extremities, that he has suffer'd a person, whom they do not suspect, to acquaint them, as if un|known to himself, with his resolutions, if they per|sist

in their design to carry me by violence to my uncle's; in hopes, that they may be induced, from fear of mischief, to change their measures: Altho' he runs a risque, if he cannot be benefited by their fears, from their doubly guarding themselves against him on this intimation!'

What a dangerous enterprizer, however, is this man!

'He begs a few lines from me, by way of answer to this letter, either This evening, or to-morrow morning.—If he be not so favour'd, he shall con|clude, from what he knows of their fixed determi|nation, that I shall be under a closer restraint than before: And he shall be obliged to take his measures according to that presumption.'

You will see by this abstract, as well as by his letter preceding This (for both run in the same strain); how strangely forward the difficulty of my situation has brought him in his declarations and pro|posals; and in his threatenings too: Which, but for That, I would not take from him.

Something, however, I must speedily resolve upon, or it will be out of my power to help myself.

Now I think of it, I will inclose his letter (so might have spared the abstract of it), that you may the bet|ter judge of all his proposals, and intelligence; and lest it should fall into other hands. I cannot forget the contents, altho' I am at a loss what answer to return.

I cannot bear the thoughts of throwing myself up|on the protection of his friends:—But I will not ex|amine his proposals closely, till I hear from you. In|deed, I have no eligible hope, but in your mamma's goodness. Hers is a protection I could more reputa|bly fly to, than to That of any other person: And from hers should be ready to return to my father's (for the breach then would not be irreparable, as it would be, if I fled to his family): To return, I re|peat,

on such terms as shall secure but my negative; not my Independence: I do not aim at That (so shall lay your mamma under the less difficulty); altho' I have a right to it, if I were to insist upon it:—Such a right, I mean, as my brother exerts in the estate, left him; and which no-body disputes.—God forbid, that I should ever think myself freed from my father's reasonable controul, whatever right my grandfather's will has given me! He, good gentleman, left me that estate, as a reward of my duty, and not to set me above it, as has been justly hinted to me: And this reflection makes me more fearful of not answering the intention of so valuable a bequest.—O that my friends knew but my heart!—Would but think of it, as they used to do—For once more, I say, If it deceive me not, it is not altered, altho' theirs are!

Would but your mamma permit you to send her chariot, or chaise, to the bye-place where Mr. Love|lace proposes his uncle's shall come (provoked, inti|midated, and apprehensive, as I am), I would not he|sitate a moment what to do!—Place me any-where, as I have said before!—In a cott, in a garret; any|where—Disguised as a servant—or let me pass as a servant's sister—So that I may but escape Mr. Solmes on one hand, and the disgrace of refuging with the family of a man at enmity with my own, on the other; and I shall be in some measure happy!—Should your good mamma refuse me, what resuge, or whose, can I fly to?—Dearest creature, advise your distressed friend.

I BROKE off here—I was so excessively uneasy, that I durst not trust myself with my own reflections: So went down to the garden, to try to calm my mind, by shifting the scene. I took but one turn up|on the filbeard walk, when Betty came to me. Here Miss, is your Papa!—Here is your uncle Antony!—

Here is my young master—and my young mistress, coming, to take a walk in the garden; and your papa sends me to see where you are, for fear he should meet you.

I struck into an oblique path, and got behind the yew-hedge, seeing my sister appear; and there con|cealed myself till they were gone past me.

My mamma, it seems, is not well. My poor mamma keeps her chamber!—Should she be worse, I should have an additional unhappiness, in appre|hension, that my reputed undutifulness has touched her heart!

You cannot imagine what my emotions were be|hind the yew-hedge, on seeing my papa so near me.—I was glad to look at him thro' the hedge, as he passed by: But I trembled in every joint, when I heard him utter these words: Son James, To you, and to Bella, and to You, brother, do I wholly com|mit this matter.—For that I was meant, I cannot doubt. And yet, why was I so affected; since I may be said to have been given up to their cruelty, for many days past?

WHILE my papa remained in the garden, I sent my dutiful compliments to my mamma, with inquiry after her health, by Shorey, whom I met accidentally upon the stairs; for none of the servants, except my gaoleress, dare to throw themselves in my way. I had the mortification of such a return, as made me repent my message, tho' not my concern for her health. Let her not inquire after the disorders she occasions, was the harsh answer. I will not receive any compliments from her!

Very, very, hard, my dear! Indeed it is very hard!

I HAVE the pleasure to hear my mamma is already better, however. A colicky disorder, to which she is too subject:—And it is hoped is gone off.—God send it may!—Every evil that happens in this house is owing to me!

This good news was told me, with a circumstance very unacceptable; for Betty said, she had orders to let me know, that my garden-walks, and poultry-visits were suspected; and that both will be prohibited, if I stay here till Saturday or Monday.

Possibly this is said by order, to make me go with less reluctance to my uncle's.

My mamma bid her say, if I expostulated about these orders, and about my pen and ink,

'That read|ing was more to the purpose, at present, than write|ing: That by the one, I might be taught my duty; That the other, considering whom I was believed to write to, only stiffen'd my will: That my needle|works had better be pursued, than my airings; which were observed to be taken in all weathers.'

So, my dear, if I do not resolve upon something soon, I shall neither be able to avoid the intended evil, nor have it in my power to correspond with you.

Wednesday Night.

ALL is in a hurry below-stairs. Betty is in and out like a spy. Something is working, I know not what. I am really a good deal disorder'd in body as well as mind. Indeed I am quite heart-sick!

I will go down, tho' 'tis almost dark, on pretence of getting a little air and composure. Robert has my two former, I hope, before now: And I will deposite This, with Lovelace's inclosed, if I can, for fear of another search.

I know not what I shall do!—All is so strangely busy!—Doors clapt to: Going-out of one apartment, hurryingly, as I may say, into another. Betty in her alarming way, staring, as if of frighted importance;

twice with me in half an hour; called down in haste, by Shorey, the last time; leaving me with still more meaning in her looks and gestures!—Yet possibly nothing in all This, worthy of my apprehen|sions.—Here, again, comes the creature, with her deep-drawn affected sighs, and her O dear's! O dear's!

MORE dark hints thrown out by this saucy crea|ture. But she will not explain herself.

'Suppose this pretty business ends in murder, she says. I may rue my opposition, as long as I live, for aught she knows. Parents will not be baffled out of their children by impudent gentlemen; nor is it fit they should. It may come home to me, when I least expect it.'

These are the gloomy and perplexing hints this im|pertinent throws out. Probably they arise from the information Mr. Lovelace says he has secretly per|mitted them to have [From his vile double-faced agent, I suppose!] of his resolution to prevent my be|ing carried to my uncle's.

How justly, if so, may This exasperate them!—How am I driven to and fro, like a feather in the wind, at the pleasure of the rash, the selfish, and the headstrong! and when I am as averse to the proceed|ings of the one, as I am to those of the other! But being forced into a clandestine correspondence, in|discreet measures are fallen upon by the rash man, before I can be consulted: And between them, I have not an option, altho' my ruin [For is not the loss of reputation a ruin?] may be the dreadful conse|quence of the steps taken. What a perverse fate is mine!

If I am prevented depositing this, and the inclosed, as I intend to try to do, late as it is, I will add to

it, as occasion shall offer. Mean time, believe me to be

Your ever affectionate and grateful CL. HARLOWE.

Under the superscription, written with a pensil, after she went down.

'My two former not taken away!—I am surprised!—I hope you are well—I hope All is right be|twixt your mamma and you.'

LETTER XXXIV. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Thursday Morning, April 6.

I Have your three letters. Never was there a crea|ture more impatient on the most interesting un|certainty than I was, to know the event of the in|terview between you and Solmes.

It behoves me to account to my dear friend, in her present unhappy situation, for every thing that may have the least appearance of a negligence or remissness, on my part. I sent Robin in the morning early, in hopes of a deposite. He loiter'd about the place till near Ten, to no purpose; and then came away; my mamma having given him a letter to carry to Mr. Hunt's, which he was to deliver before Three, when only, in the day-time, that gentleman is at home; and to bring her back an answer to it. Mr. Hunt's house, you know, lies wide from Harlowe-Place.—Robin but just saved his time; and return'd not till it was too late to send him again. I could only direct him to set out before day, this morning; and, if he got any letter, to ride, as for his life, to bring it to me.

I lay by myself; A most uneasy night I had, thro' impatience; and being discomposed with it, lay longer than usual. Just as I was risen, in came Kitty, from

Robin, with your three letters. I was not a quarter dress'd; and only slipp'd on my morning sacque; pro|ceeding no further till (long as they are) I had read them all thro': And yet I often stopp'd to rave aloud (tho' by myself) at the devilish people you have to deal with.

How my heart rises at them all! How poorly did they design to trick you into an encouragement of Solmes, from the interview to which they had ex|torted your consent!—I am very, very angry at your aunt Hervey! To give up her own judgment so tamely!—And not content with that, to become such an active instrument in their hands.—But it is so like the world!—So like my mamma too!—Next to her own child, there is not any-body living she values so much as she does you:—Yet, it is—Why should we embroil ourselves, Nancy, with other peoples affairs?

Other people!—How I hate the poor words, where friendship is concern'd, and where the protection to be given may be of so much consequence to a friend, and of so little detriment to one's self!

I am delighted with your spirit, however. I ex|pected it not from you. Nor did They, I am sure. Nor would you, perhaps, have exerted it, if Lovelace's intelligence of Solmes's nursery-offices had not set you up. I wonder not that the wretch is said to love you the better for it. What an honour to have such a wife? And he can be even with you when you are so. He must indeed be a savage, as you say.—Yet is he less to blame for his perseverance, than those of your own family, whom most you reverence.

It is well, as I have often said, that I have not such provocations and trials; I should, perhaps, long ago, have taken your cousin Dolly's advice—Yet dare I not to touch that key.—I shall always love the good girl, for her tenderness to you.

I know not what to say to Lovelace; nor what to think of his promises, nor of his proposals to you.

'Tis certain that you are highly esteem'd by all his family. The Ladies are persons of unblemishd ho|nour. My Lord M. is also, as Men and Peers go, a man of honour. I could tell what to advise any other person in the world to do but you. So much expected from you! Such a shining light!—Your quitting your father's house, and throwing yourself into the protection of a family, however honourable, that has a Man in it, whose person, parts, declara|tions, and pretensions, will be thought to have en|gag'd your warmest esteem!—Methinks I am rather for advising, that you should get privately to London; and not to let either him, or any-body else but me, know where you are, till your cousin Morden comes.

As to going to your uncle's, that you must not do, if you can help it. Nor must you have Solmes, that's certain: Not only because of his unworthiness in every respect, but because of the aversion you have so openly avow'd to him; which every-body knows and talks of; as they do of your approbation of the other. For your reputation-sake, therefore, as well as to prevent mischief, you must either live single, or have Lovelace.

If you think of going to London, let me know; and I hope you will have time to allow me a farther con|cert, as to the manner of your getting away, and thi|ther, and how to procure proper lodgings for you.

To obtain this time, you must palliate a little, and come into some seeming compromise, if you can|not do otherwise. Driven as you are driven, it will be strange if you are not obliged to part with a few of your admirable punctilioes.

You will observe from what I have written, that I have not succeeded with my mamma.

I am extremely mortify'd and disappointed. We have had very strong debates upon it. But, besides the narrow argument of embroiling ourselves with other peoples affairs, as above-mentioned, she will have it,

that it is your duty to comply. She says, she was al|ways of opinion, that daughters should, and govern'd herself by it; for that my papa was, at first, more her father's choice than her own.

This is what she argues in behalf of her favourite Hickman, as well as for Solmes in your case.

I must not doubt, but my mamma always govern'd herself by this principle, because she says she did. I have likewise another reason to believe it; which you shall have, tho' it may not become me to give it:—That they did not live so very happily together, as one would hope people might, who married prefer|ring each other to the rest of the world.

Somebody shall fare never the better for this double-meant policy of my mamma, I will assure him. Such a retrospection in her arguments to him, and to his address, it is but fit, that he should suffer for my mor|tification in a point I had so much set my heart upon.

Think, my dear, if in any way I can serve you. If you allow of it, I protest I will go off privately with you, and we will live and die together. Think of it. Improve upon my hint, and command me.

A little interruption. What is breakfast to the subject I am upon!

LONDON, I am told, is the best hiding-place in the world. I have written nothing but what I will stand to at the word of command. Women love to engage in knight-errantry, now-and-then, as well as to encourage it in the men. But in your case, what I propose, will have nothing in it of what can be deemed that. It will enable me to perform what is no more than a duty in serving and comforting a dear and worthy friend, labouring under undeserved op|pression: And you will ennoble, as I may say, your

Anna Howe, if you will allow her to be your com|panion in affliction.

I'll engage, my dear, we shall not be in town to|gether one month, before we surmount all difficulties; and This without being beholden to any men-fellows for their protection.

I must repeat what I have often said, That the authors of your persecutions would not have presumed to set on foot their selfish schemes against you, had they not depended upon the gentleness of your spirit: Tho' now, having gone so far, and having engaged Old AUTHORITY in it [Chide me, if you will!] nei|ther he nor they know how to recede.

When they find you out of their reach, and know that I am with you, you'll see how they'll pull in their odious horns.

I think, however, that you should have written to your cousin Morden, the moment they had begun to treat you disgracefully.

I shall be impatient to hear, whether they will at|tempt to carry you to your uncle's. I remember, that Lord M.'s dismissed bailiff reported of Lovelace, that he had six or seven companions as bad as him|self; and that the country was always glad when they left it. He has such a knot of them now, I hear, about him. And, depend upon it, he will not suffer them quietly to carry you to your uncle's: And whose must you be, if he succeeds in taking you from them?

I tremble for you, but upon supposing what may be the consequences of a conflict upon this occasion. To be sure, he owes some of them vengeance. This gives me a double concern, that my mamma should refuse her consent to the protection I had proposed, and set my heart upon procuring, for you.

My mamma will not breakfast without me. A quarrel has its conveniencies sometimes: Yet too much love, I think, is as bad as too little.

WE have just now had another pull. Upon my word, she is excessively—What shall I say?—unper|suadeable—I must let her off with that soft word.

What old Greek was it, that said, He govern'd Athens; his wife, him; and his son, her?

It was not my mamma's fault [I am writing to you, you know], that she did not govern my papa. But I am but a daughter!—Yet I thought I was not quite so powerless, when I was set upon carrying a point, as I find myself to be.

Adieu, my dear!—Happier times must come!—And that quickly too.—The strings cannot long con|tinue thus overstrained. They must break, or be relaxed. In either way, the Certainty must be pre|ferable to the Suspense.

One word more.

I think in my conscience you must take one of these two alternatives: 1. To consent to let us go to Lon|don together privately: In which case, I will procure a vehicle, and meet you at your appointment at the stile Lovelace proposes to bring his uncle's chariot to. Or, 2dly, To put yourself into the protection of Lord M. and the Ladies of his family.

You have another, indeed; and that is, if you are absolutely resolved against Solmes, to meet and marry Lovelace directly.

Whichsoever of these you make choice of, you'll have This plea, both to yourself, and to the world, that you are concluded by the same uniform prin|ciple that has govern'd your whole conduct, ever since the contention between Lovelace and your brother has been on foot: That is to say, that you have cho|sen a lesser evil, in hope to prevent a greater.

Adieu! and Heaven direct for the best my be|loved creature, prays

Her ANNA HOWE.

LETTER XXXV. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Thursday, April 6.

I Thank you, my dearest friend, for the kind pains you have taken in accounting so affectionately for my papers not being taken away yesterday; and for the kind protection you would have procured for me, if you could.

