Letters and passages restored from the original manuscripts of the history of Clarissa. To which is subjoined, a collection of such of the moral and instructive sentiments, ... as are presumed to be of general use ... Published for the sake of doing justice to the purchasers of the two first editions of that work: [pt.8]

ADDENDA TO THE FIRST and SECOND EDITIONS OF CLARISSA.

Vol. ii. Edit. i. p. 179. l. 7. after the words con|demning myself, insert.

_BUT least of all (a) 1.1 can I bear that you should reflect upon my Mother. What, my dear, if her meekness should not be rewarded? Is the want of reward, or the want even of a grateful acknowlege|ment, a reason for us to dispense with what we think our duty? They were my Father's lively spirits that first made him an interest in her gentle bosom. They were the same spirits turned inward, as I have here|tofore observed (b) 1.2, that made him so impatient when the cruel malady seized him. He always loved my Mother: And would not LOVE and PITY excuseably, nay laudably, make a good Wife (who was an hourly

witness of his pangs, when labouring under a par|oxysm, and his paroxysms becoming more and more frequent, as well as more and mote severe) give up her own will, her own likings, to oblige a Husband, thus afflicted, whose love for her was unquestion|able?—And if so, was it not too natural [Human nature is not perfect, my dear] that the Husband thus humoured by the Wife should be unable to bear con|troul from any-body else? much less contradiction from his children?

If then you would avoid my highest displeasure, you must spare my Mother: And, surely, you will allow me, with her, to pity, as well as to love and honour my Father.

I have no friend but you to whom I can appeal, to whom I dare complain. Unhappily circumstanced as I am, it is but too probable that I shall complain, because it is but too probable that I shall have more and more cause given me for complaint. But be it your part, if I do, to sooth my angry passions, and to soften my resentments; and this the rather, as you know what an influence your advice has upon me; and as you must also know, that the fredoms you take with my friends can have no other tendency but to weaken the sense of my duty to them, without an|swering any good end to myself.

I cannot help owning, &c.

Vol. i. Edit. i. p. 295. l. 9. from the bottom, and Edit. ii. p. 297. l. 11. from the bottom, after pro|posal in writing, dele the next paragraph, and read,

My dear Brother,

I Hope I have made such proposals to my Sister, as will be accepted. I am sure they will, if you please to give them your sanction. Let me beg of you, for God's sake, that you will. I think myself very unhappy in having incurred your displeasure. No Sister can love a Brother better than I love you. Pray

do not put the worst, but the best constructions upon my proposals, when you have them reported to you. Indeed I mean the best. I have no subterfuges, no arts, no intentions, but to keep to the letter of them. You shall yourself draw up every-thing into writing, as strong as you can, and I will sign it: And what the Law will not do to enforce it, my Resolution and my Will shall: So that I shall be worth no-body's ad|dress tbat has not my Papa's consent: Nor shall any person, nor any consideration, induce me to revoke it. You can do more than any-body to reconcile my Parents and Uncles to me. Let me owe this desirable favour to your brotherly interposition, and you will for ever oblige

Your afflicted Sister, CL. HARLOWE.

And how do you think, &c.

Vol. i. Edit. i. p. 296. l. 7. from the bottom; and Edit. ii. p. 298. l. 9. from the bottom, after the world's end, insert,

Nevertheless, that you may not think that I stand in the way of a Reconciliation on such fine terms as these, I will be your messenger this once, and hear what my Papa will say to it; altho' before-hand I can tell you, these proposals will not answer the prin|cipal end.

So down she went. But, it seems, my Aunt Her|vey and my Uncle Harlowe were gone away: And as they have all engaged to act in concert, messengers were dispatched to my Uncle and Aunt to desire them to be there to breakfast in the morning.

Monday Night, 11 o'Clock.

I AM afraid I shall not be thought worthy—

Just as I began to fear I should not be thought worthy of an Answer, Betty wrapped at my door, and said, If I were not in bed, she had a Letter for me. I had but just done writing the above dialogue, and

stept to the door with the pen in my hand—Always writing, Miss! said the bold wench: It is admirable how you can get away what you write—But the Fairies, they say, are always at hand to help Lovers. —She retired in so much haste, that had I been dis|posed, I could not take the notice of this insolence which it deserved.

I inclose my Brother's Letter. He was resolved to let me see, that I should have nothing to expect from his kindness. But surely he will not be permitted to carry every point. The assembling of my friends to|morrow is a good sign: And I will hope something from that, and from proposals so reasonable. And now I will try if any repose will fall to my lot for the remainder of this night.

To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE. [Inclosed in the preceding.]

YOUR proposals will be considered by your Father and Mother, and all your Friends, to-morrow morning. What trouble does your shameful for|wardness give us all! I wonder you have, &c.

Vol. i. Edit. i. p. 298. l. 7. and Edit. ii. p. 300. l. 4. after airs accordingly, insert,

Nevertheless, as I said above, I will hope better things from those who have not the interest my Bro|ther has to keep open these unhappy differences.

Tuesday, March 21.

WOULD you not have thought, my dear Miss Howe, as well as I, that my proposal must have been accepted? And that my Brother, by the last article of his unbrotherly Letter (where he threatens to go to Scotland if it should be hearkened to) was of opinion that it would?

For my part, after I had read the unkind Letter

over and over, I concluded, upon the whole, that a Reconciliation upon terms so disadvantageous to my|self, as hardly any other person in my case, I dare say, would have proposed, must be the result of this morn|ing's conference. And in that belief I had begun to give myself new trouble in thinking (this difficulty over) how I should be able to pacify Lovelace on that part of my engagement, by which I undertook to break off all correspondence with him, unless my friends should be brought by the interposition of his powerful friends, and any offers they might make (which it was rather his part to suggest, than mine to intimate) to change their minds.

Thus was I employed, not very agreeably, you may believe, because of the vehemence of the tempers I had to conflict with; when breakfasting-time ap|proached, and my judges began to arrive.

And oh! how my heart fluttered on hearing the chariot of the one, and then of the other, rattle thro' the court-yard, and the hollow-sounding footstep giv|ing notice of each person's stepping out, to take his place on the awful bench which my fancy had formed for them and my other judges!

That, thought I, is my Aunt Heryey's! That my Uncle Harlowe's! Now comes my Uncle Antony! And my imagination made a fourth chariot for the odious Solmes, altho' it happened that he was not there.

And now, thought I, are they all assembled: And now my Brother calls upon my Sister to make her re|port! Now the hard-hearted Bella interlards her speech with invective! Now has she concluded her report! Now they debate upon it!—Now does my Brother flame! Now threaten to go to Scotland! Now is he chidden, and now soothed!

And then I ran thro' the whole conference in my imagination, forming speeches for this person and that, pro and con. till all concluded, as I flattered myself, in an acceptance of my conditions, and in giving di|rections

to have an instrument drawn to tie me up to my good behaviour: While I supposed all agreed to give Solmes a Wife every way more worthy of him, and with her the promise of my Grandfather's Estate, in case of my forfeiture, or dying unmarried, on the righteous condition he proposes to entitle himself to it with me.

And now, thought I, am I to be ordered down to recognize my own proposals. And how shall I look upon my awful judges? How shall I stand the que|stions of some, the set surliness of others, the return|ing love of one or two? How shall I be affected!

Then I wept: Then I dried my eyes: Then I practised at my glass for a look more chearful than my heart.

And now [as any-thing stirred] is my Sister coming to declare the issue of all: Tears gushing again, my heart fluttering as a bird against its wires; drying my eyes again and again to no purpose.

And thus, my Nancy (excuse the fanciful prolixity) was I employed, and such were my thoughts and ima|ginations, when I found a very different result from the hopeful conference.

For about Ten o'clock up came my Sister, with an air of cruel triumph, waving her hand with a light flourish—

Obedience without reserve is required of you, Clary, My Papa is justly incensed, that you should presume to dispute his will, and to make conditions with him. He knows what is best for you: And as you own matters are gone a great way between this hated Love|lace and you, they will believe nothing you say; ex|cept you will give the only instance, that will put them out of doubt of the sincerity of your promises.

What, child, are you surprised?—Cannot you speak?—Then, it seems, you had expected a different issue, had you?—Strange that you could! —With all your acknowlegements and confessions, so creditable to your noted prudence!—

I was indeed speechless for some time: My eyes were even fixed, and ceased to flow. But, upon the hard-hearted Bella's proceeding with her airs of insult, Indeed I was mistaken, said I; Indeed I was!—For in you, Bella, I expected, I hoped for, a Sister—

What! interrupted she, with all your mannerly flings, and your despising airs, did you expect, that I was capable of telling stories for you?—Did you think, that when I was asked my own opinion of the sincerity of your declarations, I could not tell them, how far matters had gone between you and your Fellow?— When the intention is to bend that stubborn will of yours to your duty, do you think I would deceive them?—Do you think I would encourage them to call you down, to contradict all that I should have invented in your favour?

Well, well, Bella; I am the less obliged to you; that's all. I was willing to think, that I had still a Brother and Sister. But I find I am mistaken.

Pretty Mopsa-eyed soul, was her expression!—And was it willing to think it had still a Brother and Sister? And why don't you go on, Clary? [mocking my half-weeping accent] I thought too I had a Father and Mother, two Uncles, and an Aunt: But I am mis— taken, that's all—Come, Clary, say this, and it will in part be true, because you have thrown off their au|thority, and because you respect one vile wretch more than them all.

How have I deserved this at your hands, Sister?— But I will only say, I pity you.

And with that disdainful air too, Clary!—None of that bridled neck! None of your scornful pity, Girl! I beseech you!

This sort of behaviour is natural to you, surely, Bella!—What new talents does it discover in you!— But proceed—If it be a pleasure to you, proceed, Bella. And since I must not pity you, I will pity my|self: For nobody else will.

Because you don't, said she—

Hush, Bella, interrupting her, Because I don't de|serve it—I know you were going to say so. I will say as you say in every-thing; and that's the way to please you.

Then say, Lovelace is a villain.

So I will, when I think him so.

Then you don't think him so?

Indeed I don't. You did not always, Bella.

And what, Clary, mean you by that? [bristling up to me]—Tell me what you mean by that reflection?

Tell me why you call it a reflection?—What did I say?

Thou art a provoking creature—But what say you to two or three duels of that wretch's?

I can't tell what to say, unless I knew the occasions.

Do you justify duelling at all?

I do not: Neither can I help his duelling.

Will you go down, and humble that stubborn spi|rit of yours to your Mamma?

I said nothing.

Shall I conduct your Ladyship down? [offering to take my declined hand].

What! not vouchsafe to answer me?

I turned from her in silence.

What! turn your back upon me too!—Shall I bring up your Mamma to you, Love? [following me, and taking my struggling hand]. What! not speak yet! Come, my sullen, silent dear, speak one word to me—You must say two very soon to Mr. Solmes, I can tell you that.

Then [gushing out into tears, which I could not hold in longer] they shall be the last words I will ever speak.

Well, well [insultingly wiping my averted face with her handkerchief, while her other hand held mine, in a ridiculing tone] I am glad any-thing will make thee speak: Then you think you may be

brought to speak the two words—Only they are to be the last!—How like a gentle Lovyer from its ten|der bleeding heart was that!

Ridiculous Bella!

Saucy Clary! [changing her sneering tone to an imperious one]. But do you think you can humble yourself to go down to your Mamma?

I am tired with such stuff as this. Tell me, Bella, if my Mamma will condescend to see me?

Yes, if you can be dutiful at last.

I can. I will.

But what call you dutiful?

To give up my own inclinations—That's something more for you to tell of—in obedience to my Parents commands; and to beg I may not be made miser|able with a man that is fitter for any-body than for me.

For me, do you mean, Clary?

Why not? since you have put the question. You have a better opinion of him than I have. My friends, I hope, would not think him too good for me, and not good enough for you—But cannot you tell me, Bella, what is to become of me, without insulting over me thus?—If I must be thus treated, remember, that if I am guilty of any rashness, the usage I meet with will justify it.

So, Clary, you are contriving an excuse, I find, for somewhat that we have not doubted has been in your head a great while.

If it were so, you seem resolved, for your part, and so does my Brother for his, that I shall not want one. —But indeed, Bella, I can bear no longer this repe|tition of the worst part of yesterday's conversation. I desire I may throw myself at my Father's and Mother's feet, and hear from them what their sentence is. I shall at least avoid, by that means, the unsisterly in|sults I meet with from you.

Hey-day! What! is this you? Is it you, my meek Sister Clary?

Yes, it is I, Bella; and I will claim the protection due to a child of the family, or to know why I am to be thus treated, when I offer only to preserve to my|self the Liberty of refusal, which belongs to my Sex; and, to please my Parents, would give up my choice. I have contented myself till now to take second-hand messengers, and first-hand insults: You are but my Sister: My Brother is not my Sovereign. And while I have a Father and Mother living, I will not be thus treated by a Brother and Sister, and their servants, all setting upon me, as it should seem, to make me desperate, and to do a rash thing.—I will know, in short, Sister Bella, why I am to be constrained thus? —What is intended by it?—And whether I am to be considered as a child or a slave?

She stood aghast all this time, partly with real, partly with affected surprize.

And is it you? Is it indeed you?—Well, Clary, you amaze me! But since you are so desirous to refer yourself to your Father and Mother, I will go down, and tell them what you say. Your friends are not yet gone, I believe: They shall assemble again; and then you may come down, and plead your own cause in person.

Let me then. But let my Brother and you be ab|sent. You have made yourselves too much parties against me, to sit as my judges. And I desire to have none of yours or his interpositions. I am sure you could not have represented what I proposed fairly: I am sure you could not. Nor is it possible you should be commissioned to treat me thus.

Well, well, I'll call up my Brother to you.—I will indeed.—He shall justify himself, as well as me.

I desire not to see my Brother, except he will come as a Brother, laying aside the authority he has unjustly assumed over me.

And so, Clary, it is nothing to him, or to me, is it? that our Sister shall disgrace her whole family?

As how, Bella, disgrace it?—The man whom you thus freely treat, is a man of birth and fortune: He is a man of parts, and nobly allied.—He was once thought worthy of you; and I wish to Heaven you had had him. I am sure it was not my fault you had not, altho' you treat me thus!

This set her into a flame: I wish I had forborn it. O how the poor Bella raved! I thought she would have beat me once or twice: And she vowed, her fingers itched to do so—But I was not worth her anger: Yet she flamed on.

We were heard to be high.—And Betty came up from my Mother to command my Sister to attend her.—She went down accordingly, threatening me with letting every one know what a violent creature I had shewn myself to be.

Tuesday Noon, March 21.

I HAVE as yet heard no more of my Sister: And I have not courage enough to insist upon throwing myself at the feet of my Father and Mother, as I thought in my heat of temper I should be able to do. And I am now grown as calm as ever; and were Bella to come up again, as fit to be played upon as before.

I am indeed sorry that I sent her from me in such disorder. But my Papa's Letter threatening me with my Uncle Antony's house and chapel, terrifies me strangely; and by their silence I am afraid some new storm is gathering.

But what shall I do with this Lovelace. I have just now by the unsuspected hole in the wall (that I told you of in my Letter by Hannah) got a Letter from him—So uneasy is he for fear I should be prevailed upon in Solmes's favour; so full of menaces, if I am; so resenting the usage I receive (for, how I cannot tell; but he has undoubtedly intelligence of all that is done in the family); such protestations of inviolable

faith and honour; such vows of reformation; such pressing arguments to escape from this disgraceful con|finement—O my Nancy, what shall I do with this Lovelace?—

Vol. ii. Edit. i. p. 13. l. 20. after absurdities call for, insert,

You (a) 5.1 chide me, my dear (b) 5.2, for my freedoms with Relations still nearer and dearer to you, than either Uncles or Brother or Sister. You had better have permitted me (uncorrected) to have taken my own way. Do not those freedoms naturally arise from the subject before us? And from whom arises that subject, I pray you? Can you for one quarter of an hour put yourself in my place, or in the place of those who are still more indifferent to the case than I can be—If you can—But altho' I have you not often at advantage, I will not push you.

Permit me, however, to subjoin, That well may your Father love your Mother, as you say he does. A Wife who has no Will but his! But were there not, think you, some struggles between them at first, gout out of the question?—Your Mother, when a maiden, had, as I have heard (and it is very likely) a good share of those lively spirits which she liked in your Father. She has none of them now. How came they to be dissipated?— Ah! my dear!—She has been too long resident in Trophonius's Cave, I doubt (c) 5.3.

Let me add, &c.

Vol. ii. Edit. i. p. 21. l. 7. on the words into my Mamma's, add the following Note:

Perhaps (d) 5.4 it will be unnecessary to remind the Reader, that altho' Mr. Lovelace proposes (as above)

to Miss Howe, that her fair friend should have re|course to the protection of Mrs. Howe, if farther driven; yet he had artfully taken care, by means of his agent in the Harlowe-family, not only to inflame the fa|mily against her, but to deprive her of Mrs. Howe's, and of every other protection, being from the first re|solved to reduce her to an absolute dependence upon him|self. See Vol. i. Letter xxxi.

