Clarissa: Or, the history of a young lady: comprehending the most important concerns of private life. ... Published by the editor of Pamela. ... [pt.4]

THE HISTORY OF Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

LETTER I. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Sunday Night, May 7.

_WHEN you reflect upon my unhappy situa|tion, which is attended with so many indelicate and even shocking circum|stances, some of which my pride will not let me think of with patience; all aggravated by the contents of my cousin's affecting letter; you will not wonder, that the vapourishness which has laid hold of my heart, should rise to my pen. And yet it would be more kind, more friendly in me, to conceal from you, who take such a gene|rous interest in my concerns, that worst part of my griefs, which communication and complaint cannot relieve.

But to whom can I unbosom myself but to you?—When the man who ought to be my protector, as he

has brought upon me all my distresses, adds to my ap|prehensions; when I have not even a servant on whose fidelity I can rely, or to whom I can break my griefs as they arise; and when his bountiful temper and gay heart, attach every one to him; and I am but a cy|pher, to give him significance, and myself pain?—These griefs, therefore, do what I can, will some|times burst into tears; and these mingling with my ink, will blot my paper.—And I know you will not grudge me the temporary relief.

But I shall go on in the strain I left off with in my last; when I intended rather to apologize for my me|lancholy. But let what I have above written, once for all, be my apology. My misfortunes have given you a call to discharge the noblest offices of the friend|ship we have vowed to each other, in advice and con|solation, and it would be an injury to it, and to you, to suppose it needed even that call.

She then tells Miss Howe, that now her cloaths are come, Mr. Lovelace is continually teazing her to go abroad with him in a coach, attended by whom she pleases of her own sex; either for the air, or to the public diversions.

She gives the particulars of a conversation that has passed between them on that subject, and his seve|ral proposals. But takes notice, that he says not the least word of the solemnity which he so much pressed upon her before they came to town; and which, as she observes, was necessary to give pro|priety to his proposals.

Now, my dear, says she, I cannot bear the life I live. I would be glad at my heart to be out of his reach. If I were, he should soon see the difference. If I must be humbled, it had better be by those to whom I owe duty, than by him. My aunt writes in ••er letter (a) 1.1, that SHE dare not propose any thing in

my favour. You tell me, that, upon inquiry, you find (b) 1.2, that, had I not been unhappily seduced away, a change of measures was actually resolved upon; and that my mamma, particularly, was deter|mined to exert herself, for the restoration of the family peace; and, in order to succeed the better, had thoughts of trying to engage my uncle Harlowe in her party.

Let me build on these foundations.—I can but try, my dear.—It is my duty to try all probable methods to restore the poor outcast to favour.—And who knows but that once indulgent uncle, who has very great weight in the family, may be induced to inter|pose in my behalf?—I will give up all right and title to my grandfather's bequests, with all my heart and soul, to whom they shall think fit, in order to make my proposal palatable to my brother. And that my sur|render may be effectual, I will engage never to marry.

What think you, my dear, of this expedient? Surely they cannot resolve to renounce me for ever. If they look with impartial eyes upon what has happened, they will have something to blame themselves for, as well as me.

I presume, that you will be of opinion, that this ex|pedient is worth trying. But here is my difficulty; If I should write, my hard-hearted brother has so strong|ly confederated every-body against me, that my let|ter would be handed about from one to another, till he had hardened every one to refuse my request; where|as, could my uncle be engaged to espouse my cause, as from himself, I should have some hope; as I pre|sume to think he would soon have my mother, and my aunt, of his party.

What therefore I am thinking of, is this.—Suppose Mr. Hickman, whose good character has gained him every-body's respect, should put himself in my uncle Harlowe's way? And as if, from your knowlege of

the state of things between Mr. Lovelace and me, assure him not only of the above particulars, but that I am under no obligations, that shall hinder me from taking his directions?

I submit the whole to your discretion, whether to pursue it at all, or in what manner. But if it be pur|sued, and if my uncle refuses to interest himself in my favour, upon Mr. Hickman's application, as from you (for so, for obvious reasons, it must be put), I can then have no hope; and my next step, in the mind I am in, shall be, to throw myself into the protection of the ladies of his family.

It were an impiety to adopt the following lines, be|cause it would be throwing upon the decrees of Provi|dence a fault too much my own. But often do I re|volve them, for the sake of the general similitude which they bear to my unhappy, yet undesigned error.

To you, great gods! I make my last appeal: Or clear my virtues, or my crimes reveal. If wand'ring in the maze of life I run, And backward tread the steps I sought to shun, Impute my errors to your own decree; My FEET are guilty; but my HEART is free.

Miss Harlowe dates again on Monday, to let Miss Howe know, that Mr. Lovelace, on observing her uneasiness, had introduced to her Mr. Mennell, Mrs. Fretchville's kinsman, who managed all her affairs [a young officer of sense and politeness, she calls him]; and who gave her an account of the house and furni|ture, to the same effect that Mr. Lovelace had done before; as also of the melancholy way Mrs. Fretch|ville is in.

She tells Miss Howe, how extremely urgent Mr. Lovelace was with the gentleman, to get his spouse (as he now always calls her before company) a sight of the house: And that Mr. Mennell undertook that very

afternoon to shew her all of it, except the apartment Mrs. Fretchville should be in, when she went. But that she chose not to take another step till she knew how she approved of her scheme to have her uncle sounded; and what success, if try'd, it would be at|tended with.

Mr. Lovelace, in his humourous way, gives his friend an account of the Lady's peevishness and de|jection, on receiving a letter with her cloaths. He regrets that he has lost her confidence; which he at|tributes to bringing her into the company of his four companions. Yet he thinks he must excuse them, and censure her for over-niceness; for that he never saw men behave better, at least not them.

Mentioning his introducing Mr. Mennell to her,

'Now, Jack, says he, was it not very kind of Mr. Mennell, Captain Mennell, I sometimes called him (for among the military men there is no such offi|cer, thou knowest, as a Lieutenant or an Ensign): Was it not very kind in him, to come along with me so readily as he did, to satisfy my beloved about the vapourish lady and the house?'

'But who is Captain Mennell, methinks thou askest? I never heard of such a man as Captain Mennell.

'Very likely. But knowest thou not young New|comb, 'honest Doleman's nephew?

'O-ho! Is it he?

'It is. And I have chang'd his name by virtue of my own single authority. Knowest thou not, that I am a great name-father? Preferments I bestow, both military and civil. I give estates, and take them away at my pleasure. Quality too I create. And by a still more valuable prerogative, I degrade by virtue of my own imperial will, without any other act of forfeiture than my own convenience. What a poor thing is a monarch to me!

'But Mennell, now he has seen this angel of a wo|man, has qualms; that's the devil!—I shall have enough to do to keep him right. But it is the less wonder, that he should stagger, when a few hours conversation with the same lady could make four much more harden'd varlets find hearts—Only, that I am confident, that I shall at last reward her virtue, if her virtue overcome me, or I should find it impossible to persevere.—For at times, I have confounded qualms myself. But say not a word of them to the Confraternity: Nor laugh at me for them thyself.'

In another letter, dated Monday night, he tells his friend, That the lady keeps him at such distance, that he is sure something is going on between her and Miss Howe, notwithstanding the prohibition from Mrs. Howe to both; and as he has thought it some degree of merit in himself to punish others for their transgres|sions, he thinks both these girls punishable for the breach of parental injunctions. And as to their let|ter-carrier, he has been inquiring into his way of living; and finding him to be a common poacher, a deer-stealer, and warren-robber, who, under pretence of higgling, deals with a set of customers, who con|stantly take all he brings, whether fish, fowl, or ve|nison, he holds himself justify'd (since Wilson's con|veyance must at present be sacred) to have him stript and robbed, and what money he has about him given to the poor; since, if he take not money as well as letters, he shall be suspected.

'To serve one's self, says he, and punish a villain at the same time, is serving public and private. The law was not made for such a man as me. And I must come at correspondencies so disobediently carried on.

'But, on second thoughts, if I could find out, that the dear creature carried any of her letters in

her pockets, I can get her to a play or to a concert, and she may have the misfortune to lose her pockets.'

'But how shall I find this out; since her Dorcas knows no more of her dressing or undressing than her Lovelace? For she is dressed for the day, be|fore she appears even to her servant.—Vilely sus|picious!—Upon my soul, Jack, a suspicious temper is a punishable temper. If a lady suspects a rogue in an honest man, is it not enough to make the ho|nest man who knows it, a rogue?'

'But as to her pockets, I think my mind hankers after them, as the less mischievous attempt.—But they cannot hold all the letters that I should wish to see. And yet a woman's pockets are half as deep as she is high. Ty'd round them as ballast-bags, I presume, lest the wind, as they move with full sail, from whale-ribb'd canvas, should blow away the gypsies.'

He then, in apprehension, that something is medi|tating between the two ladies, or that something may be set on foot to get Miss Harlowe out of his hands, relates several of his contrivances, and boasts of his instructions given in writing to Dorcas and to his servant Wil••▪ Summers; and says, that he has pro|vided against every possible accident, even to bring her back, if she should escape, or in case she should go abroad, and then refuse to return; and hopes so to manage, as that, should he make an attempt, whe|ther he succeed in it, or not, he may have a pre|tence to detain her.

He orders Dorcas to cultivate by all means her lady's favour; to lament her incapacity as to write|ing and reading; to shew her lady letters from pre|tended country relations, and beg her advice how to answer them, and to get them answer'd; to be al|ways aiming at scrawling with a pen, lest inky fingers should give suspicions. And says, that he has given

her an ivory-leaved pocket-book, with a silver pen|cil, that she may make memoranda on occasion.

The lady has already, he says, at Mrs. Sinclair's motion, removed her cloaths out of the trunks they came in, into an ample mahogany repository, where they will lie at full-length, and which has drawers in it for linen.—

'A repository, says he, that used to hold the richest suits which some of the nymphs put on, when they are to be dressed out, to captivate or to ape quality. For many a countess, thou knowest, has our mother equipp'd; nay, two or three duchesses, who live upon quality-terms with their lords. But this to such as will come up to her price, and can make an appearance like quality themselves on the occasion: For the reputation of persons of birth must not lie at the mercy of every under-degreed sinner.'

'A master-key which will open every lock in this chest, is put into Dorcas's hands; and she is to take care, when she searches for papers, before she re|moves any thing, to observe how it lies, that she may replace all to a hair. Sally and Polly can oc|casionally help to transcribe. Slow and sure with such a lady must be all my movements.'

'It is impossible that one so young and so inexpe|rienced can have all her caution from herself; the behaviour of the women so unexceptionable; no revellings, no company ever admitted into this inner-house; all genteel, quiet, and easy, in it; the nymphs well-bred, and well-read; her first disgusts to the old one got over.—It must be Miss Howe therefore, who once was in danger of being taken in by one of our class, by honest Sir George Col|mar, as thou hast heard, that makes my progress difficult.'

Thou seest, Belford, by the above precautionaries, that I forget nothing. As he song says, it is not to be imagin'd

On what slight strings Depend those things, On which men build their glory!

'So far, so good. I shall never let my goddess rest till I have first discover'd where she puts her let|ters, and next till I have got her to a play, to a con|cert, or to take an airing with me of a day, or so.'

'I GAVE thee just now some of my contrivances. Dorcas, who is ever attentive to all her lady's mo|tions, has given me some instances of her mistress's precautions. She wafers her letters, it seems, in two places; pricks the wafers; and then seals upon them. No doubt but those brought hither are taken the same care of. And she always examines the seals of the latter before she opens them. I must, I must, come at them. This difficulty augments my curiosity. Strange, so much as she writes, and at all hours, that not one sleepy or forgetful moment has offer'd in our favour!'

'A fair contention, thou seest. Do not thou therefore reproach me for endeavouring to take ad|vantage of her tender years. Credulity she has none. Am not I a young fellow, myself? As to her for|tune, that's out of the question; fortune never had any other attractions for me, than to stimulate me on; and this, as I have elsewhere said, for motives not ignoble. As to beauty; pr'ythee, Jack, do thou, to spare my modesty, make a comparison be|tween my Clarissa for a woman, and thy Lovelace for a man!—The only point that can admit of de|bate, as I conceive, is, who has most wit, most circumspection: And that is what remains to be try'd.'

'A sad life, however, for the poor lady to live, as well as for me; that is to say, if she be not naturally jealous. If she be, her uneasiness is constitutional,

and she cannot help it; nor will it, in that case, hurt her. For a suspicious temper will make occasions for doubt, if none were to offer to her hand; and so my fair one is obliged to me for saving her the trouble of studying for these occasions.—But after all, the plain way in every affair of the human life is the best, I believe. But it is not given me to choose it. Nor am I singular in the pursuit of the more intricate paths; since there are thousands and ten thousands, besides me, who had rather fish in troubled waters than in smooth.'

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

Tuesday, May 9.

I Am a very unhappy fellow. This lady is said to to be one of the sweetest temper'd creatures in the world: And so I thought her. But to me, she is one of the most perverse. I never was supposed to be an ill-natur'd puppy neither. How can it be? I imagin'd for a long while, that we were born to make each other happy: But, quite the contrary; we really seem to be sent to plague one another.

I will write a Comedy, I think. I have a title ready; and that's half the work. The Quarrelsome Lovers. 'Twill do. There's something new and striking in it. Yet, more or less, all lovers quarrel. Old Te|rence has taken notice of that; and observes upon it, That lovers falling-out occasions lovers falling-in; and a better understanding of course. 'Tis natural that it should be so. But with us, we fall-out so often, without falling-in once; and a second quarrel so ge|nerally happens before a first is made up; that it is hard to guess what event our loves will be attended with. But Shakespeare says;

—Come what come may, Patience and time run thro' the roughest day.

And that shall be my comfort. No man living bears crosses better than myself: But then they must be of my own making: And even This is a great merit, and a great excellence, think what thou wilt: Since most of the troubles, which fall to the lot of mortals, are brought upon themselves, either by their too large de|sires, or too little deserts. But I shall make myself a common man by-and-by: Which is what no one yet ever thought me. I will now lead to the occasion of this preamble.

I had been out. On my return, meeting Dorcas on the stairs—Your lady in her chamber, Dorcas? In the dining-room, Sir: And if ever you hope for an opportunity to come at a letter, it must be now. For at her feet I saw one lie, which, by its open'd folds, she has been reading, with a little parcel of others she is now busied with. All pulled out of her pocket, as I believe: So, Sir, you'll know where to find them another time.

I was ready to leap for joy, and instantly resolved to bring forward an expedient which I had held in petto; and entering into the dining-room, with an air of transport, I boldly clasped my arms about her, as she sat (she huddling up her papers in her hand|kerchief all the time, the dropt paper unseen): O my dearest life, a lucky expedient have Mr. Mennell and I hit upon, just now. In order to hasten Mrs. Fretch|ville to quit the house, I have agreed, if you approve of it, to entertain her cook, her housemaid, and two men-servants (about whom she was very solicitous), till you are provided to your mind. And that no accommodations may be wanted, I have consented to take the houshold linen at an appraisement.

I am to pay down 500 l. and the remainder as soon as the bills can be look'd up, and the amount of them

adjusted. Thus will you have a charming house in|tirely ready to receive you, and any of my friends. They will soon be with you: They will not permit you long to suspend my happy day.—And that no|thing may be wanting to gratify your utmost punctilio, I will till then consent to stay here at Mrs. Sinclair's, while you reside at your new house; and leave the rest to your own generosity.

O my beloved creature, will not this be agreeable to you? I am sure it will—It must—And clasping her closer to me, I gave her a more fervent kiss than ever I had dared to give her before: But still let not my ardor overcome my discretion; for I took care to set my foot upon the letter, and scraped it farther from her, as it were behind her chair.

She was in a passion at the liberty I took. Bowing low, I begg'd her pardon; and, stooping still lower, in the same motion, took it up, and whipt it in my bo|som.

Pox on me, for a puppy, a fool, a blockhead, a clumsy varlet, and a mere Jack Belford!—I thought myself a much cleverer fellow than I am!—Why could I not have been followed in by Dorcas; who might have taken it up, while I addressed her lady?

For here, the letter being unfolded, I could not put it into my bosom, without alarming her ears, as my sudden motion did her eyes.—Up she flew in a moment: Traitor! Judas! her eyes flashing light|ning, and a perturbation in her eager countenance, so charming!—What have you taken up?—And then, what for both my ears I durst not to have done to her, she made no scruple to seize the stolen letter, tho' in my bosom.

Beg-pardon apologies were all that now remained for me, on so palpable a detection. I clasped her hand, which had hold of the ravish'd paper, between mine: O my beloved creature! can you think I have not some curiosity? Is it possible you can be thus for

ever employed; and I, loving narrative letter-writing above every other species of writing, and admiring your talent that way, should not (thus upon the dawn of my happiness, as I presume to hope) burn with a desire to be admitted into so sweet a correspondence.

Let go my hand!—stamping with her pretty foot: How dare you, Sir!—At this rate, I see—Too plainly I see—And more she could not say: But, gasping, was ready to faint, with passion and affright; the devil a bit of her accustomed gentleness to be seen in her charming face, or to be heard in her musical voice.

Having gone thus far, loth, very loth was I to lose my prize—Once more, I got hold of the rumpled-up letter!—Impudent man! were her words: Stamp|ing again: For God's sake, then it was!—I let go my prize, lest she should faint away: But had the pleasure first to find my hand within both hers, she trying to open my reluctant fingers. How near was my heart, at that moment, to my hand, throbbing to my fingers ends, to be thus familiarly, altho' angrily, treated by the charmer of my soul!

When she had got it in her possession, she flew to the door: I threw myself in her way, shut it, and, in the humblest manner, besought her to forgive me: And yet do you think the Harlowe-hearted charmer would; notwithstanding the agreeable annunciation I came in with?—No, truly! but pushing me rudely from the door, as if I had been nothing (yet do I love to try, so innocently to try, her strength too!); she gaining that force through passion, which I had lost through fear; and out she shot to her own apart|ment [Thank my stars she could fly no further!]; and as soon as she enter'd it, in a passion still, she double-locked and double-bolted herself in.—This my com|fort, on reflection, that, upon a greater offence, it cannot be worse!

I retreated to my own apartment, with my heart full. And, my man Will. not being near me, gave

myself a plaguy knock on the forehead, with my double fist.

And now is my charmer shut up from me: Re|fusing to see me; refusing her meals: Resolves not to see me, that's more;—Never again, if she can help it.

In the mind she is in—I hope she has said. The dear creatures, whenever they quarrel with their humble servants, should always remember this saving clause, that they may not be forsworn.

But thinkest thou that I will not make it the sub|ject of one of my first plots, to inform myself of the reason why all this commotion was necessary on so slight an occasion, as this would have been, were not the letters that pass between these ladies of a treason|able nature?

Wednesday Morning.

No admission to breakfast, any more than to supper. I wish this lady is not a simpleton, after all.—I have sent up in Capt. Mennell's name. A message from Capt. Mennell, Madam.

It won't do!—She is of a baby age: She cannot be—a Solomon, I was going to say, in every thing. Solomon, Jack, was the wisest man:—But didst ever hear who was the wisest woman?—I want a comparison for this lady: Cunning women and witches, we read of without number. But I fancy wisdom never entered into the character of a woman. It is not a requisite of the Sex. Women, indeed, make better sovereigns than men: But why is that?—Be|cause the women sovereigns are governed by men; the men sovereigns by women:—Charming by my soul! For hence we guess at the rudder by which both are governed. Yet, sorry puppy as thou art, thou makest light of me for my attachment to this Sex; and even of my ardors to the most excellent one of it!—

But to put wisdom out of the question, and to take cunning in: That is to say, To consider woman as a woman; what shall we do, if this lady has something extraordinary in her head?—Repeated charges has she given for Wilson, by a particular messenger, to send any letter directed for her, the moment it comes.

I must keep a good look-out. She is not now afraid of her brother's plot. I shan't be at all sur|prized, if Singleton calls upon Miss Howe, as the only person who knows, or is likely to know, where Miss Harlowe is; pretending to have affairs of im|portance, and of particular service to her, if he can but be admitted to her speech. Of compromise, who knows, from her brother?

Then will Miss Howe warn her to keep close; then will my protection be again necessary. This will do, I believe. Any thing from Miss Howe must.

Joseph Leman is a vile fellow with her, and my implement. Joseph, honest Joseph, as I call him, may hang himself. I have play'd him off enough, and have very little further use for him. No need to wear one plot to the stumps, when I can find new ones every hour.

Nor blame me for the use I make of my talents. Who, that had such, would let 'em be idle?

Well then, I will find a Singleton; that's all I have to do.

Instantly find one!—Will.—

Sir—

This moment call me hither thy cousin Paul Wheatly, just come from sea, whom thou wert re|commending to my service, if I were to marry and keep a pleasure-boat.

Presto—Will.'s gone!—Paul will be here present|ly!—Presently will he be gone to Mrs. Howe's.—If Paul be Singleton's mate, coming from his captain, it will do as well as if it were Singleton himself.

Sally, a little devil, often reproaches me with the slowness of my proceedings. But in a play, does not the principal entertainment lie in the first four acts? Is not all in a manner over, when you come to the fifth? And what a vultur of a man must he be, who sowses upon his prey, and in the same moment trusses and devours?

But to own the truth, I have overplotted myself. To make my work secure, as I thought, I have frighted the dear creature with my four Hottentots, and I shall be a long time, I doubt, before I can recover my lost ground. And then these cursed folks at Harlowe-Place have made her out of humour with me, with herself, and with all the world, but Miss Howe, who, no doubt, is continually adding difficulties to my other difficulties. And then I am very unwilling to have recourse to measures which these daemons below are continually urging me to take. And the rather, as I am sure, that, at last, she must be legally mine. One complete trial over, and I think I will do her noble justice.

WELL, Paul's gone!—Gone already!—Has all his lessons!—A notable fellow!—Lord W.'s necessary-man was Paul before he went to sea. A more sen|sible rogue Paul than Joseph!—Not such a pretender to piety neither, as the other. At what a price have I bought that Joseph!—I had two to buy, in him—His conscience, as well as the man.—I believe I must punish the rascal at last: But must let him marry first: Then (tho' that may be punishment enough), as I bribed two at once in one man, I shall punish two at once in the man and his wife.—And how richly does Betty deserve it for her behaviour to my goddess?

But now I hear the rusty hinges of my Beloved's door give me creaking invitation. My heart creaks and throbs with respondent trepidations: Whimsical

enough tho'! For what relation has a lover's heart to a rusty pair of hinges?—But they are the hinges that open and shut the door of my Beloved's bed-chamber!—Relation enough in that!

I hear not the door shut again. I shall have her commands I hope anon.—What signifies her keep|ing me thus at a distance?—She must be mine, let me do or offer what I will. Courage whenever I as|sume, all is over: For should she think of escaping from hence, whither can she fly to avoid me? Her parents will not receive her: Her uncles will not en|tertain her: Her beloved Norton is in their direction, and cannot: Miss Howe dare not: She has not one friend in town but me: Is intirely a stranger to the town. And what then is the matter with me, that I should be thus unaccountably over-awed and tyran|nized over, by a dear creature, who wants only to know how impossible it is that she should escape me, in order to be as humble to me, as she is to her per|secuting relations?

Should I even make the grand attempt, and fail, and should she hate me for it, her hatred can be but temporary. She has already incurred the censure of the world. She must therefore choose to be mine, for the sake of soldering up her reputation in the eye of that impudent world. For, who that knows me, and knows that she has been in my power, tho' but for twenty-four hours, will think her spotless as to fact, let her inclination be what it will?—And then human nature is such a well-known rogue, that every man and woman judges by what each knows of themselves, that inclination is no more to be trust|ed, where an opportunity is given, than I am; espe|cially where a woman young and blooming loves a man well enough to go off with him; for such will be the world's construction in the present case.

She calls her maid Dorcas. No doubt, that I may hear her harmonious voice, and to give me an oppor|tunity

to pour out my soul at her feet; to renew all my vows; and to receive her pardon for the past of|fence: And then, with what pleasure shall I begin up|on a new score; and afterwards wipe out that; and begin another, and another; till the last offence passes; and there can be no other. And once, after that, to be forgiven, will be to be forgiven for ever.

THE door is again shut. Dorcas tells me, that she denies to admit me to dine with her, as I had or|dered her to request for me next time she saw her. Not uncivilly, however, denies. Coming to by de|grees! Nothing but the last offence, the honest wench tells me, in the language of her principals be|low, will do with her. The last offence is meditat|ing. Yet this vile recreant heart of mine plays me booty.—But here I conclude; tho' the tyranness leaves me nothing to do, but read, write, and fret.

Subscription is formal between us. Besides, I am so totally hers, that I cannot say, how much I am thine, or any other person's.

LETTER III. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE; To Miss HOWE.

Tuesday, May 9.

IF, my dear, you approve of the application to my uncle Harlowe, I wish it may be made as soon as possible. We are quite out again. I have shut my|self up from him. The offence indeed not very great—And yet it is too: He had like to have got a letter. One of yours. But never will I write again, or re-peruse my papers, in an apartment where he thinks himself intitled to come. He did not read a line of it. Indeed he did not. So don't be uneasy: And depend upon future caution.

Thus it was. The sun being upon my closet, and Mr. Lovelace abroad—

She then gives Miss Howe an account of his coming in by surprize upon her: of his fluttering speech: of his bold address: of her struggle with him for the letter, &c.

And now, my dear, proceeds she, I am more and more convinced, that I am too much in his power to make it prudent to stay with him. And if my friends will but give me hope—Till I can know whether they will or not, I must do what I never studied to do be|fore in any case—that is, try to keep this difference open: And yet it will make me look little in my own eyes; because I shall mean by it more than I can own. But this is one of the consequences of a step which will be ever deplored by

Your CLARISSA HARLOWE.

LETTER IV. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Wednesday, May 10.

I Much approve of your resolution to leave this man, if you can have any encouragement from your uncle. And the rather, as I have heard but within these two hours some well-attested stories of him, that shew him to be one of the worst of men as to our Sex. I do assure you, my dear friend, that had he a dozen lives, if all I have heard be true, he might have for|feited them all, and been dead twenty crimes ago.

If ever you condescend to talk familiarly with him again, ask him after Miss Betterton, and what became of her: And if he shuffle and prevaricate, question him about Miss Lockyer.—O my dear, the man's a villain!

I will have your uncle sounded, as you desire, and that out of hand. But yet I am afraid of the suc|cess;

and this for several reasons. 'Tis hard to say what the sacrifice of your estate would do with some people: And yet I must not, when it comes to the test, permit you to make it.

As your Hannah continues ill, I would advise you to try to attach Dorcas to your interest. Have you not been impoliticly shy of her?

I wish you could come at some of his letters. Sure|ly a man of his negligent character cannot be always guarded. If he were, and if you cannot engage your servant, I should suspect them both. Let him be called upon at a short warning when he is writing, or when he has papers lying about, and so surprize him into negligence.

Such inquiries, I know, are of the same nature with those we make at an inn in travelling, when we look into every corner and closet for fear of a villain; yet should be frighted out of our wits, were we to find one. But 'tis better to detect such a one when awake and up, than to be attacked by him when in bed and asleep.

I am glad you have your cloaths. But no money; no books; but a Spira, a Drexelius, and a Practice of Piety. Those who sent the latter, ought to have kept it for themselves.—But I must hurry myself from this subject.

You have excceedingly alarmed me by what you hint of his attempt to get one of my letters. I am assured by my new informant, that he is the head of a gang of wretches [Those he brought you among, no doubt, were some of them], who join together to betray innocent creatures, and to support one another, when they have done, by violence: And were he to come at the knowlege of the freedoms I take with him, I should be afraid to stir out without a guard.

I am sorry to tell you, that I have reason to think, that your brother has not laid aside his foolish plot. A sun-burnt, sailor-looking fellow was with me just

now, pretending great service to you from Captain Singleton, could he be admitted to your speech. I pleaded ignorance. The fellow was too well instructed for me to get any thing out of him.

I wept for two hours incessantly, on reading yours, which inclosed that from your cousin Morden (a) 4.1. My dearest creature, do not desert yourself: Let your Anna Howe obey the call of that friendship, which has united us as one soul, and endeavour to give you consolation.

I wonder not at the melancholy reflections you so often cast upon yourself in your letters, for the step you have been forced upon, on one hand, and tricked into on the other. A strange fatality! As if it were designed to shew the vanity of all human prudence. I wish, my dear, as you hint, that both you and I have not too much prided ourselves in a perhaps too conscious superiority over others—But I will stop—How apt are weak minds to look out for judgments in any extraordinary event! 'Tis so far right, that it is better, and safer, and juster, to arraign ourselves, or our dearest friends, than Providence; which must always have wise ends to answer in its dispensations.

But do not talk, as in one of your former, of be|ing a warning only (b) 4.2.—You will be as excellent an example, as ever you hoped to be, as well as a warn|ing: And that will make your story, to all that shall come to know it, of double efficacy: For were it that such a merit as yours could not ensure to herself noble and generous usage from a libertine heart, who will ex|pect any tolerable behaviour from men of his character?

If YOU think yourself inexcusable for taking a step that put you into the way of delusion, without any intention to go off with him, what must those giddy creatures think of themselves, who, without half your provocations and inducements, and without any re|gard

to decorum, leap walls, drop from windows, and steal away from their parents house, to the se|ducer's bed, in the same day?

Again, if YOU are so ready to accuse yourself for dispensing with the prohibitions of the most unreason|able parents, which yet were but half-prohibitions at first, what ought those to do, who wilfully shut their ears to the advice of the most reasonable; and that, perhaps, where apparent ruin, or undoubted inconve|nience, is the consequence of the predetermin'd rash|ness?

And, lastly, to all who will know your story, you will be an excellent example of watchfulness, and of that caution and reserve, by which a prudent person, who has been supposed to be a little misled, endeavours to mend her error; and, never once losing sight of her duty, does all in her power to recover the path she has been rather driven out of, than chosen to swerve from.

Come, come, my dearest friend, consider but these things; and steadily, without desponding, pursue your earnest purposes to amend what you think has been amiss; and it may not be a misfortune in the end, that you have erred; especially as so little of your will was in your error.

And, indeed, I must say, that I use the words mis|led, and error, and such-like, only in compliment to your own too ready self-accusations, and to the opi|nion of one to whom I owe duty: For I think in my conscience, that every part of your conduct is defen|sible; and that those only are blameable, who have no other way to clear themselves, than by condemn|ing you.

I expect, however, that such melancholy reflec|tions, as drop from your pen but too often, wil•• mingle with all your future pleasures, were you to marry I ovelace, and were he to make the best of husbands.

You was immensely happy, above the happiness of a mortal creature, before you knew him: Every|body almost worshiped you: Envy itself, which has of late reared up its venomous head against you, was awed by your superior worthiness, into silence and ad|miration. You was the soul of every company where you visited: Your elders have I seen declining to offer their opinions upon a subject, till you had de|livered yours; often to save themselves the mortifica|tion of retracting theirs, when they heard yours. Yet, in all this, your sweetness of manners, your humility and affability, caused the subscription every one made to your sentiments, and to your superiority, to be equally unfeigned and unhesitating; for they saw, that their applause, and the preference they gave you to themselves, subjected not themselves to insults, nor exalted you into any visible triumph over them; for you had always something to say, on every point you carried, that raised the yielding heart, and left every|one pleased and satisfied with themselves, tho' they carried not off the palm.

Your works were shewn, or referred to, where|ever fine works were talked of. Nobody had any but an inferior and second-hand praise for diligence, for oeconomy, for reading, for writing, for memory, for facility in learning every-thing laudable, and even for the more envied graces of person and dress, and an all-surpassing elegance in both, where you were known, and those subjects talked of.

The Poor blessed you every step you trod: The Rich thought you their honour, and took a pride, that they were not obliged to descend from their own class, for an example that did credit to it.

Tho' all men wished for you, and sought you, young as you was, yet, had not those, who were brought to address you, been encouraged out of sor|did and spiteful views to attempt your presence, not

one of them would have dared to lift up his eyes to you.

Thus happy in all about you, thus making happy all within your circle, could you think that nothing would happen to you, to convince you, that you were not to be exempted from the common lot?—To convince you, that you were not absolutely per|fect; and that you must not expect to pass thro' life, without trial, temptation, and misfortune?

Indeed, it must be owned, that no trial, no tempta|tion, worthy of you, could have well attacked you sooner, or more effectually, than those heavy ones have done: For every common case you were supe|rior to: It must be some man, or some worse spirit in the shape of one, that, formed on purpose, was to be sent to invade you; while as many other such spi|rits, as there are persons in your family, were permitted to take possession, severally, in one dark hour, of the heart of every one of it, there to sit perching, perhaps, and directing every motion to the motions of the se|ducer without, in order to irritate, to provoke, to push you forward to meet him.

So, upon the whole, there seems, as I have often said, a kind of fate in your error, if an error; and this, perhaps, admitted, for the sake of a better ex|ample to be collected from your sufferings, than could have been given, had you never erred: For, my dear, ADVERSITY is your SHINING-TIME: I see evi|dently, that it must call forth graces and beauties, that could not have been seen in a run of that pro|sperous fortune, which attended you from your cradle till now; admirably as you became, and, as we all thought, greatly as you deserved, that prosperity.

All the matter is, the trial must be grievous to you: It is to me: It is to all who love you, and looked upon you as one set aloft to be admired and imitated, and not as a mark, as you have lately found, for Envy to shoot its shafts at.

Let what I have written above, have its due weight ••ith you, my dear; and then, as warm imaginations ••re not without a mixture of enthusiasm, your Anna ••owe, who, on reperusal of it, imagines it to be in •• style superior to her usual style, will be ready to flat|••er herself, that she has been in a manner inspired with the hints that have comforted and raised the de|••ected heart of her suffering friend; who, from such ••ard trials, in a bloom so tender, may find at times ••er spirits sunk too low to enable her to pervade the ••urrounding darkness, which conceals from her the ••opeful dawning of the better day which awaits her.

I will add no more at present, than that I am

Your ever-faithful and affectionate ANNA HOWE.

LETTER V. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Friday, May 12.

I Must be silent, my exalted friend, under praises that oppress my heart with a consciousness of not deserving them; at the same time, that the generous design of those praises raises and comforts it: For it is a charming thing to stand high in the opinion of those we love: And to find that there are souls that can carry their friendships beyond accidents, beyond body, and ties of blood. Whatever, my dearest creature, is my shining-time, the adversity of a friend is yours. And it would be almost a fault in me to regret those afflictions, which give you an opportunity so gloriously to exert those qualities, which not only ennoble our sex, but dignify human nature.

But let me proceed to subjects less agreeable.

I am sorry you have reason to think Singleton's pro|jects are not at an end. But who knows what the sailor had to propose?—Yet had any good been in|tended

me, this method would hardly have been fal|len upon.

Depend upon it, my dear, your letters shall be safe.

I have made a handle of Mr. Lovelace's bold attempt and freedom, as I told you I would, to keep him ever since at distance, that I may have an opportunity to see the success of the application to my uncle, and to be at liberty to embrace any favourable overtures that may arise from it. Yet he has been very importunate, and twice brought Mr. Mennell from Mrs. Fretch|ville, to talk about the house. If I should be obliged to make up with him again, I shall think I am always doing myself a spight.

As to what you mention of his newly-detected crimes; and your advice to attach Dorcas; and to come at some of his letters; these things will require more or less of my attention, as I may hope favour, or not, from my uncle Harlowe.

I am sorry for poor Hannah's continued illness. Pray, my dear, inform yourself, for me, whether she wants any thing that befits her case.

I will not close this letter till to-morrow is over; for I am resolved to go to church; and this as well for the sake of my duty, as to see, if I am at liberty to go out when I please, without being attended or accompanied.

Sunday, May 14.

I HAVE not been able to avoid a short debate with Mr. Lovelace. I had order'd a coach to the door. When I had notice that it was come, I went out of my chamber, to go to it; but met him dressed on the stairs head, with a book in his hand, but without his hat and sword.—He asked, with an air very solemn, yet respectful, if I were going abroad. I told him! was. He desired leave to attend me, if I were going to church. I refused him. And then he complained heavily of my treatment of him; and declared that he

would not live such another week, as the past, for the world.

I owned to him very frankly, that I had made an application to my friends; and that I was resolved to keep myself to myself till I knew the issue of it.

He coloured, and seemed surprized. But checking himself in something he was going to say, he pleaded my danger from Singleton, and again desired to at|tend me.

And then he told me, that Mrs. Fretchville had desired to continue a fortnight longer in the house. She found, said he, that I was unable to determine about entering upon it; and now who knows when such a vapourish creature will come to a resolution? This, Madam, has been an unhappy week; for had I not stood upon such bad terms with you, you might have been now mistress of that house; and probably had my cousin Montague, if not my aunt Lawrance, actually with you.

And so, Sir, taking all you say for granted, your cousin Montague cannot come to Mrs. Sinclair's? What, pray, is her objection to Mrs. Sinclair's? Is this house fit for me to live in a month or two, and not fit for any of your relations for a few days?—And Mrs. Fretchville has taken more time too—And so, pushing by him, I hurried down stairs.

He called to Dorcas to bring him his sword and hat; and following me down into the passage, placed him|self between me and the door; and again besought me to permit him to attend me.

Mrs. Sinclair came out at that instant, and asked me, If I did not choose a dish of chocolate?

I wish, Mrs. Sinclair, said I, you would take this man in with you to your chocolate. I don't know whether I am at liberty to stir out without his leave or not—Then turning to him, I asked, If he kept me there his prisoner?

Dorcas just then bringing him his sword and hat, he opened the street-door, and taking my resisting hand, led me, in a very obsequious manner, to the coach. People passing by, stopt, stared, and whis|per'd—But he is so graceful in his person and dress, that he generally takes every eye.

I was uneasy to be so gaz'd at; and he stepp'd in after me, and the coachman drove to St. Paul's.

He was very full of assiduities all the way; while I was as reserv'd as possible: And when I return'd, din'd, as I had done the greatest part of the week, by myself.

He told me, upon my resolving to do so, that altho' he would continue his passive observance, till I knew the issue of my application; yet I must expect, that then I should never rest one moment till I had fixed his happy day: For that his very soul was fretted with my slights, resentments, and delays.

A wretch! when I can say, to my infinite regret, on a double account, that all he complains of is owing to himself!

O that I may have good tidings from my uncle!

Adieu, my dearest friend!—This shall lie ready for an exchange, as I hope for one to-morrow from you, that will decide, as I may say, the destiny of

Your CLARISSA HARLOWE.

LETTER VI. Miss HOWE, To Mrs. JUDITH NORTON.

Good Mrs. Norton,

Thursday, May 11.

CANNOT you, without naming me as an adviser, who am hated by the family, contrive a way to let Mrs. Harlowe know, that in an accidental conver|sation with me, you had been assured, that my be|loved friend pines after a reconciliation with her rela|tions: That she has hitherto, in hopes of it, refused

to enter into any obligations, that shall be in the least an hindrance to it: That she would fain avoid giving Mr. Lovelace a right to make her family uneasy, in relation to her grandfather's estate: That all she wishes for still, is to be indulged in her choice of a single life, and, on that condition, would make her father's pleasure hers with regard to that estate: That Mr. Lovelace is continually pressing her to marry him; and all his friends likewise: But that I am sure, she has so little liking to the man, because of his faulty morals, and of her relations antipathy to him, that if she had any hope given her of a reconciliation, she would forego all thoughts of him, and put herself into her father's protection. But that their resolution must be speedy; for otherwise she would find herself ob|liged to give way to his pressing intreaties; and it might then be out of her power to prevent disagree|able litigations.

I do assure you, Mrs. Norton, upon my honour, that our dearest friend knows nothing of this proce|dure of mine: And therefore it is proper to acquaint you, in confidence, with my grounds for it.—These are they:—

She had desired me to let Mr. Hickman drop hints to the above effect to her uncle Harlowe; but indi|rectly as from himself, lest, if the application should not be attended with success; and Mr. Lovelace (who already takes it ill, that he has so little of her favour) come to know it, she may be deprived of every protection, and be perhaps subjected to great inconveniences from so haughty a spirit.

Having this authority from her; and being very sollicitous about the success of the application, I thought, that if the weight of so good a wife, mother, and sister, as Mrs. Harlowe is known to be, were thrown into the same scale, with that of Mr. John Harlowe (supposing he could be engaged) it could hardly fail of making a due impression.

Mr. Hickman will see Mr. Harlowe to-morrow: By that time you may see Mrs. Harlowe. If Mr. Hickman finds the old gentleman favourable, he will tell him, that you will have seen Mrs. Harlowe upon the same account; and will advise him to join in con|sultation with her how best to proceed to melt the most obdurate hearts in the world.

This is the fair state of the matter, and my true motive for writing to you. I leave all therefore to your discretion: And most heartily wish success to it; being of opinion that Mr. Lovelace cannot possibly deserve our admirable friend: Nor, indeed, know I the man who can.

Pray acquaint me, by a line, of the result of your kind interposition. If it prove not such, as may be reasonably hoped for, our dear friend shall know no|thing of this step from me; and pray let her not from you. For, in that case, it would only give deeper grief to an heart already too much afflicted. I am, dear and worthy Mrs. Norton,

Your true friend, ANNA HOWE.

LETTER VII. Mrs. NORTON, To Miss HOWE.

Saturday, May 13.

Dear Madam,

MY heart is almost broken to be obliged to let you know, that such is the situation of things in the family of my ever-dear Miss Harlowe, that there can be at present no success expected from any application in her favour. Her poor mother is to be pity'd. I have a most affecting letter from her; but must not communicate it to you; and she forbids me to let it be known that she writes upon the subject; although she is compelled, as it were, to do it, for the ease of her own heart. I mention it therefore in confidence.

I hope in God that my beloved Miss has preserved her honour inviolate. I hope there is not a man breathing, who could attempt a sacrilege so detestable. I have no apprehension of a failure in a virtue so esta|blished: God for ever keep so pure a heart out of the reach of surprizes and violence! Ease, dear Madam, I beseech you, my over-anxious heart, by one line, by the bearer, altho' but by one line, to acquaint me, as surely you can, that her honour is unsully'd! If it be not, adieu to all the comforts this life can give: Since none will it be able to afford

To the poor

JUDITH NORTON

LETTER VIII. Miss HOWE, To Mrs. JUDITH NORTON.

Saturday Evening, May 13.

Dear good Woman,

YOUR beloved's honour is inviolate!—Must be inviolate! And will be so, in spite of men and devils. Could I have had hope of a reconciliation, all my view was, that she should not have had this man!—All that can be said now is, She must run the risk of a bad husband: She of whom no man living is worthy.

You pity her mother!—So don't I!—I pity no|body, that puts it out of their power to shew maternal love, and humanity, in order to patch up for them|selves a precarious and sorry quiet, which every blast of wind shall disturb!

I hate tyrants in every form and shape: But pater|nal and maternal tyrants are the worst of all: For they can have no bowels.

I repeat, that I pity none of them!—My beloved and your beloved only deserves pity. She had never been in the hands of this man, but for them. She is quite blameless. You don't know all her story. Were I to tell you she had no intention to go off with this man, it would avail her nothing. It would only

condemn those who drove her to extremities; and him, who now must be her refuge. I am

Your sincere friend and servant, ANNA HOWE.

LETTER IX. Mrs. HARLOWE, To Mrs. NORTON.

[Not communicated till the history came to be compiled.]

Saturday, May 13.

I Return an answer in writing, as I promised, to your communication. But take no notice, that I do write, either to my Bella's Betty, who I under|stand, sometimes visits you, or to the poor wretch herself; nor to any-body. I charge you don't. My heart is full. Writing may give some vent to my griefs, and perhaps I may write what lies most upon my heart, without confining myself strictly to the pre|sent subject.

You know how dear this ingrateful creature ever was to us all. You know how sincerely we joined with every one of those who ever had seen her, or con|versed with her, to praise and admire her; and ex|ceeded in our praise even the bounds of that modesty, which, because she was our own, should have re|strained us; being of opinion, that to have been silent in the praise of so apparent a merit, must rather have argued blindness or affectation in us, than that we should incur the censure of vain partiality to our own.

When therefore any-body congratulated us on such a daughter, we received their congratulations without any diminution. If it was said, You are happy in this child, we owned, that no parents ever were hap|pier in a child. If more particularly, they praised her dutiful behaviour to us, we said, She knew not how to offend. If it was said, Miss Clarissa Harlowe has

a wit and penetration beyond her years; we, instead of disallowing it, would add,—And a judgment no less extraordinary than her wit. If her prudence was praised, and a forethought, which every one saw sup|ply'd what only years and experience gave to others; Nobody need to scruple taking lessons from Miss Cla|rissa Harlowe, was our proud answer.

Forgive me, O forgive me, my dear Norton—But I know you will—For yours, when good, was this child, and your glory as well as mine!

But have you not heard strangers, as she passed to and from church, stop to praise the angel of a crea|ture, as they called her; when it was enough for those who knew who she was, to cry, Why, it is Miss Clarissa Harlowe!—As if every-body were obliged to know, or to have heard of Miss Clarissa Harlowe, and of her excellencies. While, accustom'd to praise, it was too familiar to her, to cause her to alter either her look or her pace.

For my own part, I could not stifle a pleasure, that had perhaps a faulty vanity for its foundation, when|ever I was spoken of, or addressed to, as the mother of so sweet a child: Mr. Harlowe and I, all the time, loving each other the better for the share each had in such a daughter.

Still, still, indulge the fond, the overflowing heart of a mother! I could dwell for ever upon the remem|brance of what she was, would but that remem|brance banish from my mind what she is!

In her bosom, young as she was, could I repose all my griefs—Sure of receiving from her prudence, ad|vice as well as comfort: And both insinuated in so humble, in so dutiful a manner, that it was impos|sible to take those exceptions which the distance of years and character between a mother and a daughter, would, from any other daughter, have made one appre|hensive of. She was our glory when abroad, our de|light when at home. Every-body was even covetous

of her company; and we grudg'd her to our brothers Harlowe, and to our sister and brother Hervey.—No other contention among us, then, but who should be favoured by her next.—No chiding ever knew she from us, but the chiding of lovers, when she was for shut|ting herself up too long together from us, in pursuit of those charming amusements, and useful employ|ments, which, however, the whole family was the better for.

Our other children had reason, good children as they always were, to think themselves neglected. But they likewise were so sensible of their sister's su|periority, and of the honour she reflected upon the whole family, that they confessed themselves eclipsed, without envying the eclipser. Indeed there was not any-body so equal with her, in their own opinions, as to envy what all aspired but to emulate.—The dear creature, you know, my Norton, gave an eminence to us all: And now, that she has left us, so disgrace|fully left us! we are stript of our ornament, and are but a common family!

Then her acquirements. Her skill in music, her fine needleworks, her elegance in dress; for which she was so much admired, that the neighbouring ladies used to say, that they need not fetch fashions from London; since whatever Miss Clarissa Harlowe wore, was the best fashion, because her choice of natural beauties set those of art far behind them. Her genteel ease, and fine turn of person; her deep reading; and these, joined to her open manners, and her chearful modesty—O my good Norton, what a sweet child was once my Clary Harlowe!

This, and more, you knew her to be: For many of her excellencies were owing to yourself; and with the milk you gave her, you gave her what no other nurse in the world could give her.

And do you think, my worthy woman, do you think, that the wilful lapse of such a child is to be

forgiven? Can she herself think, that she deserves not the severest punishment for the abuse of such ta|lents as were intrusted to her?

Her fault was a fault of premeditation, of cunning, of contrivance. She has deceived every-body's ex|pectations. Her whole sex, as well as the family she sprung from, is disgraced by it.

Would any-body ever have believed, that such a young creature as this, who had by her advice saved even her over-lively friend from marrying a fop, and a libertine, would herself have gone off with one of the vilest and most notorious of libertines? A man whose character she knew; and knew to be worse than his she saved her friend from; whose vices she was warned of: One who had had her brother's life in his hands; and who constantly set our whole fa|mily at defiance.

Think for me, my good Norton; think what my unhappiness must be, both as a wife and a mother. What restless days, what sleepless nights; yet my own rankling anguish endeavoured to be smoothed over, to soften the anguish of fiercer spirits, and to keep them from blazing out to further mischief. O this naughty, naughty girl! who knew so well what she did; and who could look so far into consequences, that we thought she would have dy'd, rather than have done as she has done!

Her known character for prudence leaves no plea for excuse. How then can I offer to plead for her, if, thro' motherly indulgence, I would forgive her myself?—And have we not, moreover, suffer'd all the disgrace that can befal us? Has not she?

If now, she has so little liking to his morals, had she not reason before to have as little? Or has she suf|fered by them in her own person?—O my good wo|man, I doubt—I doubt—Will not the character of the man make one doubt an angel, if once in his power? The world will think the worst. I am told

it does. So likewise her father fears; her brother hears; and what can I do?

Our antipathy to him she knew before, as well as his character. These therefore cannot be new mo|tives without a new reason.—O my dear Mrs. Nor|ton, how shall I, how can you, support ourselves un|der the apprehensions that these thoughts lead to, of my Clary Harlowe, and your Clary Harlowe!

He continually pressing her, you say, to marry him. His friends likewise. She has reason, no doubt she has reason, for this application to us: And her crime is gloss'd over, to bring her to us with new disgrace!—Whither, whither, does one guilty step lead the misguided heart!—And now truly, to save a stubborn spirit, we are only to be sounded, that the application may be retracted or deny'd!

Upon the whole: Were I inclined to plead for her, it is now the most improper of all times. Now that my brother Harlowe has discouraged (as he last night came hither on purpose to tell us) Mr. Hick|man's insinuated application; and been applauded for it. Now, that my brother Antony is intending to carry his great fortune, thro' her fault, into another family:—She expecting, no doubt, herself, to be put into her grandfather's estate, in consequence of a re|conciliation, and as a reward for her fault: And insist|ing still upon terms, that she offer'd before, and were rejected.—Not thro' my fault, I am sure, rejected.

From all these things, you will return such an an|swer as the case requires.—It might cost me the peace of my whole life, at this time, to move for her. God forgive her!—If I do, nobody else will. And let it be for your own sake, as well as mine, a secret that you and I have enter'd upon this subject. And I de|sire you not to touch upon it again but by particular permission: For, O my dear good woman, it sets my heart a-bleeding in as many streams as there are veins in it!

Yet think me not impenetrable by a proper con|trition and remorse! But what a torment is it to have a will without a power!

Adieu! adieu! God give us both comfort; and to the once dear—the ever-dear creature (for can a mo|ther forget her child?), repentance, deep repentance! And as little suffering as may befit his blessed will, and her grievous fault, prays

Your real friend, CHARLOTTE HARLOWE.

LETTER X. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Sunday, May 14.

HOW it is now, my dear, between you and Mr. Lovelace, I cannot tell. But wicked as the man is, I am afraid he must be your lord and master.

I called him by several very hard names in my last. I had but just heard some of his vilenesses, when I sat down to write; so my indignation was raised. But on inquiry, and recollection, I find that the facts laid to his charge were all of them committed some time ago; not since he has had strong hopes of your fa|vour. This is saying something for him. His gene|rous behaviour to the innkeeper's daughter, is a more recent instance to his credit; to say nothing of the universal good character he has as a kind landlord. And then I approve much of the motion he made to put you in possession of Mrs. Fretchville's house, while he continues at the other widow's, till you agree that one house shall hold you. I wish this was done. Be sure you embrace this offer, if you do not soon meet at the altar, and get one of his cousins with you.

Were you once marry'd, I should think you can|not be very unhappy, tho' you n•• not be so happy with him as you deserve to be. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 stake he has in

his country, and his reversions: The care he takes of his affairs; his freedom from obligation; nay, his pride, with your merit, must be a tolerable security for you, I should think. Tho' particulars of his wickedness, as they come to my knowlege, hurt and incense me; yet, after all, when I give myself time to reflect, all that I have heard of him, to his disadvan|tage, was comprehended in the general character given of him long ago, by his uncle's and his own dismiss'd bailiff (a) 6.1, and which was confirm'd to you by Mrs. Greme (b) 6.2.

You can have nothing therefore, I think, to be deeply concerned about, but his future good, and the bad example he may hereafter set to his own family. These indeed are very just concerns: But were you to leave him now, either with or without his consent, his fortune and alliances so considerable, his person and address so engaging (every-one excusing you now on those accounts, and because of your relations fol|lies), it would have a very ill appearance for your reputation. I cannot therefore, on the most delibe|rate consideration, advise you to think of that, while you have no reason to doubt his honour. May eternal vengeance pursue the villain, if he gives room for an apprehension of this nature!

Yet his teazing ways are intolerable: His ac|quiescence with your slight delays, and his resigned|ness to the distance you now keep him at (for a fault so much slighter, as he must think, than the punish|ment), are unaccountable: He doubts your love of him, that is very probable; but you have reason to be surprised at his want of ardour; a blessing so great, within his reach, as I may say.

By the time you have read to this place, you will have no doubt of what has been the issue of the con|ference between the Two Gentlemen. I am equally shock'd, and enraged against them All: Against them

All, I say; for I have try'd your good Norton's weight with your mother, to the same purpose as the gentleman sounded your uncle.—Never were there such determin'd brutes in the world! Why should I mince the matter? Yet would I fain, methinks, make an exception for your mother.

Your uncle will have it, that you are ruin'd.

'He can believe every-thing bad of a creature, who could run away with a man—With such a one especially as Lovelace. They all expected applications from you, when some heavy distress had fallen upon you.—But they were all resolved not to stir an inch in your favour; no, not to save your life!'

My dearest soul! resolve to assert your right. Claim your own, and go and live upon it, as you ought. Then, if you marry not, how will the wretches creep to you, for your reversionary dispositions!

You were accused (as in your aunt's letter)

'of premeditation and contrivance in your escape.'

In|stead of pitying you, the mediating person was called upon

'to pity them; who once, he said, doted upon you: Who took no joy but in your presence: Who devour'd your words as you spoke them: Who trod over again your footsteps, as you walked before them.'

—And I know not what of this sort.

Upon the whole, it is now evident to me, and so it must be to you, when you read this letter, that you have but one choice. And the sooner you make it the better.—Shall we suppose that it is not in your power to make it?—I cannot have patience to sup|pose that.

I am concern'd, methinks, to know how you will do to condescend, now you see you must be his, after you have kept him at such a distance; and for the revenge his pride may put him upon taking for it. But let me tell you, that if my going up, and share|ing fortunes with you, will prevent such a noble crea|ture from stooping too low; much more, were it

likely to prevent your ruin, I would not hesitate a mo|ment about it. What's the whole world to me, weigh'd against such a friendship as ours?—Think you, that any of the enjoyments of this life, could be enjoyments to me, were such a friend as you to be involved in calamities, which I could either relieve her from, or alleviate, by giving them up? And what in saying this, and acting up to it, do I offer you, but the fruits of a friendship your worth has created?

Excuse my warmth of expression. The warmth of my heart wants none. I am enraged at your re|lations; for, bad as what I have mentioned is, I have not told you all; nor now, perhaps, ever will:—I am angry at my own mother's narrowness of mind, and adherence to old notions indiscriminately—And I am exasperated against your foolish, your low-va|nity'd Lovelace!—But let us stoop to take the wretch as he is, and make the best of him, since you are destin'd to stoop, to keep grovelers and worldlings in countenance. He has not been guilty of direct in|decency to you. Nor dare he. Not so much of a devil as that comes to neither!—Had he such villain|ous intentions, so much in his power as you are, they would have shewn themselves before now to such a penetrating and vigilant eye, and to such a pure heart as yours. Let us save the wretch then, if we can, tho' we soil our fingers in lifting him up from his dirt.

There is yet, to a person of your fortune and in|dependence, a good deal to do, if you enter upon those terms, which ought to be enter'd upon. I don't find, that he has once talked of settlements; much less of the licence. It is hard! But as your evil de|stiny has thrown you out of all other protection and medi••tion, you must be father, mother, uncle to yourself, and enter upon the requisite points for your|self. Indeed you must. Your situation requires it. What room for delicacy now? Or would you have

me write to the wretch? Yet that would be the same thing, as if you were to write yourself. Yet write you should, I think, if you cannot speak. But speaking is certainly best: For words leave no traces; they pass as breath; and mingle with air; and may be explained with latitude. But the pen is a witness on record.

I know the gentleness of your spirit; I know the laudable pride of your heart; and the just notion you have of the dignity of our sex, in these delicate points. But once more, all this is nothing now: Your honour is concerned, that the dignity I speak of, should not be stood upon.

'Mr. Lovelace,' would I say; yet hate the foolish fellow, for his low, his stupid pride, in wishing to triumph over the dignity of his own wife;— 'I am deprived, by your means, of every friend I have in the world. In what light am I to look upon you? I have well consider'd of every thing: You have made some people, much against my liking, think me a wife: Others know I am not married; nor do I desire any body should believe I am. Do you think your being here in the same house with me, can be to my reputation? You talk to me of Mrs. Fretchville's house—" [This will bring him to re|new his last discourse on that subject, if he does not revive it of himself.] 'If Mrs. Fretchville knows not her own mind, what is her house to me? You talked of bringing up your cousin Montague to bear me company: If my brother's schemes be your pre|tence for not going yourself to fetch her, you can write to her.—I insist upon bringing these two points to an issue: Off or on, ought to be indifferent to me, if so to them.'

Such a declaration must bring all forward. There are twenty ways, my dear, that you would find out to advise another how to act in your circumstances. He will disdain, from his native insolence, to have it thought he

has any-body to consult. Well then, will he not be obliged to declare himself? And if he does, no delays on your side, I beseech you. Give him the day: Let it be a short one. It would be derogating from your own merit, and honour too, let me tell you, even altho' he should not be so explicit as he ought to be, to seem but to doubt his meaning; and to wait for that explanation which I should for ever despise him for, if he makes necessary. Twice already have you, my dear, if not oftener, modesty'd away such opportunities as you ought not to have slipt.—As to settlements, if they come not in naturally, e'en leave them to his own justice, and to the justice of his fa|mily. And there's an end of the matter.

This is my advice: Mend it, as circumstances offer, and follow your own. But indeed, my dear, this, or something like it, would I do. As witness

Your ANNA HOWE.

Inclosed in the above.

I Must trouble you with my concerns, tho' your own are so heavy upon you.—A piece of news I have to tell you. Your uncle Antony is disposed to marry.—With whom, think you?—With my mamma. True indeed. Your family know it. All is laid with redoubled malice at your door. And there the old soul himself lays it.

Take no notice of this intelligence, not so much as in your letters to me, for fear of accidents.

I think it can't do. But were I to provoke my mother, that might afford a pretence. Else, I should have been with you before now, I fancy.

The first likelihood that appears to me of encou|ragement, I dismiss Hickman, that's certain. If my mother disoblige me in so important an article, I shan't think of obliging her in such another. It is impossible, surely, that the desire of popping me off to that honest man can be with such a view.

I repeat, that it cannot come to any thing. But these widows—Then such a love in us all, both old and young, of being courted and admired!—And so irre|sistible to their elderships to be flatter'd, that all power is not over with them; but that they may still class and prank it with their daughters. It vexed me hear|tily to have her tell me of this proposal with self-com|plaisant simperings; and yet she affected to speak of it, as if she had no intention to encourage it.

These antiquated batchelors, old before they think themselves so, imagine, that when they have once persuaded themselves, they have nothing else to do, but to make their minds known to the lady. His overgrown fortune is indeed a bait—a tempting one. A saucy daughter to be got rid of! The me|mory of the father of that daughter not precious enough to weigh!—But let him advance if he dare—Let her encourage—But I hope she won't.

Excuse me, my dear. I am nettled. They have fearfully rumpled my gorget. You'll think me faulty. So I won't put my name to this separate paper. Other hands may resemble mine. You did not see me write it.

LETTER XI. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Monday, P. M. May 15.

NOW indeed, is it evident, my best, my only friend, that I have but one choice to make. And now do I find, that I have carried my resent|ment against this man too far; since now I am to ap|pear as if under an obligation to his patience with me for a conduct, that, perhaps, he will think, if not humoursome and childish, plainly demonstrative of my little esteem of him; of but a secondary esteem at least, where before, his pride, rather than

his merit, had made him expect a first. O my dear!—to be under obligation to, and to be cast upon a man, that is not a generous man!—That is, indeed, a cruel man!—That is capable of creating a distress to a young creature, who by her evil destiny, is thrown into his power; and then of enjoying it, as I may say! [I verily think I may say so, of this sa|vage!]—What a fate is mine!

You give me, my dear, good advice, as to the per|emptory manner in which I ought to treat him: But do you consider to whom it is that you give that advice?

The occasion for it should never have been given by me, of all creatures; for I am unequal, utterly unequal to it!—What, I, to challenge a man for a husband!—I, to exert myself to quicken the delayer in his resolutions! And, having lost an opportunity, to begin to try to recal it, as from myself, and for myself!—To threaten him, as I may say, into the marriage-state!—O my dear! if this be right to be done, how difficult is it, where Modesty and Self (or where Pride, if you please) is concerned to do that right? Or, to express myself in your words, to be father, mother, uncle, to myself!—Especially where one thinks a triumph over one is intended.—Do, my dear, advise me, persuade me, to renounce the man for ever: And then I will for ever renounce him!

You say, you have tried Mrs. Norton's weight with my mamma.—Bad as the returns are which my appli|cation by Mr. Hickman has met with, you tell me, you have not acquainted me with all the bad; nor now, perhaps, ever will. But why so, my dear? What is the bad, what can be the bad, which now you will never tell me of?—What worse, than renounce me! and for ever!

'My uncle, you say, believes me ru|in'd: He declares, that he can believe every thing bad of a creature, who could run away with a man:

And they have all made a resolution, not to stir an inch in my favour; no, not to save my life."

Have you worse than this, my dear, behind?—Surely my father has not renewed his dreadful male|diction!—Surely, if so, my mamma has not joined in it! Have my uncles given it their sanction, and made it a family act! What, my dear, is the worst, that you will leave for ever unrevealed?

O Lovelace! why comest thou not just now; while these black prospects are before me? For now, couldst thou look into my heart, wouldst thou see a distress worthy of thy barbarous triumph!

I WAS forced to quit my pen.

And you say you have try'd Mrs. Norton's weight with my mamma?

What is done, cannot be help'd: But I wish you had not taken any step, in a matter so very concerning to me, without first consulting me.—Forgive me, my dear;—but that high-soul'd and noble friendship, which you avow with so obliging, and so uncommon a warmth, at the same time, that it is the subject of my grateful admiration, is no less, because of its fer|vor, the ground of my apprehension!

Well, but now, to look forward, you are of opi|nion, that I must be his: And that I cannot leave him with reputation to myself, whether with or without his consent. I must, if so, make the best of the bad matter.

He went out in the morning; intending not to re|turn to dinner, unless (as he sent me word) I would admit him to dine with me.

I excused myself. The man, whose anger is now to be of such high importance to me, was, it seems, displeased.

As he, as well as I, expected, that I should receive a letter from you this day, by Collins, I suppose he will not be long before he returns; and then, pos|sibly,

he is to be mighty stately, mighty mannis••, mighty coy, if you please! And then must I be very humble, very submissive, and try to whine myself in|to his good graces: With downcast eye, if not by speech, beg his forgivenness for the distance I have so perversely kept him at!—Yes, I warrant you!—But I'll see how this behaviour will sit upon me!—You have always railly'd me upon my meekness, I think! Well then, I'll try, if I can be still meeker, shall I!—O my dear!—

But let me sit with my hands before me, all pa|tience, all resignation; for I think I hear him coming up.—Or shall I roundly accost him, in the words, in the form, you, my dear, have prescrib'd?

He is come in.—He has sent to me, all impatience in his aspect, Dorcas says.—But I cannot, cannot see him!

Monday Night.

THE contents of your letter, and my own heavy reflections, render'd me incapable of seeing this ex|pecting man!—The first word he asked Dorcas, was, If I had received a letter since he had been out?—She told me this; and her answer, That I had; and was fasting, and had been in tears ever since.

He sent to desire an interview with me.

I answer'd by her, That I was not very well. In the morning, if better, I would see him as soon as he pleased.

Very humble! was it not, my dear?—Yet he was too royal to take it for humility; for Dorcas told me, he rubb'd one side of his face imp••tiently; and said a rash word, and was out of humour; stalking about the room.

Half an hour after, he sent again; desiring very earnestly, that I would admit him to supper with me. He would enter upon no subjects of conversa|tion, but what I should lead to.