This kind protection was what I wished for: But my wishes, raised at first by your love, were rather govern'd by my despair of other refuge (having be|fore cast about, and not being able to determine, what I ought to do, and what I could do, in a situa|tion so unhappy) than by a reasonable hope: For why, indeed, should any-body embroil themselves for an|other, when they can avoid it?

All my consolation is, as I have frequently said, that I have not, by my own inadvertence or folly, brought myself into this sad situation. If I had, I should not have dared to look up to any-body with the expectation of protection or assistance, nor to you, for excuse of the trouble I give you. But, never|theless, we should not be angry at a person's not do|ing that for ourselves, or for our friend, which she thinks she ought not to do; and which she has it in her option to do, or to let alone. Much less have you a right to be displeased with so prudent a mother, for not engaging herself so warmly in my favour, as you wish'd she would. If my own aunt can give me up, and that against her judgment, as I may presume to say; and if my father, and mother, and uncles, who once loved me so well, can join so strenuously against me; can I expect, or ought you, the protection of your mamma, in opposition to them?

Indeed, my dearest love [Permit me to be very se|rious],

I am afraid I am singled out, either for my own faults, or for the faults of my family, or for the faults of both, to be a very unhappy creature!—sig|nally unhappy! For see you not how irresistibly the waves of affliction come tumbling down upon me?

We have been till within these few weeks, every|one of us, too happy. No crosses, no vexations, but what we gave ourselves from the pamperdness, as I may call it, of our own wills. Surrounded by our heaps and stores, hoarded up as fast as acquired, we have seemed to think ourselves out of the reach of the bolts of adverse fate. I was the pride of all my friends, proud myself of their pride, and glo|rying in my standing, who knows what the justice of Heaven may inflict, in order to convince us, that we are not out of the reach of misfortune; and to reduce us to a better reliance, than That we have hitherto pre|sumptuously made?

I should have been very little the better for the con|versation-visits which the good Dr. Lewin used to ho|nour me with, and for the principles wrought, as I may say, into my earliest mind by my pious Mrs. Norton, founded on her reverend father's experience, as well as on her own, if I could not thus retrospect and argue, in such a strange situation as we are in. Strange, I may well call it; for don't you see, my dear, that we seem all to be impelled, as it were, by a perverse fate, which none of us are able to resist?—And yet all arising (with a strong appearance of self-punishment), from ourselves?—Do not my parents see the hopeful children, from whom they expected a perpetuity of worldly happiness to their branching fa|mily, now grown up to answer the till now distant hope, setting their angry faces against each other, pul|ling up by the roots, as I may say, that hope, which was ready to be carried into a probable certainty?

Your partial love will be ready to acquit me of ca|pital and intentional faults:—But oh, my dear! my

calamities have humbled me enough, to make me turn my gaudy eye inward; to make me look into my|self!—And what have I discover'd there?—Why, my dear friend, more secret pride and vanity, than I could have thought had lain in my unexamined heart.

If I am to be singled out to be the punisher of myself, and family, who so lately was the pride of it, pray for me, my dear, that I may not be left wholly to myself; and that I may be enabled to support my character, so as to be justly acquitted of wilful and premeditated faults. The will of Providence be resigned to in the rest: As that leads, let me pa|tiently, and unrepiningly, follow!—I shall not live al|ways!—May but my closing scene be happy!—

But I will not oppress you, my dearest friend, with further reflections of this sort. I will take them all into myself. Surely I have a mind, that has room for them. My afflictions are too sharp to last long. The crisis is at hand. Happier times you bid me hope for. I will hope!

BUT yet, I cannot but be impatient at times, to find myself thus driven, and my character so depreciated and sunk, that were all the future to be happy, I should be asham'd to shew my face in public, or to look up. And all by the instigation of a selfish bro|ther, and envious sister!—

But let me stop: Let me reflect!—Are not these sug|gestions the suggestions of the secret pride I have been censuring? Then, already so impatient! But this moment so resigned! so much better disposed for reflection!—Yet 'tis hard, 'tis very hard, to subdue an embitter'd spirit!—In the instant of its trial too!—O my cruel brother!—But now it rises again!—I will lay down a pen I am so little able to govern.—And I will try to subdue an impatience, which (if my afflictions are sent me for corrective ends) may otherwise lead me into still more punishable errors!—

I WILL return to a subject, which I cannot fly from for ten minutes together—called upon especially as I am, by your three alternatives stated in the conclusion of your last.

As to the first; to wit, Your advice for me to escape to London—Let me tell you, that that other hint or proposal which accompanies it, perfectly frightens me—Surely, my dear [happy as you are, and in|dulgently treated as your mamma treats you], you cannot mean what you propose! What a wretch must I be, if I could, for one moment only, lend an ear to such proposal as This!—I, to be the occasion of making such a mother's (perhaps shorten'd) life un|happy to the last hour of it!—Ennoble you, my dear creature! How must such an enterprize [the rashness public, the motives, were they excusable, private] debase you!—But I will not dwell upon the subject.—For your own sake I will not.

As to your second alternative, To put myself into the protection of Lord M. and of the Ladies of that family, I own to you (as I believe I have owned before), that altho' to do This would be the same thing in the eye of the world, as putting myself into Mr. Lovelace's protection, yet, I think, I would do it, rather than be Mr. Solmes's wife, if there were evidently no other way to avoid being so.

Mr. Lovelace, you have seen, proposes to contrive a way to put me into possession of my own house; and he tells me, that he will soon fill it with the Ladies of his family, as my visitors;—upon my invitation, however, to them.—A very inconsiderate proposal I think it to be, and upon which I cannot explain myself to him. What an exertion of independency does it chalk out for me! How, were I to attend to him (and not to the natu|ral consequences which the following of his advice would lead me to) might I be drawn by gentle words, into the perpetration of the most violent acts!—

For how could I gain possession, but either by legal litigation, which, were I inclin'd to have recourse to it [as I never can be], must take up time; or by for|cibly turning out the persons whom my papa has placed there, to look after the gardens, the house, and the furniture—persons intirely attached to him|self, and who, as I know, have been lately instructed by my brother?

Your third alternative, To meet and marry Love|lace directly: a man with whose morals I am far from being satisfy'd—A step, that could not be taken with the least hope of ever obtaining pardon from, or re|conciliation with, any of my friends;—and against which a thousand objections rise in my mind—That is not to be thought of.

What appears to me, upon the fullest deliberation, the most eligible, if I must be thus driven, is the escaping to London.—But I would forfeit all my hopes of happiness in this life, rather than you should go off with me, as you rashly propose.—If I could get safely thither, and be private, methinks I might remain ab|solutely independent of Mr. Lovelace, and at liberty, either to make proposals to my friends, or, should they renounce me (and I had no other or better way) to make terms with him; supposing my cousin Morden, on his arrival, were to join with them. But they would, perhaps, then indulge me in my choice of a single life, on giving him up: The renewing to them this offer, when I was at my own liberty, would at least convince them, that I was in earnest when I made it first: And, upon my word, I would stand to it, dear as you seem to think, when you are disposed to railly me, it would cost me, to stand to it.

If, my dear, you can procure a conveyance for us both, you can, perhaps, procure one for me singly; But can it be done without embroiling yourself with your mamma, or her with our family?—Be it coach, chariot, chaise, waggon, or horse, I matter not,

provided You appear not in it. Only, in case it be one of the two latter, I believe I must desire you to get me an ordinary gown and coat, or habit, of some servant; having no concert with any of our own: The more ordinary the better. They may be thrust into the wood-house; where I can put them on; and then slide down from the bank, that separates the wood-yard from the green lane.

But, alas! my dear, this, even this alternative, is not without difficulties, which seem, to a spirit so little en|terprizing as mine, in a manner insuperable. These are my reflections upon it:

I am afraid, in the first place, that I shall not have time for the requisite preparations to an escape.

Should I be either detected in those preparations, or pursued and overtaken in my flight, and so brought back, then would they think themselves doubly war|ranted to compel me to have their Solmes: And, con|scious, perhaps, of an intended fault, I should be less able to contend with them.

But were I even to get safely to London, I know no-body there, but by name; and those the trades|men to our family; who, no doubt, would be the first wrote to, and engag'd, to find me out. And should Mr. Lovelace discover where I was, and he and my brother meet, what mischiefs might ensue between them, whether I were willing, or not, to return to Harlowe-Place?

But supposing I could remain there concealed, what might not my youth, my sex, an unacquainted|ness with the ways of that great, wicked town, expose me to?—I should hardly dare to go to church, for fear of being discover'd. People would wonder how I lived. Who knows but I might pass for a kept mi|stress; and that, altho' no-body came to me, yet, that every-time I went out, it might be imagined to be in pursuance of some assignation?

You, my dear, who alone would know where to

direct to me, would be watched in all your steps, and in all your messages; and your mamma, at present not highly pleased with our correspondence, would then have reason to be more displeased; and might not differences follow between you, that would make me very unhappy, were I to know it? And this the more likely, as you take it so unaccountably [and give me leave to say, so ungenerously] into your head, to re|venge yourself upon the innocent Mr. Hickman for all the displeasure your mamma gives you?

Were Lovelace to find out where I was; that would be the same thing, in the eye of the world, as if I had actually gone off with him: For (among strangers, as I should be) he would not be prevailed upon to forbear visiting me: And his unhappy cha|racter [a foolish man!] is no credit to any young crea|ture, desirous of concealment. Indeed, the world, let me escape whither, and to whomsoever, would conclude him to be at the bottom, and the contriver, of it.

These are the difficulties which arise to me on re|volving this scheme; which, situated as I am, might appear surmountable to a more enterprising spirit. If you, my dear, think them surmountable, in any one of the cases put [and to be sure I can take no course, but what must have some difficulty in it], be pleased to let me know your free and full thoughts upon it.

Had you, my dear friend, been married, then should I have had no doubt, but you and Mr. Hickman would have afforded an asylum to a poor creature, more than half lost, in her own apprehension, for want of one kind, protecting friend!

You say, I should have written to my cousin Mor|den the moment I was treated disgracefully. But could I have believed that my friends would not have soften'd by degrees, when they saw my antipathy to their Solmes?

I had thoughts indeed several times of writing to

him. But by the time an answer could have come, I imagined all would have been over, as if it had ne|ver been:—So from day to day, from week to week, I hoped on: And, after all, I might as reasonably fear (as I have heretofore said), that my cousin would be brought to side against me, as that some of those I have named, would.

And then to appeal to a cousin [I must have writ|ten with warmth, to engage him], against a father; This was not a desirable thing to set about! Then I had not, you know, one soul of my side; my mamma herself against me: To be sure he would have sus|pended his judgment till he could have arrived.—He might not have been in haste to come, hoping the malady would cure itself: But had he written, his letters probably would have run in the qualifying style; to persuade me to submit, or them only to relax: Had his letters been more on my side than on theirs, they would not have regarded them: Nor perhaps himself, had he come, and been an advocate for me: For you see how strangely determined they are; how they have over-awed, or got in, every-body; so that no one dare open their lips in my behalf: And you have heard, that my brother pushes his measures with the more violence, that all may be over with me before my cousin's expected arrival.

But you tell me, That, in order to gain time, I must palliate; that I must seem to compromise with my friends.—But how palliate? how seem to com|promise?—You would not have me endeavour to make them believe, that I will consent to what I ne|ver intend to consent to!—You would not have me try to gain time, with a view to deceive!

To do evil, that good may come of it, is forbidden. And shall I do evil, yet know not, whether good may come of it, or not?

Forbid it, Heaven! that Clarissa Harlowe should have it in her thought to serve, or even to save, her|self,

at the expence of her sincerity, and by a studied deceit!

And is there, after all, no way to escape one great evil, but by plunging myself into another?—What an ill-fated creature am I?—Pray for me, my dearest Nancy!—My mind is at present so much disturbed, that I hardly can for myself!—

LETTER XXXVI. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Thursday Night.

THE alarming hurry I mentioned under my date of last night, and Betty's saucy, dark hints, come out to be owing to what I guess'd they were; that is to say, to the private intimation Mr. Lovelace con|trived our family should have of his insolent reso|lution [insolent I must call it] to prevent my being carried to my uncle's.

I saw at the time, that it was as wrong, with respect to answering his own view, as it was insolent: For could he think, as Betty (I suppose from her betters) justly observed, That parents would be insulted out of their right to the disposal of their own child, by a violent man, whom they hate; and who could have no pre|tension to dispute that right with them, unless what he had from her, who had none over herself? And how must this insolence of his exasperate them against me, emblazon'd, as my brother is able to emblazon it?

The rash man has indeed so far gained his point, as to intimidate them from attempting to carry me away: But he has put them upon a surer and a more desperate measure: And this has put me also upon one as desperate; the consequence of which, altho' he could not foresee it, may, perhaps, too well an|swer

his great end, little as he deserves to have it answer'd.

In short, I have done, as far as I know, the rashest thing that ever I did in my life!

But let me give you the motive, and then the action will follow of course.

About six o' clock this evening, my aunt [who stays here all night; on my account, no doubt] came up, and tapp'd at my door; for I was writing, and had lock'd myself in. I open'd it; and she entering, thus delivered herself:

I come once more to visit you, my dear; but sorely against my will; because it is to impart to you mat|ters of the utmost concern to You, and to the whole family.

What, Madam, is now to be done with me? said I; wholly attentive.

You will not be hurried away to your uncle's, child; let that comfort you.—They see your aversion to go.—You will not be obliged to go to your uncle Antony's.

How you revive me, Madam! [I little thought what was to follow this supposed condescension] This is a cordial to my heart!

And then I ran over with blessings for this good news [and she permitted me so to do, by her silence]; congratulating myself, that I thought my papa could not resolve to carry things to the last extre|mity—

Hold, niece, said she, at last.—You must not give yourself too much joy upon the occasion neither.—Don't be surprised, my dear.—Why look you upon me, child, with so affecting an earnestness!—But you must be Mrs. Solmes, for all that.

I was dumb.

She then told me, that they had had undoubted in|formation, that a certain desperate ruffian [I must excuse her that word, she said] had prepared armed

men to way-lay my brother and uncles, and seize me, and carry me off.—Surely, she said, I was not consent|ing to a violence, that might be followed by murder, on one side, or the other; perhaps on both.—

I was still silent.

That therefore my father (still more exasperated than before) had changed his resolution as to my go|ing to my uncle's; and was determined next Tuesday to set out thither himself with my mamma; and that (for it was to no purpose to conceal a resolution so soon to be put in execution)—I must not dispute it any longer—on Wednesday I must give my hand—as they would have me.

She proceeded, That orders were already given for a licence: That the ceremony was to be performed in my own chamber, in presence of all my friends, except of my father and mother; who would not re|turn, nor see me, till all was over, and till they had a good account of my behaviour.

The very intelligence, my dear!—the very intelli|gence This, which Lovelace gave me!

I was still dumb—Only sighing, as if my heart would break.

She went on comforting me, as she thought. She laid before me the merit of obedience; and told me, that if it were my desire that my Mrs. Norton should be present at the ceremony, it would be complied with: That the pleasure I should receive from re|conciling all my friends to me, and in their con|gratulations upon it, must needs over-balance, with such a one as me, the difference of persons, how|ever preferable I might think the one man to the other: That Love was a fleeting thing, little better than a name, where morality and virtue did not di|stinguish the object of it: That a choice made by its dictates was seldom happy; at least not durably so: Nor was it to be wonder'd at, when it naturally exalted the object above its merits, and made the lover blind to

faults, that were visible to every-body else: So that when a nearer intimacy stript it of its imaginary per|fections, it left frequently both sides surprized, that they could be thus cheated; and that then the Indif|ference became stronger than the Love ever was. That a woman gave a man great advantages, and in|spired him with great vanity, when she avowed her love for him, and preference of him, and was gene|rally requited with insolence and contempt: Whereas the confessedly-obliged man, it was probable, would be all reverence and gratitude; and I cannot tell what.