Vol. ii. Edit. i. p. 118. l. 17. and Edit. ii. p. 116. l. 2. after is my anguish, insert,

O my beloved creature!—But are not your very excuses confessions of excuses inexcusable? I know not what I write!—That servant in your way (a) 5.5! By the great God of heaven, that servant was not, dared not, could not be in your way!—Curse upon the cool caution that is pleaded to deprive me of an expecta|tion so transporting!

And are things, &c.

Vol. ii. Edit. i. p. 129. l. 8, 9. and Edit. ii. p. 126. l. 18, 19. after look sorrowful, insert the following Letters:

Mr. HICKMAN, To Mrs. HOWE.

Wednesday, Mar. 29.

Madam,

IT is with infinite regret that I think myself obliged, by pen and ink, to repeat my apprehensions, that it is impossible for me ever to obtain a share in the Affections of your beloved Daughter. O that it were not too evident to every one, as well as to myself, even to our very servants, that my Love for her, and my Assiduities, expose me rather to her Scorn [For|give me, Madam, the hard word!] than to the treat|ment due to a man whose proposals have met with your approbation, and who loves her above all the women in the world!

Well might the merit of my passion be doubted, if, like Mr. Solmes to the truly admirable Miss Cla|rissa Harlowe, I could continue my addresses to Miss Howe's distaste. Yet what will not the discontinu|ance cost me!

Give me leave, nevertheless, dearest, worthiest Lady, to repeat, what I told you, on Monday night, at Mrs. Larkins's, with a heart even bursting with grief, That I wanted not the treatment of that day to convince me, that I am not, nor ever can be, the object of Miss Howe's voluntary favour. What hopes can there be, that a Lady will ever esteem, as a Husband, the man, whom, as a Lover, she de|spises? Will not every act of obligingness from such a one, be construed an unmanly tameness of spirit, and entitle him the more to her disdain?—My heart is full: Forgive me if I say, that Miss Howe's treat|ment of me does no credit either to her education, or fine sense.

Since then it is too evident, that she cannot esteem me; and since, as I have heard it justly observed by the excellent Miss Clarissa Harlowe, that Love is not a voluntary passion, would it not be ungenerous to subject the dear Daughter to the displeasure of a Mo|ther so justly fond of her; and you, Madam, while you are so good as to interest yourself in my favour, to uneasiness? And why, were I to be even sure, at last, of succeeding by means of your kind partiality to me, should I wish to make the Best-beloved of my soul unhappy; since mutual must be our happiness, or misery for life the consequence to both?

My best wishes will for ever attend the dear, the ever-dear Lady! May her Nuptials be happy! They must be so, if she marry the man she can honour with her Love. Yet I will say, that whoever be the happy, the thrice happy man, he never can love her with a passion more ardent and more sincere than mine.

Accept, dear Madam, of my most grateful thanks for a distinction that has been the only support of my presumption in the address I am obliged, as utterly hopeless, to discontinue. A distinction, on which (and not on my own merits) I had entirely relied; but which, I find, can avail me nothing. To the last hour of my life, it will give me pleasure to think, that had your favour, your recommendation, been of sufficient weight to conquer what seems to be an in|vincible Aversion, I had been the happiest of men.

I am, dear Madam, with inviolable respect, Your ever-obliged and faithful humble Servant, CHARLES HICKMAN.

Mrs. HOWE, To CHARLES HICKMAN, Esq

Thursday, March 30.

I Cannot but say, Mr. Hickman, but you have cause to be dissatisfied—to be out of humour—to be dis|pleased—with Nancy—But, upon my word; But in|deed—What shall I say?—Yet this I will say, that you good young gentlemen know nothing at all of our Sex. Shall I tell you—But why should I? And yet I will say, That if Nancy did not think well of you in the main, she is too generous to treat you so freely as she does.—Don't you think she has courage enough to tell me, She would not see you, and to refuse at any time seeing you, as she knows on what account you come, if she had not something in her head favour|able to you?—Fie! that I am forced to say thus much in writing, when I have hinted it to you twenty and twenty times by word of mouth!

But if you are so indifferent, Mr. Hickman—If you think you can part with her for her skittish tricks —If my interest in your favour—Why, Mr. Hick|man, I must tell you, that my Nancy is worth bear|ing with, If she be foolish—what is that owing to?

Is it not to her Wit? Let me tell you, Sir, you can|not have the convenience without the inconvenience. What workman loves not a sharp tool to work with? But is there not more danger from a sharp tool, than from a blunt one? And what workman will throw away a sharp tool, because it may cut his fingers? Wit may be likened to a sharp tool. And there is something very pretty in Wit, let me tell you. Often and often have I been forced to smile at her arch turns upon me, when I could have beat her for them. And, pray, don't I bear a great deal from her?—And why? Because I love her. And would you not wish me to judge of your Love for her by my own? And would not you bear with her?—Don't you love her (what tho' with another sort of Love?) as well as I do? I do assure you, Sir, that if I thought you did not—Well, but it is plain that you don't!—And is it plain that you don't?—Well, then, you must do as you think best.

Well might the merit of your passion be doubted, you say, if like Mr. Solmes—Fiddle-saddle!—Why, you are a captious man, I think!—Has Nancy been so plain in her repulses of you as Miss Clary Harlowe has been to Mr. Solmes?—Does Nancy love any man better than you, altho' she may not shew so much Love to you as you wish for!—If she did, let me tell you, she would have let us all hear of it.—What idle comparisons then!

But it may be you are tired out. It may be you have seen somebody else—It may be you would wish to change Mistresses with that gay wretch Mr. Love|lace. It may be too, that, in that case, Nancy would not be sorry to change Lovers—The truly admirable Miss Clarissa Harlowe! And the excellent Miss Clarissa Harlowe!—Good-lack!—But take care, Mr. Hick|man, that you do not praise any woman living, let her be as admirable and as excellent as she will, above your own Mistress. No polite man will do that, surely.

And take care too, that you do not make her or me think you are in earnest in your anger—Just tho' it may be, as anger only—I would not for a thousand pounds, that Nancy should know that you can so easily part with her, if you have the Love for her which you declare you have. Be sure, if you are not abso|lutely determined, that you do not so much as whisper the contents of this your Letter to your own heart, as I may say.

Her treatment of you, you say, does no credit either to her education, or fine sense. Very home put, truly! Nevertheless, so say I. But is not hers the disgrace, more than yours? I can assure you, that every-body blames her for it. And why do they blame her?—Why? Because they think you merit better treatment at her hands: And is not this to your cre|dit? Who but pities you, and blames her? Do the servants, who, as you observe, see her skittish airs, disrespect you for them? Do they not, at such times, look concerned for you? Are they not then doubly officious in their respects and services to you?—I have observed with pleasure, that they are.

But you are afraid you shall be thought tame, per|haps, when married. That you shall not be thought manly enough, I warrant!—And this was poor Mr. Howe's fear. And many a tug did this lordly fear cost us both, God knows!—Many more than needed, I am sure!—And more than ought to have been, had he known how to bear and forbear; as is the duty of those who pretend to have most sense—And, pray, which would you have to have most sense, the woman or the man?

Well, Sir, and now what remains, if you really love Nancy so well as you say you do?—Why, I leave that to you. You may, if you please, come to break|fast with me in the morning. But with no full heart, nor resenting looks, I advise you; except you can brave it out. That have I, when provoked, done

many a time with my Husband; but never did I get any-thing by it with my Daughter: Much less will you. Of which, for your observation, I thought fit to advertise you. As from

Your Friend, ANNABELLA HOWE.

Vol. ii. Edit. i. p. 149. l. 6. on the words could be gathered, add the following Note:

It will be seen (a) 7.1 in Vol. i. Letter xxxiv. that Mr. Lovelace's motive for sparing his Rosebud was twofold. First, Because his Pride was gratified by the Grand-mother's desiring him to spare her Grand-daughter. Many a pretty Rogue, says he, had I spared, whom I did not spare, had my Power been acknowleged, and my Mercy in time implored. But the Debellare Su|perbos should be my motto, were I to have a new one.

His other motive will be explained in the following passage, in the same Letter. I never was so honest, for so long together, says he, since my matriculation. It behoves me so to be. Some way or other my recess [at this little Inn] may be found out; and it will then be thought that my Rosebud has attracted me. A re|port in my favour from simplicities so amiable, may establish me, &c.

Accordingly, as the Reader will hereafter see, Mr. Lovelace finds by the Effects, his expectations from the contrivance he set on foot by means of his agent Joseph Leman (who plays, as above, upon Betty Barnes) fully answered, tho' he could not know what passed on the oc|casion between the two Ladies.

This explanation is the more necessary to be given, as several of our Readers (thro' want of due attention) have attributed to Mr. Lovelace, on his behaviour to his Rosebud, a greater merit than was due to him; and moreover imagined, that it was improbable, that a man,

who was capable of acting so generously (as they sup|posed) in this instance, should be guilty of any atrocious vileness. Not considering, that Love, Pride, and Re|venge, as he owns in Vol. i. Letter xxxi. were ingre|dients of equal force in his composition; and that Re|sistance was a stimulus to him.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 40. l. 3, 4. on the words to take it, add the following Note:

Clarissa (a) 7.2 has been censured as behaving to Mr. Lovelace, in their first conversation at St. Albans, and afterwards, with too much reserve, and even with haughtiness. Surely those who have thought her to blame on this account, have not paid a due attention to the Story. How early, as above, and in what immediately follows, does he remind her of the terms of distance which she pre|scribed to him, before she was in his power, in hopes to leave a door open for the reconciliation with her friends which her heart was set upon! And how artfully does he (unrequired) promise to observe the conditions, which she in her present circumstances and situation (in pur|suance of Miss Howe's advice) would gladly have dis|pensed with!—To say nothing of the resentment which she was under a necessity to shew, at the manner of his getting her away, in order to justify to him the sincerity of her refusal to go off with him. See, in her subse|quent Letter to Miss Howe, her own sense upon this subject.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 63. dele l. 1, 2. and read,

Bless me (b) 7.3!—how impatient she is! — How she thunders at the door!—This moment, Madam!— How came I to double-lock myself in!—What have I done with the key?—Duce take the key!—Dear Madam! You flutter one so!

YOU may believe, my dear, that I took care of my Papers before I opened the door. We have bad a charming dialogue.—She flung from me in a passion.—

So what's now to be done?—Sent for down in, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 86. l. 10. from the bottom; and Edit. ii. p. 86. l. 15. from the bottom; after my own laying, insert,

And who knows what opportunities a man in love may give against himself? In changing a coat or waist|coat, something might be forgotten. I once suffered that way. Then for the Sex's curiosity, it is but re|membring, in order to guard against it, that the name of their common Mother was Eve.

Another thing remember, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 87. l. 25, 26. after swallow praise, insert,

Did I not (a) 7.4 once, in the streets of London, see a well-dressed handsome girl laugh, bridle, and visibly enjoy the praises of a footy dog, a chimney-sweeper; who, with his empty sack cross his shoulder, after giv|ing her the way, stopt, and held up his brush and shovel in admiration of her?—Egad, girl, thought I, I despise thee as Lovelace: But were I the chimney-sweeper, and could only contrive to get into thy pre|sence, my life to thy virtue, I would have thee.

So pleased was I, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. and ii. p. 97. begin Mr. Lovelace's Letter thus:

Thursday, Apr. 13.

WHY, Jack, thou needst not make such a wonder|ment, as the girls say, if I should have taken large strides already towards reformation; For dost

thou not see, that while I have been so assiduously, night and day, pursuing this single charmer, I have infinitely less to answer for, than otherwise I should have had? Let me see, how many days and nights?— Forty, I believe, after open trenches, spent in the sap only, and never a mine sprung yet!

By a moderate computation, a dozen kites might have fallen, while I have been only trying to ensnare this single lark: Nor yet do I see when I shall be able to bring her to my lure: More innocent days yet there|fore!—But reformation for my stalking-horse, I hope, will be a sure, tho' a slow method to effect all my purposes.

Then, Jack, thou wilt have a merit too in engaging my pen, since thy time would be otherwise worse em|ployed: And, after all, who knows but by creating new habits, at the expence of the old, a real reform|ation may be brought about? I have promised it; and I believe there is a pleasure to be found in being good, reversing that of Nat, Lee's madmen,

— Which none but good men know.

By all this, seest thou-not, how greatly preferable it is, on twenty accounts, to pursue a difficult, rather than an easy chace? I have a desire to inculcate this pleasure upon thee, and to teach thee to fly at nobler game than daws, crows, and wigeons: I have a mind to shew thee from time to time, in the course of the correspondence thou hast so earnestly wished me to begin on this illustrious occasion, that these exalted Ladies may be abased, and to obviate one of the ob|jections that thou madest to me, when we were last together, that the pleasure which attends these nobler aims, remunerates not the pains they bring with them; since, like a paltry fellow as thou wert, thou assertedst, that all women are alike.

Thou knowest nothing, Jack, of the delicacies of intrigue: Nothing of the glory of outwitting the

Witty and the Watchful: Of the joys that fill the mind of the inventive or contriving genius, rumi|nating which to use of the different webs that offer to him for the entanglement of a haughty charmer, who in her day has given him unnumbered torments.— Thou, Jack, who, like a dog at his ease, contentest thyself to growl over a bone thrown out to thee, dost not know the joys of the chace, and in pursuing a winding game: These I will endeavour to rouse thee to, and thou wilt have reason doubly and trebly to thank me, as well because of thy present delight, as with regard to thy prospects beyond the moon.

To this place I had written, purely to amuse my|self, before I was admitted to my charmer. But now I have to tell thee, that I was quite right in my con|jecture, that she would set up for herself, and dismiss me: For she has declared in so many words, that such was her resolution: And why? Because, to be plain with me, the more she saw of me, and of my ways, the less she liked of either.

This cut me to the heart!—I did not cry indeed!— Had I been a woman, I should tho'; and that most plentifully: But I pulled out a white cambrick hand|kerchief: That I could command, but not my tears.

She finds fault with my protestations; with my pro|fessions; with my vows: I cannot curse a servant, the only privilege a master is known by, but I am supposed to be a trooper (a) 7.5—I must not say, By my Soul; nor. As I hope to be saved. Why, Jack, how particular this is! Would she not have me think, I have a precious soul, as well as she?—If she thinks my salvation hopeless, what a devil—(another excep|tionable word!) does she propose to reform me for?— So I have not an ardent expression left me.

WHAT can be done, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 97. l. 4. from the bottom, and Edit. ii. p. 97. l. ult. after her own heart, insert,

Well, Jack, thou seest it is high time to change my measures. I must run into the Pious a little faster than I had designed.

What a sad thing would it be, were I, after all, to lose her person, as well as her opinion! The only time that further acquaintance, and no blow struck, nor suspicion given, ever lessened me in a Lady's favour! A cursed mortification!—'Tis certain I can have no pretence for holding her, if she will go.—No such thing as force to be used, or so much as hinted at: Lord send us safe at London!—That's all I have for it now: And yet it must be the least part of my speech.

But why will, &c.

Vol iii. Edit. i. p. 100. l. 26. on the words know my exultation, add the following Note:

Mr. Lovelace (a) 7.6 might have spared his caution on this occasion, since many of the Sex [We mention it with regret] who on the first publication had read thus far, and even to the Lady's first escape, have been readier to censure her for over-niceness, as we have observed in a former Note, p. 19. of these Addenda, than him for artifices and exultations not less cruel and ungratefuly than ungenerous and unmanly.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 103. l. 14. on the words make me unhappy, add the following Note:

The particular attention (b) 7.7 of such of the Fair Sex as are more apt to read for the sake of amusement, than instruction, is requested to this Letter of Mr. Lovelace.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 141. l. 8. and Edit. ii. p. 140. l. 24. after what I did, dele the two following lines, and insert,

Had I owned, that I was over-reached, and forced away against my intention, might they not, as a proof of the truth of my assertion, have in|sisted upon my immediate return to them? And if I did not return, would they not have reason to suppose, that I had now altered my mind (if such were my mind) or had not the power to return?—Then were I to have gone back, must it not have been upon their own terms? No conditioning with a Father! is a maxim with my Father, and with my Uncles. If I would have gone, Mr. Lovelace would have op|posed it. So I must have been under his controul, or have run away from him, as it is supposed I did to him from Harlowe-Place. In what a giddy light would this have made me appear!—Had he con|strained me, could I have appealed to my friends for their protection, without risquing the very conse|quences, to prevent which (setting up myself pre|sumptuously, as a middle person between flaming spirits) I have run into such terrible inconveniencies?

But, after all, must it not give me great anguish of mind, to be forced to sanctify, as I may say, by my seeming after-approbation, a measure I was so artfully tricked into, and which I was so much re|solved not to take?

How one evil brings on another, is sorrowfully witnessed to, by

Your ever-obliged, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. and ii. p. 156, 157. after the date Sunday Morning, dele the seven following para|graphs, and read,

AH! this man, my dear! We have had warmer dialogues than ever yet we have had, At fair argu|ment,

I find I need not fear him (a) 8.1: But he is such a wild, such an ungovernable creature [He reformed!] that I am half-afraid of him.

He again, on my declaring myself uneasy at his stay with me here, proposed that I would put myself into Lady Betty's protection; assuring me that he thought he could not leave me at Mrs. Sorlings's, with safety to myself. And upon my declining to do that, for the reasons I gave you in my last (b) 8.2, he urged me to make a demand of my Estate.