So I should have been at liberty, you see, to court him!

I again desired to be excused.

Indeed, my dear, my eyes were swelled: I was very low-spirited; and could not think of entering all at once, after several days distance, into the free|dom of conversation, which my friends utter rejection of me, as well as your opinion, have made neces|sary.

He sent up to tell me, that as he heard I was fast|ing, if I would promise to eat some chicken which Mrs. Sinclair had order'd for supper, he would ac|quiesce.—Very kind in his anger!—Is he not?

I promised him. Can I be more preparatively con|descending?—How happy, I'll warrant you, if I may meet him in a kind and forgiving humour!

I hate myself!—But I won't be insulted. Indeed I won't! for all this.

LETTER XII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Tuesday, May 16.

I Think once more, we seem to be in a kind of train; but through a storm. I will give you the particulars.

I heard him in the dining-room at five in the morn|ing. I had rested very ill, and was up too: But opened not my door till six: When Dorcas brought me his request for my company.

He approached me, and taking my hand, as I en|ter'd the dining-room, I went not to bed, Madam, till two, yet slept not a wink. For God's sake, torment me not, as you have done for a week past.

He paus'd. I was silent.

At first, proceeded he, I thought your resentment of a mere unavailing curiosity could not be deep;

and that it would go off of itself: But when I found, it was to be kept up till you knew the success of some new overtures which you had made, and which com|ply'd with, might have deprived me of you for ever; how, Madam, could I support myself under the thoughts of having, with such an union of interests, made so little impression upon your mind in my fa|vour?

He paus'd again. I was still silent. He went on.

I acknowlege that I have a proud heart, Madam. I cannot but hope for some instance of previous and preferable favour from the lady I am ambitious to call mine; and that her choice of me should not appear, not flagrantly appear, directed by the perverseness of her selfish persecutors, and my irreconcileable ene|mies.

More to the same purpose he said: You know, my dear, the room he had given me to recriminate upon him, in twenty instances: I did not spare him: But I need not repeat those instances to you. Every one of these instances, I told him, convinced me of his pride, indeed, but not of his merit. I confessed, that I had as much pride as himself; altho' I hoped it was of another kind, than that he so readily avowed. But that if he had the least mixture in his of the true pride (a pride worthy of his birth, of his family, and of his fortune), he should rather wish, I would pre|sume to say, to promote mine, than either to suppress, or to regret that I had it: That hence it was, that I thought it beneath me to disown what had been my motives for declining, for some days past, any conver|sation with him, or visit from Mr. Mennell, that might lead to points out of my power to determine upon, until I heard from my uncle Harlowe; whom, I confessed, I had caused to be sounded, whether•• might be favoured with his interest, to obtain for me a reconciliation with my friends, upon terms which I had caused to be proposed to him.

He knew not, he said, and supposed must not pre|sume to ask, what these terms were. But he could but too well guess at them; and that he was to have been the preliminary sacrifice. But I must allow him to say, That as much as he admired the nobleness of my sentiments in general, and in particular that true pride in me, which I had spoken of; he wish'd, that he could compliment me with such an uniformity in it, as should have set me as much above all submission to minds implacable and unreasonable (he hoped he might, without offence, say that my brother's and sister's were such), as it had above all favour and condescension to him.

Duty and nature, Sir, call upon me to make the submissions you speak of: There is a father, there is a mother, there are uncles, in the one case, to justify and demand those submissions—What, pray, Sir, can be pleaded for the condescension, as you call it?—Will you say, your merits, either with regard to them, or to myself, may?

This to be said, after the persecution of those re|lations! After what you have suffer'd! After what you have made me hope! Let me ask you, Madam (we talk'd of pride just now), What sort of pride must his be, which could dispense with inclination and preference in his lady's part of it?—What must be that love—

Love, Sir! who talks of love?—Was not merit the thing we were talking of?—Have I ever professed; have I ever required of you professions of a passion of that nature? But there is no end of these debatings; each so faultless, each so full of self—

I do not think myself faultless, Madam:—But—

But what, Sir!—Would you evermore argue with me, as if you were a child?—Seeking palliations, and making promises?—Promises of what, Sir? Of being in future the man it is a shame a gentleman is not?—Of being the man—

Good God! interrupted he, with eyes lifted up, if thou wert to be thus severe—

Well, well, Sir, impatiently—I need only to ob|serve, that all this vast difference in sentiments shews how unpair'd our minds are—So let us—

Let us what, Madam!—My soul is rising into tu|mults! And he look'd so wildly, that it startled me a good deal—Let us what, Madam—

Why, Sir, let us resolve to quit every regard for each other—[Nay, flame not out—I am a poor weak-minded creature in some things: But where what I should be, or not deserve to live, if I am not, is in the question, I have great and invincible spirit, or my own conceit betrays me].—Let us resolve to quit every regard for each other that is more than civil. This you may depend upon; you may, if it will fewel your pride, gratify it with this assurance; That I will never marry any other man. I have seen enough of your sex; at least of you.—A single life shall ever be my choice—While I will leave you at liberty to pursue your own.

Indifference, worse than indifference! said he, in a passion—

Interrupting him—Indifference let it be—You have not, in my opinion, at least, deserved it should be other: If you have in your own, you have cause, at least your pride has, to hate me for misjudging you.—

Dearest, dearest creature! snatching my hand with wildness, let me beseech you to be uniformly noble! Civil regards, Madam!—Civil regards!—Can you so expect to narrow and confine such a passion as mine!—

Such a passion as yours, Mr. Lovelace, deserves to be narrow'd and confin'd.—It is either the passion you do not think it; or I do not.—I question whe|ther your mind is capable of being so narrow'd and so widen'd, as is necessary to make it be what I wish

it to be. Lift up your hands and your eyes, Sir, in that emphatical silent wonder, as you please: But what does it express, what does it convince me of; but that we are not born for one another?

By his soul, he said, and grasp'd my hand with an eagerness that hurt it, we were born for one another: I must be his—I should be his (and put his other arm round me), altho' his damnation were to be the pur|chase!—

I was terrify'd!—Let me leave you—or begone from me, Sir—Is the passion you boast, to be thus shockingly declared!

You must not go, Madam!—You must not leave me in anger—

I will return—I will return—When you can be less violent—less shocking.

And he let me go.

The man quite frighted me; insomuch that when I got into my chamber, I found a sudden flow of tears a great relief to me.

In half an hour, he sent a little billet, expressing his concern for the vehemence of his behaviour, and praying to see me.

I went—Because I could not help myself, I went.

He was full of his excuses.—O my dear, what would you, even you, do with such a man as this; and in my situation?

It was very possible for him now, he said, to ac|count for the workings of a frenzical disorder. For his part, he was near distraction. All last week to suffer as he had suffer'd; and now to talk of civil re|gards only, when he had hoped from the nobleness of my mind—

Hope what you will, interrupted I; I must insist upon it, that our minds are by no means suited to each other. You have brought me into difficulties. I am deserted of every friend but Miss Howe. My

true sentiments I will not conceal: It is against my will, that I must submit to owe protection from a bro|ther's projects, which Miss Howe thinks are not given over, to you, who have brought me into these streights; not with my own concurrence brought me into them; remember that—

I do remember that, Madam! So often reminded, how can I forget it?

Yet I will owe to you this protection, if it be ne|cessary, in the earnest hope, that you will shun rather than seek mischief, if any further inquiry after me be made. But what hinders you from leaving me?—Cannot I send to you? The Widow Fretchville, it is plain, knows not her own mind: The people here indeed are civiller every day than other: But I had ra|ther have lodgings more agreeable to my circum|stances. I best know what will suit them; and am resolved not to be obliged to any body. If you leave me, I will take a civil leave of these people, and re|tire to some one of the neighbouring villages, and there, secreting myself, wait my cousin Morden's ar|rival with patience.

He presumed, he told me, from what I said, that my application to my relations was unsuccessful: That therefore he hoped I would give him leave now to mention the terms in the nature of settlements, which he had long intended to propose to me; and which having till now delay'd to do, thro' accidents not proceeding from himself, he had thoughts of urg|ing to me the moment I enter'd upon my new house; and upon finding myself as independent in appear|ance as I was in fact. Permit me, Madam, to pro|pose these matters to you:—Not with an expectation of your immediate answer; but for your considera|tion.

Were not hesitation, a self-felt glow, a downcast eye, more than enough? Your advice was too much in my head: I hesitated.

He urg'd on upon my silence: He would call God to witness to the justice, nay to the generosity of his in|tentions to me, if I would be so good as to hear what he had to propose to me, as to settlements.

Could not the man have fallen into the subject without this parade? Many a point, you know, is refused, and ought to be refused, if leave be asked to introduce it; and when once refused, the refusal must in honour be adhered to:—Whereas, had it been slid in upon one, as I may say, it might have merited fur|ther consideration. If such a man as he knows not this, who should?

I thought myself obliged, tho' not to depart from this subject intirely, yet, to give it a more diffuse turn; in order, on the one hand, to save myself the morti|fication of appearing too ready in my compliance, after such a distance as had been between us; and on the other, to avoid (in pursuance of your advice) the necessity of giving him such a repulse, as might again throw us out of the course.

A cruel alternative to be reduced to!

You talk of generosity, Mr. Lovelace, said I; and you talk of justice; perhaps without having consider'd the force of the words, in the sense you use them on this occasion.—Let me tell you what generosity is, in my sense of the word—TRUE GENEROSITY is not confined to pecuniary instances: It is more than po|liteness: It is more than good faith: It is more than honour: It is more than justice: Since all these are but duties, and what a worthy mind cannot dispense with. But TRUE GENEROSITY is greatness of soul: It in|cites us to do more by a fellow-creature, than can be strictly required of us: It obliges us to hasten to the relief of an object that wants relief; anticipating even hope or expectation. Generosity, Sir, will not surely permit a worthy mind to doubt of its honourable and beneficent intentions: Much less will it allow itself to shock, to offend any one; and, least of all, a per|son

thrown by adversity, mishap, or accident, into its protection.

What an opportunity had he to clear his intentions, had he been so disposed, from the latter part of this home observation!—But he run away with the first, and kept to that.

Admirably defin'd! he said.—But who at this rate, Madam, can be said to be generous to you?—Your generosity I implore; while, justice, as it must be my sole merit, shall be my aim. Never was there a wo|man of such nice and delicate sentiments!

It is a reflection upon yourself, Sir, and upon the company you have kept, if you think these notions either nice or delicate. Thousands of my sex are more nice than I; for they would have avoided the devious path I have been surprized into: The conse|quences of which surprize have laid me under the sad necessity of telling a man, who has not delicacy enough to enter into those parts of the female chara|cter, which are its glory and distinction, what True Generosity is.

His divine monitress, he called me!—He would en|deavour to form his manners, as he had often pro|mised, by my example. But he hoped I would now permit him to mention briefly the justice he proposed to do me, in the terms of the settlement; a subject so proper, before now, to have been enter'd upon; and which would have been enter'd upon long ago, had not my frequent displeasure taken from him the opportunity he had often wish'd for: But now having ventur'd to lay hold of this, nothing should divert him from improving it.

I have no spirits just now, Sir, to attend to such weighty points. What you have a mind to propose, write to me: And I shall know what answer to re|turn. Only one thing let me remind you of, that if you touch upon any subject, in which my papa has

a concern, I shall judge by your treatment of the father, what value you have for the daughter.

He looked, as if he would choose rather to speak than write: But had he said so, I had a severe return to have made upon him; as possibly he might see by my looks.

IN this way are we now: A sort of calm, as I said, succeeding a storm:—What may happen next, whe|ther a storm or a calm, with such a spirit as I have to deal with, who can tell?

But be that as it will, I think, my dear, I am not meanly off: And that is a great point with me; and which I know you'll be glad to hear: If it were on|ly, that I can see this man without losing any of that dignity (what other word can I use, speaking of my|self, that betokens decency, and not arrogance?) which is so necessary to enable me to look up, or rather, with the mind's eye, I may say, to look down upon a man of this man's cast.

Altho' circumstances have so offer'd, that I could not take your advice as to the manner of dealing with him; yet you gave me so much courage by it, as has enabled me to conduct things to this issue; as well as determin'd me against leaving him: Which before, I was thinking to do, at all adventures. Whether, when it came to the point, I should have done so, or not, I cannot say, because it would have depended upon his behaviour at the time.

But let his behaviour be what it will, I am afraid, with you, that, should any thing offer, at last, to oblige me to leave him, I shall not mend my situation in the world's eye; but the contrary. And yet I will not be treated by him with indignity, while I have any power to help myself.

You, my dear, have accused me of having modesty'd-away, as you phrase it, several opportunities of being—Being what, my dear?—Why, the wife of a liber|tine:

And what a libertine and his wife are, my cousin Morden's letter tells us.—Let me here, once for all, endeavour to account for the motives of my behaviour to this man, and for the principles I have proceeded upon, as they appear to me upon a close self-examina|tion.

Be pleased then to allow me to think, that my mo|tives on this occasion, arise not altogether from maid|enly niceness; nor yet from the apprehension of what my present tormentor, and future husband, may think of a precipitate compliance, on such a disagreeable behaviour as his: But they arise principally from what offers to my own heart, respecting, as I may say, its own rectitude, its own judgment of the fit and the unfit; as I would, without study, answer for myself to myself, in the first place; to him, and to the world, in the second only. Principles, that are in my mind; that I found there; implanted, no doubt, by the first gracious Planter: Which therefore impell me, as I may say, to act up to them, that thereby I may, to the best of my judgment, be enabled to comport myself worthily in both states (the single and the married), let others act as they will by me.

I hope, my dear, I do not deceive myself, and, in|stead of setting about rectifying what is amiss in my heart, endeavour to find excuses for habits and pecu|liarities, which I am unwilling to cast off or overcome. The heart is very deceitful: Do you, my dear friend, lay mine open (but, surely, it is always open before you!) and spare me not, if you find or think it culpable.

This observation, once for all, as I said, I thought proper to make, to convince you, that, to the best of my judgment, my errors, in matters as well of the lesser moment, as the greater, shall rather be the fault of my understanding than of my will.

I am, my dearest friend,

Your ever-obliged CLARISSA HARLOWE.

LETTER XIII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Tuesday Night, May 16.

MR. Lovelace has sent me, by Dorcas, his pro|posals, as follow:

'To spare a delicacy so extreme, and to obey you, I write: And the rather, that you may communi|cate this paper to Miss Howe, who may consult any of her friends you shall think proper to have intrusted on this occasion. I say, intrusted; because, as you know, I have given it out to several persons, that we are actually marry'd.'

'In the first place, Madam, I offer to settle upon you, by way of jointure, your whole estate. And moreover to vest in trustees such a part of mine in Lancashire, as shall produce a clear four hundred pounds a year, to be paid to your sole and separate use, quarterly.'

'My own estate is a clear 2000 l. per annum. Lord M. proposes to give me possession either of That which he has in Lancashire (to which, by the way, I think I have a better title than he has himself), or That we call The Lawn in Hertfordshire, upon my nuptials with a lady whom he so greatly admires; and to make that I shall choose a clear 1000 l. per annum.'

'My too great contempt of censure has subjected me to much traduction. It may not therefore be improper to assure you, on the word of a gentle|man, that no part of my estate was ever mortgaged: And that altho' I lived very expensively abroad, and made large draughts, yet, that Midsummer-Day next will discharge all that I owe in the world. My notions are not all bad ones. I have been thought, in pecuniary cases, generous. It would have de|served another name, had I not first been just.'

'If, as your own estate is at present in your father's hands, you rather choose that I should make a jointure out of mine, tantamount to yours, be it what it will, it shall be done. I will engage Lord M. to write to you, what he proposes to do on the happy occasion: Not as your desire or expectation, but to demonstrate, that no advantage is intended to be taken of the situation you are in with your own family.'

'To shew the beloved daughter the consideration I have for her, I will consent, that she shall pre|scribe the terms of agreement in relation to the large sums, which must be in her father's hands, arising from her grandfather's estate. I have no doubt, but he will be put upon making large de|mands upon you. All those it shall be in your power to comply with, for the sake of your own peace. And the remainder shall be paid into your hands, and be intirely at your disposal, as a fund to support those charitable donations, which I have heard you so famed for out of your family; and for which you have been so greatly reflected upon in it.'

'As to cloaths, jewels, and the like, against the time you shall choose to make your appearance, it will be my pride, that you shall not be beholden for such of these, as shall be answerable to the rank of both, to those who have had the stupid folly to re|nounce a daughter they deserved not. You must excuse me, Madam: You would mistrust my sin|cerity in the rest, could I speak of these people with less asperity, tho' so nearly related to you.'

'These, Madam, are my proposals. They are such as I always designed to make, whenever you would permit me to enter into the delightful sub|ject. But you have been so determin'd to try every method for reconciling yourself to your relations even by giving me absolutely up for ever, that yo•• have seem'd to think it but justice to keep me at ••

distance, till the event of that your predominant hope could be seen. It is now seen!—And altho' I have been, and perhaps still am, ready to regret the want of that preference I wish'd for from you as Miss Clarissa Harlowe; yet I am sure, as the husband of Mrs. Lovelace, I shall be more ready to adore than to blame you for the pangs you have given to a heart, the generosity, or rather justice of which, my im|placable enemies have taught you to doubt: And this still the readier, as I am persuaded, that those pangs never would have been given by a mind so noble, had not the doubt been entertained, perhaps, with too great an appearance of reason; and as I hope I shall have it to reflect, that the moment the doubt shall be overcome, the indifference will cease.'

'I will only add, that if I have omitted any thing, that would have given you further satisfaction; or if the above terms be short of what you would wish; you will be pleased to supply them as you think fit. And when I know your pleasure, I will instantly order articles to be drawn up conformably; that no|thing in my power may be wanting to make you happy.'

'You will now, dearest Madam, judge, how far all the rest depends upon yourself.'

YOU see, my dear, what he offers. You see it is all my fault, that he has not made these offers before.—I am a strange creature! To be to blame in every|thing, and to every-body! Yet neither intend the ill at the time, nor know it to be the ill till too late, or so nearly too late, that I must give up all the delicacy he talks of, to compound for my fault!

I shall now judge how far all the rest depends upon myself! So coldly concludes he such warm, and, in the main, unobjectible proposals! Would you not, as you read, have supposed, that the paper would con|clude with the most earnest demand of a day?—I

own, I had that expectation so strong, resulting natu|rally, as I may say, from the premises, that without studying for dissatisfaction, I could not help being dis|satisfied, when I came to the conclusion.—But you say, there is no help. I must, perhaps, make further sacrifices. All delicacy, it seems, is to be at an end with me! But if so, this man knows not what every wise man knows, that prudence, and virtue, and de|licacy of mind in a wife, do the husband more real honour, in the eye of the world, than the same qua|lities (were she destitute of them) in himself: As the want of them in her does him more dis-honour: For are not the wife's errors, the husband's reproach? How justly his reproach, is another thing.

I will consider this paper; and write to it, if I am able: For it seems now, all the rest depends upon my|self.

LETTER XIV. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Wednesday Morning, May 17.

MR. Lovelace would fain have engag'd me last night. But as I was not prepar'd to enter upon the subject of his proposals, intending to consider them maturely, and was not highly pleased with his con|clusion (and then there is hardly any getting from him in tolerable time over-night), I desired to be excused seeing him till morning.

About seven o'clock we met in the dining-room. I find, he was full of expectation that I should meet him with a very favourable, who knows, but with a thankful aspect?—And I immediately found by his sullen countenance, that he was under no small dis|app••intment that I did not.

My dearest love, are you well?—Why look you so solemn upon me?—Will your indifference never

be over?—If I have proposed terms in any respect short of your expectation—

I told him, that he had very considerately men|tion'd my shewing his proposals to Miss Howe, and consulting any of her friends upon them by her means; and I should have an opportunity to send them to her, by Collins, by-and-by; and so insisted to suspend any talk upon that subject till I had her opinion upon them.

Good God!—If there were but the least loop-hole; the least room for delay!—But he was writing a letter to his uncle, to give him an account of his situation with me, and could not finish it so satisfactorily, either to my Lord, or to himself, as if I would conde|scend to say, whether the terms he had proposed were acceptable, or not.

Thus far, I told him, I could say, That my prin|cipal point was peace and reconciliation with my fa|mily. As to other matters, the genteelness of his own spirit would put him upon doing more for me than I should ask, or expect. Wherefore, if all he had to write about was to know what Lord M. would do on my account, he might spare himself the trouble; for that my utmost wishes as to myself, were much more easily gratify'd than he perhaps imagin'd.

He asked me then, If I would so far permit him to touch upon the happy day, as to request his uncle's presence on the occasion, and to be my father?

Father had a sweet and venerable sound with it, I said. I should be glad to have a father who would own me!

Was not this plain speaking, think you, my dear? Yet it rather, I must own, appears so to me on re|flection, than was designed freely at the time. For I then, with a sigh from the bottom of my heart, thought of my own father; bitterly regretting, that I am an outcast from him and from my mother.

Mr. Lovelace, I thought, seemed a little affected; at

the manner of my speaking, as well as at the sad refle|ction, I suppose.

I am but a very young creature, Mr. Lovelace, said I, and wiped my averted eye, altho' you have kindly, and in love to me, introduced so much sorrow to me already: So you must not wonder, that the word father strikes so sensibly upon the heart of a child, ever dutiful till she knew you, and whose ten|der years still require the paternal wing.

He turned towards the window: [Rejoice with me, my dear, since I seem devoted to him, that the man is not absolutely impenetrable!]—His emotion was visible; yet he endeavoured to suppress it—Ap|proaching me again; again he was obliged to turn from me; Angelic something, he said: But then, obtain|ing a heart more suitable to his wish, he once more approached me.—For his own part, he said, as Lord M. was so subject to the gout, he was afraid, that the compliment he had just proposed to make him, might, if made, occasion a longer suspension, than he could bear to think of: And if it did, it would vex him to the heart, that he had made it.

I could not say a single word to this, you know, my dear. But you will guess at my thoughts of what h•• said—So much passionate love, lip-deep! So prudent and so dutifully patient at heart to a relation he had till now, so undutifully despised!—Why, why, a•• I thrown upon such a man! thought I.—

He hesitated, as if contending with himself, an after taking a turn or two about the room,—He w•• at a great loss what to determine upon, he said, be+cause he had not the honour of knowing when he w•• to be made the happiest of men:—Would to God might that very instant be resolved upon!

He stopp'd a moment or two, staring in my dow•• cast face [Did I not, O my beloved friend, thi•• you, want a father or a mother just then?] But he could not, so soon as he wished, procure my co••+sent

to a day; in that case, he thought the compli|ment might as well be made to Lord M. as not:—Since the settlements might be drawn and ingrossed in the intervenient time, which would pacify his im|patience, as no time would be lost.

You will suppose how I was affected by this speech, by repeating the substance of what he said upon it; as follows.

—But by his soul, he knew not, so much was I upon the reserve, and so much latent meaning did my eye import, whether, when he most hoped to please me, he was not farthest from doing so. Would I vouchsafe to say, Whether I approved of his compli|ment to Lord M. or not?

Miss Howe, thought I, at that moment, says, I must not run away from This man!

To be sure, Mr. Lovelace, if this matter is ever to be, it must be agreeable to me to have the full appro|bation of one side, since I cannot have that of the other.

If this matter be ever to be! Good God! what words were those at this time of day! And full ap|probation of one side! Why that word approbation? When the greatest pride of all his family was, That of having the honour of so dear a creature for their relation? Would to Heaven, my dearest life, added he, that, without complimenting Any-body, to-mor|row might be the happiest day of my life!—What say you, my angel? With a trembling impatience, that seemed not affected,—What say you for to-morrow?

It was likely, my dear, I could say much to it, or name another day, had I been disposed to the latter, with such an hinted delay from him.

Next day, Madam, if not to-morrow!—Or the day after that!—And taking my two hands, stared me into a half-confusion.

No, no! You cannot think all of a sudden, there

should be reason for such a hurry. It will be most agreeable, to be sure, for my Lord to be present.

I am all obedience and resignation, returned the wretch, with a self-pluming air, as if he had acqui|esced to a proposal made by me, and had complimented me with a great piece of self-denial.

Modesty, I think, required it of me, that it should pass so: Did it not?—I think it did. Would to Hea|ven—But what signifies wishing?

But when he would have rewarded himself, as he had heretofore called it, for this self-supposed conces|sion, with a kiss, I repulsed him with a just and very sincere disdain.

He seemed both vex'd and surpriz'd, as one who had made proposals that he had expected every thing from. He plainly said, that he thought our situation would intitle him to such an innocent freedom: And he was both amaz'd and griev'd to be thus scorn|fully repulsed.

No reply could be made by me. I abruptly broke from him. I recollect, as I passed by one of the pier|glasses, that I saw in it his clenched hand offered in wrath to his forehead: The words, indifference, by his soul, next to hatred, I heard him speak: And something of ice he mentioned: I heard not what.

Whether he intends to write to my Lord, or to Miss Montague, I cannot tell. But as all delicacy ought to be over with me now, perhaps I am to blame to ex|pect it from a man who may not know what it is. If he does not, and yet thinks himself very delicate, and intends not to be otherwise, I am rather to be pitied, than he to be censured. And after all, since I must take him as I find him, I must: That is to say, as a man so vain, and so accustom'd to be admired, that, not being conscious of internal defect, he has taken no pains to polish more than his outside: And as his proposals are higher than my expectations; and as in his own opinion, he has a great deal to bear from me, I

will (no new offence preventing) sit down to answer them:—And, if possible, in terms as unobjectible to him, as his are to me.

But after all, see you not my dear, more and more, the mismatch that there is in our minds?

However, I am willing to compound for my fault, by giving up (if that may be all my punishment) the expectation of what is deemed happiness in this life, with such a husband as I fear he will make. In short, I will content myself to be a suffering person thro' the state to the end of my life. A long one it can|not be!—

This may qualify him (as it may prove) from stings of conscience from misbehaviour to a first wife, to be a more tolerable one to a second, tho' not perhaps bet|ter deserving: While my story, to all who shall know it, will afford these instructions: That the eye is a traitor, and ought ever to be mistrusted: That form is deceitful: In other words; That a fine person is seldom pair'd by a fine mind: And that sound prin|ciples, and a good heart, are the only bases on which the hopes of a happy future, either with respect to the here or to the hereafter, can be built.

And so much at present for Mr. Lovelace's propo|sals: Of which I desire your opinion.

I am, my dearest fri••nd,

Your ever-obliged CL. HARLOWE.

Four letters are written by Mr. Lovelace from the date of his last, giving the state of affairs between him and the lady, pretty much the same as in hers in the same period, allowing for the humour in his; and for his resentments expressed with vehemence on her re|solution to leave him, if her friends could be prevailed upon.—A few extracts from them will be only given.

'What, says he, might have become of me, and my projects, had not her father, and the rest of the

implacables, stood my friends?' After violent threat|nings and vows of revenge, he says— ''Tis plain she would have given me up for ever; nor should I have been able to prevent her abandoning of me, unless I had torn up the tree by the roots to come at the fruit; which I hope still to bring down by a gentle shake or two, if I can but have patience to stay the ripening season.'

Thus triumphing in his unpolite cruelty, he says,—

'After her haughty treatment of me, I am resolved she shall speak out. There are a thousand beauties to be discovered in the face, in the accent, in th•• bush-beating hesitations of a woman that is earnest about a subject which she wants to introduce, yet knows not how. Silly rogues, calling themselves generous ones, would value themselves for sparing a lady's confusion: But they are silly rogues indeed▪ and rob themselves of prodigious pleasure by the•• forwardness; and at the same time deprive her o•• displaying a world of charms, which only can be manifested on these occasions. Hard-heartedness, as it is called, is an essential of the libertine's cha|racter. Familiarized to the distresses he occasions, he is seldom betray'd by tenderness into a complai+sant weakness unworthy of himself. How have I enjoyed a charming creature's confusion, as I have sat over-against her; her eyes lost in admiration of my shoebuckles, or meditating some uncouth figure in the carpet!'

Mentioning the settlements, he says,—

'I am in earnest as to the terms. If I marry her (and I have no doubt but that I shall, after my pride, my am|bition, my revenge, if thou wilt, is gratify'd), I will do her noble justice. The more I do for such a prudent, such an excellent oeconomist, the more shall I do for myself.—But, by my soul, Belford, her haughtiness shall be brought down to own both love

and obligation to me.—Nor will this sketch of settlements bring us forwarder than I would have it. Modesty of sex will stand my friend at any time. At the very altar, our hands join'd, I'd en|gage to make this proud beauty leave the parson and me, and all my friends present, tho' there were twenty of them, to look like fools upon one another, while she took wing, and flew out of the church-door, or window, if that were open, and the door shut; and this only by a very word.'

He mentions his rash expression, that she should be his, altho' damnation were to be the purchase; and owns that, at that instant, he was upon the point of making a violent attempt; but that he was check'd in the very moment, and but just in time, by the awe he was struck with on again cast|ing his eye upon her terrified but lovely face, and see|ing, as he thought, her spotless heart in every line of it.

'O virtue, virtue! says he, what is there in thee, that can thus affect the heart of such a man as me, against my will!—Whence these involuntary tre|mors, and fear of giving mortal offence?—What art thou, that acting in the breast of a feeble wo|man, canst strike so much awe into a spirit so intre|pid! Which never before, no, not in my first at|tempt, young as I then was, and frighted at my own boldness (till I found myself forgiven), had such an effect upon me!'

He paints, in lively colours, that part of the scene ••tween him and the Lady, where she says,

'The word father has a sweet and venerable found with it.'

'I was exceedingly affected, says he, upon the oc|casion. But was ashamed to be surprised by her into such a fit of unmanly weakness:—So ashamed, that I was resolved to subdue it at the instant, and guard against the like for the future. Yet, at that

moment, I more than half regretted, that I could not permit her to enjoy a triumph which she so well deserved to glory in:—Her youth, her beauty, her artless innocence, and her manner, equally beyond comparison or description. But her indiffe••ence, Belford!—That she could resolve to sacrifice me to the malice of my enemies; and carry on the desig•• in so clandestine a manner—Yet love her, as I do to frenzy!—Revere her, as I do, to adoration!—These were the recollections with which I fortify'd my recreant heart against her.—Yet, after all, if she persevere, she must conquer!—Coward, as she has made me, that never was a coward before!'

HE concludes his fourth letter in a vehement rage, upon her repulsing him, when he offer'd to salute her; having supposed, as he owns, that she would have bee•• all condescension on his proposals to her.

'This, says he, I will for ever remember against her, in order to steel my own heart, that I may c•• thro' a rock of ice to hers; and repay her for th•• disdain, the scorn, which glow'd in her counte|nance, and was apparent in her air, at her abrup•• departure from me, after such obliging behaviour on my side, and after I had so earnestly pressed h•• for an early day.—The women below say, Sh•• hates me, she despises me!—And 'tis true: Sh•• does; she must.—And why cannot I take their ad|vice?—I will not long, my fair one, be despised by thee, and laughed at by them!'

'Let me acquaint thee, Jack, adds he, by way of postscript, That this effort of hers to leave me if she could have been received; her sending for a coach on Sunday; no doubt, resolving not to return, if she had gone out without me (for did she not declare, that she had thought to retire to some of the villages about town where she could be safe and private?); have al••

together so much alarm'd me, that I have been adding to the written instructions for my ser|vant, and the people below, how to act, in case she should elope in my absence: Parti|cularly letting my fellow know what he shall report to strangers, in case she shall throw herself upon any such, with a resolution to abandon me. These instructions I shall further add to, as circumstances offer.'

LETTER XV. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Thursday, May 18.

I Have neither time nor patience, my dear friend, to answer to every material article in your last let|••ers, just now received. Mr. Lovelace's proposals ••e all I like of him. And yet (as you do) I think, ••hat he concludes them not with that warmth and ••arnestness which we might naturally have expected ••om him. Never in my life did I hear or read of so ••atient a man, with such a blessing in his reach. But ••retches of his cast, between you and me, my dear, ••ave not, I fancy, the ardors that honest men have. Who knows, as your Bell once spitefully said, but he may have half a dozen creatures to quit his hands of, before he engages for life?—Yet I believe you must not expect him to be honest on this side of his grand ••macteric.

He, to suggest delay from a compliment to be made to Lord M. and to give time for settlements!—He, a part of whose character it is, not to know what complaisance to his relations is!—I have no patience with him!—You did indeed want an interposing ••••iend, on the affecting occasion which you mention ••n yours of yesterday morning. But, upon my word, were I to have been that moment in your ••••••u••tion, and been so treated, I would have torn his

eyes out, and left it to his own heart, when I had done, to furnish the reason for it.

Would to Heaven to-morrow, without complimenting any-body, might be his happy day!—Villain! After he had himself suggested the compliment!—And I think he accuses YOU of delaying!—Fellow, that he is!—How my heart is wrung—

But, as matters now stand betwixt you, I am very unseasonable in expressing my resentments against him.—Yet I don't know whether I am or not, nei|ther; since it is the cruellest of fates, for a woman to be forced to have a man whom her heart despises You must, at least, despise him; at times, however. His clenched fist offered to his forehead on your leav|ing him in just displeasure; I wish it had been a pole|ax, and in the hand of his worst enemy.

I will endeavour to think of some method, of some scheme, to get you from him, and to fix you safel•• somewhere, till your cousin Morden arrives: A scheme to lie by you, and to be pursued as occasio•• may be given. You are sure, that you can go abroa•• when you please; and that our correspondence is safe I cannot, however, for the reasons heretofore men|tioned, respecting your own reputation, wish you 〈◊〉〈◊〉 leave him, while he gives you not cause to suspec•• his honour. But your heart, I know, would be th•• easier, if you were sure of some asylum, in case of ne|cessity.

Yet once more, I say, I can have no notion th•• he can or dare to mean you dishonour.—But then th•• man is a fool, my dear—that's all.

However, since you are thrown upon a fool, ma•• the fool, at the first opportunity; and tho' I do•• that this man will be the most ungovernable of foo•• as all witty and vain fools are, take him as a punish|ment, since you cannot as a reward. In short, as o•• given, to convince you, that there is nothing but i•• perfection in this life.

I shall be impatient till I have your next. I am, my dearest friend,

Your ever-affectionate and faithful ANNA HOWE.

LETTER XVI. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Esq

Wednesday, May 17.

I Would conceal nothing from you that relates to yourself so much as the inclosed. You will see what the noble writer apprehends from you, and wishes of you, with regard to Miss Harlowe, and how much at heart all your relations have it, that you do honourably by her. They compliment me with an influence over you, which I wish with all my soul you would let me have in this article.

Let me once more intreat thee, Lovelace, to re|flect, before it be too late, before the mortal offence ••e given, upon the graces and merits of this lady. Let thy frequent remorses at last end in one effectual one. Let not pride and wantonness of heart, ruin thy fairer prospects. By my faith, Lovelace, there is nothing ••ut vanity, conceit, and nonsense, in our wild schemes. As we grow older, we shall be wiser, and looking back upon our foolish notions of the present hour, shall certainly despise ourselves (our youth dissi|pated), when we think of the honourable engagements we might have made. Thou, more especially, if thou lettest such a matchless creature slide thro' thy fingers. A creature pure from her cradle. In all her actions and sentiments uniformly noble. Strict in the per|formance of all her even unrewarded duties to the most unreasonable of fathers, what a wife will she make the man who shall have the honour to call her his!

Reflect likewise upon her sufferings for thee. Actual|ly

at the time thou art forming schemes to ruin her (at least, in her sense of the word) is she not labouring under a father's curse laid upon her by thy means, and for thy sake? And wouldst thou give operation and completion to this curse?

And what, Lovelace, all the time is thy pride? Thou that vainly imaginest, that the whole family of the, Harlowes, and that of the Howes too, are but thy machines, unknown to themselves, to bring about thy purposes, and thy revenge: What art thou more, or better, than the instrument even of her implacable brother, and envious sister, to perpetrate the disgrace of the most excellent of sisters, which they are moved to by vilely low and sordid motives?—Canst thou bear, Lovelace, to be thought the machine of thy in|veterate enemy James Harlowe?—Nay, art thou not the cully of that still viler Joseph Leman, who serves himself as much by thy money, as he does thee by the double part he acts by thy direction?—And the devil's agent besides, who only can, and who cer|tainly will, suitably reward thee, if thou proceedest, and if thou effectest thy wicked purpose?

Could any man but you put together upon paper the following questions, with so much unconcern as you seem to have written them?—Give them a reperusal, O heart of adamant!

'Whither can she fly to avoid me? Her parents will not receive her; her uncles will not entertain her: Her beloved Norton is in their direction, and cannot. Miss Howe dare not. She has not one friend in town but ME: Is intirely a stranger to the town (a) 10.1.'

—What must that heart be that can triumph in a distress so deep, into which she has been plunged by thy ela|borate arts and contrivances? And what a sweet, yet sad reflection was that, which had almost had its due effect upon thee, arising from thy naming Lord M. for her nuptial father! Her tender years inclining

her to wish a father, and to hope a friend.—O my dear Lovelace, canst thou resolve to be, instead of the father thou hast robbed her of, a devil?

Thou knowest, that I have no interest, that I can have no view, in wishing thee to do justice to this ad|mirable creature. For thy own sake, once more I conjure thee, for thy family's sake, and for the sake of our common humanity, let me beseech thee to be just to Miss Clarissa Harlowe.

No matter whether these expostulations are in cha|racter from me, or not. I have been, and am, bad enough. If thou takest my advice, which is, as the inclosed will shew thee, the advice of all thy family, thou wilt perhaps have it to reproach me (and but perhaps neither), that thou art not a worse man than myself. But if thou dost not, and if thou ruinest such a virtue, all the complicated wickedness of ten devils, let loose among the innocent, with full power over them, will not do so much vile and base mischief as thou wilt be guilty of.

It is said, that the prince on his throne is not safe, if a mind so desperate can be found, as values not its own life. So may it be said, that the most immacu|late virtue is not safe, if a man can be met with, who has no regard to his own honour, and makes a jest of the most solemn vows and protestations.

Thou mayest by trick, chicane, and false colours, thou who art worse than a pickeroon in love, over|come a poor lady so intangled as thou hast intangled her; so unprotected as thou hast made her: But consider, how much more generous and just to her, and noble to thyself, it is, to overcome thyself.

Once more, it is no matter, whether my past or future actions countenance my preachment, as perhaps thou'lt call what I have written: But this I promise thee, that whenever I meet with a woman of but one half of Miss Harlowe's perfections, who will favour me with her acceptance, I will take the ad|vice

I give, and marry. Nor will I attempt to try her honour at the hazard of my own. In other words, I will not degrade an excellent creature in her own eyes, by trials, when I have no cause for suspicion. And let me add, with respect, to thy Eagleship's manifestation, of which thou boastest, in thy attempts upon the innocent and uncorrupted, ra|ther than upon those whom thou humourously com|parest to wrens, philtits, and wagtails (a) 10.2, that I hope I have it not once to reproach myself, that I ruin'd the morals of any one creature, who otherwise would have been uncorrupted. Guilt enough in contributing to the continued guilt of other poor wretches, if I am one of those who take care she shall never rise again, when she has once fallen.

Whatever the capital devil, under whose banner thou hast listed, will let thee do, with regard to this incomparable woman, I hope thou wilt act with ho|nour, in relation to the inclosed, between Lord M. and me; who, as thou wilt see, desires, that thou mayest not know he wrote on the subject; for reasons, I think, very far from being creditable to thyself: And that thou wilt take as meant, the honest zeal for thy service, of

Thy real friend, J. BELFORD,

LETTER XVII. Lord M. To JOHN BELFORD, Esq

[Inclosed in the preceding].

M. Hall, Monday May 15.

SIR,

IF any man in the world has power over my ne|phew, it is you. I therefore write this, to beg you to interfere in the affair depending between him and the most accomplished of women, as every one says; and what every one says, must be true.

I don't know that he has any bad designs upon her; but I know his temper too well, not to be apprehensive upon such long delays: And the ladies here have been for some time in fear for her; my sister Sadleir, in particular, who (you know) is a wise woman, says, that these delays, in the present case, must be from him, rather than from the lady. He had always in|deed a strong antipathy to marriage; and may think of playing his dog's tricks by her, as he has by so many others. If there's any danger of this, 'tis best to prevent it in time: For, when a thing is done, ad|vice comes too late.

He has always had the folly and impertinence to make a jest of me for using proverbs: But as they are the wisdom of whole nations and ages, collected into a small compass, I am not to be shamed out of sentences, that often contain more wisdom in them, than the tedious harangues of most of our parsons and moralists. Let him laugh at them, if he pleases: You and I know better things, Mr. Belford.—Tho' you have kept company with a wolf, you have not learnt to howl of him.

But nevertheless, you must not let him know, that I have written to you on this subject. I am ashamed to say it; but he has ever treated me, as if I were a man of very common understanding. And would perhaps think never the better of the best advice in the world, for coming from me.

I am sure, he has no reason to slight me as he does. He may and will be the better for me, if he outlives me; tho' he once told me to my face, That I might do as I would with my estate; for that he, for his part, loved his liberty as much as he despised money. He thought, I suppose, that I could not cover him with my wings, without pecking at him with my bill; tho' I never used to be pecking at him, without very great occasion: And, God knows, he might have my very heart, if he would but endeavour to oblige me, by

studying his own good; for that is all I desire of him. Indeed, it was his poor mother that first spoil'd him; and I have been but too indulgent to him since.—A fine grateful disposition, you'll say, to return evil for good! But that was always his way.

This match, however, as the lady has such an ex|traordinary share of wisdom and goodness, might set all to rights: and if you can forward it, I would enable him to make whatever settlements he could wish; and should not be unwilling to put him in pos|session of another pretty estate besides: For what do I live for (as I have often said), but to see him and my two nieces well married and settled? May heaven settle him down to a better mind, and turn his heart to more of goodness and consideration!

If the delays are on his side, I tremble for the lady; and, if on hers (as he tells my niece Charlotte), I could wish the young lady were apprized, that Delays are dangerous. Excellent as she is, I can tell her, she ought not to depend on her merits with such a change|able fellow, and such a professed marriage-hater, as he has been. I know you are very good at giving kind hints. A word to the wise is enough.

I wish you would try what you can do with him; for I have warned him so often of his wicked prac|tices, that I begin to despair of my words having any effect upon him. But let him remember, that Ven|geance, tho' it comes with leaden feet, strikes with iron hands. If he behaves ill in this case, he may find it so. What a pity it is, that a man of his talents and learning should be so vile a rake! Alas! alas! Une poignée de bonne vie vaut mieux que plein muy de clergé; A handful of good life is better than a whole bushel of learning.

You may throw in, too, as his friend, that, should he provoke me, it may not be too late for me to marry. My old friend Wycherly did so, when he was older than I am, on purpose to plague his ne|phew:

And, inspite of this gout, I might have a child or two still. And have not been without some thoughts that way, when he has angered me more than ordi|nary: But these thoughts have gone off again hitherto, upon my considering, that the children of very young and very old men [tho' I am not so very old neither] last not long; and that old men, when they marry young women, are said to make much of death: Yet who knows but that matrimony might be good against the gouty humours I am troubled with?

The sentences, that I have purposely wove into my discourse, may be of some service to you in talking to him; but use them sparingly, that he may not dis|cover, that you borrow your darts from my quiver.

May your good counsels, Mr. Belford, founded up|on the hints I have given, pierce his heart, and incite him to do what will be so happy for himself, and so necessary for the honour of that admirable lady whom I long to see his wife; and, if I may, I will not think of one for myself.

Should he abuse the confidence she has plac'd in him, I myself shall pray, that vengeance may f••ll upon his head.—Raro—Raro—(I quite forget all my Latin! but I think it is)—Raro antecedentem sce|lestum deseruit pede poena claudo: Where vice goes before, vengeance (sooner or later) will follow.

I shall make no apologies to you for this trouble. I know how well you love him and me; and there is nothing in which you could serve us both more im|portantly, than in forwarding this match to the ut|most of your power. When it is done, how shall I rejoice to see you at M. Hall! Mean time, I shall long to hear, that you are likely to be successful; and am,

Dear Sir,

Your most faithful friend and servant, M.

Mr. Lovelace having not returned an answer to Mr. Belford's expostulatory letter, so soon as Mr. Belford expected, he wrote to him, expressing his ap|prehension, that he had disobliged him by his honest freedom. Among other things, he says—

'I pass my time here at Watford, attending my dying uncle, very heavily. I cannot therefore, by any means, dispense with thy correspondence. And why shouldst thou punish me, for having more conscience and remorse than thyself? Thou, who never thoughtest either conscience or remorse an honour to thee. And I have, besides, a melancholy story to tell thee, in relation to Belton and his Thomasine; and which may afford a lesson to all the keeping class.'

'I have a letter from each of our three companions in the time. They have all the wickedness that thou hast, but not the wit. Some new rogueries do two of them boast of, which, I think, it com|pleted, deserve the gallows.'

'I am far from hating intrigue upon principle. But to have aukward fellows plot, and commit their plots to paper, destitute of the seasonings, of the acumen, which is thy talent, how extremely shocking must their letters be!—But do thou, Lovelace, whe|ther thou art, or art not, determined upon thy measures, with regard to the fine lady in thy power, enliven my heavy heart by thy communications; and thou wilt oblige

Thy melancholy friend, J. BELFORD.

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

Friday Night, May 19.

WHEN I have opened my views to thee so amply, as I have done in my former letters; and have told thee, that my principal design is but to bring virtue to a trial, that, if virtue, it need not be afraid of; and that the reward of it will be marriage (that is to say, if, after I have carried my point, I cannot prevail upon her to live with me the Life of Honour(a) 12.1; for that thou knowest is the wish of my heart); I am amazed at the repetition of thy wambling nonsense.

I am of opinion with thee, that some time hence, when I am grown wiser, I shall conclude, that there is nothing but vanity, conceit, and nonsense, in my pre|sent wild schemes. But what is this saying, but that I must be first wiser?

I do not intend to let this matchless creature slide through my fingers.

Art thou able to say half the things in her praise, that I have said, and am continually saying or writing?

Her gloomy father cursed the sweet creature, be|cause she put it out of his wicked power to compel her to have the man she hated. Thou knowest how little merit she has with me on this score.—And shall I not try the virtue I intend, upon full proof, to reward, be|cause her father is a tyrant?—Why art thou thus eternally reflecting upon so excellent a woman, as if thou wert assured she would fail in the trial?—Nay, thou declarest, every time thou writest on the subject, that she will, that she must yield, intangled as she is: And yet makest her virtue the pretence of thy solicitude for her.

An instrument of the vile James Harlowe, dost thou call me?—O Jack! how I could curse thee!—I an

instrument of that brother! of that sister!—But mark the end—And thou shalt see what will become of that brother, and of that sister!

Play not against me my own acknowleged sensi|bilities, I desire thee. Sensibilities which, at the same time that they contradict thy charge of an adamantine heart in thy friend, thou hadst known nothing of, had I not communicated them to thee.

If I ruin such a virtue, sayest thou?—Eternal mo|notonist!—Again; The most immaculate virtue may be ruined by men, who have no regard to their honour, and who make a jest of the most solemn oaths, &c. What must be the virtue that will be ruined without oaths? Is not the world full of these deceptions? And are not lovers oaths a jest of hundreds of years standing? And are not cautions against the perfidy of our sex, a ne|cessary part of the female education?

I do intend to endeavour to overcome myself; but I must first try, if I cannot overcome this lady. Have I not said, that the honour of her Sex is concerned that I should try?

Whenever thou meetest with a woman of but half her perfections, thou wilt marry.—Do, Jack.

Can a girl be degraded by trials, who is not over|come?

I am glad, that thou takest crime to thyself, for not endeavouring to convert the poor wretches whom others have ruined. I will not recriminate upon thee, Belford, as I might, when thou flatterest thyself, that thou never ruinedst the morals of any young creature, who otherwise would not have been corrupted.—The palliating consolation of an Hottentot heart, de|termined rather to gluttonize on the garbage of other soul feeders, than to reform.—But tell me, Jack, wouldst thou have spared such a girl as my Rosebud, had I not, by my example, engaged thy generosity? Nor was my Rosebud the only girl I spared:—When my power was acknowleged, who more merciful than thy friend?

It is resistance that inflames desire, Sharpens the darts of love, and blows its fire. Love is disarm'd that meets with too much ease; He languishes, and does not care to please.

The women know this as well as the men. They love to be addressed with spirit;

And therefore 'tis their golden fruit they guard With so much care, to make possession hard.

Whence, for a by-reflection, the ardent, the com|plaisant Gallant is so often preferr'd to the cold Hus|band. And yet the Sex do not consider, that Variety or Novelty gives the ardour and the obsequiousness; and that, were the Rake as much used to them as the Husband is, he would be (and is to his own wife, if married) as indifferent to their favours; and the Hus|band, in his turn, would, to another woman, be the Rake. Let the women, upon the whole, take this lesson from a Lovelace-Always to endeavour to make themselves as New to a Husband, and to appear as elegant and as obliging to him, as they are desirous to appear to a Lover, and actually were to him as such; and then the Rake, which all women love, will last longer in the Husband, than it generally does.

But to return:—If I have not sufficiently clear'd my conduct to thee in the above; I refer thee once more to mine of the 13th of last month (a) 12.2. And pr'ythee, Jack, lay me not under a necessity to repeat the same things so often. I hope thou readest what I write more than once.

I am not displeased that thou art so apprehensive of my resentment, that I cannot miss a day, without making thee uneasy. Thy conscience, 'tis plain, tells thee, that thou hast deserved my displeasure: And if it has convinced thee of that, it will make thee afraid of repeating thy fault. See that this be the consequence. Else, now that thou hast told me how I can pu|nish

thee, it is very likely that I do punish thee by my silence, altho' I have as much pleasure in writing on this charming subject, as thou canst have in reading what I write.

When a boy, if a dog ran away from me thro' fear, I generally looked about for a stone, a stick, or a brickbat; and if neither offer'd to my hand, I skimm'd my hat after him, to make him afraid for something. What signifies power, if we do not exert it?

Let my Lord know thou hast scribbled to me. But give him not the contents of thy epistle. Tho' a parcel of crude stuff, he would think there was some|thing in it. Poor arguments will do in favour of what we like. But the stupid Peer little thinks, that this lady is a rebel to love. On the contrary, not only he, but all the world, believe her to be a volunteer in his service.—So I shall incur blame, and she will be pity'd, if any thing happen amiss.

Since my Lord's heart is so set upon this match, I have written already to let him know,

'That my unhappy character has given my beloved an unge|nerous diffidence of me. That she is so mother-sick and father-fond, that she had rather return to Harlowe-Place, than marry. That she is even ap|prehensive, that the step she has taken of going off with me, will make the ladies of a family of such name and rank as ours, think slightly of her. That therefore I desire his Lordship (tho' this hint, I tell him, must be very delicately touched) to write me such a letter as I can shew her. Let him treat me in it ever so freely, I shall not take it amiss, because I know his Lordship takes pleasure in writing to me in a corrective style. That he may make what offers he pleases on the marriage. That I desire his pre|sence at the ceremony; that I may take from his hand the greatest blessing that mortal man can give me.'

I have not absolutely told the lady that I would write to his Lordship to this effect; yet have given her reason to think I will. So that without the last necessity I shall not produce the answer I expect from him: For I am very loth, I own, to make use of any of my family's names for the furthering of my designs. And yet I must make all secure, before I pull off the mask. This was my motive for bringing her hither.

Thus, thou seest, that the old Peer's letter came very seasonably. I thank thee for it. But as to his sentences, they cannot possibly do me good. I was early suffocated with his Wisdom of nations. When a boy, I never asked any thing of him, but out flew a proverb; and if the tendency of that was to deny me, I never could obtain the least favour. This gave me so great an aversion to the very word, that, when a child, I made it a condition with my tutor, who was an honest parson, that I would not read my Bible at all, if he would not excuse me one of the wisest books in it: To which, however, I had no other objection, than that it was called The Proverbs. And as for So|lomon, he was then a hated character with me, not because of his polygamy, but because I had conceived him to be such another musty old fellow as my uncle.

Well, but let us leave old saws to old men.—What signifies thy tedious whining over thy departing relation? Is it not generally agreed, that he cannot recover? Will it not be kind in thee, to put him out of his misery? I hear, that he is pester'd still with visits from doctors, and apothecaries, and surgeons; that they cannot cut so deep as the mortification has gone; and that in every visit, in every scarification, inevitable death is pronounced upon him. Why then do they keep tormenting him? Is it not to take away more of his living fleece than of his dead flesh?—When a man is given over, the fee should surely be refused. Are they not now robbing his heirs?—What hast thou to do, if the will be as thou'dst have it?—

He sent for thee [Did he not?] to close his eyes. He is but an uncle, is he?

Let me see, if I mistake not, it is in the Bible, or some other good book: Can it be in Herodotus?—O, I believe it is in Josephus; A half-sacred and half-pro|fane author. He tells us of a king of Syria, put out of his pain by his prime minister, or one who deserved to be so for his contrivance. The story says, if I am right, that he spread a wet cloth over his face, which killing him, he reigned in his place. A notable fel|low! Perhaps this wet cloth, in the original, is what we now call laudanum; a potion that overspreads the faculties, as the wet cloth did the face of the royal patient, and the translator knew not how to render it.

But how like a forlorn varlet thou subscribest, Thy melancholy friend, J. BELFORD!—Melancholy! for what? To stand by, and see fair play between an old man and death? I thought thou hadst been more of a man; thou that art not afraid of an acute death, a sword's point, to be so plaguily hyp'd at the conse|quences of a chronical one?—What tho' the scarifi|cators work upon him day by day? it is only upon a caput mortuum: And pr'ythee Go to, to use the sty|lum veterum, and learn of the Royal butchers; who, for sport [an hundred times worse men than thy Love|lace] widow ten thousand at a brush, and make twice as many fatherless; and are dubb'd Magnus or Le Grand for it: Learn of them, I say, how to support a single death.

I wish my uncle had given me the opportunity of setting thee a better example: Thou shouldst have seen what a brave fellow I had been. And had I had occasion to write, my conclusion would have been this: 'I hope the old Trojan's happy. In that hope, I am so; and

'Thy rejoicing friend, 'R. LOVELACE.'

Dwell not always, Jack, upon one subject. Let me have poor Belton's story; the sooner the bet|ter. If I can be of service to him, tell him he may command me, either in purse or person. Yet the former with a freer will than the latter; for how can I leave my goddess? But I'll issue my commands to my other vassals to attend thy summons. If ye want head, let me know. If not, my quota on this occasion is money.

LETTER XIX. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Esq

Saturday, May 20.

NOT one word will I reply to such an abandon'd wretch, as thou hast shewn thyself to be in thine of last night. I will leave the lady to the protection of that Power who only can work miracles; and to her own merits. Still I have hopes that these will save her.

I will proceed, as thou desirest, to poor Belton's case; and the rather, as it has thrown me into such a train of thinking upon our past lives, our present courses, and our future views, as may be of service to both, if I can give due weight to the reflections that arise from it.

The poor man made me a visit on Thursday, in this my melancholy attendance. He began with com|plaints of his ill health and spirits, his hectic cough, and his increased malady of spitting of blood; and then led to his story.

A confounded one it is; and which highly aggra|vates his other maladies: For it has come out, that his Thomasine (who truly would be new-christen'd, you know, that her name might be nearer in sound to the christian name of the man whom she pretended to doat upon) has for many years carried on an intrigue

with a fellow who had been hostler to her father (an•• innkeeper at Darking); of whom, at the expence o•• poor Tom, she has made a gentleman; and managed it so, that having the art to make herself his cashier, she has been unable to account for large sums, which poor Belton thought forthcoming at his demand, and had trusted to her custody, in order to pay off a mortgage upon his paternal estate in Kent, which his heart had run upon leaving clear; but which cannot now be done, and will soon be foreclosed. And yet she has so long passed for his wife, that he knows not what to resolve upon about her; nor about the two boys he was so fond of, supposing them to be his; whereas now he begins to doubt his share in them.

So KEEPING don't do, Lovelace. 'Tis not the eligible life.

'A man my keep a woman, said the poor fellow to me, but not his estate!—Two inter|ests!—Then, my tottering fabric!'

pointing to his emaciated carcase.

We do well to value ourselves upon our liberty, or, to speak more properly, upon the liberties we take! We had need to run down matrimony as we do, and to make that state the subject of our frothy jests; when we frequently render ourselves [for this of Tom's is not a singular case] the dupes and fools of women, who generally govern us (by arts our wise heads penetrate not) more absolutely than a wife would attempt to do!

Let us consider this point a little; and that upon our own principles, as libertines, setting aside what the laws of our country, and its customs, oblige from us; which, nevertheless, we cannot get over, till we have got over almost all moral obligations, as members of society.

In the first place, let us consider [we, who are in possession of estates by legal descent], how we should have liked to have been such naked destitute varlets as we must have been, had our fathers been as wise

as ourselves; and despised matrimony as we do—And then let us ask ourselves, if we ought not to have the same regard for our posterity, as we are glad our fa|thers had for theirs?

But this, perhaps, is too moral a consideration.—To proceed therefore to those which will be more striking to us, How can we reasonably expect oeco|nomy or frugality (or any thing indeed but riot and waste) from creatures who have an interest, and must therefore have views, different from our own?

They know the uncertain tenure [our fickle hu|mours] by which they hold: And is it to be won|der'd at, supposing them to be provident harlots, that they should endeavour, if they have the power, to lay up against a rainy day; or, if they have not the power, that they should squander all they can come at, when they are sure of nothing but the present hour; and when the life they live, and the sacrifices they have made, put conscience and honour out of the question?

Whereas a wife, having the same family-interest with her husband, lies not under either the same ap|prehensions or temptations; and has not broken through [of necessity, at least, has not] those restraints which education has fasten'd upon her: And if she make a private purse, which we are told by anti-matrimonial|ists, all wives love to do, and has children, it goes all into the same family, at the long-run.

Then, as to the great article of fidelity to your bed, are not women of family, who are well-edu|cated, under greater restraints, than creatures, who, if they ever had reputation, sacrifice it to sordid in|terest, or to more sordid appetite, the moment they give up to you? Does not the example you furnish, of having succeeded with her, give encourage|ment for others to attempt her likewise? For, with all her blandishments, can any man be so credulous,

or so vain, as to believe, that the woman be could persuade, another may not prevail upon?

Adultery is so capital a guilt, that even rakes and libertines, if not wholly abandon'd, and, as I may say, invited by a woman's levity, disavow and con|demn it: But here, in a state of KEEPING, a woman is in no danger of incurring, legally, at least, that guilt; and you yourself have broken thro', and over|thrown in her, all the fences and boundaries of moral honesty, and the modesty and reserves of her Sex: And what tie shall hold her against inclination, or in|terest? And what shall deter an attempter?

While a husband has this security from legal san|ctions, that if his wife be detected in a criminal con|versation with a man of fortune [the most likely by bribes to seduce her], he may recover very great da|mages, and procure a divorce besides: Which, to say nothing of the ignominy, is a consideration that must have some force upon both parties. And a wife must be vicious indeed, and a reflection upon a man's own choice, who, for the sake of change, and where there are no qualities to seduce, nor affluence to cor|rupt, will run so many hazards to injure her husband in the tenderest of all points.

But there are difficulties in procuring a divorce—[And so there ought:]—And none, says the rake, in parting with a mistress, whenever you suspect her; or, whenever, weary of her, you have a mind to change her for another.

But must not the man be a brute indeed, who can cast off a woman, whom he has seduced [If he take her from the town, that's another thing], without some flagrant reason; something that will better jus|tify him to himself, as well as to her, and to the world, than mere power and novelty?

But I don't see, if we judge by fact, and by the practice of all we have been acquainted with, of the

Keeping class, that we know how to part with them when we have them.

That we know we can if we will, is all we have for it: And this leads us to bear many things from a mistress, which we would not from a wife. But if we are good-natur'd and humane: If the woman has art [And what woman wants it, who has fallen by art? and to whose precarious situation art is so ne|cessary?] If you have given her the credit of being called by your name: If you have a settled place of abode, and have received and paid visits in her com|pany, as your wife: If she has brought you children; you will allow, that these are strong obligations upon you, in the world's eye, as well as to your own heart, against tearing yourself from such close con|nexions. She will stick to you as your skin: And it will be next to flaying yourself to cast her off.

Even if there be cause for it, by infidelity, she will have managed ill, if she have not her defenders—Nor did I ever know a cause, or a person, so bad, as to want advocates, either from ill will to the one, or pity to the other; and you will then be thought a hard-hearted miscreant: And even were she to go off without credit to herself, she will leave you as little; especially with all those whose good opinion a man would wish to cultivate.

Well, then, shall this poor privilege, that we may part with a woman, if we will, be deem'd a balance for the other inconveniencies? Shall it be thought by us, who are men of family and fortune, an equivalent for giving up equality of degree; and taking for the partner of our bed, and very probably more than the partner in our estates (to the breach of all family-rule and order), a low-born, a low-educated creature, who has not brought any-thing into the common stock; and can possibly make no returns for the solid benefits she receives, but those libidinous ones, which

a man cannot boast of, but to his disgrace, nor think of, but to the shame of both?

Moreover, as the man advances in years, the fury of his libertinism will go off. He will have different aims and pursuits, which will diminish his appetite to ranging, and make such a regular life as the matri|monial and family-life, palatable to him, and every day more palatable.

If he has children, and has reason to think them his, and if his lewd courses have left him any estate, he will have cause to regret the restraint his boasted liberty has laid him under, and the valuable privilege it has deprived him of; when he finds, that it must descend to some relation, for whom, whether near or distant, he cares not one farthing; and who, per|haps, from his dissolute life, if a man of virtue, has held him in the utmost contempt.

And were we to suppose his estate in his power to bequeath as he pleases; why should a man resolve, for the gratifying of his wicked humour only, to ba|stardize his race? Why should he wish to expose them to the scorn and insults of the rest of the world?—Why should he, whether they are men or women, lay them under the necessity of complying with pro|posals of marriage, either inferior as to fortune, or unequal as to age?—Why should he deprive the children he loves, and who are themselves guilty of no fault (if they have regard to morals, and to legal and social sanctions), of the respect they would wish to have, and to deserve?—and of the opportunity of associating themselves with proper, that is to say, with reputable company?—And why should he make them think themselves under obligation to every per|son of character, who should vouchsafe to visit them▪ What little reason, in a word, would such children have to bless their father's obstinate defiance of the laws and customs of his country; and for giving them

a mother, whom they could not think of with ho|nour; to whose crime it was, that they owed their very beings, and whose example it was their duty to shun?

If the education and morals of these children are left to chance, as too generally they are (for the man who has humanity and a feeling heart, and who is ca|pable of fondness for his offspring, I take it for granted, will marry); the case is still worse; his crime is perpetuated, as I may say, by his children: And the Sea, the Army, perhaps the Highway, for the boys; the Common for the girls; too often point out the way to a worse catastrophe.

What therefore, upon the whole, do we get by treading in these crooked paths, but danger, disgrace, and a too late repentance?

And after all, do we not frequently become the cullies of our own libertinism; sliding into the very state with those half-worn-out doxies; which, per|haps we might have enter'd into with their ladies; at least with their superiors, both in degree and for|tune? And all the time, lived handsomely like our|selves; not sneaking into holes and corners; and, when we crept abroad with our women, looking about us at every opening into the street or day, as if we were confessedly accountable to the censures of all honest people.

My cousin Tony Jenyns, thou knewest. He had not the actively mischievous spirit, that Thou, Bel|ton, Mowbray, Myself, and Tourville, have: But he imbibed the same notions we do, and carried them into practice.

How did he prate against wedlock! How did he strut about as a wit and a smart! And what a wit and a smart did all the boys and girls of our family, myself among the rest, then an urchin, think him, for the airs he gave himself?—Marry! No, not for the world; what man of sense would bear the insolences,

the petulances, the expensiveness of a wife! He could not for the heart of him think it tolerable, that a wo|man of equal rank and fortune, and, as it might hap|pen, superior talents to his own, should look upon herself to have a right to share the benefit of that for|tune which she brought him.

So, after he had flutter'd about the town for two or three years, in all which time he had a better opinion of himself than any-body else had, what does he do, but enter upon an affair with his fencing-master's daughter?