You, my dear, said she, believe you shall be un|happy, if you have Mr. Solmes: Your parents think the contrary; and that you will be undoubtedly so, were you to have Mr. Lovelace, whose morals are unquestionably bad:—Suppose it were your sad lot to be unhappy with either, let me beseech you to con|sider, what great consolation you will have on one hand, if you pursue your parents advice, that you did so; what mortification on the other, that, by follow|ing your own, you have no-body to blame but your|self.

This, you remember, my dear, was an argument inforced upon me by Mrs. Norton.

These and other observations which she made, were worthy of my aunt Hervey's good sense and experi|ence, and, applied to almost any young creature, who stood in opposition to her parents will, but one who had offered to make the sacrifices I have offered to make, ought to have had their due weight. But al|tho' it was easy to answer some of them in my own particular case; yet, having over and over, to my mamma, before my confinement, and to my brother and sister, and even to my aunt Hervey, since, said what I must now have repeated, I was so much mor|tified and afflicted at the cruel tidings she brought me, that, however attentive I was to what she said, I had neither power nor will to answer one word; and,

had she not stopp'd of herself, she might have gone on an hour longer, without interruption from me.

Observing this, and that I only sat weeping, my handkerchief covering my face, and my bosom heaving ready to burst; What! no answer, my dear?—Why so much silent grief? You know I always loved you. You know, that I have no interest in this affair. You would not permit Mr. Solmes to acquaint you with some things which would have set your heart against Mr. Lovelace. Shall I tell you some of the matters charged against him? Shall I, my dear?

Still I answered only by my tears and sighs.

Well, child, you shall be told these things after|wards, when you will be in a better state of mind to hear them, and to rejoice in the escape you will have had. It will be some excuse, then, for you to plead for your behaviour to Mr. Solmes before marriage, that you could not have believed Mr. Lovelace had been so very vile a man.

My heart flutter'd with impatience and anger at being so plainly talked to as the wife of this man; but yet I then chose to be silent. If I had spoke, it would have been with vehemence.

Strange, my dear, such silence!—Your concern is infinitely more on this side the day, than it will be on the other.—But let me ask you, and do not be displea|sed, Will you choose to see what generous stipu|lations for you there are in the settlements?—You have knowlege beyond your years—Give the writings a perusal: Do, my dear.—They are ingrossed, and ready for signing, and have been for some time.—Ex|cuse me, my love,—I mean not to disturb you:—Your papa would oblige me to bring them up, and to leave them with you. He commands you to read them.—But to read them, niece—since they are ingrossed, and were, before you made them absolutely hopeless.

And then, to my great terror, out she drew some parchments from her handkerchief, which she had kept

(unobserved by me) under her apron, and, rising, put them in the opposite window. Had she produced a serpent, I could not have been more frighted.

Oh! my dearest aunt, turning away my face, and holding out my hands: Hide from my eyes those horrid parchments!—Let me conjure you to tell me! By all the tenderness of near relation-ship, and upon your honour, and by your love for me, say, Are they absolutely resolved, that, come what will, I must be That man's?

My dear, you must have Mr. Solmes: Indeed you must.

Indeed I never will! This, as I have said over and over, is not originally my father's will.—Indeed I never will!—And that is All I will say!

It is your father's will now, reply'd my aunt: And considering how all the family is threatened by Mr. Lovelace, and the resolution he has certainly taken to force you out of their hands; I cannot but say they are in the right, not to be bullied out of their child.

Well, Madam, then nothing remains for me to say. I am made desperate. I care not what becomes of me!

Your piety, and your prudence, my dear, and Mr. Lovelace's immoral character, together with his dare|ing insults, and threatenings, which ought to incense you, as much as any-body, are every one's depen|dence. We are sure the time will come, when you'll think very differently of the steps your friends take to disappoint a man who has made himself so justly obnoxious to them all.

She withdrew; leaving me full of grief and indig|nation:—And as much out of humour with Mr. Lovelace as with any-body; who, by his conceited contrivances, has made things worse for me than be|fore; depriving me of the hopes I had of gaining time to receive your advice, and private assistance to get to town; and leaving me no other choice, in all

appearance, than either to throw myself upon his fa|mily, or to be made miserable for ever with Mr. Solmes. But I was still resolved to avoid both these evils, if possible.

I sounded Betty in the first place (whom my aunt sent up, not thinking it proper, as Betty told me, that I should be left by myself, and who, I found, knew their designs) whether it were not probable that they would forbear, at my earnest entreaty, to push mat|ters to the threatened extremity.

But she confirmed all my aunt said; rejoicing, (as she said they All did) that the wretch had given them so good a pretence to save me from him now, and for ever.

She run on about equipages bespoke; talked of my brother's and sister's exultations, that now the whole family would soon be reconciled to each other: Of the servants joy upon it: Of the expected licence: Of a visit to be paid me by Dr. Lewin, or another Clergyman, whom they named not to her; which was to crown the work: And of other preparations, so particular, as made me dread that they designed to surprize me into a still nearer day than next Wednesday.

These things made me excessively uneasy. I knew not what to resolve upon.

At one time, thought I, what have I to do, but to throw myself at once into the protection of Lady Betty Lawrance? But then, in resentment of his fine contrivances, which had so abominably disconcerted me, I soon resolved to the contrary. And at last concluded to ask the favour of another half-hour's con|versation with my aunt.

I sent Betty to her with my request.

She came.

I put it to her, in the most earnest manner, to tell me, whether I might not obtain the favour of a fort|night's respite?

She assured me, It would not be granted.

Would a week? Surely a week would?

She believ'd a week might, if I would promise two things: The first, upon my honour, not to write a line out of the house, in that week: For it was still suspected, she said, that I found means to write to some-body. And, secondly, to marry Mr. Solmes, at the expiration of it.

Impossible! Impossible! I said with passion.—What! might I not be obliged with one week, with|out such a horrid condition at the last?

She would go down, she said, that she might not seem of her own head, to put upon me what I thought a hardship so great.

She went down. And came up again.

Did I want, was the answer, to give the vilest of men opportunity to put his murderous schemes in ex|ecution?—It was time for them to put an end to my obstinacy (they were tired out with me) and to his hopes, at once. And an end should be put on Tues|day or Wednesday next, at furthest; unless I would give my honour to comply with the condition upon which my aunt had been so good as to allow me a longer time.

I even stamp'd with impatience!—I called upon her to witness, that I was guiltless of the consequence of this compulsion; This barbarous compulsion, I called it; let that consequence be what it would.

My aunt chid me, in an higher strain than ever she did before.

While I, in a half frenzy, insisted upon seeing my Papa: Such usage, I said, set me above fear. I would rejoice to owe my death to him, as I did my life.

She own'd, that she fear'd for my head.

I did go down half way of the stairs, resolved to throw myself at his feet, where-ever he was.—My

aunt was frighted.—Indeed I was quite frenzical for a few minutes.—But hearing my brother's voice, as talking to somebody, in my sister's apartment just by, I stopped; and heard the barbarous designer say, speaking to my sister, This works charmingly, my dear sister!

It does! It does! said she, in an exulting accent.

Let us keep it up, said my brother.—The villain is caught in his own trap!—Now she must be what we'd have her be.

Do You keep my father to it; I'll take care of my mamma, said Bella.

Never fear, said he!—And a laugh of congratu|lation to each other, and derision of me, (as I made it out) quite turned my frenzical humour into a vin|dictive one.

My aunt, just then coming down to me, and take|ing my hand, led me up; and try'd to sooth me.

My raving was turned into sullenness.

She preached patience and obedience to me.

I was silent.

At last she desired me to assure her, that I would offer no violence to myself.

God, I said, had given me more grace I hoped, than to be guilty of so horrid a rashness. I was His creature, and not my own.

She then took leave of me; and I insisted upon her taking down with her the odious parchments.

Seeing me in so ill an humour, and very earnest that she should take them with her, she did; but said, That my papa should not know that she did: And hoped I would better consider of the matter, and be calmer next time they were offer'd to my perusal.

I revolved, after she was gone, all that my brother and sister had said: I dwelt upon their triumphings over me: And found rise in my mind a rancour, that I think I may say was new to me; and which I could

not withstand.—And putting every thing together, dreading the near day, what could I do?—Am I, in any manner excusable for what I did do?—If I am condemned by the world, who know not my provocations, may I be acquitted by you?—If not, I am unhappy indeed.—For This I did.

Having shook off Betty as soon as I could, I wrote to Mr. Lovelace, to let him know,

'That all that was threatened at my uncle Antony's, was intended to be executed here. That I had come to a resolution to throw myself upon the protection of either of his two aunts, who would afford it me: In short, that by endeavouring to obtain leave, on Monday, to dine in the ivy-summer-house, I would, if pos|sible, meet him without the garden-door, at two, three, four, or five o'Clock on Monday afternoon, as I should be able. That in the mean time he should acquaint me, whether I might hope for ei|ther of those Ladies protection:—And if so, I abso|lutely insisted, that he should leave me with either, and go to London himself, or remain at his uncle's; nor offer to visit me, till I were satisfied, that nothing could be done with my friends in an amicable way; and that I could not obtain possession of my own estate, and leave to live upon it: And particularly, that he should not hint marriage to me, till I con|sented to hear him upon that subject.—I added, that if he could prevail upon one of the Misses Monta|gue to favour me with her company on the road, it would make me abundantly easier in an enterprize which I could not think of (altho' so driven) without the utmost concern; and which would throw such a flur upon my reputation in the eye of the world, as, perhaps, I should never be able to wipe off.'

This was the purport of what I wrote; and down into the garden I slid with it in the dark, which at another time I should not have had the courage to

do, and deposited it, and came up again, unknown to any-body

My mind so dreadfully misgave me when I re|turned, that to divert, in some measure, my in|creasing uneasiness, I had recourse to my private pen; and in a very short time ran this length.

And now, that I am come to this part, my uneasy reflections begin again to pour in upon me. Yet what can I do?—I believe I shall take it back again the first thing I do in the morning.—Yet what can I do?

For fear they should have an earlier day in their intention, than that which will too soon come, I will begin to be very ill. Nor need I feign much; for indeed, I am extremely low, weak, and faint.

I hope to deposite this early in the morning for you, as I shall return from resuming my letter, if I do re|sume it, as my inwardest mind bids me.

Altho' it is now near Two o'clock, I have a good mind to slide down once more, in order to take back my letter. Our doors are always locked and barred up at a eleven; but the seats of the lesser hall win|dows being almost even with the ground without, and the shutters not difficult to open, I could easily get out.—

Yet why should I be thus uneasy?—Since, should the letter go, I can but hear what Mr. Lovelace says to it. His aunts live at too great a distance for him to have an immediate answer from them; so I can scruple going off till I have invitation. I can in|sist upon one of his cousins meeting me, as I have hinted, in the chariot; and he may not be able to obtain that favour from either of them. Twenty things may happen to afford me a suspension, at least: Why should I be so very uneasy?—When, too, I can resume it early, before it is probable he will have the thought of finding it there. Yet he owns he spends three parts of his days, and has done for this fortnight past, in loitering about in one disguise or other, be|sides

the attendance given by his trusty servant, when he himself is not in waiting, as he calls it.

But these strange fore-bodings!—Yet I can, if you advise, cause the chariot he shall bring with him, to carry me directly for town, whither in my London scheme, if you were to approve it, I had proposed to go: And This will save you the trouble of procuring for me a vehicle; as well as the suspicion from your mamma of contributing to my escape.

But, sollicitous for your advice, and approbation too, if I can have it, I will put an end to this letter.

Adieu, my dearest friend, adieu!

LETTER. XXXVII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Friday Morning, Seven o'Clock, April 7.

MY aunt Hervey, who is a very early riser, was walking in the garden, (Betty attending her, as I saw from my window this morning) when I arose; for, after such a train of fatigue and restless nights, I had unhappily overslept myself: So all I durst venture upon, was, to step down to my poultry-yard, and deposite mine of yesterday, and last night. And I am just come up; for she is still in the garden: This prevents me from going to resume my letter, as I think still to do; and hope it will not be too late.

I said, I had unhappily overslept myself. I went to bed at about half an hour after Two. I told the quarters till Five; after which I dropt asleep, and awaked not till past Six, and then in great terror from a dream, which has made such an impression upon me, that, slightly as I think of dreams, I can|not help taking this opportunity to relate it to you.

'Methought my brother, my uncle Antony, and Mr. Solmes, had formed a plot to destroy Mr.

Lovelace; who discovering it, turned all his rage against me, believing I had a hand in it. I thought he made them all fly into foreign parts upon it; and afterwards seizing upon me, carried me into a church-yard; and there, notwithstanding all my prayers and tears, and protestations of innocence, stabbed me to the heart, and then tumbled me in|to a deep grave ready dug, among two or three half-dissolved carcases; throwing in the dirt and earth upon me, with his hands, and trampling it down with his feet.'

I awoke with the terror, all in a cold sweat, trem|bling, and in agonies; and still the frightful images raised by it, remain upon my memory.

But why should I, who have such real evils to contend with, regard imaginary ones? This, no doubt, was owing to my disturbed imagination; hud|dling together wildly all the frightful ideas which my aunt's communications and discourse, my letter to Mr. Lovelace, my own uneasiness upon it, and the apprehensions of the dreaded Wednesday, furnished me with.

Eight o'Clock.

THE man, my dear, has got the letter!—What a strange diligence! I wish he mean me well, that he takes so much pains!—Yet, must own, that I should be displeased, if he took less—I wish, however, he had been an hundred miles off!—What an advantage have I given him over me!

Now the letter is out of my power, I have more uneasiness and regret, than I had before. For, till now, I had a doubt whether it should, or should not go: And now I think it ought not to have gone. And yet is there any-other way, than to do as I have done, if I would avoid Solmes? But what a giddy creature shall I be thought, if I pursue the cuurse to which this letter must lead me?

My dearest friend, tell me, have I done wrong!—Yet do not say I have, if you think it; for should all the world besides condemn me, I shall have some comfort, if you do not. The first time I ever besought you to flatter me. That, of itself, is an indication, that I have done wrong, and am afraid of hearing the truth—O tell me [but yet do not tell me], if I have done wrong!

Friday, Eleven o'Clock.

MY aunt has made me another visit. She began what she had to say, with letting me know, That my friends are all persuaded, that I still correspond with Mr. Lovelace; as is plain, she said, by hints and menaces he throws out, which shews, that he is ap|prized of several things that have passed between my relations and me, sometimes within a very little while after they have happened.

Altho' I approve not of the method he stoops to take to come at his intelligence, yet is it not prudent in me to clear myself by the ruin of the corrupted servant [as his vileness has neither my connivance, nor approbation], since my doing so might occasion the detection of my own correspondence; and so fru|strate all the hopes I have to avoid this Solmes. Yet it is not at all unlikely, that this very agent of Mr. Lovelace plays booty between my brother and him: How else can our family know (so soon too) his menaces upon the passages they hint at?

I assured my aunt, that I was too much ashamed of the treatment I met with, for every-one's sake, as well as for my own, to acquaint Mr. Lovelace with the particulars of it, were the means of corresponding with him afforded me: That I had reason to think, that if he were to know of it from me, we must be upon such terms, that he would not scruple making some visits, which would give me great apprehensions. They all knew, I said, that I had no communication

with any of my papa's servants, except my sister's Betty Barnes: For altho' I had a good opinion of them all, and believed, if left to their own inclinations, they would be glad to serve me; yet, finding by their shy behaviour, that they were under particular di|rection, I had forborne ever since my Hannah had been so disgracefully dismissed, so much as to speak to any of them, for fear I should be the occasion of their losing their places too: They must, therefore, ac|count among themselves for the intelligence Mr. Lovelace met with, since neither my brother, nor sister, (as Betty had frequently, in praise of their sin|cerity, informed me) nor perhaps their favourite Mr. Solmes, were at all careful who they spoke before, when they had any thing to throw out against him, or even against me, whom they took great pride to join with him on this occasion.