He knew it, I told him, to be my resolution not to litigate with my Father.

Nor would he put me upon it, he replied, but as the last thing. But if my spirit would not permit me to be obliged, as I called it, to any-body; and yet if my relations would refuse me my own; he knew not how I could keep up that spirit, without being put to inconveniencies, which would give him infinite con|cern—Unless—unless—unless, he said, hesitating, as if afraid to speak out—Unless I would take the only method I could take, to obtain the possession of my own.

What is that, Sir?

Sure the man saw by my looks, when he came with his creeping Unless's, that I guessed what he meant.

Ah! Madam, can you be at a loss to know what that method is?—They will not dispute with a man that right which they would contest with you.

Why said he with a man, instead of with him? Yet he looked as if he wanted to be encouraged to say more.

So, Sir, you would have me employ a Lawyer, would you, notwithstanding what I have ever declared, as to litigating with my Papa?

No, I would not, my dearest Creature, snatching my hand, and pressing it with his lips—except you would make me the Lawyer.

Had he said me at first, I should have been above the affectation of mentioning a Lawyer.

I blushed. The man pursued not the subject so ar|dently, but that it was more easy as well as more na|tural to avoid it, than to fall into it.

Would to Heaven he might, without offending!— But I so over-awed him!—[Over-awed him—Your (a) 8.3 notion, my dear!] And so the over-awed, bashful man went off from the subject, repeating his pro|posal, that I would demand my own Estate, or im|power some man of the Law to demand it, if I would not [he put in] impower a happier man to demand it. But it could not be amiss, he thought, to acquaint my two Trustees, that I intended to assume it.

I should know better what to do, I told him, when he was at a distance from me, and known to be so. I suppose, Sir, that if my Father propose my return, and engage never to mention Solmes to me, nor any other man, but by my consent, and I agree upon that condition to think no more of you, you will acquiesce.

I was willing to try whether he had the regard to all my previous declarations, which he pretended to have to some of them.

He was struck all of a heap.

What say you, Mr. Lovelace? You know, all you mean is for my good. Surely I am my own mistress: Surely I need not ask your leave to make what terms I please for myself, so long as I break none with you?

He hemm'd twice or thrice.—Why, Madam, Why, Madam, I cannot say—Then pausing—and rising from his seat, with petulance: I see plainly enough, said he, the reason why none of my pro|posals can be accepted: At last I am to be a sacrifice to your Reconciliation with your implacable family.

It has always been your respectful way, Mr. Love|lace, to treat my family in this free manner. But pray. Sir, when you call others implacable, see that you deserve not the same censure yourself.

He must needs say; there was no love lost between some of my family and him; but he had not deserved of them what they had of him.

Yourself being judge, I suppose, Sir?

All the world, you yourself. Madam, being judge.

Then, Sir, let me tell you, had you been less upon your defiances, they would not have been irritated so much against you. But nobody ever heard, that avowed despite to the Relations of a person was a proper courtship either to that person, or to her friends.

Well, Madam, all that I know, is, that their ma|lice against me is such, that, if you determine to sa|crifice me, you may be reconciled when you please.

And all that I know, Sir, is, that if I do give my Father the power of a negative, and he will be con|tented with that, it will be but my duty to give it him; and if I preserve one to myself, I shall break thro' no obligation to you.

Your duty to your capricious Brother, not to your Father, you mean, Madam.

If the dispute lay between my Brother and me at first, surely, Sir, a Father may chuse which party he will take.

He may, Madam—But that exempts him not from blame for all that, if he take the wrong—

Different people will judge differently, Mr. Love|lace, of the right and the wrong. You judge as you please. Shall not others as they please! And who has a right to controul a Father's judgment in his own family, and in relation to his own child?

I know, Madam, there is no arguing with you. But nevertheless I had hoped to have made myself some little merit with you, so as that I might not

have been the preliminary sacrifice to a Reconci|liation.

Your hopes, Sir, had been better grounded, if you had had my consent to my abandoning of my Father's house—

Always, Madam, and for ever, to be reminded of the choice you would have made of that damn'd Solmes—rather than—

Not so hasty! Not so rash, Mr. Lovelace! I am convinced, that there was no intention to marry me to that Solmes on Wednesday.

So I am told they now give out, in order to justify themselves at your expence. Every-body living, Madam, is obliged to you for your kind thoughts, but I.

Excuse me, good Mr. Lovelace [waving my hand, and bowing] that I am willing to think the best of my Father.

Charming Creature! said he, with what a be|witching air is that said!—And with a vehemence in his manner, would have snatched my hand. But I withdrew it, being much offended with him.

I think, Madam, my sufferings for your sake might have entitled me to some favour.

My sufferings. Sir, for your impetuous temper, set against your sufferings for my sake, I humbly conceive, leave me very little your debtor.

Lord! Madam, [assuming a drolling air] What have you suffered!—Nothing but what you can easily forgive. You have been only made a prisoner in your Father's house, by the way of doing credit to your judgment!—You have only had an innocent and faith|ful servant turned out of your service, because you loved her—You have only had your Sister's confident servant set over you, with leave to teaze and affront you!—

Very well. Sir!

You have only had an insolent Brother take upon

him to treat you like a slave, and as insolent a Sister to undermine you in every-body's favour, on pretence to keep you out of hands, which, if as vile as they vilely report, are not, however, half so vile and cruel as their own!

Go on, Sir, if you please!

You have only been persecuted, in order to oblige you to have a sordid fellow, whom you have professed to hate, and whom every-body despises! The Licence has been only got! The Parson has only been held in readiness! The day, a near, a very near day, has been only fixed! And you were only to be searched for your correspondencies, and still closer confined, till the day came, in order to deprive you of all means of escaping the snare laid for you!—But all This you can forgive! You can wish you had stood all This; inevitable as the compulsion must have been!—And the man who at the hazard of his life, has delivered you from all these mortifications, is the only person you cannot forgive!

Can't you go on, Sir? You see I have patience to hear you. Can't you go on. Sir?

I can, Madam, with my sufferings: Which I con|fess ought not to be mentioned, were I at last to be rewarded in the manner I hoped.

Your sufferings then, if you please. Sir?

—Affrontingly forbidden your Father's house, after encouragement given, without any reasons they knew not before, to justify the prohibition: Forced upon a rencounter I wished to avoid, the first I ever, so pro|voked, wished to avoid: And that, because the wretch was your Brother!

Wretch, Sir!—And my Brother!—This could be from no man breathing, but from him before me!

Pardon me, Madam!—But oh! how unworthy to be your Brother!—The quarrel grafted upon an old one, when at College; he universally known to be the aggressor; and revived for views equally sordid,

and injurious both to yourself and me—Giving life to him, who would have taken away mine!

Your generosity THIS, Sir; not your sufferings: A little more of your sufferings, if you please!—I hope you do not repent, that you did not murder my Brother!

My private life hunted into! My morals decried! Some of the accusers not unfaulty!

That's an aspersion, Sir!

Spies set upon my conduct! One hired to bribe my own servant's fidelity; perhaps to have poisoned me at last, if the honest fellow had not—

Facts, Mr. Lovelace!—Do you want facts in the display of your sufferings?—None of your Perhaps's, I beseech you!

Menaces every day, and defiances, put into every one's mouth against me! Forced to creep about in disguises—and to watch all hours—

And in all weathers, I suppose, Sir—That I remem|ber was once your grievance!—In all weathers, Sir (a) 8.4! And all these hardships arising from yourself, not imposed by me.

—Like a thief, or an eves-dropper, proceeded he: And yet neither by birth nor alliances unworthy of their relation, whatever I may be and am of their ad|mirable Daughter; Of whom they, every one of them, are at least as unworthy!—These, Madam, I call sufferings: Justly call so; if at last I am to be sacrificed to an imperfect Reconciliation—Imperfect, I say: For can you expect to live so much as tolerably, under the same roof, after all that is passed, with that Brother and Sister?

O Sir, Sir! What sufferings have yours been! And all for my sake, I warrant!—I can never reward you for them!—Never think of me more, I beseech you—How can you have patience with me?—Nothing has been owing to your own behaviour, I presume.

Nothing to your defiances for defiances: Nothing to your resolution declared more than once, that you would be related to a family, which, nevertheless, you would not stoop to ask a Relation of: Nothing, in short, to courses which every-body blamed you for, you not thinking it worth your while to justify your|self. Had I not thought you used in an ungentlemanly manner, as I have heretofore told you, you had not had my notice by pen and ink (a) 8.5. That notice gave you a supposed security, and you generously defied my friends the more for it: And this brought upon me (perhaps not undeservedly) my Father's displeasure; without which my Brother's private pique, and selfish views, would have wanted a foundation to build upon: So that all that followed of my treatment, and your redundant Only's, I might thank you for principally, as you may yourself for all your sufferings, your mighty sufferings! — And if, voluble Sir, you have founded any merit upon them, be so good as to re|voke it: And look upon me, with my forfeited repu|tation, as the only sufferer—For what—Pray hear me out, Sir, [for he was going to speak] have you suf|fered in, but your pride? Your reputation could not suffer: That it was beneath you to be solicitous about. And had you not been an unmanageable man, I should not have been driven to the extremity I now every hour, as the hour passes, deplore—With this additional reflection upon myself, that I ought not to have begun, or, having begun, not continued a cor|respondence with one, who thought it not worth his while to clear his own character for my sake, or to submit to my Father for his own, in a point wherein every Father ought to have an option.—

Darkness, light; Light, darkness; by my Soul! — Just as you please to have it. O Charmer of my heart! snatching my hand, and pressing it between both his, to his lips, in a strange wild way, Take me,

take me to yourself: Mould me as you please: I am wax in your hands: Give me your own impression; and seal me for ever yours—We were born for each other!—You to make me happy, and save a soul—I am all error, all crime. I see what I ought to have done. But do you think, Madam, I can willingly consent to be sacrificed to a partial Reconciliation, in which I shall be so great, so irreparable a sufferer?— Any-thing but that—Include me in your terms: Pre|scribe to me: Promise for me as you please—Put a halter about my neck, and lead me by it, upon con|dition of forgiveness on that disgraceful penance, and of a prostration as servile, to your Father's presence (your Brother absent); and I will beg his consent at his feet, and bear any-thing but spurning from him, because he is your Father. But to give you up upon cold conditions, D—n me (said the shocking wretch) if I either will, or can!

These were his words, as near as I can remember them; for his behaviour was so strangely wild and fer|vent, that I was perfectly frighted. I thought he would have devoured my hand. I wished myself a thousand miles distant from him.

I told him, I by no means approved of his violent temper: He was too boisterous a man for my liking. I saw now, by the conversation that had passed, what was his boasted regard to my Injunctions; and should take my measures accordingly, as he should soon find. And with a half-frighted earnestness I desired him to withdraw, and leave me to myself.

He obeyed; and that with extreme complaisance in his manner, but with his complexion greatly height|ened, and a countenance as greatly dissatisfied.

But, on recollecting all that passed, I plainly see, that he means not, if he can help it, to leave me to the liberty of refusing him; which I had nevertheless preserved a right to do; but looks upon me as his, by a strange sort of obligation, for having run away with me against my will.

Yet you see he but touches upon the edges of ma|trimony neither. And that at a time generally, when he has either excited one's passions or apprehensions; so that one cannot at once descend. But surely this cannot be his design.—And yet such seemed to be his behaviour to my Sister (a) 8.6, when he provoked her to refuse him, and so tamely submitted, as he did, to her refusal.—But he dare not—What can one say of so various a man? —I am now again out of conceit with him. I wish I were fairly out of his power.

He has sent up three times to beg admittance; in the two last, with unusual earnestness. But I have sent him word I will first finish what I am about.

What to do about going from this place, I cannot tell. I could stay here with all my heart, as I have said to him: The Gentlewoman and her Daughters are desirous that I will; altho' not very convenient for them, I believe, neither: But I see he will not leave me, while I do—So I must remove somewhere.

I have long been sick of myself: And now I am more and more so. But let me not lose your good opinion. If I do, that loss will complete the misfor|tunes of

Your CL. HARLOWE.

Sunday Night (April 16.)

I May send to you, altho' you are forbid to write to me; may I not?—For that is not a cor-respondence (Is it?) where Letters are not answered.

I am strangely at a loss what to think of this man. He is a perfect Proteus. I can but write according to the shape he assumes at the time. Don't think me the changeable person, I beseech you, if in one Letter I contradict what I wrote in another; nay, if I seem to contradict what I said in the same Letter: For he is a perfect chameleon; or rather more variable than the chameleon; for that, it is said, cannot assume

the red and the white; but this man can. And tho' black seems to be his natural colour, yet has he taken great pains to make me think him nothing but white.

But you shall judge of him, as I proceed. Only, if I any-where appear to you to be credulous, I beg you to set me right: For you are a stander-by, as you say in a former (a) 9.1—Would to Heaven I were not to play! For I think, after all, I am held to a desperate game.

Before I could finish my last to you, he sent up twice more to beg admittance. I returned for answer, that I would see him at my own time: I would nei|ther be invaded, nor prescribed to.

Considering how we parted, and my delaying his audience, as he sometimes calls it, I expected him to be in no very good humour, when I admitted of his visit; and by what I wrote, you will conclude that I was not. Yet mine soon changed, when I saw his extreme humility at his entrance, and heard what he had to say.

I have a Letter, Madam, said he, from Lady Betty Lawrance, and another from my Cousin Charlotte, But of these more by-and-by. I came now to make my humble acknowlegements to you, upon the argu|ments that passed between us so lately.

I was silent, wondering what he was driving at.

I am a most unhappy creature, proceeded he: Un|happy from a strange impatiency of spirit, which I cannot conquer.—It always brings upon me deserved humiliation. But it is more laudable to acknowlege, than to persevere when under the power of con|viction.

I was still silent.

I have been considering what you proposed to me, Madam, that I should acquiesce with such terms as you should think proper to comply with, in order to a Reconciliation with your friends.

Well, Sir.

And I find all just, all right, on your side; and all impatience, all inconsideration, on mine.

I stared, you may suppose. Whence this change, Sir? And so soon?

I am so much convinced, that you must be in the right in all you think fit to insist upon, that I shall for the future mistrust myself; and, if it be possible, whenever I differ with you, take an hour's time for recollection, before I give way to that vehemence, which an opposition, to which I have not been ac|customed, too often gives me.

All this is mighty good, Sir: But to what does it tend?

Why, Madam, when I came to consider what you had proposed, as to the terms of Reconciliation with your friends; and when I recollected, that you had always referred to yourself to approve or reject me, according to my merits or demerits; I plainly saw, that it was rather a condescension in you, that you were pleased to ask my consent to those terms, than that you were imposing a new Law: And I now, Madam, beg your pardon for my impatience: What|ever terms you think proper to come into with your Relations, which will enable you to honour me with the conditional effect of your promise to me, these be pleased to consent to: And if I lose you, insupport|able as that thought is to me; yet, as it must be by my own fault, I ought to thank myself for it.

What think you, Miss Howe?—Do you believe he can have any view in this?—I cannot see any he could have; and I thought it best, as he put it in so right a manner, to appear not to doubt the sincerity of his confession, and to accept of it, as sincere.

He then read to me part of Lady Betty's Letter; turning down the beginning, which was a little too severe upon him, he said, for my eye: And I be|lieve, by the style, the remainder of it was in a cor|rective strain.

It was too plain, I told him, that he must have great faults, that none of his Relations could write to him, but with mingled censure for some bad action.

And it is as plain, my dearest creature, said he, that you, who know not of any such faults, but by surmise, are equally ready to condemn me.—Will not charity allow you to infer, that their charges are no better grounded?—And that my principal fault has been carelesness of my character, and too little soli|citude to clear myself, when aspersed? Which I do assure you, is the case.

Lady Betty, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 162. l. 7. from the bottom, and Edit. ii. p. 162. l. 12, 13. after had never erred, insert,

A fine Rakish notion and hope! And too much en|couraged, I doubt, my dear, by the generality of our Sex!

This brought on a more serious question or two. You'll see by it what a creature an unmortified Li|bertine is.

I asked him. If he knew what he had said, alluded to a sentence in the best of books, That there was more joy in heaven—

He took the words out of my mouth,

Over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety-and-nine just persons which need no repentance (a) 9.2, were his words.

Yes, Madam, I thought of it as soon as I said it, but not before. I have read the story of the Prodigal Son, I'll assure you: And one day, when I am set|tled as I hope to be, will write a dramatic piece on the subject. I have at times had it in my head; and you will be too ready, perhaps, to allow me to be qualified for it.

You so lately, Sir, stumbled at a word, with which you must be better acquainted, ere you can be tho|roughly master of such a subject, that I am amazed you should know any-thing of the Scripture, and be so ignorant of that (a) 9.3.

O Madam, I have read the Bible, as a fine piece of antient history—But as I hope to be saved, it has for some few years past made me so uneasy, when I have popped upon some passages in it, that I have been forced to run to music or company to divert my|self.

Poor wretch! lifting up my hands and eyes—

The denunciations come so slap-dash upon one, so unceremoniously, as I may say, without even the By-your-leave of a rude London chairman, that they overturn one, horse and man, as St. Paul was over|turned. There's another Scripture allusion. Madam! The light, in short, as his was, is too glaring to be borne.