He succeeds, takes private lodgings for her at Hack|ney; visits her by stealth, both of them tender of re|putations, that were extremely tender, but which nei|ther had quite given over; for rakes of either sex are always the last to condemn or cry down themselves: Visited by nobody, nor visiting: The life of a thief, or of a man beset by creditors, afraid to look out of his own house, or to be seen abroad with her. And thus went he on for twelve years, and, tho' he had a good estate, hardly making both ends meet; for, tho' no glare, there was no oeconomy; and besides, he had every year a child, and very fond of them was he. But none of them lived above three years: And being now, on the death of the dozenth, grown as dully sober, as if he had been a real husband, his good Mrs. Thomas (for he had not permitted her to take his own name) prevailed upon him, to think the loss of their children a judgment upon the parents for their wicked way of life [There is a time, when calamities will beget reflection! The royal cully of France, thou know|est, was Maintenon'd into it by his ill successes in the field]: And so, when more than half-worn out both of them, the sorry fellow took it into his head to marry her: And then had leisure to sit down, and contemplate the many offers of persons of family and fortune, which he had declined in the prime of his life: His ex|pences equal at least: His reputation not only less, but lost: His enjoyments stollen: His partnership unequal,

and such as he had always been ashamed of. But the women said, That after twelve years cohabitation, Tony did an honest thing by her. And that was all my poor cousin got by making his old mistress his new wife:—Not a drum, not a trumpet, not a fife, not a tabret, nor the expectation of a new joy, to ani|mate him on!

What Belton will do with his Thomasine, I know not; nor care I to advise him: For I see the poor fellow does not like that any-body should curse her but himself: And that he does very heartily. And so low is he reduced, that he blubbers over the reflection upon his past fondness for her cubs, and upon his present doubts of their being his:

'What a d—n'd thing is it, Belford, if Tom and Hall should be the hostler dog's puppies, and not mine!'

Very true! and I think the strong health of the chubby-faced, muscular whelps, confirms the too great probability. But I say not so to him.

You, he says, are such a gay, lively mortal, that this sad tale would make no impression upon you: Especially now, that your whole heart is engaged as it is. Mowbray would be too violent upon it; he has not, he says, a feeling heart: Tourville has no discretion: And, a pretty jest! although he and his Thomasine lived without reputation in the world (People guessing that they were not married, notwith|standing she went by his name); yet

'he would not too much discredit the cursed ingrate neither!'

—Could a man act a weaker part, had he been really married; and were he sure he was going to separate from the mother of his own children?

I leave this as a lesson upon thy heart, without making any application: Only, with this remark, That after we libertines have indulged our licentious appetites, reflecting in the conceit of our vain hearts, both with our lips and by our lives, upon our ances|••••rs, and the good old ways, we find out, when we

come to years of discretion, if we live till then [what all who knew us found out before, that is to say, we find out] our own despicable folly; that those good old ways would have been best for us, as well as for the rest of the world; and that in every step we have de|viated from them, we have only exposed our vanity and our ignorance at the same time.

J. BELFORD.

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

Saturday, May 20.

I Am pleased with the sober reflection thou con|cludest thy last with; and I thank thee for it: Poor Belton!—I did not think his Thomasine would have proved so very a devil. But this must everlast|ingly be the risque of a keeper, who takes up with a low-bred girl. This I never did. Nor had I occasion to do. Such a one as I, Jack, needed only, till now, to shake the stateliest tree, and the mellow'd fruit dropt into my mouth: Always of Montaign's taste, thou knowest:—Thought it a glory to subdue a girl of family.—More truly delightful to me the seduc|tion-progress than the crowning act:—For that's a vapour, a bubble!—And most cordially do I thank thee for thy indirect hint, that I am right in my pre|sent pursuit.

From such a lady as Miss Harlowe, a man is se|cured from all the inconveniencies thou expatiates•• upon.

Once more, therefore, do I thank thee, Belford, for thy approbation!—One need not, as thou sayest, sneak into holes and corners, and shun the day, in the company of such a lady as this. How friendly in thee, thus to abet the favourite purpose of my heart!—Nor can it be a disgrace to me, to per|mit such a lady to be called by my name!—Nor

shall I be at all concerned about the world's censure, if I live to the years of discretion, which thou men|tionest, should I be taken in, and prevailed upon to tread with her the good old path of my ancestors.

A blessing on thy heart, thou honest fellow! I thought thou wert but in jest, or acting but by my uncle's desire, when thou wert pleading for matri|mony in behalf of this lady!—It could not be prin|ciple, I knew, in thee: It could not be compassion—A little envy indeed I suspected!—But now I see thee once more thyself: And once more, say I, A blessing on thy heart, thou true friend, and very honest fellow!

Now will I proceed with courage in all my schemes, and oblige thee with the continued narrative of my progressions towards bringing them to effect!—But I could not forbear to interrupt my story, to shew my gratitude!

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

Saturday, May 20.

AND now will I favour thee with a brief account of our present situation.

From the highest to the lowest we are all extremely happy.—Dorcas stands well in her lady's graces. Polly has asked her advice in relation to a courtship affair of her own. No oracle ever gave better. Sally has had a quarrel with her woollen-draper; and made my beloved Lady-chancellor in it. She blamed Sally for behaving tyrannically to a man who loves her. Dear creature! to stand against a glass, and to shut her eyes because she will not see her face in it!—Mrs. Sinclair has paid her court to so unerr|ing a judge, by requesting her advice with regard to both nieces.

This the way we have been in for several days with the people below. Yet sola generally at her meals,

and seldom at other times in their company. They now, used to her ways [Perseverance must conquer], never press her; so when they meet, all is civility on both sides. Even marry'd people, I believe, Jack, prevent abundance of quarrels, by seeing one another but seldom.

But how stands it between thyself and the lady, methinks thou askest, since her abrupt departure from thee, and undutiful repulse of Wednesday morning? Why, pretty well in the main. Nay, very well. For why? The dear saucy-face knows not how to help herself. Can fly to no other protection. And has, besides, overheard a conversation [Who would have thought she had been so near?] which passed between Mrs. Sinclair, Miss Martin, and myself, that very Wednesday afternoon; which has set her heart at ease, with respect to several doubtful points.

Such as, particularly, Mrs. Fretchville's unhappy state of mind:—Most humanely pitied by Miss Martin, who knows her very well; the husband she has lost, and herself, lovers from their cradles. Pity from one begets pity from another; and so many circumstances were given to poor Mrs. Fretchville's distress, that it was impossible but my beloved must extremely pity her, whom the less tender-hearted Miss Martin greatly pitied.

My Lord M.'s gout his only hindrance from visit+ing my spouse.

Lady Betty and Miss Montague soon expected i•• town.

My earnest desire signify'd to have my spouse receiv•• them in her own house, if Mrs. Fretchville would bu•• know her own mind.

My intention to stay at their house notwithstanding, as I said I had told them before, in order to grati•••• her utmost punctilio.

My passion for my beloved, which I told them, is a high and fervent accent, was the truest that m••

could have for woman, I boasted of. It was, in short, I said, of the true Platonic kind; or I had no notion of what Platonic Love was.

So it is, Jack; and must end as Platonic Love ge|nerally does end.

Sally and Mrs. Sinclair praised, but not grosly, my beloved. Sally particularly admired her purity, called it exemplary; yet, to avoid suspicion, expressed her thoughts, that she was-rather over-nice, if she might presume to say so before me. But applauded me for the strict observation I made of my vow.

I more freely blamed her reserves to me; called her cruel; inveighed against her relations; doubted her love. Every favour I asked of her deny'd me. Yet my behaviour to her as pure and delicate when alone, as when before them. Hinted at something that had passed between us that very day, that shewed her indifference to me in so strong a light, that I could not bear it. But that I would ask her for her company to the play of Venice preserv'd, given out for Saturday night, as a benefit play; the prime actors to be in it; and this to see, if I were to be denied every favour.—Yet, for my own part, I loved not tra|gedies; tho' she did, for the sake of the instruction, the warning, and the example generally given in them.

I had too much feeling, I said. There was enough in the world to make our hearts sad, without carry|ing grief into our diversions, and making the distresses of others our own.

True enough, Belford; and I believe, generally speaking, that all the men of our cast are of my mind—They love not any tragedies but those in which they themselves act the parts of tyrants and executioners; and, afraid to trust themselves with serious and solemn reflections, run to comedies, to laugh away the di|stresses they have occasioned, and to find examples of

as immoral men as themselves. For very few of our comic performances, as thou knowest, give us good ones.—I answer, however, for myself—Yet thou, I think, on recollection, lovest to deal in the lamentable.

Sally answered for Polly, who was absent, Mrs. Sinclair for herself, and for all her acquaintance, even for Miss Partington, in preferring the comic to the tragic scenes.—And I believe they are right; for the devil's in it, if a confided-in rake does not give a girl enough of tragedy in his comedy.

I ask'd Sally to oblige my fair-one with her com|pany.

She was engaged [That was right, thou'lt suppose]. I asked Mrs. Sinclair's leave for Polly. To be sure, she answer'd, Polly would think it an honour to at|tend Mrs. Lovelace: But the poor thing was tender-hearted; and as the tragedy was deep, would weep herself blind.

Sally, mean time, objected Singleton, that I might answer the objection, and save my beloved the trouble of making it, or debating the point with me.

I then, from a letter just before received from one in her father's family, warned them of a person who had undertaken to find us out, and whom I thus in writing (calling for pen and ink) described, that they might arm all the family against him—

'A sun-burnt, pock-fretten sailor, ill-looking, big-boned; his sta|ture about six foot; an heavy eye, an over-hanging brow, a deck-treading stride in his walk; a couteau generally by his side; lips parched from his gums, as if by staring at the sun in hot climates; a brown coat; a colour'd handkerchief about his neck; an oaken plant in his hand, near as long as himself, and proportionably thick.'

No questions must be answer'd, that he should ask. They should call me to him. But not let my beloved know a tittle of this, so long as it could be help'd. And I added, that if her brother or Singleton

came, and if they behaved civilly, I would, for her sake, be civil to them: And in this case, she had no|thing to do, but to own her marriage, and there could be no pretence for violence on either side. But most fervently I swore, that if she was convey'd away, ei|ther by persuasion or force, I would directly, on miss|ing her but one day, go to demand her at her father's, whether she were there or not; and if I recover'd not a sister, I would have a brother; and should find out a captain of a ship as well as he. And now, Jack, dost thou think she'll attempt to get from me, do what I will?

Mrs. Sinclair began to be afraid of mischief in her house—I was apprehensive that she would overdo the matter, and be out of character. I therefore wink'd at her. She primm'd; nodded, to shew she took me, twang'd out a high-ho, lapp'd one horse-lip over the other, and was silent.

Here's preparation, Belford!—Dost think I will throw it all away, for any thing thou canst say, or Lord M. write?—No indeed!—as my charmer says, when she bridles.

AND what must necessarily be the consequence of all this, with regard to my beloved's behaviour to me?—Canst thou doubt, that it was all complai|sance next time she admitted me into her presence?

Thursday we were very happy. All the morning extremely happy. I kissed her charming hand—I need not describe to thee her hand and arm. When thou sawest her, I took notice that thy eyes dwelt upon them, whenever thou couldst spare them from that beauty-spot of wonders, her face. Fifty times kissed her hand, I believe.—Once her cheek, intending her ••lip, but so rapturously, that she could not help seeming angry.

Had she not thus kept me at arms-length; had she not denied me those innocent liberties which our

Sex, from degree to degree, aspire to; could I but have gained access to her in her hours of heedlessness and dishabille (for full dress creates dignity, augments consciousness, and compels distance), we had been familiarized to each other long ago. But keep her up ever so late; meet her ever so early; by breakfast-time dressed for the day; and at her earliest hour, as nice as others dressed.—All her forms thus kept up, wonder not that I have made so little progress in the proposed trial.—But how must all this distance sti|mulate!

Thursday morning, I said, we were extremely hap|py—About noon, she number'd the hours she had been with me; all of them to me but as one minute; and desired to be left to herself. I was loth to comply: But observing the sun-shine begin to shut in, I yielded.

I dined out. Returned; talked of the house, and of Mrs. Fretchville: Had seen Mennell—Had pressed him to get the widow to quit—She pitied Mrs. Fretch|ville—Another good effect of the overheard conver|sation—Had written to my uncle; expected an an|swer soon from him. I was admitted to sup with her. Urged for her approbation or correction of my writ|ten terms. She promised an answer as soon as she had heard from Miss Howe.

Then I pressed for her company to the play on Sa|turday night. She made objections, as I had foreseen: Her brother's projects, warmth of the weather, &c. But in such a manner, as if half-afraid to disoblige me [Another happy effect of the overheard conversation]. Got over these therefore; and she consented to fa|vour me.

Friday passed as the day before.

Here were two happy days to both!—Why cannot I make every day equally happy? It looks as if it wer•• in my power to do so.—Strange I should thus deligh•• in teazing a woman I so dearly love!—I must, doubt, have something in my temper like Miss Howe

who loves to plague the man who puts himself in her power.—But I could not do thus by such an angel as this, did I not believe, that after her probation-time is expired, and if there is no bringing her to cohabitation (my darling view), I shall reward her as she wishes.

Saturday is half-over, equally happy—Preparing for the play—Polly has offer'd, and is accepted. I have directed her where to weep—And this not only to shew her humanity [a weeping eye indicates a gentle heart], but to have a pretence to hide her face with her fan or handkerchief; yet Polly is far from being every man's girl—And we shall sit in the gallery green-box.

The woes of others so well represented, as those of Belvidera particularly will be, must, I hope, unlock and open my charmer's heart. Whenever I have been able to prevail upon a girl to permit me to attend her to a play, I have thought myself sure of her. The fe|male heart, all gentleness and harmony, when obliged, expands, and forgets its forms, when attention is car|ried out of itself at an agreeable or affecting enter|tainment: Music, and perhaps a collation after|wards, co-operating. I have no hope of such an effect here; but I have more than one end to answer, by my earnestness in getting her to a play. To name but one: Dorcas has a master-key, as I have told thee—And it were worth carrying her to Venice pre|served, were it but to shew her, that there have been, and may be, much deeper distresses than she can pos|sibly know.

Thus exceedingly happy are we at present. I hope we shall not find any of Nat. Lee's left-handed gods at work, to dash our bowl of joy with wormwood.

The Lady, in her next letter, dated Friday, May 19. acquaints her friend, that her prospects are once more mended; and that she has known four-and-twenty hours together, since her last, not unhappy

ones, her situation considered.

'How willing am I, says she, to compound for tolerable appearances! how desirous to turn the funny side of things to|wards me, and to hope, where reason for hope offers! and this, not only for my own sake, but for yours, who take such generous concern in all that befalls me.'

She then gives the particulars of the conversation which she had overheard between Mr. Lovelace, Mrs. Sinclair, and Miss Martin; but accounts more minutely than he had done, for the opportunity she had of overhearing it, unknown to them.

She gives the reason she has to be pleased with what she heard from each: But is shocked at the measure he is resolved to take, if he misses her but for one day. Yet is pleased, that he proposes to avoid ag|gressive violence, if her brother and he meet in town.

She thought herself obliged, she says, from what passed between them on Wednesday, and from what she overheard him say, to consent to go with him to the play; especially, as he had the discretion to pro|pose one of the nieces to accompany her.

She expresses herself pleased, that he has actually written to Lord M.

She tells her, that she has promised to give him an answer to his proposals, as soon as she has heard from her on the subject: And hopes, that in her future letter she shall have reason to confirm these favour|able appearances.

'Favourable, says she, I must think them in the wreck I have suffer'd.'

She thinks it not amiss, however, that she should perfect her scheme with Mrs. Townsend. He is cer|tainly, she says, a deep and dangerous man; and it is therefore but prudence to be watchful, and to provide against the worst.

She is certain, she tells her, that her letters are safe.

He would never be out of her company by his good-will; otherwise she has no doubt that she is mistress of her goings-out and comings-in; and did she think it needful, and were she not afraid of her brother, and Capt. Singleton, would oftener put it to trial.

LETTER XXII. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Saturday, May 20.

I Did not know, my dear, that you deferred giving an answer to Mr. Lovelace's proposals, till you had my opinion of them. A particular hand occa|sionally going to town, will leave this at Wilson's, that no delay may be made on that account.

I never had any doubt of the man's justice and ge|nerosity in matters of settlement; and all his relations are as noble in their spirits, as in their descent: But now, it may not be amiss for you to wait, to see what returns my Lord makes to his letter of invitation.

The scheme I think of is this.

There is a person (I believe you have seen her with me), one Mrs. Townsend, who is a great dealer in Indian silks, Brussels and French laces, cambricks, linen, and other valuable goods; which she has a way of coming at, duty-free; and has a great vead for them, and for other curiosities which she imports, in the private families of the gentry round us.

She has her days of being in town, and then is at a chamber she rents in an inn in Southwark, where she has patterns of all her silks, and much of her port|able goods, for the conveniency of her London cus|tomers. But her place of residence, and where she has her principal warehouse, is at Deptford, for the opportunity of getting her goods on shore.

She was first brought to me by my mother, to whom she was recommended, on the supposal of my speedy

marriage; that I might have an opportunity to be as fine as a princess, was my mamma's expression, at a moderate expence.

Now, my dear, I must own, that I do not love to encourage these contraband traders. What is it, but bidding defiance to the laws of our country, when we do; and hurting fair traders; and at the same time robbing our Prince of his legal due, to the di|minution of those duties which possibly must be made good by new levies upon the whole public?

But, however, Mrs. Townsend and I, though we have not yet dealt, are upon a very good foot of under|standing. She is a sensible woman; she has been abroad, and often goes abroad, in the way of her bu|siness; and gives very entertaining accounts of all she has seen. And having applied to me, to recommend her to you (as it is her view to be known to young ladies, who are likely to change their condi|tion), I am sure I can engage her to give you pro|tection at her house at Deptford; which she says is a populous village; and one of the last, I should think, that you would be sought for in. She is not much there, you will believe, by the course of her dealings; but, no doubt, must have somebody on the spot, in whom she can confide: And there perhaps you might be safe, till your cousin comes. And I should not think it amiss, that you write to him out of hand. I cannot suggest to you what you should write. That must be left to your own discretion. For you will be afraid, no doubt, of the consequence of a variance between the two men.

I will think further of this scheme of mine, in re|lation to Mrs. Townsend, if you find it necessary that I should. But I hope there will be no occasion to do so, since your prospects seem to be changed, and that you have had twenty-four-not unhappy hours together. How my indignation rises for this poor consolation in the courtship (courtship must I call it?) of such a lady!

Mrs. Townsend, as I have recollected, has two brothers, each a master of a vessel; and who knows, as she and they have great concerns together, but that, in case of need, you may have a whole ship's crew at your devotion? If he give your cause to leave him, take no thought for the people at Harlowe-place. Let them take care of one another. It is a care they are used to. The Law will help to secure them. The wretch is no assassin; no night-murderer. He is an open, because a fearless enemy; and should he attempt any thing that should make him obnoxious to the Laws of society, you might have a fair riddance of him either by flight or the gallows; no matter which.

Had you not been so minute in your account of the circumstances that attended the opportunity you had of overhearing the dialogue between Mr. Lovelace and two of the women, I should have thought the conference contrived on purpose for your ears.

I shew'd Mr. Lovelace's proposals to Mr. Hick|man, who had chambers once at Lincoln's-Inn, be|ing designed for the Law, had his elder brother lived. He looked so wise, so proud, and so important, upon the occasion; and wanted to take so much considera|tion about them—would take them home if I pleased—and weigh them well—and so-forth—and the like—and all that—that I had no patience with him, and snatched them back with anger.

O dear!—to be so angry, and please me, for his zeal—

Yes, zeal without knowlege, I said—like most other zeals—If there were no objections that struck him at once, there were none.

So hasty, dearest Madam!—

And so slow, un-dearest Sir, I could have said—But, SURELY, said I, with a look which imply'd, Would you rebel, Sir!—

He begged my pardon—Saw no objection, indeed!—But might he be allowed once more—

No matter—No matter—I would have shewn them to my mother, I said, who, tho' of no Inn of Court, knew more of these things than half the lounging lub|bers of them; and that at first sight—only that she would have been provoking upon the confession of our continued correspondence.

But, my dear, let the articles be drawn up, and ingrossed; and solemnize upon them; and there's no more to be said.

Let me add, that the sailor fellow has been tamper|ing with my Kitty, and offered a bribe, to find where to direct to you. Next time he comes, I will have him drawn through one of our deepest fish-ponds, if I can get nothing out of him. His attempt to corrupt a ser|vant of mine will justify my orders.

I send this away directly. But will follow it by another; which shall have for its subject only my Mother, Myself, and your uncle Antony. And as your prospects are more promising than they have been, I will endeavour to make you smile upon this occasion. For you will be pleased to know, that my mamma has had a formal tender from that grey goose; which may make her skill useful to herself, were she to encourage it.

May your prospects be still more and more happy, prays

Your own ANNA HOWE.

LETTER XXIII. Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Sat. Sunday, May 20, 21.

NOW, my dear, for the promised subject. You must not ask me, how I came by the originals (such they really are) that I am going to present you with: For my mamma would not read to me those

parts of your uncle's letter, which bore hard upon myself, and which leave him without any title to mercy from me: Nor would she let me hear but what she pleased of hers in answer; for she has con|descended to answer him; with a denial, however:—But such a denial, as no-one but an old batchelor would take from a widow.

Any-body, except myself, who could have been acquainted with such a fal-lal courtship as this must have been had it proceeded, would have been glad it had gone on; and I dare say, but for the saucy daughter, it had. My mamma, in that case, would have been ten years the younger for it, perhaps: And could I but have approved of it, I should have been considered as if ten years older than I am: Since, very likely, it would then have been:

'We widows, my dear, know not how to keep men at a di|stance—So as to give them pain, in order to try their love.—You must advise me, child: You must teach me to be cruel—Yet not too cruel neither.—So as to make a man heartless, who has no time, God wot, to throw away.'

Then would my be|haviour to Mr. Hickman have been better liked; and my mother would have bridled like her daughter!

O my dear, how we might have been diverted, by the practisings for recovery of the Long-forgottens! could I have been sure that it would have been in my power to have put them asunder, in the Irish stile, before they had come together. But there's no trusting to a widow whose goods and chattels are in her own hands, addressed by an old batchelor, who has fine things, and offers to leave her ten thousand pounds better than he found her, and sole mistress besides, of all her Notables! for these, as you'll see by-and-by, are his proposals.

The old Triton's address carries the writer's marks upon the very superscription—To the equally amiable, and worthily admired [There's for you] Mrs. ANNA|BELLA

HOWE, widow; the last word added, I sup|pose, as Esquire to a man; or for fear the bella to Anna, should not enough distinguish the person meant from the spinster [Vain hussey you'll call me, I know]: And then follows:—These humbly present.—Put down as a memorandum, I presume, to make a leg, and behave handsomely at presenting it; he in|tending very probably to deliver it himself.

And now stand by—To see

Enter OLD NEPTUNE.

His head adorned with sea-weed, and a crown of cockle-shells, as we see him decked out in Mrs. Robinson's ridiculous grotto.

Monday, May 15.

Madam,

I Did make a sort of resolution ten years ago, never to marry. I saw in other families, where they lived best, you'll be pleased to mark that, queernesses I could not away with. Then, liked well enough to live single for sake of my brother's family; and for one child in it, more than the rest. But that girl has turned us all off of the hinges: And why I should deny myself any comforts for them as will not thank me for so doing, I don't know.

So much for my motives, as from self and family: But the dear Mrs. Howe makes me go further.

I have a very great fortune, I bless God for it, all of my own getting, or most of it; you'll be pleased to mark that; for I was the younger brother of three. You have also, God be thanked, a great estate, which you have improved by your own frugality and wise management. Frugality, let me stop to say, is one of the greatest virtues in this mortal life, because it enables us to do justice to all, and puts it in our power to benefit some by it, as we see they deserve.

You have but one child; and I am a batchelor, and have never a one.—All batchelors cannot say so: Wherefore your daughter may be the better for me,

if she will keep up with my humour; which was never thought bad: Especially to my equals. Servants, in|deed, I don't matter being angry with, when I please: They are paid for bearing it, and too-too often de|serve it; as we have very frequently taken notice of to one another. But this won't hurt neither you nor Miss.

I will make very advantageous settlements; such as any common friend shall judge to be so. But must have all in my own power, while I live: Because, you know, Madam, it is as creditable to the wife, as the husband, that it should be so.

I aim not at fine words. We are not children; tho' it is hoped we may have some; for I am a very healthy sound man, I bless God for it: And never brought home from my voyages and travels, a worser constitution than I took out with me. I was none of those, I will assure you. But this I will undertake, that if you are the survivress, you shall be at the least ten thousand pounds the better for me: What, in the contrary case, I shall be the better for you, I leave to you, as you shall think my kindness to you shall de|serve.

But one thing, Madam, I should be glad of, that Miss Howe might not live with us then (She need not know I write thus)—But go home to Mr. Hickman, as she is upon the point of marriage, I hear. And if she behaves dutifully, as she should do, to us both, she shall be the better; for so I said before.

You shall manage all things, both mine and your own; for I know little of land-matters. All my op|position to you shall be out of love, when I think you take too much upon you for your health.

It will be very pretty for you, I should think, to have a man of experience, in a long winter's evening, to sit down and tell you stories of foreign parts, and the customs of the nations he has consorted with. And I have fine curiosities of the Indian growth; such as

ladies love, and some that even my niece Clary, when she was good, never saw. These, one by one, as you are kind to me (which I make no question of, because I shall be kind to you) shall all be yours.—Prettier en|tertainment by much, than sitting with a too smartish daughter, sometimes out of humour, and thwarting, and vexing, as daughters will, when women-grown especially (as I have heard you often observe); and thinking their parents old, without paying them the reverence due to years; when, as in your case, I make no sort of doubt, they are young enough to wipe their noses. You understand me, Madam.

As for me myself, it will be very happy, and I am delighted with the thinking of it, to have, after a pleasant ride, or so, a lady of like experience with my|self, to come home to, and but one interest betwixt us: To reckon up our comings-in together; and what this day and this week has produced:—O how this will increase love!—Most mightily will it increase it!—And I believe I should never love you enough or be able to shew you all my love.

I hope, Madam, there need not be such maide•• niceties and hangings-off, as I may call them, between us, for hanging-off sake, as that you will deny me line or two to this proposal, written down, altho' yo•• would not answer me so readily when I spoke to you Your daughter being, I suppose, hard by; for yo•• looked round you, as if not willing to be overheard▪ So I resolved to write: That my writing may stand as upon record, for my upright meaning; being no•• of your Lovelaces; you'll mark that, Madam; but •• downright, true, honest, faithful Englishman. So hop•• you will not disdain to write a line or two to this my proposal: And I shall look upon it as a great honou••, I will assure you, and be proud thereof.—What can say more?—For you are your own mistress, as I a•• my own master: And you shall always be your ow••

mistress: Be pleased to mark that; for so a lady of your prudence and experience ought to be.

This is a long letter. But the subject requires it; because I would not write twice where once would do: So would explain my sense and meaning at one time.

I have had writing in my head, two whole months very near; but hardly knew how, being unpractised in these matters, to begin to write. And now, good lady, be favourable to

Your most humble Lover, and obedient Servant, ANT. HARLOWE.

Here's a letter of courtship, my dear!—And let me subjoin to it, that if now, or hereafter, I should treat this hideous lover, who is so free with me to my mo|ther, with asperity, and you should be disgusted at it; I shall think you don't give me that preference in your love, which you have in mine.

And now, which shall I first give you; the answer of my mamma; or, the dialogue that passed between the widow-mother and the pert daughter, upon her letting the latter know that she had a letter?

I think you shall have the dialogue. But let me premise one thing; that if you think me too free, you must not let it run in your head, that I am writing of your uncle, or of my mother: But of a couple of old lovers, no matter whom. Reverence is too apt to be forgotten by second persons, where the Reverends for|get first.

Well then, suppose my mamma, after twice come|ing into my closet to me, and as often going out, with very meaning features, and lips ready to burst open, but still closed, as it were by compulsion, a speech going off, in a slight cough, that never went near the lungs; grown more resolute, the third time of en|trance, and sitting down by me, thus begin.

Mother.

I have a very serious matter to talk with you upon, Nancy, when you are disposed to attend to matters within ourselves, and not let matters with|out ourselves, wholly engross you.

A good selves-ish speech!—But I thought that friendship, and gratitude, and humanity, were mat|ters that ought to be deemed of the most intimate concern to us. But not to dwell upon her words:

Daughter.

I am now disposed to attend to every thing my mamma is disposed to say to me.

M.

Why then, child.—Why then, my dear—[And the good lady's face looked so plump! so smooth! and so shining!]—I see you are all attention, Nancy!—But don't be surprised!—Don't be uneasy!—But I have—I have—Where is it?—[And yet it lay next her heart, never another near it.—So no difficulty to have found it.]—I have a letter, my dear!—[And out from her bosom it came: But she still held it in her hand.]—I have a letter, child.—It is—It is—It is from—from a gentleman, I assure you!—lifting up her head, and smiling.

There is no delight to a daughter, thought I, in such surprizes, as seem to be collecting: I will deprive my mamma of the satisfaction of making a gradual discovery.

D.

From Mr. Antony Harlowe, I suppose, Ma|dam?

M.

[Lips drawn closer: Eye raised] Why, my dear!—But how, I wonder, could you think of Mr. Antony Harlowe?

D.

How, Madam, could I think of any-body else?

M.

How could you think of any-body else!—an|grily, and drawing back her face; but do you know the subject, Nancy?

D.

You have told it, Madam, by your manner of breaking it to me. But, indeed, I questioned not,

that he had two motives in his visits here—Both equally agreeable to me; for all that family love me dearly.

M.

No love lost, if so, between you and them. But this [Rising] is what I get—So like your papa!—I never could open my heart to him!

D.

Dear Madam, excuse me. Be so good as to open your heart to me.—I don't love the Harlowes. But pray excuse me.

M.

You have put me quite out with your forward temper!—[Angrily sitting down again].

D.

I will be all patience and attention. May I be allowed to read his letter?

M.

I wanted to advise with you upon it.—But you are such a strange creature!—You are always for an|swering one, before one speaks!

D.

You'll be so good as to forgive me, Madam.—But I thought every-body (he among the rest) knew, that you had always declared against a second mar|riage.

M.

And so I have. But then it was in the mind I was in. Things may offer—

I stared.

M.

Nay, don't be surprised!—I don't intend—I don't intend—

D.

Not, perhaps, in the mind you are in, Madam.

M.

Pert creature!—Rising again!—We shall quarrel, I see!—There's no—

D.

Once more, dear Madam, I beg your excuse. I will attend in silence.—Pray, Madam, sit down again.—Pray do.—[She sat down]—May I see the letter?

No; there are some things in it, you won't like.—Your temper is known, I find, to be unhappy.—But nothing bad against you; intimations, on the con|trary, that you shall be the better for him, if you oblige him.

Not a living soul but the Harlowes, I said, thought me ill-temper'd: And I was contented that they

should, who could do as they had done by the most universally acknowleged sweetness in the world.

Here we broke out a little; but, at last, she read me some of the passages in it.—But not the most mightily ridiculous; yet I could hardly keep my coun|tenance neither. And when she had done;

M.

Well now, Nancy, tell me what you think of it?

D.

Nay, pray, Madam, tell me what you think of it?

M.

I expect to be answered by an answer; not by a question!—You don't use to be shy to speak your mind.

D.

Not when my mamma commands me to do so.

M.

Then speak it now.

D.

Without hearing it all?

M.

Speak to what you have heard.

D.

Why then, Madam—You won't be my mam|ma HOWE, if you give way to it.

M.

I am surprised at your assurance, Nancy!

D.

I mean, Madam, you will then be my mamma HARLOWE.

M.

Oh dear heart!—But I am not a fool. And her colour went and came.

D.

Dear, Madam!—(But, indeed, I don't love a Harlowe—that's what I meant). I am your child, and must be your child, do what you will.

M.

A very pert one, I am sure, as ever mother bore! And you must be my child, do what I will!—As much as to say, you would not, if you could help it, if I—

D.

How could I have such a thought!—It woul•• be forward, indeed, if I had—when I don't kno•• what your mind is, as to the proposal:—When the proposal is so very advantageous a one too.

M.

[looking a little less discomposed] Why, in|deed, ten thousand pounds—

D.

And to be sure of outliving him, Madam! This staggered her a little—

M.

Sure! Nobody can be sure!—But it is very likely, that—

D.

Not at all, Madam; you was going to read something (but stopt) about his constitution: His so|briety is well known.—Why, Madam, these gentle|men who have been at sea, and in different climates, and come home to relax from cares in a temperate one, and are sober—are the likeliest to live long of any men in the world.—Don't you see, that his very skin is a fortification of buff?

M.

Strange creature!

D.

God forbid, that any-body I love and honour, should marry a man, in hopes to bury him.—But sup|pose, Madam, at your time of life—

M.

My time of life!—Dear heart!—What is my time of life, pray?

M.

Not old, Madam; and that may be your dan|ger!

As I hope to live (my dear) my mamma smiled, and looked not displeased with me.

M.

Why, indeed, child—Why, indeed, I must needs say—And then I should choose to do nothing (froward as you are sometimes) to hurt you.

D.

Why, as to that, Madam—I can't expect you should deprive yourself of any satisfaction—

M.

Satisfaction, my dear!—I don't say, it would be a satisfaction.—But could I do any thing that would benefit you, it would perhaps be an inducement to hold one conference upon the subject.

D.

My fortune already will be more considerable than my match, if I am to have Mr. Hickman.

M.

Why so?—Mr. Hickman's fortune is enough to intitle him to yours.

D.

If you think so, that's enough.

M.

Not but I should think the worse of myself, if I desired any body's death; but I think, as you say,

Mr. Antony Harlowe is a healthy man, and bids fair for a long life.

Bless me, thought I, how shall I do to know whe|ther this be an objection or a recommendation!

D.

Will you forgive me, Madam?

M.

What would the girl say.—Looking as if she was half afraid to hear what.

D.

Only, that if you marry a man of his time of life, you stand two chances instead of one, to be a nurse at your time of life.

M.

Saucebox!

D.

Dear Madam!—What I mean is only, that these healthy old men sometimes fall into lingering dis|orders all at once. And I humbly conceive, that the infirmities of age are too uneasily borne with, where the remembrance of the pleasanter season comes not in to relieve the healthier of the two.

M.

A strange girl!—I always told you, that you know either too much to be argued with, or too little for me to have patience with you.

D.

I can't but say, I would be glad of your com|mands, Madam, how to behave myself to Mr. Har|lowe next time he comes.

M.

How to behave yourself!—Why, if you retire with contempt of him, when he next comes, it will be but as you have been used to do of late.

D.

Then he is to come again, Madam?

M.

And suppose he be?

D.

I can't help it, if it be your pleasure, Madam.—He desires a line in answer to his fine letter. If he comes, it will be in pursuance of that line, I presume?

M.

None of your arch and pert leers, girl!—You know I won't bear them. I had a mind to hear wh••t you would say to this matter. I have not wrote; but I shall presently.

D.

It is mighty good of you, Madam; I hope the man will think so; to answer his first application by letter.—Pity he should write twice, if once will do.

M.

That fetch won't let you into my intention, as to what I shall write: It is too saucily put.

D.

Perhaps I can guess at your intention, Madam, were it to become me so to do.

M.

Perhaps I would not make a Mr. Hickman of any gentleman; using him the worse for respecting me.

D.

Nor, perhaps, would I, Madam, if I liked his respects.

M.

I understand you. But, perhaps, it is in your power to make me hearken, or not, to Mr. Harlowe.

D.

Young gentlemen, who have probably a great deal of time before them, need not be in haste for a wife. Mr. Hickman, poor man! must stay his time, or take his remedy.

M.

He bears more from you, than a man ought.

D.

Then, I doubt, he gives a reason for the treat|ment he meets with.

M.

Provoking creature!

D.

I have but one request to make you, Madam.

M.

A dutiful one, I suppose. What is it, pray?

D.

That if you marry, I may be permitted to live single.

M.

Perverse creature!—I am sure.

D.

How can I expect, Madam, that you should re|fuse such terms? Ten thousand pounds!—At the least ten thousand pounds!—A very handsome proposal!—So many fine things too, to give you one by one! Dearest Madam, forgive me!—I hope it is not yet so far gone, that raillying this man will be thought want of duty to you.

M.

Your raillying of him, and your reverence to me, it is plain, have one source.

D.

I hope not, Madam. But ten thousand pounds—

M.

Is no unhandsome proposal.

D.

Indeed I think so. I hope, Madam, you will not be behindhand with him in generosity.

M.

He won't be ten thousand pounds the better for me, if he survive me.

D.

No, Madam, he can't expect that, as you have a daughter, and as he is a batchelor, and has not a child—poor old soul!

M.

Old soul, Nancy!—And thus to call him for being a batchelor, and not having a child?—Does this become you?

D.

Not old soul for that, Madam.—But half the sum; five thousand pounds; you can't engage for less, Madam.

M.

That sum has your approbation then?—Look|ing as if she'd be even with me.

D.

As he leaves it to your generosity, Madam, and as the reward of his kindness to you, it can't be less.—Do, dear Madam, permit me, without incurring your displeasure, to call him poor old soul again.

M.

Never was such a whimsical creature!—Turn|ing away [for I believe, I looked very archly; a least I intended to do so] to hide her involuntary smiling.—I hate that wicked sly look. You give yourself very free airs—Don't you?

D.

I snatched her hand, and kiss'd it—My dear mamma, be not angry with your girl!—You have told me, that you was very lively formerly.

M.

Formerly! Good lack!—But were I to en|courage his proposals, you may be sure, that for Mr. Hickman's sake, as well as yours, I should make •• wise agreement.

D.

You have both lived to years of prudence▪ Madam.

M.

Yes, I suppose I am an old soul too.

D.

He also is for making a wise agreement, o•• hinting at one, at least.

M.

Well, the short and the long I suppose is this: I have not your consent to marry?

D.

Indeed, Madam, you have not my wishes to marry.

M.

Let me tell you, that if prudence consists in wishing well to one's self, I see not but the young flirts are as prudent as the old souls.

D.

Dear Madam, Would you blame me, if to wish you not to marry Mr. Antony Harlowe, is wishing well to myself?

M.

You are mighty witty. I wish you were as dutiful.

D.

I am more dutiful, I hope, than witty; or I should be a fool, as well as a saucebox.

M.

Let me judge of both.—Parents are only to live for their children, let them deserve it or not. That's their dutiful notion!

D.

Heaven forbid that I should wish, if there be Two interests between my mamma and me, that my mamma postpone her own for mine! or give up any thing that would add to the real comforts of her life, to oblige me!—Tell me, my dear mamma, if you think this proposal will?

M.

I say, That ten thousand pounds is such an ac|••uisition to one's family, that the offer of it deserves •• civil return.

D.

Not the offer, Madam: The chance only!—〈◊〉〈◊〉 you have a view to an increase of family, the mo|••ey may provide—

M.

You cannot keep within tolerable bounds!—That saucy fleer, I cannot away with—

D.

Dearest, dearest Madam, forgive me, but old ••ul ran in my head again!—Nay, indeed and upon ••y word, I won't be robbed of that charming smile; ••nd again I kissed her hand.

M.

Away, bold creature! Nothing can be so pro|••oking, as to be made to smile, when one would ••hoose, and ought, to be angry.

D.

But, dear Madam, if it be to be, I presume ••ou won't think of it before next winter.

M.

What now would the pert one be at?

D.

Because he only proposes to entertain you with

pretty stories of foreign nations in a winter's evening. Dearest, dearest Madam, let me have the reading of his letter thro'. I will forgive him all he says about me.

M.

It may be a very difficult thing perhaps, for a man of the best sense to write a Love-letter, that may not be cavilled at.

D.

That's because lovers, in their letters, hit not the medium:—They either write too much nonsense, or too little. But do you call this odd soul's letter (no more will I call him old soul, if I can help it) a Love-letter?

M.

Well, well, I see you are averse to this matter. I am not to be your mamma; you will live single, if I marry. I had a mind to see if generosity govern'd you in your views. I shall pursue my own inclinations; and if they should happen to be suitable to yours, pray let me for the future be better rewarded by you, than hitherto I have been.

And away she flung, without staying for a reply.—Vex'd, I dare say, that I did not better approve of the proposal:—Were it only that the merit of deny|ing might have been all her own, and to lay the stronger obligation upon her saucy daughter.

She wrote such a widow-like refusal when she went from me, as might not exclude hope in any other wooer; whatever it may do in Mr. Tony Harlowe.

It will be my part, to take care to beat her off of the visit she half-promises to make him, upon condi|tion of withdrawing his suit, as you will observe in hers: For who knows what effect the old batchelor's exotics (Far-fetched and dear-bought, you know, is 〈◊〉〈◊〉 proverb) might otherwise have upon a woman's mind, wanting nothing but unnecessaries, gewgaw, an•• fineries, and offered such as are not easily to be me with, or purchased?

Well, but now I give you leave to read here, in this place, the copy of my mother's answer to you••

uncle's letter. Not one comment will I make upon it. I know my duty better. And here therefore, taking the liberty to hope, that I may, in your pre|sent less disagreeable, if not wholly agreeable, situation, provoke a smile from you, I conclude myself,

Your ever-affectionate and faithful ANNA HOWE.

Mrs. ANNABELLA HOWE, To ANTONY HARLOWE, Esq

Friday, May 19.

Mr. Antony Harlowe, SIR,

IT is not usual, I believe, for our Sex to answer by pen and ink, the first letter on these occasions. The first letter!—How odd is that!—As if I ex|pected another; which I do not.—But then, I think, as I do not judge proper to encourage your proposal, there is no reason why I should not answer in civility, where so great a civility is intended. Indeed I was always of opinion, that a person was intitled to That, and not to ill-usage, because he had a respect for me. And so I have often and often told my daughter.

A woman, I think, makes but a poor figure in a man's eye afterwards, and does no reputation to her Sex neither, when she behaves like a tyrant to him beforehand.

To be sure, Sir, if I were to change my condition, I know not a gentleman whose proposal could be more agreeable. Your nephew and nieces have enough without you: My daughter is a fine fortune without me, and I should take care to double it, living or dy|••ng, were I to do such a thing: So nobody need to be the worse for it. But Nancy would not think so.

All the comfort I know of in children, is, that when young they do with us what they will, and all ••s pretty in them to their very faults; and when they are grown up, they think their parents must live for

them only; and deny themselves every thing for their sakes. I know Nancy could not bear a father-in-law. She would fly at the very thought of my being in earnest to give her one. Not that I stand in fear of my daughter neither: It is not fit I should. But she has her poor papa's spirit: A very violent one, that was—And one would not choose, you know, Sir, to enter into any affair, that, one knows, one must renounce a daughter for, or she a mother.—Except indeed one's heart were much in it;—which, I bless God, mine is not.

I have now been a widow these ten years; nobody to controul me:—And I am said not to bear controul: So, Sir, you and I are best as we are, I believe—nay, I am sure of it—For we want not what either has;—having both more than we know what to do with. And I know I could not be in the least accountable for any of my ways.

My daughter indeed, tho' she is a fine girl, as girls go [She has too much sense indeed for her sex; and knows she has it], is more a check to me than one would wish a daughter to be—For one would not be always snapping at each other: But she will soon be married; and then, not living together, we shall only come together when we are pleased, and stay away when we are not; and so, like other lovers, never see any thing but the best sides of each other.

I own, for all this, that I love her dearly; and she me, I dare say. So would not wish to provoke her to do otherwise. Besides, the girl is so much regarded every-where, that having lived so much of my prime a widow, I would not lay myself open to her censures, or even to her indifference, you know.

Your generous proposal requires all this explicit|ness. I thank you for your good opinion of me. When I know you acquiesce with This my civil re|fusal; and indeed, Sir, I am as much in earnest in it, as if I had spoke broader; I don't know, but Nancy

and I may, with your permission, come to see your fine things; for I am a great admirer of rarities that come from abroad.

So, Sir, let us only converse occasionally as we meet, as we used to do, without any other view to each other, than good wishes: Which I hope may not be lessen'd for this declining. And then I shall always think myself

Your obliged servant, ANNABELLA HOWE.

I sent word by Mrs. Lorimer, that I would write an answer: But would take time for considera|tion. So hope, Sir, you won't think it a slight, I did not write sooner.

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

Sunday, May 21.

I AM too much disturbed in my mind, to think of any think but revenge; or I had intended to give thee an account of Miss Harlowe's curious observations on the play. Miss Harlowe's, I say. Thou knowest that I hate the name of Harlowe; and I am exceed|ingly out of humour with her, and with her saucy friend.

What's the matter now, thou'lt ask?—Matter enough; for while we were at the play, Dorcas, who had her orders, and a key to her lady's chamber, as well as a master-key to her drawers and mahogany chest, closet-key and all, found means to come at some of Miss Howe's last-written letters. The vigilant wench was directed to them by seeing her lady take a letter out of her stays, and put it to the others, before she went out with me—Afraid, as the women up|braidingly tell me, that I should find it there.

Dorcas no sooner found them, than she assembled three ready writers of the non-apparents, and Sally, and she and they employed themselves with the utmost diligence, in making extracts, according to former directions, from these cursed letters, for my use. Cursed, I may well call them—Such abuses, such virulence! O this little fury Miss Howe!—Well might her saucy friend (who has been equally free with me, or the occasion could not have been given) be so violent as she lately was, at my endeavouring to come at one of these letters.

I was sure, that this fair-one, at so early an age, with a constitution so firm, health so blooming, eyes so sparkling, could not be absolutely, and from her own vigilance, so guarded and so apprehensive, as I have found her to be.—Sparkling eyes, Jack, when the poetical tribe have said all they can for them, are an infallible sign of a rogue, or room for a rogue, in the heart.

Thou may'st go on with thy preachments, and Lord M. with his Wisdom of nations, I am now more assured of her than ever. And now my revenge is up, and join'd with my love, all resistance must fall before it. And most solemnly do I swear, that Miss Howe shall come in for her snack.

And here, just now, is another letter brought from the same little virulent devil.—I hope to procure tran|scripts from that too, very speedily, if it be put to the rest; for the saucy lady is resolved to go to church this morning; not so much from a spirit of devotion, I have reason to think, as to try whether she can go out without check or controul, or my attendance.

I HAVE been denied breakfasting with her. In|deed she was a little displeased with me last night; because, on our return from the play, I obliged her to pass the rest of the night with the women and me, in their parlour, and to stay till near One. She told

me at parting, that she expected to have the whole next day to herself.—I had not read the extracts then; so was all affectionate respect, awe, and di|stance; for I had resolved to begin a new course, and, if possible, to banish all jealousy and suspicion from her heart: And yet I had no reason to be much troubled at her past suspicions; since, if a woman will continue with a man whom she suspects, when she can get from him, or thinks she can, I am sure it is a very hopeful sign.

SHE is gone. Slipt down before I was aware. She had ordered a chair, on purpose to exclude my per|sonal attendance. But I had taken proper precau|tions. Will. attended her by consent; Peter, the house-servant, was within Will.'s call.

I had, by Dorcas, represented her danger from Single|ton, in order to dissuade her from going at all, unless she allowed me to attend her; but I was answer'd, That if there was no cause of fear at the playhouse, when there were but two playhouses, surely there was less at church, when there were so many churches. The chairmen were ordered to carry her to St. James's church.

But she would not be so careless of obliging me, if she knew what I have already come at, and how the women urge me on; for they are continually com|plaining of the restraint they lie under; in their be|haviour; in their attendance; neglecting all their con|cerns in the front-house; and keeping this elegant back one intirely free from company, that she may have no suspicion of them. They doubt not my generosity, they say: But why for my own sake, in Lord M.'s style, should I make so long a harvest of so little corn?—Women, ye reason well. I think I will begin my operations the moment she comes in.

I HAVE come at the letter brought her from Miss Howe to-day.—Plot, conjuration, sorcery, witch|craft, all going forward!—I shall not be able to see this Miss Harlowe with patience. As the nymphs be|low say, Why is night necessary?—And Sally and Polly upbraidingly remind me of my first attempts upon themselves.—Yet force answers not my end—And yet it may, if there be truth in that part of the libertines creed, That once subdued, is always subdued! And what woman answers affirmatively to the que|stion?

SHE is returned—But refuses to admit me. Desires to have the day to herself. Dorcas tells me, that she believes her denial is from motives of piety—Oons, Jack, is there impiety in seeing me!—Would it not be the highest act of piety, to reclaim me? And is this to be done by her refusing to see me, when she is in a devouter frame than usual? But I hate her, hate her heartily!—She is old, ugly, and deformed.—But O the blasphemy!—Yet she is an Harlowe—And I hate her for that.

But since I must not see her [She will be mistress of her own will, and of her time truly!], let me fill up mine, by telling thee what I have come at.

The first letter the women met with, is dated April 27 (a) 15.1. Where can she have put the preceding ones? It mentions Mr. Hickman as a busy fellow be|tween them. Hickman had best take care of him|self. She says in it, I hope you have no cause to repent returning my Norris—It is forthcoming on demand. Now, what the devil can this mean!—Her Norris forthcoming on demand!—The devil take me, if I am out-Norris'd!—If such innocents can allow them|selves to plot, to Norris, well may I.

She is sorry, that her Hannah can't be with her.—And what if she could?—What could Hannah do for her in such a house as this?

The women in the house are to be found out in one breakfasting. The women are enraged at both the correspondents for this; and more than ever make a point of conquering her. I had a good mind to give them Miss Howe in full property. Say but the word, Jack, and it shall be done.

She is glad that Miss Harlowe had thoughts of take|ing me at my word. She wondered I did not offer again. Advises her, if I don't soon, not to stay with me. Cautions her to keep me at distance; not to per|mit the least familiarity—See, Jack—See Belford—Exactly as I thought!—Her vigilance all owing to a cool friend; who can sit down quietly, and give that advice, which, in her own case, she could not take.—She tells her, it is my interest to be honest—INTEREST, fools!—I thought these girls knew, that my interest was ever subservient to my pleasure.

What would I give to come at the copies of the let|ters to which those of Miss Howe are answers!

The next letter is dated May 3 (a) 15.2. In this the little termagant expresses her astonishment, that her mother should write to Miss Harlowe, to forbid her to correspond with her daughter. Mr. Hickman, she says, is of opinion, that she ought not to obey her mother. How the creeping fellow trims between both! I am afraid, that I must punish him, as well as this virago; and I have a scheme rumbling in my head, that wants but half an hour's musing to bring into form, that will do my business upon both. I cannot bear, that the parental authority should be thus despised, thus trampled under-foot—But observe the vixen, 'Tis well he is of her opinion; for her mother having set her up, she must have somebody to quarrel with.—Could a Love|lace have allowed himself a greater licence? This

girl's a devilish rake in her heart. Had she been a man, and one of us, she'd have outdone us all in en|terprize and spirit.

She wants but very little farther provocation, she says, to fly privately to London. And if she does, she will not leave her till she sees her either honourably married, or quit of the wretch. Here, Jack, the transcriber Sally has added a prayer—

'For the Lord's sake, dear Mr. Lovelace, get this fury to London!'

—Her fate, I can tell thee, Jack, if we had her among us, should not be so long deciding as her friend's. What a gant|lope would she run, when I had done with her, among a dozen of her own pityless Sex, whom my charmer shall never see!—But more of this anon.

I find by this letter, that my saucy captive had been drawing the characters of every varlet of ye. Nor am I spared in it more than you. The man's a fool, to be sure, my dear. Let me die, if they either of them find me one. A silly fellow, at least. Cursed contemptible!—I see not but they are a set of infern|als—There's for thee, Belford—and he the Beelzebub. There's for thee, Lovelace!—And yet she would have her friend marry a Beelzebub.—And what have any of us done, to the knowlege of Miss Harlowe, that she should give such an account of us, as should war|rant so much abuse from Miss Howe?—But that's to come!

She blames her, for not admitting Miss Partington to her bed—Watchful as you are, what could have hap|pen'd?—If violence were intended, he would not stay for the night. Sally writes upon this hint—

'See, Sir, what is expected from you. An hundred and an hundred times have we told you of this.'

—And so they have. But, to be sure, the advice from them was not of half the efficacy as it will be from Miss Howe.—You might have sat up after her, or not gone to bed. But can there be such apprehensions between them, yet the one advise her to stay, and the other

resolve to wait my imperial motion for marriage? I am glad I know that.

She approves of my proposal about Mrs. Fretch|ville's house. She puts her upon expecting settle|ments; upon naming a day: And concludes, with insisting upon her writing, notwithstanding her mo|ther's prohibition; or bids her take the consequence. Undutiful wretches!

Thou wilt say to thyself, by this time, And can this proud and insolent girl be the same Miss Howe, who sighed for honest Sir George Colmar; and who, but for this her beloved friend, would have followed him in all his broken fortunes, when he was obliged to quit the kingdom?

Yes, she is the very same. And I always found in others, as well as in myself, that a first passion thoroughly subdued, made the conqueror of it a rover; the conqueress a tyrant.

Well, but now, comes mincing in a letter from one who has the honour of dear Miss Howe's commands (a) 15.3, to acquaint Miss Harlowe, that Miss Howe is excessively concerned for the concern she has given her.

I have great temptations, on this occasion, says the prim Gothamite, to express my own resentments upon your present state.

My own resentments!—And why did he not fall in|to this temptation?—Why, truly, because he knew not what that state was, which gave him so tempting a subject—Only by conjecture, and so forth.

He then dances in his style, as he does in his gaite! To be sure, to be sure, he must have made the grand tour, and come home by the way of Tipperary.

And being moreover forbid, says the prancer, to en|ter into the cruel subject—This prohibition was a mercy to thee, friend Hickman!—But why cruel subject, if thou knowest not what it is, but conjecturest only from the disturbance it gives to a girl, that is her

mother's disturbance, will be thy disturbance, and the disturbance, in turn, of every-body with whom she is intimately acquainted, unless I have the hum|bling of her?

In another letter (a) 15.4, She approves of her design to leave me, if she can be received by her friends.

Has heard some strange stories of me, that shew me to be the worst of men. Had I a dozen lives, I might have forfeited them all twenty crimes ago.—An odd way of reckoning, Jack!

Miss Betterton, Miss Lockyer, are named—The man (so she irreverently calls me!), she says, is a vil|lain. Let me perish if I am called a villain for no|thing!—She will have her uncle (as Miss Harlowe desires) sounded about receiving her. Dorcas is to be attach'd to her interest: My letters are to be come at by surprize or trick—See, Jack!

She is alarmed at my attempt to come at a letter of hers.

Were I to come at the knowlege of her freedoms with my character, she says, she should be afraid to stir out without a guard.—I would advise the vixen to get her guard ready.

I am at the head of a gang of wretches [Thee, Jack, and thy brother varlets, she owns she means], who join together to betray innocent creatures, and to support one another in their villainies.—What sayest thou to this, Belford?

She wonders not at her melancholy reflections for meeting me, for being forced upon me, and tricked by me.—I hope, Jack, thou'lt have done preaching after this!

But she comforts her, that she will be both a warn|ing and example to all her Sex.—I hope the Sex will thank me for this.

The nymphs had not time, they say, to transcribe all that was worthy of my resentment in this letter—

So I must find an opportunity to come at it myself. Noble rant, they say, it contains.—But I am a se|ducer, and a hundred vile fellows, in it—And the devil, it seems, took possession of my heart, and of the hearts of all her friends, in the same dark hour, in order to pro|voke her to meet me. Again, There is a fate in her error, she says—Why then should she grieve?—Ad|versity is her shining-time, and I cannot tell what—Yet never to thank the man to whom she owes the shine!

In the next (a) 15.5, Wicked as I am, she fears I must be her lord and master.—I hope so.

She retracts what she said against me in her last.—My behaviour to my Rosebud; Miss Harlowe to take possession of Mrs. Fretchville's house; I to stay at Mrs. Sinclair's; the stake I have in my country; my reversions; my oeconomy; my person; my address; all are brought in my favour, to induce her now not to leave me. How do I love to puzzle these long-sighted girls!

Yet my teazing ways, it seems, are intolerable.—Are women only to teaze, I trow?—The Sex may thank themselves for learning me to out-teaze them. So the headstrong Charles XII. of Sweden learned the Czar Peter to beat him, by continuing a war with the Muscovites against the antient maxims of his king|dom.

May eternal vengeance PURSUE the villain [Thank heaven, she does not say overtake], if he give room to doubt his honour!—Women can't swear, Jack—Sweet souls! they can only curse.

I am said, to doubt her love.—Have I not reason? And she, to doubt my ardor?—Ardor, Jack!—Why, 'tis very right—Women, as Miss Howe says, and as every Rake knows, love ardors!

She apprizes her of the ill success of the application made to her uncle.—By Hickman, no doubt!—I must

have this fellow's ears in my pocket, very quickly, believe.

She says, She is equally shocked and enraged against all her family: Mrs. Norton's weight has been try'd upon Mrs. Harlowe, as well as Mr. Hickman's upon the uncle: But never were there, says the vixen, such determin'd brutes in the world. Her uncle concludes her ruin'd already.—Is not that a call upon me, as well as a reproach?—They all expected applications from her when in distress—but were resolved not to stir an inch to save her life. She was accused of premedi|tation and contrivance. Miss Howe is concerned, she tells her, for the revenge my pride may put me upon taking for the distance she has kept me at.—And well she may.—She has now but one choice [for her cousin Morden, it seems, is set against her too], and that's to be mine.—An act of necessity, of convenience.—Thy friend, Jack, to be already made a woman's conve|nience!—Is this to be borne by a Lovelace?

I shall make great use of this letter. From Miss Howe's hints of what passed between her uncle Har|lowe and Hickman [It must be Hickman], I can give room for my invention to play; for she tells her, that she will not reveal all. I must endeavour to come at this letter myself; I must have the very words; extracts will not do. This letter, when I have it, must be my compass to steer by.

The fire of friendship then blazes out and crackles. I never before imagin'd, that so fervent a friendship could subsist between two sister-beauties, both toasts. But even here it may be inflamed by opposition, and by that contradiction which gives spirit to female spi|rits of a warm and romantic turn.

She raves about coming up, if by so doing she could prevent so noble a creature from stooping too low, or save her from ruin—One reed to support another! These girls are frenzical in their friendship. They know not what a steady fire is.

How comes it to pass, that I cannot help being pleased with this virago's spirit, tho' I suffer by it? Had I her but here, I'd engage in a week's time, to teach her submission without reserve. What pleasure should I have in breaking such a spirit! I should wish for her but for one month, in all, I think. She would be too tame and spiritless for me after that. How sweetly pretty to see the two lovely friends, when humbled and tame, both sitting in the darkest corner of a room, arm in arm, weeping and sobbing for each other!—And I their emperor, their then acknowleged emperor, reclined on a sophee, in the same room, Grand Signor like, uncertain to which I should first throw out my handkerchief?

Mind the girl: She is enraged at the Harlowes: She is angry at her own mother; she is exasperated against her foolish and low-vanity'd Lovelace.—FOOLISH, a little toad! [God forgive me for calling a virtuous girl a toad!] Let us stoop to lift the wretch out of his dirt, tho' we soil our fingers in doing it! He has not been guilty of direct indecency to you.—It seems extraordinary to Miss Howe that I have not.—Nor dare he—She should be sure of that. If women have such things in their heads, why should not I in my heart?—Not so much of a devil as that comes to neither. Such villainous in|tentions would have shewn themselves before now, if I had them.—Lord help them!—

She then puts her friend upon urging for settlements, licence, and so forth.—No room for delicacy now, she says.—And tells her what she shall say, to bring all forward from me.—Dost think, Jack, that I should not have carried my point long ago, but for this vixen?—She reproaches her for having MODESTY'D-away, as she calls it, more than one opportunity, that she ought not to have slipt.—Thus thou seest, that the noblest of the Sex mean nothing in the world by their shyness and distance, but to pound a poor fellow, whom they dislike not, when he comes into their pur|••ieus.

Annexed to this letter is a paper the most saucy that ever was wrote of a mother by a daughter. There are in it such free reflections upon widows and batchel|ors, that I cannot but wonder how Miss Howe came by her learning. Sir George Colmar, I can tell thee, was a greater fool than thy friend, if she had it all for nothing.

The contents of this paper acquaints Miss Har|lowe, that her uncle Antony has been making pro|posals of marriage to her mother. The old fellow's heart ought to be a tough one, if he succeed, or she who broke that of a much worthier man, the late Mr. Howe, will soon get rid of him. But be this as it may, the stupid family is more irreconcileable than ever to their goddess-daughter, for old Antony's thoughts of marrying: So I am more secure of her than ever; since, as Miss Howe says, she can have but one choice now. Though this disgusts my pride, yet I believe, at last, my tender heart will be moved in her favour. For I did not wish, that she should have nothing but persecution and distress.—But why loves she the brutes, as Miss Howe justly calls them, so much; me so little?—But I have still more un|pardonable transcripts from other letters.

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

THE next letter is of such a nature, that, I dare say, these proud varletesses would not have had it fall into my hands for the world (a) 15.6.

I see by it to what her displeasure with me, in rela|tion to my proposals, was owing. They were not summ'd up, it seems, with the warmth, with the ardor, which she had expected. This whole letter was transcribed by Dorcas, to whose lot it fell. Thou shalt have copies of them all at full length shortly.

Men of our cast, this little devil says, she fancies, cannot have the ardors that honest men have. Miss Howe has very pretty fancies, Jack. Charming girl! Would to heaven I knew whether my fair-one answers her as freely as she writes! 'Twould vex a man's heart, that this virago should have come honestly by her fancies.

Who knows but I may have half a dozen creatures to get off my hands, before I engage for life?—Yet, lest this should mean me a compliment, as if I would re|form, she adds her belief, that she must not expect me to be honest on this side my grand climacteric. She has an high opinion of her Sex, to think they can charm so long, with a man so well acquainted with their iden|ticalness.

He to suggest delays, she says, from a compliment to be made to Lord M.!—Yes, I, my dear—Because a man has not been accustomed to be dutiful, must he never be dutiful?—In so important a case as this too; the hearts of his whole family engaged in it? You did indeed, says she, want an interposing friend—But were I to have been in your situation, I would have tore his eyes out, and left it to his own heart to furnish the rea|son for it. See! See! What sayest thou to this, Jack?

Villain—Fellow that he is! follow. And for what? Only for wishing that the next day were to be my happy one; and for being dutiful to my nearest rela|tion.

It is the cru••llest of fates, she says, for a woman to be forced to have a man whom her heart despises.—That is what I wanted to be sure of.—I was afraid, that my beloved was too conscious of her talents; of her superiority!—I was afraid that she indeed despised me; and I cannot bear it. But, Belford, I do not intend that this lady shall be bound down by so cruel a fate. Let me perish, if I marry a woman who has given her most intimate friend reason to say, she despises me!—A Lovelace to be despised, Jack!

His clench'd fist to his forehead on your leaving him in just displeasure—that is, when she was not satis|fied with my ardors, and please ye!—I remember the motion: But her back was toward me at the time. Are these watchful ladies all eye?—But observe her wish, I wish it had been a poll-ax, and in the hands of his worst enemy.—I will have patience, Jack; I will have patience! My day is at hand.—Then will I steel my heart with these remembrances.

But here is a scheme to be thought of, in order to get my fair prize out of my hands, in case I give her reason to suspect me.

This indeed alarms me. Now the contention be|comes arduous. Now wilt thou not wonder, if I let loose my plotting genius upon them both. I will not be out-Norris'd, Belford.

But once more, she has no notion, she says, that I can or dare to mean her dishonour. But then the man is a fool—that's all.—I should indeed be a fool, to proceed as I do, and mean matrimony! However, since you are thrown upon a fool, says she, marry the fool, at the first opportunity; and tho' I doubt that this man will be the most unmanageable of fools, as all witty and vain fools are, take him as a punishment, since you can|not as a reward.—Is there any bearing this, Belford?

But in the letter I came at to-day, while she was at church, her scheme is further opened, and a cursed one it is.

Mr. Lovelace then transcribes, from his short-hand notes, that part of Miss Howe's letter, which relates to the design of engaging Mrs. Townsend (in case of necessity) to give her protection till Colonel Morden comes (a) 15.7: And repeats his vows of revenge; especially for those words; that should he attempt any thing that would make him obnoxious to the laws of society, she might have a fair riddance of him, either by flight or the gal|lows; no matter which.

He then adds;—'Tis my pride, to subdue girls who know too much to doubt their knowlege; and to con|vince them, that they know too little, to defend themselves from the inconveniencies of knowing too much.