It was but too natural, my aunt said, for my friends to suppose, that he had his intelligence, part of it at least, from me; who, thinking myself hardly treated, might complain of it, if not to him, to Miss Howe; which, perhaps, might be the same thing; for they knew Miss Howe spoke as freely of them, as they could do of Mr. Lovelace; and must have the par|ticulars she spoke of, from some-body, who knew what was done here. That this determined my papa to bring the whole matter to a speedy issue, lest fatal consequences should ensue.

I perceive you are going to speak with warmth, pro|ceeded she [And so I was]—For my own part I am sure, you would not write any thing, if you do write, to inflame so violent a spirit.—But this is not the end of my present visit.—

You cannot, my dear, but be convinced, that your father will be obeyed. The more you contend against his will, the more he thinks himself obliged to assert his authority. Your mamma desires me to tell you, that if you will give her the least hopes of

a dutiful compliance, she will be willing to see you in her closet just now, while your papa is gone to take a walk in the garden.

Astonishing persistence, said I!—I am tired with making declarations and pleadings on this subject; and had hoped, that my resolution being so well known, I should not have been further urged upon it.

You mistake the purport of my present visit, Miss [looking gravely]. Heretofore you have been desired and prayed, to obey and oblige your friends: Intreaty is at an end: They give it up. Now it is resolved upon, that your father's will is to be obeyed; as it is fit it should. Some things are laid at your door, as if you concurred with Lovelace's threatened violence to carry you off; which your mamma will not be|lieve. She will tell you her own good opinion of you: She will tell you how much she still loves you: And what she expects of you on the approaching oc|casion: But yet, that she may not be exposed to an opposition, which would the more provoke her, she desires, you will first assure her, that you go down with a resolution to do that with a grace which must be done with or without a grace. And besides, she wants to give you some advice how to proceed, in or|der to reconcile yourself to your papa, and to every-body else. Will you go down, Miss, or will you not?

I said, I should think myself happy, could I be ad|mitted to my mamma's presence, after so long a banishment from it; but that I could not wish it up|on those terms.

And This is your answer, Miss?

It must be my answer, Madam. Come what may, I never will have Mr. Solmes. I am very much con|cerned, that this matter is so often press'd upon me.—I never will have that man!

Down she went with displeasure. I could not help it. I was quite tired with so many attempts, all to

the same purpose. I am amazed that They are not!—So little variation! And no concession on either side!

I will go down and deposite this; for Betty has seen I have been writing. The saucy creature took a napkin, and dipt it in water, and with a fleering air, Here, Miss; holding the wet corner to me.

What's That for, said I?

Only, Miss, one of the fingers of your right-hand, if you please to look at it.

It was inky.

I gave her a look; but said nothing.

But lest I should have another search, I will close. here.

CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER XXXVIII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Friday, One o'Clock.

I Have a letter from Mr. Lovelace, full of trans|ports, vows, and promises. I will send it to you inclosed. You'll see how he engages in it for his aunt Lawrance's protection, and for Miss Charlotte Montague's accompanying me.

'I have nothing to do, but to persevere, he says, and prepare to receive the personal congratulations of his whole family.'

But you'll see, how he presumes upon my being his, as the consequence of throwing myself into that Lady's protection.

The chariot-and-fix is to be ready at the place he mentions. You'll see, as to the slur upon my re|putation, which I am so apprehensive about, how boldly he argues. Generously enough, indeed, were I to be his; and had given him reason to believe that I would!—But that I have not done.

How one step brings on another with this incroach|ing

Sex! How soon may a young creature, who gives a man the least encouragement, be carried beyond her intentions, and out of her own power!—You would imagine, by what he writes, that I have given him reason to think, that my aversion to Mr. Solmes is all owing to my favour for him!

The dreadful thing is, that, comparing what he writes from his intelligencer, of what is designed against me [though he seems not to know the threatened day] with what my aunt and Betty assure me of, there can be no hope for me, but that I must be Solmes's wife, if I stay here.

I had better have gone to my uncle Antony's, at this rate! I should have gained time, at least, by it. This is the fruit of his fine contrivances!

'What we are to do, and how good he is to be: How I am to direct all his future steps.'

All this shews, as I said before, that he is sure of me.

However, I have reply'd to the following effect:

'That although I had given him room to expect, that I would put myself into his aunt's protection; yet, as I have three days to come, between this and Monday, and as I hope that my friends will still re|lent, or that Mr. Solmes will give up a point they will both find it impossible to carry; I shall not look upon myself as absolutely bound by the appointment: And expect therefore, if I recede, that I shall not be called to account for it by him. That I think it necessary to acquaint him, that if, by putting myself into Lady Betty Lawrance's protection, he understands, that I mean directly to throw myself into his power, he is very much mistaken: For that there are many points in which I must be satisfied; several matters to be adjusted, even, after I have left this house (if I do leave it), before I can think of giving him any particular encouragement: That, in the first place, he must expect, that I will do my utmost to procure my father's reconciliation and

approbation of my future steps; and that I will govern myself intirely by his commands, in every (reasonable point, as much as if I had not left his house: That if he imagines, that I shall not re|serve to myself this liberty, but that my withdraw|ing is to give him any advantages, which he would otherwise have had; I am determined to tarry where I am, and abide the event, in hopes that my friends will still accept of my reiterated promise, never to marry him, or any-body else, without their consent.'

This I will deposite as soon as I can. And as he thinks things are near their crisis, I dare say it will not be long before I have an answer to it.

Friday, Four o'Clock.

I AM far from being well: Yet must: I make my|self worse than I am, preparative to the suspension I hope to obtain of the menaced evil of Wednesday next. And if I do obtain it, I will postpone my ap|pointment to meet Mr. Lovelace.

Betty has told them I am very much indisposed. But I have no pity from any-body.

I believe, I am become the object of every-one's aversion; and that they would all be glad I were dead.—Indeed, I believe it!—

'What ails the perverse crea|ture,'

cries one?—

'Is she love-sick,'

another?

I was in the Ivy-summer-house, and came out shi|vering with cold, as if aguishly seized. Betty ob|served this, and reported it.—

'O, no matter!—Let her shiver on!—Cold cannot hurt her. Obstinacy will defend her from That. Perverseness is a Bracer to a love-sick girl, and more effectual than the Cold Bath to make hardy, altho' the constitution be ever so tender.'

This said by a cruel brother, and heard said by the dearer friends of one, for whom, but a few months

ago, every-body was apprehensive at every blast of wind to which she exposed herself!

Betty, it must be owned, has an admirable me|mory on these occasions. Nothing of this nature is lost by her repetition: Even the very air she repeats with, renders it unnecessary to ask, Who said This or That severe thing.

Friday, Six o'Clock.

MY aunt, who again stays all night, has just left me. She came to tell me the result of my friends deliberations about me. It is this.

Next Wednesday morning they are all to be as|sembled: To wit, my father, mother, my uncles, herself, and my uncle Hervey; my brother and sister of course; my good Mrs. Norton is likewise to be admitted: And Dr. Lewin is to be at hand, to ex|hort me, it seems, if there be occasion: But my aunt is not certain, whether he is to be among them, or to tarry till called in.

When this awful court is set, the poor prisoner is to be brought in, supported by Mrs. Norton; who is to be first tutored to instruct me in the duty of a child; which, it seems, I have quite forgotten.

Nor is the success at all doubted, my aunt says: For it is not believed I can be so harden'd, as to withstand so venerable a judicature, altho' I have withstood several of them separately. And still the less, as she hints at extraordinary condescensions from my papa. But what condescensions, from even my father, can induce me to make such a sacrifice as is expected from me?

Yet my spirits will never bear up, I doubt, at such a tribunal: My father presiding in it.

I believed indeed, that my trials would not be at an end, till he had admitted me once more into his awful presence!

What is hoped from me, she says, is, That I

will chearfully, on Tuesday night, if not before, sign the articles; and so turn the succeeding day's solemn convention of all my friends, into a day of festivity, I am to have the licence sent me up, how|ever, and once more the settlements, that I may see how much in earnest they are.

She further hinted, that my papa himself would bring up the settlements for me to sign.

O my dear! what a trial will This be!—How shall I be able to refuse to my father [My father! from whose presence I have been so long banish'd; he commanding and intreating, perhaps, in a breath! How shall I be able to refuse to my father] the writing of my name?

They are sure, she says, something is working on Mr. Lovelace's part, and perhaps on mine: And my papa would sooner follow me to the grave, than see me his wife.

I said, I was not well; That the very apprehen|sions of these trials, were already insupportable to me; and would increase upon me, as the time ap|proached; and I was afraid I should be extremely ill.

They had prepared themselves for such an artifice as That, was my aunt's unkind word; and she could assure me, it would stand me in no stead.

Artifice! repeated I: And this from my aunt Hervey?

Why my dear, said she, do you think people are fools?—Can they not see, how dismally you endea|vour to sigh yourself down within-doors?—How you hang down your sweet face [those were the words she was pleased to use] upon your bosom:—How you totter, as it were, and hold by this chair, and by that door-post, when you know that Any-body sees you [This, my dear Miss Howe, is an aspersion to fasten hypocrisy and contempt upon me: My bro|ther's or sister's aspersion!—I am not capable of arts

so low]. But the moment you are down with your poultry, or advancing upon your garden-walk, and, as you imagine, out of every-body's sight, it is seen how nimbly you trip along; and what an alertness governs all your motions.

I should hate myself, said I, were I capable of such poor artifices as these. I must be a fool to use them, as well as a mean creature; for have I not had ex|perience enough, that my friends are incapable of being moved in much more affecting instances?—But you'll see how I shall be by Tuesday.

My dear, you will not offer any violence to your health?—I hope, God has given you more grace, than to do that.

I hope he has, Madam. But there is violence enough offer'd, and threatened, to affect my health; and that will be found, without my needing to have recourse to any other, or to artifice either.

I'll only tell you one thing, my dear: And that is; Ill or well, the ceremony will probably be performed before Wednesday-night:—But This, also, I will tell you, altho' beyond my present commission, that Mr. Solmes will be under an engagement, (if you should require it of him, as a favour) after the cere|mony is passed, and Lovelace's hopes thereby utterly extinguished, to leave you at your father's, and re|turn to his own house every evening, until you are brought to a full sense of your duty, and consent to acknowlege your change of name.

There was no opening of my lips to such a speech as This. I was dumb.

And these, my dear Miss Howe, are They, who some of them, at least, have called me a romantic girl!—This is my chimerical brother, and wis•• sister; both joining their heads together, I dare say▪ And yet, my aunt told me, that the last part wa•• what took in my mamma; who had, till that wa•• started, insisted, that her child should not be married

if, thro' grief or opposition, she should be ill, or fall into fits.

This intended violence my aunt often excused, by the certain information they pretended to have, of some plots or machinations, that were ready to break out, from Mr. Lovelace (a) 64.1: The effects of which were thus cunningly to be frustrated.

Friday, Nine o'Clock.

AND now, my dear, what shall I conclude upon? You see how determin'd—But how can I expect your advice will come time enough to stand me in any stead? For here, I have been down, and already have another letter from Mr. Lovelace [The man lives upon the spot, I think]: And I must write to him, either that I will, or will not, stand to my first resolution of escaping hence on Monday next. If I let him know, that I will not (appearances so strong against him, and for Solmes, even stronger, than when I made the appointment), will it not be justly deemed my own fault, if I am compelled to marry their odious man? And if any mischief ensue from Mr. Lovelace's rage and disappointment, will it not lie at my door?—Yet, he offers so fair!—Yet, on the other hand, to incur the censure of the world, as a giddy creature!—But that, as he hints, I have al|ready incurred!—What can I do? Oh! that my cousin Morden!—But what signifies wishing?

I will here give you the substance of Mr. Love|lace's letter. The letter itself I will send, when I have answered it; but that I will defer doing as long as I can, in hopes of finding reason to retract an ap|pointment on which so much depends. And yet it is necessary you should have all before you, as I go

along, that you may be the better able to advise me in this dreadful crisis of my fate.

'He begs my pardon, for writing with so much as|surance; attributing it to his unbounded transport; and intirely acquiesces in my will. He is full of alternatives and proposals. He offers to attend me directly to Lady Betty's; or, if I had rather, to my own estate; and that my Lord M. shall pro|tect me there, [He knows not, my dear, my reasons for rejecting this inconsiderate advice]. In either case, as soon as he sees me safe, he will go up to London, or whither I please; and not come near me, but by my own permission; and till I am sa|tisfy'd in every thing I am doubtful of, as well with regard to his reformation, as to settlements, &c.

'To conduct me to You, my dear, is another of his alternatives, not doubting, he says, but your mamma will receive me. Or, if That be not agree|able to you, to your mamma, or to me, he will put me into Mr. Hickman's protection; whom, no doubt, Miss Howe can influence; and that it may be given out, that I am gone to Bath, or Bristol, or Abroad; where-ever I please.

'Again, If it be more agreeable, he proposes to attend me privately to London, where he will pro|cure handsome lodgings for me, and both his cousins Montague to receive me there, and to accompany me till all shall be adjusted to my mind; and till a reconciliation shall be effected; which, he assures me, nothing shall be wanting in him to facilitate; greatly as he has been insulted by all my family.

'These several measures he proposes to my choice; it being unlikely, he says, that he can procure in the time, a letter from Lady Betty, under her own hand, inviting me in form to her house, un|less he had been himself to go to that Lady for it; which, at this critical conjuncture, while he is at|tending my commands, is impossible.

'He conjures me, in the solemnest manner, if I would not throw him into utter despair, to keep to my appoinment.

'However, instead of threatening my relations, or Solmes, if I recede, he respectfully says, that he doubts not, but that, if I do, it will be upon such reasons, as he ought to be satisfy'd with; upon no slighter, he hopes, than their leaving me at full liberty to pursue my own inclinations: In which (whatever they shall be), he will intirely acquiesce; only endea|vouring to make his future good behaviour, the sole ground for his expectation of my favour.

'In short, he solemnly vows, that his whole view at present, is, To free me from my imprisonment; and to restore me to my own free-will, in a point so ab|solutely necessary to my future happiness. He de|clares, that neither the hopes he has in my future favour, nor the honour of himself and family, will permit him to propose any thing that shall be in|consistent with my own most scrupulous notions: And, for my mind's sake, should choose to have this end obtained by my friends declining to compel me. But that, nevertheless, as to the world's opinion, it is impossible to imagine, that the behaviour of my relations to me, has not already brought upon my family those free censures which they deserve, and caused the step which I am so scrupulous about taking, to be no other than the natural and expected consequence of their treatment of me.'

Indeed, I am afraid all this is true: And it is owing to some little degree of politeness, that Mr. Lovelace does not say all he might say on this subject: For I have no doubt, that I am the talk, and perhaps the by-word of half the county. If so, I am afraid, I can now do nothing that will give me more disgrace than I have already so causelesly received by their indiscreet persecutions: And let me be whose I will, and do what I will, I shall never wipe off the stain my con|finement,

and the rigorous usage I have received, have fixed upon me; at least in my own opinion.

I wish, if ever I am to be considered as one of the eminent family this man is ally'd to, some of them do not think the worse of me, for the disgrace I have re|ceived!—In that case, perhaps, I shall be obliged to him, if he do not. You see how much this harsh, this cruel, treatment from my own family has hum|bled me!—But, perhaps, I was too much exalted before.