O Sir, do you want to be complimented into Repent|ance and Salvation? But pray, Mr. Lovelace, do you mean any-thing at all, when you swear so often as you do, By your Soul, or bind an asseveration with the words, As you hope to be saved?

O my beloved creature, shifting his seat; let us call another cause.

Why, Sir, don't I neither use ceremony enough with you?

Dearest Madam, forbear for the present: I am but in my Noviciate. Your foundation must be laid brick by brick: You'll hinder the progress of the good work you would promote, if you tumble in a whole waggon-load at once upon me.

Lord bless me, thought I, what a character is that of a Libertine!—What a creature am I, who have risqued what I have risqued with such a one!—What a task before me, if my hopes continue of reforming

such a wild Indian as this!—Nay, worse than a wild Indian; for a man who errs with his eyes open, and against conviction, is a thousand times worse for what he knows, and much harder to be reclaimed, than if he had never known any-thing at all.

I was equally shocked at him, and concerned for him; and, having laid so few bricks (to speak to his allusion) and those so ill-cemented, I was as willing as the gay Inconsiderate, to call another cause, as he termed it—Another cause, too, more immediately pressing upon me, from my uncertain situation.

I said, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 165. l. 3. on the words to receive you, add the following Note:

The Reader (a) 9.4, perhaps, need not be reminded, that he had taken care from the first (See Vol, i. Edit. i. p. 198. Edit. ii. p. 200.) to deprive her of any protection from Mrs. Howe. See in his next Letter, Edit. i. p. 174, 175. Edit. ii. p. 173, 174. a repeated account of the same artifices, and his exultations upon his inventions to impose upon two such watchful Ladies as Clarissa and Miss Howe.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 173. l. 15. and Edit. ii. p. 172. l. 21. after humour with me, insert,

It is easy for me to perceive, that my Charmer is more sullen when she receives, and has perused, a Letter from that vixen, than at other times. But as the sweet Maid shews, even then, more of passive grief, than of active spirit, I hope she is rather la|menting than plotting. And indeed for what now should she plot? when I am become a reformed man, and am hourly improving in my morals?—Never|theless, I must contrive some way or other to get at their correspondence—Only to see the turn of it; that's all.

But no attempt of this kind must be made yet. A detected invasion in an article so sacred, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 174. l. 10. and Edit. ii. p. 173. l. 14. after if I would, insert,

When he comes to that part, where the Lady says, in a sarcastic way, waving her hand, and bowing,

"Excuse me, good Mr. Lovelace, that I am willing to think the best of my Father (a) 9.5"

he gives a description of her air and manner, greatly to her advantage; and says,

I could hardly forbear taking her into my arms upon it, in spite of an expected tempest. So much wit, so much beauty, such a lively manner, and such exceed|ing quickness and penetration! O Belford! she must be nobody's but mine. I can now account for, and justify, Herod's command to destroy his Mariamne, if he returned not alive from his Interview with Caesar: For were I to know, that it were but probable, that any other man were to have this charming creature, even after my death, the very thought would be enough to provoke me to cut that man's throat, were he a Prince.

I may be deemed by this Lady a rapid, a boisterous Lover—and she may like me the less for it: But all the Ladies I have met with till now, loved to raise a tempest, and to enjoy it: Nor did they ever raise it, but I enjoyed it too!—Lord send as once happily to London!

Mr. Lovelace gives the following account of his rude rapture., when he seized her hand, and put her, by his WILD manner, as she expresses it (b) 9.6, into so much terror.

Darkness and light, I swore, were convertible at her pleasure: She could make any subject plausible.

I was all error; she all perfection. And I snatched her hand; and, more than kissed it, I was ready to devour it. There was, I believe, a kind of phrensy in my manner, which threw her into a panic, like that of Semele perhaps, when the Thunderer, in all his majesty, surrounded with ten thousand celestial burning-glasses, was about to scorch her into a cinder.

HAD not my heart misgiven me, and had I not, just in time, recollected that she was not so much in my power, but that she might abandon me at her pleasure, having more friends in that house than I had, I should at that moment have made offers, that would have decided all, one way or other.—But, apprehend|ing that I had shewed too much meaning in my pas|sion, I gave it another turn.—But little did the Charmer think what an escape either she or I had (as the event might have proved) from the sudden gust of passion, which had like to have blown me into her arms. She was born, I told her, to make me happy, and to save a soul.

He gives the rest of his vehement speech pretty nearly in the same words as the Lady gives them. And then proceeds:

I SAW she was frighted: And she would have had Reason, had the scene been London; and that place in London, which I have in view to carry her to. She confirmed me in my apprehension, that I had alarmed her too much: She told me, that she saw what my boasted regard to her Injunctions was; and she would take proper measures upon it, as I should soon find: That she was shocked at my violent airs; and if I hoped any favour from her, I must that instant withdraw, and leave her to her recollection.

She pronounced this in such a manner, as shewed she was set upon it; and, having stept out of the gentle, the polite part I had so newly engaged to act,

I thought a ready obedience was the best atonement. And indeed I was sensible, from her anger and re|pulses, that I wanted time myself for recollection. And so I withdrew, with the same veneration as a pe|titioning subject would withdraw from the presence of his Sovereign. But, Oh! Belford, had she had but the least patience with me—Had she but made me think, that she would forgive this initiatory ardor— Surely she will not be always thus guarded.—

I had not been a moment by myself, but I was sen|sible, that I had half-forfeited my newly-assumed cha|racter. It is exceedingly difficult, thou seest, for an honest man to act in disguises: As the Poet says, Thrust Nature back with a pitchfork, it will return. I recollected, that what she had insisted upon, was really a part of that declared will, before she left her Fa|ther's house, to which in another case (to humble her) I had pretended to have an inviolable regard. And when I remembred her words of Taking her measures accordingly, I was resolved to sacrifice a leg or an arm to make all up again, before she had time to deter|mine upon any new measures.

How seasonably to this purpose have come in my Aunt's and Cousin's Letters!

I HAVE sent in again and again to implore her to admit me to her presence, But she will conclude a Letter she is writing to Miss Howe, before she will see me—I suppose to give an account of what has just passed.

CURSE upon her perverse tyranny! How she makes me wait for an humble audience, though she has done writing some time! A Prince begging for her upon his knees should not prevail upon me to spare her, if I can but get her to London—Oons! Jack, I believe I have bit my lip through for vex|ation!—But one day hers shall smart for it.

Mr. Lovelace beginning a new date, gives an ac|count of his admittance, and of the conversation that followed: Which differing only in style from that the Lady gives in the next Letter, is omitted.

He collects, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 176. l. 6. after have them to marry, insert,

Nor, upon second thoughts (a) 9.7, would the presence of her Norton, or of her Aunt, or even of her Mo|ther, have saved the dear creature, had I decreed her fall.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 180. l. 24. and Edit. ii. p. 179. l. 25. after of your alliance, insert,

They really are (every one of them) your very great admirers. And, as for Lord M. he is so much pleased with you, and with the confidence, as he calls it, which you have reposed in his Nephew, that he vows he will disinherit him, if he reward it not as he ought. You must take care, that you lose not both families.

I hear Mrs. Norton is enjoined, as she values the favour of the other family, not to correspond either with you, or with me,—Poor creatures!—But they are your—Yet they are not your Relations, neither, I believe. Had you had any other Nurse, I should have concluded you had been changed. I suffer by their low malice—Excuse me therefore.

You really hold this man to his good behaviour with more spirit than I thought you mistress of; espe|cially when I judged of you by that meekness which you always contended for, as the proper distinction of the female character; and by the love, which (think as you please) you certainly have for him. You may rather be proud of than angry at the imputation; since you are the only woman I ever knew, read, or

heard of, whose love was so much governed by her prudence. But once the indifference of the Husband takes place of the ardor of the Lover, it will be your turn: And, if I am not mistaken, this man, who is the only self-admirer I ever knew, who was not a coxcomb, will rather in his day expect homage than pay it.

Your handsome Husbands, my dear, make a Wife's heart ake very often: And tho' you are as fine a per|son of a woman, at the least, as he is of a man; he will take too much delight in himself to think himself more indebted to your favour, than you are to his di|stinction and preference of you. But no man, take your finer mind with your very fine person, can de|serve you. So you must be contented, should your merit be under-rated; since that must be so, marry whom you will. Perhaps you will think I indulge these sort of reflections against your Narcissus's of men, to keep my Mother's choice for me of Hick|man in countenance with myself—I don't know but there is something in it; at least, enough to have given birth to the reflection.

I think there can, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 182. l. 12. and Edit. ii. p. 181. l. 11. after any-thing of the matter, insert,

We have all our Defects: We have often regreted the particular Fault, which, tho' in venerable cha|racters, we must have been blind not to see.

I remember what you once said to me; and the caution was good. Let us, my Nancy, were your words. Let us, who have not the same failings as those we censure, guard against other and greater in ourselves. Nevertheless, I must needs tell you, that my Mother has vexed me a little very lately, by some instances of her jealous narrowness. I will mention one of them, tho' I did not intend it. She wanted to borrow Thirty Guineas of me; only while she got

a Note changed. I said, I could lend her but Eight or Ten. Eight or Ten would not do: She thought I was much richer. I could have told her, I was much cunninger than to let her know my Stock; which, on a Review, I find Ninety-five Guineas; and all of them most heartily at your service.

I believe your Uncle Tony put her upon this wise project; for she was out of cash in an hour after he left her. If he did, you will judge that they intend to distress you. If it will provoke you to demand your own in a legal way, I wish they would; since their putting you upon that course will justify the ne|cessity of your leaving them. And as it is not for your credit to own, that you were tricked away con|trary to your intention, this would afford a reason for your going off, that I should make very good use of. You'll see, that I approve of Lovelace's advice upon this subject. I am not willing to allow the weight to your answer to him on that head which perhaps ought to be allowed it (a) 9.8.

You must be the less surprised at the inventions of this man, because of his uncommon talents. What|ever he had turned his head to, he would have excelled in; or been (or done things) extraordinary. He is said to be revengeful: A very bad quality! I believe indeed he is a devil in every-thing but his foot.—This therefore is my repeated advice — Provoke him not too much against yourself: But unchain him, and let him loose upon your Sister's vile Betty, and your Brother's Joseph Leman. This is resenting low: But I know to whom I write, or else I would go a good deal higher, I'll assure you.

Your next, I suppose, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 195. l. 5. after am mistress of, insert,

You are afraid (b) 9.9, that my Mother will question

me on this subject; and then you think I must own the truth—But little as I love equivocation, and little as you would allow of it in your Anna Howe, it is hard, if I cannot (were I to be put to it ever so closely) find something to say, that would bring me off, and not impeach my veracity. With so little money, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 208. add the following Paragraph to Clarissa's Letter:

As to the Money (d) 9.10 you so generously and repeat|edly offer, don't be angry with me, if I again say, that I am very desirous that you should be able to averr, without the least qualifying or reserve, that nothing of that sort has passed between us. I know your Mother's strong way of putting the question she is intent upon having answered. But yet I promise that I will be obliged to nobody but you, when I have occasion.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 230—234. for the abstracted Let|ters of Joseph Leman and Mr. Lovelace, insert the following:

To ROBERT LOVELACE,, Esq His Honner (b) 10.1.

May it plese your Honner,

Sat. Apr. 15.

THIS is to let your Honner kno', as how I have been emploied in a bisness I would have been excused from, if so be I could. For it is to gitt evi|dense from a young man, who is of late com'd out to be my Cuzzen by my Granmother's side; and but lately come to live in these partes, about a verry vile thing, as younge master calls it, relating to your Honner. God forbid I should call it so without your leafe. It is not for so plane a man as I be, to tacks

my betters. It is consarning one Miss Batirton, of Notingam; a very pritty crature, belike.

Your Honner got her away, it seems, by a false Letter to her, macking believe as howe her She|cuzzen that she derely loved, was coming to see her; and was tacken ill upon the rode: And so Miss Ba|tirton set out in a Shase, and one sarvant, to fet her Cuzzen from the Inne where she laid sick, as she thote: And the sarvant was tricked, and braute back the Shase; but Miss Batirton was not harde of for a month, or so. And when it came to passe, that her frends found her oute, and would have prossekutid your Honner, your Honner was gone abroad: And so she was broute to bed, as one may say, before your Honner's return: And she got colde in her lyin|inn, and lanquitched, and soon died: And the child is living; but your Honner never troubles your Hon|ner's hedd about it in the least. And this and some such other matters of verry bad reporte, Squier Solmes was to tell my young Lady of, if so be she would have harde him speke, before we lost her sweet company, as I may say, from heere (a) 10.2.

I hope your Honner will excuse me: But I was forsed to tell all I harde, because they had my Cuzzen in to them, and he would have said he had tolde me: So could not be melely-mouthed, for fere to be blone up, and plese your Honner.

Your Honner helped me to a many ugly stories to tell against your Honner to my younge Master, and younge Mistriss; butt did not tell me about this.

I most humbelly beseche your Honner to be good and kinde and fethful to my dearest younge Lady, now you have her; or I shall brake my harte for having done some dedes that have helped to bring things to this passe. Pray youre dere good Honner, be just! Prayey do!—As God shall love ye! prayey do!—I cannot write no more for this pressent, for verry fear and grief—

But now I am cumm'd to my writing agen, will youre Honner be plesed to tell me, if as how there be any danger to your Honner's life from this bisness; for my Cuzzen is actlie hier'd to go down to Miss Batirton's frendes to see if they will stur in it: For you must kno' your Honner, as how he lived in the Batirton family at the time, and could be a good evi|dense, and all that.

I hope it was not so verry bad, as Titus says it was; for hee ses as how there was a Rape in the case be|twixt you at furste, and plese your Honner; and my Cuzzen Titus is a very honist younge man as ever brocke bred. This is his carackter; and this made me willinger to owne him for my Relation, when we came to talck.

If there should be danger of your Honner's life, I hope your Honner will not be hanged like as one of us common men: Only have your hedd cut off, or so: And yet it is pitty such a hedd should be lossed: But if as how it shoulde be prossekutid to that furr, which God forbid, be plesed natheless to thinck of youre fethful Joseph Leman, before your hedd be con|demned; for after condemnation, as I have been told, all will be the King's, or the Shreeve's.

I thote as how it was best to acquent your Honner of this; and for you to let me kno' if I could do any|thing to sarve your Honner, and prevent mischef with my Cuzzen Titus, on his coming back from Nottingam, before he mackes his reporte.

I have gin him a hinte already: For what, as I sed to him, Cuzzin Titus, signifies stirring up the coles, and macking of strief, to make rich gentilfolkes live at varience, and to be cutting of throtes, and such-like?

Verry trewe, sed little Titus. And this and plese your Honner gis me hopes of him, if so be your Honner gis me directions: sen', as God kno'es, I have a poor, a verry poor invenshon; only a willing mind

to prevent mischef, that is the chief of my aim, and always was, I bless my God!—Els I could have made mutch mischef in my time; as indeed any sarvant may. Your Honner natheless praises my invenshon every now-and-then: Alas! and plese your Honner, what invenshon should suche a plane man as I have?— But when your Honner sets me agoing by your fine invenshon, I can do well enuff. And I am sure I have a hearty good will to deserve your Honner's fa|ver, if I mought.

Two days, as I may say, off and on, have I been writing this long Letter. And yet I have not sed all I would say. For, be it knone unto your Honner, as how I do not like that Capten Singelton, which I told you of in my two last Letters. He is always lay|ing his hedd and my young Master's hedd together; and I suspect much if so be some mischef is not going on between them: And still the more, as because my eldest young Lady semes to be joined to them some|times.

Last week my young master sed before my fase, My harte's blood boiles over, Capten Singelton, for re|venge upon this—And he called your Honner by a name it is not for such a won as me to say what. Capten Singelton whispred my younge Master, being I was by. So younge Master sed, You may say any-thing before Joseph; for althoff he looks so seellie, he has as good a harte, and as good a hedd, as any sarvante in the worlde nede to have. My conscience touched me just then. But why shoulde it? when all I do, is to prevente mischeff; and seing your Honner has so much patience, which younge Master has not; so am not affeard of telling your Honner any-thing whatsom|ever.

And furthermore, I have suche a desire to desarve your Honner's bounty to me, as mackes me let no|thing pass I can tell you of, to prevent harm: And too besides your Honner's goodness about the Blew

Bore; which I have so good an accounte of!—I am sure I shall be bounden to bless your Honner the longest day I have to live.

And then the Blew Bore is not all neither; sen', and plese your Honner, the pretty Sowe (God forgive me for gesting in so serus a matter) runs in my hedd likewise. I believe I shall love her mayhap more than your Honner would have me; for she begins to be kind and good-humered, and listens, and plese your Honner, licke as if she was among beans, when I talke about the Blew Bore, and all that.

Prayey your Honner forgive the gesting of a poor plane man. We common fokes have our joys, and plese your Honner, lick as our betters have; and if we be sometimes snubbed, we can find our under|lings to snub them agen: And if not, we can get a Wife mayhap, and snub her: So are Masters some how or other oursells.

But how I try your Honner's patience!—Sarvants will show their joiful hartes, tho'ff but in partinens, when encouredg'd.