How passion drives a man on! I have written, as thou'lt see, a prodigious quantity in a very few hours! Now my resentments are warm, I will see, and per|haps will punish, this proud, this double-arm'd beauty. I have sent to tell her, that I must be admitted to sup with her. We have neither of us dined: She re|fused to drink tea in the afternoon.—And I believe neither of us will have much stomach to our supper.

LETTER XXVI. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Sunday morning, 7, May 21.

I Was at the play last night with Mr. Lovelace and Miss Horton. It is, you know, a deep and most affecting tragedy in the reading. You have my remarks upon it, in the little book you made me write upon the principal acting plays. You will not won|der, that Miss Horton, as well as I, was greatly moved at the representation, when I tell you, and have some pleasure in telling you, that Mr. Lovelace himself was very sensibly touched with some of the most affecting scenes. I mention this in praise of the author's per|formance; for I take Mr. Lovelace to be one of the most hard-hearted men in the world. Upon my word, my dear, I do.

His behaviour, however, on this occasion, and on our return, was unexceptionable, only that he would oblige me to stay to supper with the women be|••ow, when we came back, and to sit up with him ••nd them till near one o'clock this morning. I was resolved to be even with him; and indeed I am not

very sorry to have the pretence; for I love to pass the Sundays by myself.

To have the better excuse to avoid his teazing, I am ready dressed to go to church this morning. I will go only to St. James's church, and in a chair; that I may be sure I can go out and come in when I please, without being obtruded upon by him, as I was twice before.

Near nine o'clock.

I HAVE your kind letter of yesterday. He knows I have. And I shall expect, that he will be inquisi|tive next time I see him after your opinion of his pro|posals. I doubted not your approbation of them, and had written an answer on that presumption; which is ready for him. He must study for occasions of pro|crastination, and to disoblige me, if now any thing happens to set us at variance again.

He is very importunate to see me; he has desired to attend me to church. He is angry, that I have de|clined to breakfast with him. I was sure that I should not be at my own liberty, if I had.—I bid Dorcas tell him, that I desired to have this day to myself; I would see him in the morning, as early as he pleased. She says, she knows not what ails him, but that he is out of humour with every-body.

He has sent again, in a peremptory manner. He warns me of Singleton. But surely, I sent him word, if he was not afraid of Singleton at the play-house last night, I need not at church to day: So many churches to one play-house.—I have accepted of his servant's proposed attendance.—But he is quite dis|pleased, it seems. I don't care. I will not be per|petually at his insolent beck.—Adieu, my dear, til•• I return. The chair waits. He won't stop me, sure as I go down to it.

I DID not see him as I went down. He is, i•• seems, excessively out of humour. Dorcas says, N••

with me neither, she believes: But something has vex'd him. This is put on, perhaps, to make me dine with him. But I won't, if I can help it. I shan't get rid of him for the rest of the day, if I do.

HE was very earnest to dine with me. But I was resolved to carry this one small point; and so denied to dine myself. And indeed I was endeavouring to write to my cousin Morden; and had begun three different letters, without being able to please myself; so uncertain and so unpleasing is my situation.

He was very busy in writing, Dorcas says, and pur|sued it without dining, because I denied him my com|pany.

He afterwards demanded, as I may say, to be ad|mitted to afternoon tea with me: And appealed by Dorcas to his behaviour to me last night; as if, as I sent him word by her, he thought he had a merit in being unexceptionable. However, I repeated my promise to meet him as early as he pleased in the morning, or to breakfast with him.

Dorcas says, he raved. I heard him loud, and I heard his servant fly from him, as I thought. You, my dearest friend, say, in one of yours (a) 17.1, that you must have somebody to be angry at, when your mo|ther sets you up.—I should be very loth to draw com|parisons.—But the workings of passion, when indulg'd, are but too much alike, whether in man or woman.

HE has just sent me word, that he insists upon sup|ping with me. As we had been in a good train for se|veral days past, I thought it not prudent to break with him, for little matters. Yet, to be, in a manner, threaten'd into his will, I know not how to bear that.

WHILE I was considering, he came up, and, tapping at my door, told me, in a very angry tone, he must see

me this night. He could not rest, till he had been told what he had done to deserve this treatment.

I must go to him. Yet perhaps he has nothing new to say to me.—I shall be very angry with him.

As the Lady could not know what Mr. Lovelace's de|signs were, nor the cause of his ill humour, it will not be improper to pursue the subject from his letter.

Having described his angry manner of demanding, in person, her company at supper; he proceeds as fol|lows.

'Tis hard, answered the fair Perverse, that I am to be so little my own mistress. I will meet you in the dining-room half an hour hence.

I went down to wait that half-hour. All the wo|men set me hard to give her cause for this tyranny. They demonstrated, as well from the nature of the sex, as of the case, that I had nothing to hope for from my tameness, and could meet with no worse treat|ment, were I to be guilty of the last offence. They urged me vehemently to try at least what effect some greater familiarities, than I had ever used with her, would have: And their arguments being strengthened by my just resentments on the discoveries I had made, I was resolved to take some liberties, and, as they were received, to take still greater, and lay all the fault upon her tyranny. In this humour I went up, and never had paralytic so little command of his joints, as I had, as I walked about the dining-room, attending her motions.

With an erect mien she enter'd, her face averted, her lovely bosom swelling, and the more charmingly protuberant for the erectness of her mien. O Jack! that sullenness and reserve should give this haughty maid new charms! But in every attitude, in every humour, in every gesture, is beauty beautiful.—By her averted face, and indignant aspect, I saw the dear insolent was

disposed to be angry—But by the fierceness of mine, as my trembling hands seized hers, I soon made fear her predominant passion. And yet the moment I beheld her, my heart was dastardiz'd, damp'd, and reverenced-over. Surely this is an angel, Jack!—And yet, had she not been known to be a female, they would not from babyhood have dressed her as such, nor would she, but upon that conviction, have continued the dress.

Let me ask you, Madam, I beseech you tell me, what I have done to deserve this distant treatment?

And let me ask you, Mr. Lovelace, why are my retirements to be thus invaded?—What can you have to say to me since last night, that I went with you so much against my will to the play? And after sitting up with you, equally against my will, till a very late hour?—

This I have to say, Madam, that I cannot bear to be kept at this distance from you under the same roof. I have a thousand things to say, to talk of, relating to our present and future prospects; but when I want ••o open my whole soul to you, you are always con|••riving to keep me at a distance; you make me in|consistent with myself; your heart is set upon delays; you must have views that you will not own. Tell me, Madam, I conjure you to tell me, this moment, without subterfuge or reserve, in what light am I to appear to you in future? I cannot bear this distance; ••he suspense you hold me in I cannot bear.

In what light, Mr. Lovelace? In no bad light, I hope.—Pray, Mr. Lovelace, do not grasp my hands ••o hard [endeavouring to withdraw her hands]. Pray ••et me go—

You hate me, Madam—

I hate nobody, Sir—

You hate me, Madam, repeated I.

Instigated and resolved, as I came up, I wanted ••ome new provocation. The devil indeed, as soon as

my angel made her appearance, crept out of my heart; but he had left the door open, and was no farther off than my elbow.

You come up in no good temper, I see, Mr. Lovelace—But pray be not violent—I have done you no hurt—Pray be not violent—

Sweet creature! And I clasped one arm about her, holding one hand in my other—You have done me no hurt!—You have done me the greatest hurt!—In what have I deserved the distance you keep me at?—I knew not what to say.

She struggled to disengage herself—Pray, Mr. Lovelace, let me withdraw. I know not why this is—I know not what I have done to offend you. I see you are come with a design to quarrel with me. If you would not terrify me by the ill-humour you are in, permit me to withdraw. I will hear all you have to say another time—To-morrow morning, as I sent you word; but indeed you frighten me.—I be|seech you, if you have any value for me, permit me to withdraw.

Night, mid-night, is necessary, Belford. Surprize, terror, must be necessary to the ultimate trial of this charming creature, say the women below what they will—I could not hold my purposes—This was no•• the first time that I had intended to try if she could forgive.

I kissed her hand with a fervor, as if I would hav•• left my lips upon it—Withdraw then, dearest an•• ever-dear creature—Indeed I enter'd in a very •• humour: I cannot bear the distance you so causle•• keep me at—Withdraw, however, Madam, since •• is your will to withdraw; and judge me generously judge me but as I deserve to be judged; and let m•• hope to meet you to-morrow morning early, in suc•• a temper as becomes our present situation, and m•• future hopes. And so saying, I conducted her to th•• door, and left her there. But instead of going dow••

to the women, went into my own chamber, and locked myself in; ashamed of being awed by her ma|••estic loveliness and apprehensive virtue, into so great a change of purpose, notwithstanding I had such just provocations from the letters of her saucy friend, founded on her own representations of facts and situ|ations between herself and me.

The Lady thus describes her terrors, and Mr. Love|lace's behaviour, on this occasion.

On my entering the dining-room, he took my hands in his, in such a humour, as I saw plainly he was resolved to quarrel with me.—And for what?—•• never in my life beheld in any-body such a wild, such an angry, such an impatient spirit. I was ter|••ified; and instead of being as angry as I intended to ••e, I was forced to be all mildness. I can hardly re|member what were his first words, I was so frighted. But, You hate me, Madam! You hate me, Madam! were some of them—with such a fierceness—I wish'd myself a thousand miles distant from him. I hate no|••ody, said I; I thank God I hate no-body—You ter|••ify me, Mr. Lovelace—Let me leave you.—The man, my dear, looked quite ugly—I never saw a man ••ook so ugly, as passion made him look.—And for what?—And he so grasped my hands—fierce creature! He so grasped my hands! In short, he ••eemed by his looks, and by his words (once putting ••is arms about me), to wish me to provoke him.—So that I had nothing to do, but to beg of him, which •• did repeatedly, to permit me to withdraw; and to promise to meet him at his own time in the morning.

It was with a very ill grace, that he complied, on ••hat condition; and at parting he kissed my hand with ••uch a savageness, that a redness remains upon it ••till.

Perfect for me, my dearest Miss Howe, perfect for me, I beseech you, your kind scheme with Mrs.

Townsend.—And I will then leave this man. See you not how from step to step, he grows upon me?—I tremble to look back upon his incroachments. And now to give me cause to apprehend more evil from him, than indignation will permit me to express!—O my dear, perfect your scheme, and let me fly from so strange a wretch! He must certainly have views in quarrelling with me thus, which he dare not own! Yet what can they be?

I WAS so disgusted with him, as well as frighted by him, that, on my return to my chamber, in a fit of passionate despair, I tore almost in two, the answer I had written to his proposals.

I will see him in the morning, because I promised I would. But I will go out, and that without him, or any attendant. If he account not tolerably for his sudden change of behaviour, and a proper op|portunity offer of a private lodging in some creditable house, I will not any more return to this:—At pre|sent I think so.—And there will I either attend the perfecting of your scheme; or, by your epistolary mediation, make my own terms with the wretch; since it is your opinion, that I must be his, and can|not help myself. Or, perhaps take a resolution to throw myself at once into Lady Betty's protection; and this will hinder him from making his insolently-threatned visit to Harlowe-Place.

The Lady writes again on Monday evening; and gives her friend an account of all that has passed be|tween herself and Mr. Lovelace that day; and of her being terrified out of her purpose of going abroad: But Mr. Lovelace's next letters giving a more ample account of all, hers are omitted.

It is proper, however, to mention, that she re|urges Miss Howe (from the dissatisfaction she has reason for from what passed between Mr. Love|lace

and herself) to perfect her scheme in relation to Mrs. Townsend.

She concludes this letter in these words:

'I should say something of your last favour (but a few hours ago received), and of your dialogue with your mother.—Are you not very whimsical, my dear?—I have but two things to wish for on this occasion. The one, that your charming pleasantry had a better subject, than that you find for it in this dialogue. The other, that my situation were not such, as must too often damp that pleasantry, and will not permit me to enjoy it, as I used to do. Be, however, happy in yourself, tho' you can|not in

'Your CLARISSA HARLOWE.'

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

Monday Morn. May 22.

NO generosity in this lady. None at all. Wouldst thou not have thought, that after I had per|mitted her to withdraw, primed for mischief as I was, that she would meet me next morning early; and that with a smile; making me one of her best cour|tesies?

I was in the dining-room before six, expecting her. She opened not her door. I went up-stairs and down, and hemm'd, and called Will. called Dorcas: Threw the doors hard to; but still she opened not her door. Thus till half an hour after eight, fooled I away my time; and then, breakfast ready, I sent Dorcas to re|quest her company.

But I was astonished, when, following the wench at the first invitation, I saw her enter dressed, all but her gloves, and those and her fan in her hand; in the

same moment, bidding Dorcas direct Will. to get her a chair to the door.

Cruel creature, thought I, to expose me thus to the derision of the women below!

Going abroad, Madam?

I am, Sir.

I looked cursed silly, I am sure.—You will break|fast first, I hope, Madam, in a very humble strain: Yet with an hundred tenter-hooks in my heart.

Had she given me more notice of her intention, I had perhaps wrought myself up to the frame I was in the day before, and begun my vengeance. And im|mediately came into my head all the virulence that had been transcribed for me from Miss Howe's let|ters, and in that I had transcribed myself.

Yes, she would drink one dish; and then laid her gloves and fan in the window just by.

I was perfectly disconcerted. I hemm'd and haw'd, and was going to speak several times; but knew not in what key. Who's modest now, thought I! Who's insolent now!—How a tyrant of a woman confounds a bashful man!—She was my Miss Howe, I thought; and I the spiritless Hickman.

At last, I will begin, thought I.

She a dish—I a dish.

Sip, her eyes her own, she; like an haughty and imperious sovereign, conscious of dignity, every look a favour.

Sip, like her vassal, I; lips and hands trembling, and not knowing that I sipp'd or tasted.

I was—I was—Iffp'd—drawing in my breath and the liquor together, tho' I scalded my mouth with it—I was in hopes, Madam—

Dorcas came in just then.—Dorcas, said she, is a chair gone for?

Damn'd impertinence, thought I, putting me out of my speech! And I was forced to wait for the ser|vant's answer to the insolent mistress's question.

William is gone for one, Madam.

This cost me a minute's silence before I could be|gin again.—And then it was with my hopes, and my hopes, and my hopes, that I should have been early admitted to—

What weather is it, Dorcas? said she, as regard|less of me, as if I had not been present.

A little lowering, Madam—The sun is gone in—It was very fine half an hour ago.

I had no patience—Up I rose. Down went the tea-cup, saucer and all.—Confound the weather, the sunshine, and the wench!—Begone for a devil, when I am speaking to your lady, and have so little oppor|tunity given me.

Up rose the lady, half frighted; and snatched from the window her gloves and fan.

You must not go, Madam!—By my soul, you must not—Taking her hand.

Must not, Sir!—But I must—You can curse your maid in my absence, as well as if I were present—Except—Except—you intend for me, what you di|rect to her.

Dearest creature, you must not go!—You must not leave me!—Such determined scorn! Such con|tempts!—Questions ask'd your servant of no mean|ing but to break in upon me; who could-bear it?

Detain me not, struggling.—I will not be with|h••ld.—I like you not, nor your ways.—You sought to quarrel with me yesterday, for no reason in the world that I can think of, but because I was too obliging. You are an ingrateful man; and I hate you with my whole heart, Mr. Lovelace!

Do not make me desperate, Madam.—Permit me to say, that you shall not leave me in this humour. Where-ever you go, I will attend you.—Had Miss Howe been my friend, I had not been thus treated.—It is but too plain to whom my difficulties are owing. I have long observed, that every letter you receive

from her, makes an alteration in your behaviour to me. She would have you treat me, as she treats Mr. Hickman, I suppose: But neither does that treatment become your admirable temper to offer, nor me to receive.

This startled her. She did not care to have me think hardly of Miss Howe.

But recollecting herself, Miss Howe, said she, is a friend to virtue, and to good men.—If she like not you, it is because you are not one of those.

Yes, Madam; and therefore, to speak of Mr. Hickman and Myself, as you both, I suppose, think of each, she treats him as she would not treat a Love|lace.—I challenge you, Madam, to shew me but one of the many letters you have received from her, where I am mentioned.

Whither will this lead us? replied she. Miss Howe is just; Miss Howe is good.—She writes, she speaks, of every-body as they deserve. If you point me out but any one occasion, upon which you have reason to build a merit to yourself, as either just or good, or even generous, I will look out for her letter on that occasion (if it be one I have acquainted her with); and will engage it shall be in your favour.

Devilish severe! And as indelicate as severe, to put a modest man upon hunting backward after his own merits.

She would have flung from me: I will go out, Mr. Lovelace. I will not be detained.

Indeed you must not, Madam, in this humour. And I placed myself between her and the door.—And then she threw herself into a chair, fanning her|self, her sweet face all crimsoned over with passion.

I cast myself at her feet.—Begone, Mr. Lovelace, said she, with a rejecting motion, her fan in her hand; for your own sake leave me!—My soul is above thee, man! With both her hands pushing me from her!—Urge me not to tell thee, how sincerely I think my soul above thee!—Thou hast a proud, a too proud

heart, to contend with!—Leave me, and leave me for ever!—Thou hast a proud heart to contend with!

Her air, her manner, her voice, were bewitchingly noble, tho' her words were so severe.

Let me worship an angel, said I, no woman. For|give me, dearest creature!—Creature if you be, for|give me!—Forgive my inadvertencies! Forgive my inequalities!—Pity my infirmity!—Who is equal to my Clarissa?

I trembled between admiration and love; and wrapt my arms about her knees, as she sat. She try'd to rise at the moment; but my clasping round her thus ardently, drew her down again; and never was wo|man more affrighted. But free as my clasping emo|tion might appear to her apprehensive heart, I had not, at the instant, any thought but what reverence inspired. And till she had actually withdrawn (which I permitted under promise of a speedy return, and on her consent to dismiss the chair), all the motions of my heart were as pure as her own.

She kept not her word. An hour I waited, before I sent to claim her promise. She could not possibly see me yet, was the answer. As soon as she could, she would.

Dorcas says, she still excessively trembled; and or|dered her to give her water and hartshorn.

A strange apprehensive creature!—Her terror is too great for the occasion.—Evils in apprehension are often greater than evils in reality. Hast thou never observed, that the terrors of a bird caught, and actually in the hand, bear no comparison to what we might have supposed those terrors would be, were we to have formed a judgment of the same bird by its shy|ness before taken?

Dear creature!—Did she never romp? Did she never from girlhood to now, hoyden? The innocent kinds of freedom taken and all owed on these occa|sions, would have familiarized her to greater. Sacri|lege

but to touch the hem of her garment!—Excess of delicacy!—O the consecrated beauty!—How can she think to be a wife!

But how do I know till I try, whether she may not by a less alarming treatment be prevailed upon, or whether [Day, I have done with thee!] she may not yield to nightly surprizes? This is still the burden of my song, I can marry her when I will. And if I do, after prevailing (whether by surprize or reluctant con|sent) whom but myself shall I have injured?

IT is now eleven o'clock. She will see me as soon as she can, she tells Polly Horton, who made her a tender visit, and to whom she is less reserved than to any-body else. Her emotion, she assures her, was not owing to perverseness, to nicety, to ill-humour; but to weakness of heart. She has not strength of mind sufficient, she says, to enable her to support her condition, and her apprehensions, under the weight of a father's curse; which she fears is more than be|ginning to operate.

Yet what a contradiction!—Weakness of heart, says she, with such a strength of will!—O Belford! she is a lion-hearted lady, in every case where her ho|nour, her punctilio rather, calls for spirit. But I have had reason more than once in her case, to con|clude, that the passions of the gentlest, slower to be moved than those of the quick, are the most flaming, the most irresistible, when raised.—Yet her charm|ing body is not equally organized. The unequal partners pull two ways; and the divinity within her tears her silken frame. But had the same soul inform|ed a masculine body, never would there have been a truer hero.

Monday, two o'clock.

MY beloved not yet visible. She is not well. What expectations had she from my ardent admira|tion

of her!—More rudeness than revenge appre|hended. Yet, how my soul thirsts for revenge upon both these ladies!—I must have recourse to my master|strokes. This cursed project of Miss Howe and her Mrs. Townsend, if I cannot contrive to render it abortive, will be always a sword hanging over my head. Upon every little disobligation my beloved will be for taking wing; and the pains I have taken, to deprive her of every other refuge or protection, in order to make her absolutely dependent upon me, will be all thrown away. But, perhaps, I shall find out a Smuggler to counteract Miss Howe.

Thou remembrest the contention between the Sun and the North wind, in the fable; which should first make an honest Traveller throw off his cloak.

Boreas began first. He puffed away most vehe|mently; and often made the poor fellow curve and stagger: But with no other effect, than to cause him to wrap his surtout the closer about him.

But when it came to Phoebus's turn, he so played upon the traveller with his beams, that he made him first unbutton, and then throw it quite off:—Nor left he, till he obliged him to take to the friendly shade of a spreading beech; where prostrating himself on the thrown-off cloak, he took a comfortable nap.

The victor-god then laughed outright, both at Bo|reas and the Traveller, and pursued his radiant course, shining upon, and warming and cherishing a thousand new objects, as he danced along: And at night, when he put up his fiery coursers, he diverted his Thetis with the relation of his pranks in the passed day.

I, in like manner, will discard all my boistrous inventions; and if I can oblige my sweet Traveller to throw aside, but for one moment, the cloak of her rigid virtue, I shall have nothing to do, but, like the Sun, to bless new objects with my rays.—But my chosen hours of conversation and repose, after all my peregrinations, will be devoted to my goddess.

AND now, Belford, according to my new system, I think this house of Mrs. Fretchville an emba|rass upon me. I will get rid of it; for some time at least. Mennell, when I am out, shall come to her, inquiring for me. What for? thou'lt ask. What for!—Hast thou not heard what has befallen poor Mrs. Fretchville?—Then I'll tell thee.

One of her maids, about a week ago, was taken with the small-pox. The rest-kept their mistress ignorant of it till Friday; and then she came to know it by accident.—The greater half of the plagues poor mortals of condition are tormented with, proceed from the servants they take, partly for shew, partly for use, and with a view to lessen their cares.

This has so terrified the widow, that she is taken with all the symptoms which threaten an attack from that dreadful enemy of fair faces.—So must not think of removing: Yet cannot expect, that we should be further delayed on her account.

She now wishes, with all her heart, that she had known her own mind, and gone into the country at first when I treated about the house: This evil then had not happened!—A cursed cross accident for us, too!—High-ho! Nothing else, I think, in this mortal life!—People need not study to bring crosses upon themselves by their petulancies.

So this affair of the house will be over; at least, for one while. But then I can fall upon an expedient which will make amends for this disappointment. Since I must move slow, in order to be sure, I have a charming contrivance or two in my head—Even sup|posing she should get away, to bring her back again.

But what is become of Lord M. I trow, that he writes not to me, in answer to my invitation? If he would send me such a letter, as I could shew, it might go a great way towards a perfect reconciliation. I have written to Charlotte about it. He shall soon

hear from me, and that in a way he won't like, if he writes not quickly. He has sometimes threatened to disinherit me: But if I should renounce him, it would be but justice, and would vex him ten times more, than any thing he can do, will vex me. Then, the settlements unavoidably delayed, by his neglect!—How shall I bear such a life of procrastination! I, who, as to my will, and impatience, and so forth, am of the true lady-make! and can as little bear con|troul and disappointment as the best of them!

ANOTHER letter from Miss Howe. I suppose it is that which she promises in her last to send her, relate|ing to the courtship between old Tony the uncle, and Annabella the mother. I should be extremely re|joiced to see it. No more of the smuggler-plot in it, I hope. This, it seems, she has put in her pocket. But I hope I shall soon find it deposited with the rest.

Monday evening.

AT my repeated request she condescended to meet me in the dining-room to afternoon tea, and not be|fore.

She entered with bashfulness, as I thought; in a pretty confusion, for having carried her apprehensions too far. Sullen and slow moved she towards the tea|table.—Dorcas present, busy in tea cup preparations. I took her reluctant hand, and pressed it to my lips.—Dearest, loveliest of creatures, why this distance? Why this displeasure?—How can you thus torture the faithfullest heart in the world?—She disengaged her hand. Again I would have snatch'd it.

Be quiet, peevishly withdrawing it; and down she sat; a gentle palpitation in the beauty of beauties in|dicating mingled sullenness and resentment; her snowy handkerchief rising and falling, and a sweet flush overspreading her charming cheeks.

For God's sake, Madam!—And a third time I would have taken her repulsing hand.

And for the same sake, Sir; no more teazing.

Dorcas retired; I drew my chair nearer hers, and with the most respectful tenderness took her hand; and told her, that I could not, without the utmost concern, forbear to express my apprehensions (from the distance she was so desirous to keep me at), that if any man in the world was more indifferent to her, to use no harsher a word, than another, it was the unhappy wretch before her.

She looked steadily upon me for a moment, and with her other hand, not withdrawing that I held, pulled her handkerchief out of her pocket; and by a twinkling motion, tried to dissipate a tear or two, which stood ready in each eye, to meander themselves a passage down her glowing cheeks; but answered me only with a sigh, and an averted face.

I urged her to speak; to look up at me; to bless me with an eye more favourable.

I had reason, she told me, for my complaint of her indifference. She saw nothing in my mind that was generous. I was not a man to be obliged or favour|ed. My strange behaviour to her since Saturday night, for no cause at all that she knew of, con|vinced her of this. Whatever hopes she had con|ceived of me, were utterly dissipated: All my ways were disgustful to her.

This cut me to the heart. The guilty, I believe, in every case, less patiently bear the detecting truth, than the innocent do the degrading falshood.

I bespoke her patience, while I took the liberty to account for this change, on my part.—I re-acknow|leged the pride of my heart, which could not bear the thought of that want of preference in the heart of a lady, whom I hoped to call mine, which she had al|ways manifested. Marriage, I said, was a state that

was not to be entered upon with indifference on either side.

It is insolence, interrupted she, it is presumption, Sir, to expect tokens of value, without resolving to deserve them. You have no whining creature before you, Mr. Lovelace, overcome by weak motives, to love where there is no merit. Miss Howe can tell you, Sir, that I never loved the faults of my friend; nor ever wished her to love me for mine. It was a rule with us, not to spare each other. And would a man who has nothing but faults (for pray, Sir, what are your virtues?) expect that I should shew a value for him? Indeed, if I did, I should not deserve even his value, but ought to be despised by him.

Well have you, Madam, kept up to this noble manner of thinking. You are in no danger of being despised for any marks of tenderness or favour shewn to the man before you. You have been perhaps, you'll think, laudably studious of making and taking occasions to declare, that it was far from being owing to your choice, that you had any thoughts of me. My whole soul, Madam, in all its errors, in all its wishes, in all its views, had been laid open and naked before you, had I been en|couraged by such a share in your confidence and esteem, as would have secured me against your appre|hended worst constructions of what I should from time to time have revealed to you, and consulted you upon. For never was there a franker heart; nor a man so ready to accuse himself. [This, Belford, is true]. But you know, Madam, how much other|wise it has been between us.—Doubt, distance, re|serve, on your part, begat doubt, fear, awe, on mine.—How little confidence! as if we apprehended each other to be a plotter rather than a lover. How have I dreaded every letter that has been brought you from Wilson's!—And with reason; since the last,

from which I expected so much, on account of th•• proposals I had made you in writing, has, if I may judge by the effects, and by your denial of seeing me yesterday (tho' you could go abroad, and in a chai•• too, to avoid my attendance on you), set you against me more than ever.

I was guilty, it seems, of going to church, said the indignant charmer; and without the company of a man, whose choice it would not have been to go, had I not gone. I was guilty of desiring to have the whole Sunday to myself, after I had obliged you, against my will, at a play; and after you had detained me, equally to my dislike, to a very late hour over night.—These were my faults: For these I was to be punished; I was to be compelled to see you, and to be terrified when I did see you, by the most shocking ill-humour that was ever shewn to a creature in my circumstances, and not bound to bear it. You have pretended to find free fault with my father's temper, Mr. Lovelace: But the worst that he ever shewed after marriage, was not in the least to be compared to what you have shewn twenty times beforehand.—And what are my prospects with you, at the very best?—My indignation rises against you, Mr. Love|lace, while I speak to you, when I recollect the many instances, equally ungenerous and unpolite, of your behaviour to one whom you have brought into di|stress—And I can hardly bear you in my sight.

She turned from me, standing up; and lifting up her folded hands and charming eyes, swimming in tears—O my dear papa, said the inimitable creature, you might have spared your heavy curse, had you known how I have been punished, ever since my swerving feet led me out of your garden-doors to meet this man! Then, sinking into her chair, a burst of passionate tears forced their way down her glowing cheeks.

My dearest life, taking her still folded hands in mine, who can bear an invocation so affecting, tho' so passionate? [And, as I hope to live, my nose tingled, as I once when a boy, remember it did (and indeed once more very lately), just before some tears came into my eyes; and I durst hardly trust my face in view of hers] What have I done to deserve this impatient exclamation?—Have I, at any time, by word, by deeds, by looks, given you cause to doubt my ho|nour, my reverence, my adoration, I may call it, of your virtues?—All is owing to misapprehension, I hope, on both sides.—Condescend to clear up but your part, as I will mine, and all must speedily be happy.—Would to heaven I loved that heaven as I love you! And yet, if I doubted a return in love, let me perish if I should know how to wish you mine!—Give me hope, dearest creature, give me but hope, that I am your preferable choice!—Give me but hope, that you hate me not; that you do not despise me.

O Mr. Lovelace, we have been long enough to|gether, to be tired of each others humours and ways; ways and humours so different, that perhaps you ought to dislike me, as much as I do you.—I think, I think, that I cannot make an answerable return to the value you profess for me. My temper is utterly ruined. You have given me an ill opinion of all mankind; of yourself in particular: And withal so bad a one of myself, that I shall never be able to look up, having utterly and for ever lost all that self-com|placency, and conscious pride, which are so necessary to carry a woman through this life with tolerable satisfaction to herself.

She paused. I was silent. By my soul, thought I, this sweet creature will at last undo me!

She proceeded.—What now remains, but that you pronounce me free of all obligation to you? And that you will not hinder me from pursuing the destiny that shall be allotted me?

Again she paused. I was still silent; meditating whether to renounce all further designs upon her; whether I had not received sufficient evidence of a virtue, and of a greatness of soul, that could not be questioned, or impeached.

She went on: Propitious to me be your silence, Mr. Lovelace!—Tell me, that I am free of all obli|gation to you. You know, I never made you pro|mises.—You know, that you are not under any to me.—My broken fortunes I matter not.—

She was proceeding.—My dearest life, said I, I have been all this time, tho' you fill me with doubts of your favour, busy in the nuptial preparations.—I am actually in treaty for equipage.

Equipage, Sir!—Trappings, Tinsel!—What is Equipage; what is Life; what is Any-thing, to a crea|ture sunk so low, as I am in my own opinion!—La|bouring under a father's curse!—Unable to look back|ward without reproach, or forward without terror!—These reflections strengthen'd by every cross acci|dent!—And what but cross accidents befal me!—All my darling schemes dashed in pieces; all my hopes at an end; deny me not the liberty to refuge myself in some obscure corner, where neither the enemies you have made me, nor the few friends you have left me, may ever hear of the supposed rash one, till those happy moments are at hand, which shall expiate for all!

I had not a word to say for myself. Such a war in my mind had I never known. Gratitude, and ad|miration of the excellent creature before me, com|bating with villainous habit, with resolutions so pre|meditately made, and with views so much gloried in!—An hundred new contrivances in my head, and in my heart, that, to be honest, as it is called; must all be given up, by a heart delighting in intrigue and difficulty—Miss Howe's virulences endeavoured to be recollected—Yet recollection refusing to bring them forward with the requisite efficacy—I had certainly

been a lost man, had not Dorcas come seasonably in, with a letter.—On the superscription written—Be pleased, Sir, to open it now.

I returned to the window—opened it.—It was from herself.—These the contents—

'Be pleased to detain my lady; a paper of importance to transcribe.—I will cough when I have done.'

I put the paper in my pocket, and turned to my charmer, less disconcerted, as she, by that time, had also a little recovered herself.—One favour, dearest creature—Let me but know, whether Miss Howe ap|proves or disapproves of my proposals?—I know her to be my enemy. I was intending to account to you for the change of behaviour you accused me of at the beginning of this conversation; but was diverted from it by your vehemence.—Indeed, my beloved creature, you was very vehement.—Do you think, it must not be matter of high regret to me, to find my wishes so often delayed and postponed, in favour of your pre|dominant view to a reconciliation with relations, who will not be reconciled to you?—To this was owing your declining to celebrate before we came to town, tho' you were so atrociously treated by your sister, and your whole family; and tho' so ardently pressed to celebrate by me? To this was owing the ready of|fence you took at my four friends; and at the un|availing attempt I made to see a dropt letter, little imagining that there could be room for mortal dis|pleasure on that account, from what two such ladies could write to each other.—To this was owing the week's distance you held me at, till you knew the issue of another application.—But when they had rejected that; when you had sent my coldly-received propo|sals to Miss Howe for her approbation or advice, as indeed I advised, and had honoured me with your company at the play on Saturday night (my whole behaviour unobjectible to the last hour); must not, Madam, the sudden change in your conduct, the very

next morning, astonish and distress me?—And this persisted in with still stronger declarations, after you had received the impatiently-expected letter from Miss Howe; must I not conclude, that all was owing to her influence; and that some other application or pro|ject was meditating, that made it necessary to keep me again at distance till the result were known, and which was to deprive me of you for ever? for was not that your constantly proposed preliminary?—Well, Madam, might I be wrought up to a half-frenzy by this apprehension; and well might I charge you with hating me.—And now, dearest creature, let me know, I once more ask you, what is Miss Howe's opinion of my proposals?

Were I disposed to debate with you, Mr. Lovelace, I could very easily answer your fine harangue. But at present, I shall only say, that your ways have been very unaccountable. You seem to me, if your meanings were always just, to have taken great pains to embarass them. Whether owing in you to the want of a clear head, or a sound heart, I cannot de|termine; but it is to the want of one of them, I verily think, that I am to ascribe the greatest part of your strange conduct.

Curse upon the heart of the little devil, said I, who instigates you to think so hardly of the faithfullest heart in the world!

How dare you, Sir?—And there she stopt; having almost overshot herself; as I designed she should.

How dare I what, Madam? And I looked with meaning. How dare I what?

Vile man!—And do you—And there again she stopt.

Do I what, Madam?—And why vile man?

How dare you to curse any-body in my presence?

O the sweet receder!—But that was not to go off so with a Lovelace.

Why then, dearest creature, is there any-body that instigates you?—If there be, again I curse them, be they who they will.

She was in a charming pretty passion.—And this was the first time that I had the odds in my favour.

Well, Madam, it is just as I thought. And now I know how to account for a temper, that I hope is not natural to you.

Artful wretch! And is it thus you would entrap me?—But know, Sir, that I receive letters from no|body but Miss Howe. Miss Howe likes some of your ways as little as I do; for I have set every-thing be|fore her.—Yet she is thus far your enemy, as she is mine:—She thinks I should not refuse your offers; but endeavour to make the best of my lot. And now you have the truth. Would to heaven you were capable of dealing with equal sincerity!

I am, Madam. And here, on my knee, I renew my vows, and my supplication, that you will make me yours—Yours for ever.—And let me have cause to bless you and Miss Howe in the same breath.

To say the truth, Belford, I had before begun to think, that that vixen of a girl, who certainly likes not Hickman, was in love with me.

Rise, Sir, from your too-ready knees; and mock me not.

Too-ready knees, thought I!—Tho' this humble posture so little affects this proud beauty, she knows not how much I have obtained of others of her sex, nor how often I have been forgiven the last attempts, by kneeling.

Mock you, Madam!—And I arose, and re-urged her for the day. I blamed myself at the same time, for my invitation to Lord M. as it might subject me to delay, from his infirmities: But told her, that I would write to him to excuse me, if she had no ob|jection; or to give him the day she would give me, and not wait for him, if he could not come in time.

My day, Sir, said she, is never. Be not surprized▪ A person of politeness judging between us, would not be surprized that I say so. But indeed, Mr. Lovelace, and wept thro' impatience, you either know not how to treat with a mind of the least degree of delicacy, notwithstanding your birth and education, or you are an ingrateful man; and (after a pause) a worse than ingrateful one. But I will retire. I will see you again to-morrow. I cannot before. I think I hate you—You may look—Indeed I think I hate you. And if, upon a re-examination of my own heart, I find I do, I would not for the world that matters should go on farther between us.

I was too much vex'd, disconcerted, mortify'd, to hinder her retiring—And yet she had not gone, if Dorcas had not cough'd.

The wench came in, as soon as her lady had re|tired, and gave me the copy she had taken. And what should it be of, but the answer the truly admir|able creature had intended to give to my written pro|posals in relation to settlements?

I have but just dipt into this affecting paper. Were I to read it attentively, not a wink should I sleep this night. To-morrow it shall obtain my serious consi|deration.

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

Tuesday Morning, May 23.

THE dear creature desires to be excused seeing me till evening. She is not very well, Dorcas tells me.

Read here, if thou wilt, the paper transcribed by Dorcas. It is impossible that I should proceed with my projects against this admirable woman, were it not that I am resolved, after a few trials more, as

nobly sustained as those she has already passed through, to make her (if she really hate me not) legally mine.

To Mr. LOVELACE.

'WHEN a woman is married, that supreme earthly obligation requires her, in all instances of natural justice, and where her husband's honour may be concerned, to yield her own will to his—But, beforehand, I could be glad, conformably to what I have always signified, to have the most ex|plicit assurances, that every possible way should be tried to avoid litigation with my father. Time and patience will subdue all things. My prospects of happiness are extremely contracted. A husband's right will be always the same. In my life-time I could wish nothing to be done of this sort. Your circumstances, Sir, will not oblige you to extort violently from him what is in his hands. All that depends upon me, either with regard to my person, to my diversions, or to the oeconomy that no married woman, of whatever rank or quality, should be above inspecting, shall be done, to prevent a neces|sity for such measures being taken. And, if there will be no necessity for them, it is to be hoped, that motives less excusable will not have force—Motives which must be founded in a littleness of mind, which a woman, who has not that littleness of mind, will be under such temptations as her duty will hardly be able at all times to check, to despise her husband for hav|ing; especially in cases where her own family, so much a part of herself, and which will have obligations upon her (tho' then but secondary ones) from which she never can be freed, are intimately concerned.'

'This article, then, I urge to your most serious consideration, as what lies next my heart. I enter not here minutely into the fatal misunderstanding between them and you: The fault may be in both. But, Sir, yours was the foundation-fault: At least,

you gave a too plausible pretence for my brother's antipathy to work upon. Condescension was no part of your study. You chose to bear the impu|tations laid to your charge, rather than to make it your endeavour to obviate them.'

'But this may lead into hateful recrimination—Let it be remembred, I will only say, in this place, that, in their eye, you have robbed them of a daugh|ter they doted upon; and that their resentments on this occasion rise but in proportion to their love, and their disappointment. If they were faulty in some of the measures they took, while they them|selves did not think so, who shall judge for them? You, Sir, who will judge every-body as you please, and will let no-body judge you, in your own parti|cular, must not be their judge.—It may therefore be expected, that they will stand out.'

'As for myself, Sir, I must leave it (so seems it to be destined) to your justice, to treat me as you shall think I deserve: But if your future behaviour to them is not governed by that harsh-sounding impla|cableness, which you charge upon some of their tempers, the splendor of your family, and the excel|lent character of some of them (of all indeed, except your own conscience furnishes you with one only ex|ception) will, on better consideration, do every thing with them: For they may be overcome; perhaps, however, with the more difficulty, as the greatly prosperous less bear controul and disappointment than others: For I will own to you, that I have often in secret lamented, that their great acquire|ments have been a snare to them; perhaps as great a snare, as some other accidentals have been to you; which being less immediately your own gifts, you have still less reason than they to value yourself up|on them.'

'Let me only, on this subject, further observe, that condescension is not meanness. There is a glory

in yielding, that hardly any violent spirit can judge of. My brother perhaps is no more sensible of this than you. But as you have talents he has not (who, however, has, as I hope, that regard for morals, the want of which makes one of his ob|jections to you), I could wish it may not be owing to you, that your mutual dislikes to each other do not subside; for it is my earnest hope, that in time you may see each other, without exciting the fears of a wife and a sister for the consequence. Not that I should wish you to yield in points that truly con|cerned your honour: No, Sir, I would be as deli|cate in such, as you yourself: More delicate, I will venture to say, because more uniformly so. How vain, how contemptible, is that pride, which shews itself in standing upon diminutive observances; and gives up, and makes a jest of, the most important!'

'This article being considered as I wish, all the rest will be easy. Were I to accept of the handsome separate provision you seem to intend me; added to the considerable sums arisen from my grandfather's estate since his death (more considerable, than per|haps you may suppose from your offer); I should think it my duty to lay up for the family good, and for unforeseen events out of it: For, as to my do|nations, I would generally confine myself, in them, to the tenth of my income, be it what it would. I aim at no glare in what I do of that sort: All I wish for, is the power of relieving the lame, the blind, the sick, and the industrious poor, whom accident has made so, or sudden distress reduced. The com|mon or bred beggars I leave to others, and to the public provision. They cannot be lower: Perhaps they wish not to be higher: And, not able to do for every one, I aim not at works of supererogation. Two hundred pounds a year would do all I wish to do of the separate sort: For all above, I would content myself to ask you; except, mistrusting your

own oeconomy, you would give up to my manage|ment and keeping, in order to provide for future contingencies, a larger portion; for which, as your steward, I would regularly account.'

'As to cloaths, I have particularly two suits, which, having been only, in a manner, try'd on, would answer for any present occasion. Jewels I have of my grandmother's, which want only new-setting: Another Set I have, which on particular days I used to wear. Altho' these are not sent me, I have no doubt, being merely personals, that they will, when I send for them in another name: Till when I should not choose to wear any.'

'As to your complaints of my diffidences, and the like, I appeal to your own heart, if it be possible for you to make my case your own for one mo|ment, and to retrospect some parts of your beha|viour, words, and actions, whether I am not rathe•• to be justified than censured—and whether, of al•• men in the world, avowing what you avow, you ought not to think so. If you do not, let me ad+monish you, Sir, that there must be too great mismatch, as I may call it, in our minds, ever to make you wish to bring about a more intimate union of interests between Yourself and

'CLARISSA HARLOWE.

May 20.

THE original of this charming paper, as Dorca•• tells me, was torn almost in two:—In one of her pet•• I suppose!—What business have the Sex, whose prin+cipal glory is meekness, and patience, and resignation to be in a passion, I trow?—Will not she, who allow herself such liberties as a maiden lady, take greate•• when a married one?

And a wife, to be in a passion!—Let me tell th•• ladies, it is a d—n'd impudent thing, begging the pardon, and as imprudent as impudent, for a wife •• be in a passion, if she mean not eternal separation, ••

wicked defiance, by it: For is it not rejecting at once all that expostulatory meekness, and gentle reasoning, mingled with sighs as gentle, and graced with bent knees, supplicating hands, and eyes lifted up to your imperial countenance, just running over, that should make a reconciliation speedy, and as lasting as speedy? Even suppose the husband is wrong, will not his being so, give the greater force to her expostulation?

Now I think of it, a man should be wrong now-and-then, to make his wife shine. Miss Howe tells my charmer, that adversity is her shining-time. 'Tis a generous thing in a man, to make his wife shine at his own expence: To give her leave to triumph over him by patient reasoning: For were he to be too im|perial to acknowlege his fault on the spot, she will find the benefit of her duty and submission in future, and in the high opinion he will conceive of her pru|dence and obligingness—And so, by degrees, she will be her master's master.

But for a wife to come up with a kemboed arm, the other hand thrown out, perhaps, with a pointing finger—Look ye here, Sir!—Take notice!—If you are wrong, I'll be wrong!—If you are in a passion, I'll be in a passion!—Rebuff, for rebuff, Sir!—If you ••ly, I'll tear!—If you swear, I'll curse!—And the same room, and the same-bed, shall not hold us, Sir!—For, remember, I am marry'd, Sir!—I'm a wife, Sir!—You can't help yourself, Sir!—Your honour, as well as your peace, is in my keeping!—And, ••f you like not this treatment, you may have worse, Sir!

Ah! Jack, Jack! What man, who has observed ••hese things, either imply'd, or express'd, in other fami|lies, would wish to be an husband!

Dorcas found this paper in one of the drawers of her ••ady's dressing-table: She was re-perusing it, as she ••upposes, when the honest wench carried my message ••o desire her to favour me at the tea-table; for she

saw her pop a paper into the drawer, as she came in; and there, on her mistress's going to meet me in the dining-room, she found it: And to be This.

But I had better not to have had a copy of it, as far as I know: For, determined as I was before upon my operations, it instantly turned all my resolutions in her favour. Yet I would give something to be convinced, that she did not pop it into her drawer before the wench, in order for me to see it; and perhaps (if I were to take notice of it) to discover whether Dorcas, according to Miss Howe's advice, were most my friend, or hers.

The very suspicion of this will do her no good: For I cannot bear to be artfully treated. People love to enjoy their own peculiar talents in monopoly, as I may say. I am aware, that it will strengthen thy argu|ments against me in her behalf. But I know every tittle thou canst say upon it: So spare thy wambling nonsense, I desire thee; and leave this sweet excel|lence and me to our fate: That will determine for us, as it shall please itself: For, as Cowley says,

An unseen hand makes all our moves: And some are great, and some are small; Some climb to good, some from good fortune fall: Some wise men, and some fools we call: Figures, alas! of speech!—For destiny plays us all.

But, after all, I am sorry, almost sorry (for how shall I do to be quite sorry, when it is not given to me to be so?), that I cannot, without making any fur|ther trials, resolve upon wedlock.

I have just read over again this intended answer to my proposals: And how I adore her for it!

But yet; another Yet!—She has not given it o•• sent it to me.—So it is not her answer. It is not writ|ten for me, tho' to me.

Nay, she has not intended to send it to me: Sh•• has even torn it, perhaps with indignation, as think+ing

it too good for me. By this action she absolutely retracts it. Why then does my foolish fondness seek to establish for her the same merit in my heart, as if she avowed it? Prythee, dear Belford, once more leave us to our fate; and do not thou interpose with thy nonsense, to weaken a spirit already too squeamish, and strengthen a conscience that has declared itself of her party.

Then again, remember thy recent discoveries, Love|lace!—Remember her indifference, attended with all the appearance of contempt and hatred. View her, even now, wrapt up in reserve and mystery; medi|tating plots, as far as thou knowest, against the sove|reignty thou hast, by right of conquest, obtained over her: Remember, in short, all thou hast threatened to remember against this insolent beauty, who is a rebel to the power she has listed under!

But yet, how dost thou propose to subdue thy sweet enemy?—Abhorr'd be force, be the necessity of force, if that can be avoided! There is no triumph in force! No conquest over the will!—No prevail|ing, by gentle degrees, over the gentle passions! Force is the devil!

My cursed character, as I have often said, was against me at setting out!—Yet is she not a woman? Cannot I find one but half-yielding moment, if she do not absolutely hate me?

But with what can I tempt her?—RICHES she was born to, and despises, knowing what they are. JEW|ELS and ornaments, to a mind so much a jewel, and so richly set, her worthy consciousness will not let her value. LOVE, if she be susceptible of Love, it seems to be so much under the direction of prudence, that one unguarded moment, I fear, cannot be reasonably hoped for: And so much VIGILANCE, so much Apprehen|siveness, that her fears are ever aforehand with her dan|gers. Then her LOVE OF VIRTUE seems to be prin|ciple, native, or, if not native, so deeply rooted, that

its fibres have struck into her heart, and, as she grew up, so blended and twisted themselves with the strings of life, that I doubt there is no separating of the one, without cutting the others asunder.

What then can be done to make such a matchless creature as this get over the first tests, in order to put her to the grand proof, whether once overcome, she will not be always overcome?

By my faith, Jack, as I sit gazing upon her, my whole soul in my eyes, contemplating her perfections, and thinking, when I have seen her easy and serene, what would be her thoughts, did she know my heart as well as I know it; when I behold her disturbed and jealous, how just her apprehensions, and that she can|not fear so much as there is room for her to fear; my heart often misgives me.

And must, think I, O creature so divinely excellent, and so beloved of my soul, those arms, those incir|cling arms, that would make a monarch happy, be used to repel brutal force; all their strength, unavail|ingly perhaps, exerted to repel it, and to defend a person so delicately framed? Can violence enter into the heart of a wretch, who might intitle himself to all thy willing, yet virtuous love, and make the bless|ings thou aspirest after, her duty to confer?—Begone, villain-purposes!—Sink ye all to the hell that could only inspire ye!—And I am ready to throw myself at her feet, confess my villainous designs, avow my re|pentance, and put it out of my power to act un|worthily by such a peerless excellence.

How then comes it, that all these compassionate, and, as some would call them, honest sensibilities go off?—Why, Miss Howe will tell thee: She says, I am the devil.—By my conscience, I think he has, at present, a great share in me.

There's ingenuity!—How I lay myself open to thee!—But seest thou not, that the more I say against myself, the less room there is for thee to take me to

task?—O Belford, Belford! I cannot, cannot (at least at present I cannot) marry.

Then her family, my bitter enemies!—To supple to them, or, if I do not, to make her as unhappy, as she can be from my attempts—

Then must she love Them too much, Me too little.

She now seems to despise me: Miss Howe declares, that she really does despise me. To be despised by a WIFE!—What a thought is that!—To be excelled by a WIFE too, in every part of praiseworthy know|lege!—To take lessons, to take instructions, from a WIFE!—More than despise me, she herself has taken time to consider whether she does not hate me:—I hate you, Lovelace, with my whole heart, said she to me but yesterday!—My soul is above thee, man!—Urge me not to tell thee, how sincerely I think my soul above thee!—How poor indeed was I then, even in my own heart!—So visible a superiority, to so proud a spirit as mine!—And here from Below, from BE|LOW indeed! I am so goaded on—

Yet 'tis poor too, to think myself a machine.—I am no machine.—Lovelace, thou art base to thyself, but to suppose thyself a machine.

But having gone thus far, I should be unhappy, if, after marriage, in the petulance of ill humour, I had it to reproach myself, that I did not try her to the utmost. And yet I don't know how it is, but this lady, the moment I come into her presence, half assi|milates me to her own virtue.—Once or twice (to say nothing of her triumph over me on Sunday night) I was prevailed upon to fluster myself, with an intention to make some advances, which, if obliged to recede, I might lay upon raised spirits: But the instant I beheld her, I was soberized into awe and reverence: And the majesty of her even visible purity first damped, and then extinguished, my double flame.

What a surprisingly powerful effect, so much and so

long in my power, she! so instigated by some of her own sex, and so stimulated by passion, I!—How can this be accounted for, in a Lovelace!

But what a heap of stuff have I written!—How have I been run away with!—By what?—Canst thou say, by what?—O thou lurking varletess CON|SCIENCE!—Is it Thou, that hast thus made me of party against myself?—How camest thou in?—In what disguise, thou egregious haunter of my more agreeable hours?—Stand thou, with fate, but neuter in this controversy; and, if I cannot do credit to human nature, and to the female sex, by bringing down such an angel as this to class with and adorn it (for adorn it she does in her very foibles), then I am all yours, and never will resist you more.

Here I arose. I shook myself. The window was open. Away the troublesome bosom-visiter, the in|truder, is flown.—I see it yet!—I see it yet!—And now it lessens to my aching eye!—And now the cleft air has closed after it, and it is out of sight!—And once more I am

ROBERT LOVELACE.

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

Tuesday, May 23.

WELL did I, and but just in time, conclude to have done with Mrs. Fretchville and the house: For here Mennell has declar'd, that he cannot in con|science and honour go any farther.—He would not for the world be accessory to the deceiving of such a Lady!—I was a fool to let either you or him see her; for ever since ye have both had scruples, which neither would have had, were a woman to have been in the question.

Well, I can't help it!

He has, however, tho' with some reluctance, con|sented to write me a letter, provided I will allow it to he the last step he shall take in this affair.

I presumed, I told him, that if I could make Mrs. Fretchville's woman supply his place, he would have no objection to that.

None, he says,—But is it not pity—

A pitiful fellow! Such a ridiculous kind of pity his, as those silly souls have, who would not kill an innocent chicken for the world; but when killed to their hands, are always the most greedy devourers of it.

Now this letter gives the servant the small-pox: And she has given it to her unhappy vapourish lady. Vapourish people are perpetual subjects for diseases to work upon. Name but the malady, and it is theirs in a moment. Ever fitted for inoculation.—The physical tribe's milch-cows.—A vapourish or sple••netic patient is a fiddle for the doctors; and they are eternally playing upon it. Sweet music does it make them. All their difficulty, except a case extraordinary happens (as poor Mrs. Fretchville's, who has rea|lized her apprehensions), is but to hold their counte|nance, while their patient is drawing up a bill of in|dictment against himself;—and when they have heard it, proceed to punish:—The right word for prescribe. Why should they not, when the criminal has con|fessed his guilt?—And punish they generally do with a vengeance.

Yet, silly toads too, now I think of it! For why, when they know they cannot do good, may they not as well endeavour to gratify, as to nauseate, the pa|tient's palate?

Were I a physician, I'd get all the trade to myself: For Malmsey, and Cyprus, and the generous pro|ducts of the Cape, a little disguised, should be my principal doses: As these would create new spirits,

how would the revived patient covet the physic, and adore the doctor!

Give all the paraders of the faculty whom thou knowest, this hint.—There could but one inconve|nience arise from it. The APOTHECARIES would find their medicines cost them something: But the demand for quantities would answer that: Since the honest NURSE would be the patient's taster; perpetually re|quiring repetitions of the last cordial julap.

Well, but to the letter—Yet what need of further explanation after the hints in my former? The widow cannot be removed; and that's enough: And Men|nell's work is over; and his conscience left to plague him for his own sins, and not another man's: And, very possibly, plague enough will it give him for those.

This letter is directed, To Robert Lovelace, Esq or, in his absence, To his Lady. She had refused dining with me, or seeing me; and I was out when it came. She open'd it: So is my lady by her own consent, proud and saucy as she is.

I am glad at my heart that it came before we intirely make up. She would else, perhaps, have concluded it to be contrived for a delay: And now, moreover, we can accommodate our old and new quarrels together; and that's contrivance, you know. But how is her dear haughty heart humbled to what it was when I knew her first, that she can apprehend any delays from me; and have nothing to do but to vex at them!

I came in to dinner. She sent me down the letter, desiring my excuse for opening it. Did it before she was aware. Lady-Pride, Belford!—Recollection, then Retrogradation!

I requested to see her upon it that moment. But she desires to suspend our interview till morning. I will bring her to own, before I have done with her, that she can't see me too often.

My impatience was so great, on an occasion so un|expected, that I could not help writing, to tell her,

'how much vex'd I was at the accident: But that it need not delay my happy day, as That did not depend upon the house [She knew That before, she'll think, and so did I]: And as Mrs. Fretchville, by Mr. Mennell, so handsomely expressed her con|cern upon it, and her wishes, that it could suit us to bear with the unavoidable delay, I hoped, that going down to The Lawn for two or three of the sum|mer-months, when I was made the happiest of men, would be favourable to all round.'

The dear creature takes this incident to heart, I be|lieve: And sends word to my repeated request to see her, notwithstanding her denial, that she cannot till the morning: It shall be then at six o'clock, if I please!

To be sure I do please!

Can see her but once a day now, Jack!

Did I tell thee, that I wrote a letter to my cousin Montague, wondering that I heard not from Lord M. as the subject was so very interesting? In it I acquainted her with the house I was about taking; and with Mrs. Fretchville's vapourish delays.

I was very loth to engage my own family, either man or woman, in this affair; but I must take my measures securely: And already they all think as bad of me as they well can. You observe by my Lord M.'s to yourself, that the well-manner'd Peer is afraid I should play this admirable creature one of my usual dog's tricks.

I have received just now an answer from Charlotte.

Charlotte i'n't well. A stomach-disorder.

No wonder a girl's stomach should plague her. A single lady; that's it. When she has a man to plague, it will have something besides itself to prey upon. Knowest thou not moreover, that man is the woman's

Sun; woman is the man's Earth?—How dreary, how desolate, the Earth, that is deprived of the all-salubri|ating Sun-shine!

Poor Charlotte! But I heard she was not well: That encouraged me to write to her; and to express myself a little concerned, that she had not of her own accord thought of a visit in town to my charmer.

Here follows a copy of her letter: Thou wilt see by it, that every little monkey is to catechise me. They all depend upon my good-nature.

M. Hall, May 22.

Dear Cousin,

WE have been in daily hope for a long time, I must call it, of hearing that the happy knot was ty'd. My Lord has been very much out of or|der: And yet nothing would serve him, but he would himself write an answer to your letter. It was the only opportunity he should ever have, per|haps, to throw in a little good advice to you, with the hope of its being of any signification; and he has been several hours in a day, as his gout would let him, busied in it: It wants now only his last revisal. He hopes it will have the greater weight with you, if it appear all in his own hand-writing.

Indeed, Mr. Lovelace, his worthy heart is wrapt up in you. I wish you loved yourself but half as well. But I believe too, that if all the family loved you less, you would love yourself more.

His Lordship has been very busy, at the times he could not write, in consulting Pritchard about those estates, which he proposes to transfer to you on the happy occasion, that he may answer your letter in the most acceptable manner; and shew, by effects, how kindly he takes your invitation. I assure you, he is mighty proud of it.

As for myself, I am not at all well, and have not been for some weeks past, with my old stomach-disorder. I had certainly else before now have done

myself the honour you wonder I have not done my|self. My aunt Lawrance, who would have accom|panied me (for we had laid it all out), has been ex|ceedingly busy in her law-affair; her antagonist, who is actually on the spot, having been making proposals for an accommodation. But you may assure yourself, that when our dear relation-elect shall be enter'd up|on the new habitation you tell me of, we will do our|selves the honour of visiting her; and if any delay arises from the dear lady's want of courage, which, considering her man, let me tell you, may very well be, we will endeavour to inspire her with it, and be sponsors for you;—for, cousin, I believe you have need to be christen'd over again before you are in|titled to so great a blessing. What think you?

Just now, my Lord tells me, he will dispatch a man on purpose with his letter to-morrow: So I need not have written. But now I have, let it go; and by Empson, who sets out directly on his return to town.

My best compliments, and sister's, to the most de|serving Lady in the world (You will need no other direction to the person meant), conclude me

Your affectionate Cousin and Servant, CHARL. MONTAGUE.

THOU seest how seasonably this letter comes. I hope my Lord will write nothing but what I may shew my beloved. I have actually sent her up this letter of Charlotte's; and hope for happy effects from it.

THE Lady, in her next letter, gives Miss Howe an account of what has passed between Mr. Lovelace and herself. She resents his behaviour with her usual dignity: But when she comes to mention Mr. Men+nell's letter, she re-urges Miss Howe to perfect her scheme for her deliverance; being resolved to leave

him. But, dating again, on his sending up to her Miss Montague's letter, she alters her mind, and de|sires her to suspend, for the present, her application to Mrs. Townsend.

'I had begun, says she, to suspect all he had said of Mrs. Fretchville and her house; and even Mr. Mennell himself, though so well appearing a man. But now that I find Mr. Lovelace had apprized his relations of his intention to take it; and had en|gaged some of the Ladies to visit me there; I could hardly forbear blaming myself for censuring him as capable of so vile an imposture. But may he not thank himself for acting so very unaccountably, and taking such needlesly-wry steps, as he has done; embarassing, as I told him, his own meanings, if they were good?'

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

Wednesd. May 24.

He gives his friend an account of their interview that morning; and of the happy effects of his cousin Montague's letter in his favour. Her re|serves, however, he tells him, are not absolutely banished. But this he imputes to form.

IT is not in the power of woman, says he, to be al|together sincere on these occasions. But why?—Do they think it so great a disgrace to be found out to be really what they are?

I regretted the illness of Mrs. Fretchville; as the in|tention I had to fix her dear self in the house before the happy knot was tied, would have set her in that independence in appearance, as well as fact, which was necessary to shew to all the world, that her choice was free; and as the ladies of my family would have been proud to make their court to her there; while

the settlements and our equipages were preparing. But on any other account, there was no great matter in it; since when my happy day was over, we could, with so much convenience, go down to the Lawn, or to my Lord M.'s, or to either of my aunts in town; which would give full time to provide ourselves with servants, and other accommodations.

How sweetly the charmer listen'd!

I asked her, If she had had the small-pox?

'Twas always a doubtful point with her mother and Mrs. Norton, she own'd. But altho' she was not afraid of it, she chose not unnecessarily to rush into places where it was.

Right, thought I—Else, I said, it would not have been amiss for her to see the house before she went into the country; for, if she liked it not, I was not obliged to have it.

She asked, If she might take a copy of Miss Mon|tague's letter?

I said, She might keep the letter itself, and send it to Miss Howe, if she pleased; for that, I supposed, was her intention. She bow'd her head to me. There, Jack!—I shall have her courtesy to me, by-and-by, I question not. What a-devil had I to do, to terrify the sweet creature by my termagant projects!—Yet it was not amiss, I believe, to make her afraid of me. She says, I am an unpolite man—And every polite instance from such a one, is deem'd a favour.

Talking of the settlements, I told her, that I had rather Pritchard (mentioned by my cousin Charlotte), had not been consulted on this occasion. Pritchard, indeed, was a very honest man; and had been for a generation in the family; and knew the estates, and the condition of them, better than either my Lord or myself: But Pritchard, like other old men, was diffi|dent and slow; and valued himself upon his skill as a draughts-man; and for the sake of that paltry repu|tation,

must have all his forms preserved, were an imperial crown to depend upon his dispatch.

I kissed her unrepulsing hand no less than five times during this conversation. Lord, Jack, how my ge|nerous heart run over!—She was quite obliging at parting.—She in a manner asked me leave to retire; to reperuse Charlotte's letter.—I think she bent her knees to me; but I won't be sure.—How happy might we have both been long ago, had the dear crea|ture been always as complaisant to me! For I do love respect, and, whether I deserved it or not, al|ways had it, till I knew this proud beauty.

And now, Belford, are we in a train, or the duce is in it. Every fortified town has its strong and its weak place. I had carried on my attacks against the impregnable parts. I have no doubt but I shall either shine or smuggle her out of her cloak, since she and Miss Howe have intended to employ a smuggler against me.—All we wait for now, is my Lord's letter.

But I had like to have forgot to tell thee, that we have been not a little alarm'd, by some inquiries that have been made after me and my beloved, by a man of good appearance; who yesterday procured a tradesman in the neighbouroood to send for Dorcas: Of whom he asked several questions relating to us; and particularly (as we boarded and lodged in one house), whether we were married?

This has given my beloved great uneasiness. And I could not help observing upon it, to her, how right a thing it was, that we had given out below that we were married. The inquiry, most probably, I said, was from her brother's quarter; and now, perhaps, that our marriage was owned, we should hear no more of his machinations. The person, it seems, was curious to know the day that the ceremony was performed. But Dorcas refused to give him any other particulars, than that we were married; and was the more reserved, as he declined to tell her the motives of his inquiry.

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

May 24.

THE devil take this uncle of mine! He has at last sent me a letter, which I cannot shew, without exposing the head of our family for a fool. A con|founded parcel of pop-guns has he let off upon me. I was in hopes he had exhausted his whole stock of this sort, in his letter to you.—To keep it back, to delay sending it, till he had recollected all this farrago of nonsense—Confound his Wisdom of nations, if so much of it is to be scraped together, in disgrace of it|self, to make one egregious simpleton!—But I am glad I am fortified with this piece of flagrant folly, however; since, in all human affairs, the convenient and inconvenient, the good and the bad, are so mingled, that there is no having the one without the other.

I have already offer'd the bill inclosed in it to my beloved; and read to her part of the letter. But she refused the bill: And I, being in cash, shall return it. She seemed very desirous to peruse the whole let|ter. And when I told her, that were it not for ex|posing the writer, I would oblige her, she said, It would not be exposing his Lordship to shew it to her; and that she always preferred the heart to the head. I knew her meaning—But did not thank her for it.

All that makes for me in it, I will transcribe for her—Yet, hang it, she shall have the letter, and my soul with it, for one consenting kiss.