Mr. Lovelace concludes,

'with repeatedly begging an interview with me; and That, this night, if pos|sible: An honour, he says, he is the more encour|aged to solicit for, as I had twice before made him hope for it. But whether he obtain it, or not, he beseeches me to choose one of the alternatives he of|fers to my acceptance; and not to depart from my resolution of escaping on Monday, unless the reason ceases on which I had taken it up; and that I have a prospect of being restored to my friends favour; at least to my own liberty and freedom of choice.'

He renews all his vows and promises on this head, in so earnest and so solemn a manner, that (his own interest, and his family's honour, and their favour for me, co-operating) I can have no room to doubt of his sincerity.

LETTER XXXIX. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Sat. Morn, 8 o' Clock, April 8.

WHether you will blame me, or not, I cannot tell, But I have deposited a letter confirming my former resolution to leave this house on Monday next, within the hours, if possible, prefixed in my former. I have not kept a copy of it. But this is the sub|stance:

I tell him,

'That I have no way to avoid the de|termin'd resolution of my friends in behalf of Mr. Solmes; but by abandoning this house by his assist|ance.'

I have not pretended to make a merit with him on this score; for I plainly tell him,

'That could I, without an unpardonable sin, the when I would, I would sooner make death my choice, than take a step, which all the world, if not my own heart, will condemn me for taking.'

I tell him,

'That I shall not try to bring any other cloaths with me, than those I shall have on; and those but my common wearing-apparel; lest I should be suspected. That I must expect to be de|ny'd the possession of my estate: But that I am de|termin'd never to consent to a litigation with my fa|ther, were I to be reduced to ever so low a state: So that the protection I am to be obliged for, to any one, must be alone for the distress-sake: And yet, that I have too much pride to think of marrying, until I have a fortune that shall make me appear upon a foot of equality with, and void of obligation to, any-body: That, therefore, he will have no|thing to hope for from this step, that he had not be|fore: And that, in every light, I reserve to myself to accept or refuse his address, as his behaviour and cir+cumspection shall appear to me to deserve.'

I tell him,

'That I think it best to go into a pri+vate lodging, in the neighbourhood of his aunt Law|rance; and not to her house; that it may not ap|pear to the world, that I have refuged myself in his family; and that a reconciliation with my friends, may not, on that account, be made impracticable: That I will send for thither my faithful Hannah; and apprize only Miss Howe where I am: That he shall instantly leave me, and go to London, or to one of his uncle's seats; and (as he had promised)

not come near me, but by my leave; contenting himself with a correspondence by letter only.

'That if I find myself in danger of being disco|vered, and carried back by violence, I will then throw myself directly into the protection of either of his aunts, who will receive me: But This only in case of absolute necessity; for that it will be more to my reputation, for me, by the best means I can, (taking advantage of my privacy) to enter by a se|cond or third hand into a treaty of reconciliation with my friends.

'That I must, however, plainly tell him, That if, in this treaty, my friends insist upon my resolve|ing against marrying him, I will engage to comply with them; provided they will allow me to promise him, that I will never be any other man's, while he remains single, or is living: That this is a com|pliment I am willing to pay to him, in return for the trouble and pains he has taken, and the usage he has met with, on my account: Altho' I intimate, that he may, in a great measure, thank himself, and the little regard he has paid to his reputation; for the slights he has met with.'

I tell him,

'That I may, in this privacy, write to my cousin Morden, and, if possible, interest him in my cause.

'I take some brief notice of his alternatives.'

You must think, my dear, that this unhappy force upon me, and this projected flight, makes it neces|sary for me to account to him much sooner than it agrees with my stomach to do, for every part of my conduct.

'It is not to be expected, I tell him, that your mamma will embroil herself, or suffer you, or Mr. Hickman to be embroiled, on my account: And as to his proposal of my going to London, I am such an absolute stranger to every-body there, and have

such a bad opinion of the place, that I cannot by any means think of going thither; except I should be induced, some time hence, by the Ladies of his family to attend them.

'As to the meeting he is desirous of, I think it by no means proper; especially as it is so likely that I may soon see him. But that if any thing occurs to induce me to change my mind, as to withdrawing, I may then, very probably, take the first opportu|nity to see him, and give him my reasons for that change.'

This, my dear, I the less scrupled to write, that I might qualify him for such a disappointment, should I give it; he having, besides, behaved so very unex|ceptionably, when he surprized me some time ago in the lonely woodhouse.

Finally,

'I commend myself, as a person in di|stress, and merely as such, to his honour, and to his aunt's protection. I repeat [most cordially, I am sure!] my deep concern for being forced to take a step so disagreeable, and so derogatory to my honour. And having told him, that I will endea|vour to obtain leave to dine in the Ivy summer-house (a) 66.1, and to send Betty of some errand, when there, I leave the rest to him; but imagine, that about four o' clock will be a proper time for him to contrive some signal to let me know he is at hand, and for me to unbolt the garden-door.'

I added, by way of postscript,

'That their suspi|cions

seeming to increase, I advise him to contrive to send or come to the usual place, as frequently as possible, in the interval of time, till Monday morn|ing ten or eleven o' clock; as something may pos|sibly happen to make me alter my mind.'

O my dear Miss Howe!—what a sad, sad thing is the necessity, forced upon me, for all this preparation and contrivance!—But it is now too late!—But how!—Too late, did I say?—What a word is that!—what a dreadful thing, were I to repent, to find it to be too late, to remedy the apprehended evil!

Saturday, Ten o' Clock.

Mr. Solmes is here. He is to dine with his new relations, as Betty tells me he already calls them.

He would have thrown himself in my way, once more: But I hurry'd up to my prison, in my return from my garden-walk, to avoid him.

I had, when in the garden, the curiosity to see, if my letter were gone: I cannot say, with an intention to take it back again, if it had not; because I see not how I could do otherwise than I have done. Yet what a caprice was this!—For when I found it gone, I began (as yesterday-morning) to wish it had not: For no other reason, I believe, than because it was out of my power.

A strange diligence in this man!—He says, he al|most lives upon the place; and I think so too.

He mentions, as you will see in his letter, four several disguises, which he put on in one day. It is a wonder, nevertheless, that he has not been seen by some of our tenants: For it is impossible that any dis|guise can hide the gracefulness of his figure. But this is to be said, that the adjoining grounds being all in our own hands, and no common foot-paths near that part of the garden, and thro' the park and coppice, nothing can be more bye and unfrequented.

Then they are less watchful, I believe, over my

garden-walks, and my poultry-visits, depending, as my aunt hinted, upon the bad character they have taken so much pains to fasten upon Mr. Lovelace. This, they think (and justly think), must fill me with doubts. And then the regard I have hitherto had for my reputation, is another of their securities. Were it not for these two, they would not surely have used me as they have done; and at the same time left me the opportunities, which I have several times had, to get away, had I been disposed to do so (a) 67.1: And indeed, their dependencies on both these motives would have been well founded, had they kept but tolerable measures with me.

Then, perhaps, they have no notion of the back-door; as it is seldom open'd, and leads to a place so pathless and lonesome (b) 67.2. If not, there can be no other way to go off (if one would), without discovery, unless by the plashy lane, so full of springs, by which your servant reaches the solitary wood-house; to which lane one must descend from a high bank, that bounds the poultry-yard. For, as to the front-way, you know, one must pass thro' the house to That, and in sight of the parlours, and the servants hall; then have the large open court-yard to go through, and, by means of the iron-gate, be full in view, as one pas|ses

over the lawn, for a quarter of a mile together; the young plantations of elms and limes affording yet but little shade or covert.

The Ivy summer-house is the most convenient for this affecting purpose of any spot in the garden, as it is not far from the back-door, and yet in another alley, as you may remember. Then it is seldom re|sorted to by any-body else, except in the summer-months, because it is cool. When they loved me, they would often, for this reason, object to my long continuance in it:—But now, it is no matter what becomes of me. Besides, cold is a bracer, as my bro|ther said yesterday.

Here I will deposite what I have written. Let me have your prayers, my dear; and your approbation, or your censure, of the steps I have taken: For yet it may not be quite too late to revoke the appointment. I am

Your most affectionate and faithful CL. HARLOWE.

Why will you send your servant empty-handed?

LETTER XL. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Sat. Afternoon.

BY your last date of Ten, in your letter of this day, you could not long have deposited it, before Robin took it. He rode hard, and brought it to me just as I had risen from table.

You may justly blame me for sending my messen|ger empty-handed, your situation consider'd; and yet that very situation [so critical!] is partly the rea|son for it: For indeed I knew not what to write, fit to send you.

I had been inquiring privately, how to procure you a conveyance from Harlowe-Place, and yet not ap|pear in it; knowing, that to oblige in the fact, and

to disoblige in the manner, is but obliging by halves: My mamma being, moreover, very suspicious, and very uneasy; made more so by daily visits from your uncle Antony, who tells her, that now every-thing is upon the point of being determined, and hopes, that her daughter will not so interfere, as to discourage your compliance with their wills. This I came at by a way that I cannot take notice of, or both should hear of it, in a manner neither would like: And, without that, my mamma and I have had almost hourly bic|kerings.

I found more difficulty than I expected, as the time was confined, and secresy required, in procuring you a vehicle; and as you so earnestly forbid me to accompany you in your enterprize. Had you not ob|liged me to keep measures with my mamma, I could have managed it with ease. I could even have taken our own chariot, on one pretence or other, and put two horses extraordinary to it, if I had thought fit; and I could have sent it back from London, and no-body the wiser as to the lodgings we might have taken.

I wish to the Lord, you had permitted This! In|deed I think you are two punctilious a great deal for your situation. Would you expect to enjoy yourself with your usual placidness, and not be ruffled, in an hurricane which every moment threatens to blow your house down?

Had your distress sprung from yourself, that would have been another thing. But when all the world knows where to lay the fault, this alters the case.

How can you say I am happy, when my mamma, to her power, is as much an abettor of their wicked|ness to my dearest friend, as your aunt, or any-body else?—And this thro' the instigation of that odd-headed and foolish uncle of yours, who [sorry creature that he is] keeps her up to resolutions, which are un|worthy of her, for an example to me, and please you.

Is not this cause enough for me to ground a resent|ment upon, sufficient to justify me for accompanying you; the friendship between us so well known?

Indeed, my dear, the importance of the case con|sider'd, I must repeat, That you are too nice. Don't they already think, that your standing-out is owing a good deal to my advice? Have they not prohibited our correspondence upon that very surmize? And have I, but on your account, reason to value what they think?

Besides, what discredit have I to fear by such a step? What detriment? Would Hickman, do you believe, refuse me upon it?—If he did, should I be sorry for that?—Who is it, that has a Soul, who would not be affected by such an instance of female friendship?

But I should vex and disorder my mamma!—Well, that is something! But not more than she vexes and disorders me, on her being made an implement by such a sorry creature, who ambles hither every day in spite to my dearest friend.—Woe be to both, if it be for a double end!—Chide me, if you will: I don't care.

I say, and I insist upon it, such a step would ennoble your friend: And if still you will permit it, I will take the office out of Lovelace's hands; and, to-morrow evening, or on Monday, before his time of appointment takes place, will come in a chariot, or chaise: And then, my dear, if we get off as I wish, will we make terms, and what terms we please, with them All. My mamma will be glad to receive her daughter again, I warrant ye: And Hickman will cry for joy on my return; or he shall for sorrow.

But you are so very earnestly angry with me for proposing such a step, and have always so much to say for your side of any question, that I am afraid to urge it farther.—Only be so good as to encourage me to resume it, if, upon farther consideration, and upon

weighing matters well [and in this light, Whether best to go off with me, or with Lovelace], you can get over your punctilious regard for my reputation. A wo|man going off with a woman is not so discreditable a thing, surely! and with no view, but to avoid the fellows!—I say, only be so good as to consider this point; and if you can get over your scruples, on my account, do. And so I will have done with this ar|gument for the present; and apply myself to some of the passages in yours.

A time, I hope, will come, that I shall be able to read your affecting narratives, without that impa|tience and bitterness, which now boils over in my heart, and would flow to my pen, were I to enter into the particulars of what you write. And, indeed, I am afraid of giving you my advice at all, or of tell|ing you what I should do in your case [supposing you will still refuse my offer]; finding too, what you have been brought, or rather driven, to, without it; lest any evil should follow it: In which case, I should ne|ver forgive myself. And this consideration has added to my difficulties in writing to you, now you are upon such a crisis, and yet refuse the only method—But I said, I would not for the present touch any more that string. Yet, one word more, chide me, if you please: If any harm betide you, I shall for ever blame my mamma—Indeed I shall—And perhaps yourself, if you do not accept of my offer.

But one thing, in your present situation, and pro|spects, let me advise: It is this, That if you do go away with Mr. Lovelace, you take the first opportunity to permit the ceremony to pass. Why should you not, when every-body will know by whose assistance, and in whose company, you leave your father's house, go whithersoever you will?—You may, indeed, keep him at distance, until settlements are drawn, and such-like matters are adjusted to your mind. But even These are matters of less consideration in your

particular case, than they would be in that of most others: Because, be his other faults what they will, no|body thinks him an ungenerous man: Because the posses|sion of your estate must be given up to you, as soon as your cousin Morden comes; who, as your Trustee, will see it done; and done upon proper terms: Be|cause there is no want of fortune on his side: Because all his family value you, and are extremely desirous that you should be their relation: Because he makes no scruple of accepting you without conditions. You see how he has always defy'd your relations [I, for my own part, can forgive him for that fault: Nor know I, if it be not a noble one]. And I dare say, he had rather call you his, without a shilling, than be under obligation to those whom he has full as little reason to love, as they have to love him. You have heard, that his own relations cannot make his proud spirit submit to owe any favour to them.

For all these reasons, I think, you may the less stand upon previous settlements. It is therefore my absolute opinion, that, if you do go off with him [And in that case you must let him be judge, when he can leave you with safety, you'll observe That], you should not postpone the ceremony.

Give this matter your most serious consideration. Punctilio is out of doors the moment you are out of your father's house. I know how justly severe you have been upon those inexcusable creatures, whose giddiness, and even want of decency, have made them, in the same hour, as I may say, leap from a parent's window to a husband's bed—But, consider|ing Lovelace's character, I repeat my opinion, that your Reputation in the eye of the world requires, that no delay be made in this point, when once you are in his power.

I need not, I am sure, make a stronger plea to you.

You say, in excuse for my mamma (what my fer|vent

love for my friend very ill brooks), That we ought not to blame any-one for not doing what she has an option to do, or to let alone. This, in cases of friendship, would admit of very strict discussion. If the thing requested be of greater consequence, or even of equal, to the person sought to, and it were, as the old phrase has it, to take a thorn out of one's friend's foot, to put it into our own, something might be said.—Nay, it would be, I will venture to say, a selfish thing, in us to ask a favour of a friend, which would sub|ject That friend to the same or equal inconvenience, as That from which we wanted to be relieved. The requester would, in this case, teach his friend, by his own selfish example, with much better reason, to deny him, and despise a friendship so merely nominal. But if, by a less inconvenience to ourselves, we could relieve our friend from a greater, the refusal of such a favour makes the refuser unworthy of the name of Friend: Nor would I admit such a one, not even into the outermost fold of my heart.

I am well aware, that this is your opinion of friend|ship, as well as mine: For I owe the distinction to you, upon a certain occasion; and it saved me from a very great inconvenience, as you must needs re|member. But you was always for making excuses for other people, in cases wherein you would not have allowed of one for yourfelf.