Be plesed from the prems's to let me kno' if as how I can be put upon any sarvice to sarve your Honner, and to sarve my deerest younge Lady; which God grant! For I begin to be affearde for her, hearing what pepel talck—To be sure your Honner will not do her no harme, as a man may say. But I kno' your Honner must be good to so wonderous a younge Lady. How can you help it?—But heere my conscience smites me, that but for some of my stories, which your Honner taute me, my old Master and my old Lady, and the two old Squiers, would not have been abell to be half so hard-harted as they be, for all what my young Master and young Mistress sayes.

And here is the sad thing; they cannot come to clere up matters with my deerest young Lady, be|cause, as your Honner has ordered it, they have these stories as if bribed by me out of your Honner's sar|vant;

which must not be known, for fere you should kill'n and me too, and blacken the briber!—Ah! your Honner!—I doute as that I am a very vild fel|low (Lord bless my soul, I pray God) and did not intend it.

But if my deerest young Lady should come to harm, and plese your Honner, the horsepond at the Blew Bore—But Lord preserve us all from all bad mischeff, and all bad endes, I pray the Lord!—For tho'ff your Honner is kinde to me in worldly pelff, yet what shall a man get to loos his soul, as holy Skrittuer says, and plese your Honner?

But natheless I am in hope of reppentance here|after, being but a younge man, if I do wrong thro' ignorrens; your Honner being a grate man, and a grate wit; and I a poor crature, not worthy notice; and your Honner able to answer for all. But how|somever I am

Your Honner's fethful Sarvant in all dewtie, JOSEPH LEMAN.

April 15. and 16.

Mr. LOVELACE, To JOSEPH LEMAN.

Monday, April 17.

Honest Joseph,

YOU have a worse opinion of your invention than you ought to have. I must praise it again. Of a plain man's head I have not known many better than yours. How often have your forecast and dis|cretion answered my wishes in cases which I could not foresee, not knowing how my general directions would succeed, or what might happen in the execution of them! You are too doubtful of your own abilities, honest Joseph; that's your fault. But it being a fault that is owing to natural modesty, you ought rather to be pitied for it than blamed.

The affair of Miss Betterton was a youthful fro|lick. I love dearly to exercise my invention. I do

assure you, Joseph, that I have ever had more plea|sure in my Contrivances than in the End of them. I am no sensual man; but a man of spirit—One wo|man is like another—You understand me, Joseph—In Coursing all the sport is made by the winding Hare. A barn-door Chick is better eating. Now you take me, Joseph.

Miss Betterton was but a Tradesman's daughter. The family indeed were grown rich, and aimed at a new Line of Gentry; and were unreasonable enough to expect a man of my family would marry her. I was honest. I gave the young Lady no hope of that; for she put it to me. She resented: Kept up, and was kept up. A little innocent Contrivance was ne|cessary to get her out—But no Rape in the case, I as|sure you, Joseph—She loved me: I loved her. In|deed, when I got her to the Inn, I asked her no questions. It is cruel to ask a modest woman for her consent. It is creating difficulties to both. Had not her friends been officious, I had been constant and faithful to her to this day, as far as I know—For then I had not known my Angel.

I went not abroad upon her account. She loved me too well to have appeared against me. She refused to sign a paper they had drawn up for her, to found a prosecution upon: And the brutal creatures would not permit the midwife's assistance, till her life was in danger; and I believe to this her death was owing.

I went into mourning for her, tho' abroad at the time. A distinction I have ever paid to those worthy creatures who died in Childbed by me.

I was ever nice in my Loves. These were the rules I laid down to myself on my entrance into active life: To set the mother above want, if her friends were cruel, and if I could not get her an husband worthy of her: To shun common women: A piece of justice I owed to innocent Ladies, as well as to myself: To marry off a former mistress, if possible,

before I took to a new one: To maintain a Lady handsomely in her lying-in: To provide for the Little one, if it lived, according to the degree of its mo|ther: To go into mourning for the mother, if she died. And the promise of this was a great comfort to the pretty dears, as they grew near their times.

All my errors, all my expences, have been with and upon women. So I could acquit my conscience (acting thus honourably by them) as well as my dis|cretion as to point of fortune.

All men love women: And find me a man of more honour in these points, if you can, Joseph.

No wonder the Sex love me as they do!

But now I am strictly virtuous. I am reformed. So I have been for a long, long time: Resolving to marry, as soon as I can prevail upon the most admira|ble of women to have me. I think of nobody else. It is impossible I should. I have spared very pretty girls for her sake. Very true, Joseph! So set your honest heart at rest—You see the pains I take to satisfy your qualms.

But as to Miss Betterton—No Rape in the case, I repeat: Rapes are unnatural things: And more rare than are imagined, Joseph—I should be loth to be put to such a streight. I never was. Miss Betterton was taken from me against her own will. In that case, her friends, not I, committed the Rape.

I have contrived to see the Boy twice, unknown to the Aunt, who takes care of him; loves him; and would not now part with him, on any consideration. The Boy is a fine Boy, I thank God. No Father need be ashamed of him. He will be well provided for. If not, I would take care of him. He will have his Mother's fortune. They curse the Father, un|grateful wretches! but bless the Boy—Upon the whole, there is nothing vile in this matter on my side; a great deal on the Bettertons.

Wherefore, Joseph, be not thou in pain, either

for my head, or for thy own neck; nor for the Blue Boar; nor for thy pretty Sow.—

I love your jesting. Jesting better becomes a poor man than qualms.—I love to have you jest. All we say, all we do, all we wish for, is a jest. He that makes life itself not so, is a sad fellow, and has the worst of it.

I doubt not, Joseph, but you have had your joys, as you say, as well as your betters. May you have more and more, honest Joseph!—He that grudges a poor man joy, ought to have none himself. Jest on therefore: Jesting, I repeat, better becomes thee than qualms.

I had no need to tell you of Miss Betterton: Did I not furnish you with stories enough without hers, against myself, to augment your credit with your cunning masters? Besides, I was loth to mention Miss Better|ton, her friends being all living, and in credit. I loved her too; for she was taken from me by her cruel friends while our joys were young.

But enough of dear Miss Betterton. Dear, I say; for death endears.—Rest to her worthy soul!—There, Joseph, off went a deep sigh to the memory of Miss Betterton!

As to the journey of little Titus [I now recollect the fellow by his name] Let that take its course: A Lady dying in childbed eighteen months ago; no pro|cess begun in her life-time; refusing herself to give evidence against me whilst she lived—Pretty circum|stances to found an indictment for a Rape upon!

As to your young Lady, the ever-adorable Miss Clarissa Harlowe, I always courted her for a Wife. Others rather expected marriage from the vanity of their own hearts, than from my promises. For I was always careful of what I promised. You know, Jo|seph, that I have gone beyond my promises to you. I do to every-body: And why? Because it is the best way of shewing, that I have no grudging or narrow

spirit. A promise is an obligation. A just man will keep his promise: A generous man will go beyond it. This is my rule.

If you doubt my honour to your young Lady, it is more than she does. She would not stay with me an hour if she did. Mine is the steadiest heart in the world. Hast thou not reason to think it so?—Why this squeamishness then, honest Joseph?

But it is because thou art honest: So I forgive thee. Whoever loves my divine Clarissa, loves me.

Let James Harlowe call me what Names he will. For his Sister's sake I will bear them. Do not be concerned for me. Her favour will make me rich amends. His own vilely malicious heart will make his blood boil over at any time: And when it does, thinkest thou that I will let it touch my conscience? —And if not mine, why should it touch thine? Ah! Joseph, Joseph! What a foolish teazer is thy con|science! Such a conscience, as gives a plain man trouble, when he intends to do for the best, is weak|ness, not conscience.

But say what thou wilt, write all thou knowest or hearest of, to me: Ill have patience with every|body. Why should I not, when it is as much the de|sire of my heart, as it is of thine, to prevent mis|chief?

So now, Joseph, having taken all this pains to sa|tisfy thy Conscience, and answer all thy doubts, and to banish all thy fears; let me come to a new point.

Your endeavours and mine, which were designed, by round-about ways, to reconcile all, even against the wills of the most obstinate, have not, we see, an|swered the end we hoped they would answer; but, on the contrary, have widened the unhappy differences between our families. But this has not been either your fault or mine: It is owing to the black pitch-like blood of your venomous-hearted young Master, boiling over, as he owns, that our honest wishes have hitherto been frustrated.

Yet we must proceed in the same course: We shall tire them out in time, and they will propose terms; and when they do, they shall find how rea|sonable mine shall be, little as they deserve from me.

Persevere, therefore, Joseph; honest Joseph, per|severe; and, unlikely as you may imagine the means, our desires will be at last obtained.

We have nothing for it now, but to go thro' with our work in the way we have begun. For since (as I told you in my last) my Beloved mistrusts you, she will blow you up, if she be not mine. If she be, I can and will protect you; and as, if there will be any fault, in her opinion, it will be rather mine than yours, she must forgive you, and keep her husband' secrets, for the sake of his reputation: Else she will be guilty of a great failure in her duty. So, now you have set your hand to the plough, Joseph, there is no looking back.

And what is the consequence of all this? One la|bour more, and that will be all that will fall to your lot; at least of consequence.

My beloved is resolved not to think of Marriage till she has tried to move her friends to a Reconciliation with her. You know they are determined not to be reconciled. She has it in her head, I doubt not, to make me submit to the people I hate; and if I did, they would rather insult me, than receive my conde|scension as they ought. She even owns, that she will renounce me, if they insist upon it, provided they will give up Solmes. So, to all appearance, I am still as far as ever from the happiness of calling her mine: Indeed I am more likely than ever to lose her (if I cannot con|trive some way to avail myself of the present critical situation); and then, Joseph, all I have been stu|dying, and all you have been doing, will signify no|thing.

At the place where we are, we cannot long be private. The lodgings are inconvenient for us, while

both together, and while the refuses to marry. She wants to get me at a distance from her. There are extraordinary convenient lodgings in my eye in Lon|don, where we could be private, and all mischief avoided. When there (if I get her thither) she will insist, that I shall leave her. Miss Howe is for ever putting her upon contrivances. That, you know, is the reason I have been obliged, by your means, to play the family off at Harlowe-Place upon Mrs. Howe, and Mrs. Howe upon her Daughter—Ah! Joseph!— Little need for your fears for my Angel: I only am in danger—But were I the free liver I am reported to be, all this could I get over with a wet finger, as the saying is.

But, by the help of one of your hints, I have thought of an Expedient which will do every-thing, and raise your reputation, tho' already so high, higher still. This Singleton, I hear, is a fellow who loves enterprising: The view he has to get James Harlowe to be his principal owner in a larger vessel which he wants to be put into the command of, may be the subject of their present close conversation. But since he is taught to have so good an opinion of you, Joseph (a) 11.1, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 245. l. 20. and Edit. ii. p. 251. l. 4. after half so well, as now, insert,

Has she not demonstrated, that even the highest provocations were not sufficient to warp her from her duty to her parents, tho' a native, and, as I may say, an originally involuntary duty, because native? And is not this a charming earnest that she will sacredly observe a still higher duty into which she proposes to enter, when she does enter, by plighted vows, and entirely as a volunteer?

That she loves thee, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 261. l. 19, 20. after proper to be frustrated, dele the rest of that paragraph, and all the following, and read,

If you consider (a) 11.2 this Malediction as it ought to be considered, a person of your piety must and will rather pity and pray for your rash Father, than ter|rify yourself on the occasion. None but God can curse. Parents, or others, whoever they be, can only pray to him to curse: And such Prayers can have no weight with a just and all-perfect Being, the motives to which are unreasonable, and the end pro|posed by them cruel.

Has not God commanded us to bless and curse not? Pray for your Father, then, I repeat, that he incur not the Malediction he has announced on you; since he has broken, as you see, a command truly divine; while you, by obeying that other precept which en|joins us to pray for them that persecute and curse us, will turn the Curse into a Blessing.

My Mother blames them, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 273. l. 12. and Edit. ii. p. 278. l. 13. dele the Paragraph beginning, I will not, repeat, and read,

You assume, my dear, says she, your usual and ever-agreeable style, in what you write of the two Gentlemen, and how unaptly you think they have chosen; Mr. Hickman in addressing you; Mr. Love|lace me. But I am inclinable to believe, that with a view to happiness, however two mild tempers might agree, two high ones would make sad work of it, both at one time violent and unyielding. You two might indeed have raqueted the Ball betwixt you, as you say: But Mr. Hickman, by his gentle manners,

seems formed for you, if you go not too far with him. If you do, it would be a tameness in him to bear it, which would make a man more contemptible than Mr. Hickman can ever deserve to be made. Nor is it a disgrace for even a brave man, who knows what a woman is to vow to him afterwards, to be very obsequious beforehand.

Do you think it is to the credit of Mr. Lovelace's character, that he can be offensive and violent? Does he not, as all such spirits must, subject himself to the necessity of making submissions for his excesses, far more mortifying to a proud heart, than those con|descensions which the high-spirited are so apt to im|pute as a weakness of mind in such a man as Mr. Hickman?

Let me tell you, my dear, that Mr. Hickman is such a one, as would rather bear an affront from a Lady, than offer one to her. He had rather, I dare say, that she should have occasion to ask his pardon, than he hers. But, my dear, you have outlived your first passion; and had the second man been an angel, he would not have been more than indifferent to you.

My motives for suspending, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 273. l. 8. from the bottom, and Edit. ii. p. 278. l. 12. from the bottom, after would repeat it, insert,

I see with great regret, that your Mamma is still immoveably bent against our correspondence. What shall I do about it?—It goes against me to continue it, or to wish you to favour me with returns.—Yet I have so managed my matters, that I have no friend but you to advise with. It is enough to make one indeed wish to be married to this man, tho' a man of errors; as he has worthy Relations of my own Sex; and I should have some friends, I hope:—And having some, I might have more—For as money is said

to encrease money, so does the countenance of per|sons of character encrease friends: While the desti|tute must be destitute.—It goes against my heart to beg of you to discontinue corresponding with me; and yet it is against my conscience to carry it on against pa|rental prohibition. But I dare not use all the argu|ments against it that I could use—And why?—For fear I should convince you; and you should reject me, as the rest of my friends have done. I leave there|fore the determination of this point upon you—I am not, I find, to be trusted with it. But be mine all the fault, and all the punishment, if it be punishable!— And certainly it must, when it can be the cause of those over-lively sentences wherewith you conclude the Letter I have before me, and which I must no farther animadvert upon, because you forbid me to do so.

To the second, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 278. l. 8. from the bottom, and Edit. ii. p. 283. l. 21. after correct thy master, insert,

And another, if thou wilt—Never offer to invali|date the force which a virtuous education ought to have in the Sex, by endeavouring to find excuses for their frailty from the frailty of ours. For, are we not devils to each other? They tempt us: We tempt them. Because we men cannot resist temptation, is that a reason that women ought not, when the whole of their education is caution and warning against our attempts? Do not their grandmothers give them one easy rule?—Men are to ask—Women are to deny.

Well, but to return, &c.

Vol iii. Edit. i. p. 284. l. 12. from the bottom, and Edit. ii. p. 289. l. 9. after attendant cannot read, insert,

It would be a miracle, as thou sayst, if this Lady can save herself—And having gone so far, how can I

recede?—Then my Revenge upon the Harlowes!— To have run away with a daughter of theirs, to make her a Lovelace—To make her one of a family so su|perior to her own, what a Triumph, as I have here|tofore observed, to them!—But to run away with her, and to bring her to my lure in the other light, what a mortification of their pride! What a gratifica|tiod of my own!

Then these women are continually at me. These women, who, before my whole soul and faculties were absorbed in the Love of this single charmer, used always to oblige me with the flower and first fruits of their garden! Indeed, indeed, my Goddess should not have chosen this London Widow's—But I dare say, if I had, she would not. People who will be dealing in contradiction, ought to pay for it. And to be pu|nished by the consequences of our own choice, what a moral lies there!—What a deal of Good may I not be the occasion of from a little Evil!

Dorcas is a neat creature, both, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 304. l. 2. Edit. ii. p. 308. l. 10. after of cultivating theirs, dele the rest of the pa|ragraph, and read,

He urged me still further on this head.

I could not say, I told him, that I greatly liked either of the young gentlewomen, any more than their Aunt: And that were my situation ever so happy, they had much too gay a turn for me.

He did not wonder, he said, to hear me say so. He knew not any of the Sex who had been accustomed to shew themselves at the Town Diversions and Amuse|ments, that would, appear tolerable to me. Silence and Blushes, Madam, are now no graces with our fine Ladies in Town. Hardened by frequent public ap|pearances, they would be as much ashamed to be found guilty of these weaknesses, as men.

Do you defend these two gentlewomen, Sir, by reflections upon half the Sex? But you must second me, Mr. Lovelace (and yet I am not fond of being, thought particular) in my desire of breakfasting and supping (when I do sup] by myself.

If I would, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 305. l. 9. from the bottom, and Edit. ii. p. 310. l. 2. after a savage, insert,

But how could a creature who (treating herself un|politely) gave a man an opportunity to run away with her, expect to be treated by that man with a very high degree of politeness?

But why, now, when fairer prospects seem to open, why these melancholy reflections, will my beloved friend ask of her Clarissa?