SHE has got the letter from me, without the re|ward. Duce take me, if I had the courage to pro|pose the condition! A new character this of bashful|ness in thy friend.—I see, that a truly modest woman

may make even a confident man keep his distance. By my soul, Belford, I believe, that nine women in ten, who fall, fall either from their own vanity, or levity, or for want of circumspection, and proper re|serves.

I DID intend to take my reward on her returning a letter so favourable to us both. But she sent it to me, sealed up by Dorcas.—I might have thought that there were two or three hints in it, that she would be too nice immediately to appear to. I send it to thee; and here will stop, to give thee time to read it. Re|turn it as soon as thou hast perused it.

LETTER XXXII. Lord M. To ROBERT LOVELACE, Esq

Tuesday, May 23.

IT is a long lane that has no turning.—Do not despise me for my proverbs—You know I was always fond of them; and, if you had been so too, it would have been the better for you, let me tell you. I dare swear, the fine lady you are so likely to be soon happy with, will be far from despising them; for I am told, that she writes well, and that all her letters are full of sen|tences. God convert you! for nobody but He and this lady, can.

I have no manner of doubt now but that you will marry, as your father, and all your ancestors, did be|fore you: Else you would have had no title to be my heir; nor can your descendents have any title to be yours, unless they are legitimate; that's worth your remembrance, Sir!—No man is always a fool, every man sometimes.—But your follies, I hope, are now at an end.

I know, you have vowed revenge against this fine lady's family: But no more of that, now. You must

look upon them all as your relations; and forgive, and forget. And when they see you make a good husband, and a good father (which God send, for all our sakes!), they will wonder at their nonsensical antipathy, and beg your pardon: But while they think you a vile fellow, and a rake, how can they either love you, or excuse their daughter?

And methinks I could wish to give a word of comfort to the lady, who, doubtless, must be under great fears, how she shall be able to hold-in such a wild creature, as you have hitherto been. I would hint to her, that, by strong arguments, and gentle words, she may do any thing with you; for tho' you are too apt to be hot, gentle words will cool you, and bring you into the temper that is necessary for your cure.

Would to God, my poor lady, your aunt, who is dead and gone, had been a proper patient for the same remedy! God rest her soul! No reflections upon her memory! Worth is best known by want! I know hers now; and if I had went first, she would by this time have known mine.

There is great wisdom in that saying, God send me a friend, that may tell me of my faults: If not, an enemy; and he will. Not that I am your enemy; and that you know well. The more noble any one is, the more humble: So bear with me, if you would be thought noble.—Am I not your uncle? And do I not design to be better to you, than your father could be? Nay, I will be your father too, when the happy day comes; since you desire it: And pray make my compliments to my dear niece; and tell her, I wonder much that she has so long deferred your happiness.

Pray let her know, I will present HER (not you) either my Lancashire seat, or The Lawn in Hert|fordshire; and settle upon her a thousand pounds a year, peny-rents; to shew her, that we are not a family to take base advantages: And you may have

writings drawn, and settle as you will.—Honest Pritchard has the rent-roll of both these estates at his fingers end; and has been a good old servant. I re|commend him to your Lady's favour. I have already consulted him: He will tell you what is best for you, and most pleasing to me.

I am still very bad with my gout; but will come in a litter, as soon as the day is fixed: It would be the joy of my heart, to join your hands. And let me tell you, if you do not make the best of husbands to so good a young lady, and one who has had so much courage for your sake, I will renounce you; and settle all I can upon her and hers by you, and leave you out of the question.

If any thing be wanting for your further security, I am ready to give it (tho' you know, that my word has always been look'd upon as my bond): And when the Harlowes know all this, let us see whether they are able to blush, and take shame upon themselves.

Your two aunts want only to know the day, to make all the country round them blaze, and all their tenants mad. And, if any one of mine be sober upon the occasion, Pritchard shall eject him. And, on the birth of the first child, if a son, I will do something more for you, and repeat all our rejoicings.

I ought indeed to have written sooner. But I knew, that if you thought me long, and were in haste as to your nuptials, you would write and tell me so. But my gout was very troublesome: And I am but a slow writer, you know, at best: For Composing is a thing, that tho' formerly I was very ready at it (as my Lord Lexington used to say); yet having left it off a great while, I am not so now. And I chose, on this occasion, to write all out of my own head and me|mory; and to give you my best advice; for I may never have such an opportunity again. You have had (God mend you!) a strange way of turning your back upon all I have said; This once, I hope, you

will be more attentive to the advice I give you for your own good.

I had still another end; nay, two other ends.

The one was, That now you are upon the borders of wedlock, as I may say, and all your wild cats will ••e sown, I would give you some instructions as to your public as well as private behaviour in life; which, intending you so much good as I'do, you ought to hear; and perhaps would never have listen'd to, on any less extraordinary occasion.

The second is, That your dear lady-elect (who is, it seems, herself so fine and so sententious a writer) will see by this, that it is not our faults, nor for want of the best advice, that you was not a better man than you have hitherto been.

And now, in few words, for the conduct I would wish you to follow in public, as well as in private; if you would think me worthy of advising. It shall be short; so be not uneasy.

As to the private life: Love your Lady as she de|serves. Let your actions praise you. Be a good hus|band; and so give the lye to all your enemies; and make them asham'd of their scandals: And let us have pride in saying, that Miss Harlowe has not done either herself, or family, any discredit by coming among us. Do this; and I, and your aunts, will love you for ever.

As to your public conduct:—This is what I could wish: But I reckon your Lady's wisdom will put us both right—No disparagement, Sir; since, with all your wit, you have not hitherto shewn much wis|dom, you know.

Get into parliament as soon as you can: For you have talents to make a great figure there. Who so proper to assist in making new holding laws, as those whom no law in being could hold?

Then, for so long as you will give attendance, in St. Stephen's chapel—(Its being called a chapel, I hope,

will not disgust you: I am sure I have known many a riot there:—A Speaker has a hard time of it! But we Peers have more decorum.—But what was I going to say?—I must go back.

For so long as you will give your attendance in par|liament) for so long will you be out of mischief; out of private mischief, at least: And may St. Stephen's fate be yours, if you wilfully do public mischief!

When a new election comes, you will have two or three Boroughs, you know, to choose out of:—But if you stay till then, I had rather you were for the Shire.

You'll have interest enough, I am sure; and being so handsome a man, the women will make their hus|bands vote for you.

I shall long to read your speeches. I expect you will speak, if occasion offers, the very first day. You want no courage; and think highly enough of your|self, and lowly enough of every-body else, to speak on all occasions.

As to the methods of the house, you have spirit enough, I fear, to be too much above them: Take care of that.—I don't so much fear your want of good-manners. To men, you want no decency, if they don't provoke you: As to that, I wish you'd only learn to be as patient of contradiction from others, as you would have other people be to you.

Altho' I would not have you to be a Courtier; nei|ther would I have you be a Malecontent. I remember (for I have it down) what my old friend Archibald Hutcheson said, and it was a very good saying—(to Mr. Secretary Craggs, I think, it was)—

'I look up|on an administration, as intitled to every vote I can with good conscience give it; for a House of Com|mons should not needlesly put drags upon the wheels of Government: And, when I have not given it my vote, it was with regret: And, for my Country's sake, I wish'd with all my heart, the measure had been such as I could have approved.'

And another saying he had, which was this;

'Neither can an Opposition, neither can a Ministry, be always wrong. To be a plumb man therefore with either, is an infallible mark, that that man must mean more and worse than he will own he does mean.'

Are these Sayings bad, Sir? Are they to be de|spised?—Well then, why should I be despised for remembering them, and quoting them, as I love to do? Let me tell you, if you loved my company more than you do, you would not be the worse for it: I may say so without any vanity; since it is other mens wisdom, and not my own, that I am so fond of. But to add a word or two more, on this occa|sion; and I may never have such another; for you must read this thro'—Love honest men, and herd with them, in the house and out of the house; by whatever names they be dignified or distinguished: Keep good men company, and you shall be of the number. But did I, or did I not, write this before?—Writing, at so many different times, and such a quantity, one may forget.

You may come in for the title when I am dead and gone—God help me!—So I would have you keep an equilibrium. If once you get the name of being a fine speaker, you may have any thing: And, to be sure, you have naturally a great deal of elocution; a tongue that would delude an angel, as the women say: To their sorrow, some of them, poor creatures!—A leading man in the House of Commons, is a very import|ant character; because that house has the giving of money: And Money makes the mare to go; ay, and Queens and Kings too, sometimes, to go in a manner very different from what they might otherwise choose to go, let me tell you.

However, methinks, I would not have you take a place neither—It will double your value, and your

interest, if it be believed, that you will not: For, you will then stand in no man's way, you will ha•• no envy; but pure sterling respect; and both sides w•• court you.

For your part, you will not want a plac•• as some others do, to piece up their broken fortune If you can now live reputably upon two thousa•• pounds a year, it will be hard if you cannot hereaft•• upon seven or eight—Less you will not have, if yo•• oblige me; as now by marrying so fine a lady, ••e•• much you will—And all this, beside Lady Betty and Lady Sarah's favours!—What, in the name •• wonder, could possibly possess the proud Harlowes That Son, that Son of theirs!—But, for his dear sister'•• sake, I will say no more of him.

I never was offer'd a place myself: And the on•• one I would have taken, had I been offer'd it, wa•• Master of the Buckhounds; for I loved hunting whe•• I was young; and it carries a good sound with it for us who live in the country. Often have I though•• of that excellent old adage; He that eats the King'•• goose, shall be choaked with his feathers. I wish t•• the Lord, this was thoroughly consider'd by place hunters! It would be better for them, and for thei•• poor families.—I could say a great deal more, and a•• equally to the purpose. But really I am tired; and s•• I doubt are you. And besides, I would reserve some thing for conversation.

My cousins Montague, and my two sisters, join i•• compliments to my niece that is to be. If she woul•• choose to have the knot tied among us, pray tell her, that we shall see it securely done: And we will make all the country ring, and blaze, for a week to|gether. But so, I believe, I said before.

If any thing farther may be needful toward pro|moting your reciprocal felicity, let me know it; and how you order about the day; and all that. The in+closed bill is very much at your service: 'Tis payable

••t sight, as whatever else you may have occasion ••or, shall be.

So God bless you both; and make things as conve|nient to my gout as you can; tho' be it whenever it will, I will hobble to you; for I long to see you; and my niece full as much as you; and am, in expec|••tion of that happy time,

Your most affectionate Uncle, M.

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

Thursday, May 25.

THOU seest, Belford, how we now drive before the wind.—The dear creature now comes almost at the first word, whenever I desire the honour of her company. I told her last night, that, apprehending delay from Pritchard's slowness, I was determined to ••eave it to my Lord to make his compliments in his ••wn way; and had actually that afternoon put my writings into the hands of a very eminent lawyer, Counsellor Williams, with directions for him to draw ••p settlements from my own estate, and conformable ••o those of my own mother; which I put into his hands at the same time. It had been, I said, no small part of my concern, that her frequent displeasure, and our mutual misapprehensions, had hindered me from advising with her before, on this subject. Indeed, ••ndeed, my dearest life, said I, you have hitherto af|forded me but a very thorny courtship.

She was silent. Kindly silent. For well know I, that she could have recriminated upon me with a ven|geance.—But I was willing to see, if she were not ••oth to disoblige me now.—I comforted myself, I ••aid, with the hopes, that all my difficulties were over; and that every past disobligation would now be ••uried in oblivion.

Now, Belford, I have actually deposited these writings with Counsellor Williams; and I expect the draughts in a week at furthest. So shall be doubly armed. For if I attempt, and fail, these will be ready to throw in, to make her have patience with me till I can try again.

I have more contrivances still in embryo. I could tell thee of an hundred, and still hold another hun|dred in petto, to pop in, as I go along, to excite thy surprize, and to keep up thy attention. Nor rave thou at me; but, if thou art my friend, think of Miss Howe's letters, and of her smuggling scheme. All owing to my fair captive's informations and incite|ments.—Am I not a villain, a fool, a Beelzebub, with them already?—Yet no harm done by me, nor so much as attempted?

Every thing of this nature, the dear creature an|swered (with a downcast eye, and a blushing cheek), she left to me.

I proposed my Lord's chapel for the celebration, where we might have the presence of Lady Betty, Lady Sarah, and my two cousins Montague.

She seemed not to favour a public celebration; and waved this subject for the present. I did suppose, that she would not choose to be married in public, any more than me: So I pressed not this matter further just then.

But patterns I actually produced; and a jeweller was to bring as this day several sets of jewels, for her choice. But the patterns she would not open. She sighed at the mention of them; The second patterns, she said, that had been offered to her (a) 25.1: And very peremptorily forbid the jeweller's coming; as well as declined my offer of getting my own mother's to be new-set; at least for the present.

I do assure thee, Belford, I was in earnest in all this. My whole estate is nothing to me, put in com|petition with her hoped-for favour.

She then told me, that she had written her opinion of my general proposals; and there had expressed her mind, as to cloaths and jewels:—But on my beha|viour to her, for no cause that she knew of, on Sun|day night, she had torn the paper in two. I earnestly pressed her to let me be favoured with a sight of this paper, torn as it was. And after some hesitation, she withdrew, and sent it to me by Dorcas.

I perused it again. It was in a manner new to me, tho' I had read it so lately; and by my soul I could hardly stand it. An hundred admirable creatures I called her to myself.—But I charge thee, write not a word to me in her favour, if thou meanest her well; for if I spare her, it must be all ex mero motu.

You may easily suppose, when I was re-admitted to her presence, that I ran over in her praises, and in vows of gratitude, and everlasting love. But here's the devil; she still receives all I say with reserve; or if it be not with reserve, she receives it so much as her due, that she is not at all raised by it. Some women are undone by praise, by flattery. I myself am proud of praise.—Perhaps thou wilt say, that those are most proud of it, who least deserve it—As those are of riches and grandeur, who are not born to either. I own, that it requires a soul to be superior to these foibles. Have I not then a soul?—Surely, I have.—Let me then be consider'd as an exception to the rule.

Now have I a foundation to go upon in my terms. My Lord, in the exuberance of his generosity, men|tions a thousand pounds a year peny-rents. This I know, that were I to marry this Lady, he would ra|ther settle upon her all he has a mind to settle, than upon me: And has even threatened, that if I prove not a good husband to her, he will leave all he can at his death, from me, to her.—Yet considers not, that a woman so perfect, can never be displeased with her husband but to his disgrace; for who will blame her?

Another reason, why a Lovelace should not wish to marry a CLARISSA.

But what a pretty fellow of an uncle mine, to think of making a wife independent of her emperor, and a rebel of course—Yet smarted himself for an error of this kind!

My beloved, in her torn paper, mentions but two hundred pounds a year, for her separate use. I in|sisted upon her naming a larger sum. She said, it might then be three; and I, for fear she should su|spect very large offers, named five, and the intire dis|posal of all arrears in her father's hands, for the be|nefit of Mrs. Norton, or whom she pleased.

She said, that the good woman would be uneasy, if any thing more than a competency were done for her. She was for suiting all her dispositions of this kind, she said, to the usual way of life of the person. To go beyond it, was but to put the benefited upon projects, or to make them aukward in a new state, when they might shine in that they were accustomed to. And to put it into so good a mother's power to give her son a beginning in his business, at a proper time; yet to leave her something for herself, to set her above want, or the necessity of taking back from her child what she had been enabled to bestow upon him, would be the height of such a worthy parent's ambition.

Here is prudence! Here is judgment in so young a creature! How do I hate the Harlowes for producing such an angel!—O why, why, did she refuse my sin|cere address to tie the knot before we came to this house!

But yet, what mortifies my pride, is, that this ex|alted creature, if I were to marry her, would not be governed in her behaviour to me by love, but by ge|nerosity merely, or by blind duty; and had rather live single, than be mine.

I cannot bear this. I would have the woman whom I honour with my name, if ever I confer this honour

upon any, forego even her superior duties for me. I would have her look after me when I go out, as far as she can see me, as my Rosebud after her Johnny; and meet me at my return with rapture. I would be the subject of her dreams, as well as of her waking thoughts. I would have her look upon every moment lost, that is not passed with me: Sing to me, read to me, play to me when I pleased; no joy so great as in obeying me. When I should be inclined to love, overwhelm me with it; when to be serious or solitary, if intrusive, awfully so; retiring at a nod; approach|ing me only if I smiled encouragement: Steal into my presence with silence; out of it, if not noticed, on tiptoe. Be a Lady Easy to all my pleasures, and valuing those most, who most contributed to them; only sighing in private, that it was not herself at the time.—Thus of old did the contending wives of the honest patriarchs; each recommending her handmaid to her lord, as she thought it would oblige him, and looking upon the genial product as her own.

The gentle Waller says, Women are born to be controul'd. Gentle as he was, he knew that. A ty|rant-husband makes a dutiful wife. And why do the Sex love rakes, but because they know how to direct their uncertain wills, and manage them?

ANOTHER agreeable conversation. The day of days the subject. As to fixing a particular one, that need not be done till the settlements are completed. As to marrying at my Lord's chapel, the ladies of my family present, that would be making a public affair of it; and my charmer observed with regret, that it seemed to be my Lord's intention to make it so.

It could not be imagined, I said, but that his Lord|ship's setting out in a litter, and coming to town, as well as his taste for glare, and the joy he would take to see me married at last, would give it as much the

air of a public marriage, as if the ceremony were per|formed at his own chapel, all the ladies present.

She could not bear the thoughts of a public day. It would carry with it an air of insult upon her whole family. And, for her part, if my Lord would not take it amiss (and perhaps he would not, as the mo|tion came not from himself, but from me), she would very willingly dispense with his Lordship's presence; the rather, as dress and appearance would then be un|necessary. For she could not bear to think of decking her person, while her parents were in tears.

How excellent this, did not her parents richly de|serve to be in tears!

See, Belford, with so charming a niceness, we might have been a long time ago upon the ve••ge of the state, and yet found a great deal to do, before we enter'd into it.

All obedience, all resignation—No will but hers. I withdrew, and wrote directly to my Lord; and she not disapproving of it, sent it away. The purport as follows; for I took no copy.

'That I was much obliged to his Lordship for his intended goodness to me, on an occasion that was the most solemn and awful of my life. That the ad|mirable Lady, whom he so justly praised, thought his Lordship's proposals in her favour too high. That she chose not to make a public appearance, if, without disobliging my friends, she could avoid it, till a reconciliation with her own could be effected. That altho' she expressed a grateful sense of his Lordship's consent to give her to me with his own hand; yet presuming, that the motive to his kind intention, was rather to do her honour, than that it otherwise would have been his own choice (espe|cially as travelling would be at this time so incon|venient to him), she thought it adviseable to save his Lordship trouble on this occasion; and hoped he would take, as meant, her declining the favour.'

'The Lawn, I tell him, will be most acceptable to retire to; and still the more, as it is so to his Lordship.'

'But, if he pleases, the jointure may be made from my own estate; leaving to his Lordship's goodness the alternative.'

'That I had offer'd to present to the Lady his Lordship's bill; but on her declining to accept of it (having myself no present occasion for it), I re|turned it inclosed, with my thanks, &c.'

And is not this going a plaguy length? What a figure should I make in rakish annals, if at last I should be caught in my own gin?

The Sex may say what they will, but a poor inno|cent fellow had need to take great care of himself, when he dances upon the edge of the matrimonial pre|cipice. Many a faint-hearted man, when he began in jest, or only designed to ape gallantry, has been forced into earnest, by being over-prompt, and taken at his word, not knowing how to own that he meant less, than the Lady supposed he meant. I am the better enabled to judge that this must have been the case of many a sneaking varlet; because I, who know the female world as well as any man in it of my standing, am so frequently in doubt of myself, and know not what to make of the matter.

Then these little sly rogues, how they lie couchant, ready to spring upon us harmless fellows, the moment we are in their reach!—When the ice is once broken for them, how swiftly can they make to port!—Mean|time, the subject they can least speak to, they most think of. Nor can you talk of the ceremony before they have laid out in their minds how it is all to be.—Little saucy-face designers! how first they draw them|selves in, then us!

But be all these things as they will, Lord M. never in his life received so handsome a letter as this from his nephew.

THE Lady, after having given to Miss Howe the particulars which are contained in Mr. Lovelace's last letter, thus expresses herself.

'A principal consolation arising from these favour|able appearances, is, that I, who have now but one only friend, shall most probably, and if it be not my own fault, have as many new ones, as there are persons in Mr. Lovelace's family; and this whether Mr. Lovelace treat me kindly, or not. And who knows, but that by degrees, those new friends, by their rank and merit, may have weight enough to get me restored to the favour of my relations? Till which can be effected, I shall not be tolerably easy. Happy I never expect to be. Mr. Lovelace's mind sand mine are vastly different; different in essentials.

'But as matters are at present circumstanced, I pray you, my dear friend, to keep to yourself every thing that, revealed, might bring discredit to him—Better any-body expose a husband than a wife, if I am to be so; and what is said by you will be thought to come from me.

'It shall be my constant prayer, that all the felici|ties which this world can afford, may be yours. And that the Almighty will never suffer you nor yours to the remotest posterity, to want such a friend, as my Anna Howe has been to

Her CLARISSA HARLOWE.

MR. Lovelace, to shew the wantonness of his in|vention, in his next, gives his friend an account of a scheme he had framed to be revenged on Miss Howe, when she set out for the isle of Wight; which he heard she was to do, accompanied by her mother and Mr. Hickman, in order to visit a rich aunt there, who desired to see her, and her future consort, before she changed her name. But as he does not intend to carry it into execution, it is omitted.

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

IF, Belford, thou likest not my plot upon Miss Howe, I have three or four more as good in my own opinion; better, perhaps, they will be in thine: And so 'tis but getting loose from thy present engage|ment, and thou shalt pick and choose. But as for thy three brethren, they must do as I'd have them: And so, indeed, must thou:—Else why am I your general?—But I will refer this subject to its proper sea|son. Thou knowest, that I never absolutely conclude upon a project, till 'tis time for execution: And then lightning strikes not quicker than I.

And now to the subject next my heart.

Wilt thou believe me, when I tell thee, that I have so many contrivances rising up and crouding upon me for preference, with regard to my Gloriana, that I hardly know which to choose?—I could tell thee of no less than six princely ones, any of which must do. But as the dear creature has not grudged giving me trouble, I think I ought not, in gratitude, to spare combustibles for her; but, on the contrary, to make her stare and stand aghast, by springing three or four mines at once.

Thou remembrest what Shakespeare, in his Troilus and Cressida, makes Hector, who, however, is not used to boast, say to Achilles, in an interview between them; and which, applied to this watchful Lady, and to the vexation she has given me, and to the certainty I now think I have of subduing her; will run thus:—Supposing the charmer before me; and I meditating her sweet person from head to foot:

Henceforth, O watchful fair one, guard thee well: For I'll not kill thee There! nor There! nor There! But, by the zone that circles Venus' waist,

I'll kill thee Ev'ry-where; yea, o'er and o'er, Thou, wisest Belford, pardon me this brag: Her watchfulness draws folly from my lips; But I'll endeavour deeds to match the words, Or may I never—

Then, I imagine thee interposing to qualify my impa|tience, as Ajax did to Achilles:

—Do not chafe thee, cousin: —And let these threats alone, Till accident or purpose bring thee to it.

And now, Jack, what dost think?

That thou art a cursed fellow, if—

If! No If's—But I shall be very sick to-morrow. I shall, 'faith.

Sick!—Why sick?—What a devil shouldst thou be sick for?

For more good reasons than one, Belford.

I should be glad to hear but one.—Sick, quotha! Of all thy roguish inventions, I should not have thought of this.

Perhaps thou thinkest my view to be, to draw the lady to my bedside: That's a trick of three or four thousand years old; and I should find it much more to my purpose, if I could get to her's. However, I'll condescend to make thee as wise as myself.

I am excessively disturb'd about this smuggling scheme of Miss Howe. I have no doubt, that my fair one will fly from me, if she can, were I to make an attempt, and miscarry. I once believed she loved me: But now I doubt whether she does or not: At least, that it is with such an ardor, as Miss Howe calls it, as will make her overlook a premeditated fault, should I be guilty of one.

And what will being sick do for thee?

Have patience. I don't intend to be so very bad as Dorcas shall represent me to be. But yet I know

I shall reach confoundedly, and bring up some clot|ted blood. To be sure, I shall break a vessel: There's no doubt of that; and a bottle of Eaton's styptic shall be sent for; but no doctor. If she has humanity, she will be concerned. But if she has love, let it have been push'd ever so far back, it will, on this occa|sion, come forward, and shew itself; not only in her eye, but in every line of her sweet face.

I will be very intrepid. I will not fear death, or any thing else. I will be sure of being well in an hour or two, having formerly found great benefit by this balsamic medicine, on occasion of an inward bruise by a fall from my horse in hunting, of which, perhaps, this malady may be the remains. And this will shew her, that tho' those about me may make the most of it, I don't; and so can have no design in it.

Well, methinks thou sayest, I begin to think to|lerably of this device.

I knew thou wouldst, when I explained myself. Another time prepare to wonder; and banish doubt.

Now, Belford, if she be not much concerned at the broken vessel, which, in one so fiery in his temper as I have the reputation to be thought, may be very dangerous; a malady that I shall calmly attribute to the harasses and doubts, that I have laboured under for some time past; which will be a further proof of my love, and will demand a grateful return—

What then, thou egregious contriver?

Why then I shall have the less remorse, if I am to use a little violence: For can she deserve compassion, who shews none?

And what if she shew a great deal of concern?

Then shall I be in hope of building on a good foun|dation. Love hides a multitude of faults, and dimi|nishes those it cannot hide. Love, when found out, or acknowleged, authorizes freedom; and freedom

begets freedom; and I shall then see how far I can go.

Well but, Lovelace, how the duce wilt thou, with that full health and vigour of constitution, and with that bloom in thy face, make any-body believe thou art sick?

How!—Why take a few grains of Ipecacuanha; enough to make me reach like a fury.

Good!—But how wilt thou manage to bring up blood, and not hurt thyself?

Foolish fellow! Are there not pigeons and chick|ens in every poulterer's shop?

Cry thy mercy.

But then I will be persuaded by Mrs. Sinclair, that I have of late confined myself too much; and so will have a chair called, and be carried to the Park; where I will try to walk half the length of the Mall, or so; and in my return, amuse myself at White's or the Cocoa.

And what will this do?

Questioning again?—I am afraid thou'rt an infidel, Belford.—Why then shall I not know if my beloved offers to go out in my absence?—And shall I not se•• whether she receives me with tenderness at my return? But this is not all: I have a foreboding that something affecting will happen while I am out. But of this more in its place.

And now, Belford, wilt thou, or wilt thou not, allow, that it is a right thing to be sick?—Lord, Jack, so much delight do I take in my contrivances, that I shall be half-sorry, when the occasion for them is over; for never, never shall I again have such charming exercise for my invention.

Mean time these plaguy women are so impertinent, so full of reproaches, that I know not how to do any thing but curse them. And then, truly, they are for helping me out with some of their trite and vulgar artifices.—Sally particularly; who pretends to be a mighty contriver, has just now, in an insolent manner,

told me, on my rejecting her proffer'd aids, that I had no mind to conquer; and that I was so wicked as to intend to marry, tho' I would not own it to her.

Because this little devil made her first sacrifice at my altar, she thinks she may take any liberty with me: And what makes her outrageous at times, is, that I have, for a long time, studiously, as she says, slighted her too readily offer'd favours: But is it not very impudent in her to think, that I will be any man's successor? It is not come to that neither. This, thou knowest, was always my rule—Once any other man's, and I know it, and never more mine. It is for such as thou, and thy brethren, to take up with harlots. I have been always aiming at the merit of a first discoverer.

The more devil I, perhaps thou'lt say, to endea|vour to corrupt the uncorrupted.

But I say, Not; since, hence, I have but very few adulteries to answer for.

One affair, indeed, at Paris, with a married lady [I believe I never told thee of it] touched my con|science a little: Yet brought on by the spirit of in|trigue, more than by sheer wickedness. I'll give it thee in brief:

'A French marquis, somewhat in years, employ'd by his court in a public function at that of Madrid, had put his charming, young, new-married wife un|der the controul and wardship, as I may say, of his insolent sister, an old prude.

'I saw the lady at the opera. I liked her at first sight, and better at second, when I knew the situa|tion she was in. So, pretending to make my ad|dresses to the prude, got admittance to both.

'The first thing I had to do, was, to compliment my prude into shyness, by complaints of shyness: Next to take advantage of the marquise's situation, between her husband's jealousy, and his sister's ar|rogance, to inspire her with resentment; and, as I

hoped, with a regard to my person. The Frenc•• ladies have no dislike to intrigue.

'The sister began to suspect me: The lady had no mind to part with the company of the only man who had been permitted to visit there; and told me of her sister's suspicions.—I put her upon concealing the prude, as if unknown to me, in a closet in one of her own apartments, locking her in, and putting the key in her own pocket; And she was to question me on the sincerity of my professions to her sister, in her sister's hearing.

'She comply'd. My mistress was locked up. The lady and I took our seats. I owned fervent love, and made high professions: For the marquise put it home to me. The prude was delighted with what she heard.

'And how dost think it ended?—I took my ad|vantage of the lady herself, who durst not for her life cry out: Drew her after me to the next apart|ment, on pretence of going to seek her sister, who all the time was locked up in the closet.

'No woman ever gave me a private meeting for nothing; my dearest Miss Harlowe excepted.

'My ingenuity obtained my pardon: The lady being unable to forbear laughing thro' the whole affair, to find both so uncommonly tricked; her gaoleress her prisoner, safe locked up, and as much pleased as either of us.

'The English, Jack, do not often outwit the French.

'We had contrivances afterwards equally ingeni|ous, in which the lady, the ice once broken [once subdued, always subdued], co-operated—But a more tender tell-tale revealed the secret—Revealed it, be|fore the marquis could come to cover the disgrace. The sister was inveterate; the husband irreconcile|able; in every respect unfit for a husband, even for a French one—made, perhaps, more delicate to

these particulars by the customs of a people among whom he was then resident▪ so contrary to those of his own countrymen. She was obliged to throw herself into my protection—Nor thought herself un|happy in it, till childbed pangs seized her: Then peni|tence, and death, overtook her in the same hour!'

Excuse a tear, Belford!—She deserv'd a better fate! What has such a vile inexorable husband to answer for!—The sister was punished effectually! That pleases me on reflection! The sister was punish'd ef|fectually!—But perhaps I have told thee this story before.

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

Friday Evening.

JUST returned from an airing with my charmer▪ comply'd with after great importunity. She wa•• attended by the two nymphs. They both topp'd their parts; kept their eyes within bounds; made moral reflections now-and-then. O Jack! what devils are women, when all tests are got over, and we have completely ruin'd them!

The coach carried us to Hamstead, to Highgate, to Muzzle-hill; back to Hamstead to the Upper-Flask▪ There, in compliment to the nymphs, my beloved consented to alight, and take a little refection. Then home early by Kentish Town.

Delightfully easy she: And so respectful and ob|liging I, all the way, and as we walk'd out upon the Heath, to view the variegated prospects, which that agreeable elevation affords, that she promised to take now-and-then a little excursion with me. I think, Miss Howe—I think, said I to myself, every now-and-then as we walked, that thy wicked devices are super|seded,

We have both been writing ever since we cam•• home. I am to be favoured with her company •• an hour, before she retires to rest.

All that obsequious love can suggest, in order to en|gage her tenderest sentiments for me against to-mor|row's sickness, will I aim at when we meet. But at parting will complain of a disorder in my stomach.

WE have met. All was love and unexceptionable respect on my part. Ease and complaisance on hers. She was concerned for my disorder. So sudden!—Just as we parted. But it was nothing. I should be quite well by morning.

Faith, Jack, I think I am sick already!—Is it pos|sible for such a giddy fellow as me to persuade myself to be ill? I am a better mimic at this rate than I wish to be. But every nerve and fibre of me is always ready to contribute its aid, whether by health or by ailment, to carry a resolved on roguery into execu|tion.

Dorcas has transcribed for me the whole letter of Miss How, dated Sunday May 14. (a) 26.1, of which before I had only extracts. But she found no other letter added to that parcel. But this, and that which I copy'd myself in character last Sunday while she was at church, relating to the smuggling scheme (b) 26.2, are enough for me.

DORCAS tells me, that her lady has been removing her papers from the mahogany-chest into a wainscot|••ox, which held her linen, and which she put into her dark closet. We have no key of that at present. No doubt but all her letters, previous to those I have c••me at, are in that box. Dorcas is uneasy upon it: Yet hopes that her lady does not suspect her; for she is sure that she laid in every thing as she found it.

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

Cocoa-tree, Saturday, May 27.

THIS Ipecacuanha is a most disagreeable medicine▪ That these cursed physical folks can find out no|thing to do us good, but what would poison the devil▪ In the other world, were they only to take physic, it would be punishment enough of itself for a mis-spent life. A doctor at one elbow, and an apothecary at the other, and the poor soul labouring under their prescribed operations, he need no worse tormentors.

But now this was to take down my countenance. It has done it: For, with violent reachings, having taken enough to make me sick, and not enough water to carry it off, I presently looked as if I had kept my bed a fortnight. Ill-jesting, as I thought in the midst of the exercise, with edge-tools, and worse with phy|sical ones.

Two hours it held me. I had forbid Dorcas to let my beloved know any thing of the matter; out of tenderness to her; being willing, when she knew my prohibition, to let her see that I expected her to be con|cerned for me:—What a worthless fellow must he be, whose own heart gives him up, as deserving of no one's regard!

Well, but Dorcas nevertheless is a woman, and she can whisper to her lady the secret she is injoin'd to keep!

Come hither, you toad (sick as a devil at the in|stant); Let me see what a mixture of grief and sur|prize may be beat up together in thy pudden-face.

That won't do. That dropt jaw, and mouth d••s|tended into the long oval, is more upon the Horrible, than the Grievous.

Nor that pinking and winking with thy odious eyes, as my charmer once called them.

A little better That; yet not quite right: But keep your mouth closer. You have a muscle or two which you have no command of, between your cheek-bone and your lips, that should carry one cor|ner of your mouth up towards your crows-foot, and that down to meet it.

There! Begone! Be in a plaguy hurry running up stairs and down, to fetch from the dining-room what you carry up on purpose to fetch, till motion extraor|dinary put you out of breath, and give you the sigh-natural.

What's the matter, Dorcas?

Nothing, Madam.

My beloved wonders she has not seen me this morn|ing, no doubt; but is too shy to say she wonders. Repeated What's the matter's, however, as Dorcas runs up and down stairs by her door, bring on, Oh! Madam,! my master!—my master!

What! How! When!—And all the monosyllables of surprize.

[Within parenthesis let me tell thee, that I have often thought, that the little words in the republic of letters, like the little folks in a nation, are the most significant. The trisyllables, and the rumblers of syl|lables more than three, are but the good for little mag|nates.]

I must not tell you, Madam—My master ordered me not to tell you—But he is in a worse way than he thinks for!—But he would not have you frighted.

High concern took possession of every sweet feature. She pity'd me!—By my soul, she pity'd me!

Where is he?

Too much in a hurry for good manners [Another parenthesis, Jack! Good manners are so little natu|ral, that we ought to be compos'd to observe them: Politeness will not live in a storm], I cannot stay to answer questions, cries the wench—tho' desirous to answer [A third parenthesis—Like the people crying

proclamations, running away from the customers they want to sell to]. This hurry puts the lady in a hurry to ask [A fourth, by way of embellishing the third!] as the other does the people in a hurry to buy. And I have in my eye now a whole street raised, and running after a proclamation or express crier, as if the first was a thief, the other his pursuers.

At last, O Lord! let Mrs. Lovelace know!—There is danger, to be sure! whisper'd from one nymph to another, in her hearing; but at the door, and so loud, that my listening fair one might hear.

Out she darts.—As how! as how, Dorcas!

O Madam—A vomiting of blood! A vessel broke, to be sure!

Down she hastens; finds every one as busy over my blood in the entry, as if it were that of the Neapolitan saint.

In steps my charmer! with a face of sweet concern.

How do you, Mr. Lovelace?

O my best love!—Very well!—Very well!—No|thing at all! Nothing of consequence!—I shall be well in an instant!—straining again; for I was indeed plaguy sick, tho' no more blood came.

In short, Belford, I have gain'd my end. I see the dear soul loves me. I see she forgives me all that's past. I see I have credit for a new score.

Miss Howe, I defy thee, my dear—Mrs. Towns|end!—Who the devil are you?—Troop away with your contrabands. No smuggling! Nor smuggler, but myself! Nor will the choicest of my fair one's favours be long prohibited goods to me!

EVERY one now is sure, that she loves me. Tears were in her eyes more than once for me. She suf|fer'd me to take her hand, and kiss it as often as I pleased. On Mrs. Sinclair's mentioning, that I too much confin'd myself, she pressed me to take an air|ing; but obligingly desired me to be careful of myself.

Wish'd I would advise with a physician. God made physicians, she said.

I did not think That, Jack. God indeed made us All. But I fansy she meant physic instead of physicians; and then the phrase might mean what the vulgar phrase means;—God sends meat, the devil cooks.

I was well already, on taking the styptic from her dear hands.

On her requiring me to take the air, I asked, If I might have the honour of her company in a coach; and This, that I might observe if she had an intention of going out in my absence.

If she thought a chair were not a more proper ve|hicle for my case, she would with all her heart!

There's a precious!

I kiss'd her hand again! She was all goodness!—Would to Heaven I better deserv'd it, I said!—But all were golden days before us!—Her presence and generous concern had done every thing. I was well! Nothing ailed me. But since my beloved will have it so, I'll take a little airing!—Let a chair be called!—O my charmer!—were I to have owed this indispo|sition to my late harasses, and to the uneasiness I have had for disobliging you; all is infinitely compensated by your goodness!—All the art of healing is in your smiles!—Your late displeasure was the only malady!

While Mrs. Sinclair, and Dorcas, and Polly, and even poor silly Mabell (for Sally went out, as my angel came in), with uplifted hands and eyes, stood thanking Heaven that I was better, in audible whis|pers: See the power of love, cry'd one!—What a charming husband, another!—Happy couple, all!

O how the dear creature's cheek mantled!—How her eyes sparkled!—How sweetly acceptable is praise to conscious merit, while it but reproaches when ap|ply'd to the undeserving!—What a new, what a gay creation it makes at once in a diffident or dispirited heart!—

And now, Belford, was it not worth while to be sick? And yet I must tell thee, that too many plea|santer expedients offer themselves, to make trial any more of this confounded Ipecacuanha.

LETTER XXXVII. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Saturday, May 27.

MR. Lovelace, my dear, has been very ill. Sud|denly taken. With a vomiting of blood in great quantities. Some vessel broken. He complained of a disorder in his stomach over-night. I was the more affected with it, as I am afraid it was occasioned by the violent contentions between us.—But was I in fault?

How lately did I think I hated him!—But hatred and anger, I see, are but temporary passions with me. One cannot, my dear, hate people in danger of death, or who are in distress or affliction. My heart, I find, is not proof against kindness, and acknowlegement of errors committed.

He took great care to have his illness concealed from me as long as it could. So tender in the vio|lence of his disorder!—So desirous to make the best of it!—I wish he had not been ill in my sight. I was too much affected—Every-body alarming me with his danger—The poor man, from such high health so suddenly taken!—And so unprepared!—

He is gone out in a chair. I advised him to do so. I fear that my advice was wrong; since Quiet in such a disorder must needs be best. We are apt to be so ready, in cases of emergency, to give our advice, without judgment, or waiting for it!—I proposed a physician indeed; but he would not hear of one. I have great honour for the faculty; and the greater, as I have always observed, that those who treat the

professors of the art of healing contemptuously, too generally treat higher institutions in the same manner.

I am really very uneasy. For I have, I doubt, exposed myself to him, and to the women below. They indeed will excuse me, as they think us mar|ried. But if he be not generous, I shall have cause to regret this surprize; which has taught me more than I knew of myself; as I had reason to think my|self unaccountably treated by him.

Nevertheless let me tell you (what I hope I may justly tell you, that if again he give me cause to re|sume distance and reserve, I hope my reason will ga|ther strength enough from his imperfections (for Mr. Lovelace, my dear, is not a wise man in all his ways) to enable me to keep my passions under.—What can we do more than govern ourselves by the temporary lights lent us?

You will not wonder that I am grave on this de|tection—Detection, must I call it? What can I call it?—I have not had heart's-ease enough, to inspect that heart as I ought.

Dissatisfied with myself, I am afraid to look back upon what I have written. And yet know not how to have done writing. I never was in such an odd frame of mind.—I know not how to describe it.—Was you ever so?—Afraid of the censure of her I love—Yet not conscious that I deserve it.

Of this, however, I am convinced, that I should indeed deserve censure, if I kept any secret of my heart from you.

But I will not add another word, after I have as|sured you, that I will look still more narrowly into myself: And that I am

Your equally sincere and affectionate CLARISSA HARLOWE.

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

Sat. evening.

I Had a charming airing. No return of my ma|lady. My heart perfectly easy, how could my stomach be otherwise?

But when I came home, I found that my sweet soul had been alarmed by a new incident. The in|quiry after us both, in a very suspicious manner, and that by description of our persons, and not by names, by a servant in a blue livery turned up and trimmed with yellow.

Dorcas was called to him, as the upper servant, and she refusing to answer any of his questions, unless he told his business, and from whom he came, the fel|low, as short as she, said, That if she would not an|swer him, perhaps she might answer somebody else; and went away out of humour.

Dorcas hurried up to her lady, and alarmed her not only with the fact, but with her own conjectures; adding, that he was an ill-looking fellow, and she was sure could come for no good.

The livery and the features of the servant were particularly inquired after, and as particularly de|scribed—Lord bless her! no end of her alarms, she thought! And then was she aforehand with every evil that could happen.

She wished Mr. Lovelace would come in.

Mr. Lovelace came in soon after; all lively, grate|ful, full of hopes, of duty, of love, to thank his charmer, and to congratulate with her upon the cure she had performed. And then she told the story, with all its circumstances; and Dorcas, to point her lady's fears, told us, that the servant was a sun-burnt fel|low, and looke as if he had been at sea.

He was then, no doubt, Captain Singleton's ser|vant, and the next news she should hear, was, th•• the house was surrounded by a whole ship's crew; th•• vessel lying no farther off, as she understood, than Rotherhith.

Impossible, I said. Such an attempt would not be usher'd in by such a manner of inquiry. And why may it not rather be a servant of your cousin Mor|den's, with notice of his arrival, and of his design to attend you?

This surmize delighted her. Her apprehensions went off, and she was at leisure to congratulate me upon my sudden recovery; which she did in the most obliging manner.

But we had not sat long together, when Dorcas again came fluttering up to tell us, that the footman, the very footman, was again at the door, and inquired, whether Mr. Lovelace and his Lady, by name, had no•• lodgings in this house? He asked, he told Dorcas, for no harm: But this was a demonstration with my appre|hensive fair-one, that harm was intended. And as the sellow had not been answered by Dorcas, I proposed to go down to the street-parlour, and hear what he had to say.

I see your causeless terror, my dearest life, said I, and your impatience—Will you be pleased to walk down—And without being observed, as he shall come no farther than the parlour-door, you may hear all that passes?

She consented. We went down. Dorcas bid the man come forward.—Well, friend, what is your bu|siness with Mr. or Mrs. Lovelace?

Bowing, scraping, I am sure you are the gentle|man, Sir. Why, Sir, my business is only to know if your honour be here, and to be spoke with; or it you shall be here for any time?

Who came you from?

From a gentleman who ordered me to say, if I was

made to tell, but not else, it was from a friend of Mr. John Harlowe's, Mrs. Lovelace's eldest uncle.

The dear creature was ready to sink upon this. It was but of late, that she had provided herself with salts. She pulled them out.

Do you know any thing of Colonel Morden, friend, said I?

No; I never heard of his name.

Of Captain Singleton?

No, Sir. But the gentleman, my master, is a cap|tain too.

What is his name?

I don't know if I should tell.

There can be no harm in telling the gentleman's name, if you come upon a good account.

That I do; for my master told me so; and there is not an honester gentleman on the face of God's earth.—His name is Captain Tomlinson, Sir.

I don't know such a one.

I believe not, Sir. He was pleased to say, He don't know your honour, Sir; but I heard him say, as how he should not be an unwelcome visitor to you, for all that.

Do you know such a man as Captain Tomlinson, my dearest life, aside, your uncle's friend?

No; but my uncle may have acquaintance, no doubt, that I don't know.—But I hope, trembling, this is not a trick.

Well, friend, if your master has any thing to say to Mr. Lovelace, you may tell him, that Mr. Love|lace is here; and will give him a meeting whenever he pleases.

The dear creature looked as if afraid that my en|gagement was too prompt for my own safety; and away went the fellow.—I wondering, that she might not wonder, that this Captain Tomlinson, whoever he was, came not himself, or sent not a letter the se|cond time, when he had reason to suppose that I might be here.

Mean time, for fear that this should be a contrive|ance of James Harlowe's, who, I said, loved plot|ting, though he had not a head turned for it, I gave some precautionary directions to the servants, and the women, whom, for the greater parade, I assembled before us: And my beloved was resolved not to stir abroad till she saw the issue of this odd affair.

And here must I close though in so great a puzzle.

Only let me add, that poor Belton wants thee; for I dare not stir for my life.

Mowbray and Tourville skulk about like vaga|bonds, without heads, without hands, without souls; having neither Thee nor Me to conduct them. They tell me, they shall rust beyond the power of oil or action to brighten them up, or give them motion.

How goes it with thy uncle?

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

Sunday, May 28

THIS story of Captain Tomlinson employed us not only for the time we were together last night, but all the while we sat at breakfast this morn|ing. She would still have it, that it was the prelude to some mischief from Singleton. I insisted, that it might much more probably be a method taken by Co|lonel Morden to alarm her, previous to a personal visit. Travelled gentlemen affected to surprize in this manner. And why, dearest creature, said I, must every thing that happens, which we cannot im|mediately account for, be what we least wish?

She had had so many disagreeable things befal her of late, that her fears were too often stronger than her hopes.

And this, Madam, makes me apprehensive, that you will get into so low-spirited a way, that you will

not be able to enjoy the happiness that seems to await us.

Her duty and her gratitude, she gravely said, to the Dispenser of all good, would secure her, she hoped, against unthankfulness. And a thankful spi|rit was the same as a joyful one.

So, Belford, for all her future joys she depends in|tirely upon the Invisible Good. She is certainly right; since those who fix least upon Second Causes are the least likely to be disappointed—And is not this gravity for her gravity?

She had hardly done speaking, when Dorcas came running up in a hurry—She set even my heart into a palpitation—Thump, thump, thump, like a precipi|tated pendulum in a clock-case—Flutter, flutter, flut|ter my charmer's, as by her sweet bosom rising to her chin I saw.

This lower class of people, my Beloved herself ob|served, were for ever aiming at the stupid Wonderful, and for making even common incidents matter of sur|prize.

Why the devil, said I to the wench, this alarming hurry?—And with your spread fingers, and your O Madams, and O Sirs!—and be curs'd to you: Would there have been a second of time difference, had you come up slowly?

Captain Tomlinson, Sir!

Captain Devilson, what care I!—Do you see how you have disordered your lady?

Good Mr. Lovelace, said my charmer, trembling, See, Jack, when she has an end to serve, I am good Mr. Lovelace] If—if my brother,—if Captain Single|••on should appear—Pray now—I beseech you—Let me beg of you—to govern your temper—My brother is my brother—Captain Singleton is but an ••gent.

My dearest life, folding my arms about her [When

she asks favours, thought I, the devil's in it, if she will not allow of such innocent freedoms as this, from good Mr. Lovelace too], you shall be witness of all that passes between us. Dorcas, desire the gentle|man to walk up.

Let me retire to my chamber first! Let me not be known to be in the house!

Charming dear!—Thou seest, Belford, she is afraid of leaving me!—O the little witchcrafts! Were it not for surprize now-and-then, how would an honest man know where to have them?

She withdrew to listen—And tho' this incident has not turned out to answer all I wish'd from it, yet is it necessary, if I would acquaint thee with my whole circulation, to be very particular in what passed be|tween Captain Tomlinson and me.

Enter Captain Tomlinson in a riding-dress, whip in hand.

Your servant, Sir—Mr. Lovelace, I presume?

My name is Lovelace, Sir.

Excuse the Day, Sir.—Be pleased to excuse my Garb. I am obliged to go out of town directly, that I may return at night.

The Day is a good day. Your Garb needs no apology.

When I sent my servant, I did not know that I should find time to do myself this honour. All that I thought I could do to oblige my friend this journey, was only to assure myself of your abode; and whether there was a probability of being admitted to your speech, or to your Lady's.

Sir, you know best your own motives. What your time will permit you to do, you also best know. And here I am, attending your pleasure.

My charmer owned afterwards her concern on my be|ing so short. Whatever I shall mingle of her em••|tions, thou wilt easily guess I had afterwards.

Sir, I hope no offence. I intend none.

None—None at all, Sir.

Sir, I have no interest in the affair I come about. I may appear officious; and if I thought I should, I would decline any concern in it, after I have just hinted what it is.

And what, pray, Sir, is it?

May I ask you, Sir, without offence, whether you wish to be reconciled, and to co-operate upon honour|able terms, with one gentleman of the name of Har|lowe; preparative, as it may be hoped, to a general reconciliation?

O how my heart flutter'd, cried my charmer!

I can't tell, Sir [And then it flutter'd still more, no doubt]: The whole family have used me extremely ill. They have taken greater liberties with my cha|racter than are justifiable, and with my family too; which I can less forgive.

Sir, Sir, I have done. I beg pardon for this intru|sion.

My Beloved then was ready to sink, and thought very hardly of me.

But pray, Sir, to the immediate purpose of your present commission; since a commission it seems to be?

It is a commission, Sir; and-such a one, as I thought would be agreeable to all parties, or I should not have given myself concern about it.

Perhaps it may, Sir, when known. But let me ask you one previous question? Do you know Colonel Morden, Sir?

No, Sir. If you mean personally, I do not. But I have heard my good friend Mr. John Harlowe talk of him with great respect; and as a co-trustee with him in a certain trust.

I thought it probable, Sir, said I, that the Colonel might be arrived; that you might be a gentleman of

his acquaintance; and that something of an agree|able surprize might be intended.

Had Colonel Morden been in England, Mr. John Harlowe would have known it; and then I should not have been a stranger to it.

Well but, Sir, have you then any commission to me from Mr. John Harlowe?

Sir, I will tell you, as briefly as I can, the whole of what I have to say; but you'll excuse me also a pre|vious question, for which curiosity is not my mo|tive; but it is necessary to be answered before I can proceed; as you will judge when you hear it.

What, pray, Sir, is your question?

Briefly, Whether you are actually, and bona fide, married to Miss Clarissa Harlowe?

I started, and, in a haughty tone, Is this, Sir, a question that must be answered before you can pro|ceed in the business you have undertaken?

I mean no offence, Mr. Lovelace. Mr. Harlowe sought to me to undertake this office. I have daugh|ters and nieces of my own. I thought it a good office, or I, who have many considerable affairs upon my hands, had not accepted of it. I know the world; and will take the liberty to say, That if that young Lady—

Captain Tomlinson, I think you are called?

My name is Tomlinson.

Why then, Captain Tomlinson, no liberty, as you call it, will be taken well, that is not extremely de|licate, when that lady is mentioned.

When you had heard me out, Mr. Lovelace, and had found, I had so behaved, as to make the caution necessary, it would have been just to have given it.—Allow me to say, I know what is due to the character of a woman of virtue, as well as any man alive.

Why, Sir! Why, Captain Tomlinson, you seem warm. If you intend any-thing by this [O how I trembled! said the Lady, when she took notice of this

part of our conversation afterwards:], I will only say, that this is a privileged place. It is at present my home, and an asylum for any gentleman who thinks it worth his while to inquire after me, be the manner or end of his inquiry what it will.

I know not, Sir, that I have given occasion for this. I make no scruple to attend you elsewhere, if I am troublesome here. I was told, I had a warm young gentleman to deal with: But as I knew my intention, and that my commission was an amicable one, I was the less concerned about that. I am twice your age, Mr. Lovelace, I dare say: But I do assure you, that if either my message, or my manner, give you of|fence, I can suspend the one or the other for a day, or for ever, as you like. And so, Sir, any time be|fore eight to-morrow morning, you will let me know your further commands.—And was going to tell me where he might be found.

Captain Tomlinson, said I, you answer well. I love a man of spirit. Have you not been in the army?

I have, Sir; but have turned my sword into a plough|share, as the Scripture has it [There was a clever fel|low, Jack!—He was a good man with somebody, I warrant!].—And all my delight, added he, for some years past, has been in cultivating my paternal estate. I love a brave man, Mr. Lovelace, as well as ever I did in my life. But, let me tell you, Sir, that when you come to my time of life, you will be of opinion, that there is not so much true bravery in youthful choler, as you may now think there is.

A clever fellow again, Belford—Ear and heart, both at once, he took in my charmer.—'Tis well, she says, there are some men who have wisdom in their anger.

Well, Captain, that is reproof for reproof. So we are upon a foot. And now give me the pleasure of hearing your commission.

Sir, you must first allow me to repeat my question:

Are you really, and bona fide, married to Miss Clarissa Harlowe? Or are you not yet married?

Bluntly put, Captain. But if I answer that I am, what then?

Why then, Sir, I shall say, that you are a man of honour.

That I hope I am, whether you say it or not, Cap|tain Tomlinson.

Sir, I will be very frank in all I have to say on this subject.—Mr. John Harlowe has lately found out, that you and his niece are both in the same lodgings; that you have been long so; and that the lady was at the Play with you yesterday was se'ennight; and he hopes, that you are actually married: He has indeed heard that you are; but, as he knows your enter|prizing temper, and that you have declared, that you disdain a relation to their family, he is willing by me to have your marriage confirmed from your own mouth, before he takes the steps he is inclined to take in his niece's favour. You will allow me to say, Mr. Lovelace, that he will not be satisfied with an answer that admits of the least doubt.

Let me tell you, Captain Tomlinson, that it is a damn'd degree of vileness for any man to suppose—

Sir—Mr. Lovelace—don't put yourself into a pas|sion. The Lady's relations are jealous of the honour of their family. They have prejudices to overcome as well as you—Advantage may have been taken—and the Lady, at the time, not to blame.

This Lady, Sir, could give no such advantages: And if she had, what must the man be, Captain Tom|linson, who could have taken them?—Do you know the Lady, Sir?

I never had the honour to see her but once; and that was at church; and should not know her again.

Not know her again, Sir!—I thought that there was not a man living who had once seen her, and would not know her among a thousand.

I remember, Sir, that I thought I never saw a finer woman in my life. But, Mr. Lovelace, I believe, you will allow, that it is better that her relations should have wronged you, than you the Lady. I hope, Sir, you will permit me to repeat my question.

Enter Dorcas, in a hurry.

A gentleman, this minute, Sir, desires to speak with your honour—My Lady, Sir!—[Aside.

Could the dear creature put Dorcas upon telling this fib, yet want to save me one?—

Desire the gentleman to walk into one of the par|lours. I will wait on him presently.

[Exit Dorcas.

The dear creature, I doubted not, wanted to in|struct me how to answer the Captain's home-put. I knew how I intended to answer it—Plumb▪ thou may'st be sure—But Dorcas's message stagger'd me. And yet I was upon one of my master-strokes—Which was, To take advantage of the Captain's inquiries, and to make her own her marriage before him, as she had done to the people below; and if she had been brought to that, to induce her, for her uncle's satisfaction, to write him a letter of gratitude; which of course must have been signed Clarissa Lovelace. I was loth, therefore, thou may'st believe, to attend her sudden commands: And yet, afraid of pushing matters be|yond recovery with her, I thought proper to lead him from the question, to account for himself; for Mr. Harlowe's coming at the knowlege of where we are; and for other particulars which I knew would engage her attention; and which might possibly convince her of the necessity there was for her to acquiesce in the affirmative I was disposed to give. And this for her own sake; for what; as I asked her afterwards, is it to me, whether I am ever reconciled to a family I must for ever despise?

You think, Captain, that I have answered doubt|fully to the question you have put. You may think so. And you must know, that I have a good deal of pride: And only, that you are a gentleman, and seem in this affair to be governed by generous principles, or I should ill brook being interrogated as to my honour to a lady so dear to me.—But before I answer more directly to the point, pray satisfy me in a question or two that I shall put to you.

With all my heart, Sir. Ask me what questions you please, I will answer them with sincerity and can|dour.

You say, That Mr. Harlowe has found out that we were at a Play together: And that we are both in the same lodgings—How pray, came he at his know|lege?—For, let me tell you, that I have, for certain considerations not respecting myself, condescended, that our abode should be kept secret. And this has been so strictly observed, that even Miss Howe, tho' she and my beloved correspond, knows not directly whither to send to us.

Why, Sir, the person who saw you at the Play, was a tenant of Mr. John Harlowe. He watched all your motions. When the Play was done, he follow|ed your coach to your lodgings. And early the next day, Sunday, he took horse, and acquainted his land|lord with what he had observed.

How oddly things come about, Captain Tomlin|son!—But does any other of the Harlowes know where we are?

It is an absolute secret to every other person of the family; and so it is intended to be kept: As also that Mr. John Harlowe is willing to enter into treaty with you, by me, if his niece be actually married; for perhaps he is aware, that he shall have difficulty enough with some people to bring about the desirable

reconciliation, altho' he could give them this as|surance.

I doubt it not, Captain.—To James Harlowe is all the family folly owing.—Fine fools! [heroically stalk|ing about] to be governed by one to whom malice, and not genius, gives the busy liveliness that di|stinguishes him from a natural!—But how long, pray, Sir, has Mr. John Harlowe been in this pacific dis|position?

I will tell you, Mr. Lovelace, and the occasion; and be very explicit upon it, and upon all that con|cerns you to know of me, and of the commission I have undertaken; and this the rather, as when you have heard me out, you will be satisfied, that I am not an officious man in this my present address to you.

I am all attention, Captain Tomlinson.

And so I doubt not was my beloved.

'You must know, Sir, said the Captain, that I have not been many months in Mr. John Har|lowe's neighbourhood. I removed from North|amptonshire, partly for the sake of better managing one of two Executorships, which I could not avoid engaging in (the affairs of which frequently call me to town, and are part of my present business), and partly for the sake of occupying a neglected farm, which has lately fallen into my hands. But tho' an acquaintance of no longer standing, and that com|mencing on the Bowling-green [Uncle John is a great bowler, Belford] (upon my decision of a point to every one's satisfaction, which was ap|pealed to me by all the gentlemen; and which might have been attended with bad consequences), no two brothers have a more cordial esteem for each other. You know, Mr. Lovelace, that there is a consent, as I may call it, in some minds, which will unite them stronger in a few hours, than years will

do with others, whom yet we see not with dis|gust.'

Very true, Captain.

'It was on the foot of this avowed friendship on both sides, that on Monday the 15th, as I very well remember, Mr. Harlowe invited himself home with me. And when there, he acquainted me with the whole of the unhappy affair, that had made them all so uneasy. Till then I knew it only by report; for, intimate as we were, I forbore to speak of what was so near his heart, till he began first. And then he told me, that he had had an application made to him two or three days before by a gentle|man whom he named (a) 26.3, to induce him not only to be reconciled to his niece himself, but to forward for her a general reconciliation.

'A like application, he told me, had been made to his sister Harlowe, by a good woman whom every-body respected; who had intimated, that his niece, if encouraged, would again put herself into the protection of her friends, and leave you: But if not, that she must unavoidably be yours.'

I hope, Mr. Lovelace, I make no mischief.—You look concerned—You sigh, Sir.

Proceed, Captain Tomlinson. Pray proceed.—And I sighed still more profoundly.

'They all thought it extremely particular, that a lady should decline marriage with a man she had so lately gone away with.'

Pray, Captain—Pray, Mr. Tomlinson—No more of this subject. My beloved is an angel. In every thing unblameable. Whatever faults there have been, have been theirs and mine. What you would further say, is, that the unforgiving family rejected her appli|cation. They did. She and I had had a misunder|standing.

The falling out of lovers—you know, Captain.—We have been happier ever since.

'Well, Sir; but Mr. John Harlowe could not but better consider the matter afterwards. And he desired my advice how to act in it. He told me, that no father ever loved a daughter as he loved this niece of his; whom, indeed, he used to call his daughter-niece. He said, she had really been un|kindly treated by her brother and sister: And as your alliance, Sir, was far from being a discredit to their family, he would do his endeavour to recon|cile all parties, if he could be sure that ye were ac|tually man and wife.'

And what, pray, Captain, was your advice?

'I gave it as my opinion, that if his niece were un|worthily treated, and in distress, as he apprehended from the application to him, he would soon hear of her again: But that it was likely, that this applica|tion was made without expecting it would succeed; and as a salvo only, to herself, for marrying without their consent. And the rather, as he had told me, that it came from a young lady her friend, and not in a direct way from herself; which young lady was no favourite of the family; and therefore would hardly have been employed, had success been ex|pec••ed.'

Very well, Captain Tomlinson.—Pray proceed.

'Here the matter rested till last Sunday evening, when Mr. John Harlowe came to me with the man who had seen you and your lady (as I hope she is) at the Play; and who had assured him, that you both lodged in the same house.—And then the ap|plication having been so lately made, which im|plied, that you were not then married, he was so uneasy for his niece's honour, that I advised him to dispatch to town some one in whom he could con|fide, to make proper inquiries.

Very well, Captain.—And was such a person em|ployed on such an errand by her uncle?

'A trusty and discreet person was accordingly sent; and last Tuesday, I think it was (for he returned to us on the Wednesday), he made the inquiries among the neighbours first [The very inquiry, Jack, that gave us all so much uneasiness (a) 26.4]. But finding, that none of them could give any satisfactory ac|count, the lady's woman was come at, who de|clared, that you were actually married. But the inquirist keeping himself on the reserve as to his employers, the girl refused to tell the day, or to give him other particulars.'

You give a very clear account of every-thing, Cap|tain Tomlinson. Pray go on.

'The gentleman returned; and on his report Mr. Harlowe, having still doubts, and being willing to proceed on some grounds in so important a point, besought me, as my affairs called me frequently to town, to undertake this matter. You, Mr. Tomlinson, he was pleased to say, have children of your own: You know the world: You know what I drive at: You will proceed, I know, with under|standing and spirit: And whatever you are satisfied with, shall satisfy me.'

Enter Dorcas, again in a hurry.

Sir, The gentleman is impatient.

I will attend him presently.

The Captain then accounted for his not calling in person, when he had reason to think us here.

He said, he had business of consequence a few miles out of town, whither he thought he must have gone yesterday; and having been obliged to put off his little journey till this day, and understanding that we were within, not knowing whether he should have such another opportunity, he was willing to try his

good fortune before he set out; and this made him come booted and spurred, as I saw him.

He dropped a hint in commendation of the people of the house; but it was in such away, as to give no room for suspicion, that he thought it necessary to make any inquiries after the character of persons who make so genteel an appearance, as he observed they do.

And here let me remark, to the same purpose, that my beloved might collect another circumstance in their favour, had she doubted them, from the silence of her uncle's inquirist on Tuesday, among the neigh|bours.

And now, Sir, said he, that I believe I have satis|fied you in every thing relating to my commission, I hope you will permit me to repeat my question—which is,—

Enter Dorcas again, out of breath.

Sir, the gentleman will step up to you.—My lady is impatient. She wonders at your honour's delay, [Aside].

Excuse me, Captain, for one moment.

I have staid my full time, Mr. Lovelace.—What may result from my question and your answer, what|ever it shall be, may take us up time.—And you are engaged.—Will you permit me to attend you in the morning, before I set out on my return?

You will then breakfast with me, Captain?

It must be early if I do. I must reach my own house to-morrow night, or I shall make the best of wives unhappy. And I have two or three places to call at in my way.

It shall be by seven o'clock, if you please, Captain. We are early folks. And this I will tell you, that if ever I am reconciled to a family so implacable as I have always found the Harlowes to be, it must be by the mediation of so cool and so moderate a gentle|man as yourself.

And so, with the highest civilities on both sides, we

parted. But for the private satisfaction of so good a man, I left him out of doubt, that we were man and wife, tho' I did not directly aver it.

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

Sunday Night.

THIS Captain Tomlinson is one of the happiest, as well as one of the best men in the world. What would I give to stand as high in my beloved's opinion, as he does! But yet, I am as good a man as he, were I to tell my own story, and have equal credit given to it. But the devil should have had him before I had seen him on the account he came upon, had I thought I should not have answered my princi|pal end in it.—I hinted to thee in my last what that was.