I must own, that were these excuses for a friend's indifference, or denial, made by any-body but you, in a case of such vast importance to herself, and of so comparative a small one to those whose protection she would be thought to wish for; I, who am for ever, as you have often remarked, endeavouring to trace effects to their causes, should be ready to suspect, that there was a latent, un-owned inclination, which ba|lancing, or preponderating rather, made the issue of the alternative show ever important) sit more lightly upon the excuser's mind than she cared to own.

You will understand me, my dear. But if you do not, it may be as well for me; for I am afraid I shall have it from you, for but starting such a notion, or giving a hint, which, perhaps, as you did once in another case, you will reprimandingly call,

'Not being able to forego the ostentation of sagacity, tho' at the expence of that tenderness which is due to friendship and charity.'

What signifies owning a fault, without mending it, you'll say?—Very true, my dear. But you know I ever was a saucy creature!—Ever stood in need of great allowances.—And I know, likewise, that I ever had them from my dear Clarissa Harlowe. Nor do I doubt them now: For you know how much I love you!—If it be possible, more than myself I love you! Believe me, my dear! And, in consequence of that belief, you will be able to judge, how much I am affected by your present distressful and critical situa|tion; which will not suffer me to pass by, without a censure, even that philosophy of temper in your own cause, which you have not in another's, and which all that know you, ever admired you for.

From this critical and distressful situation, it shall be my hourly prayers, that you may be delivered without blemish to that fair fame, which has hitherto, like your heart, been unspotted.

With This prayer, twenty times repeated, con|cludes

Your ever-affectionate ANNA HOWE.

I hurry'd myself in writing This; and I hurry Robin away with it, that in a Situation so very critical, you may have all the time possible to consider what I have written, upon two points so very important. I will repeat them in a very few words:

'Whether you choose not rather to go off with one of your own Sex; with your ANNA HOWE—

than with one of the other; with Mr. LOVE|LACE?'

And if not,

'Whether you should not marry him as soon as possible?'

LETTER XLI. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE. [The preceding letter not received.]

Saturday Afternoon.

ALready have I an ecstatic answer, as I may call it, to my letter.

'He promises compliance in every article with my will: Approves of all I propose; particularly of the private lodging: And thinks it a happy expedient to obviate the censures of the busy and the unreflect|ing: And yet he hopes, that the putting myself into the protection of either of his aunts, treated as I am treated, would be far from being looked upon by any, in a disreputable light. But every thing I injoin, or resolve upon, must, he says, be right, not only with respect to my present, but future, ho|nour; with regard to which, he hopes so to behave himself, as to be allow'd to be next to myself, more solicitous than any-body. He will only assure me, that his whole family are extremely desirous to take advantage of the persecutions I labour under, to make their court, and endear themselves, to me; by their best and most chearful services: Happy, if they can, in any measure, contribute to my present freedom, and future happiness.

'He will this afternoon, he says, write to his uncle, and to both his aunts, that he is now within view of being the happiest man in the world, if it be not his own fault; since the only woman upon earth that can make him so, will be soon out of danger of being another man's; and cannot possibly prescribe

any terms to him, that he shall not think it his duty to comply with.

'He flatters himself now (my last letter confirming my resolution), that he can be in no apprehension of my changing my mind, unless my friends change their manner of acting by me; which he is too sure they will not. And now will all his relations, who take such a kind and generous share in his interests, glory and pride themselves in the prospects he has before him.

Thus artfully does he hold me to it!—

'As to fortune, he begs of me not to be solicitous on that score: That his own estate is sufficient for us both; not a nominal, but a real, two thousand pounds per annum, equivalent to some estates reputed a third more: That it never was incumbred: That he is clear of the world, both as to book and bond-debts; thanks, perhaps, to his pride, more than to his virtue. That his uncle moreover resolves to settle upon him a thou|sand pounds per annum on his nuptials. And this, (if he writes to his Lordship's honour) more from mo|tives of justice, than from those of generosity, as he ought to consider it but as an equivalent for an estate which he had got possession of, to which his [Mr. Lovelace's] mother had better pretensions. That his Lordship also proposed to give him up either his seat in Hertfordshire, or that in Lancashire, at his own or at his wife's option, especially if I am the person. All which it will be in my power to see done, and proper settlements drawn, before I enter into any farther engagements with him; if I will have it so.'

He says,

'That I need not be under any solicitude as to apparel: All immediate occasions of That sort will be most chearfully supplied by his aunts, or his cousins Montague: As my others shall, with the greatest pride and pleasure (if I will allow him that honour), by himself.

'That I shall govern him as I please, with regard to any-thing in his power towards effecting a recon|ciliation with my friends: A point he knows my heart is set upon.

'He is afraid, that the time will hardly allow of his procuring Miss Charlotte Montague's attendance upon me, at St. Albans, as he had proposed she should; because, he understands, she keeps her cham|ber, with a violent cold, and sore throat. But both she and her sister, the first moment she is able to go abroad, shall visit me at my private lodgings; and introduce me to their aunts, or their aunts to me, as I shall choose; and accompany me to town, if I please; and stay as long in it with me, as I shall think fit to stay there.

'Lord M. will also, at my own time, and in my own manner, that is to say, either publicly or pri|vately, make me a visit. And, for his own part, when he has seen me in safety, either in their protection, or in the privacy I prefer, he will leave me, and not attempt to visit me, but by my own permission.

'He had thoughts once, he says, on hearing of his cousin Charlotte's indisposition, to have engaged his cousin Patty's attendance upon me, either at or about the neighbouring village, or at St. Albans: But, he says, she is a low-spirited, timorous girl, who would but the more perplex us.'

So, my dear, the enterprize requires courage and high spirits, you see!—And indeed it does!—What am I about to do!—

He himself, it is plain, thinks it necessary, that I should be accompanied with one of my own Sex!—He might, at least, have proposed the woman of one of the Ladies of his family.—Lord bless me!—What am I about to do!—

AFTER all, far as I have gone, I know not but I may still recede: And if I do, a mortal quarrel, I

suppose, will ensue.—And what if it does?—Could there be any way to escape this Solmes, a breach with Lovelace might make way for the Single Life [so much, my preferable wish!] to take place: And then I would defy the Sex. For I see nothing but trouble and vexation that they bring upon ours: And when once enter'd, one is obliged to go on with them, treading, with tender feet, upon thorns, and sharper thorns, to the end of a painful journey.

What to do, I know not. The more I think, the more I am embarrass'd!—And the stronger will be my doubts, as the appointed time draws nearer.

But I will go down, and take a little turn in the garden; and deposite This, and his letters, all but the two last; which I will inclose in my next, if I have opportunity to write another.

Mean time, my dear friend—But what can I desire you to pray for?—Adieu then!—Let me only say,—Adieu!—

LETTER XLII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE. [In answer to Letter XL.]

Sunday Morning, April 9.

DO not think, my beloved friend, altho' you have given me, in yours of yesterday, a severer instance of what, nevertheless, I must call your im|partial Love, than ever yet I received from you, that I will be displeased with you for it. That would be to put myself into the inconvenient situation of Royalty: That is to say, Out of the way of ever be|ing told of my faults; of ever mending them; and In the way of making the sincerest and warmest friend|ship useless to me.

And then how brightly, how nobly, burns this sacred flame in your bosom! that you are ready to

impute to the unhappy sufferer a less degree of warmth in her own cause, than you have for her, because she endeavours to divest herself of Self, so far as to leave others to the option which they have a right to make? Ought I, my dear, to blame, ought I not rather to admire, you for this ardor?

But, nevertheless, lest you should think, that there is any foundation for a surmize, which, altho' it owe its rise to your friendship, would, if there were, leave me utterly inexcusable; I must, injustice to myself, declare, That I know not my own heart, if I have any of that latent or un-owned inclination, which you would impute to any other but me. Nor does the im|portant alternative sit lightly on my mind. And yet I must excuse your mamma, were it but on this single consideration, That I could not presume to reckon upon her favour, as I could upon her daughter's, so as to make the claim of friendship upon her, to whom, as the mother of my dearest friend, a veneration is owing, which can hardly be compatible with that sweet fami|liarity, which is one of the indispensibles of the sacred tie by which your heart and mine are bound in one.

What therefore I might expect from my Anna Howe, I ought not from her mamma; for would it not be very strange, that a person of her experience should be reflected upon, because she gave not up her own judgment, where the consequence of her doing so would be, to embroil herself, as she apprehends, with a family she has lived well with, and in behalf of a child against her parents?—As she has, moreover, a daughter of her own:—A daughter too, give me leave to say, of whose vivacity and charming spirits she is more apprehensive than she need to be; because her truly maternal cares make her fear more from her youth, than she hopes from her prudence; which ne|vertheless she, and all the world, know to be beyond her years.

And here let me add, That whatever you may

generously, and as the result of an ardent affection for your unhappy friend, urge on this head, in my behalf, or harshly against any one who may refuse me protection in such extraordinary circumstances as I find myself in; I have some pleasure, in being able to curb undue expectations upon my indulgent friends, whatever were to befal myself from those circum|stances; for I should be extremely mortified, were I, by my selfish forwardness, to give occasion for such a check, as to be told, that I had encouraged an un|reasonable hope; or, according to the phrase you men|tion, wished to take a Thorn out of my own foot, and to put it into that of my friend. Nor should I be better pleased with myself, if, having been taught by my good Mrs. Norton, that the best of schools, is That of affliction, I should rather learn impatience than the contrary, by the lessons I am obliged to get by heart in it; and if I should judge of the merits of others, as they were kind to me; and that at the expence of their own convenience or peace of mind. For is not This to suppose myself ever in the right; and all who do not act as I would have them act, perpetually in the wrong? In short, to make my sake, God's sake, in the sense of Mr. Solmes's pitiful plea to me.

How often, my dear, have You and I endeavour'd to detect and censure this partial spirit in others?

But I know, you do not always content yourself with saying what you think may justly be said: But, in order to shew the extent of a penetration, which can go to the bottom of any subject, delight to say, or to write, all that can be said, or written, or even thought, on the particular occasion; and this partly, perhaps, from being desirous (pardon me, my dear!) to be thought mistress of a sagacity that is aforehand with events. But who would wish to drain off, or dry up, a refreshing current, because it now and then puts us to some little inconvenience by its over-flow|ings? In other words, who would not allow, for the

liveliness of a spirit, which, for one painful sensibility, gives an hundred pleasurable ones: And the one in consequence of the other?

But now I come to the two points in your letter, that most sensibly concern me: Thus you put them:

'Whether I choose not rather to go off with one of my own Sex; with my ANNA HOWE—than with one of the other; with Mr. LOVELACE?'

And if not,

'Whether I should not marry him, as soon as possible?'

You know, my dear, my reasons for rejecting your proposal, and even for being earnest that you should not be known to be assisting to me in an enterprize, which a cruel necessity induced me to think of engaging in; and which you have not the same plea for. At this rate, well might your mamma be uneasy at our cor|respondence, not knowing to what inconveniencies it might subject her and you!—If I am hardly ex|cusable to think of flying from my unkind friends, what could you have to say for yourself, were you to abandon a mother so indulgent? Does she suspect, that your fervent friendship may lead you to a small indiscretion? and does this suspicion offend you? And would you, in revenge, shew her and the world, that you can voluntarily rush into the highest error, that any of our sex can be guilty of?

And is it worthy of your generosity [I ask you, my dear, is it?] to think of taking so undutiful a step, because you believe your mamma would be glad to receive you again?

I do assure you, that were I to take this step my|self, I would run all risques rather than you should accompany me in it. Have I, do you think, a desire to double and treble my own fault, in the eye of the world? In the eye of that world, which, cruelly as I am used (not knowing all), would not acquit me?

But, my dearest, kindest friend, let me tell you, That we will neither of us take such a step. The manner of putting your questions, abundantly con|vinces me, that I ought not, in your opinion, to at|tempt it. You, no doubt, intend, that I shall so take it; and I thank you for the equally polite and forcible conviction.

It is some satisfaction to me, taking the matter in this light, that I had begun to waver before I received your last. And now I tell you, that it has absolutely determin'd me not to go away; at least, not to-morrow.

If You, my dear, think the issue of the alternative, to use your own words, sits so lightly upon my mind▪ in short, that my inclination is faulty; the world would treat me much less scrupulously. When, therefore, you represent, that all punctilio must be at an end the moment I am out of my father's house; and hint, that I must submit it to Lovelace to judge when he can leave me with safety; that is to say, give him the option whether he will leave me, or not; Who can bear these reflections, and resolve to incur these in|conveniences, that has the question still in her own power to decide upon?

While I thought only of an escape from This house, as an escape from Mr. Solmes; that already my reputa|tion suffer'd by my confinement; and that it would be still in my own option, either to marry Mr. Lovelace, or wholly to renounce him; Bold as the step was, I thought, treated as I am treated, something was to be said in excuse of it—If not to the world, to my|self: And to be self-acquitted, is a blessing to be pre|ferred to the opinion of all the world. But, after I have censured that indiscreet forwardness in some, who (flying from their chamber to the altar) have, with|out the least ceremony, rush'd upon the greatest: After I have stipulated with him for time, and for an ulti|mate option, whether to accept or refuse him; and for his leaving me, as soon as I am in a place of safety

(which, as you observe, he must be the judge of): And after he has comply'd with these terms; so that I cannot, if I would, recall them, and suddenly marry;—You see, my dear, that I have nothing left me, but to resolve, not to go away with him.

But, how, on this revocation, shall I be able to pacify him?

How!—Why assert the privilege of my Sex!—Surely, on This side of the solemnity he has no right to be displeased. Besides, did I not reserve a power of receding, if I saw fit? To what purpose, as I asked in the case between your mamma and you, has any-body an option, if the making use of it, shall give the refused a right to be disgusted?

Far, very far, would Those be, who, according to the Old Law, have a right of absolving or confirming a child's promise, from ratifying mine, had it been ever so solemn a one (a) 67.3. But This was rather an ap|pointment than a promise: And suppose it had been

the latter; and that I had not reserv'd to myself a liberty of revoking it, was it to preclude better or maturer consideration?—If so, how unfit to be given!—How ungenerous to be insisted upon!—And how unfitter still, to be kept!—Is there a man living, who ought to be angry, that a woman, whom he hopes one day to call his, shall refuse to keep a rash promise, when, on the maturest deliberation, she is convinc'd, that it was a rash one?

I resolve then, upon the whole, to stand This one trial of Wednesday next.—Or, perhaps, I should ra|ther say, of Tuesday evening; if my father hold his purpose of endeavouring, in person, to make me read, or hear read, and then sign, the settlements.—That, that must be the greatest trial of all.

If I am compelled to sign them over-night!—Then [the Lord bless me!] must All I dread, follow, as of course, on Wednesday.—If I can prevail upon them, by my prayers—Perhaps, by fits, and delirium, (for the very first appearance of my father, after hav|ing been so long banish'd his presence, will greatly af|fect me) to lay aside their views; or to suspend, if but for one week; if not, but for two or three days; still Wednesday will be a lighter day of trial.—They will surely give me time to consider; to argue with myself—This will not be promising—As I have made no effort to get away, they have no reason to suspect me; so I may have an opportunity, in the last resort, to escape. Mrs. Norton is to be with me: She, altho' she should be check'd for it, will, in my extremity, plead for me. My aunt Hervey may, on such ex|tremity, join her. Perhaps, my mamma may be brought over. I will kneel to each, one by one, to make a friend. They have been afraid, some of them, to see me, lest they should be moved in my favour: Does not This give me a reasonable hope, that I may move them?—My brother's counsel, heretofore given, to turn me out of doors to my evil destiny, may again

be repeated, and may prevail: Then shall I be in no worse case than now, as to the displeasure of my friends; and thus far better, that it will not be my fault that I leave them, and seek another protection: Which even then, ought to be my cousin Morden's, rather than Mr. Lovelace's, or any other person's.