Why? Can you ask why, my dearest Miss Howe? of a creature who, in the world's eye, has inrolled her name among the giddy and the inconsiderate; who labours under a Parent's curse, and the cruel uncertainties which must arise from reflecting, that, equally against duty and principle, she has thrown her|self into the power of a man, and that man an immo|ral one? Must not the sense she has of her inconsi|deration darken her most hopeful prospects? Must it not even rise strongest upon a thoughtful mind, when her hopes are the fairest? Even her pleasures, were the man to prove better than she expects, coming to her with an abatement, like that which persons who are in possession of ill-gotten wealth must then most poignantly experience (if they have reflecting and un|feared minds) when, all their wishes answered (if the wishes of such persons can ever be wholly answered) they sit down in hopes to enjoy what they have unjustly obtained, and find their own reflections their greatest torment.

May you, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 308. l. 2. and Edit. ii. p. 312. l. 14, 15. after command of herself, insert,

What dost think?—Here this little devil Sally, not being able, as she told me, to support life under my displeasure, was going into a fit: But when I saw her preparing for it, I went out of the room; and so she thought it would not be worth her while to shew away.

In this manner he mentions what his meaning was in making the Lady the compliment of his absence:

As to leaving her; If I go but for one night, I have fulfilled my promise: And if she think not, I can mutter and grumble, and yield again, and make a merit of it; and then, unable to live out of her pre|sence, soon return. Nor are women ever angry at bottom for being disobey'd thro' excess of Love. They lik an uncontroulable passion. They like to have every favour ravished from them; and to be eaten and drank quite up by a voracious Lover. Don't I know the Sex?—Not so, indeed, as yet, my Clarissa: But however, with her my frequent egresses will make me look new to her, and create little busy scenes between us. At the least I may surely, with|out exception, salute her at parting, and at return; and will not those occasional freedoms (which civility will warrant) by degrees familiarize my charmer to them?

But here, Jack, what shall I do with my Uncle and Aunts, and all my loving Cousins? For I under|stand, that they are more in haste to have me married than I am myself.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 312. and Edit. ii. p. 317. dele the paragraph beginning Mr. Lovelace, &c. and read,

Mr. Lovelace in his next Letter gives an account of his quick return: Of his reasons to the Lady for it: Of

her displeasure upon it: And of her urging his absence from the safety she was in from the situation of the house, except she were to be traced out by his visits.

I was confoundedly puzzled, says he, on this oc|casion, and on her insisting upon the execution of a too-ready offer which I made her to go down to Berks, to bring up my Cousin Charlotte to visit and attend her. I made miserable excuses; and, fearing that they would be mortally resented, as her passion began to rise upon my saying Charlotte was delicate, which she took strangely wrong, I was obliged to screen myself behind the most solemn and explicit declara|tions.

He then repeats those declarations, to the same effect with the account she gives of them.

I began, says he, with an intention to keep my Life of Honour in view, in the declarations I made her; but, as it has been said of a certain orator in the House of Commons, who more than once, in a long speech, convinced himself as he went along, and concluded against the side he set out intending to favour, so I in earnest pressed without reserve for Matrimony in the progress of my harangue, which state I little thought of urging upon her with so much strength and expli|citness.

He then values himself upon the delay that his proposal of taking and furnishing a house must occasion.

He wavers in his resolutions whether to act honourably or not, by a merit so exalted.

He values himself upon his own delicacy, in expressing his indignation against her friends, for supposing what he pretends his heart rises against them for pre|suming to suppose.

But have I not reason, says he, to be angry with her, for not praising me for this my delicacy, when she

is so ready to call me to account for the least failure in punctilio? However, I believe I can excuse her too, upon this generous consideration [For generous I am sure it is, because it is against myself]; that her mind being the essence of delicacy, the least want of it shocks her; while the meeting with what is so very extra|ordinary to me, is too familiar to her to obtain her notice, as an extraordinary.

He glories in the story of the house, and of the young Widow possessor of it, Mrs. Fretchville he calls her; and leaves it doubtful to Mr. Belford, whether it be a real or fictitious story.

He mentions his different proposals in relation to the Ce|remony, which he so earnestly pressed for; and owns his artful intention in avoiding to name the day.

And now, says he, I hope soon to have an oppor|tunity to begin my operations; since all is Halcyon and Security.

It is impossible to describe the dear Creature's sweet and silent confusion, when I touched upon the matri|monial topics.

She may doubt. She may fear. The wise in all important cases will doubt, and will fear, till they are sure. But her apparent willingness to think well of a spirit so inventive and so machinating, is a happy prognostic for me. O these reasoning Ladies!— How I love these reasoning Ladies!—'Tis all over with them, when once Love has crept into their hearts: For then will they employ all their reasoning powers to excuse, rather than to blame, the conduct of the doubted Lover, let appearances against him be ever so strong.

Mowbray, Belton, and Tourville, long to see my angel, and will be there. She has refused me; but must be present notwithstanding. So generous a spirit as mine is cannot enjoy its happiness without com|munication.

If I raise not your envy and admiration both at once, but half-joy will be the joy of having such a charming Fly entangled in my web. She there|fore must comply. And thou must come. And then will I shew thee the pride and glory of the Harlowe family, my implacable enemies; and thou shalt join with me in my triumph over them all.

I know not (a) 11.3 what may still be the perverse Beau|ty's fate: I want thee therefore to see and admire her, while she is serene, and full of hope: Before her apprehensions are realized, if realized they are to be; and if evil apprehensions of me she really has: Before her beamy eyes have lost their lustre: While yet her charming face is surrounded with all its virgin glories; and before the plough of disappointment has thrown up furrows of distress upon every lovely fea|ture.

If I can, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 313. l. 27. after of his Goddess, dele the following paragraphs, to p. 314. l. 11. and read,

Ye must be sure (b) 11.4 to let it sink deep into your heavy heads, that there is no such Lady in the world, as Miss Clarissa Harlowe; and that she is neither more nor less than Mrs. Lovelace, though at present, to my shame be it spoken, a Virgin.

Be mindful also, that your old Mother's name, af|ter that of her Mother when a Maid, is Sinclair: That her Husband was a Lieutenant-colonel, and all that you, Belford, know from honest Doleman's Letter of her (c) 11.5, that let your brethren know.

Mowbray and Tourville, the two greatest blun|derers of the four, I allow to be acquainted with

the Widow and Nieces, from the knowlege they had of the Colonel. They will not forbear familiarities of speech to the Mother, as of longer acquaintance than a day. So I have suited their parts to their capacities.

They may praise the Widow and the Colonel for people of great honour—But not too grosly; nor to labour the point so as to render themselves suspected.

The Mother will lead ye into her own and the Colonel's praises; and Tourville and Mowbray may be both her vouchers—I, and you, and Belton, must be only hearsay confirmers.

As poverty is generally suspectible, the Widow must be got handsomely aforehand; and no doubt but she is. The elegance of her house and furniture, and her readiness to discharge all demands upon her, which she does with ostentation enough, and which makes her neighbours, I suppose, like her the better, demonstrate this. She will propose to do handsome things by her two Nieces. Sally is near Marriage— with an eminent Woolen-draper in the Strand, if ye have a mind to it; for there are five or six of them there.

The Nieces may be enquired after, since they will be absent, as persons respected by Mowbray and Tourville, for their late worthy Uncle's sake.

Watch ye diligently every turn of my counte|rance; every motion of my eye; for in my eye, and in my countenance, will ye find a sovereign re|gulator. I need not bid ye respect me mightily: Your allegiance obliges ye to that: And who that sees me, respects me not?

Priscilla Partington (for her looks so innocent, and discretion so deep, yet seeming so softly) may be greatly relied upon. She will accompany the Mother, gorgeously dressed, with all her Jew's extravagance flaming out upon her; and first induce, then counte|nance, the Lady. She has her cue, and I hope will make her acquaintance coveted by my Charmer.

Miss Partington's history is this: The Daughter of Col. Sinclair's Brother-in-law: That Brother-in-law may have been a Turky merchant, or any merchant, who died confoundedly rich: The Colonel one of her guardians [Collateral credit in that to the Old one]: Whence she always calls Mrs. Sinclair Mamma; tho' not succeeding to the trust.

She is just come to pass a day or two, and then to return to her surviving guardian's at Barnet.

Miss Partington has suitors a little hundred (her Grandmother, an Alderman's Dowager, having left her a great additional fortune); and is not trusted out of her guardians house, without an old gouver|nante noted for discretion, except to her Mamma Sinclair; with whom now-and-then she is permitted to be for a week together.

Prisc. will Mamma-up Mrs. Sinclair, and will under|take to court her guardian to let her pass a delightful week with her—Sir Edward Holden, he may as well be, if your shallow pates will not be clogged with too many circumstantials. Lady Holden perhaps will come with her; for she always delighted in her Mam|ma Sinclair's company; and talks of her, and her good management, twenty times a day.

Be it principally thy part, Jack, who art a parade|ing fellow, and aimest at wisdom, to keep thy bro|ther-varlets from blundering; for, as thou must have observed from what I have written, we have the most watchful and most penetrating Lady in the world to deal with: A Lady worth deceiving! But whose eyes will pierce to the bottom of your shallow souls the moment she hears you open. Do thou therefore place thyself between Mowbray and Tourville: Their toes to be played upon and commanded by thine, if they go wrong: Thy elbows to be the ministers of appro|bation.

As to your general behaviour; No hypocrisy!— I hate it: So does my Charmer. If I had studied

for it, I believe I could have been an hypocrite: But my general character is so well known, that I should have been suspected at once, had I aimed at making myself too white. But what necessity can there be for hypocrisy, unless the generality of the Sex were to refuse us for our immoralities? The best of them love to have the credit of reforming us. Let the sweet souls try for it: If they fail, their intent was good. That will be a consolation to them. And as to us, our work will be the easier; our sins the fewer: Since they will draw themselves in with a very little of our help; and we shall save a parcel of cursed Falshoods, and appear to be what we are both to Angels and Men. Mean time their very Grand|mothers will acquit us, and reproach them with their Self-do, Self-have; and as having erred against know|lege, and ventured against manifest appearances. What folly therefore for men of our character to be hypo|crites!

Be sure to instruct the rest, and do thou thyself remember, not to talk obscenely. You know I ne|ver permitted any of you to talk obscenely. Time enough for that, when ye grow old, and can ONLY talk. Besides, ye must consider Prisc's affected cha|racter, my Goddess's real one. Far from obscenity therefore, do not so much as touch upon the double Entendre. What! as I have often said, cannot you touch a Lady's heart, without wounding her ear?

It is necessary, that ye should appear worse men than myself. You cannot help appearing so, you'll say. Well then, there will be the less restraint upon you—The less restraint, the less affectation.—And if Belton begins his favourite subject in behalf of keeping, it may make me take upon myself to oppose him: But fear not; I shall not give the argument all my force.

She must have some curiosity, I think, to see what sort of men my companions are: She will not expect any of you to be saints. Are ye not men born to

considerable fortunes, altho' ye are not all of ye men of parts? Who is it in this mortal life, that wealth does not mislead? And as it gives people the power of being mischievous, does it not require great virtue to forbear the use of that power? Is not the devil said to be the god of this world? Are we not children of this world? Well then!—Let me tell thee my opi|nion—It is this: That, were it not for the poor and the middling, the world would probably, long ago, have been destroyed by fire from Heaven. Ungrateful wretches the rest, thou wilt be apt to say, to make such sorry returns, as they generally do make, to the poor and the middling!

This dear Lady, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 314. l. 21. and Edit. ii. p. 322. l. 24. after on Monday night, insert,

And let me add, that you must attend to every minute circumstance, whether you think there be reason in it or not. Deep, like golden ore, fre|quently lies my meaning, and richly worth digging for. The hint of least moment, as you may imagine it, is often pregnant with events of the greatest. Be implicit. Am not I your General? Did I ever lead you on, that I brought ye not off with safety and success, sometimes to your own stupid astonishment?

And now, methinks, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 319, 320. and Edit. ii. p. 328. dele the Paragraph, I have carried, &c. to I long to have your opinions of my fair prize; and read,

I HAVE carried my third point; but so extremely to the dislike of my Charmer, that I have been threatened, for suffering Miss Partington to be in|troduced to her without her leave. Which laid her under a necessity to deny or comply with the urgent request of so fine a young Lady; who had engaged to honour me at my Collation, on condition that my Beloved would be present at it.

To be obliged to appear before my friends as what she was not! She was for insisting, that I should ac|quaint the women here with the truth of the matter; and not go on propagating stories for her to counte|nance; making her a sharer in my guilt.

But what points will not perseverance carry? espe|cially when it is covered over with the face of yield|ing now, and Parthian-like returning to the charge anon. Do not the Sex carry all their points with their men by the same methods? Have I conversed with them so freely as I have done, and learnt no|thing of them? Didst thou ever know that a woman's denial of any favour, whether the least or the greatest, that my heart was set upon, stood her in any stead? The more perverse she, the more steady I; that is my rule.

"But the point thus so much against her will carried, I doubt thou wilt see in her more of a sullen than of an obliging Charmer. For when Miss Partington was withdrawn, What was Miss Partington to her? In her situation she wanted no new acquaintance. And what were my four friends to her in her present circumstances? She would assure me, if ever again"

—And there she stopt, with a twirl of her hand.

When we meet, I will, in her presence, tipping thee a wink, shew thee the motion; for it was a very pretty one. Quite new. Yet have I seen an hundred pretty passionate twirls too, in my time, from other Fair-ones. How universally engaging it is to put a woman of sense, to whom a man is not married, in a passion, let the reception given to every ranting scene in our Plays testify. Take care, my charmer, now thou art come to delight me with thy angry twirls, that thou temptest me not to provoke a varicty of them from one, whose every motion, whose every air, carries in it so much sense and soul.

But, angry or pleased, this charming Creature must

be all loveliness. Her features are all harmony, and made for one another. No other feature could be substituted in the place of any one of hers, but must abate of her perfection: And think you that I do not long to have your opinions of my fair Prize?

If you love to see features that glow, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 320. and Edit. ii. p. 328. dele the Paragraph beginning with the words In the Lady's next Letter; and read,

Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Sunday, April 30.

MR. Lovelace in his last Letters having taken notice of the most material passages contained in this Let|ter, the following Extracts from it are only inserted.

She gives pretty near the same account that he does of what passed between them, on her resolution to go to church; and of his proposal of St. Paul's, and desire of attending her. She praises his good behaviour there; as also the discourse, and the preacher: Is pleased with its seasonableness: Gives particulars of the conversation between them afterwards, and com|mends the good observations he makes upon the sermon.

I am willing, says she, to have hopes of him: But am so unable to know how to depend upon his seri|ousness for an hour together, that all my favourable accounts of him in this respect must be taken with allowance.

Being very much pressed, I could not tell how to refuse dining with the Widow and her Nieces this day. I am better pleased with them, than I ever thought I should be. I cannot help blaming myself for my rea|diness to give severe censures, where reputation is concerned. Peoples ways, humours, constitutions, education, and opportunities allowed for, my dear, many persons, as far as I know, may appear blameless, whom others of different humours and educations are

too apt to blame; and who, from the same fault, may be as ready to blame them. I will therefore make it a rule to myself for the future, never to judge peremptorily on first appearances: But yet I must ob|serve, that these are not people I should chuse to be intimate with, or whose ways I can like: Altho', for the stations they are in, they may go thro' the world with tolerable credit.

Mr. Lovelace's behaviour has been such, as makes me call this, so far as it is passed, an agreeable day. Yet when easiest as to him, my situation with my friends takes place in my thoughts, and causes me many a tear.

I am the more pleased with the people of the house, because of the persons of rank they are acquainted with, and who visit them.

Sunday Evening.

I AM still well pleased with Mr. Lovelace's beha|viour. We have had a good deal of serious discourse together. The man has really just and good notions. He confesses how much he is pleased with this day, and hopes for many such. Nevertheless, he inge|nuously warned me, that his unlucky vivacity might return: But he doubted not, that he should be fixed at last by my example and conversation.

He has given me an entertaining account of the four gentlemen he is to meet to-morrow night: Enter|taining, I mean, for his humorous description of their persons, manners, &c. but such a description as is far from being to their praise: Yet he seemed rather to design to divert my melancholy it, than to de|grade them. I think at bottom, my dear, that he must be a good-natured man; but that he was spoiled young for want of check or controul.

I cannot but call this, my circumstances considered, an happy day to the end of it. Indeed, my dear, I think I could prefer him to all the men I ever knew, were he but to be always what he has been this day.

You see how ready I am to own all you have charged me with, when I find myself out. It is a difficult thing, I believe, sometimes, for a young creature that is able to deliberate with herself, to know when she loves, or when she hates: But I am resolved, as much as possible, to be determined both in my hatred and love by actions, as they make the man worthy or un|worthy.