But to the particulars of the conference between my fair one, and me, on her hasty messages; which I was loth to come to, because she has had a half triumph over me in it.

After I had attended the Captain down to the very passage, I returned to the dining-room, and put on a joyful air, on my beloved's entrance into it.—O my dearest creature, let me congratulate you on a pro|spect so agreeable to your wishes!—And I snatched her hand, and smothered it with my kisses.

I was going on; when, interrupting me,—You see, Mr. Lovelace, said she, how you have embarassed yourself, by your own obliquities!—You see, that you have not been able to return a direct answer to a plain and honest question, tho' upon it depends all the happiness you congratulate me upon the prospect of.

You know, my best love, what my prudent, and I will say, my kind motives were, for giving out, that we were married. You see, that I have taken

no advantage of it; and that no inconvenience has followed it.—You see; that your uncle wants only to be assured from ourselves, that it is so—

Not another word to this purpose, Mr. Lovelace. I will not only risk, but I will forfeit, the reconcilia|tion so near my heart, rather than I will go on to countenance a story so untrue!

My dearest soul—Would you have me appear—

I would have you appear, Sir, as you are! I am resolved that I will appear to my uncle's friend, and to my uncle, as I am.

For one week, my dearest life, cannot you for one week, only till the settlements—

Not for one hour, with my own consent.—You don't know, Sir, how much I have been afflicted, that I have appeared to the people below what I am not. But my uncle, Sir, shall never have it to up|braid me, nor will I to upbraid myself, that I have wilfully passed myself upon him in false lights.

What, my dear, would you have me to say to the Captain to-morrow morning?—I have given him room to think—

Then put him right, Mr. Lovelace. Tell the truth. Tell him what you please of your relations favour to me: Tell him what you will about the settlements: And if when drawn, you will submit them to his perusal and approbation, it will shew him how much you are in earnest.

My dearest life—Do you think, that he would disapprove of the terms I have offer'd?—No.

Then may I be accursed, if I willingly submit to be trampled under foot by my enemies!

And may I, Mr. Lovelace, never be happy in this life, if I submit to the passing upon my uncle Har|lowe a wilful and premeditated falshood for truth!—I have too long laboured under the affliction which the rejection of all my friends has given me, to pur|chase

their reconciliation now at so dear a price as at that of my veracity.

The women below, my dear—

What are they to me?—I want not to establish myself with them. Need they know all that passes between my relations and you and me?

Neither are they any thing to me, Madam. Only, that when, for the sake of preventing the fatal mis|chiefs which might have attended your brother's pro|jects, I have made them think us married, I would not appear to them in a light, which you yourself think so shocking. By my soul, Madam, I had ra|ther die, than contradict myself so flagrantly, after I have related to them so many circumstances of our marriage.

Well, Sir, the women may believe what they please. That I have given countenance to what you told them, is my error. The many circumstances which you own one untruth has drawn you in to re|late, is a justification of my refusal in the present case.

Don't you see, Madam, that your uncle wishes to find us married? May not the ceremony be privately over, before his mediation can take place?

Urge this point no farther, Mr. Lovelace. If you will not tell the truth, I will to-morrow morning, if I see Captain Tomlinson, tell it myself. Indeed I will.

Will you, Madam, consent, that things pass as before with the people below? This mediation of Tomlinson may come to nothing. Your brother's schemes may be pursued; the rather, that now he will know (perhaps from your uncle), that you are not under a legal protection.—You will, at least, consent, that things pass here as before?

To permit this, is to go on in an error, Mr. Love|lace. But as the occasion for so doing (if there can be an occasion in your opinion, that will warrant an untruth), will, as I presume, soon be over, I shall the

less dispute that point with you. But a new error I will not be guilty of, if I can avoid it.

Can I, do you think, Madam, have any dis|honourable view in the step I supposed you would not scruple to take towards a reconciliation with your own family?—Not for my own sake, you know, did I hope you to take it.—For what is it to me, if I am never reconciled to your family? I want no favours from them.

I hope, Mr. Lovelace, there is no occasion, in our present not disagreeable situation, to answer such a question. And let me say, that I shall think my prospects still more agreeable, if, to-morrow morn|ing, you will not only own the very truth, but give my uncle's friend such an account of the steps you have taken, and are taking, as may keep up my uncle's favourable intentions towards me. This you may do under what restrictions of secrecy you please. Cap|tain Tomlinson is a prudent man; a promoter of fa|mily-peace, you find; and, I dare say, may be made a friend.

I saw there was no help. I saw that the inflexible Harlowe spirit was all up in her.—A little witch!—A little—Forgive me, Love, for calling her names: And so I said, with an air, We have had too many misunderstandings, Madam, for me to wish for new ones; I will obey you without reserve. Had I not thought I should have obliged you by the other me|thod (especially as the ceremony might have been over, before any thing could have operated from your uncle's intentions, and of consequence no un|truth persisted in), I would not have proposed it.—But think not, my beloved creature, that you shall enjoy, without condition, this triumph over my judgment.

And then, clasping my arms about her, I gave her struggled-away cheek (her charming lip designed) a servent kiss.—And your forgiveness of this sweet freedom (bowing) is that condition.

She was not mortally offended.—And now must I make out the rest as well as I can. But this I will tell thee, that altho' her triumph has not diminished my love for her; yet has it stimulated me more than ever to Revenge, as thou wilt be apt to call it. But Victory or Conquest is the more proper name.

There is a pleasure, 'tis true, in subduing one of these watchful beauties. But, by my soul, Belford, men of our cast take twenty times the pains to be rogues, that it would cost them to be honest; and dear|ly, with the sweat of our brows, and to the puzzling of our brains (to say nothing of the hazards we run), do we earn our purchase: And ought not therefore to be grudged our success, when we meet with it—Especially as, when we have obtained our end, sa|tiety soon follows; and leaves us little or nothing to shew for it. But this, indeed, may be said of all worldly delights.—And is not that a grave reflection from me?

I was willing to write up to the time. Altho' I have not carried my principal point, I shall make something turn out in my favour from Captain Tom|linson's errand.—But let me give thee this caution; that thou do not pretend to judge of my devices by parts; but have patience till thou seest the whole. But once more I swear, that I will not be out-Norris'd by a pair of novices. And yet I am very apprehensive, at times, of the consequences of Miss Howe's Smug|gling scheme.

'Tis late, or rather early; for the day begins to dawn upon me. I am plaguy heavy. Perhaps I need not to have told thee that. But will only indulge a doze in my chair, for an hour; then shake myself, wash, and refresh. At my time of life, with my constitution, that's all that's wanted.

Good night to me!—It cannot be broad day till I am awake.—Aw-w-w-w-haugh—Pox of this yawn|ing!

Is not thy uncle dead yet?

What's come to mine, that he writes not to my last!—Hunting after more wisdom of nations, I sup|pose!—Yaw—Yaw—Yawning again!—Pen, begone.

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

Monday, May 29.

NOW have I established myself for ever in my charmer's heart.

The Captain came at seven, as promised, and ready equipped for his journey. My beloved chose not to give us her company till our first conversation was over.—Ashamed, I suppose [But to my shame, if she was], to be present at that part of it, which was to restore her to her virgin state, by my confession, after her wifehood had been reported to her uncle. But she took her cue nevertheless, and listened to all that passed.

The modestest women, Jack, must think, and think deeply sometimes.—I wonder whether they ever blush at those things by themselves, at which they have so charming a knack of blushing in com|pany.—If not; and if blushing be a sign of grace or modesty, have not the sex as great a command over their blushes, as they are said to have over their tears? This reflection would lead me a great way into female minds, were I disposed to pursue it.

I told the Captain, that I would prevent his que|stion; and accordingly, after I had injoined the strictest secrecy, that no advantage might be given to James Harlowe; and which he answered for as well on Mr. Harlowe's part as his own; I acknowleged nakedly and fairly the whole truth.—To wit,

'That we were not yet married.—I gave him hints of the causes of procrastination.—Some of them owing to

unhappy misunderstanding: But chiefly to the La|dy's desire of previous reconciliation with her friend•• and to a delicacy that had no example.'

Less nice ladies than this, Jack, love to have de|lays, wilful and studied delays, imputed to them in these cases—Yet are indelicate in their affected deli|cacy; for do they not thereby tacitly confess, that they expect to be the greatest gainers in wedlock; and that there is self-denial in the pride they take in delaying?

'I told him the reason of our passing to the people below as marry'd—Yet as under a vow of restriction▪ as to consummation, which had kept us both to the height, one of sorbearing, the other of vigilant punctilio; even to the denial of those innocent free|doms, which betrothed lovers never scruple to allow and to take.

'I then communicated to him a copy of my pro|posals of settlement; the substance of her written answer; the contents of my letter of invitation to Lord M. to be her nuptial father; and of my Lord's generous reply. But said, that having apprehen|sions of delay from his infirmities, and my beloved choosing by all means (and that from principles of unrequited duty) a private solemnization, I had written to excuse his lordship's presence; and ex|pected an answer every hour.

'The settlements, I told him, were actually draw|ing by counsellor Williams, of whose eminence he must have heard [He had]; and of the truth of this he might satisfy himself before he went out of town.

'When these were drawn, approved, and ingross|ed, nothing, I said, but signing, and the nomination of my happy day, would be wanting. I had a pride, I declared, in doing the highest justice to so beloved a creature, of my own voluntary motion, and with|out the intervention of a family from whom I had received the greatest insults. And this being our

present situation, I was contented, that Mr. John Harlowe should suspend his reconciliatory purposes till our marriage were actually solemnized.'

The Captain was highly delighted with all I had said: Yet owned, that as his dear friend Mr. Harlowe had ••xpressed himself greatly pleased to hear that we were ••ctually marry'd, he could have wished it had been so. But, nevertheless, he doubted not that all would be ••ell.

He saw my reasons, he said, and approved of them, ••or making the gentlewomen below (whom again he ••nderstood to be good sort of people) believe, that the ••eremony had passed; which so well accounted for ••hat the Lady's maid had told Mr. Harlowe's friend. Mr. James Harlowe, he said, had certainly ends to ••nswer in keeping open the breach; and as certainly ••ad formed a design to get his sister out of my hands. Wherefore it as much imported his worthy friend to ••eep this treaty a secret, as it did me; at least till he ••ad formed his party, and taken his measures. Ill-••ill and passion were dreadful misrepresenters. It was amazing to him, that animosity could be carried ••as high against a man capable of views so pacific and •• honourable, and who had shewn such a command of ••s temper, in this whole transaction. Generosity, ••deed, in every case, where love of stratagem and ••trigue [I would excuse him] were not concerned, ••as a part of my character—

He was proceeding, when breakfast being ready, •• came the empress of my heart, irradiating all around ••er, as with a glory—A benignity and graciousness in ••er aspect, that, tho' natural to it, had been long ba|••ished from it.

Next to prostration lowly bowed the Captain. O ••ow the sweet creature smiled her approbation of him! ••everence from one, begets reverence from another. ••en are more of monkeys in imitation, than they ••hink themselves—Involuntarily, in a manner, I bent

my knee—My dearest life—and made a very fine speech on presenting the captain to her. No title, myself, to her lip or cheek, 'tis well he attempted not either—He was indeed ready to worship her;—could only touch her charming hand—

I have told the Captain, my dear creature—And then I briefly repeated, as if I had supposed she had not heard it, all I had told him.

He was astonish'd, that any-body could be displeased one moment with such an angel. He undertook her cause as the highest degree of merit to himself.

Never, I must needs say, did the angel so much look the angel. All placid, serene, smiling, self-assured: A more lovely flush than usual heightening her natural graces, and adding charms, even to ra|diance, to her charming complexion.

After we had seated ourselves, the agreeable sub|ject was renew'd, as we took our chocolate. How happy should she be in her uncle's restored favour!

The Captain engaged for it—No more delays, he hoped, of her part! Let the happy day be but once over, all would then be right!—But was it improper to ask for copies of my proposals, and of her answer, in order to shew them to his dear friend her uncle?

As Mr. Lovelace pleased—O that the dear creature would always say so!

It must be in strict confidence then, I said—But would it not be better to shew her uncle the draught of the settlements, when drawn?

And will you be so good, as to allow of this, Mr. Lovelace?

There, Belford! We were once The Quarrel|some, but now we are The Polite, Lovers.—

Indeed, my dearest creature, I will, if you desire it; and if Captain Tomlinson will engage, that Mr. Harlowe shall keep them absolutely a secret; that I may not be subjected to the cavil and controul of any other of a family that have used me so very ill.

Now indeed, Sir, you are very obliging.

Dost think, Jack, that my face did not now also ••hine?

I held out my hand (first consecrating it with a kiss) for hers. She condescended to give it me. I pressed it to my lips: You know not, Captain Tom|linson (with an air), all storms overblown, what a happy man—

Charming couple! His hands lifted up—How will my good friend rejoice!—O that he were present!—You know not, Madam, how dear you still are to your uncle Harlowe!—

I am unhappy ever to have disobliged him!

Not too much of that, however, fairest, thought I!

He repeated his resolutions of service, and that in so acceptable a manner, that the dear creature wished, that neither he, nor any of his, might ever want a friend of equal benevolence.

None of his, she said; for the captain brought it in, that he had five children living, by one of the best of wives and mothers, whose excellent management made him as happy, as if his eight hundred pounds a year (which was all he had to boast of) were two thousand.

Without oeconomy, the oraculous lady said, no estate was large enough. With it, the least was not too small.

Lie still, teazing villain! lie still!—I was only speaking to my conscience, Jack.

And let me ask you, Mr. Lovelace, said the Cap|tain; yet not so much from doubt, as that I may pro|ceed upon sure grounds—You are willing to co-ope|rate with my dear friend in a general reconciliation?

Let me tell you, Mr. Tomlinson, that if it can be distinguished, that my readiness to make up with a family, of whose generosity I have not had reason to think highly, is intirely owing to the value I have for this angel of a woman, I will not only co-operate with Mr. John Harlowe, as you ask; but I will meet

Mr. James Harlowe senior, and his lady, all the way▪ And furthermore, to make the son James and Ara|bella quite easy, I will absolutely disclaim any furthe•• interest, whether living or dying, in any of the thre•• brothers estates; contenting myself with what my be|loved's grandfather has bequeathed to her: For I hav•• reason to be abundantly satisfied with my own cir+cumstances and prospects—Enough rewarded, wer•• she not to bring a shilling in dowry, in a lady who ha•• a merit superior to all the goods of fortune. True a•• the Gospel, Belford! Why had not this scene a rea•• foundation?

The dear creature, by her eyes, expressed her gra+titude, before her lips could utter it. O Mr. Love+lace, said she—You have infinitely—And there sh•• stopt—

The Captain run over in my praise. He was reall•• affected.

O that I had not such a mixture of revenge an•• pride in my love, thought I!—But [my old plea•• cannot I make her amends at any time?—And is no•• her virtue now in the heighth of its probation?—Would she lay aside, like the friends of my uncon|tending Rosebud, all thought of defiance—Woul•• she throw herself upon my mercy, and try me but on•• fortnight in the Life of Honour—What then?—cannot say, What then.

Do not despise me, Jack, for my inconsistency—In no two letters perhaps agreeing with myself—Who expects consistency in men of our character?—But I am mad with love—Fired by revenge—Puzzle with my own devices—My inventions are my curse—My pride my punishment—Drawn five or six wa•• at once—Can she possibly be so unhappy as I? •• why, why was this woman so divinely excellent!—Yet how know I that she is?—What have been h•• tryals? Have I had the courage to make a single o•• upon her person, tho' fifty upon her temper?—

Enough, I hope, to make her afraid of ever disoblige|ing me more!—

I MUST banish reflection, or I am a lost man. For ••hese two hours past have I hated myself for my own contrivances. And this not only from what I have related to thee; but from what I have further to re|••ate. But I have now once more steeled my heart. My vengeance is uppermost; for I have been re-per|using some of Miss Howe's virulence. The con|tempt they have both held me in, I cannot bear.—

The happiest breakfast-time, my beloved owned, that she had ever known since she had left her father's house. She might have let this alone. The Captain renewed all his protestations of service. He would write me word how his dear friend received the ac|count he should give him of the happy situation of our affairs, and what he thought of the settlements, as soon as I should send him the kindly-promised draughts. And we parted with great professions of mutual esteem; my beloved putting up vows for the success of his generous mediation.

When I returned from attending the Captain down stairs, which I did to the outward door, my beloved met me as I entered the dining-room; complacency reigning in every lovely feature.

You see me already, said she, another creature. You know not, Mr. Lovelace, how near my heart this hoped-for reconciliation is. I am now willing to banish every disagreeable remembrance. You know not, Sir, how much you have obliged me. And Oh, Mr. Lovelace, how happy shall I be, when my heart ••s lightened from the all-sinking weight of a father's curse! When my dear mamma (You don't know, Sir, half the excellencies of my dear mamma! and what a kind heart she has, when it is left to follow its own impulses—When this blessed mamma) shall once more fold me to her indulgent bosom! When I shall

again have uncles and aunts, and a brother and sister, all striving who shall shew most kindness and favour to the poor outcast, then no more an outcast!—And you, Mr. Lovelace, to behold all this, and to be re|ceived into a family so dear to me, with welcome—What tho' a little cold at first? when they come to know you better, and to see you oftener, no fresh causes of disgust occurring, and you, as I hope, hav|ing enter'd upon a new course, all will be warmer and warmer love on both sides, till every one perhaps will wonder, how they came to set themselves against you.

Then drying her eyes with her handkerchief, after a few moments pausing, on a sudden, as if recollecting that she had been led by her joy to an expression of it, which she had not intended I should see, she retired to her chamber with precipitation—Leaving me almost as unable to stand it, as herself.

In short, I was—I want words to say how I was—My nose had been made to tingle before; my eyes have before been made to glisten by this soul-moving beauty; but so very much affected, I never was—for, trying to check my sensibility, it was too strong for me, and I even sobbed—Yes, by my soul, I audibly sobbed, and was forced to turn from her before she had well finished her affecting speech.

I want, methinks, now I have owned the odd sen|sation, to describe it to thee—The thing was so strange to me—Something choaking, as it were, in my throat—I know not how—Yet, I must needs say, tho' I am out of countenance upon the recollection, that there was something very pretty in it; and I wish I could know it again, that I might have a more perfect idea of it, and be better able to describe it to thee.

But this effect of her joy on such an occasion gives me a high notion of what that virtue must be [What other name can I call it?] which in a mind so capabl•• of delicate transport, should be able to make so charm+ing

a creature in her very bloom, all frost and snow to every advance of Love from the man she hates not. This must be all from Education too:—Must it not, Belford? Can Education have stronger force in a wo|man's heart than Nature?—Sure it cannot. But if it can, how intirely right are parents to cultivate their daughters minds, and to inspire them with notions of reserve and distance to our sex; and indeed to make them think highly of their own? For pride is an ex|cellent substitute, let me tell thee, where virtue shines not out, as the sun, in its own unborrowed lustre.

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

AND now it is time to confess (and yet I know, that thy conjectures are aforehand with my ex|position), that this Captain Tomlinson, who is so great a favourite with my charmer, and who takes so much delight in healing breaches, and reconciling differ|ences, is neither a greater man nor a less, than honest Patrick M^cDonald, attended by a discarded footman of his own finding out.

Thou knowest what a various-lifed rascal he is; and to what better hopes born and educated. But that ingenious knack of Forgery, for which he was expell|ed the Dublin-University, and a detection since in Evidenceship, have been his ruin. For these have thrown him from one country to another; and at last, into the way of life, which would make him a fit husband for Miss Howe's Townsend with her con|trabands. He is, thou knowest, admirably qualified for any enterprize that requires adroitness and solemn|ity. And can there, after all, be a higher piece of justice aimed at, than to keep one Smuggler in readi|ness to play against another?

'Well but, Lovelace (methinks thou questionest), how camest thou to venture upon such a contrive|ance

as this, when, as thou hast told me, the Lady used to be a month at a time at this uncle's; and must therefore, in all probability, know, that there was not a Captain Tomlinson in all his neighbour|hood; at least no one of the name so intimate with him, as this man pretends to be?'

—

This objection, Jack, is so natural a one, that I could not help observing to my charmer, that she must surely have heard her uncle speak of this gentleman. No, she said, she never had. Besides, she had not been at her uncle Harlowe's for near ten months [This I had heard her say before]: And there were several gentle|men who used the same Green, whom she knew not.

We are all very ready, thou knowest, to believe what we like.

And what was the reason, thinkest thou, that she had not been of so long time at this uncle's?—Why, this old sinner, who imagines himself intitled to call me to account for my freedoms with the Sex, has lately fallen into familiarities, as it is suspected, with his housekeeper, who assumes airs upon it.—A cursed deluding Sex!—In youth, middle age, or dotage, they take us all in.

Dost thou not see, however, that this housekeeper knows nothing, nor is to know any thing, of the treaty of reconciliation designed to be set on foot; and therefore the Uncle always comes to the Captain, the Captain goes not to the Uncle: And this I sur|mised to the Lady. And then it was a natural sug|gestion, that the Captain was the rather applied to, as he is a stranger to the rest of the family: Need I tell thee the meaning of all this?

But this intrigue of the Antient is a piece of private history, the truth of which my beloved cares not to own, and indeed affects to disbelieve. As she does also some puisny gallantries of her foolish brother; which, by way of recrimination, I have hinted at, without naming my informant in their family.

Well but, methinks, thou questionest again, Is it not probable that Miss Howe will make inquiry after such a man as Tomlinson?—And when she cannot—

I know what thou wouldst say—But I have no doubt, that Wilson will be so good, if I desire it, as to give into my own hands any letter that may be brought by Collins to his house, for a week to come. And now I hope thou'rt satisfied.

I will conclude with a short story.

'Two neighbouring sovereigns were at war toge|ther, about some pitiful chuck-farthing thing or other; no matter what; for the least trifles will set princes and children at loggerheads. Their armies had been drawn up in battalia some days, and the news of a decisive action expected every hour to ar|rive at each court. At last, issue was joined; a bloody battle was fought; and a fellow, who had been a spectator of it, arriving with the news of a complete victory, at the capital of one of the princes, some time before the appointed couriers, the bells were set a ringing, bonfires and illuminations were made, and the people went to bed intoxicated with joy and good liquor. But the next day all was re|versed: The victorious enemy, pursuing his advan|tage, was expected every hour at the gates of the almost defenceless capital. The first reporter was hereupon sought for, and found; and being que|stioned, pleaded a great deal of merit, in that he had, in so dismal a situation, taken such a space of time from the distress of his fellow-citizens, and given it to festivity, as were the hours between the false good news and the real bad.'

Do thou, Belford, make the application. This I know, that I have given greater joy to my Beloved, than she had thought would so soon fall to her share. And as the human life is properly said to be chequer|work, no doubt but a person of her prudence will make the best of it, and set off so much good against

so much bad, in order to strike as just a balance as pos|sible.

THE Lady, in three several letters, acquaints her friend with the most material passages and conversa|tions contained in those of Mr. Lovelace's preceding. These are her words, on relating what the commission of the pretended Tomlinson was, after the apprehen|sions that his distant inquiry had given her.

'At last, my dear, all these doubts and fears were cleared up, and banished; and, in their place, a delightful prospect was opened to me. For it comes happily out (but at present it must be an absolute secret, for reasons which I shall mention in the se|quel), 'that the gentleman was sent by my uncle Harlowe [I thought he could not be angry with me for ever]; all owing to the conversation that passed between your good Mr. Hickman and him. For although Mr. Hickman's application was too harshly rejected at the time, my uncle could not but think better of it afterwards, and of the arguments that worthy gentleman used in my favour.

'Who, upon a passionate repulse, would despair of having a reasonable request granted?—Who would not, by gentleness and condescension, en|deavour to leave favourable impressions upon an angry mind; which, when it comes coolly to reflect, may induce it to work itself into a con|descending temper? To request a favour, as I have often said, is one thing; to challenge it as our due, is another. And what right has a petitioner to be angry at a repulse, if he has not a right to demand what he sues for as a debt?'

She describes Captain Tomlinson, on his breakfast visit, to be

'a grave good sort of man.'

And in an|other place,

'A genteel man, of great gravity, and a good aspect; she believes upwards of fifty years of age I liked him, says she, as soon as I saw him.'

As her prospects are now more favourable than here|tofore, she wishes, that her hopes of Mr. Lovelace's so often promised reformation were better grounded, than she is afraid they can be.

'We have both been extremely puzzled, my dear, says she, to reconcile some parts of Mr. Love|lace's character with other parts of it: His good with his bad; such of the former in particular, as, His generosity to his tenants; His bounty to the inn|keeper's daughter; His readiness to put me upon doing kind things by my good Norton, and others.

'A strange mixture in his mind, as I have told him! For he is certainly (as I have reason to say, looking back upon his past behaviour to me in twenty in|stances) a hard-hearted man.—Indeed, my dear, I have thought more than once, that he had rather see me in tears, than give me reason to be pleased with him.

'My cousin Morden says, that free livers are re|morseless (a) 26.5. And so they must be in the very na|ture of things.

'Mr. Lovelace is a proud man. That we have long observed. And I am truly afraid, that his very generosity is more owing to his pride and his vanity, than to that philanthropy, which distinguishes a bene|ficent mind.

'Money he values not, but as a means to support his pride and his independence. And it is easy, as I have often thought, for a person to part with a secondary appetite, when, by so doing, he can pro|mote or gratify a first.

'I am afraid, my dear, that there must have been some fault in his Education. His natural byas was not, I fancy, sufficiently attended to. He was in|structed, perhaps (as his power was likely to be

large), to do good and beneficent actions; but not from proper motives, I doubt.

'If he had, his generosity would not have stopt at pride, but would have struck into humanity; and then would he not have contented himself with do|ing praiseworthy things by fits and starts, or, as if relying on the doctrine of merits, he hoped by a good action to atone for a bad one (a) 26.6; but he would have been uniformly noble, and done the good for its own sake.

'O my dear! what a lot have I drawn! Pride his virtue; and Revenge his other predominating qua|lity!—This one consolation, however, remains: He is not an infidel, an unbeliever: Had he been an infidel, there would have been no room at all for hope of him; but (priding himself, as he does, in his fertile invention) he would have been utterly abandoned, irreclaimable, and a savage.'

When she comes to relate those occasions, which Mr. Lovelace in his narrative, acknowleges himself to be affected by, she thus expresses herself:

'He endeavoured, as once before, to conceal his emotion. But why, my dear, should these men (for Mr. Lovelace is not singular in this) think them|selves above giving these beautiful proofs of a feeling

heart? Were it in my power again to choose, or refuse, I would reject the man with contempt, who sought to suppress, or offered to deny, the power of being affected upon proper occasions, as either a savage-hearted creature, or as one who was so ig|norant of the principal glory of the human nature, as to place his pride in a barbarous insensibility.

'These lines translated from Juvenal by Mr. Tate, 'I have been often pleased with: Compassion proper to mankind appears, Which nature witness'd, when she lent us tears. Of tender sentiments WE only give These proofs: To weep is OUR prerogative; To shew by pitying looks, and melting eyes, How with a suff'ring friend we sympathize. Who can all sense of others ills escape, Is but a brute at best, in human shape. THIS natural piety did first refine Our wit, and rais'd our thoughts to things divine: THIS proves our spirit of the gods descent, While that of beasts is prone and downward bent. To them, but earth-born life they did dispense; To us, for mutual aid, celestial sense.

SHE takes notice, to the advantage of the people of the house, that such a good man, as Captain Tom|linson, had spoken well of them, upon inquiry.

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

Tuesday, May 30.

I Have a letter from Lord M. Such a one as I would wish for, if I intended matrimony. But as matters are circumstanced, I cannot think of shew|ing it to my Beloved.

My Lord regrets,

'that he is not to be the Lady's nuptial father. He seems apprehensive that I have

still, specious as my reasons are, some mischief in my head.'

He graciously consents,

'that I may marry when I please; and offers one or both of my cousins to assist my bride, and to support her spirits on the oc|casion; since, as he understands, she is so much afraid to venture with me.'

'Pritchard, he tells me, has his final orders to draw up deeds, to assign over to me in perpetuity 1000 l. per annum; which he will execute the same hour that the Lady in person owns her marriage.'

He consents,

'that the jointure be made from my own estate.'

He wishes,

'that the Lady would have accepted of his draught; and commends me for tendering it to her. But reproaches me for pride in not keeping it myself. What the right-side gives up, the left, he says, may be the better for.'

The girls, he means.

With all my heart. If I can have Miss Clarissa Harlowe, the devil take every thing else.

A good deal of other stuff writes this stupid Peer; scribbling in several places half a dozen lines, appa|rently for no other reason, but to bring in as many musty words in an old saw.

If thou askest, How I can manage, since my Be|loved will wonder, that I have not an answer from my Lord to such a letter as I wrote to him; and if I own I have one, will expect that I should shew it to her, as I did my letter?—This I answer—That I can: be informed by Pritchard, that my Lord has the gout in his right-hand; and has ordered him to attend me in form, for my particular orders about the trans|fer: And I can see Pritchard, thou knowest, at the King's Arms, or where I please in town; and he, by word of mouth, can acquaint me with everything in my Lord's letter that is necessary for her to know.

Whenever it suits me, I can restore the old Peer to

his right hand, and then can make him write a much more sensible letter than this he has how sent me.

Thou knowest, that an adroitness in the art of ma|nual imitation, was one of my earliest attainments. It has been said, on this occasion, that had I been a bad man in meum and tuum matters, I should not have been fit to live. As to the girls, we hold it no sin to cheat them. And are we not told, that in being well deceived consists the whole of human happiness?

Wednesday, May 31.

ALL still happier and happier. A very high honour done me: A chariot, instead of a coach, permitted, purposely to indulge me in the subject of subjects.

Our discourse in this sweet airing turned upon our future manner of life. The day is bashfully promised me. Soon, was the answer to my repeated urgency. Our equipage, our servants, our liveries, were parts of the delightful subject. A desire that the wretch who had given me intelligence out of the family [honest Joseph Leman] might not be one of our menials; and her resolution to have her faithful Hannah, whe|ther recovered or not; were signified; and both as readily assented to.

The reconciliation prospect was enlarged upon. If her uncle Harlowe will but pave the way to it, and if it can be brought about, she shall be happy.—Happy, with a sigh, as it is Now possible she can be!—She won't forbear, Jack!

I told her, that I had heard from Pritchard, just be|fore we set out, and expected him in town to-morrow from Lord M. to take my directions. I spoke with gratitude of my Lord's kindness to me; and with pleasure of my aunt's and cousin's veneration for her: As also of his Lordship's concern that his gout hin|der'd him from writing a reply with his own hand to my last.

She pitied my Lord. She pitied poor Mrs. Fretcli|ville

too; for she had the goodness to inquire after her. The dear creature pitied every-body that seemed to want pity. Happy in her own prospects, she has lei|sure to look abroad, and wishes every-body equally happy.

It is likely to go very hard with Mrs. Fretchville. Her face, which she had valued herself upon, will be utterly ruin'd. This good, however, she may reap from so great an evil:—As the greater malady generally swallows up the less, she may have a grief on this occasion, that may diminish the other grief, and make it tolerable.

I had a gentle reprimand for this light turn on so heavy an evil.—For what was the loss of beauty to the loss of a good husband?—Excellent creature!

Her hopes, and her pleasure upon those hopes, that Miss Howe's mother would be reconciled to her, were also mentioned. Good Mrs. Howe was her word, for a woman so covetous, and so remorseless in her cove|tousness, that no one else would call her good. But this dear creature has such an extension in her love, as to be capable of valuing the most insignificant animal related to those whom she respects. Love me, and love my dog, I have heard Lord M. say.—Who knows, but that I may in time, in compliment to myself, bring her to think well of thee, Jack?

But what am I about?—Am I not all this time arraigning my own heart?—I know I am, by the re|morse I feel in it, while my pen bears testimony to her excellence. But yet I must add (for no selfish consideration shall hinder me from doing justice to this admirable creature), that in this conversation she de|monstrated so much prudent knowlege in every thing that relates to that part of the domestic management, which falls under the care of a mistress of a family, that I believe she has no equal of her years in the world.

I break off, to re-peruse some of Miss Howe's viru|lence.

Cursed letters, these of Miss Howe, Jack!—Do thou turn back to those of mine, where I take notice of them.—I proceed—

Upon the whole, my charmer was all gentleness, all ease, all serenity, throughout this sweet excursion. Nor had she reason to be otherwise: For it being the first time that I had the honour of her company sola, I was resolved to encourage her, by my respectful|ness, to repeat the favour.

On our return, I found the counsellor's clerk waiting for me, with a draught of the marriage-settlements.

They are drawn, with only the necessary variations, from those made for my mother. The original of which (now returned by the counsellor), as well as the new draughts, I have put into my Beloved's hands.

This made the lawyer's work easy; nor can she have a better precedent; the great Lord S. having settled them, at the request of my mother's relations; all the difference, my charmer's are 100 l. per annum more than my mother's.

I offer'd to read to her the old deed, while she looked over the draught; for she had refused her presence at the examination with the clerk: But this she also de|clined.

I suppose she did not care to hear of so many chil|dren, first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh sons, and as many daughters, to be begotten upon the body of the said Clarissa Harlowe.

Charming matrimonial recitativoes!—tho' it is al|ways said lawfully begotten too—As if a man could beget children unlawfully upon the body of his own wife.—But thinkest thou not that these arch rogues the lawyers hereby intimate, that a man may have children by his wife before marriage?—This must be what they mean. Why will these sly fellows put an honest man in mind of such rogueries?—But hence,

as in numberless other instances, we see, that Law and Gospel are two very different things.

Dorcas, in our absence, tried to get at the wain|scot box in the dark closet. But it cannot be done without violence. And to run a risque of conse|quence now, for mere curiosity-sake, would be inex|cusable.

Mrs. Sinclair and the nymphs are all of opinion, that I am now so much of a favourite, and have such a visible share in her confidence, and even in her affec|tions, that I may do what I will, and plead violence of passion; which, they will have it, makes violence of action pardonable with their sex; as well as an al|lowed extenuation with the unconcerned of both sexes; and they all offer their helping hands. Why not? they say: Has she not passed for my wife before them all?—And is she not in a fine way of being re|conciled to her friends; which was the pretence for postponing consummation?

They again urge me, since it is so difficult to make night my friend, to an attempt in the day. They re|mind me, that the situation of their house is such, that no noises can be heard out of it; and ridicule me for making it necessary for a lady to be undressed. It was not always so with me, poor old man! Sally told me; saucily flinging her handkerchief in my face.

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

Friday, June 2.

NOtwithstanding my studied for politeness and complaisance for some days past; and though I have wanted courage to throw the mask quite aside; yet I have made the dear creature more than once look about her, by the warm, tho' decent expressions of my passion. I have brought her to own, that I am

more than indifferent to her: But as to LOVE, which I pressed her to acknowlege, What need of acknowlege|ments of that sort, when a woman consents to marry?—And once repulsing me with displeasure, The proof of the true love I was vowing for her, was respect, not freedom. And offering to defend myself, she told me, that all the conception she had been able to form of a faulty passion, was, that it must demonstrate itself as mine sought to do.

I endeavoured to justify my passion, by laying over-delicacy at her door. That was not, she said, my fault, if it were hers. She must plainly tell me, that I appeared to her incapable of distinguishing what were the requisites of a pure mind. Perhaps, had the liber|tine presumption to imagine, that there was no differ|ence in heart, nor any but what proceeded from edu|cation and custom, between the pure and the impure—And yet custom alone, as she observed, would make a second nature, as well in good as in bad habits.

I HAVE just now been called to account for some innocent liberties which I thought myself intitled to take before the women; as they suppose us married, and now within view of consummation.

I took the lecture very hardly; and with impati|ence wish'd for the happy day and hour, when I might call her all my own, and meet with no check from a niceness that had no example.

She looked at me with a bashful kind of contempt. I thought it contempt, and required the reason for it; not being conscious of offence, as I told her.

This is not the first time, Mr. Lovelace, said she, that I have had cause to be displeased with you, when you, perhaps, have not thought yourself exception|able.—But, Sir, let me tell you, that the married state, in my eye, is a state of purity, and (I think she told me) not of licentiousness; so at least, I understood her.

Marriage-purity, Jack!—Very comical, 'faith—Yet, sweet dears, half the female world ready to run away with a rake, because he is a rake; and for no other reason; nay, every other reason against their choice.

But have not you and I, Belford, seen young wives, who would be thought modest; and when maids, were fantastically shy; permit freedoms in public from their lambent husbands, which have shewn, that they have forgot what belongs either to prudence or de|cency? While every modest eye has sunk under the shameless effrontery, and every modest face been co|vered with blushes for those who could not blush.

I once, upon such an occasion, proposed to a circle of a dozen, thus scandalized, to withdraw; since they must needs see that as well the lady, as the gentleman, wanted to be in private. This motion had its effect upon the amorous pair; and I was applauded for the check given to their licentiousness.

But, upon another occasion of this sort, I acted a little more in character.—For I ventured to make an attempt upon a bride, which I should not have had the courage to make, had not the unblushing passive|ness with which she received her fond husband's public toyings (looking round her with triumph rather than with shame, upon every lady present), incited my curiosity to know if the same complacency might not be shewn to a private friend. 'Tis true, I was in ho|nour obliged to keep the secret. But I never saw the turtles bill afterwards, but I thought of Number Two to the same female; and in my heart thanked the fond husband for the lesson he had taught his wife.

From what I have said, thou wilt see, that I ap|prove of my beloved's exception to public loves. That, I hope, is all the charming Isicle means by marriage-purity.

From the whole of the above, thou wilt gather, that I have not been a mere dangler, a Hickman, in

the passed days, though not absolutely active, and a Lovelace.

The dear creature now considers herself as my wife-elect. The unsadden'd heart, no longer prudish, will not now, I hope, give the fable turn to every action of the man she dislikes not. And yet she must keep up so much reserve, as will justify past inflexibilities. Many and many a pretty soul would yield, were she not afraid that the man she favoured would think the worse of her for it. This is also a part of the Rake's Creed. But should she resent ever so strongly, she cannot now break with me; since, if she does, there will be an end of the family reconciliation; and that in a way highly discreditable to herself.

Sat. June 3.

JUST returned from Doctors-Commons. I have been endeavouring to get a licence. Very true, Jack. I have the mortification to find a difficulty in obtain|ing this all-fettering instrument, as the Lady is of rank and fortune, and as there is no consent of fa|ther or next friend.

I made report of this difficulty. It is very right, she says, that such difficulties should be made. But not to a man of my known fortune, surely, Jack, tho' the woman were the daughter of a duke.

I asked, If she approved of the settlements? She said, She had compared them with my mother's, and had no objection. She had written to Miss Howe upon the subject, she owned; and to inform her of our present situation (a) 30.1.

JUST now, in high good humour, my beloved re|turned me the draughts of the settlements; a copy of which I had sent to Captain Tomlinson. She com|plimented me, that she never had any doubt of my

honour in cases of this nature.—In matters between man and man nobody ever had, thou knowest. I had need, thou'lt say, to have some good qualities.

Great faults and great virtues are often found in the same person. In nothing very bad, but as to women: And did not one of them begin with me (a) 30.2?

We have held, that women have no souls: I am a very Jew in this point, and willing to believe they have not. And if so, to whom shall I be account|able for what I do to them? Nay, if souls they have, as there is no sex in Ethereals, nor need of any, what plea can a lady hold of injuries done her in her lady-state, when there is an end of her lady-ship?

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

Monday, June 5.

I Am now almost in despair of succeeding with this charming frost-piece by love or gentleness.—A copy of the draughts, as I told thee, has been sent to Captain Tomlinson; and that by a special messenger. Ingrossments are proceeding with. I have been again at the Commons. Should in all probability have pro|cured a licence by Malory's means, had not Malory's friend the proctor been suddenly sent for to Cheshunt, to make an old lady's will. Pritchard has told me by word of mouth, though my charmer saw him not, all that was necessary for her to know in the letter my Lord wrote, which I could not shew her; and taken my directions about the estates to be made over to me on my nuptials.—Yet with all these favourable ap|pearances no conceding moment to be sound, no im|proveable tenderness to be raised.

Twice indeed with rapture, which once she called rude, did I salute her; and each time, resenting the freedom, did she retire; tho', to do her justice, she

favoured me again with her presence at my first in|treaty, and took no notice of the cause of her with|drawing.

Is it policy to shew so open a resentment for inno|cent liberties, which, in her situation, she must so soon forgive?

Yet the woman who resents not initiatory freedoms must be lost. For Love is an incroacher. Love never goes backward. Love is always aspiring. Always must aspire. Nothing but the highest act of Love can satisfy an indulged Love. And what advantages has a lover, who values not breaking the peace, over his mistress, who is solicitous to keep it!

I have now at this instant wrought myself up, for the dozenth time, to a half-resolution. A thousand agreeable things I have to say to her. She is in the dining-room. Just gone up. She always expects me when there.

HIGH displeasure!—followed by an abrupt de|parture.

I sat down by her. I took both her hands in mine. I would have it so. All gentle my voice.—Her father mentioned with respect. Her mother with reverence. Even her brother amicably spoken of. I never thought I could have wished so ardently, as I told her I did wish, for a reconciliation with her family.

A sweet and grateful flush then overspread her fair face; a gentle sigh now-and-then heaved her hand|kerchief.

I perfectly long'd to hear from Captain Tomlinson. It was impossible for her uncle to find fault with the draught of the settlements: I would not, however, be understood, by sending them down, that I intended to put it in her uncle's power to delay my happy day. When, when, was it to be?

I would hasten again to the Commons; and would not return without the licence.

The Lawn I proposed to retire to, as soon as the happy ceremony was over. This day and that day I proposed.

It was time enough to name the day, when the settlements were completed, and the licence obtained. Happy should she be, could the kind Captain Tom|linson obtain her uncle's presence privately!

A good hint!—It may perhaps be improved upon—Either for a delay, or a pacifier.

No new delays, for heaven's sake, I besought her; reproaching her gently for the past. Name but the day—(an early day, I hoped in the following week)—that I might hail its approach, and number the tardy hours.

My cheek reclined on her shoulder—kissing her hands by turns. Rather bashfully than angrily re|luctant, her hands sought to be withdrawn; her shoul|der avoiding my reclined cheek—Apparently loth and more loth to quarrel with me; her downcast eye confessing more than her lips could utter.—Now surely, thought I, it is my time to try if she can for|give a still bolder freedom than I had ever yet taken.

I then gave her struggling hands liberty. I put one arm round her waist: I imprinted a kiss on her sweet lips, with a Be quiet only, and an averted face, as if she feared another.

Encouraged by so gentle a repulse, the tenderest things I said; and then, with my other hand, drew aside the handkerchief that concealed the beauty of beauties, and pressed with my burning lips the charmingest breast that ever my ravished eyes beheld.

A very contrary passion to that which gave her bo|som so delightful a swell, immediately took place. She struggled out of my incircling arms with in|dignation. I detained her reluctant hand. Let me go, said she. I see there is no keeping terms with you. Base incroacher! Is this the design of your flat|tering speeches?—Far as matters have gone, I will

for ever renounce you. You have an odious heart. Let me go, I tell you.—

I was forced to obey, and she flung from me, re|peating base, and adding flattering, incroacher.

IN vain have I urged by Dorcas for the promised favour of dining with her. She would not dine at all. She could not.

But why makes she every inch of her person thus sacred?—So near the time too, that she must suppose, that all will be my own, by deed of purchase and settlement?

She has read, no doubt, of the art of the Eastern monarchs, who sequester themselves from the eyes of their subjects, in order to excite their adoration, when, upon some solemn occasions, they think fit to appear in public.

But let me ask thee, Belford, whether (on these so|lemn occasions) the preceding cavalcade; here a great officer, and there a great minister, with their satellites, and glaring equipages; do not prepare the eyes of the wondering beholders, by degrees, to bear the blaze of canopy'd majesty (what tho' but an ugly old man per|haps himself? yet) glittering in the collected riches of his vast empire?

And should not my beloved, for her own sake, de|scend, by degrees, from goddess-hood into humanity? If it be pride that restrains her, ought not that pride to be punished? If, as in the Eastern emperors, it be art as well as pride, art is what she of all women need not use. If shame, what a shame to be ashamed to communicate to her adorer's sight the most admirable of her personal graces?

Let me perish, Belford, if I would not forego the brightest diadem in the world, for the pleasure of seeing a Twin-Lovelace at each charming breast, drawing from it his first sustenance; the pious task continued for one month, and no more!

I now, methinks, behold this most charming of women in this sweet office, pressing with her fine fingers the generous flood into the purple mouths of each eager hunter by turns: Her conscious eye now dropt on one, now on the other, with a sigh of ma|ternal tenderness; and then raised up to my delighted eye, full of wishes, for the sake of the pretty varlets, and for her own sake, that I would deign to legiti|mate; that I would condescend to put on the nuptial fetters.

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

Monday, P. M.

A Letter received from the worthy Captain Tom|linson, has introduced me into the presence of my charmer, sooner than perhaps I should otherwise have been admitted.

Sullen her brow, at her first entrance into the dine|ing-room. But I took no notice of what had passed, and her anger slid away upon its own ice.

'The Captain, after letting me know, that he chose not to write, till he had the promised draught of the settlements, acquaints me, that his friend Mr. John Harlowe, in their first conference (which was held as soon as he got down), was extremely surprized, and even grieved (as he feared he would be) to hear, that we were not married. The world, he said, who knew my character, would be very c••n|sorious, were it owned, that we had lived so long together unmarried in the same lodgings; altho' our marriage were now to be ever so publicly cele|brated.'

'His nephew James, he was sure, would make a great handle of it against any motion that might be made towards a reconciliation; and with the greater

success, as there was not a family in the kingdom more jealous of their honour than theirs.'

This is true of the Harlowes, Jack: They have been called The proud Harlowes: And I have ever found, that all young Honour is supercilious and touchy.

But seest thou not how right I was in my endeavour to persuade my fair one to allow her uncle's friend to think us married; especially as he came prepared to believe it; and as her uncle hoped it was so?—But nothing on earth is so perverse, as a woman when she is set upon carrying a point, and has a meek man, or one who loves his peace, to deal with.

My Beloved was vexed. She pulled out her hand|kerchief: But was more inclined to blame me, than herself.

Had you kept your word, Mr. Lovelace, and left me when we came to town—And there she stopt; for she knew, that it was her own fault that we were not marry'd before we left the country; and how could I leave her afterwards, while her brother was plotting to carry her off by violence?

Nor has he yet given over his machinations.

For, as the Captain proceeds,

'Mr. John Harlowe owned to him (but in confidence), that his nephew is at this time busied in endeavouring to find out where we are; being assured, as I am not to be heard of at any of my relations, or at my usual lodgings, that we are together. And that we are not mar|ried, is plain, as he will have it, from Mr. Hick|man's application so lately made to her uncle; and which was seconded by Mrs. Norton to her mother. And he cannot bear, that I should enjoy such a triumph unmolested.'

A profound sigh, and the handkerchief again lifted to the eye. But did not the sweet soul deserve this turn upon her, for her felonious intention to rob me of herself?

I read on to the following effect:

'Why (Mr. Harlowe asked) was it said to his other inquiring friend, that we were married; and that by his niece's woman, who ought to know? Who could give convincing reasons, no doubt'

—

Here again she wept, took a turn cross the room; then returned—Read on, said she—

Will you, my dearest life, read it yourself?

I will take the letter with me, by-and-by—I cannot see to read it just now, wiping her eyes.—Read on—Let me hear it all—that I may know your sentiments upon this letter, as well as give my own.

'The Captain then told uncle John, the reasons that induced me to give out that we were married; and the conditions on which my Beloved was brought to countenance it; which had kept us at the most punctilious distance.

'But still my character was insisted upon. And Mr. Harlowe went away dissatisfied. And the Cap|tain was also so much concerned, that he cared not to write what the result of this first conference was.

'But in the next, which was held on receipt of the draughts, at his the Captain's house (as the former was, for the greater secrecy), when the old gentle|man had read them, and had the Captain's opinion, he was much better pleased. And yet he declared, that it would not be easy to persuade any other per|son of his family to believe so favourably of the mat|ter, as he was now willing to believe, were they to know, that we had lived so long together unmar|ried.

'And then the Captain says, his dear friend made a proposal:—It was this—That we should marry 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of hand, but as privately as possible, as indeed h•• found we intended (for he could have no objection to the draughts)—But yet, he expected to have pr••|sent one trusty friend of his own, for his better satis|faction—

Here I stopt, with a design to be angry—But she desiring me to read on, I obeyed.—

'—But that it should pass to every one living, ex|cept to that trusty person, to himself, and to the Cap|tain, that we were married from the time that we had lived together in one house; and that this time should be made to agree with that of Mr. Hickman's appli|cation to him from Miss Howe.'

This, my dearest life, said I, is a very considerate proposal. We have nothing to do, but to caution the people below properly on this head. I did not think your uncle Harlowe capable of such an expe|dient. But you see how much his heart is in the re|conciliation.

This was the return I met with—You have always, as a mark of your politeness, let me know, how meanly you think of every one of my family.

Yet, thou wilt think, Belford, that I could forgive her for the reproach.

'The Captain does not know, he says, how this proposal will be relished by us. But, for his part, he thinks it an expedient that will obviate many difficulties, and may possibly put an end to Mr. James Harlowe's further designs: And on this ac|count he has, by the uncle's advice, already de|clared to two several persons, by whose means it may come to that young gentleman's ears, that he (Captain Tomlinson) has very great reason to be|lieve, that we were married soon after Mr. Hick|man's application was rejected.

'And this, Mr. Lovelace (says the Captain), will enable you to pay a compliment to the family, that will not be unsuitable to the generosity of some of the declarations you was pleased to make to the Lady before me (and which Mr. John Harlowe may make some advantage of in favour of a reconcilia|tion); in that you have not demanded your lady's estate so soon as you were intitled to make the de|mand.'

An excellent contriver surely she must think this worthy Mr. Tomlinson to be!

'But the Captain adds, that if either the Lady or I disapprove of his report of our marriage, he will retract it. Nevertheless he must tell me, that Mr. John Harlowe is very much set upon this way of proceeding; as the only one, in his opinion, ca|pable of being improved into a general reconcilia|tion. But if we do acquiesce in it, he beseeches my fair one not to suspend my day, that he may be authorized in what he says, as to the truth of the main fact [How conscientious this good man!]: Nor must it be expected, he says, that her uncle will take one step towards the wished-for recon|ciliation, till the solemnity is actually over.

He adds,

'that he shall be very soon in town on other affairs; and then proposes to attend us, and give us a more particular account of all that passed, or shall further pass, between Mr. Harlowe and him.'

Well, my dearest life, what say you to your uncle's expedient? Shall I write to the Captain, and ac|quaint him, that we have no objection to it?

She was silent for a few minutes. At last, with a sigh—See, Mr. Lovelace, said she, what you have brought me to, by treading after you in such crooked paths!—See what disgrace I have incurred!—Indeed you have not acted like a wise man.

My beloved creature, do you not remember, how earnestly I besought the honour of your hand before we came to town?—Had I been then favoured—

Well, well, Sir—There has been much amiss somewhere; that's all I will say at present. And since what's past cannot be recalled, my uncle must be obeyed, I think.

Charmingly dutiful!—I had nothing then to do, that I might not be behindhand with the worthy Cap|tain and her uncle, but to press for the day. This ••

fervently did. But (as I might have expected) her former answer was repeated, That when the settle|ments were completed; when the licence was actually obtained; it would be time enough to name the day: And, O Mr. Lovelace, said she, turning from me with a grace inimitably tender, her handkerchief at her eyes, what a happiness, if my dear uncle could be prevailed upon to be personally a father, on this occasion, to the poor fatherless girl!—

What's the matter with me!—Whence this dew|drop!—A tear!—As I hope to be saved, it is a tear, Jack!—Very ready methinks!—Only on reciting!—But her lively image was before me, in the very atti|tude she spoke the words—And indeed at the time she spoke them, these lines of Shakespeare came into my head.

Thy heart is big. Get thee apart, and weep! Passion, I see, is catching:—For my eyes, Seeing those beads of sorrow stand in thine, Begin to water—

I withdrew, and wrote to the Captain to the fol|lowing effect—

'That he would be so good as to ac|quaint his dear friend, that we intirely acquiesced with what he had proposed; and had already pro|perly cautioned the gentlewomen of the house, and their servants, as well as our own: That if he would in person give me the blessing of his dear niece's hand, it would crown the wishes of both: That his own day, in this case, as I presumed it would be a short one, should be ours: That by this means the secret would be in fewer hands: That I myself thought the ceremony could not be too privately performed; and this not only for the sake of the wise end he had intended to be answered by it, but because I would not have Lord M. think himself slighted; as he had once intended (as I had told him) to be our nup|tial father, had we not declined his offer, in order

to avoid a public wedding; which his beloved niece would not come into, while she was in disgrace with her friends.—But that, if he chose not to do us this honour, I wished that Captain Tomlinson might be the trusty person, whom he would have to be pre|sent on the happy occasion.'

I shewed this letter to my fair one. She was not displeased with it. So, Jack, we cannot now move too fast, as to Settlements and License: The day is her Uncle's day, or Captain Tomlinson's perhaps, as shall best suit the occasion. Miss Howe's Smug|gling scheme is now surely provided against in all events.

But I will not by anticipation make thee a judge of all the benefits that may flow from this my elaborate contrivance. Why will these girls put me upon my master-strokes?

And now for a little mine which I am getting ready to spring. The first, and at the rate I go on [now a resolution, and now a remorse], perhaps the last.

A little mine, I call it. But it may be attended with great effects. I shall not, however, absolutely depend upon the success of it, having much more effectual ones in reserve. And yet great engines are often moved by little springs. A small spark fal|ling by accident into a powder-magazine, has some|times done more execution, than an hundred cannon

Come, the worst to the worst, the hymeneal torch, and a white sheet, must be my amende honorable, as the French have it.

LETTER XLVII. Mr. BELFORD, To ROBERT LOVELACE, Esq

Tuesday, June 6.

UNSUCCESSFUL as hitherto my application to thee has been, I cannot for the heart of me for|bear writing once more in behalf of this admirable

woman: And yet am unable to account for the zeal which impels me to take her part with an earnestness so sincere.

But all her merit thou acknowlegest; all thy own vileness thou confessest, and even gloriest in it; what hope then of moving so harden'd a man?—Yet, as it is not too late, and thou art nevertheless upon the crisis, I am resolved to try what another letter will do. It is but my writing in vain, if it do no good; and if thou wilt let me prevail, I know thou wilt hereafter think me richly intitled to thy thanks.

To argue with thee would be folly. The case can|not require it. I will only intreat thee, therefore, that thou wilt not let such an excellence lose the re|ward of her vigilant virtue.

I believe, there never were libertines so vile, but purposed, at some future period of their lives, to set about reforming; and let me beg of thee, that thou wilt, in this great article, make thy future repentance as easy, as some time hence thou wilt wish thou hadst made it. If thou proceedest, I have no doubt, that this affair will end tragically, one way or other. It must. Such a woman must interest both gods and men in her cause. But what I most apprehend, is, that with her own hand, in resentment of the perpe|trated outrage, she (like another Lucretia) will assert the purity of her heart: Or, if her piety preserve her from this violence, that wasting grief will soon put a period to her days. And in either case, will not the remembrance of thy ever-during guilt, and transitory triumph, be a torment of torments to thee?

'Tis a seriously sad thing, after all, that so fine a creature should have fallen into such vile and remorse|less hands: For, from thy cradle, as I have heard thee own, thou ever delightedst to sport with and torment the animal, whether bird or beast, that thou lovedst, and hadst a power over.

How different is the case of this fine woman from

that of any other whom thou hast seduced! I need not mention to thee, nor insist upon the striking differ|ence: Justice, gratitude, thy interest, thy vows, all engaging thee; and thou certainly loving her, as far as thou art capable of love, above all her sex. She not to be drawn aside by art, or to be made to suffer from credulity, nor for want of wit and discernment (that will be another cutting reflection to so fine a mind as hers): The contention between you only unequal, as it is between naked innocence and armed guilt. In every thing else, as thou ownest, her talents greatly superior to thine!—What a fate will hers be, if thou art not at last overcome by thy reiterated remorses!

At first, indeed, when I was admitted into her presence (a) 30.3, and (till I observed her meaning air, and heard her speak), I supposed that she had no very uncommon judgment to boast of: For I made, as I thought, but just allowances for her blossoming youth, and for that loveliness of person, and easiness of dress, which I imagined must have taken up half her time and study to cultivate; and yet I had been prepared by thee to entertain a very high opinion of her sense and her reading. Her choice of this gay fellow, upon such hazardous terms (thought I), is a confirmation that her wit wants that maturity which only years and experience can give it. Her knowlege (argued I to my|self) must be all theory; and the complaisance ever consorting with an age so green and so gay, will make so inexperienced a lady at least forbear to shew her|self disgusted at freedoms of discourse, in which those present of her own sex, and some of ours (so learned, so well read, and so travelled), allow themselves.

In this presumption, I run on; and, having the advantage, as I conceited, of all the company but thee, and being desirous to appear in her eyes a mighty clever fellow, I thought I shewed away, when I said any foolish things that had more sound than sense 〈◊〉〈◊〉

them; and when I made silly jests, which attracted the smiles of thy Sinclair, and the specious Partington; and that Miss Harlowe did not smile too, I thought was owing to her youth or affectation, or to a mixture of both, perhaps to a greater command of her fea|tures.—Little dreamt I, that I was incurring her con|tempt all the time.

But when, as I said, I heard her speak; which she did not till she had fathomed us all; when I heard her sentiments on two or three subjects, and took no|tice of that searching eye, darting into the very inmost cells of our frothy brains, by my faith, it made me look about me; and I began to recollect, and be ashamed of all I had said before; in short, was re|solved to sit silent, till every one had talk'd round, to keep my folly in countenance. And then I raised the subjects that she could join in, and which she did join in, so much to the confusion and surprize of every|one of us!—For even thou, Lovelace, so noted for smart wit, repartee, and a vein of raillery, that de|lighteth all who come near thee, sattest in palpable darkness, and lookedst about thee, as well as we.

One instance only, of this, shall I remind thee of?

We talked of wit, and of wit, and aimed at it, bandying it like a ball from one to another of us, and resting it chiefly with thee, who wert always proud enough and vain enough of the attribute; and then more especially, as thou hadst assembled us, as far as I know, principally to shew the lady thy superiority over us; and us thy triumph over her. And then Tour|ville (who is always satisfied with wit at second-hand; wit upon memory; other mens with), repeated some verses, as applicable to the subject; which two of us applauded, tho' full of double entendre. Thou, see|ing the lady's serious air on one of those repetitions, appliedst thyself to her, desiring her notions of wit: A quality, thou saidst, which every one prized, whe|ther flowing from himself, or found in another.

Then it was she took all our attention:—It was a quality much talked of, she said, but, she believed, very little understood:—At least, if she might be so free as to give her judgment of it, from what had passed in the present conversation, she must say, that Wit with Gentlemen was one thing; with Ladies, another.

This startled us all:—How the women looked!—How they pursed in their mouths, a broad smile the moment before upon each, from the verses they had heard repeated, so well understood, as we saw, by their looks—While I besought her to let us know, for our instruction, what Wit was with Ladies: For such I was sure it ought to be, with Gentlemen.

Cowley, she said, had defined it prettily by ne|gatives.

Thou desiredst her to repeat his definition.

She did; and with so much graceful ease, and beau|ty, and propriety of accent, as would have made bad poetry delightful.

A thousand diff'rent shapes it bears, Comely, in thousand shapes appears. 'Tis not a tale: 'Tis not a jest, Admir'd, with laughter, at a feast, Nor florid talk, which must this title gain: The proofs of wit for ever must remain. Much less can that have any place At which a virgin hides her face. Such dross the fire must purge away:—'Tis just The author blush there, where the reader must.

Here she stopt, looking round her upon us all with conscious superiority, as I thought. Lord! how we star'd! Thou attemptedst to give us thy definition of wit, that thou mightest have something to say, and not seem to be surprised into silent modesty.

But, as if she cared not to trust thee with the sub|ject, referring to the same author as for his more posi|tive

decision, she thus, with the same harmony of voice and accent, emphatically decided upon it.

Wit, like a luxuriant vine, Unless to Virtue's prop it join, Firm and erect, tow'rd heaven bound, Tho' it with beauteous leaves and pleasant fruit be crown'd; It lies deform'd, and rotting on the ground.

If thou recollectest this part of the conversation, and how like fools we looked at one another: How much it put us out of conceit with ourselves, and made us fear her; when we found our conversation thus ex|cluded from the very character which our vanity had made us think unquestionably ours: And if thou pro|fitest properly by the recollection, thou wilt be of my mind, that there is not so much wit in wickedness, as we had flattered ourselves there was.

And after all, I have been of opinion ever since that conversation, that the wit of all the rakes and libertines I ever convers'd with, from the brilliant Bob Lovelace down to little Johnny Hartop the punster, consists mostly in saying bold and shocking things, with such courage, as shall make Modest people blush, the Impudent laugh, and the Ignorant stare.

And why dost thou think I mention these things, so mal-à-propos, as it may seem?—Only, let me tell thee, as an instance, among many that might be given from the same evening's conversation, of this fine l••dy's superiority in those talents which ennoble na|ture, and dignify her sex: Evidenced not only to each of us, as we offended, but to the flippant Partington, and the grosser, but egregiously hypocritical Sinclair, in the correcting eye, the discouraging blush, in which was mixed as much displeasure as modesty, and some|times, as the occasion called for it (for we were some of us hardened above the sense of feeling delicate re|proof),

by the sovereign contempt, mingled with a disdainful kind of pity, that shewed, at once, her own conscious worthy, and our despicable worthles|ness.

O Lovelace! what then was the triumph, even in my eye, and what is it still upon reflection, of true modesty, of true wit, and true politeness, over frothy jest, laughing impertinence, and an obscenity so shame|ful, even to the guilty, that they cannot hint at it but under a double meaning!

Then, as thou hast somewhere observed, all her correctives avowed by her eye. Not poorly, like the generality of her sex, affecting ignorance of meanings too obvious to be concealed; but so resenting, as to shew each impudent laugher, the offence given to, and taken by, a purity, that had mistaken its way, when it fell into such company.

Such is the woman, such is the angel, whom thou hast betrayed into thy power, and wouldst deceive and ruin.—Sweet creature! did she but know, how she is surrounded (as I then thought as well as now think), and what is intended, how much sooner would death be her choice, than so dreadful a situation!—And how effectually would her story, were it generally known, warn all the Sex against throwing themselves into the power of ours, let our vows, oaths, and protestations, be what they will!

But let me beg of thee, once more, my dear Love|lace, if thou hast any regard for thy honour, for the honour of thy family, for thy future peace, or for my opinion of thee (who yet pretend not to be so much moved by principle, as by that dazling merit, which ought still more to attract thee), to be prevailed upon—to be—to be humane, that's all—Only, that thou wouldest not disgrace our common humanity!

Hardened as thou art, I know, that they are the abandoned people in the house who keep thee up to a resolution against her. O that the sagacious fair one,

with so much innocent charity in her own heart, had not so resolutely held those women at distance!—That, as she boarded there, she had oftener tabled with them. Specious as they are, in a week's time, she would have seen thro' them; they could not have been always so guarded, as they were when they saw her but seldom, and when they prepared themselves to see her; and she would have fled their house as a place infected. And yet, perhaps, with so determined an enterprizer, this discovery might have accelerated her ruin.

I know that thou art nice in thy loves. But are there not hundreds of women, who, tho' not utterly abandoned, would be taken with thee for mere per|sonal regards? Make a toy, if thou wilt, of principle, with regard to such of the Sex as regard it as a toy; but rob not an angel of those purities, which, in her own opinion, constitute the difference between ange|lic and brutal qualities.

With regard to the passion itself, the less of soul in either man or woman, the more sensual are they. Thou, Lovelace, hast a soul, tho' a corrupted one; and art more intent (as thou even gloriest) upon the preparative stratagem, than upon the end of conquer|ing.