My heart, in short, misgives me less, when I re|solve This way, than when I think of the other: And in so strong and involuntary a byass, the heart is, as I may say, Conscience. And well cautions the wise man:

'Let the counsel of thine own heart stand; for there is no man more faithful to thee, than It: For a man's mind is sometimes wont to tell him more than seven watchmen, that fit above in a high tower.'

(a) 67.4

Forgive these indigested self-reasonings. I will close here: And instantly set about a letter of revocation to Mr. Lovelace; take it as he will. It will only be an|other trial of temper to him. To me of infinite im|portance. And has he not promised temper and ac|quiescence, on the supposition of a change in my mind?

CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER XLIII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Sunday Morning, April 9.

NOBODY, it seems, will go to church this day. No blessing to be expected perhaps upon views so worldly, and in some so cruel.

They have a mistrust that I have some device in my head. Betty has been looking among my cloaths. I found her, on coming up from depositing my letter to Lovelace [for I have written!] peering among them, the key being in the lock. She colour'd, and was

confounded to be caught. But I only said, I should be accustom'd to any sort of treatment in time!—If she had her orders—those were enough for her.

She own'd, in her confusion, that a motion had been made to abridge me of my airings; and the re|port she should make, would be no disadvantage to me. One of my friends, she told me, urged in my behalf, That there was no need of laying me under greater restraint, since Mr. Lovelace's threatening to rescue me by violence, were I to have been carry'd to my uncle's, was a conviction that I had no design to go off to him voluntarily; and that if I had, I should have made preparations of that kind before now; and, most probably, been detected in them.—Hence, It was also inferr'd, that there was no room to doubt, but I would at last comply. And, added the bold creature, if you don't intend to do so, Your conduct, Miss, seems strange to me.—Only thus she reconciled it; That I had gone so far, I knew not how to come off genteelly: And she fancy'd I should, in full congre|gation, on Wednesday, give Mr. Solmes my hand. And then, said the confident wench, as the learned Dr. Brand took his text last Sunday, There will be joy in heaven—

This is the substance of my letter to Mr. Lovelace:

'That I have reasons, of the greatest consequence to myself, and which, when known, must satisfy him, to suspend, for the present, my intention of leaving my father's house: That I have hopes that matters may be brought to an happy conclusion, without taking a step, which nothing but the last ne|cessity could justify: And that he may depend upon my promise, that I will die, rather than consent to marry Mr. Solmes.'

And so, I am preparing myself to stand the shock of his exclamatory reply. But be that what it will, it cannot affect me so much, as the apprehensions of what may happen to me next Tuesday or Wednes|day;

for now those apprehensions engage my whole attention, and make me sick at the very heart.

Sunday, Four o'Clock, P. M.

MY letter is not yet taken away!—If he should not send for it, or take it, and come hither on my not meeting him to-morrow, in doubt of what may have befallen me, what shall I do? Why had I any concerns with this Sex!—I, that was so happy till I knew This man!

I din'd in the Ivy summer-house. It was comply'd with at the first word. To shew I meant nothing, I went again into the house with Betty, as soon as I had dined. I thought it was not amiss to ask this liberty; the weather seeming to be set in fine. One does not know what Tuesday or Wednesday may produce.

Sunday Evening, Seven o'Clock.

THERE remains my letter still!—He is busied, I suppose, in his preparations for to-morrow. But then he has servants. Does the man think he is so secure of me, that having appointed, he need not give him|self any further concern about me, till the very mo|ment!—He knows how I am beset. He knows not what may happen. I might be ill, or still more closely watched or confined, than before. The correspon|dence might be discovered. It might be necessary to vary the scheme. I might be forced into measures, which might intirely frustrate my purpose. I might have new doubts: I might suggest something more convenient, for any thing he knew. What can the man mean, I wonder!—Yet it shall lie; for if he has it any time before the appointed hour, it will save me declaring to him personally my changed purpose, and the trouble of contending with him on that score. If he send for it at all, he will see by the date, that he might have had it in time; and if he be put to any

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inconvenience from shortness of notice, let him take it for his pains.

Sunday Night, Nine o'Clock.

IT is determined, it seems, to send to Mrs. Norton, to be here on Tuesday to dinner; and she is to stay with me for a whole week.

So she is first to endeavour to persuade me to com|ply, and, when the violence is done, she is to comfort me, and try to reconcile me to my fate. They ex|pect fits and fetches, Betty insolently tells me, and ex|postulations, and exclamations, without number: But every-body will be prepared for them: And when it's over, it's over; and I shall be easy and pacified, when I find I cannot help it.

Mond. Morn. April 10, Seven o'Clock.

O MY dear! There yet lies the letter, just as I left it!

Does he think he is so sure of me!—Perhaps he imagines that I dare not alter my purpose. I wish I had never known him!—I begin now to see this rasth|ness in the light every-one else would have seen it in, had I been guilty of it.—But what can I do, if he come to-day at the appointed time!—If he receive not the letter, I must see him, or he will think some|thing has befallen me; and certainly will come to the house. As certainly he will be insulted. And what, in that case, may be the consequence!—Then I as good as promised, that I would take the first oppor|tunity to see him, if I changed my mind, and to give him my reasons for it. I have no doubt but he will be out of humour upon it: But better he meet me, and go away dissatisfied with me, than that I should go away dissatisfied with myself.

Yet, short as the time is, he may still perhaps send, and get the letter. Something may have happened to prevent him, which, when known, will excuse him.

After I have disappointed him more than once be|fore, on a requested interview only, it is impossible he should not have curiosity, at least, to know if some|thing has not happened; and if my mind hold in this more important case. And yet, as I rashly confirm'd my resolution by a second letter, I begin now to doubt it.

Nine o'Clock.

MY cousin Dolly Hervey slid the inclosed letter into my hand, as I passed by her, coming out of the garden.

Dearest Madam,

I Have got intelligence from one as says she knows, that you must be married on Wednesday morning to Mr. Solmes. May-be, howsoever, only to vex me; for it is Betty Barnes: A saucy creature, I'm sure. A license is got, as she says: And so far she went as to tell me (bidding me say nothing; but she knew as that I would) that Mr. Brand the young Oxford Clergy|man, and fine scholar, is to marry you. For Dr. Lewin, I hear, refuses, unless you consent; and they have heard that he does not like over-well their pro|ceedings against you; and says, as that you don't de|serve to be treated so cruelly as you are treated. But Mr. Brand, I am told, is to have his fortune made by uncle Harlowe, and among them.

You will know better than I what to make of all these matters; for sometimes I think Betty tells me things as if I should not tell you, and yet expects as that I will. She, and all the world knows how I love you: And so I would have them. It is an ho|nour to me to love such a dear young Lady, who is an honour to all her family, let them say what they will. But there is such whispering between this Betty, and Miss Harlowe, as you can't imagine; and when that is done, Betty comes and tells me something.

This seems to be sure (and that is why I write: But

pray burn it) you are to be searched once more for letters, and for pen and ink; for they know you write. Something they pretend to have betray'd out of one of Mr. Lovelace's servants, as they hope to make something of; I know not what. That must be a very vilde and wicked man, who would brag of Lady's goodness to him, and tell secrets. Mr. Love|lace is too much of a gentleman for that, I dare say. If not, who can be safe of young innocent creatures, such as we be?

Then they have a notion, from that false Betty, I beliefe, as that you intend to take something to make yourself sick, or some such thing; and so they will search for phials and powders, and such-like.

Strange searching among them! God bless us young creatures, when we come among such suspicious re|lations. But, thank God, my mamma is not such a one, at the present.

If nothing be found, you are to be used kindlier for that, by your papa, at the grand judgment, as I may call it.

Yet, sick or well, alas, my dear cousin! you must be married, belike. So says this same creature; and I don't doubt it: But your husband is to go home every night, till you are reconciled to go to him. And so illness can be no pretence to save you.

They are sure you will make a good wife, when you be one. So would not I, unless I liked my hus|band. And Mr. Solmes is always telling them how he will purchase your love and all that, by jewels and fine things.—A siccofant of a man!—I wish he and Betty Barnes were to come together; and he would beat her every-day till she was good.—So, in brief, secure every thing you would not have seen: And burn This, I beg you. And, pray, dearest Madam, do not take nothing as may hurt your health: For that will not do. I am,

Your truly loving Cousin, D. H.

When I first read my cousin's letter, I was half inclin'd to resume my former intention; especially as my countermanding letter is not taken away: And as my heart akes at the thoughts of the conflict I must expect to have with him on my refusal. For, see him for a few moments I doubt I must, lest he should take some rash resolutions; especially, as he has reason to expect I will. But here your words, That all punctilio is at an end, the moment I am out of my father's house, added to the still more cogent con|siderations of Duty and Reputation, determin'd me once more against taking the rash step. And it will be very hard (altho' no seasonable fainting, or wish'd-for fit, should stand my friend) if I cannot gain one month, or fortnight, or week. And I have still more hopes that I shall prevail for some delay, from my cousin's intimation, that the good Doctor Lewin refuses to give his assistance to their projects, if they have not my consent, and thinks me cruelly used: Since, without taking notice that I am apprized of this, I can plead a scruple of conscience, and insist upon having that worthy Divine's opinion upon it: Which, inforced as I shall inforce it, my mamma will surely second me in: My aunt Hervey, and my Mrs. Norton, will support her: The suspension must follow: And I can but get away afterwards.

But, if they will compel me: If they will give me no time: If no-body will be moved: If it be re|solved that the ceremony shall be read over my con|strained hand—Why then—Alas! What then!—I can but—But what? O my dear! This Solmes shall never have my vows I am resolved! And I will say nothing but No, as long as I shall be able to speak. And who will presume to look upon such an act of violence, as a marriage?—It is impossible, surely, that a father and mother can see such a dreadful com|pulsion offer'd to their child—But if mine should

withdraw, and leave the task to my brother and sister, they will have no mercy!

I am griev'd to be driven to have recourse to the following artifices.

I have given them a clue, by the feather of a pen sticking out, where they will find such of my hidden stores, as I intend they shall find.

Two or three little essays I have left easy to be seen, of my own writing.

About a dozen lines also of a letter begun to you, in which I express my hopes, (altho' I say, that appear|ances are against me) that my friends will relent. They know from your mamma, by my uncle An|tony, that, some how or other, I now and then get a letter to you. In this piece of a letter, I declare re|newedly my firm resolution to give up the man so ob|noxious to my family, on their releasing me from the address of the other.

Near the essays, I have left a copy of my letter to Lady Drayton (a) 74.1; which, affording arguments suit|able to my case, may chance (thus accidentally to be fallen upon) to incline them to favour me.

I have reserves of pens and ink you may believe; and one or two in the Ivy summer-house; with which I shall amuse myself in order to lighten, if possible, those apprehensions which more and more affect me as Wednesday the day of trial approaches.

CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER XLIV. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Ivy summer-house, Eleven o'Clock.

HE has not yet got my letter: And while I was contriving here, how to send my officious gaol|eress from me, that I might have time for the intended

interview, and had hit upon an expedient, which I believe would have done, came my aunt, and fur|nish'd me with a much better. She saw my little table covered, preparative to my solitary dinner; and hoped, she told me, that this would be the last day, that my friends would be deprived of my company at table.

You may believe, my dear, that the thoughts of meeting Mr. Lovelace, the fear of being discover'd, together with the contents of my cousin Dolly's letter, gave me great and visible emotions. She took notice of them:—Why these sighs, why these heavings here, said she, patting my neck?—O my dear niece, who would have thought so much natural sweetness could be so very unpersuadable?

I could not answer her, and she proceeded.—I am come, I doubt, upon a very unwelcome errand. Some things that have been told us yesterday, which came from the mouth of one of the most desperate and inso|lent men in the world, convince your father, and all of us, that you still find means to write out of the house. Mr. Lovelace knows every-thing that is done here; and that as soon as done; and great mischief is appre|hended from him, which you are as much concerned as any-body, to prevent. Your mamma has also some apprehensions concerning yourself, which yet she hopes are groundless; but, however, cannot be easy, nor will be permitted to be easy, if she would, un|less (while you remain here in the garden, or in this summer-house) you give her the opportunity once more of looking into your closet, your cabinet, and drawers. It will be the better taken, if you give me chearfully your keys. I hope, my dear, you won't dispute it. Your desire of dining in this place was the more readily comply'd with, for the sake of such an opportunity.

I thought myself very lucky, to be so well pre|pared, by my cousin Dolly's means, for this search:

But yet I artfully made some scruples, and not a few complaints of this treatment: After which, I not only gave her the keys of all; but even officiously empty'd my pockets before her, and invited her to put her fingers in my stays, that she might be sure that I had no papers there.

This highly obliged her; and she said, She would represent my chearful compliance as it deserved, let my brother and sister say what they would. My mam|ma, in particular, she was sure, would rejoice at the opportunity given her to obviate, as she doubted not would be the case, some suspicions that were raised against me.

She then hinted, That there were methods taken to come at all Mr. Lovelace's secrets, and even, from his careless communicativeness, at some of mine; it being, she said, his custom, boastingly to prate to his very servants of his intentions, in particular cases. She added, that, deep as he was thought to be, my brother was as deep as he; and fairly too hard for him at his own weapons;—as one day it would be found.

I knew not, I said, the meaning of these dark hints. I thought the cunning she hinted at, on both sides, called rather for contempt than applause. I myself might have been put upon artifices which my heart disdained to practise, had I given way to the resent|ment, which, I was bold to say, was much more justi|fiable than the actions that occasion'd it: That it was evident to me, from what she had said, that their pre|sent suspicions of me were partly owing to this sup|posed superior cunning of my brother; and partly to the consciousness, that the usage I met with might naturally produce a reason for such suspicions: That it was very unhappy for me, to be made the butt of my brother's wit: That it would have been more to his praise, to have aimed at shewing a kind heart, than a cunning head: That, nevertheless, I wished,

he knew himself as well as I imagin'd I knew him; and he would then have less conceit of his abi|lities: Which abilities would, in my opinion, be less thought of, if his power to do ill offices were not much greater than them.

I was vex'd. I could not help making this re|flection. The dupe the other, too probably, makes of him, thro' his own spy, deserv'd it. But I so little approve of this low art in either, that were I but tole|rably used, the vileness of that man, that Joseph Le|man, should be inquired into.

She was sorry, she said, to find, that I thought so disparagingly of my brother. He was a young gen|tleman both of learning and parts.

Learning enough, I said, to make him vain of it among us women: But not of parts sufficient to make his learning valuable either to himself, or to any-body else.—

She wished, indeed, that he had more good-nature: But she feared, that I had too great an opinion of somebody else, to think so well of my brother, as a sister ought: Since, between the two, there was a sort of rivalry as to abilities, that made them hate one another.

Rivalry, Madam, said I!—If that be the case, or whether it be or not, I wish they both understood better than either of them seems to do, what it becomes gentlemen, and men of liberal education, to be, and to do.—Neither of them, then, would glory in what they ought to be ashamed of.

But waving this subject, it was not impossible, I said, that they might find a little of my writing, and a pen or two, and a little ink [Hated art!—or rather, hateful the necessity for it!], as I was not permitted to go up to put them out of the way: But, if they did, I must be contented. And I assured her, that, t••ke what time they pleased, I would not go in to disturb them, but would be either in or near the garden,

in this summer-house, or in the cedar one, about my poultry-yard, or near the great cascade, till I was or|der'd to return to my prison. With like cunning I said, that I supposed the unkind search would not be made, till the servants had dined; because I doubted not, that the pert Betty Barnes, who knew all the corners of my apartment and closet, would be im|ploy'd in it.