She dates again on Monday, and declares herself highly displeased, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 349. l. 11. after than a Lady, dele the next Paragraph, and read,

To pursue the comparison (a) 13.1—If the disappoint|ment of the captivated Lady be very great, she will threaten, indeed, as I said: She will even refuse her sustenance for some time, especially if you entreat her much, and she thinks she gives you concern by her refusal. But then the Stomach of the dear sullen one will soon return. 'Tis pretty to see how she comes to by degrees: Pressed by appetite, she will first steal, perhaps, a weeping morsel by herself; then be brought to piddle and sigh, and sigh and pid|dle, before you; now-and-then, if her viands be un|savoury, swallowing with them a relishing tear or two: Then she comes to eat and drink, to oblige you: Then resolves to live for your sake: Her ex|clamations will, in the next place, be turned into blandishments; her vehement upbraidings into gentle murmurings—How dare you, Traitor!—into How could you, dearest? She will draw you to her, instead of pushing you from her: No longer, with unsheathed claws, will she resist you; but, like a pretty, playful, wanton Kitten, with gentle paws and concealed ta|lons, tap your cheek, and with intermingled smiles, and tears, and caresses, implore your consideration for her, and your constancy: All the favour she then

has to ask of you!—And this is the time, were it given to man to confine himself to one object, to be happier every day than other.

Now, Belford, were I to go no farther than I have gone with my beloved Miss Harlowe, how shall I know the difference between her and another bird? To let her fly now, what a pretty jest would that be! How do I know, except I try, whether she may not be brought to sing me a fine song, and to be as well contented as I have brought other birds to be, and very shy ones too?

But now let us reflect a little upon the confounded partiality of us human creatures. I can give two or three familiar, and, if they were not familiar, they would be shocking, instances of the cruelty both of men and women, with respect to other creatures, per|haps as worthy as (at least more innocent than) them|selves. By my Soul, Jack, there is more of the Sa|vage in human nature than we are commonly aware of. Nor is it, after all, so much amiss, that we sometimes avenge the more innocent animals upon our own species.

To particulars.

How usual a thing is it for women as well as men, without the least remorse, to ensnare, to cage, and torment, and even with burning knitting-needles to put out the eyes of the poor feather'd songster [Thou seest I have not yet done with birds]; which however, in proportion to its bulk, has more life than them|selves (for a bird is all soul) and of consequence has as much feeling as the human creature! When at the same time, if an honest fellow, by the gentlest per|suasion, and the softest arts, has the good luck to pre|vail upon a mew'd-up lady to countenance her own escape, and she consents to break cage, and be set a flying into the all-chearing air of liberty, Mercy on us! what an Outcry is generally raised against him!

Just like what you and I once saw raised in a paltry

village near Chelmsford, after a poor hungry fox, who, watching his opportunity, had seized by the neck, and shouldered, a sleek-feathered goose: At what time we beheld the whole vicinage of boys and girls, old men, and old women, all the furrows and wrinkles of the latter filled up with malice for the time; the old men armed with prongs, pitch-forks, clubs, and catsticks; the old women with mops, brooms, fire-shovels, tongs, and pokers; and the younger fry with dirt, stones, and brickbats, gathering as they ran like a snowball, in pursuit of the wind-outstripping prowler; all the mongrel curs of the cir|cumjacencies yelp, yelp, yelp, at their heels, com|pleting the horrid chorus.

Remembrest thou not this scene? Surely thou must. My imagination, inflamed by a tender sym|pathy for the danger of the adventurous marauder, represents it to my eye, as if it were but yesterday. And dost thou not recollect how generously glad we were, as if our own case, that honest Reynard, by the help of a lucky stile, over which both old and young tumbled upon one another, and a winding course, escaped their brutal fury, and flying catsticks; and how, in fancy, we followed him to his undisco|vered retreat; and imagined we beheld the intrepid thief enjoying his dear-earned purchase with a delight proportioned to his past danger?

I once made a charming little savage severely repent the delight she took in seeing her tabby favourite make cruel sport with a pretty sleek bead-eyed mouse, be|fore she devoured it. Egad, my Love, said I to my|self, as I sat meditating the scene, I am determined to lie in wait for a fit opportunity to try how thou wilt like to be tost over my head, and be caught again: How thou wilt like to be patted from me, and pulled to me. Yet will I rather give life than take it away, as this barbarous quadrupede has at last done by her prey. And after all was over between my girl and

me, I reminded her of the incident to which my re|solution was owing.

Nor had I at another time any mercy upon the daughter of an old Epicure, who had taught the girl, without the least remorse, to roast Lobsters alive; to cause a poor Pig to be whipt to death, to scrape Carp the contrary way of the scales, making them leap in the stew-pan, and dressing them in their own blood for sawce. And this for luxury-sake, and to provoke an appetite; which I had without stimulation, in my way, and that I can tell thee a very ravenous one.

Many more instances of the like nature could I give, were I to leave nothing to thyself, to shew that the best take the same liberties, and perhaps worse, with some sort of creatures, that we take with others; all creatures still! and creatures too, as I have observed above, replete with strong life, and sensible feeling!— If therefore people pretend to mercy, let mercy go thro' all their actions. I have read somewhere, That a merciful man is merciful to his beast.

So much at present for those parts of thy Letter in which thou urgest to me motives of compassion for the Lady.

But I guess at thy principal, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 351. l. 20. and Edit. ii. p. 362. l. 12. from the bottom, after minds like her own, insert,

Were I to take thy stupid advice, and marry; what a figure should I make in Rakish annals! The Lady in my power: Yet not having intended to put herself in my power: Declaring against Love, and a Rebel to it: So much open-eyed caution: No confi|dence in my honour: Her family expecting the worst hath passed; herself seeming to expect, that the worst will be attempted: [Priscilla Partington for that!] What! wouldst thou not have me act in character?

But why callest thou the Lady innocent? And why sayst thou she loves me?

By innocent, with regard to me, and not taken as a general character, I must insist upon it, she is not in|nocent. Can she be innocent, who, by wishing to shackle me in the prime and glory of my youth, with such a capacity as I have for noble mischief (a) 13.2, would make my perdition more certain, were I to break, as I doubt I should, the most solemn vow I could make? I say, no man ought to take even a common oath, who thinks he cannot keep it. This is conscience! This is honour!—And when I think I can keep the Marriage-vow, then will it be time to marry.

I No doubt of it, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 351. l. 8. from the bottom, after thistle to mumble upon, insert,

A SHORT interruption (b) 13.3. I now resume.

That the morals of this Lady cannot fail, is a con|sideration that will lessen the guilt on both sides. And if, when subdued, she knows but how to middle the matter between Virtue, and Love, then will she be a Wife for me: For already I am convinced, that there is not a woman in the world that is Love-proof and Plot-proof, if she be not the person.

And now imagine (the Charmer overcome) thou seest me sitting supinely cross-kneed, reclining on my soffa, the god of Love dancing in my eyes, and re|joicing in every mantling feature; the sweet rogue, late such a proud rogue, wholly in my power, moving up slowly to me, at my beck, with heaving sighs, half-pronounced upbraidings from murmuring lips, her finger in her eye, and quickening her pace at my Come hither, Dearest!

One hand stuck in my side, the other extended to encourage her bashful approach—Kiss me, Love!—

Sweet, as Jack Belford says, are the joys that come with willingness.

She tenders her purple mouth [Her coral lips will be purple then, Jack!]: Sigh not so deeply, my Be|loved!—Happier hours await thy humble love, than did thy proud resistance.

Once more bend to my ardent lips the swanny glossiness of a neck late so stately.—

There's my precious!—

Again!—

Obliging Loveliness!—

O my ever-blooming Glory!—I have try'd thee enough.—To-morrow's Sun—

Then I rise, and fold to my almost-talking heart the throbbing-bosom'd Charmer.

And now shall thy humbled pride confess its obli|gation to me!—

To-morrow's Sun—And then I disengage myself from the bashful Passive, and stalk about the room— To-morrow's Sun shall gild the Altar at which my vows shall be paid thee!

Then, Jack, the rapture! then the darted sun|beams from her gladdened eye, drinking up at one sip, the precious distillation from the pearl-dropt cheek! Then hands ardently folded, eyes seeming to pro|nounce, God bless my Lovelace! to supply the joy|locked tongue! Her transports too strong, and ex|pression too weak, to give utterance to her grateful meanings!—All—All the studies—All the studies of her future life vowed and devoted (when she can speak), to acknowlege and return the perpetuated obli|gation!

If I could bring my Charmer to this, would it not be the Eligible of Eligibles?—Is it not worth trying for?—As I said, I can marry her when I will. She can be nobody's but mine, neither for shame, nor by choice, nor yet by address: For who, that knows my character, believes that the worst she dreads, is now to be dreaded?

I have the highest opinion that man can have (thou knowest I have) of the merit and perfections of this admirable woman; of her virtue and honour too; altho' thou, in a former, art of opinion, that she may be overcome. Am I not therefore obliged to go further, in order to contradict thee, and, as I have often urged, to be sure, that she is what I really think her to be; and, if I am ever to marry her, hope to find her?

Then this Lady is a mistress of our passions: No one ever had to so much perfection the Art of moving. This all her family know, and have equally feared and revered her for it. This I know too; and doubt not more and more to experience. How charmingly must this divine creature warble forth (if a proper oc|casion be given) her melodious Elegiacs!—Infinite beauties are there in a weeping eye. I first taught the two nymphs below to distinguish the several ac|cents of the Lamentable in a new subject, and how admirably some, more than others, become their di|stresses.

But to return to thy objections—Thou wilt per|haps tell me, &c.

Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 355. l. 18. and Edit. ii. p. 368. l. ult. after over-run him, insert,

Yet he pretends, that he has no pride but in ob|liging me: And is always talking of his reverence and humility, and such sort of stuff: But of this I am sure, that he has, as I observed the first time I saw him, too much regard to his own person, greatly to value that of his Wife, marry he whom he will: And I must be blind, if I did not see, that he is ex|ceedingly vain of his external advantages, and of that Address, which, if it has any merit in it to an out|ward eye, is perhaps owing more to his confidence, than to any-thing else.

Have you not beheld, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 9. dele the Paragraph beginning A fair contention, &c. and read,

A fair contention (a) 13.4, thou seest: Nor plead thou in her favour her Youth, her Beauty, her Family, her Fortune. CREDULITY, she has none; and with regard to her TENDER YEARS, Am I not a young fellow myself? 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. For her FAMILY; That was not known to its country a Century ago: And I hate them all but her. Have I not cause?—For her FORTUNE; For|tune, thou knowest, was ever a stimulus with me; and this for reasons not ignoble. Do not girls of For|tune adorn themselves on purpose to engage our at|tention? Seek they not to draw us into their snares? Depend they not, generally, on their Fortunes, in the views they have upon us, more than on their Merits? Shall we deprive them of the benefit of their principal dependence?—Can I, in particular, marry every girl who wishes to obtain my notice? If, therefore, in support of the libertine principles for which none of the sweet rogues hate us, a woman of fortune is brought to yield homage to her Emperor, and any consequences attend the Subjugation, is not such a one shielded by her fortune, as well from insult and con|tempt, as from indigence?—All, then, that admits of debate between my Beloved and me, is only this— Which of the two has more Wit, more Circum|spection—And that remains to be tried.

A sad Life however, this Life of Doubt and Sus|pense, for the poor Lady, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 10. l. penult. & ult. after our Loves will be attended with, dele the rest of the paragraph, and read,

But perseverance (a) 13.5 is my glory, and patience my handmaid, when I have in view an object worthy of my attempts. What is there in an easy conquest? Hudibras questions well,

—What mad Lover ever dy'd To gain a soft and easy Bride? Or, for a Lady tender-hearted, In purling streams, or hemp, departed?

But I will lead to the occasion of this preamble.

I had been out, &c.

Vol iv. Edit. i. p. 19. l. 10. and Edit. ii. p. 19. l. 12. after give me hope, dele to I do assure you, &c. and read,

—I will resolve to abandon him for ever.

O my dear! he is a fierce, a foolish, an insolent creature!—And in truth, I hardly expect, that we can accommodate. How much unhappier am I al|ready with him, than my Mother ever was with my Father after marriage! Since (and that without any reason, any pretence in the world for it) he is for breaking my spirit before I am his; and while I am, or ought to be [O my folly, that I am not!] in my own power.

Till I can know whether my friends will give me hope or not, I must do what I never studied to do before in any case; that is, to try to keep this differ|ence 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 I shall ever deplore! The natural fruits of all engage|ments, where the minds are unpaired—dis-paired, in my case may I say.

Let this evermore be my caution to individuals of my Sex—Guard your eye: 'Twill ever be in a com|bination against your judgment. If there are two parts to be taken, it will for ever, traitor as it is, take the wrong one.

If you ask me, my dear, How this caution befits me? let me tell you a secret which I have but very lately found out upon self-examination, altho' you seem to have made the discovery long ago; That had not my foolish eye been too much attached, I had not taken the pains to attempt, so officiously as I did, the prevention of mischief between him and some of my family, which first induced the correspondence be|tween us, and was the occasion of bringing the ap|prehended mischief with double weight upon myself. My vanity and conceit, as far as I know, might have part in the inconsiderate measure: For does it not look as if I thought myself more capable of obviating difficulties, than any-body else of my family?

But you must not, my dear, suppose my heart to be still a confederate with my eye. That deluded eye now clearly sees its fault, and the misled heart despises it for it. Hence the application I am making to my Uncle: Hence it is, that I can say (I think truly) that I would atone for my fault at any rate, even by the sacrifice of a limb or two, if that would do.

Adieu, my dearest friend!—May your heart never know the hundredth part of the pain mine at present feels! prays

Your CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Miss HOWE, To Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Wednesday, May 10.

I Will write! No man shall write for me (a) 15.1. No woman shall hinder me from writing. Surely I am of age to distinguish between reason and caprice. I

am not writing to a man, am I?—If I were carrying on a correspondence with a fellow, of whom my Mother disapproved, and whom it might be improper for me to encourage, my own honour and my duty would engage my obedience. But as the case is so widely different, not a word more on this subject, I beseech you!

I much approve of your resolution to leave this wretch, if you can make up with your Uncle.

I hate the man—Most heartily do I hate him, for his teazing ways. The very reading of your account of them teazes me almost as much as they can you. May you have encouragement to fly the foolish wretch!

I have other reasons to wish you may: For I have just made an acquaintance with one who knows a vast deal of his private history. The man is really a vil|lain, my dear! an execrable one! if all be true that I have heard; and yet I am promised other particulars. I do assure you, &c.

Vol iv. Edit. i. p. 42. l. 17, 18. and Edit. ii. p. 42. l. 22. dele As witness your Anna Howe, and read,

And let him tell me afterwards, if he dared or would, that he humbled down to his shoe-buckles the person it would have been his glory to exalt.

Support yourself mean time with reflections worthy of yourself. Tho' tricked into this man's power, you are not meanly subjugated to it. All his reverence you command, or rather, as I may say, inspire; since it was never known, that he had any reverence for aught that was good, till you was with him: And he professes now-and-then to be so awed and charmed by your example, as that the force of it shall reclaim him.

I believe you will have a difficult task to keep him to it: But the more will be your honour, if you effect his Reformation: And it is my belief, that if

you can reclaim this great, this specious deceiver, who has, morally speaking, such a number of years before him, you will save from ruin a multitude of innocents; for those seem to me to have been the prey for which he has spread his wicked snares. And who knows but, for this very purpose principally, a person may have been permitted to swerve, whose heart or will never was in her error, and who has so much remorse upon her for having, as she thinks, erred at all? Adieu, my dearest friend.

ANNA HOWE.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 63. l. 14. after Lord M. or not, insert,

To leave it to me (a) 15.2, to chuse whether the speedy Day he ought to have urged for with earnestness, should be accelerated or suspended!—Miss Howe, thought I, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 63. l. 5. from the bottom, after delay from him, dele the following paragraph, and read,

I was silent (b) 15.3.

Next day, Madam, if not to-morrow?—

Had he given me time to answer, it could not have been in the affirmative, you must think—But in the same breath, he went on—Or the day after that?— And taking both my hands in his, he stared me into a half-confusion—Would you have had patience with him, my dear?

No, no, said I, as calmly as possible, you cannot think, that I should imagine there can be reason, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 64. l. 6. after of self-denial, insert,

Is it not plain (c) 15.4, my dear, that he designs to vex, and teaze me? Proud, yet mean, and foolish man, if

so!—But you say all Punctilio is at an End with me. Why, why, will he take pains to make a heart wrap itself up in Reserve, that wishes only, and that for his sake as well as my own, to observe due decorum?

Modesty, I think, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 65. l. 13. from the bottom, on the words your opinion, add the following Note:

We cannot forbear (a) 15.5 observing in this place, that the Lady has been particularly censured, even by some of her own Sex, as over-nice in her part of the above con|versations. But surely this must be owing to want of attention to the circumstances she was in, and to her character, as well as to the character of the man she had to deal with: For altho' she could not be supposed to know so much of his designs as the Reader does by means of his Letters to Belford; yet she was but too well convinced of his faulty morals, and of the necessity there was, from the whole of his behaviour to her, to keep such an encroacher, as she frequently calls him, at a distance. In Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 170. Edit. ii. p. 169, 170. the Reader will see, that upon some favour|able appearances she blames herself for her readiness to suspect him. But his character, his principles, says she, are so faulty; he is so light, so vain, so various!— Then, my dear, I have no Guardian now, no Father, no Mother! Nothing but God and my own vigilance to depend upon! In Vol. iii. Edit. i. and ii. p. 73. Must I not with such a man, says she, be wanting to myself, were I not jealous and vigilant?