See we not the natural bent of idiots and the crazed?—The very appetite is body; and when we ourselves are most fools, and crazed, then are we most eager in these pursuits. See what fools this pas|sion makes the wisest men! What snivellers, what dotards, when they suffer themselves to be run away with by it!—An unpermanent passion!—Since, if (ashamed of its more proper name) we must call it Love, Love gratified, is Love satisfied—And Love satisfied, is Indifference begun. And this is the case where consent on one side adds to the obligation on the other. What then but remorse can follow a forcible attempt?

Do not even chaste lovers choose to be alone in their courtship preparations, ashamed to have even a child to witness to their foolish actions, and more foolish expressions?—Is this deified passion, in its greatest altitudes, fitted to stand the day?—Do not the lovers, when mutual consent awaits their wills, retire to co|verts and to darkness, to complete their wishes? And shall such a sneaking passion as this, which can be so easily gratified by viler objects, be permitted to debase the noblest?

Were not the delays of thy vile purposes owing more to the awe which her majestic virtue has in|spired thee with, than to thy want of adroitness in villainy [I must write my free sentiments in this case; for have I not seen the angel?]; I should be ready to censure some of thy contrivances and pretences to sus|pend the expected day, as trite, stale, and (to me, who know thy intention) poor; and too often resorted to, as nothing comes of them, to be gloried in; parti|cularly that of Mennell, the vapourish lady, and the ready-furnished house.

She must have thought so too, at times, and in her heart despised thee for them, or love thee (ingrateful as thou art) to her misfortune; as well as entertain hope against probability. But this would afford an|other warning to the Sex, were they to know her story; as it would shew them what poor pretences they must seem to be satisfied with, if once they put themselves into the power of a designing man.

If trial only was thy end, as once was thy pre|tence (a) 30.4, enough surely hast thou tried this paragon of virtue and vigilance. But I knew thee too well, to expect, at the time, that thou wouldest stop there. Men of our cast, whenever they form a design upon any of the Sex, put no other bound to their views, than what want of power gives them. I knew, that from one advantage gained, thou wouldest proceed to

attempt another. Thy habitual aversion to wedlock too well I knew; and indeed thou avowest thy hope to bring her to cohabitation, in that very letter in which thou pretendest trial to be thy principal view (a) 30.5.

But do not even thy own frequent and involuntary remorses, when thou hast time, place, company, and every other circumstance, to favour thee in thy wicked design, convince thee, that there can be no room for a hope so presumptuous?—Why then, since thou wouldst choose to marry her, rather than lose her, wilt thou make her hate thee for ever?

But if thou darest to meditate personal trial, and art sincere in thy resolution to reward her, as she behaves in it, let me beseech thee to remove her from this vile house: That will be to give her and thy conscience fair play. So intirely now does the sweet deluded excellence depend upon her supposed happier pro|spects, that thou needest not to fear that she will fly from thee, or that she will wish to have recourse to that scheme of Miss Howe, which has put thee upon what thou callest thy master-strokes.

But whatever be thy determination on this head; and if I write not in time, but that thou hast actually pulled off the mask; let it not be one of thy devices, if thou wouldst avoid the curses of every heart, and hereafter of thy own, to give her, no not for one hour (be her resentment ever so great), into the power of that villainous woman, who has, if possible, less remorse than thyself; and whose trade it is to break the resisting spirit, and utterly to ruin the heart un|practised in evil.—O Lovelace, Lovelace, how many dreadful stories could this horrid woman tell the Sex! And shall that of Miss Clarissa Harlowe swell the guilty list?

But this I might have spared. Of this, devil as

thou art, thou canst not be capable. Thou couldst not enjoy a triumph so disgraceful to thy wicked pride, as well as to humanity.

Shouldst thou think, that the melancholy spectacle hourly before me has made me more serious than usual, perhaps thou wilt not be mistaken. But no|thing more is to be inferr'd from hence (were I even to return to my former courses), but that whenever the time of cool reflection comes, whether brought on by our own disasters, or by those of others, we shall un|doubtedly, if capable of thought, and if we have time for it, think in the same manner.

We neither of us are such fools, as to disbelieve a futurity, or to think, whatever be our practice, that we came hither by chance, and for no end but to do all the mischief that we have in our power to do.—Nor am I ashamed to own, that in the prayers which my poor uncle makes me read to him, in the absence of a very good clergyman, who regularly attends him, I do not forget to put in a word or two for my|self.

If, Lovelace, thou laughest at me, thy ridicule will be more conformable to thy actions, than to thy belief.—Devils believe and tremble. Canst thou be more abandoned than they?

And here let me add, with regard to my poor old man, that I often wish thee present but for one half hour in a day, to see the dregs of a gay life running off in the most excruciating tortures, that the colic, the stone, and the gangrene, can unitedly inflict; and to hear him bewail the dissoluteness of his past life, in the bitterest anguish of a spirit every hour expecting to be called to its last account.—Yet, by all his confes|sions, he has not to accuse himself in sixty-seven years of life, of half the very vile enormities, which you and I have committed in the last seven only.

I conclude with recommending to thy serious con|sideration

all I have written, as proceeding from the heart and soul of

Thy assured friend, JOHN BELFORD.

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

Tuesday, P. M. June 6.

DIfficulties still to be got over in procuring this plaguy licence. I ever hated, and ever shall hate, these spiritual lawyers, and their court.

And now, Jack, if I have not secured victory, I have a retreat.

But hold—Thy servant with a letter—

A confounded long one! tho' not a narrative one—Once more in behalf of the lady.—Lie thee down, oddity! What canst thou write that can have force upon me at this crisis?—And have I not, as I went along, made thee to say all that was necessary for thee to say?

Yet once more, I'll take thee up.

Trite, stale, poor (say'st thou) are some of my con|trivances? That of the widow's particularly!—I have no patience with thee.—Had not that contrivance its effect at the time, for a procrastination?—And had I not then reason to fear, that she would find enough to make her dislike this house? And was it not right (intending what I intended) to lead her on from time o•• time, with a notion, that a house of her own would be ready for her soon, in order to induce her to con|tinue here till it was?

Trite, stale, and poor!—Thou art a silly fellow, and no judge, when thou sayest this. Had I not, like a blockhead, revealed to thee, as I went along, the secret purposes of my heart, but had kept all in, till

the event had explained my mysteries, I would have defy'd thee to have been able, any more than the lady, to have guessed at what was to befal her, till it had actually come to pass. Nor doubt I, in this case, that, instead of presuming to reflect upon her for credulity, as loving me to her misfortune, and for hoping against probability, thou wouldest have been readier by far, to censure her for nicety and over-scrupulousness. And let me tell thee, that had she loved me, as I wished her to love me, she could not possibly have been so very apprehensive of my designs; nor so ready to be influenced by Miss Howe's pre|cautions, as she has always been, altho' my general character made not for me with her.

But in thy opinion, I suffer for that simplicity in my contrivances, which is their principal excellence. No machinery make I necessary. No unnatural flights aim I at. All pure nature, taking advantage of na|ture, as nature tends; and so simple my devices, that when they are known, thou, even thou, imaginest, thou couldest have thought of the same. And indeed thou seemest to own, that the slight thou puttest upon them, is owing to my letting thee into them before|hand; undistinguishing, as well as ingrateful as thou art!

Yet, after all, I would not have thee think, that I do not know my weak places. I have formerly told thee, that it is difficult for the ablest general to say what he will do, or what he can do, when he is obliged to regulate his motions by those of a watch|ful enemy (a) 30.6. If thou givest due weight to this con|sideration, thou wilt not wonder that I should make many marches and countermarches, some of which may appear to a slight observer unnecessary.

But let me cursorily enter into this debate with thee on this subject, now I am within sight of my journey's end.

Abundance of impertinent things thou tellest me in this letter; some of which thou hadst from myself; others that I knew before.

All that thou sayest in this charming creature's praise, is short of what I have said and written, on this inexhaustible subject.

Her virtue, her resistance, which are her merits, are my stimulatives. Have I not told thee so twenty times over?

Devil, as these girls between them call me, what of devil am I, but in my contrivances? I am not more a devil, than others, in the end I aim at; for when I have carried my point, it is still but one seduction. And I have perhaps been spared the guilt of many se|ductions, in the time.

What of uncommon would there be in this case, but for her watchfulness?—As well as I love intrigue and stratagem, dost think, that I had not rather have gained my end with less trouble and less guilt?

The man, let me tell thee, who is as wicked as he can be, is a worse man than I am. Let me ask any Rake in England, if, resolving to carry his point, he would have been so long about it? or have had so much compunction as I have had?

Were every Rake, nay, were every Man, to sit down, as I do, and write all that enters into his head or into his heart, and to accuse himself with equal freedom and truth, what an army of miscreants should I have to keep me in countenance!

It is a maxim with some, that if they are left alone with a woman, and make not an attempt upon her, she will think herself affronted.—Are not such men as these worse than I am?—What an opinion must they have of the whole Sex?

Let me defend the Sex I so dearly love.—If these elder brethren of ours, thirsk they have general reason for their assertion, they must have kept very bad company, or must judge of womens hearts by their

own. She must be an abandoned woman, who will not shrink as a snail into its shell, at a gross and sud|den attempt. A modest woman must be naturally cold, reserved, and shy. She cannot be so much, and so soon affected, as libertines are apt to imagine; and must, at least, have some confidence in the ho|nour and silence of a man, before desire can possibly put forth in her, to encourage and meet his flame. For my own part, I have been always decent in the company of women, till I was sure of them. Nor have I ever offered a great offence, till I have found little ones passed over; and that they shunn'd me not, when they knew my character.

My divine Clarissa has puzzled me, and beat me out of my play: At one time, I hoped to overcome by intimidating her, at another by Love; by the amorous See-saw, as I have called it (a) 30.7. And I have only now to join surprize to the other two, and see what can be done by all three.

And whose property, I pray thee, shall I invade, if I pursue my schemes of love and vengeance?—Have not those who have a right in her, renounced that right?—Have they not wilfully exposed her to dangers?—Yet must know, that such a woman would be considered as lawful prize, by as many as could have the opportunity to attempt her?—And had they not thus cruelly exposed her, is she not a single woman?—And need I tell thee, Jack, that men of our cast, the best of them [the worst stick at no|thing] think it a great grace and favour done to the married men, if they leave them their wives to them|selves; and compound for their sisters, daughters, wards, and nieces?—Shocking as these principles must be to a reflecting mind; yet such thou knowest are the principles of thousands (who would not act by the Sex as I have acted by them, when in my power); and as often carried into practice, as their opportuni|ties

or courage will permit.—Such therefore have no right to blame me.

Thou repeatedly pleadest her sufferings from her family. But I have too often answered this plea, to need to say any more now, than that she has not suf|fered for my sake. For has she not been made the victim of the malice of her rapacious brother and en|vious sister, who only waited for an occasion to ruin her with her other relations; and took this as the first, to drive her out of the house; and, as it happen'd, into my arms?—Thou knowest how much against her inclination.

As for her own sins, how many has the dear crea|ture to answer for to Love and to me!—Twenty, and twenty times twenty, has she not told me, that she refused not the odious Solmes in favour to me? And as often has she not offered to renounce me for the single life, if the Implacables would have received her on that condition?—What repetitions does thy weak pity make me guilty of?

To look a little farther back: Canst thou forget what my sufferings were from this haughty beauty, in the whole time of my attendance upon her proud mo|tions, in the purlieus of Harlowe-Place, and at the little White Hart at Neale, as we called it?—Did I not threaten vengeance upon her then (and had I not reason?) for disappointing me [I will give but this one instance] of a promised interview?

O Jack! what a night had I of it, in the bleak coppice adjoining to her father's paddock!—My linen and wig frozen; my limbs absolutely numbed; my fingers only sensible of so much warmth, as enabled me to hold a pen; and that obtained by rubbing the skin off, and beating with my hands my shivering sides.—Kneeling on the hoar moss on one knee, writing on the other, if the stiff scrawl could be cal|led writing.—My feet, by the time I had done, seem|ing to have taken root, and actually unable to support

me for some minutes!—Love and Rage kept then my heart in motion (and only Love and Rage could do it), or how much more than I did suffer, must I have suffered?

I told thee, at my melancholy return, what were the contents of the letter I wrote (a) 30.8. And I shewed thee afterwards, her tyrannical answer to it (b) 30.9. Thou then, Jack, lovedst thy friend; and pitiedst thy poor suffering Lovelace. Even the affronted God of Love approved then of my threatened vengeance against the fair promiser; tho' now with thee, in the day of my power, forgetful of the night of my sufferings, he is become an advocate for her.

Nay, was it not he himself that brought to me my adorable Nemesis; and both together put me upon this very vow,

'That I would never rest, till I had drawn in this goddess-daughter of the Harlowes, to coha|bit with me; and that in the face of all their proud family?'

—Nor canst thou forget this vow.—At this instant I have thee before me, as then thou sorrowfully lookedst.

Thy strong features glowing with compassion for me; thy lips twisted; thy forehead furrowed; thy whole face drawn out from the stupid round into the ghastly oval; every muscle contributing its power to complete the aspect grievous; and not one word couldst thou utter, but Amen to my vow.

And what of distinguishing love, or favour, or con|fidence, have I had from her since, to make me fore|go this vow?

I renewed it not, indeed, afterwards; and actually for a long season, was willing to forget it; till repe|titions of the same faults revived the remembrance of the former:—And now adding to those the contents of some of Miss Howe's virulent letters, so lately come at, what canst thou say for the rebel, con|sistent with thy loyalty to thy friend?

Every man to his genius and constitution. Han|nibal was called The father of warlike stratagems. Had Hannibal been a private man, and turned his plotting head against the other sex; or had I been a general, and turned mine against such of my fellow-creatures of my own, as I thought myself intitled to consider as my enemies, because they were born and l••ved in a different climate;—Hannibal would have done less mischief;—Lovelace more.—That would have been the difference.

Not a sovereign on earth, if he be not a good man, and if he be of a warlike temper, but must do a thousand times more mischief than me. And why? Because he has it in his power to do more.

An honest man, perhaps thou'lt say, will not wish to have it in his power to do hurt. He ought not, let me tell him: For, if he have it, a thousand to one but it makes him both wanton and wicked.

In what, then, am I so singularly vile?

In my contrivances, thou'lt say (for thou art my echo), if not in my proposed end of them.

How difficult does every man find it, as well as me, to forego a predominant passion? I have three passions that sway me by turns; all imperial ones. Love, Revenge, Ambition, or a desire of conquest.

As to this particular contrivance of Tomlinson and the Uncle, which thou'lt think a black one perhaps; that had been spared, had not these innocent ladies put me upon finding a husband for their Mrs. Townsend: That device, therefore, is but a preventive one. Thinkest thou, that I could bear to be outwitted? And may not this very contrivance save a world of mischief? for, dost thou think, I would have tamely given up the lady to Townsend's Tars?

What meanest thou, except to overthrow thy own plea, when thou sayest, that men of our cast know no other bound to their wickedness, but want of power; yet knowest this lady to be in mine?

Enough, sayest thou, have I tried this paragon of virtue. Not so; for I have not tried her at all.—All I have been doing, is but preparation to a trial.

But thou art concerned for the means that I may have recourse to in the trial, and for my veracity.

Silly fellow!—Did ever any man, thinkest thou, deceive a girl, but at the expence of his veracity? How otherwise, can he be said to deceive?

As to the means, thou dost not imagine, that I ex|pect a direct consent.—My main hope is but in a yielding reluctance; without which I will be sworn, whatever rapes have been attempted, none ever were committed, one person to one person. And good Queen Bess of England, had she been living, and appealed to, would have declared herself of my mind.

It would not be amiss for the Sex to know, what our opinions are upon this subject.—I love to warn them.—I wish no man to succeed with them but my|self. I told thee once, that tho' a rake, I am not a rake's friend (a) 30.10.

Thou sayest, that I ever hated wedlock. And true thou sayest. And yet as true, when thou tellest me, that I would rather marry than lose this lady. And will she detest me for ever, thinkest thou, if I try her, and succeed not?—Take care—Take care, Jack!—Seest thou not, that thou warnest me, that I do not try, without resolving to conquer?

I must add, that I have for some time been con|vinced, that I have done wrong, to scribble to thee so freely as I have done (and the more so, if I make the Lady legally mine); for has not every letter I have written to thee, been a bill of indictment against my|self? I may partly curse my vanity for it; and I think I will refrain for the future; for thou art really very impertinent.

A good man, I own, might urge many of the things thou urgest; but, by my soul, they come very

aukwardly from thee. And thou must be sensible, that I can answer every tittle of what thou writest, upon the foot of the maxims we have long held and pursued.—By the specimen above, thou wilt see that I can.

And pr'ythee tell me, Jack, what but this that fol|lows would have been the epitome of mine and my beloved's story, after ten years cohabitation; had I never written to thee upon the subject, and had I not been my own accuser?

'Robert Lovelace, a notorious woman-eater, makes his addresses in an honourable way to Miss Clarissa Harlowe; a young lady of the highest me|rit.'

—Fortunes on both sides out of the question.

'After encouragement given, he is insulted by her violent brother; who thinks it his interest to dis|countenance the match; and who at last challenging him, is obliged to take his worthless life at his hands.

'The family, as much enraged, as if he had taken the life he gave, insult him personally, and find out an odious lover for the young lady.

'To avoid a forced marriage, she is prevailed up|on 'to throw herself into Mr. Lovelace's protection.

'Yet, disclaiming any passion for him, she repeat|edly offers to renounce him for ever, if, on that con|dition, her relations will receive her, and free her from the address of the hated lover.

'Mr. Lovelace, a man of strong passions, and, as some say, of great pride, thinks himself under very little obligation to her on this account; and not being naturally fond of marriage, and having so much reason to hate her relations, endeavours to prevail upon her to live with him, what he calls the life of honour: And at last, by stratagem, art, and contrivance, prevails.

'He resolves never to marry any other woman: Takes a pride to have her called by his name: A Church-rite all the difference between them:

Treats her with deserved tenderness. Nobody que|stions their marriage but these proud relations of hers whom he wishes to question it. Every year a charm|ing boy. Fortunes to support the increasing family with splendor—A tender father. Always a warm friend; a generous landlord, and a punctual pay|master—Now-and-then, however, perhaps, in|dulging with a new object, in order to bring him back with greater delight to his charming Clarissa—His only fault Love of the Sex—Which never|theless, the women say, will cure itself—Defensible thus far, that he breaks no contracts by his rove|ings—

And what is there so very greatly amiss, as the world goes, in all this?—

Let me aver, that there are thousands and ten thousands, who have worse stories to tell than this would appear to be, had I not interested thee in the progress to my great end. And besides, thou knowest that the character I gave myself to Joseph Leman, as to my treatment of my mistresses, is pretty near the truth (a) 30.11.

Were I to be as much in earnest in my defence, as thou art warm in my arraignment, I could con|vince thee, by other arguments, observations, and comparisons [Is not all human good and evil compara|tive?] that tho' from my ingenuous temper (writing only to thee, who art master of every secret of my heart) I am so ready to accuse myself in my narra|tions; yet I have something to say for myself to my|self, as I go along; tho' no one else, perhaps, that was not a rake, would allow any weight to it.—And this caution might I give to thousands, who would stoop for a stone to throw at me:

'See that your own predominant passions, whatever they be, hurry you not into as much wickedness, as mine do me.—See, if ye happen to be better than me, in

some things, that ye are not worse in others; and in points too, that may be of more extensive bad consequence, than that of seducing a girl (and taking care of her afterwards), who from her cradle is arm|ed with cautions against the delusions of men.'

And yet I am not so partial to my own faults, as to think lightly of that, when I allow myself to think.

Another grave thing will I add, now my hand's in:

'So dearly do I love the sex, that had I found, that a character for virtue had been generally necessary to recommend me to them, I should have had a much greater regard to my morals, as to the sex, than I have had.'

To sum up all—I am sufficiently apprized, that men of worthy and honest hearts, who never allowed them|selves in premeditated evil, and who take into the ac|count the excellencies of this fine creature, will, and must, not only condemn, but abhor me, were they to know as much of me as thou dost.—But, me|thinks, I would be glad to escape the censure of those men, and of those women too, who have never known what capital trials and temptations are; who have no genius for enterprize; and most particularly of those, who have only kept their secret better than I have kept, or wished to keep, mine.

I THREATENED above to refrain writing to thee. But take it not to heart, Jack—I must write on, and cannot help it.

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

Wednesday Night, 11 o'Clock.

FAITH, Jack, thou hadst half undone me with thy nonsense, tho' I would not own it in my yesterday's letter; my conscience of thy party before. But I think I am my own man again.

So near to execution my plot! So near springing my mine! All agreed upon between the women and me, or I believe thou hadst overthrown me.

I have time for a few lines preparative to what is to happen in an hour or two; and I love to write to the moment.—

We have been extremely happy. How many agreeable days have we known together! What may the next two hours produce!—

When I parted with my charmer (which I did with infinite reluctance, half an hour ago), it was upon her promise, that she would not sit up to write or read. For so engaging was the conversation to me (and, in|deed, my behaviour throughout the whole of it, was confessedly agreeable to her), that I insisted, if she did not directly retire to rest, that she should add another happy hour to the former.

To have sat up writing or reading half the night, as she sometimes does, would have frustrated my view, as thou wilt observe, when my little plot un|ravels.

WHAT—What—What now!—bounding villain! wouldst thou choak me!—

I was speaking to my heart, Jack!—It was then at my throat.—And what is all this for?—These shy ladies, how, when a man thinks himself near the mark, do they tempest him!—

Is all ready, Dorcas? Has my beloved kept her word with me?—Whether are these billowy heavings owing more to Love or to Fear? I cannot tell for the soul of me, which I have most of. If I can but take her before her apprehension, before her eloquence, i•• awake—

Limbs, why thus convulsed!—Knees, till now so firmly knit, why thus relaxed? Why beat ye thus together? Will not these trembling fingers

which twice have refused to direct the pen, and thus curvedly deform the paper, fail-me-in the arduous mo|ment?

Once again, Why and for what all these convul|sions? This project is not to end in matrimony surely!

But the consequences must be greater than I had thought of till this moment—My beloved's destiny or my own may depend upon the issue of the two next hours!—

I will recede, I think!—

SOFT, O virgin saint, and safe as soft, be thy slumbers!—

I will now once more turn to my friend Belford's letter. Thou shalt have fair play, my charmer. I'll re-peruse what thy advocate has to say for thee. Weak arguments will do, in the frame I am in!—

BUT, what's the matter!—What's the matter!—What a double—But the uproar abates!—What a double coward am I?—Or is it that I am taken in a cowardly minute? for heroes have their fits of fear; cowards their brave moments: And virtuous ladies, all but my Clarissa, their moment critical—

But thus coolly enjoying thy reflections in a hurri|cane!—Again the confusion's renew'd!—

What! Where!—How came it!—

Is my beloved safe!—

O wake not too roughly my beloved!—

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

Thursday morning, Five o'clock (June 8.)

NOW is my reformation secur'd; for I never shall love any other woman!—O she is all variety! She must be ever new to me!—Imagination cannot

form; much less can the pencil paint; nor can the soul of painting, poetry, describe an angel so exqui|sitely, so elegantly lovely!—But I will not by antici|pation pacify thy impatience. Altho' the subject is too hallowed for profane contemplation; yet shalt thou have the whole before thee as it passed: And this not from a spirit wantoning in description upon so rich a subject; but with a design to put a bound to thy roving thoughts.—It will be iniquity greater than a Lovelace ever was guilty of, to carry them farther than I shall acknowlege.

Thus then, connecting my last with the present, I lead to it.

Didst thou not, by the conclusion of my former, perceive the consternation I was in, just as I was about to re-peruse thy letter, in order to prevail upon my|self to recede from my purpose of awaking in terrors my slumbering charmer? And what dost thou think was the matter?

I'll tell thee—

At a little after two, when the whole house was still, or seem'd to be so, and, as it proved, my Cla|rissa abed, and fast asleep; I also in a manner undress|ed, for an hour before, and in my gown and slippers, tho', to oblige thee, writing on;—I was alarm'd by a trampling noise over head, and a confused buz of mix'd voices, some louder than others, like scolding, and little short of screaming, all raised to vocatives, as in a fright: And while I was wondering what could be the matter, down stairs ran Dorcas, and at my door, in an accent rather frightedly and hoarsly in|ward, than shrilly clamorous, cried out Fire! Fire! And this the more alarmed me, as she seem'd to endeavour to cry out louder, but could not.

My pen (its last scrawl a benediction on my be|loved) dropt from my fingers; and up started I; and making but three steps to the door, open'd it, and cry'd Where! Where! almost as much terrify'd as

the wench. While she, more than half-undrest, her perticoats in her hand, unable to speak distinctly, pointed up stairs.

I was there in a moment, and found all owing to the carelessness of Mrs. Sinclair's cook-maid, who, having sat up to read the simple history of Dorastus and Fau••ia, when she should have been in bed, had set fire to an old pair of callicoe window-curtains.

She had had the presence of mind, in her fright, to tear down the half-burnt vallens, as well as curtains, and had got them, tho' blazing, into the chimney, by the time I came up; so that I had the satisfaction to find the danger happily over.

Mean time Dorcas, after she had directed me up stairs, not knowing the worst was over, and expect|ing every minute the house would be in a blaze, out of tender regard for her lady [I shall for ever love the wench for it] ran to her door, and rapping loudly at it, in a recovered voice, cry'd out, with a shrilness equal to her love, Fire! Fire!—The house is on fire!—Rise, Madam!—This instant rise—if you would not be burnt in your bed!

No sooner had she made this dreadful outcry, but I heard her lady's door, with hasty violence, unbar, unbolt, unlock, and open, and my charmer's voice sounding like that of one going into a fit.

You may believe how much I was affected. I trembled with concern for her, and hastened down faster than the alarm of fire had made me run up, in order to satisfy her, that all the danger was over.

When I had flown down to her chamber-door, there I beheld the charmingest creature in the world, sup|porting herself on the arm of the gasping Dorcas, sighing, trembling, and ready to faint, with nothing on but an under-petticoat, her lovely bosom half-open, and her feet just slipt into her shoes. As soon as she saw me, she panted, and struggled to speak;

but could only say, Oh, Mr. Lovelace! and down was ready to sink.

I clasped her in my arms with an ardor she never felt before: My dearest life! fear nothing: I have been up—The danger is over—The fire is got under—And how (foolish devil! to Dorcas) could you thus, by your hideous yell, alarm and frighten my angel!

Oh Jack! how her sweet bosom, as I clasp'd her to mine, heav'd and panted! I could even distinguish her dear heart flutter, flutter, flutter, against mine; and for a few minutes, I fear'd she would go into fits.

Lest the half-lifeless charmer should catch cold in this undress, I lifted her to her bed, and sat down by her upon the side of it, endeavouring with the utmost tenderness, as well of action as expression, to dissipate her terrors.

But what did I get by this my generous care of her, and by my successful endeavour to bring her to her|self?—Nothing, ungrateful as she was! but the most passionate exclamations: For we had both already for|got the occasion, dreadful as it was, which had thrown her into my arms; I, from the joy of incircling the almost disrobed body of the loveliest of her sex; she, from the greater terrors that arose from finding herself in my arms, and both seated on the bed, from which she had been so lately frighted.

And now, Belford, reflect upon the distance the watchful charmer had hitherto kept me at. Reflect upon my love, and upon my sufferings for her: Re|flect upon her vigilance, and how long I had lain in wait to elude it; the awe I had stood in, because of her frozen virtue and over-niceness; and that I never before was so happy with her; and then think how ••ngovernable must be my transports in those happy moments!—And yet, in my own account, I was both decent and generous. The following lines, alter'd to the fi••st person, come nearest of any I can recollect, to the rapturous occasion:

Bowing, I kneel'd, and her forc'd hand I press'd, With sweet compulsion, to my beating breast; O'er it, in ecstasy, my lips bent low, And tides of sighs 'twixt her grasp'd fingers flow. High beat my hurry'd pulse, at each fierce kiss, And ev'ry burning sinew ak'd with bliss.

But, far from being affected by an address so fer|vent (although from a man she had so lately owned a regard for, and with whom, but an hour or two be|fore, she had parted with so much satisfaction), that •• never saw a bitterer, or more moving grief, when she came fully to herself.

She appealed to Heaven against my treachery, as she called it; while I, by the most solemn vows, pleaded my own equal fright, and the reality of the danger that had alarmed us both.

She conjur'd me, in the most solemn and affecting manner, by turns threatening and soothing, to quit her apartment, and permit her to hide herself from the light, and from every human eye.

I besought her pardon, yet could not avoid offend|ing; and repeatedly vow'd, that the next morning's sun should witness our espousals: But taking, I sup|pose, all my protestations of this kind, as an indica|tion, that I intended to proceed to the last extremity, she would hear nothing that I said; but, redoubling her struggles to get from me, in broken accents, and exclamations the most vehement, she protested, that she would not survive, what she called a treatment so disgraceful and villainous; and, looking all wildly round her, as if for some instrument of mischief, she espied a pair of sharp-pointed scissars on a chair by the bed-side, and endeavoured to catch them up, with design to make her words good on the spot.

Seeing her desperation, I begged her to be pacify'd; that she would hear me speak but one word, declaring that I intended no dishonour to her: And having seized

the scissars, I threw them into the chimney; and she still insisting vehemently upon my distance, I permit|ted her to take the chair.

But, O the sweet discomposure!—Her bared shoul|ders and arms, so inimitably fair and lovely: Her spread hands crossed over her charming neck; yet not half concealing its glossy beauties: The scanty coat, as she rose from me, giving the whole of her admi|rable shape, and fine-turn'd limbs: Her eyes running-over, yet seeming to threaten future vengeance: And at last her lips uttering what every indignant look, and glowing feature, portended; exclaiming as if I had done the worst I could do, and vowing never to forgive me; wilt thou wonder, that I could avoid resuming the incensed, the already too-much-provoked fair one?

I did; and clasped her once more to my bosom: But, considering the delicacy of her frame, her force was amazing, and shewed how much in earnest she was in her resentment; for it was with the utmost difficulty that I was able to hold her: Nor could I prevent her sliding through my arms, to fall upon her knees: Which she did at my feet: And there, in the anguish of her soul, her streaming eyes lifted up to my face with supplicating softness, hands folded, di|shevelled hair; for her night head-dress having fallen off in her struggling, her charming tresses fell down in naturally shining ringlets, as if officious to conceal the dazling beauties of her neck and shoulders; her lovely bosom too heaving with sighs, and broken sobs, as if to aid her quivering lips, in pleading for her—In this manner, but when her grief gave way to her speech, in words pronounced with that emphatical propriety, which distinguishes this admirable creature in her elocution from all the women. I ever heard speak; did she implore my compassion, and my ho|nour.

'Consider me, dear Lovelace,' were her charming

words! 'on my knees I beg you to consider me, as a poor creature who has no protector but you; who has no defence but your honour: By that Ho|nour! By your Humanity! By all you have vow'd! I conjure you not to make me abhor myself! Not to make me vile in my own eyes!'

I mentioned the morrow as the happiest day of my life.

Tell me not of to-morrow; if indeed you mean me honourably, Now, This very instant NOW! you must shew it, and begone! You can never in a whole long life repair the evils you may NOW make me suffer!

Wicked wretch!—Insolent villain!—[Yes, she called me insolent villain, altho' so much in my power! And for what?—only for kissing (with pas|sion indeed) her inimitable neck, her lips, her cheeks, her forehead, and her streaming eyes, as this assem|blage of beauties offered itself at once to my ravished sight; she continuing kneeling at my feet, as I sat].

If I am a villain, Madam—And then my grasping but trembling hand—I hope I did not hurt the ten|derest and loveliest of all her beauties—If I am a villain, Madam—

She tore my ruffle, shrunk from my happy hand, with amazing force and agility, as with my other arm I would have incircled her waist.

Indeed you are!—The worst of villains!—Help! dear blessed people! and scream'd—No help for a poor creature!—

Am I then a villain, Madam?—Am I then a vil|lain, say you?—and clasped both my arms about her, offering to raise her to my bounding heart.—

O no!—And yet you are!—And again I was her dear Lovelace!—Her hands again clasped over her charming bosom:—Kill me! Kill me!—If I am odious enough in your eyes, to deserve this treat|ment; and I will thank you!—Too long, much

too long, has my life been a burden to me!—O••, wildly looking all around her, give me but the means, and I will instantly convince you, that my honour is dearer to me than my life!

Then, with still folded hands, and fresh-streaming eyes, I was her blessed Lovelace; and she would thank me with her latest breath, if I would permit her to make that preference, or free her from farther in|dignities.

I sat suspended for a moment: By my soul, thought I, thou art, upon full proof, an angel and no woman! Still, however, close clasping her to my bosom, as I had raised her from her knees, she again slid through my arms, and dropt upon them:—

'See, Mr. Love|lace!—Good God! that I should live to see this hour, and to bear this treatment!—See, at your feet, a poor creature, imploring your pity, who, for your sake, is abandon'd of all the world! Let not my father's curse thus dreadfully operate! Be not you the inflicter, who have been the cause of it! But spare me! I beseech you spare me!—For how have I deserved this treatment from you?—For your own sake, if not for my sake, and as you would that God Almighty, in your last hour, should have mercy upon you, spare me!'

—

What heart but must have been penetrated?

I would again have raised the dear suppliant from her knees; but she would not be raised, till my soft|ened mind, she said, had yielded to her prayer, and bid her rise to be innocent.

Rise then, my angel, rise, and be what you are, and all you wish to be! Only pronounce me pardon'd for what has passed, and tell me, you will continue to look upon me with that eye of favour and sere|nity, which I have been blessed with for some days past, and I will submit to my beloved conquer••ss, whose power never was at so great an height with me, as now; and retire to my apartment.

God Almighty, said she, hear your prayers in your most arduous moments, as you have heard mine! And now leave me, this moment leave me, to my own recollection: In that you will leave me to misery enough, and more than you ought to wish to your bitterest enemy.

Impute not every thing, my best Beloved, to de|sign; for design it was not—

O Mr. Lovelace!—

Upon my soul, Madam, the fire was real—(And so it was, Jack!)—The house might have been con|sumed by it, as you will be convinced in the morning by ocular demonstration.

O Mr. Lovelace!—

Let my passion for you, Madam, and the unex|pected meeting of you at your chamber-door, in an attitude so charming—

Leave me, leave me, this moment!—I beseech you, leave me; looking wildly, and in confusion, now about her, and now upon herself.

Excuse me, dearest creature, for those liberties, which, innocent as they were, your too great deli|cacy may make you take amiss.

No more! No more!—Leave me, I beseech you! Again looking upon herself, and around her, in a sweet confusion.—Begone! Begone!—Then weeping, she struggled vehemently to withdraw her hands, which all the while I held between mine.—Her struggles! O what additional charms, as I now reflect, did her struggles give to every feature, every limb, of a per|son so sweetly elegant and lovely!

Impossible! my dearest life, till you pronounce my pardon!—Say but you forgive me!—Say you do!

I beseech you, begone! Leave me to myself, that I may think what I can do, and what I ought to do.

That, my dearest creature, is not enough. You must tell me, that I am forgiven; that you will see me to-morrow, as if nothing had happened.

And then, clasping her again in my arms, hoping she would not forgive me—

I will—I do forgive you—Wretch that you are!

Nay, my Clarissa! And is it such a reluctant par|don, mingled with a word so upbraiding, that I am to be put off with, when you are thus (clasping her close to me) in my power?

I do, I do forgive you!

Heartily?

Yes, heartily!

And freely?

Freely!

And will you look upon me to-morrow, as if no|thing had passed?

Yes, yes!

I cannot take these peevish affirmatives, so much like intentional negatives!—Say you will, upon your honour!

Upon my honour, then—O now, begone! be|gone! and never—

What, never, my angel!—Is this forgiveness?

Never, said she, let what has passed be remem|bered more!

I insisted upon one kiss to seal my pardon—And retired like a fool, a woman's fool, as I was!—I sneakingly retired!—Couldst thou have believed it?

But I had no sooner enter'd my own apartment, than, reflecting upon the opportunity I had lost, and that all I had gained was but an increase of my own difficulties; and upon the ridicule I should meet with below, upon a weakness so much out of my usual character; I repented, and hasten'd back, in hope, that through the distress of mind which I left her in, she had not so soon fastened her door; and I was sully resolved to execute all my purposes, be the conse|quence what it would; for, thought I, I have already sinned beyond cordial forgiveness, I doubt; and if fits

and desperation ensue, I can but marry at last, and then I shall make her amends.

But I was justly punish'd;—for her door was fast: And hearing her sigh and sob, as if her heart would burst, My beloved creature, said I, rapping gently, and her sobbings ceasing, I want but to say three words to you, which must be the most acceptable you ever heard from me. Let me see you but for one moment.

I thought I heard her coming to open the door, and my heart leapt in that hope; but it was only to draw another bolt, to make it still the faster, and she either could not, or would not, answer me, but retired to the further end of her apartment, to her closet, probably: And more like a fool than before, again I sneaked away.

This was my mine, my plot!—And this was all I made of it!

I love her more than ever!—And well I may!—Never saw I such polished ivory as her arms and shoulders seemed to be; never touched I velvet so soft as her skin: Then such an elegance! O Bel|ford, she is all perfection! Her pretty foot, in her struggling, losing her shoe, but just slipped on, as I told thee, equally white and delicate as the hand of any other lady, or even as her own hand!

But seest thou not, that I have a claim of merit for a grace that every-body hitherto had denied me? And that is, for a capacity of being moved by prayers and tears: Where, where, on this occasion, was the callus, where the flint, that my heart was said to be surrounded by?

This, indeed, is the first instance, in the like case, that ever I was wrought upon. But why? Because I never before encountered a resistance so much in ear nest: A resistance, in short, so irresistible.

What a triumph has her sex obtained in my thoughts by this trial, and this resistance!

But if she can now forgive me—Can!—She must▪

Has she not upon her honour already done it?—But how will the dear creature keep that part of her pro|mise, which engages her to see me in the morning, as if nothing had happened?

She would give the world, I fancy, to have the first interview over!—She had not best reproach me:—Yet not to reproach me!—What a charming puzzle! Let her break her word with me at her peril. Fly me she cannot: No appeals lie from my tribunal.—What friend has she in the world, if my compassion exert not itself in her favour?—And then the worthy Captain Tomlinson, and her Uncle Harlowe, will be able to make all up for me, be my next offence what it will.

As to thy apprehensions of her committing any rashness upon herself, whatever she might have done in her passion, if she could have seized upon her scis|sars, or found any other weapon, I dare say, there is no fear of that from her deliberate mind. A man has trouble enough with these truly pious, and truly vir|tuous girls [Now I believe there are such]; he had need to have some benefit from, some security in, the rectitude of their minds.

In short, I fear nothing in this lady but grief; yet that's a slow worker, you know; and gives time to pop in a little joy between its sullen fits.

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

Thursday morning, Eight o'clock.

HER chamber-door has not yet been opened. I must not expect she will breakfast with me: Nor dine with me, I doubt. A little silly soul, what troubles does she make to herself by her over-nice|ness!—All I have done to her, would have been looked upon as a frolick only, a romping-bout, and laughed

off by nine parts in ten of the sex accordingly. The more she makes of it, the more painful to herself, as well as to me.

Why now, Jack, were it not better, upon her own notions, that she seemed not so sensible, as she will make herself to be, if she is very angry?

But perhaps I am more afraid than I need. I believe I am. From her over-niceness arises my fear, more than from any extraordinary reason for resentment. Next time, she may count herself very happy, if she come off no worse.

The dear creature was so frighten'd, and so fatigued last night, no wonder she lies it out this morning.

I hope she has had more rest than I have had: Soft and balmy, I hope, have been her slumbers, that she may meet me in tolerable temper. All sweetly blushing and confounded—I know how she will look!—But why should she, the sufferer, be ashamed, when I, the trespasser, am not?

But custom is a prodigious thing. The ladies are told how much their blushes heighten their graces: They practise for them therefore: Blushes come as readily when they call them, as their tears: Ay, that's it! While we men, taking blushes for a sign of guilt or sheepishness, are equally studious to suppress them.

BY my troth, Jack, I am half as much ashamed to see the women below, as my fair one can be to see me. I have not yet open'd my door, that I may not be obtruded upon by them.

After all, what devils may one make of the Sex! To what a height of—What shall I call it?—must those of it be arrived, who once loved a man with so much distinction, as both Polly and S••lly loved me, and yet can have got so much above the pangs of jealousy, so much above the mortifying reflections that arise from dividing and sharing with new objects, the affections

of him they prefer to all others, as to wish for, an•• promote a competitorship in his love, and make their supreme delight consist in reducing others to their level!—For thou canst not imagine, how even Sally Martin rejoiced last night in the thought that the lady's hour was approaching.

Past Ten o'clock.

I NEVER long'd in my life for any thing with so much impatience, as to see my charmer. She has been stirring, it seems, these two hours.

Dorcas just now tapp'd at her door, to take her morning commands.

She had none for her, was the answer.

She desired to know, If she would not breakfast?

A sullen and low-voiced negative she received.

I will go myself.

THREE different times tapp'd I at the door, but had no answer.

Permit me, dearest creature, to inquire after your health. As you have not been seen to-day, I am im|patient to know how you do.

Not a word of answer; but a deep sigh, even to sobbing.

Let me beg of you, Madam, to accompany me up another pair of stairs—You'll rejoice to see what a happy escape we have all had.

A happy escape indeed, Jack!—For the fire had scorched the window-board, findged the hangings, and burnt through the slit-deal lining of the window-jambs.

No answer, Madam!—Am I not worthy of one word?—Is it thus you keep your promise with me?—Shall I not have the favour of your company for two minutes, only for two minutes, in the dining-room?

Hem!—And a deep sigh!—was all the answer.

Answer me, but how you do! Answer me but that you are well!—Is this the forgiveness that was the condition of my obedience?

Then, in a faintish but angry voice, Begone from my door!—Wretch, inhuman, barbarous, and all that's base and treacherous!—Begone from my door! Nor teaze thus a poor creature, intitled to protection, not outrage.

Well, Madam, I see how you keep your word with me!—If a sudden impulse, the effects of an unthought-of accident, cannot be forgiven—

O the dreadful weight of a father's curse, thus in the letter of it, so likely to be fulfilled!

And then her voice dying away into inarticulate murmurs, I looked through the key-hole, and saw her on her knees, her face, tho' not towards me, lifted up, as well as hands, and these folded, deprecating, I ••uppose, that gloomy tyrant's curse.

I could not help being moved.

My dearest life! admit me to your presence, but for two minutes, and confirm your promised pardon; and may lightning blast me on the spot, if I offer any thing but my penitence, at a shrine so sacred!—I will afterwards leave you for the whole day; and till to-morrow morning; then to attend, with writings, all ready to sign, a licence obtained, or, if it cannot, a minister without one. This once believe me. When you see the reality of the danger, that gave occasion for this your unhappy resentment, you will think less hardly of me. And let me beseech you to perform a promise, on which I made a reliance not altogether ungenerous.

I cannot see you! Would to heaven I never had! If I write, that's all I can do.

Let your writing then, my dearest life, confirm your promise. And I will withdraw in expectation of it.

Past Eleven o'clock.

JUST now she rung her bell for Dorcas; and, with her door in her hand, only half-open'd, gave her a billet for me.

How did the dear creature look, Dorcas?

She was dressed. Turned her face quite from me. Sigh'd, as if her heart would break.

Sweet creature!—I kissed the wet wafer, and drew it from the paper with my breath.

These are the contents.—No inscriptive Sir! No Mr. Lovelace!

I Cannot see you: Nor will I, if I can help it. Words cannot express the anguish of my soul on your baseness and ingratitude.

If the circumstances of things are such, that I can have no way for reconciliation with those who would have been my natural protectors from such outrages, but through you (the only inducement I can have to stay a moment longer in your knowlege), pen and ink must be, at present, the only means of commu|nication between us.

Vilest of men! and most detestable of plotters! how have I deserved from you the shocking indig|nities—But no more—Only for your own sake, wish not, at least for a week to come, to see

The undeservedly injured and insulted, CLARISSA HARLOWE.

So thou seest, nothing could have stood me in stead, but this plot of Tomlinson and her Uncle: To what a pretty pass, nevertheless, have I brought myself!—Had Caesar been such a fool, he had never passed the Rubicon. But, after he had passed it, had he retreated, re infectâ, intimidated by a senatorial edict, what a pretty figure would he have made in history!—I might have known, that to attempt a robbery, and put a person in bodily fear, is as punishable as if the robbery had been actually committed.

But not to see her for a week!—Dear pretty soul! how she anticipates me in every thing! The counsel|lor will have finished the writings, ready to sign, to-day, or to-morrow, at furthest: The licence with the parson, or the parson without the licence, must be also procured within the next four-and-twenty hours: Pritchard is as good as ready with his inden|tures tripartite: Tomlinson is at hand, with a favour|able answer from her Uncle—Yet not to see her for a week!—Dear sweet soul!—Her good angel is gone a journey: Is truanting at least. But nevertheless, in thy week's time, and much less, my charmer, I doubt not to have completed my triumph!

But what vexes me of all things, is, that such an excellent creature should break her word.—Fie, fie, upon her!—But nobody is absolutely perfect! 'Tis human to err, but not to persevere—I hope my charmer cannot be inhuman!

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

King's-Arms, Pallmall, Thursday Two o'clock.

SEveral billets passed between us before I went out, by the internuncioship of Dorcas: For which reason mine are superscribed by her married name.—She would not open her door to receive them; lest I should be near it, I suppose: So Dorcas was forced to put them under the door (after copying them for thee); and thence to take the answer. Read them, if thou wilt, at this place.

To Mrs. LOVELACE.

INdeed, my dearest life, you carry this matter too far. What will the people below, who suppose us one, as to the ceremony, think of so great a nice|ness? Liberties so innocent; the occasion so acci|dental!—You will expose yourself as well as me.—Hitherto they know nothing of what has passed. And

what, indeed, has passed, to occasion all this resent|ment?—I am sure, you will not, by a breach of your word of honour, give me reason to conclude, that, had I not obeyed you, I could have fared no worse.

Most sincerely do I repent the offence given to your delicacy—But must I, for so accidental an occurrence, be branded by such shocking names? Vilest of men, and most detestable of plotters, are hard words!—From such a Lady's pen too.

If you step up another pair of stairs, you'll be con|vinced, that, however detestable to you, I am no plotter in this affair.

I must insist upon seeing you, in order to take your directions upon some of the subjects that we talked of yesterday in the evening.

All that's more than necessary is too much. I claim your promised pardon, and wish to plead it on my knees.

I beg your presence in the dining-room for one quarter of an hour, and I will then leave you for the day. I am, my dearest life,

Your ever-adoring and truly penitent, LOVELACE.

To Mr. LOVELACE.

I Will not see you. I cannot see you. I have no directions to give you. Let Providence decide for me as it pleases.

The more I reflect upon your vileness, your ingra|ful, your barbarous vileness, the more I am exaspe|rated against you.

You are the last person, whose judgment I would take upon what is or is not carried too far, in matters of decency.

'Tis grievous to me to write, or even to think of you at present. Urge me no more then. Once more, I will not see you. Nor care I, now you have made me vile to myself, what other people think of me.

To Mrs. LOVELACE.

AGain, Madam, I remind you of your promise: And beg leave to say, I insist upon the perform|ance of it.

Remember, dearest creature, that the fault of a blameable person cannot warrant a fault in one more perfect. Over niceness may be under-niceness!

I cannot reproach myself with any thing that de|serves this high resentment.

I own that the violence of my passion for you might have carried me beyond fit bounds:—But that your commands and adjurations had such a power over me, at such a moment, I humbly presume to say, deserves some consideration.

You injoin me not to see you for a week. If I have not your pardon before Captain Tomlinson comes to town, what shall I say to him?

I beg once more your presence in the dining-room. By my soul, Madam, I must see you.

I want to consult you about the licence, and other particulars of great importance. The people below think us married; and I cannot talk to you, the door between us, upon such subjects.

For heaven's sake, favour me with your presence for a few minutes: And I will leave you for the day.

If I am to be forgiven, according to your promise, the earliest forgiveness must be the least painful to yourself, as well as to

Your truly contrite and afflicted, LOVELACE.

To Mr. LOVELACE.

THE more you teaze me, the worse will it be for you.

Time is wanted to consider whether I ever should think of you at all. At present, it is my sincere wish, that I may never more see your face.

All that can afford you the least shadow of favour from me, arises from the hoped-for reconciliation with my real, not my Judas-protector.

I am careless at present of consequences. I hate myself: And who is it I have reason to value?—Not the man who could form a plot to disgrace his own hopes, as well as a poor friendless creature (made friendless by himself), by outrages not to be thought of with patience.

To Mrs. LOVELACE.

Madam,

I Will go to the Commons, and proceed in every particular, as if I had not the misfortune to be un|der your displeasure.

I must insist upon it, that however faulty my passion, on so unexpected an incident, made me ap|pear to a lady of your delicacy, yet my compliance with your intreaties at such a moment, as it gave you an instance of your power over me, which few men could have shewn; ought, duly consider'd, to intitle me to the effects of that solemn promise which was the condition of my obedience.

I hope to find you in a kinder, and, I will say, juster disposition on my return. Whether I get the licence, or not, let me beg of you to make the Soon you have been pleased to bid me hope for, to-morrow morning. This will reconcile every thing, and make me the happiest of men.

The settlements are ready to sign, or will be by night.

For heaven's sake, Madam, do not carry your re|sentment into a displeasure so disproportionate to the offence. For that would be to expose us both to the people below; and, what is of infinite more conse|quence to us, to Captain Tomlinson. Let us be able, I beseech you, Madam, to assure him, on his next visit, that we are one.

As I have no hope to be permitted to dine with you, I shall not return till evening: And then, I pre|sume to say, I expect (your promise authorizes me to use the word) to find you disposed to bless, by your consent for to-morrow,

Your adoring LOVELACE.

WHAT pleasure did I propose to take, how to enjoy the sweet confusion I expected to find her in, while all was so recent!—But she must, she shall see me on my return. It were better for herself, as well as for me, that she had not made so much ado about nothing. I must keep my anger alive, lest it sink into compas|sion. Love and Compassion, be the provocation ever so great, are hard to be separated: While Anger converts what would be Pity without it, into Resent|ment. Nothing can be lovely in a man's eye, with which he is thoroughly displeased.

I ordered Dorcas, on putting the last billet under the door, and finding it taken up, to tell her, that I hoped an answer to it before I went out.

Her reply was verbal, Tell him that I care not whi|ther he goes, nor what he does.—And this, re-urged by Dorcas, was all she had to say to me.

I looked thro' her keyhole at my going by her door, and saw her on her knees, at her bed's feet, her head and bosom on the bed, her arms extended [sweet creature!], and in an agony she seemed to be, sobbing, as I heard at that distance, as if her heart would break.—By my soul, Jack, I am a pity ful fellow. Recollection is my enemy!—Divine excel|lence!—Happy for so many days together!—Now so unhappy!—And for what?—But she is purity it|self.—And why, after all, should I thus torment—But I must not trust myself with myself, in the hu|mour I am in.

WAITING here for Mowbray and Mallory, by whose aid I am to get the licence, I took papers out o•• my pocket, to divert myself; and thy last popt itself officiously the first into my hand. I gave it the ho|nour of a re-perusal; and this revived the subject with me, which I had resolved not to trust myself with.

I remember, that the dear creature, in her torn answer to my proposals, says, That condescension is not meanness. She better knows how to make this out, than any mortal breathing. Condescension, indeed, implies dignity: And dignity ever was there in her condescension. Yet such a dignity, as gave grace to the condescension; for there was no pride, no insult, no apparent superiority, indicated by it.—This Miss Howe confirms to be a part of her general cha|racter (a) 38.1.

I can tell her, how she might behave, to make me her own for ever. She knows she cannot fly me. She knows she must see me sooner or later; the sooner the more gracious.—I would allow her to resent (not because the liberties I took with her re|quire resentment, were she not a CLARISSA; but as it becomes her particular niceness to resent): But would she shew more Love than Abhorrence of me in her resentment; would she seem, if it were but to seem, to believe the fire no device, and all that fol|lowed merely accidental; and descend, upon it, to tender expostulation and upbraiding for the advan|tage I would have taken of her surprize; and would she, at last, be satisfied (as well she may), that it was attended with no further consequence; and place some generous confidence in my honour [Power loves to be trusted, Jack]; I think I would put an end to all her trials, and pay her my vows at the altar.

Yet, to have taken such bold steps, as with Tom|linson and her Uncle—To have made such a progress—O Belford, Belford, how have I puzzled myself, as

well as her!—This cursed aversion to wedlock how has it intangled me!—What contradictions has it not made me guilty of!

How pleasing to myself, to look back upon the happy days I gave her; though mine would doubtless have been more unmixedly so, could I have deter|mined to lay aside my contrivances, and to be as sin|cere all the time, as she deserved that I should be!

I 〈◊〉〈◊〉 find this humour hold but till to-morrow mor••ing [And it has now lasted two full hours, and I s•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••nks, to have pleasure in encouraging it], •• ••th make thee a visit, I think, or get thee to come to me; and then will I consult thee upon it.

But she will not trust me. She will not confide in my honour. Doubt, in this case, is defiance. She loves me not well enough, to forgive me generously. She is so greatly above me! How can I forgive her for a merit so mortifying to my pride! She thinks, she knows, she has told me, that she is above me. These words are still in my ears,

'Begone, Lovelace!—My soul is above thee, man!—Thou hast a proud heart to contend with!—My soul is above thee, man (a) 38.2!'

Miss Howe thinks her above me too. Thou, even thou, my friend, my intimate friend and companion, art of the same opinion. I fear her as much as I love her.—How shall my pride bear these reflections?—My wife, (as I have so often said, because it so often recurs to my thoughts) to be so much my superior!—Myself to be considered but as the second person in my own family!—Canst thou teach me to bear such a re|flection as this!—To tell me of my acquisition in her, and that she, with all her excellencies, will be mine in full property, is a mistake—It cannot be so—For shall I not be hers; and not my own?—Will not every act of her duty (as I cannot deserve it) be a condescension, and a triumph over me?—And must I owe it merely to her goodness, that she does not de|spise

me?—To have her condescend to bear with my follies!—To wound me with an eye of pity!—A daughter of the Harlowes thus to excel the last, and, as I have heretofore said, not the meanest of the Love|laces—Forbid it!—

Yet forbid it not—For do I not now—do I not every moment—see her before me all over charms, and elegance, and purity, as in the struggles of the past midnight? And in these struggles, heart, voice, eyes, hands, and sentiments, so greatly, so gloriously consistent with the character she has sustained from her cradle to the present hour?

But what advantages do I give thee?

Yet have I not always done her justice? Why then thy teazing impertinence?

However, I forgive thee, Jack—Since (so much generous love am I capable of!), I had rather all the world should condemn me, than that her character should suffer the least impeachment.

The dear creature herself once told me, that there was a strange mixture in my mind (a) 38.3.

I have been called Devil, and Beelzebub, between the two proud beauties: I must indeed be a Beelzebub, if I had not some tolerable qualities.

But as Miss Howe says, her suffering-time is her shining-time (b) 38.4. Hitherto she has done nothing but shine.

She called me villain, Belford, within these few hours. And what is the sum of the present argu|ment; but that had I not been a villain in her sense of the word, she had not been so much an angel?

O Jack, Jack! This midnight attempt has made me mad; has utterly undone me! How can the dear creature say, I have made her vile in her own eyes, when her behaviour under such a surprize, and her resentment under such circumstances, have so greatly exalted her in mine?

Whence, however, this strange rhapsody?—Is it owing to my being here? That I am not at Sinclair's? But if there be infection in that house, how has my Beloved escaped it?

But no more in this strain!—I will see what her behaviour will be on my return—Yet already do I begin to apprehend some little sinkings, some little retrogradations; for I have just now a doubt arisen, whether, for her own sake, I should wish her to for|give me lightly, or with difficulty?

I AM in away to come at the wish'd-for licence.

I have now given every-thing between my Beloved and me a full consideration; and my puzzle is over. What has brought me to a speedier determination, is, that I think I have found out what she means by the week's distance she intends to hold me at: It is, that she may have time to write to Miss Howe, to put in motion that cursed scheme of hers, and to take mea|sures upon it, which shall enable her to abandon and renounce me for ever.—Now, Jack, if I obtain not admission to her presence on my return; but am re|fused with haughtiness; if her week be insisted upon (such prospects before her); I shall be confirmed in my conjecture; and it will be plain to me, that weak at best was that Love, which could give place to punctilio, at a time that the all-reconciling ceremony (so she must think) waits her command:—Then will I recollect all her perversenesses; then will I re-peruse Miss Howe's letters, and the transcripts from others of them; and give way to my aversion to the life of shackles: And then shall she be mine in my own way.

But, after all, I am in hopes, that she will have better considered of every-thing by the evening. That her threat of a week's distance was thrown out in the heat of passion; and that she will allow, that I have as much cause to quarrel with her for breach of her word, as she has with me for breach of the peace.

These lines of Rowe have got into my head; and I shall repeat them very devoutly all the way the chair|men shall poppet me towards her by-and-by.

Teach me, some power, the happy art of speech, To dress my purpose up in gracious words; Such as may softly steal upon her soul, And never waken the tempestuous passions.

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

Thursday Evening, June 8.

O For a curse to kill with!—Ruin'd! Undone! Outwitted, trick'd!—Zounds, man, the lady is gone off!—Absolutely gone off!—Escaped!—

Thou knowest not, nor canst conceive, the pangs that wring my heart!—What can I do!—O Lord, O Lord, O Lord!

And thou, too, who hast endeavoured to weaken my hands, wilt but clap thy dragon's wings at the tidings!—

Yet I must write, or I shall go distracted. Little less have I been these two hours; dispatching messen|gers to every stage; to every inn; to every waggon or coach, whether flying or creeping, and to every house with a bill up, for five miles round.

The little hypocrite, who knows not a soul in this town [I thought I was sure of her at any time], such an unexperienced traitress; giving me hope too, in her first billet, that her expectation of the family-recon|ciliation would with-hold her from taking such a step as this—Curse upon her contrivances!—I thought, that it was owing to her bashfulness, to her modesty, that, after a few innocent freedoms, she could not look me in the face; when, all the while, she was impudently [yes, I say impudently, though she be Cla|rissa Harlowe]; contriving to rob me of the dearest

property I had ever purchased—Purchased by a pain|ful servitude of many months; fighting through the wild beasts of her family for her, and combating with a wind-mill virtue, that hath cost me millions of per|juries only to attempt; and which now, with its damn'd air-fans, has tost me a mile and a half beyond hope!—And this, just as I had arrived within view of the consummation of all my wishes!

O Devil of Love! God of Love no more!—How have I deserved this of thee!—Never before the friend of frozen virtue!—Powerless daemon, for powerless thou must be, if thou meanedst not to play me booty; who shall henceforth kneel at thy altars!—May every enterprizing heart abhor, despise, execrate, renounce thee, as I do.—But what signifies cursing now!

How she could effect this her wicked escape, is my astonishment; the whole sisterhood having charge of her:—For, as yet, I have not had patience enough to inquire into the particulars, nor to let a soul of them approach me.

Of this I am sure, or I had not brought her hither, There is not a creature belonging to this house, that could be corrupted either by virtue or remorse: The highest joy every infernal nymph of this worse than infernal habitation, could have known, would have been to reduce this proud Beauty to her own level.—And as to my villain, who also had charge of her, he is such a season'd varlet, that he delights in mischief for the sake of it: No bribe could seduce him to be|tray his trust, were there but wickedness in it!—'Tis well, however, he was out of my way, when the cursed news was imparted to me!—Gone, the vil|lain! in quest of her: Not to return, nor to see my ••ace (so it seems he declared), till he has heard some tidings of her; and all the out-of-place varlets of his numerous acquaintance, are summoned and employed in the same business.

To what purpose brought I this angel [angel I must yet call her!] to this hellish house?—And was I not meditating to do her deserved honour? By my soul, Belford, I was resolved—But thou knowest what I had conditionally resolved—And now, tho' I was de|termined so much in her favour, who can tell what hands she may have fallen into?

I am mad, stark mad, by Jupiter, at the thoughts of this!—Unprovided, destitute, unacquainted—some villain, worse than myself, who adores her not as I adore her, may have seized her, and taken ad|vantage of her distress!—Let me perish, Belford, if a whole hecatomb of innocents, as the little plagues are called, shall atone for the broken promise and wicked artifices of this cruel creature.

COMING home with resolutions so favourable to her, judge thou of my distraction, when her escape was first hinted to me, although but in broken sentences. I knew not what I said, nor what I did; I wanted to kill somebody. I flew out of one room into another, while all avoided me but the veteran Betty Carberry, who broke the matter to me: I charged bribery and corruption, in my first fury, upon all; and threatened destruction to old and young, as they should come in my way.

Dorcas continues locked up from me: Sally and Polly have not yet dared to appear: The vile Sin|clair—

But here comes the odious devil: She taps at the door, though that's only a-jar, whining and snuffling, to try, I suppose, to coax me into temper.

WHAT a helpless state, where a man can only exe|crate himself and others; the occasion of his rage re|maining; the evil increasing upon reflection; time it|self conspiring to deepen it!—O how I cursed her!

I have her now, methinks, before me blubbering—How odious does sorrow make an ugly face!—Thine, Jack, and this old beldam's, in penitentials, instead of moving compassion, must evermore confirm hatred; while Beauty in tears, is beauty heighten'd, and what my heart has ever delighted to see.—

What excuse!—Confound you, and your cursed daughters, what excuse can you make! Is she not gone!—Has she not escaped!—But before I am quite distracted! before I commit half a hundred murders, let me hear how it was.

I HAVE heard her story!—Art, damn'd, con|founded, wicked, unpardonable Art, in a woman of her character—But shew me a woman, and I'll shew thee a plotter!—This plaguy sex is Art itself: Every individual of it is a plotter by nature.

This is the substance of the old wretch's account.

She told me,

'That I had no sooner left the vile house, than Dorcas acquainted the Syren'

[Do, Jack, let me call her names!—I beseech thee, Jack, let me call her names!]

'than Dorcas acquainted her lady with it; and that I had left word, that I was gone to Doctors-Commons, and should be heard of for some hours at the Horn there, if inquired after by the counsellor, or any-body else: That afterwards I should be either at the Cocoa-Tree, or King's-Arms; and should not return till late. She then urged her to take some refreshment.'

'She was in tears, when Dorcas approached her; her saucy eyes swelled with weeping: She refused either to eat or drink; sighed as if her heart would break.'

False, devilish grief! not the humble, silent grief, that only deserves pity!—Contriving to ruin me, to despoil me of all that I held valuable, in the very midst of it!

'Nevertheless, being resolved not to see me for a week at least, she ordered her to bring her up three or four French rolls, with a little butter, and a de|canter

of water; telling her, she would dispense with her attendance; and that should be all she would live upon in the interim. So, artful crea|ture! pretending to lay up for a week's siege.'

—For, as to substantial food, she, no more than other angels—Angels, said I!—The devil take me, if she shall be any more an angel!—For she is odious in my eyes; and I hate her mortally!—

But oh! Lovelace, thou lyest!—She is all that is lovely! All that is excellent!—

But is she, can she, be gone!—O how Miss Howe will triumph!—But if that little Fury receive her, Fate shall make me rich amends; for then will I con|trive to have them both.

I was looking back for connexion—but the devil take connexion; I have no business with it: The contrary best befits distraction, and that will soon be my lot!

'Dorcas consulted the old wretch about obeying her: O yes, by all means, for Mr. Lovelace knew how to come at her at any time; and directed a bottle of sherry to be added.

'This chearful compliance so obliged her, that she was prevailed upon to go up, and look at the da|mage done by the fire; and seemed not only shock|ed at it, but satisfied it was no trick, as she owned she had at first apprehended it to be. All this made them secure; and they laughed in their sleeves, to think what a childish way of shewing her resent|ment, she had found out; Sally throwing out her witticisms, that Mrs. Lovelace was right, however, not to quarrel with her bread and butter.'

Now this very childishness, as they thought it, in such a genius, would have made me suspect either her head, after what had happened the night before; or her intention, when the marriage was, so far as she knew, to be completed within the week she was resolved to secrete herself from me in the same house.

'She sent Will. with a letter to Wilson's, directed to Miss Howe, ordering him to inquire if there were not one for her there.

'He only pretended to go, and brought word there 'was none; and put her letter in his pocket for me.

'She then order'd him to carry another (which she gave him) to the Horn-Tavern to me.—All this done without any seeming hurry; yet she appeared to be very solemn; and put her handkerchief frequently to her eyes.