She hoped, she said, that nothing could be found that would give a handle against me: For, she would assure me, the motives to the search, on my mamma's part especially, were, that she hoped to find reason rather to acquit than to blame me; and that my papa might be induced to see me to-morrow night, or Wednesday morning, with temper: With tenderness, I should rather say, said she; for he is resolved so to do, if no new offence be given.

Ah! Madam, said I!—

Why that Ah, Madam, and shaking your head so significantly?

I wish, Madam, that I may not have more reason to dread my papa's continued displeasure, than to hope for his returning tenderness.

You don't know, my dear!—Things may take a turn—Things may not be so bad as you fear—

Dearest Madam, have you any consolation to give me?—

Why, my dear, it is possible, that you may be more compliable than you have been.

Why raised you my hopes, Madam!—Don't let me think my dear aunt Hervey cruel to a niece who truly honours her.

I may tell you more perhaps, said she, (but in con|fidence, in absolute confidence) if the inquiry within come out in your favour. Do you know of any-thing above, that can be found to your disadvantage?

Some papers they will find, I doubt: But I must take consequences. My brother and sister will be at

hand with their good-natured constructions. I am made desperate, and care not what is found.

She hoped, she earnestly hoped, she said, that nothing could be found, that would impeach my discretion; and then—But she might say too much—

And away she went, having added to my perplexity.

But I now can think of nothing but this man!—This interview!—Would to Heaven it were over!—To meet to quarrel—But I will not stay a moment with him, let him take what measures he will upon it, if he be not quite calm and resigned.

Don't you see how crooked some of my lines are? Don't you see how some of the letters stagger, more than others!—That is when this interview is more in my head, than my subject.

But, after all, should I, ought I, to meet him? How I have taken it for granted, that I should!—I wish there were time to take your advice. Yet you are so loth to speak quite out!—But that I owe, as you own, to the difficulty of my situation.

I should have mentioned, that in the course of this conversation I besought my aunt to stand my friend, and to put in a word for me, on my approaching trial; and to endeavour to procure me time for considera|tion, if I could obtain nothing else.

She told me, that, after the ceremony was per|form'd [odious confirmation of a hint in my cousin Dolly's letter!] I should have what time I pleased to reconcile myself to my lot, before cohabitation.

This put me out of all patience.

She requested of me in her turn, she said, that I would resolve to meet them all with chearful duty, and with a spirit of absolute acquiescence. It was in my power to make them all happy. And how affect|ingly joyful would it be to her, she said, to see my father, my mother, my uncles, my brother, my sister, all embracing me with raptures, and folding me by turns to their fond hearts, and congratulating each

other on their restored happiness. Her own joy, she said, would probably make her motionless and speech|less, for a time: And for her Dolly—the poor girl, who had suffer'd in the esteem of some, for her grate|ful attachment to me, would have every-body love her again.

Will you doubt, my dear, that my next trial will be the most affecting that I have yet had?

My aunt set forth all this in so strong a light, and I was so particularly touched on my cousin Dol|ly's account, that, impatient as I was just before, I was greatly moved: Yet could only shew by my sighs and my tears, how desirable such an event would be to me, could it be brought about upon conditions with which it was possible for me to comply.

Here comes Betty Barnes with my dinner—

The wench is gone. The time of meeting is at hand. O that he may not come!—But should I, or should I not, meet him?—How I question, without possibility of a timely answer!

Betty, according to my leading hint to my aunt, boasted to me, that she was to be imploy'd, as she called it, after she had eat her own dinner.

She should be sorry, she told me, to have me found out. Yet 'twould be all for my good: I should have it in my power to be forgiven for all at once, before Wednesday night. The Confidence then, to stifle a laugh, put a corner of her apron in her mouth, and went to the door: And on her return, to take away, as I angrily bid her, she begg'd my excuse.—But—But—and then the saucy creature laugh'd again, she could not help it; to think how I had drawn myself in by my summer-house dinnering; since it had given so fine an opportunity, by way of surprize, to look into all my private hoards. She thought something was in the wind, when my brother came into my dining here so readily. Her young master was too

hard for every-body. 'Squire Lovelace himself was nothing at all at a quick thought, to her young master.

My aunt mention'd Mr. Lovelace's boasting beha|viour to his servants: Perhaps he may be so mean. But as to my brother, he always took a pride in making himself appear to be a man of parts and learn|ing to our servants. Pride and Meanness, I have often thought, are as nearly ally'd, and as close borderers upon each other, as the poet tells us Wit and Mad|ness are.

But why do I trouble you (and myself, at such a cri|sis) with these impertinencies?—Yet I would forget, if I could, the nearest evil, the interview; because, my apprehensions increasing, as the hour is at hand, I should, were my attention to be ingrossed by them, be unfit to see him, if he does come: And then he will have too much advantage over me, as he will have seeming reason to reproach me with change of resolution.

The upbraider, you know, my dear, is in some sense a superior; while the upbraided, if with reason upbraided, must make a figure as spiritless as con|scious.

I know that this wretch will, if he can, be his own judge, and mine too. But the latter he shall not be.

I dare say, we shall be all to pieces. But I don't care for that. It would be hard, if I, who have held it out so sturdily to my father and uncles, should not—But he is at the garden-door—

I was mistaken!—How may noises un-like, be made like what one fears!—Why flutters the fool so!—

I will hasten to deposite this. Then I will, for the last time, go to the usual place, in hopes to find, that he has got my letter. If he has, I will not meet him. If he has not, I will take it back, and shew him what

I have written. That will break the ice, as I may say, and save me much circumlocution and reason|ing: And a stedfast adherence to that my written mind is all that will be necessary.—The interview must be as short as possible; for should it be disco|ver'd, it would furnish a new and strong pretence for the intended evil of Wednesday next.

Perhaps I shall not be able to write again one while. Perhaps not, till I am the miserable property of that Solmes!—But that shall never, never be, while I have my senses.

If your servant find nothing from me by Wed|nesday morning, you may conclude, that I can then neither write to you, nor receive your favours.—

In that case, pity and pray for me, my beloved friend, and continue to me that place in your affe|ction, which is the pride of my life, and the only comfort left to

Your CLARISSA HARLOWE.

LETTER XLV. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

St. Alban's, Tuesday Morn. past One.

O my dearest friend!

AFTER what I had resolved upon, as by my former, what shall I write? What can I? With what consciousness, even by Letter, do I approach you!—You will soon hear (if already you have not heard from the mouth of common fame), that your Clarissa Harlowe is gone off with a man!—

I am busying myself to give you the particulars at large. The whole twenty-four hours of each day (to begin the moment I can fix) shall be imployed in it till it is finished: Every-one of the hours, I mean, that will be spared me, by this interrupting man, to

whom I have made myself so foolishly accountable for too many of them. Rest is departed from me. I have no call for That: And That has no balm for the wounds of my mind. So you'll have all those hours, without interruption, till the account is ended.

But will you receive, shall you be permitted to re|ceive, my letters, after what I have done?

O, my dearest friend!—But I must make the best of it. I hope that will not be very bad! Yet am I convinced, that I did a rash, an inexcusable thing, in meeting him; and all his tenderness, all his vows, cannot pacify my inward reproaches on that account.

The bearer comes to you, my dear, for the little parcel of linen, which I sent you with far better and more agreeeble hopes.

Send not my letters. Send the linen only: Ex|cept you will favour me with one line, to tell me, you will love me still; and that you will suspend your censures, till you have the whole before you. I am the readier to send thus early, because if you have de|posited any-thing for me, you may cause it to be taken back, or withhold any-thing you had but intended to send.

Adieu, my dearest friend!—I beseech you to love me still!—But, alas! what will your mamma say?—What will mine!—What my other relations?—and what my dear Mrs. Norton? And how will my bro|ther and sister triumph?—

I cannot at present tell you how, or where, you can direct to me. For very early shall I leave this place; harrassed and fatigued to death! But, when I can do nothing else, constant use has made me able to write. Long, very long, has that been all my amusement and pleasure: Yet could not that have been such to me, had I not had you, my best-beloved friend, to write to. Once more adieu. Pity, and pray for,

Your CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER XLVI. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Tuesday, Nine o' Clock.

I Write, because you enjoin me to do so.—Love you still!—How can I help it, if I would?—You may believe how I stand aghast, your letter commu|nicating the first news—Good God of heaven and earth!—But what shall I say?—I shall be all impa|tience for particulars.

Lord have mercy upon me!—But can it be?

My mamma will, indeed, be astonished!—How can I tell it to her?—It was but last night that I as|sured her (upon some jealousies put into her head by your foolish uncle), and this upon the strength of your own assurances, that neither man nor devil would be able to induce you to take a step, that was in the least derogatory to the most punctilious ho|nour.

But, once more, Can it be? What woman, at this rate!—But, God preserve you!

Let nothing escape you in your letters. Direct them for me, however, to Mrs. Knollys's, till fur|ther notice.

OBSERVE, my dear, that I don't blame you by all this—Your relations only are in fault!—Yet how you came to change your mind, is the surprising thing!—

How to break it to my mamma, I know not. Yet, if she hear it first from any other, and find I knew it before, she will believe it is by my connivance!—Yet, as I hope to live, I know not how to break it to her!

But this is teazing you!—I am sure, without inten|tion.

Let me now repeat my former advice—If you are not married by this time, be sure delay not the cere|mony.—Since things are as they are, I wish it were thought, that you were privately married before you went away. If these men plead AUTHORITY to our pain, when we are theirs—why should we not, in such a case as this, make some good out of the hated word, for our reputation, when we are induced to violate a more natural one?

Your brother and sister [that vexes me almost as much as any thing!] have now their ends. Now, I suppose, will go forward alterations of wills, and such-like spiteful doings.

Miss Lloyd and Miss Biddulph this moment send up their names.—They are out of breath, Kitty says, to speak to me.—Easy to guess their errand!—I must see my mamma, before I see them. I have no way but to shew her your letter, to clear myself. I shall not be able to say a word, till she has run herself out of her first breath.—Forgive me, my dear!—Surprize makes me write thus. If your messenger did not wait, and were not those young Ladies below, I would write it over again, for fear of afflicting you.

I send what you write for. If there be any-thing else you want, that is in my power, command, with|out reserve,

Your ever-affectionate ANNA HOWE.

END of Vol. II.

Notes

• (a) 1.1

  See Letter XXXVII, in the preceding Volume, for the occasion: And Letters XXXVIII, XL, in the same, for the freedoms Miss Harlowe apologizes for.
• (a) 1.2

  Henry VII.
• (a) 1.3

  See Vol. I. Letter xxxvi.
• (a) 18.1

  See the next Letter.
• (a) 18.2

  The passage most particularly recommended by Miss Howe, the following.

  'Permit me, Madam (says the personated grave writer) to observe▪ That if persons of your experience would have young people look for+ward, in order to be wiser and better by their advice, it would be kin•• in them to look backward, and allow for their childrens youth, an•• natural vivacity; in other words, for their lively hopes, unabated by time, unaccompanied by reflection, and unchecked by disappointment. Things appear to us all in a very different light at our Entrance upon a favourite Party, or Tour; when, with golden prospects, and high ex+pectations, we rise vigorous and fresh, like the sun, beginning it•• morning course; from what they do, when we sit down at the End o•• our views, tired, and preparing for our journey homeward: For then we take into our reflection, what we had left out of our scheme, the fatigues, the checks, the hazards, we had met with; and make a true estimate of pleasures, which, from our raised expectations, must necessarily have fallen miserably short of what we had promised our|selves at setting out—Nothing but experience can give us a strong and efficacious conviction of this difference: And when we would in|culcate the fruits of that upon the minds of those we love, who have not lived long enough to find those fruits, and would hope, that our advice should have as much force upon them, as experience has upon us; and which, perhaps, our parents advice had not upon ourselves at our daughters time of life; should we not proceed by patient reasoning and gentleness, that we may not harden, where we would convince? For, Madam, the tenderest and most generous minds, when harshly treated, become generally the most inflexible. If the young Lady knows her heart to be right, however defective her head may be, for want of years and experience, she will be apt to be very tenacious. And if she believes her friends to be wrong, altho' perhaps they may be only so in their methods of treating her, how much will every unkind cir|cumstance on the parent's part, or heedless one on the child's, though ever so slight in itself, widen the difference? The parent's prejudice in dis-favour, will confirm the daughter's in favour, of the same person; and the best reasonings in the world on either side, will be attributed to that prejudice. In short, neither of them will be convinced▪ A perpetual opposition ensues; the parent grows impatient; the child desperate: And, as a too natural consequence, That falls out, which the mother was most afraid of, and which, possibly, had been pre|vented, had the child's passions been only led, not driven.'
• (a) 64.1

  It may not be amiss to observe in this place, That Mr. Love|lace artfully contrived to drive them on, by permitting his agent and theirs, to report machinations, which he had no intention, nor power, to execute.
• (a) 66.1

  The Ivy summer-house, or Ivy bower, as it was sometimes cal|led in the family, was a place, that from a girl, this young Lady de|lighted in. She used, in the summer-months, frequently to sit and work, and read, and write, and draw, and (when permitted) to breakfast, and dine, and sometimes to sup, in it; especially when Miss Howe, who had an equal liking to it, was her visitor and guest.

  She describes it, in another letter, as

  'angularly pointing to a pretty variegated landschape of wood, water, and hilly country; which had pleased her so much, that she had drawn it; the piece hanging up, in her parlour, among some of her other drawings.'
• (a) 67.1

  They might, no doubt, make a dependence upon the reasons she gives: But their chief reliance was upon the vigilance of their Joseph Leman; little imagining, what an implement he was of Mr. Love|lace.
• (b) 67.2

  This, in another of her letters, is thus described:—

  'A piece of ruins upon it, the remains of an old chapel, now standing in the midst of the coppice; here and there an overgrown oak, surrounded with ivy and misletoe, starting up, to sanctify, as it were, the awful solemness of the place: A spot, too, where a man having been found hanging some years ago, it was used to be thought of by us when children, and by the maid-servants, with a degree of terror; as the habitation of owls, ravens, and other ominous birds; and as haunted by ghosts, goblins, spectres: The genuine result of country loneliness and ignorance: Notions which, early propagated, are apt to leave im|pressions even upon minds grown strong enough, at the same time, to despise the like credulous follies in others.'
• (a) 67.3

  See Numb. xxx. Where it is declared, whose vows shall be binding, and whose not. The vows of a man, or of a widow, are there pronounced to be indispensible; because they are sole, and subject to no other domestic authority. But the vows of a single woman, and of a wife, if the father of the one, or the husband of the other, disallow of them, as soon as they know them, are to be of no force.

  A matter highly necessary to be known; by all young ladies, especially, whose designing addressers too often endeavour to engage them by vows; and then plead conscience and honour to them to hold them down to the performance.

  It cannot be amiss to recite the very words.

  Ver. 3. If a woman vow a vow unto the Lord, and bind herself by a bond, being in her father's house in her youth;

  4. And her father hear her vow, and her bond wherewith she hath bound her soul, and her father shall hold his peace at her; then all her vows shall stand, and every bond wherewith she hath bound her soul shall stand.

  5. But if her father disallow her in the day that he heareth; not any if her vows or of her bonds wherewith she hath bound her soul shall stand: And the Lord shall forgive her because her father disallowed her.

  The same in the case of a wife, as said above. See ver. 6, 7, 8, &c.—And all is thus solemnly closed.

  Ver. 16. These are the statutes which the Lord commanded Moses between a man and his wife, between the father and his daughter, being yet in her youth in her father's house;.
• (a) 67.4

  Ecclus. xxxvii. 13, 14.
• (a) 74.1

  See Letter xiii. p. 74, of this Vol.