'Will. pretended to come to me, with this letter; but tho' the dog had the sagacity to mistrust some|thing, on her sending him out a second time (and to me, whom she had refused to see); which he thought extraordinary; and mentioned his mistrusts to Sally, Polly, and Dorcas; yet they made light of his suspicions; Dorcas assuring them all, that her Lady seemed more stupid with her grief, than ac|tive; and that she really believed she was a little turned in her head, and knew not what she did.—But all of them depended upon her inexperience, her open temper, and upon her not making the least motion towards going out, or to have a coach or chair called, as sometimes she had done; and still more upon the preparations she had made for a week's siege, as I may call it.

'Will. went out, pretending to bring the letter to me; but quickly returned; his heart still mis|giving him; on recollecting my frequent cau|tions, that he was not to judge for himself, when he had positive orders; but if any doubt occurred, from circumstances I could not foresee, literally to follow them, as the only way to avoid blame.

'But it must have been in this little interval, that she escaped; for soon after his return, they made fast the street-door and hatch, the mother and the two nymphs taking a little turn into the garden; Dorcas

going up stairs, and Will. (to avoid being seen by his lady, or his voice heard) down into the kitchen.

'About half an hour after, Dorcas, who had plant|ed herself where she could see her Lady's door open, had the curiosity to go to look through the key-hole, having a misgiving, as she said, that her Lady might offer some violence to herself, in the mood she had been in all day; and finding the key in the door, which was not very usual, she tapped at it three or four times, and having no answer, opened it, with Madam, Madam, did you call?—Supposing her in her closet.

'Having no answer, she stept forward, and was astonished to find her not there: She hastily ran in|to the dining-room, then into my apartments, searched every closet; dreading all the time to be|hold some sad catastrophe.

'Not finding her any-where, she ran down to the old creature, and her nymphs, with a Have you seen my Lady?—Then she's gone!—She's no-where above!

'They were sure she could not be gone out.

'The whole house was in an uproar in an instant; some running up stairs, some down, from the upper rooms to the lower; and all screaming, How should they look me in the face!

'Will. cried out, he was a dead man! He blamed them; They, him; and every one was an accuser, and an excuser at the same time.

'When they had searched the whole house, and every closet in it, ten times over, to no purpose: They took it into their heads to send to all the porters, chairmen, and hackney coachmen, that had been near the house for two hours past, to inquire if any of them saw Such a young Lady; describing her.

'This brought them some light: The only dawn|ing for hope, that I can have, and which keeps me

from absolute despair. One of the chairmen gave them this account: That he saw such a one come out of the house a little before four (in a great hurry, and as if frighted), with a little parcel tied up in a handkerchief, in her hand: That he took notice to his fellow, who plied her, without her answering, that she was a fine young lady: That he'd warrant, she had either a bad husband, or very cross parents; for that her eyes seemed swelled with crying. Upon which, a third fellow replied, That it might be a Doe escaped from Mother Damnable's park. This Mrs. Sinclair told me with a curse, and a wish, that she knew the saucy villain:—She thought, truly, that she had a better reputation; so handsomely as she lived, and so justly as she paid every-body for what she bought; her house visited by the best and civillest of gentlemen; and no noise or brawls ever heard, or known in it!

'From these appearances, the fellow who gave this information, had the curiosity to follow her, unper|ceived. She often looked back. Every-body who passed her, turned to look after her; passing their verdicts upon her tears, her hurry, and her charm|ing person; till coming to a stand of coaches, a coachman plied her; was accepted; alighted, opened the coach-door in a hurry, seeing her hurry; and in it she stumbled for haste; and the fellow believed, hurt her shins with the stumble.'

The devil take me, Belford, if my generous heart is not moved for her, notwithstanding her wicked deceit, to think what must be her reflections and apprehen|sions at the time!—A mind so delicate, heeding no censures; yet, probably, afraid of being laid hold of by a Lovelace in every-one she saw! At the same time, not knowing to what dangers she was going to expose herself; nor of whom she could obtain shelter; a stranger to the town, and to all its ways; the after|noon

far gone; but little money; and no cloaths but those she had on.

It is impossible, in this little interval since last night, that Miss Howe's Townsend could be co-operating.

But how she must abhor me, to run all these risques; how heartily must she detest me, for my freedoms of last night! O that she had had greater reason for a resentment so violent!—As to her Virtue, I am too much enraged to give her the merit due to that: To Virtue it cannot be owing, that she should fly from the charming prospects that were before her: But to Ma|lice, Hatred, Contempt, Harlowe-Pride, the worst of Pride, and to all the deadly passions that ever reign|ed in a female breast.—And if I can but recover her—But be still, be calm, be hushed, my stormy passions; for is it not Clarissa (Harlowe must I say?), that thus I rave against?

'The fellow heard her say, Drive fast! Very fast! Where, Madam?—To Holborn Bars, answered she; repeating, Drive very fast!—And up she pulled both the windows: And he lost sight of the coach in a minute.

'Will. as soon as he had this intelligence, speeded away in hopes to trace her out; declaring, that he would never think of seeing me, till he had heard some tidings of his lady.'

And now, Belford, all my hope is, that this fel|low (who attended us in our airing to Hampstead, to Highgate, to Muzzlehill, to Kentish-Town) will hear of her at some one or other of those places.—And on this I the rather build, as I remember, she was once, after our return, very inquisitive about the stages, and their prices; praising the conveniency to passengers in their going off every hour; and this in Will's hearing, who was then in attendance. Woe be to the villain, if he recollect not this!

I HAVE been traversing her room, meditating, or taking up every-thing she but touched or used: The glass she dressed at, I was ready to break, for not giving me the personal image it was wont to reflect, of her, whose idea is for ever present with me. I call for her, now in the tenderest, now in the most reproachful terms, as if within hearing: Wanting her, I want my own soul, at least every-thing dear to it. What a void in my heart! what a chilness in my blood, as if its circulation were arrested! From her room to my own; in the dining-room, and in and out of every place where I have seen the beloved of my heart, do I hurry; in none can I tarry; her lovely image in every|one, in some lively attitude, rushing cruelly upon me, in differently remembered conversations.

But when in my first fury, at my return, I went up two pair of stairs, resolved to find the locked-up Dor|cas, and beheld the vainly-burnt window-board, and recollected my baffled contrivances, baffled by my own weak folly, I thought my distraction completed, and down I ran as one frighted at a spectre, ready to howl for vexation; my head and my temples shooting with a violence I had never felt before; and my back aching as if the vertebrae were disjointed, and falling in pieces.

But now that I have heard the mother's story, and contemplated the dawning hopes given by the chair|man's information, I am a good deal easier, and can make cooler reflections. Most heartily pray I for Will.'s success, every four or five minutes. If I lose her, all my rage will return with redoubled fury. The disgrace to be thus outwitted by a novice, an infant, in stratagem and contrivance, added to the violence of my passion for her, will either break my heart, or (what saves many a heart in evils insupportable) turn my brain. What had I to do to go out a licence-hunting, at least till I had seen her, and made up

matters with her? And indeed, were it not the pri|vilege of a principal to lay all his own faults upon his underlings, and never be to blame himself▪ I should be apt to reflect, that I am more in fault than any|body. And as the sting of this reflection will sharpen upon me if I recover her not, how shall I be able to bear it?

If ever—

Here Mr. Lovelace lays himself under a curse, too shocking to be repeated, if he revenge not himself upon the Lady, should be once more get her into his hands.

I HAVE just now dismissed the sniveling toad Dor|cas, who was introduced to me for my pardon by the whining mother. I gave her a kind of negative and ungracious forgiveness.—Yet I shall as violently curse the two nymphs, by-and-by, for the consequences of my own folly: And this will be a good way too, to prevent their ridicule upon me, for losing so glorious an opportunity as I had last night, or rather this morning.

I have collected, from the result of the inquiries made of the chairman, and from Dorcas's observations before the cruel creature escaped, a description of her dress; and am resolved, if I cannot otherwise hear of her, to advertise her in the Gazette, as an eloped wife, both by her maiden and acknowleged name; for her elopement will soon be known by every Enemy, why then should not my Friends be made acquainted with it, from whose inquiries and informa|tions I may expect some tidings of her?

She had on a brown lustring night-gown, fresh, and looking like new, as every thing she wears does, whether new or not, from an elegance natural to her. A beaver hat, a black ribband about her neck, and blue knots on her breast. A quilted petticoat of car|nation

coloured satten; a rose-diamond ring, supposed on her finger; and in her whole person and appear|ance, as I shall express it, a dignity, as well as beauty, that commands the repeated attention of every-one who sees her.

The description of her person, I shall take a little more pains about. My mind must be more at ease, before I can undertake that. And I shall threaten, that if, after a certain period given for her voluntary return, she be not heard of, I will prosecute any per|son, who presumes to entertain, harbour, abett, or encourage her, with all the vengeance that an injur'd gentleman and husband may be warranted to take by Law, or otherwise.

FRESH cause of aggravation!—But for this scrib|ling vein, or I should still run mad!

Again going into her chamber, because it was hers, and sighing over the bed, and every piece of furni|ture in it, I cast my eye towards the drawers of the dressing-glass, and saw peep out, as it were, in one of the half-drawn drawers, the corner of a letter. I snatched it out, and found it superscribed by her, To Mr. Lovelace. The sight of it made my heart leap, and I trembled so, that I could hardly open the seal.

How does this damn'd Love unman me!—But nobody ever loved as I love!—It is even increased by her unworthy flight, and my disappointment. In|grateful creature, to fly from a passion thus ardently flaming! which, like the palm, rises the more for be|ing depressed and slighted!

I will not give thee a copy of this letter. I owe her not so much service.

But wouldst thou think, that this haughty promise-breaker could resolve, as she does, absolutely and for ever to renounce me for what passed last night? That she could resolve to forego all her opening prospects of reconciliation; that reconciliation with a worth|less

family, on which she had set her whole heart?—Yet she does!—She acquits me of all obligation to her, and herself of all expectations from me!—And for what?—O that indeed I had given her real cause! Damn'd confounded Niceness, Prudery, Affectation, or pretty Ignorance, if not Affectation!—By my soul, Belford, I told thee all—I was more indebted to her struggles, than to my own forwardness. I cannot support my own reflections upon a decency so ill-re|quited.—She could not, she would not have been so much a Harlowe in her resentment had I deserved, as I ought to have done, her resentment. All she feared, had then been over, and her own good-sense, and even modesty, would have taught her to make the best of it.

But if ever again I get her into my hands, Art and more Art, and Compulsion too, if she make it neces|sary [and 'tis plain that nothing else will do], shall she experience from the man whose fear of her has been above even his passion for her; and whose gentleness and forbearance she has thus perfidiously triumphed over. Well says the Poet,

'Tis nobler like a lion to invade When appetite directs, and seize my prey, Than to wait tamely, like a begging dog, Till dull consent throws out the scraps of love.

Thou knowest what I have so lately vowed—And yet, at times [cruel creature, and ingrateful as cruel!], I can subscribe with too much truth to those lines of another Poet:

She reigns more fully in my soul than ever; She garisons my breast, and mans against me Ev'n my own rebel thoughts, with thousand graces, Ten thousand charms, and new-discover'd beauties!

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

A Letter is put into my hands by Wilson him|self—

Such a letter!—

A letter from Miss Howe to her cruel friend!—

I made no scruple to open it.

It is a miracle, that I fell not into fits at the read|ing of it; and at the thought of what might have been the consequence, had it come to the hands of this Cla|rissa Harlowe. Let my justly-excited rage excuse my irreverence.

Collins, tho' not his day, brought it this afternoon to Wilson's, with a particular desire, that it might be sent with all speed to Miss Beaumont's lodgings, and given, if possible, into her own hands. He had before been here (at Mrs. Sinclair's), with intent to deliver it to her himself; but was told [too truly told!], that she was abroad; but that they would give her any thing he should leave for her, the moment she returned.—But he cared not to trust them with his business, and went away to Wilson's (as I find by the description of him at both places), and there left the letter; but not till he had a second time called here, and found her not come in.

The letter (which I shall inclose; for it is too long to transcribe) will account to thee for his coming hither.

O this devilish Miss Howe!—Something must be resolved upon, and done with that little Fury!

THOU wilt see the margin of this cursed letter crouded with indices [☞]. I put them to mark the

places devoted for vengeance, or requiring animad|version. Return thou it to me the moment thou hast read it.

Read it here; and avoid trembling for me, if thou canst.

To Miss LAETITIA BEAUMONT.

Wednesday, June 7.

My dearest Friend,

YOU will perhaps think, that I have been too long silent. But I had begun two letters at different times since my last, and written a great deal each time; and with spirit enough, I assure you;* 40.1 incensed as I was against the abominable wretch you are with; particularly on reading yours of the 21st of the past month (a) 40.2.

* 40.3The first I intended to keep open till I could give you some account of my proceedings with Mrs. Townsend. It was some days before I saw her: And this intervenient space giving me time to re-peruse what I had written, I thought it pro|per to lay that aside, and to write in a stile a little less fervent;* 40.4 for you would have blamed me, I know, for the freedom of some of my expressions (execrations,* 40.5 if you please). And when I had gone a good way in the second, the change in your prospects, on his communicating to you Miss Montague's letter, and his better behaviour, oc|casioning a change in your mind, I laid that aside also. And in this uncertainty, thought I would wait to see the issue of affairs between you, before I wrote again; believing that all would soon be decided one way or other.

I had still, perhaps, held this resolution (as every appearance, according to your letters, was more and more promising), had not the two passed days

furnished me with intelligence which it highly imports you to know.

* 40.6But I must stop here, and take a little walk, to try to keep down that just indignation which rises to my pen, when I am about to relate to you what I must communicate.

I AM not my own mistress enough—Then my mother—Always up and down—And watching as if I were writing to a fellow—But I will try if I can contain myself in tolerable bounds.* 40.7—

The women of the house where you are—O my dear—The women of the house—But you never thought highly of them—So it cannot be so very surprizing—Nor would you have staid so long with them,* 40.8 had not the notion of removing to one of your own, made you less uneasy, and less curious about their characters, and behaviour. Yet I could now wish,* 40.9 that you had been less re|served among them—But I teaze you—In short, my dear,* 40.10 you are certainly in a devilish house!—Be assured, that the woman is one of the vilest of women!—Nor does she go to you by her right name—Very true—Her name is not Sinclair—Nor is the street she lives in, Dover-street.—Did you never go out by yourself, and discharge the coach or chair, and return by another coach or chair?* 40.11 If you did (yet I don't remember that you ever wrote to me, that you did), you would never have found your way to the vile house, either by the woman's name, Sinclair, or by the street's name, mentioned by that Doleman in his letter about the lodgings (a) 40.12.

* 40.13The wretch might indeed have held out these false lights a little more excusably, had the house been an honest house; and had his end only been to prevent mischief from your brother—But this con|trivance

was antecedent, as I think, to your bro|ther's project: So that no excuse can be made for his intentions at the time—The man, whatever he may now intend, was certainly then, even then, a villain in his heart!* 40.14

* 40.15I AM excessively concerned, that I should be prevailed upon, between your over-niceness, on one hand, and my mother's positiveness, on the other, to be satisfied without knowing how to direct to you at your lodgings. I think too, that the proposal that I should be put off to a third-hand knowlege, or rather veiled in a first-hand ignorance, came from him—and that it was only acquiesced in by you, as it was by me (a) 40.16, upon needless and weak considerations—Because, truly, I might have it to say, if challenged, that I knew not where to send to you!—I am ashamed of my|self!—Had this been at first excusable, it could not be a good reason for going on in the folly, when you had no liking to the house, and when he began to play tricks,* 40.17 and delay with you.—What! I was to mistrust myself, was I?—I was to allow it to be thought, that I could not keep my own secret?* 40.18—But the house to be taken at this time, and at that time, led us both on—like fools,* 40.19 like tame fools in a string.—Upon my life,* 40.20 my dear, this man is a vile, a contemptible villain—I must speak out!—How has he laughed

in his sleeve at us both, I warrant, for I can't tell how long!

And yet who could have thought, that a man of fortune, and some reputation [This Doleman, I mean;* 40.21 not your wretch, to be sure!]—formerly a Rake indeed—[I have inquired after him—long ago; and so was the easier satisfied]—but mar|ried to a woman of family—having had a palsy-blow—and one would think a penitent—should recommend such a house—[Why,* 40.22 my dear, he could not inquire of it, but must find it to be bad]—to such a man as Lovelace, to bring his future, nay, his then supposed bride, to?

* 40.23I WRITE, perhaps, with too much violence, to be clear. But I cannot help it. Yet I lay down my pen, and take it up every ten minutes, in order to write with some temper—My mother too in and out—What need I (she asks me) lock myself in, if I am only reading past corresponden|cies?—for that is my pretence, when she comes poking in with her face sharpened to an edge,* 40.24 as I may say, by a curiosity that gives her more pain than pleasure—The Lord forgive me;* 40.25 but I be|lieve I shall huff her next time she comes in.

Do You forgive me too, my dear. My mother ought; because she says, I am my father's girl; and because I am sure I am hers.* 40.26 I don't know what to do—I don't know what to write next—I have so much to write, yet have so little patience, and so little opportunity.

But I will tell you how I came by my intelli|gence.

* 40.27That being a fact, and requiring the less at|tention, I will try to account to you for that.

Thus then it came about—

'Miss Lardner (whom you have seen at her cousin Biddulph's)

saw you at St. James's church on Sunday was fortnight. She kept you in her eye during the whole time; but could not once obtain the no|tice of yours, tho' she courtesy'd to you twice. She thought to pay her compliments to you when the Service was over; for she doubted not but you were married—and for an odd reason—because you came to church by yourself.* 40.28—Every eye, as usual, she said, was upon you; and this seeming to give you hurry, and you being nearer the door than she, you slid out, before she could get to you. But she ordered her servant to fol|low you till you were housed. This servant saw you step into a chair, which waited for you; and you ordered the men to carry you to the place where they took you up.

'The next day, Miss Lardner sent the same servant, out of mere curiosity, to make private inquiry whether Mr. Lovelace were, or were not, with you there. And this inquiry brought out,* 40.29 from different people, that the house was suspected to be one of those genteel wicked houses, which receive and accommodate fashion|able people of both sexes.

'Miss Lardner, confounded at this strange in|telligence, made further inquiry; injoining se|crecy to the servant she had sent, as well as to the gentleman whom she employed: Who had it confirmed from a rakish friend,* 40.30 who knew the house; and told him, that there were two houses; the one, in which all decent appear|ances were preserved, and guests rarely ad|mitted; the other, the receptacle of those who were absolutely engaged, and broken to the vile yoke.'

—

* 40.31Say—my dear creature—say—Shall I not execrate the wretch?—But words are weak—What can I say, that will suitably express my abhorrence of such

a villain as he must have been, when he meditated to bring a Clarissa Harlowe to such a place!

'Miss Lardner kept this to herself some days, not knowing what to do; for she loves you, and admires you of all women. At last, she reveal|ed it, but in confidence, to Miss Biddulph, by letter. Miss Biddulph, in like confidence, be|ing afraid it would distract me, were I to know it, communicated it to Miss Lloyd; and so, like a whisper'd scandal, it passed through several canals; and then it came to me. Which was not till last Monday.'

I thought I should have fainted upon the sur|prising communication. But rage taking place, it blew away the sudden illness.* 40.32 I besought Miss Lloyd to re-injoin secrecy to every-one. I told her, that I would not for the world, that my mo|ther,* 40.33 or any of your family, should know it. And I instantly caused a trusty friend to make what in|quiries he could about Tomlinson.

* 40.34I had thoughts to have done it before: But not imagining it to be needful, and little thinking that you could be in such a house, and as you were pleased with your changed prospects, I forbore. And the rather forbore,* 40.35 as the matter is so laid, that Mrs. Hodges is supposed to know nothing of the pro|jected treaty of accommodation; but, on the contrary, that it was designed to be a secret to her, and to every-body but immediate parties; and it was Mrs. Hodges that I had proposed to found by a second hand.

* 40.36Now, my dear, it is certain, without applying to that too-much favoured housekeeper, that there is not such a man within ten miles of your Uncle. Very true! One Tomkins there is, about four miles off; but he is a day-labourer: And one Thompson, about five miles distant the other way; but he is a par••sh schoolmaster, poor, and about seventy.

* 40.37A man, tho' but of 800 l. a year, cannot come from one county to settle in another, but every|body in both must know it, and talk of it.

* 40.38Mrs. Hodges may yet be sounded at a distance, if you will. Your uncle is an old man. Old men imagine themselves under obligation to their paramours, if younger than themselves, and sel|dom keep any thing from their knowlege. But if we suppose him to make a secret of the designed treaty,* 40.39 it is impossible, before that treaty was thought of, but she must have seen him, at least have heard your uncle speak praisefully of a man he is said to be so intimate with, let him have been ever so little a while in those parts.

* 40.40Yet, methinks, the story is so plausible. Tom|linson, as you describe him, is so good a man, and so much of a gentleman; the end to be answered by his being an impostor,* 40.41 so much more than ne|cessary, if Lovelace has villainy in his head; and as you are in such a house—Your wretch's be|haviour to him was so petulant and lordly;* 40.42 and Tomlinson's answer so full of spirit and circum|stance; and then what he communicated to you of Mr. Hickman's application to your uncle,* 40.43 and of Mrs. Norton's to your mother (some of which particulars, I am satisfied, his vile agent Joseph Leman could not reveal to his viler employer);* 40.44 his pressing on the marriage-day, in the name of your uncle, which it could not answer any wicked pur|pose for him to do; and what he writes of your uncle's proposal,* 40.45 to have it thought that you were married from the time that you had lived in one house together; and that to be made to agree with the time of Mr. Hickman's visit to your uncle: The insisting on a trusty person's being present at the ceremony,* 40.46 at that uncle's nomination—These things make me willing to try for a tolerable con|struction to be made of all; tho' I am so much

puzzled, by what occurs on both sides of the question,* 40.47 that I cannot but abhor the devilish wretch, whose inventions and contrivances are for ever employing an inquisitive head,* 40.48 without affording the means of absolute detection.

But this is what I am ready to conjecture, that Tomlinson, specious as he is, is a machine of Lovelace; and that he is employed for some end, which has not yet been answered.* 40.49—This is cer|tain, that not only Tomlinson, but Mennell, who, I think, attended you more than once at this vile house, must know it to be a vile house.

What can you then think of Tomlinson's de|claring himself in favour of it, upon inquiry?

Lovelace too must know it to be so; if not be|fore he brought you to it, soon after.

* 40.50Perhaps the company he found there, may be the most probable way of accounting for his bearing with the house, and for his strange suspensions of marriage, when it was in his power to call such an angel of a woman his.—

* 40.51O my dear, the man is a villain! the greatest of villains, in every light!—I am convinced that he is—And this Doleman must be another of his implements!

* 40.52There are so many wretches who think that to be no sin, which is one of the greatest, and the most ingrateful, of all sins; to ruin young creatures of our sex, who place their confidence in them; that the wonder is less than the shame, that people of figure, of appearance, at least, are found to pro|mote the horrid purposes of profligates of fortune and interest!—

* 40.53But can I think (you will ask, with indignant astonishment), that Lovelace can have designs up|on your honour?

* 40.54That such designs he has had, if he still hold them not, I can have no doubt, now that I know

the house he has brought you to, to be a vile one. This is a clue that has led me to account for all his behaviour to you ever since you have been in his hands.

Allow me a brief retrospection of it all.

* 40.55We both know, that Pride, Revenge, and a de|light to tread in unbeaten paths, are principal in|gredients in the character of this finished liber|tine.

* 40.56He hates all your family, yourself excepted; and I have several times thought, that I have seen him stung and mortified, that Love has obliged him to kneel at your footstool, because you are a Harlowe.* 40.57—Yet is this wretch a Savage in Love.—Love that humanizes the fiercest spirits, has not been able to subdue his.* 40.58 His pride, and the cre|dit which a few plausible qualities, sprinkled among his odious ones,* 40.59 have given him, have se|cured him too good a reception from our eye-judging, our undistinguishing, our self-flattering, our too-confiding Sex, to make assiduity and ob|sequiousness, and a conquest of his unruly passions, any part of his study.

* 40.60He has some reason for his animosity to all the men, and to one woman of your family. He has always shewn you, and all his own family too, that he prefers his Pride to his Interest.* 40.61 He is a declared marriage-hater: A notorious intriguer: Full of his inventions; and glorying in them.—He never could draw you in to declarations of Love: Nor, till your wise relations persecuted you, as they did, to receive his addresses as a Lover.* 40.62—He knew, that you professedly disliked him for his immoralities; he could not therefore justly blame you, for the coldness and indifference of your behaviour to him.

* 40.63The prevention of mischief was your first main view in the correspondence he drew you into.

He ought not, then, to have wonder'd, that you declared your preference of the Single Life to any matrimonial engagement. He knew, that this was always your preference; and that before he tricked you away so artfully.* 40.64 What was his conduct to you afterwards, that you should of a sudden change it?

Thus was your whole behaviour regular, con|sistent, and dutiful to those to whom, by birth, you owed duty; and neither prudish, coquetish, nor tyrannical to him.

* 40.65He had agreed to go on with you upon those your own terms, and to rely only on his own merits and future reformation, for your favour.

It was plain to me, indeed, to whom you com|municated all that you know of your own heart, tho' not all of it that I found out, that Love had pretty early gained footing in it. And this you yourself would have discovered sooner than you did,* 40.66 had not his alarming, his unpolite, his rough conduct, kept it under.

* 40.67I knew, by experience, that Love is a fire that is not to be played with, without burning one's fing|ers: I knew it to be a dangerous thing for two single persons of different sexes, to enter into familiarity and correspondence with each other; since, as to the latter, must not a person be capable of preme|ditated art, who can sit down to write, and not write from the heart?—And a woman to write her heart to a man practised in deceit, or even to a man of some character, what advantage does it give him over her?

* 40.68As this man's vanity had made him imagine, that no woman could be proof against Love, when his address was honourable; no wonder that he struggled, like a lion held in toils, against a pas|sion that he thought not returned.—And how could you, at first, shew a return in love, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 fierce a spirit, and who had seduc•••• 〈…〉〈…〉

vile artifices, but to the approval of those arti|fices?

* 40.69Hence, perhaps, it is not difficult to believe, that it became possible for such a wretch as this to give way to his old prejudices against marriage; and to that Revenge which had always been a first passion with him.

This is the only way, I think, to account for his horrid views in bringing you to a vile house.

And now may not all the rest be naturally ac|counted for?* 40.70—His delays—His teazing ways—His bringing you to bear with his lodging in the same house—His making you pass to the people of it, as his wife; tho' restrictively so, yet with hope,* 40.71 no doubt (vilest of villains as he is!), to take you at advantage.—

* 40.72His bringing you into the company of his li|bertine companions; The attempt of imposing upon you that Miss Partington for a bedfellow, very probably his own invention, for the worst of purposes; His terrifying you at many different times; His obtruding himself upon you when you went out to church; no doubt to prevent your finding out what the people were; The advantages he made of your brother's foolish project with Singleton.

See, my dear, how naturally all this follows from the discovery made by Miss Lardner.—See how the monster,* 40.73 whom I thought, and so often called, a fool, comes out to have been all the time one of the greatest villains in the world!* 40.74

But if this be so, what (it would be asked by an indifferent person) has hitherto saved you? Glo|rious creature!—What (morally speaking) but your watchfulness! What but That, and the ma|jesty of your virtue; the native dignity, which, in a situation so very difficult (friendless, destitute,

passing for a wife, cast into the company of crea|tures accustomed to betray and ruin innocent hearts) has hitherto enabled you to baffle, over|awe, and confound, such a dangerous libertine as this; so habitually remorseless, as you have ob|served him to be; so very various in his temper; so inventive; so seconded, so supported, so insti|gated, too probably, as he has been!—That na|tive dignity, that heroism I will call it, which has, on all proper occasions, exerted itself, in its full lustre,* 40.75 unmingled with that charming obliging|ness and condescending sweetness, which is ever|more the softner of that dignity, when your mind is free and unapprehensive!

* 40.76Let me stop to admire, and to bless my be|loved friend, who, unhappily for herself, at an age so tender, unacquainted as she was with the world, and with the vile arts of libertines, having been called upon to sustain the hardest and most shock|ing trials, from persecuting Relations on one hand, and from a villainous Lover on the other, has been enabled to give such an illustrious example of fortitude and prudence, as never woman gave before her; and who, as I have heretofore ob|served (a) 40.77, has made a far greater figure in ad|versity, than she possibly could have made, had all her shining qualities been exerted in their full force and power,* 40.78 by the continuance of that prosperous run of fortune, which attended her for Eighteen years of life out of Nineteen.

* 40.79BUT now, my dear, do I apprehend, that you are in greater danger than ever yet you have been in; if you are not married in a week; and yet stay in this abominable house. For were you out of it, I own, I should not be much afraid for you.

These are my thoughts, on the most deliberate consideration:* 40.80

'That he is now convinced, that he has not been able to draw you off your guard: That therefore, if he can obtain no new advantage over you, as he goes along, he is resolved to do you all the poor justice that it is in the power of such a wretch as he, to do you. He is the rather induced to this, as he sees, that all his own family have warmly engaged them|selves in your cause; and that it is his highest interest to be just to you.* 40.81 Then the horrid wretch loves you, as well he may, above all women. I have no doubt of this—With such a love as such a wretch is capable of: With such a love as Herod loved his Mariamne.* 40.82—He is now therefore, very probably, at last, in earnest.'

I took time for inquiries of different natures, as I knew by the train you are in, that whatever his designs are, they cannot ripen either for good or evil,* 40.83 till something shall result from this new device of his about Tomlinson and your uncle.

Device I have no doubt that it is, whatever this dark, this impenetrable spirit, intends by it.

* 40.84And yet I find it to be true, that Counsellor Williams (whom Mr. Hickman knows to be a man of eminence in his profession) has actually as good as finished the settlements: That two draughts of them have been made;* 40.85 one avowedly to be sent to one Captain Tomlinson, as the clerk says:—And I find, that a license has actually been more than once endeavoured to be obtained; and that difficulties have hitherto been made, equally to Lovelace's vexation and disappointment.* 40.86 My mother's proctor, who is very intimate with the proctor applied to by the wretch, has come at this information in confidence; and hints, that, as Mr. Lovelace is a man of high fortunes, these difficulties will probably be got over.

But here follow the causes of my apprehension of your danger;* 40.87 which I should not have had a thought of (since nothing very vile has yet been attempted) but on finding what a house you are in, and, on that discovery, laying together, and ruminating on past occurrences.

'You are obliged, from the present favourable appearances,* 40.88 to give him your company when ever he requests it.—You are under a necessity of forgetting, or seeming to forget, past disobli|gations; and to receive his addresses as those of a betrothed lover.—You will incur the censure of prudery and affectation, even perhaps in your own apprehension, if you keep him at that di|stance which has hitherto been your security.—His sudden (and as suddenly recovered) illness,* 40.89 has given him an opportunity to find out, that you love him. [Alas, my dear, I knew you loved him!] He is, as you relate, every hour more and more an incroacher,* 40.90 upon it. He has seem'd to change his nature, and is all love and gentle|ness. The wolf has put on the sheep's cloath|ing; yet more than once has shewn his teeth, and his hardly sheathed claws.* 40.91 The instance you have given of his freedom with your person, which you could not but resent; and yet, as matters are circumstanced between you, could not but pass over, when Tomlinson's letter called you into his company (a) 40.92, shew the ad|vantage he has now over you;* 40.93 and also, that if he can obtain greater, he will.—And for this very reason (as I apprehend) it is, that Tom|linson is introduced; that is to say, to give you the greater security,* 40.94 and to be a mediator, if mortal offence be given you, by any villainous attempt.—The day seems not now to be so

much in your power as it ought to be, since That now partly depends on your uncle, whose presence, at your own motion, he has wished on the occasion.—A wish, were all real, very unlikely, I think, to be granted.'

* 40.95And thus situated, should he offer greater free|doms, must you not forgive him?

I fear nothing (as I know who has said), that devil carnate or incarnate can fairly do against a virtue so established (a) 40.96—But surprizes,* 40.97 my dear, in such a house as that you are in, and in such circumstances as I have mentioned, I greatly fear!* 40.98—The man, one, who has already triumphed over persons worthy of his alliance.

* 40.99What then have you to do, but to fly this house, this infernal house!—O that your heart would let you sly him!

* 40.100If you should be disposed so to do, Mrs. Towns|end shall be ready at your command.—But if you meet with no impediments, no new causes of doubt, I think your reputation in the eye of the world, tho' not your happiness, is concerned, that you should be his.—And yet I cannot bear, that these libertines should be rewarded for their villainy with the best of the Sex,* 40.101 when the worst of it are too good for them.

But if you meet with the least ground for sus|picion; if he would detain you at the odious house, or wish you to stay, now you know what the people are,* 40.102 fly him, whatever your prospects are, as well as them.

In one of your next airings, if you have no other way,* 40.103 refuse to return with him. Name me for your intelligencer, that you are in a bad house; and if you think you cannot now break with him, seem rather to believe that he may not know it to be so; and that I do not believe he does: And

yet this belief in us both must appear to be very gross.* 40.104

* 40.105But suppose you desire, and insist upon it, to go out of town for the air, this sultry weather?—You may plead your health for so doing. He dare not resist such a plea. Your brother's foolish scheme, I am told, is certainly given up; so you need not be afraid on that account.

If you do not fly the house upon reading of this, or some way or other get out of it, I shall judge of his power over you, by the little you will have over either him or yourself.

* 40.106One of my informants has made slight inquiries, concerning Mrs. Fretchville. Did he ever name to you the street or square she lived in?—I don't remember, that you, in any of yours, mentioned either to me.* 40.107 Strange, very strange, This, I think! No such person or house can be found, near any of the new streets or squares, where the lights I had from your letters led me to imagine her house might be.* 40.108—Ask him, What street the house is in, if he has not told you. And let me know. If he make a difficulty of that circumstance, it will amount to a detection.* 40.109—And yet, I think, you have enough without this.

I shall send this long letter by Collins, who changes his day to oblige me; and that he may try (now I know where you are), to get it into your own hands. If he cannot, he will leave it at Wilson's. As none of our letters by that con|veyance have miscarried, when you have been in more apparently disagreeable situations than you are in at present, I hope that This will go safe, if Collins should be obliged to leave it there.

* 40.110I wrote a short letter to you in my first agita|tions. It contained not above twenty lines, all full of fright, alarm, and execration. But being afraid, that my vehemence would too much affect

you, I thought it better to wait a little, as well for the reasons already hinted at, as to be able to give you as many particulars as I could; and my thoughts upon all. And now, I think, taking to your aid other circumstances as they have offer'd, or may offer, you will be sufficiently armed to re|sist all his machinations, be they what they will.

* 40.111One word more. Command me up, if I can be of the least service or pleasure to you. I value not same: I value not censure; nor even life it|self, I verily think, as I do your honour, and your friendship—For, is not your honour my ho|nour? And is not your friendship the pride of my life?

May heaven preserve you, my dearest creature, in honour and safety, is the prayer, the hourly prayer, of

Your ever-faithful and affectionate ANNA HOWE.

Thursday Morn. 5. I have written all night.

To Miss HOWE.

My dearest creature,

HOW you have shock'd, confounded, surpriz'd, astonish'd me, by your dreadful communica|tion!—My heart is too weak to bear up against such a stroke as this!—When all hope was with me! When my prospects were so much mended!—But can there be such villainy in men, as in this vile principal, and equally vile agent!

I am really ill—Very ill—Grief and surprize, and, now I will say, despair, have overcome me!—All, all, you have laid down as conjecture, appears to me now to be more than conjecture!

O that your mother would have the goodness to per|mit me the presence of the only comforter that my

afflicted, my half-broken heart, could be raised by! But I charge you, think not of coming up without her indulgent permission.—I am too ill, at present, my dear, to think of combating with this dreadful man; and of flying from this horrid house!—My bad writing will shew you this.—But my illness will be my present security, should he indeed have meditated villainy.—Forgive, O forgive me, my dearest friend, the trouble I have given you!—All must soon—But why add I grief to grief, and trouble to trouble?—But I charge you, my beloved creature, not to think of coming up, without your mother's leave, to the truly deso|late, and broken-spirited

CLARISSA HARLOWE.

WELL, Jack!—And what thinkest thou of this last letter?—Miss Howe values not either fame or censure; and thinkest thou, that this letter will not bring the little fury up, tho' she could procure no other conveyance than her higgler's paniers, one for herself, the other for her maid?—She knows where to come now!—Many a little villain have I punished for knowing more than I would have her know; and that by adding to her knowlege and experience.—What thinkest thou, Belford, if by getting hither this virago, and giving cause for a lamentable letter from her, to the fair fugitive, I should be able to re|cover her?—Would she not visit that friend in her distress, thinkest thou, whose intended visit to her in hers, brought her into the condition she herself had so perfidiously escaped from?

Let me enjoy the thought!

Shall I send this letter?—Thou seest I have left room, if I fail in the exact imitation of so charming a hand, to avoid too strict a scrutiny.—Do they not both deserve it of me?—Seest thou not how the rave|ing girl threatens her mother?—Ought she not to be punish'd?—And can I be a worse devil, or villain, or

monster, than she calls me in this letter; and has cal|led me in her former letters; were I to punish them both, as my vengeance urges me to punish them. And when I have executed That my vengeance, how charmingly satisfied may they both go down into the country, and keep house together, and have a much better reason than their pride could give them, for living the Single-life they have both seemed so fond of?

I will set about transcribing it this moment, I think. I can resolve afterwards. Yet what has poor Hick|man done to deserve this of me?—But gloriously would it punish the mother (as well as daughter) for all her sordid avarice; and for her undutifulness to honest Mr. Howe, whose heart she actually broke. I am on tip-toe, Jack, to enter upon this project.—Is not one country as good to me as another, if I should be obliged to take another tour upon it?

BUT I will not venture. Mr. Hickman is a good man, they tell me. I love a good man. I hope one of these days to be a good man myself. Besides, I have heard within this week, something of this honest fellow that shews he has a soul; when I thought, if he had one, that it lay a little of the deepest to emerge to notice, except on very extraordinary occasions; and that then it presently sunk again into its Cellula adi|posa.—The man is a plump man.—Didst ever see him, Jack?

But the principal reason that withholds me (for 'tis a tempting project!) is, for fear of being utterly blown up, if I should not be quick enough with my letter, or if Miss Howe should deliberate on setting out, or try her mother's consent first; in which time, a letter from my frighted beauty might reach her; for I have no doubt, where-ever she has refuged, but her first work was to write to her vixen friend. I will therefore go on patiently; and take my revenge upon the little fury at my leisure.

But, in spite of my compassion for Hickman, whose better character is sometimes my envy, and who is one of those mortals that bring clumsiness into credit with the mothers, to the disgrace of us clever fellows, and often to our disappointment with the daughters; and who has been very busy in assisting these double-arm'd beauties against me; I swear by all the Dii Majores, as well as Minores, that I will have Miss Howe, if I cannot have her more exalted friend!—And then, if there be so much flaming love between these girls as they pretend, what will my charmer profit by her escape?

And now, that I shall permit Miss Howe to reign a little longer, let me ask thee, If thou hast not, in the inclosed letter, a fresh instance, that a great many of my difficulties with her sister-toast are owing to this flighty girl?—'Tis true, that here was natural|ly a confounded sharp wintry air; and, if a little cold water was thrown into the path, no wonder that it was instantly frozen; and that a poor honest traveller found it next to impossible to keep his way; one foot sliding back as fast as the other advanced; to the en|dangering of his limbs or neck. But yet I think it impossible, that she should have baffled me as she has done (novice as she is, and never before from under her parents wing), had she not been armed by a virago, who was formerly very near shewing, that she could better advise than practise. But this, I believe, I have said more than once before.

I am loth to reproach myself, now the cruel crea|ture has escaped me; for what would that do, but add to my torment? Since evils self-caused, and avoidable, admit not of palliation or comfort. And yet, if thou tellest me, that all her strength was owing to my weakness, and that I have been a cursed coward in this whole affair; why then, Jack, I may blush, and be vexed; but, by my soul, I cannot contradict thee.

But this, Belford, I hope—that if I can turn the poison of this letter into wholsome aliment; that is to say, if I can make use of it to my advantage; I shall have thy free consent to do it.

I am always careful to open covers cautiously, and to preserve seals intire. I will draw out from this cursed letter an alphabet. Nor was Nick Rowe ever half so diligent to learn Spanish, at the Quixote re|commendation of a certain Peer, as I will be to gain a mastery of this vixen's hand.

LETTER LV. Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Thursday Evening, June 8.

AFter my last, so full of other hopes, the contents of This will surprise you. O my dearest friend, the man has at last proved himself to be a villain! It was with the utmost difficulty last night, that I pre|served myself from the vilest dishonour. He extorted from me a promise of forgiveness; and that I would see him next day, as if nothing had happened: But if it were possible to escape from a wretch, who, as I have too much reason to believe, formed a plot to fire the house, to frighten me, almost naked, into his arms, how could I see him next day?

I have escaped, Heaven be praised, I have! And have now no other concern, than that I fly from the only hope that could have made such an husband to|lerable to me; The reconciliation with my friends, so agreeably undertaken by my uncle.

All my present hope is, To find some reputable family, or person of my own Sex, who is obliged to go beyond sea, or who lives abroad; I care not whi|ther; but if I might choose, in some one of our American colonies—Never to be heard of more by my relations, whom I have so grievously offended.

Nor let your generous heart be moved at what I write: If I can escape the dreadfullest part of my fa|ther's malediction (for the temporary part is already in a manner fulfilled, which makes me tremble in appre|hension of the other), I shall think the wreck of my worldly fortunes a happy composition.

Neither is there need of the renewal of your so often tender'd goodness to me: For I have with me rings and other valuables, that were sent me with my cloaths, which will turn into money, to answer all I can want, till Providence shall be pleased to put me into some way to help myself, if, for my further punish|ment, my life is to be lengthen'd beyond my wishes.

Impute not this scheme, my beloved friend, either to dejection on one hand, or to that romantic turn on the other, which we have supposed generally to ob|tain with our Sex, from Fifteen to Twenty-two: For, be pleased to consider my unhappy situation, in the light in which it really must appear to every consider|ate person, who knows it. In the first place, the man, who has had the assurance to think me, and to endeavour to make me, his property, will hunt me, and to place to place, and search after me as an estray: And he knows he may do so with impunity; for whom have I to protect me from him?

Then as to my estate, the enviable estate, which has been the original cause of all my misfortunes, it shall never be mine upon litigated terms. What is there in being enabled to boast, that I am worth more than I can use, or wish to use?—And if my power is circumscribed, I shall not have that to answer for, which I should have, if I did not use it as I ought: Which very few do. I shall have no husband, of whose interest I ought to be so regardful, as to pre|vent me doing more than justice to others, that I may not do less to him.—If therefore, my father will be pleased (as I shall presume, in proper time, to propose to him) to pay two annuities out of it, one to my

dear Mrs. Norton, which may make her easy for the remainder of her life, as she is now growing into years; the other of 50 l. per annum, to the same good wo|man, for the use of My poor, as I have had the vanity to call a certain set of people, concerning whom she knows all my mind; that so as few as possible may suffer by the consequences of my error; God bless them, and give them heart's-ease and content with the rest.

Other reasons for my taking the step I have hinted at, are these:

This wicked man knows I have no friend in the world but you: Your neighbourhood therefore would be the first he would seek for me in, were you to think it possible for me to be concealed in it: And in this case You might be subjected to inconveniencies greater even than those which you have already sustained on my account.

From my cousin Morden, were he to come, I could not hope protection; since, by his letter to me, it is evident, that my brother has engaged him in his party: Nor would I, by any means, subject so worthy a man to danger; as might be the case, from the violence of this ungovernable spirit.

These things considered, what better method can I take, than to go abroad to some one of the English co|lonies; where nobody but yourself shall know any|thing of me; nor You, let me tell you, presently, nor till I am fixed, and, if it please God, in a course of living tolerably to my mind. For it is no small part of my concern, that my indiscretions have laid so heavy a tax upon You, my dear friend, to whom, once, I hoped to give more pleasure than pain.

I am at present at one Mrs. Moore's at Hamp|stead. My heart misgave me at coming to this vil|lage, because I had been here with him more than once: But the coach hither was so ready a conveni|ency, that I knew not what to do better. Then I shall stay here no longer than till I can receive your

answer to this: In which you will be pleased to let me know, if I cannot be hid, according to your former contrivance [Happy, had I given into it at the time!] by Mrs. Townsend's assistance, till the heat of his search be over. The Deptford road, I imagine, will be the right direction, to hear of a passage, and to get safely aboard.

O why was the great fiend of all unchained, and permitted to assume so specious a form, and yet allow|ed to conceal his feet and his talons, till with the one he was ready to trample upon my honour, and to strike the other into my heart!—And what had I done, that he should be let loose particularly upon me!

Forgive me this murmuring question, the effect of my impatience, my guilty impatience, I doubt: For, as I have escaped with my honour, and nothing but my worldly prospects, and my pride, my ambition, and my vanity, have suffered in this wreck of my hopefuller fortunes, may I not still be more happy than I deserve to be? And is it not in my own power still, by the divine favour, to secure the great stake of all? And who knows, that this very path into which my inconsideration has thrown me, strew'd as it is with briars and thorns, which tear in pieces my gaudier trappings, may not be the right path to lead me into the great road to my future happiness; which might have been endanger'd by evil communication?

And after all, Are there not still more deserving persons than I, who never failed in any capital point of duty, that have been more humbled than myself; and some too, by the errors of parents and relations, by the tricks and baseness of guardians, and trustees, and in which their own rashness or folly had no part?

I will then endeavour to make the best of my pre|sent lot. And join with me, my best, my only friend, in praying, That my punishment may end here; and that my present afflictions may be sanctified to me.

This letter will enable you to account for a line or

two, which I sent to Wilson's, to be carried to you, only for a feint, to get his servant out of the way. He seemed to be left, as I thought, for a spy upon me. But returning too soon, I was forced to write a few lines for him to carry to his Master, to a tavern near Doctors-Commons, with the same view: And this happily answered my end.

I wrote early in the morning a bitter letter to the wretch, which I left for him obvious enough; and I suppose he has it by this time. I kept no copy of it. I shall recollect the contents, and give you the parti|culars of all, at more leisure.

I am sure you will approve of my escape—The ra|ther, as the people of the house must be very vile: For they, and that Dorcas too, did hear me (I know they did) cry out for help: If the fire had been other than a villainous plot (altho' in the morning, to blind them, I pretended to think it otherwise), they would have been alarmed as much as I; and have run in, hearing me scream, to comfort me, supposing my terror was the fire; to relieve me, supposing it were any|thing else. But the vile Dorcas went away, as soon as she saw the wretch throw his arms about me!—Bless me, my dear, I had only my slippers and an under-petticoat on. I was frighted out of my bed, by her cries of fire; and that I should be burnt to ashes in a moment!—And she to go away, and never to return, nor any-body else: And yet I heard wo|mens voices in the next room; indeed I did.—An evident contrivance of them all:—God be praised, I am out of their house!

My terror is not yet over: I can hardly think my|self safe: Every well-dressed man I see from my win|dows, whether on horseback or on foot, I think to be him.

I know you will expedite an answer. A man and horse will be procured me to-morrow early, to carry This. To be sure, you cannot return an answer by the

same man, because you must see Mrs. Townsend first: Nevertheless, I shall wait with impatience till you can; having no friend but you to apply to; and be|ing such a stranger to this part of the world, that I know not which way to turn myself; whither to go; nor what to do!—What a dreadful hand have I made of it!

Mrs. Moore, at whose house I am, is a widow, and of a good character: And of this, one of her neigh|bours, of whom I bought a handkerchief, purposely to make inquiry before I would venture, informed me.

I will not set my foot out of doors, till I have your direction: And I am the more secure, having dropt words to the people of the house where the coach set me down, as if I expected a chariot to meet me in my way to Hendon, a village a little distance from this.—And when I left their house, I walked back|ward and forward upon the hill, at first not knowing what to do, and afterwards, to be certain that I was not watched, before I ventured to inquire after a lodging.

You will direct for me, my dear, by the name of Mrs. Harriot Lucas.

Had I not made my escape when I did, I was re|solved to attempt it again and again. He was gone to the Commons for a licence, as he wrote me word; for I refused to see him, notwithstanding the promise he extorted from me.

How hard, how next-to impossible, my dear, to avoid many lesser deviations, when we are betrayed into a capital one!

For fear I should not get away at my first effort, I had apprised him, that I would not set eye upon him under a week, in order to gain myself time for it in different ways—And were I so to have been watched, as to have made it necessary, I would, after such an instance of the connivance of the women of the house, have run out into the street, and thrown myself into the

next house I could have enter'd, or claimed protection from the first person I had met—Women to desert the cause of a poor creature, of their own Sex, in such a situation, what must they be!—Then, such poor guilty sort of figures did they make in the morn|ing, after he was gone out—so earnest to get me up stairs, and to convince me, by the scorched window-boards, and burnt curtains and vallens, that the fire was real—that (although I seemed to believe all they would have me believe) I was more and more resolved to get out of their house at all adventures.

When I began, I thought to write but a few lines. But, be my subject what it will, I know not how to conclude, when I write to you. It was always so: It is not therefore owing peculiarly to that most interest|ing and unhappy situation, which you will allow, however, to engross, at present, the whole mind of

Your unhappy, but ever-affectionate, CLARISSA HARLOWE.

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

Friday morning, past Two o'clock.

IO Triumphe! Io Clarissa, sing!—Once more, what a happy man thy friend!—A silly dear no|vice, to be heard to tell the coachman whither to carry her!—And to go to Hampstead, of all the villages about London!—The place where we had been to|gether more than once!

Methinks I am sorry she managed no better!—I shall find the recovery of her too easy a task, I fear! Had she but known, how much difficulty enhances the value of any thing with me, and had she had the least notion of obliging me, she would never have stopt short at Hampstead, surely.

Well, but after all this exultation, thou wilt ask,

If I have already got back my charmer?—I have not.—But knowing where she is, is almost the same thing as having her in my power: And it de|lights me to think, how she will start and tremble, when I first pop upon her! How she will look with conscious guilt, that will more than wipe off my guilt of Wednesday night, when she sees her injured lover, and acknowleged husband, from whom, the greatest of felonies, she would have stollen herself.

But thou wilt be impatient to know how this came about. Read the inclosed here, and remember the instructions, which, from time to time, I have given my fellow, in apprehension of such an elopement; and that will tell thee all, and what I may reasonably expect from the rascal's diligence and management, if he wishes ever to see my face again.

I received it about half an hour ago, just as I was going to lie down in my cloaths: And it has made me so much alive, that, midnight as it is, I have sent for a Blunt's chariot, to attend me here by day-peep, with my usual coachman, if possible; and knowing not else what to do with myself, I sat down, and, in the joy of my heart, have not only wrote thus far, but have concluded upon the measures I shall take when admitted to her presence: For well am I aware of the difficulties I shall have to contend with from her per|verseness.

Honnored Sur,

THIS is to sertifie your honner, as how I am heer at Hamestet, wher I have found out my Lady to be in logins at one Mrs. Moore's, near upon Hamestet hethe. And I have so ordered matters, that her Ladi|ship cannot stur but I must have notice of her goins and comins. As I knowed I dursted not look into your Honner's fase, if I had not found out my Lady, thoff she was gone off the prems's in a quartir off an hour, as a man may say; so I knowed you would be glad at

heart to know I had found her out: And so I send thiss Petur Partrick, who is to haf 5 shillins, it being now nere 12 of the clock at nite; for he would not stur without a hartie drinck too besides: And I was willing all shulde be snug likewayes at the logins befoer I sent.

I have munny of youre Honner's, but I thout as how if the man was payed by me beforend, he mought play trix; so left that to youre Honner.

My Lady knows nothing of my being hereaway. But I thoute it best not to leve the plase, because she has ta••ken the logins but for a fue nites.

If your Honner cum to the Upper Flax, I will be in site all the day about the Tapp-house or the Hethe; I have borroued an othir cote, instead off your Hon|ner's liferie, and a blacke wigge; soe cannot be knoen by my Lady, iff as howe she shuld see me: And have made as if I had the toothe-ake; so with my han|criffe at my mothe, the tethe which your Honner was plesed to bett out with your honner's fyste, and my dam'd wide mothe, as youre Honner notifys it to be, cannot be knoen to be mine.

The tow inner letters I had from my Lady, before she went off the prems's. One was to be left at Mr. Wilson's for Miss Howe. The next was to be for your Honner. But I knew you was not at the plase directed; and being afear'd of what fell out, so I kept them for your Honner, and so could not give um to you, until I seed you. Miss How's I only made be|lief to her Ladiship as I carred it, and sed as how there was nothing left for hur, as shee wished to knoe: So here they be bothe.

I am, may it pless your Honner,

Your Honner's most dutiful, and, wonce more, happy servant, WM. SUMMERS.

THE two inner letters, as Will. calls them, 'tis plain, were wrote for no other purpose, but to send him out of the way with them, and one of them to amuse me. That directed to Miss Howe is only this:

Thursday, June 8.

I Write this, my dear Miss Howe, only for a feint, and to see if it will go current. I shall write at large very soon, if not miserably prevented!!!

CL. H.

Now, Jack, will not her feints justify mine? Does she not invade my province, thinkest thou? And is it not now fairly come to Who shall most deceive and cheat the other? So, I thank my stars, we are upon a par, at last, as to this point—Which is a great ease to my conscience, thou must believe. And if what Hudibras tells us is true, the dear fugitive has also abundance of pleasure to come.

Doubtless the pleasure is as great In being cheated, as to cheat. As lookers-on find most delight, Who least perceive the juggler's sleight; And still the less they understand, The more admire the sleight of hand.

THIS is my dear juggler's letter to me; the other inner letter sent by Will.

Thursday, June 8.

Mr. Lovelace,

DO not give me cause to dread your return. If you would not that I should hate you for ever, send me half a line by the bearer, to assure me that you will not attempt to see me for a week to come. I can|not look you in the face without equal confusion and indignation. The obliging me in This is but a poor atonement for your last night's vile behaviour.

You may pass this time in a journey to your uncle's;

and I cannot doubt, if the Ladies of your family are as favourable to me, as you have assured me they are, but that you will have interest enough to prevail with one of them, to oblige me with her company. After your baseness of last night, you will not wonder, that I insist upon this proof of your future honour.

If Captain Tomlinson comes mean time, I can hear what he has to say, and send you an account of it.

But in less than a week, if you see me, it must be owing to a fresh act of violence, of which you know not the consequence.

Send me the requested line, if ever you expect to have the forgiveness confirmed; the promise of which you extorted from

The Unhappy CL. H.

Now, Belford, what canst thou say in behalf of this sweet rogue of a Lady? What canst thou say for her? 'Tis apparent, that she was fully determined upon an elopement, when she wrote it: And thus would she make me of party against myself, by drawing me in to give her a week's time to compleat it in: And, wickeder still, send me upon a fool's errand to bring up one of my cousins:—When we came, to have the satisfaction of finding her gone off, and me exposed for ever!—What punishment can be bad enough for such a little villain of a Lady!

But mind, moreover, how plausibly she accounts by this billet (supposing she had no opportunity of eloping before I returned) for the resolution of not seeing me for a week; and for the bread and butter expedient!—So childish as we thought it!

The chariot is not come; and if it were, it is yet too soon for every-thing but my impatience. And as I have already taken all my measures, and can think of nothing but my triumph, I will resume her violent letter, in order to strengthen my resolutions against

her. I was before in too gloomy a way to proceed with it: But now the subject is all alive to me, and my gayer fancy, like the sun-beams, will irradiate it, and turn the solemn deep green into a brighter ver|dure.

When I have called upon my charmer to explain some parts of her letter, and to atone for others, I will send it, or a copy of it, to thee.

Suffice it at present to tell thee, in the first place, that she is determined never to be my wife.—To be sure, there ought to be no compulsion in so material a case. Compulsion was her parents fault, which I have cen|sured so severely, that I shall hardly be guilty of the same. And I am glad I know her mind as to this essential point.

I have ruined her, she says!—Now that's a fib, take it in her own way:—If I had, she would not perhaps have run away from me.

She is thrown upon the wide world: Now I own, that Hampstead-Heath affords very pretty, and very extensive prospects; but 'tis not the wide world nei|ther: And suppose that to be her grievance, I hope soon to restore her to a narrower.

I am the enemy of her soul, as well as of her ho|nour!—Confoundedly severe! Nevertheless, another fib!—For I love her soul very well; but think no more of it in this case than of my own.

She is to be thrown upon strangers!—And is not that her own fault?—Much against my will, I am sure!

She is cast from a state of independency into one of obli|gation. She never was in a state of independency; nor is it fit a woman should, of any age, or in any state of life. And as to the state of obligation, there is no such thing as living without being beholden to some|body. Mutual obligation is the very essence and soul of the social and commercial life:—Why should she be exempt from it?—I am sure the person she raves

at, desires not such an exemption;—has been long dependent upon her, and would rejoice to owe further obligations to her, than he can boast of hitherto.

She talks of her father's curse:—But have I not repaid him for it an hundred-fold, in the same coin? But why must the faults of other people be laid at my door? Have I not enow of my own?

But the grey-eyed dawn begins to peep—Let me sum up all.

In short, then, the dear creature's letter is a col|lection of invectives not very new to me; though the occasion for them, no doubt, is new to her. A little sprinkling of the romantic and contradictory runs thro' it. She loves, and she hates: She encourages me to pursue her, by telling me I safely may; and yet she begs I will not: She apprehends poverty and want, yet resolves to give away her estate: To gratify whom?—Why, in short, those who have been the cause of her misfortunes. And finally, tho' she re|solves never to be mine, yet she has some regrets at leaving me, because of the opening prospects of a reconciliation with her friends.

But never did morning dawn so tardily as this!—The chariot not yet come neither.

A GENTLEMAN to speak with me, Dorcas?—Who can want me thus early?

Captain Tomlinson, sayst thou! Surely he must have travelled all night!—Early riser as I am, how could he think to find me up thus early?

Let but the chariot come, and he shall accompany me in it to the bottom of the hill (tho' he return to town on foot; for the Captain is all obliging good|ness), that I may hear all he has to say, and tell him all my mind, and lose no time.

Well, now am I satisfied, that this rebellious flight will turn to my advantage, as all crush'd rebellions do to the advantage of a Sovereign in possession.

DEAR Captain, I rejoice to see you: Just in the nick of time:—See! See!

The rosy-finger'd morn appears, And from her mantle shakes her tears; The sun arising, mortals chears, And drives the rising mists away, In promise of a glorious day.

Excuse me, Sir, that I salute you, from my favour|ite Bard. He that rises with the Lark, will sing with the Lark. Strange news since I saw you, Captain! Poor mistaken Lady!—But you have too much good|ness, I know, to reveal to her uncle Harlowe the er|rors of this capricious Beauty. It will all turn out for the best. You must accompany me part of the way. I know the delight you take in composing differences. But 'tis the task of the Prudent to heal the breaches made by the rashness and folly of the Imprudent.

AND now (all around me so still, and so silent) the rattling of the chariot-wheels at a street's distance, do I hear!—And to this angel of a Lady I fly!

Reward, O God of Love (the cause is thy own); reward thou, as it deserves, my suffering persevere|ance!—Succeed my endeavours to bring back to thy obedience, this charming fugitive!—Make her ac|knowlege her rashness; repent her insults; implore my forgiveness; beg to be re-instated in my favour, and that I will bury in oblivion the remembrance of her heinous offence against thee, and against me, thy faithful votary.

THE chariot at the door!—I come! I come!—

I attend you, good Captain—

Indeed, Sir—

Pray, Sir—Civility is not ceremony.

And now, dressed like a bridegroom, my heart elated beyond that of the most desiring one (attended by a footman whom my Beloved never saw), I am already at Hampstead!

END of VOL. IV.

The Remainder of this Work will be published at once; and that as soon as indispensable avocations will permit.

Notes

• (a) 1.1

  See Vol. III. p. 251.
• (b) 1.2

  See Vol. III. p. 272, 273.
• (a) 4.1

  See Vol. III. Letters lxxviii.lxxix.
• (b) 4.2

  See Vol. III. p. 153.
• (a) 6.1

  Vol. I. p. 22.
• (b) 6.2

  Vol. III. p. 48.
• (a) 10.1

  See Letter ii. p. 17.
• (a) 10.2

  Vol. III. p. 352.
• (a) 12.1

  See Vol. III. p. 111.
• (a) 12.2

  See Vol. III. Letter xvii. p. 103.
• (a) 15.1

  See Vol. III. Letter lxii. p. 297.
• (a) 15.2

  See Vol. III. Letter lxix. p. 332.
• (a) 15.3

  See Vol. III. Letter lxxi. p. 337.
• (a) 15.4

  Letter iv. p. 19. of this Vol.
• (a) 15.5

  Letter x. p. 37.
• (a) 15.6

  Letter xv. p. 69.
• (a) 15.7

  Letter xxii. p. 103.
• (a) 17.1

  Vol. III. Letter lxix. p. 332.
• (a) 25.1

  See Vol. I. p. 279.
• (a) 26.1

  Letter x. of this Vol. p. 37.
• (b) 26.2

  Letter xxii▪ p. 10••.
• (a) 26.3

  See Miss Howe's Letters, Numb. iv. p. 19. and Numb. x. p. 37. of this Volume.
• (a) 26.4

  See p. 180. of this Vol.
• (a) 26.5

  Vol. III. p. 361. See also Mr. Lovelace's own con|fession of the delight he takes in a lady's tears, in different parts of his letters; particularly in p. 66. of this Volume.
• (a) 26.6

  That the Lady judges rightly of him in this place, see Vol. I. p. 233. where, giving the motive for his generosity to his Rosebud, he says—

  'As I make it my rule, whenever I have committed a very capital enormity, to do some good by way of atonement; and as I believe I am a pretty deal indebted on that score; I intend to join an hundred pounds to Johnny's aunt's hundred pounds, to make one in|nocent couple happy.'

  —Besides which motive, he had a further view to answer in that instance of his generosity; as may be seen Vol. II. Let|ters xxiii, xxiv, xxv, xxvi.

  To shew the consistence of his actions, as they now appear, with his views and principles, as he lays them down in his first letters, it may not be amiss to refer the reader to his letters, Vol. I. Numb. xxxiv. p. 232. and Numb. xxxv. p. 233, to 236.

  See also Vol. I. p. 190, 191, 192, and 270, 271, 272, for Clarissa's early opinion of Mr. Lovelace.—Whence the coldness and indifference to him; which he so repeatedly accuses her of, will be accounted for, more to her glory, than to his honour.
• (a) 30.1

  As this Letter of the Lady contains no new matter, but what may be collected from those of Mr. Lovelace, it is omitted.
• (a) 30.2

  See Vol. I. Letter xxxi. p. 195.
• (a) 30.3

  See Vol III. p. 32••
• (a) 30.4

  See Vol. III. Letter xvii.
• (a) 30.5

  Vol. III. p. 111, 112.
• (a) 30.6

  Vol. III. p. 192.
• (a) 30.7

  Vol. III. p. 99.
• (a) 30.8

  Vol. II. p. 118.
• (b) 30.9

  Vol. III. p. 120.
• (a) 30.10

  Vol. III. p. 111.
• (a) 30.11

  Vol. III. p. 233.
• (a) 38.1

  Page 23. of this Volume.
• (a) 38.2

  See page 148. of this Volume.
• (a) 38.3

  Vol. III. p. 169.
• (b) 38.4

  Vol. IV. p. 24.
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• (a) 40.2

  See Letter xxvi. of this Vol. p. 137.
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  Vol. III. p. 190.
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• (a) 40.16

  See Vol. III. p. 263, and p. 270. Where the Reader will observe, that the proposal came from herself; which, as it was also mentioned by Mr. Lovelace (as will be seen in Miss Harlowe's letter, p. 297.) she may be presumed to have forgot. So that Clarissa had a double inducement for ac|quiescing with the proposed method of carrying on the cor|respondence between Miss Howe and herself by Wilson's conveyance, and by the name of Laetitia Beaumont.
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  See p. 24.
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• (a) 40.92

  See p. 258, 259, 260, of this Volume.
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• (a) 40.96

  See Mrs. Norton's letter, p. 31. of this Volume.
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