By this time the Reader will see, that she had still greater reason for her jealousy and vigilance. And Love|lace will tell the Sex, as he does Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 257. Edit. ii. p. 259. That the woman who resents not initiatory freedoms, must be lost. Love is an en|croacher, says he: Love never goes backward. No|thing

but the highest act of Love can satisfy an in|dulged Love.

But the Reader perhaps is too apt to form a judgment of Clarissa's conduct in critical cases by Lovelace's com|plaints of her coldness; not considering his views upon her; and that she is proposed as an Example; and therefore in her trials and distresses must not be allowed to dispense with those Rules which perhaps some others of her Sex, in her delicate situation, would not have thought themselves so strictly bound to observe; altho', if she had not observed them, a Lovelace would have car|ried all his points.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 66. l. 21. and Edit. ii. p. 67. l. 18, 19. after on these occasions, insert,

I'll tell thee beforehand, how it will be with my Charmer in this case—She will be about it, and about it, several times: But I will not understand her: At last, after half a dozen hem—ings, she will be obliged to speak out—I think, Mr. Lovelace—I think, Sir— I think you were saying some days ago —Still I will be all silence—her eyes fixed upon my shoe-buckles, as I sit over-against her—Ladies, when put to it thus, al|ways admire a man's shoe-buckles, or perhaps some particular beauties in the carpet. I think you said, that Mrs. Fretchville—Then a crystal tear trickles down each crimson cheek, vexed to have her virgin pride so little assisted. But, come, my meaning dear, cry I to myself, remember what I have suffered for thee, and what I have suffered by thee! Thy tearful pausings shall not be helped out by me. Speak out, Love!—O the sweet confusion! Can I rob myself of so many conflicting beauties by the precipitate charmer-pitying folly, by which a politer man [Thou knowest, Lovely, that I am no polite man!] betrayed by his own tenderness, and unused to female tears, would have been overcome? I will feign an irresolution of mind on the occasion, that she may not quite abhor

me—that her reflections on the scene in my absence may bring to her remembrance some beauties in my part of it: An irresolution that will be owing to awe, to reverence, to profound veneration; and that will have more eloquence in it, than words can have. Speak out then, Love, and spare not.

Hard-heartedness, as it is called, is an essential of the Libertine's character. Familiarized to the distresses he occasions, he is seldom betrayed by tenderness into a complaisant weakness unworthy of himself.

Mentioning the Settlements, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 70. l. ult. and Edit. ii. p. 71. l. 10. from the bottom, after in this life, insert,

And what is the result of all I have written, but this? Either marry, my dear, or get from them all, and from him too.

You intend the latter, you'll say, as soon as you have opportunity. That, as above hinted, I hope quickly to furnish you with: And then comes on a tryal between you and yourself.

These are the very fellows, that we women do not naturally hate. We don't always know what is, and what is not, in our power to do. When some prin|cipal point we have had long in view becomes so cri|tical, that we must of necessity chuse or refuse, then perhaps we look about us; are affrighted at the wild and uncertain prospect before us; and after a few struggles and heart-achs, reject the untried New; draw in our horns, and resolve to snail-on, as we did before, in a track we are acquainted with.

I shall be impatient, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 71. l. antepenult, & penult. and Edit. ii. p. 72. l. 24, 25. after call her his, insert,

What apprehensions wouldst thou have had reason for, had she been prevailed upon by giddy or frail

motives, which one man, by importunity, might pre|vail for, as well as another?

We all know what an inventive genius thou art master of: We are all sensible, that thou hast a head to contrive, and a heart to execute. Have I not called thine the plotting'st heart in the universe? I called it so upon knowlege. What wouldst thou more? Why should it be the most villainous, as well as the most able?—Marry the Lady; and, when married, let her know what a number of contrivances thou hadst in readiness to play off. Beg of her not to hate thee for the communication; and assure her, that thou gavest them up from remorse, and in justice to her extra|ordinary merit; and let her have the opportunity of congratulating herself for subduing a heart so capable of what thou callest glorious mischief. This will give her room for triumph; and even thee no less: She for hers over thee; thou, for thine over thyself.

Reflect likewise, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 77. l. 10. after I am troubled with, dele the following paragraph, and read,

No man is every-thing (a) 15.6—You, Mr. Belford, are a learned man. I am a Peer. And do you (as you best know how) inculcate upon him the force of these wise sayings which follow, as well as those which went before; but yet so discreetly, as that he may not know, that you borrow your darts from my quiver. These be they—Happy is the man who knows his fol|lies in his youth. He that lives well, lives long. Again, He that lives ill one year, will sorrow for it seven. And again, as the Spaniards have it—Who lives well, sees afar off! Far off indeed; for he sees into Eternity, as a man may say. Then that other fine saying, He who perishes in needless dangers, is the Devil's Martyr. Another Proverb I picked up at Madrid, when I accompanied Lord Lexington in his

Embassy to Spain, which might teach our Nephew more Mercy and Compassion than is in his Nature I doubt to shew; which is this, That he who pities an|other, remembers himself. And this that is going to follow, I am sure he has proved the truth of a hun|dred times, That he who does what he will, seldom does what he ought. Nor is that unworthy of his notice, Young mens frolicks, old men feel. My devilish gout, God help me—But I will not say what I was going to say.

I remember, that you yourself, complimenting me for my taste in pithy and wise sentences, said a thing that gave me a high opinion of you; and it was this. Men of talents, said you, are sooner to be convinced by short sentences than by long preachments, because the short sentences drive themselves into the heart, and stay there, while long discourses, tho' ever so good, tire the attention; and one good thing drives out another, and so on till all is forgotten.

May your good counsels, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 84. l. 9. from the bottom, after a single death, insert,

But art thou sure (a) 15.7, Jack, it is a mortification?— My Uncle once gave promises of such a root-and-branch distemper: But, alas! it turned to a smart gout-fit; and I had the mortification instead of him— I have heard that the Bark in proper doses will arrest a mortification in its progress, and at last cure it. Let thy Uncle's Surgeon know, that it is worth more than his ears, if he prescribe one grain of the Bark.

I wish my Uncle, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 101. l. 4. from the bottom, and Edit. ii. p. 103. l. 24. dele that paragraph, and read,

Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, To Miss HOWE.

Friday, May 19.

I Would not, if I could help it, be so continually brooding over the dark and gloomy face of my condition [All nature, you know, my dear, and every-thing in it, has a bright and a gloomy side] as to be thought unable to enjoy a more hopeful prospect. And this, not only for my own sake, but for yours, who take such generous concern, in all that befals me.

Let me tell you then, my dear, that I have known four-and-twenty hours together not unhappy ones, my situation considered.

She then gives, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 102. l. 17. and Edit. ii. p. 104. l. 7. after meet in town, dele to the end of the Let|ter, and read,

Even Dorcas, says she, appears less exceptionable to me than before, and I cannot but pity her for her neglected education, as it is matter of so much regret to herself: Else, there would not be much in it; as the Low and Illiterate are the most useful people in the commonwealth (since such constitute the labouring part of the public); and as a Lettered Education but too generally sets people above those servile offices, by which the business of the world is carried on. Nor have I any doubt, that there are, take the world thro', twenty happy people among the Unlettered, to one among those who have had a School Education.

This, however, concludes not against Learning or

Letters; since one would wish to lift to some little distinction, and more genteel usefulness, those who have capacity, and whose Parentage one respects, or whose services one would wish to reward.

Were my mind quite at ease, I could enlarge, per|haps not unusefully, upon this subject; for I have considered it with as much attention as my years, and little experience and observation, will permit.

But the extreme illiterateness and indocility of this maid are surprising, considering that she wants not in|quisitiveness, appears willing to learn, and, in other respects, has quick parts. This confirms to me what I have heard remarked, That there is a docible Season, a Learning-time, as I may say, for every person, in which the mind may be led step by step, from the lower to the higher (year by year) to improvement. How industriously ought these Seasons, as they offer, to be taken hold of, by Tutors, Parents, and other friends, to whom the cultivation of the genius of chil|dren and youth is committed; since, once elapsed, and no foundation laid, they hardly ever return!— And yet it must be confessed, that there are some ge|nius's, which, like some fruits, ripen not till late. And Industry and Perseverance will do prodigious things—But for a learner to have those first rudiments to master, at twenty years of age suppose, which others are taught, and they themselves might have at|tained, at ten, what an up-hill labour!

These kind of observations you have always wished me to intersperse, as they arise to my thoughts. But it is a sign that my prospects are a little mended, or I should not, among so many more interesting ones, that my mind has been of late filled with, have had heart's-ease enough to make them.

Let me give you my reflections on my more hopeful prospects.

I am now, in the first place, better able to account for the delays about the house, than I was before—

Poor Mrs. Fretchville!—Tho' I know her not, I pity her!—Next, it looks well, that he had apprised the women (before this conversation with them) of his in|tention to stay in this house, after I was removed to the other. By the tone of his voice he seemed con|cerned for the appearance this new delay would have with me.

So handsomely did Miss Martin express herself of me, that I am sorry, methinks, that I judged so hardly of her, when I first came hither—Free people may go a great way, but not all the way: And as such are generally unguarded, precipitate, and thought|less, the same quickness, changeableness, and sudden|ness of spirit, as I may call it, may intervene (if the heart be not corrupted) to recover them to thought and duty.

His reason for declining to go in person to bring up the Ladies of his family, while my Brother and Sin|gleton continue their machinations, carries no bad face with it; and one may the rather allow for their ex|pectations, that so proud a spirit as his should attend them for this purpose, as he speaks of them sometimes as persons of punctilio.

Other reasons I will mention for my being easier in my mind than I was before I overheard this conver|sation.

Such as, the advice he has received in relation to Singleton's mate; which agrees but too well with what you, my dear, wrote to me in yours of May the 10th.

His not intending to acquaint me with it.

His cautions to the servants about the sailor, if he should come, and make enquiries about us.

His resolution to avoid violence, were he to fall in either with my Brother, or this Singleton; and the easy method he has chalked out, in this case, to pre|vent mischief; since I need only not to deny my being his. But yet I should be exceedingly unhappy in my

own opinion, to be driven into such a tacit acknow|legement to any new persons, till I am so, altho' I have been led (so much against my liking) to give countenance to the belief of the persons below that we are married.

I think myself obliged, from what passed between Mr. Lovelace and me on Wednesday, and from what I overheard him say, to consent to go with him to the Play; and the rather, as he had the discretion to pro|pose one of the Nieces to accompany me.

I cannot but acknowlege that I am pleased to find, that he has actually written to Lord M.

I have promised to give Mr. Lovelace an answer to his proposals as soon as I have heard from you, my dear, on the subject.

I hope that in my next Letter I shall have reason to confirm these favourable appearances. Favourable I must think them in the wreck I have suffered.

I hope, that in the trial which you hint may happen between me and myself (as you (a) 16.1 express it) if he should so behave, as to oblige me to leave him, I shall be able to act in such a manner, as to bring no dis|credit upon myself in your eye; and that is all now that I have to wish for. But if I value him so much as you are pleased to suppose I do, the trial which you imagine will be so difficult to me, will not, I con|ceive, be upon getting from him, when the means to effect my escape are lent me; but how I shall behave when got from him; and if, like the Israelites of old, I shall be so weak as to wish to return to my Egyptian bondage.

I think it will not be amiss, notwithstanding the present favourable appearances, that you should perfect the scheme (whatever it be) which you tell me you have thought of, in order to procure for me an asylum, in case of necessity. Mr. Lovelace is certainly a deep and dangerous man; and it is therefore but prudence

to be watchful; and to be provided against the worst. Lord bless me, my dear, how am I reduced!—Could I ever have thought to be in such a situation, as to be obliged to stay with a man, of whose honour by me I could have but the shadow of a doubt!—But I will look forward, and hope the best.

I am certain, that your Letters are safe.—Be per|fectly easy, therefore, on that head.

Mr. Lovelace will never be out of my company by his good-will; otherwise I have no doubt that I am mistress of my goings-out and comings-in; and did I think it needful, and were I not afraid of my Brother, and Capt, Singleton, I would oftener put it to trial.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 130. l. 3, 4. and Edit. ii. p. 132. l. 10, 11. after humbling of her, dele what fol|lows, and read,

In another Letter (a) 16.2, the little Fury professes, that she will write, and that no man shall write for her, as if some medium of that kind had been proposed. She approves of her fair friend's intention, to leave me, if she can he received by her relations. I am a wretch, a foolish wretch. She hates me for my teazing ways. She has just made an acquaintance with one who knows a vast deal of my private history. A curse upon her, and upon her historiographer!—The man is really a villain, an execrable one. Devil take her! Had I a dozen lives, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 133. l. penult. & ult. and Edit. ii. p. 136. l. 7, 8. after their purlieus, insert,

Tho' tricked into this man's power, she tells her, she is not meanly subjugated to it. There are hopes of my Reformation, it seems, from my reverence for her; since before her, I never had any reverence for what was good! I am a great, a specious deceiver. I thank her for this, however. A good moral use, she says, may

be made of my having prevailed upon her to swerve. I am glad that any good may flow from my actions.

Annexed to this Letter, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 136. l. 25. and Edit. ii. p. 138. l. 33, 34. after bearing this, Belford, insert,

But such men as myself, are the men that women do not naturally hate.—True as the gospel, Jack!—The truth is out at last. Have I not always told thee so? Sweet creatures and true Christians these young girls! They love their enemies. But Rakes in their hearts all of them: Like turns to Like; that's the thing. Were I not well assured of the truth of this observa|tion of the vixen, I should have thought it worth while, if not to be a good man, to be more of an hy|pocrite, than I found it needful to be.

But in the Letter, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 143. l. 34, 35. and Edit. ii. p. 146. l. 14. after upon it still, dele to I was so disgusted with him, &c. and read,

Do you not think, my dear, that I have reason to be incensed at him, my situation considered? Am I not under a necessity, as it were, of quarreling with him; at least every other time I see him? No Pru|dery, no Coquetry, no Tyranny in my heart, or in my behaviour to him, that I know of. No affected Pro|crastination. Aiming at nothing but decorum. He as much concerned, and so he ought to think, as I, to have That observed. Too much in his power: Cast upon him by the cruelty of my relations. No other protection to fly to but his. One plain path before us; yet such embarrasses, such difficulties, such sub|jects for doubt, for cavil, for uneasiness; as fast as one is obviated, another to be introduced, and not by my|self—I know not how introduced—What pleasure can I propose to myself in meeting such a wretch?

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.

My temper, I believe, is changed. No wonder if it be. I question whether ever it will be what it was. But I cannot make him half so uneasy by the change, as I am myself. See you not how, from step to step, he grows upon me?—I tremble to look back upon his encroachments. And now to give me cause to appre|hend 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!

Yet, to be first an eloper from my friends to him, as the world supposes; and now to be so from him [To whom I know not!] how hard to one who ever endea|voured to shun intricate paths! But he must certainly have views in quarreling with me thus, which he dare not own!—Yet what can they be?—I am terrified but to think of what they may be!

Let me but get from him!—As to my reputation, if I leave him—That is already too much wounded for me, now, to be careful about any-thing, but how to act so, as that my own Heart shall not reproach me. As to the world's censure, I must be content to suffer that—An unhappy composition, however!— What a wreck have my fortunes suffered, to be ob|liged to throw overboard so many valuables, to pre|serve, indeed, the only valuable!—A composition that once it would have half-broken my heart to think there would have been the least danger that I should be obliged to submit to.

You, my dear, could not be a stranger to my most secret failings, altho' you would not tell me of them. What a pride did I take in the applause of every one!—What a pride even in supposing I had not that pride!—Which concealed itself from my unexamining heart under the specious veil of Humility, doubling the merit to myself by the supposed, and indeed imputed, gracefulness in the manner of conferring benefits, when I had not a single merit in what I did, vastly overpaid by the pleasure of doing some little good,

and impelled, as I may say, by talents given me— For what!—Not to be proud of.

So desirous, in short, to be considered as an Ex|ample! A vanity which my partial admirers put into my head!—And so secure in my own virtue!

I am punished enough, enough mortified, for this my vanity—I hope, enough, if it so please the all-gracious Inflicter: Since now, I verily think, I more despise myself for my presumptuous self-security, as well as vanity, than ever I secretly vaunted myself on my good inclinations: Secretly, I say, however; for indeed I had not given myself leisure to reflect, till I was thus mortified, how very imperfect I was; nor how much truth there is in what Divines tell us, That we sin in our best performances.

But I was very young—But here let me watch over myself again: For in those four words, I was very young, is there not a palliation couched, that were enough to take all efficacy from the discovery and confession?

What strange imperfect beings!—But Self here, which is at the bottom of all we do, and of all we wish, is the grand misleader.

I will not apologize to you, my dear, for these grave reflections. Is it not enough to make the un|happy creature look into herself, and endeavour to detect herself, who, from such an high Reputation, left to proud and presumptuous Self, should, by one thoughtless step, be brought to the dreadful situation I am in?

Let me, however, look forward: To despond would be to add sin to sin. And whom have I to raise me up, whom to comfort me, if I desert myself?— Thou, O Father! who, I hope, hast not yet de|serted, hast not yet cursed me!—For I am thine!—It is fit that meditation should supply the rest.—

I WAS so disgusted with him, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 162. l. 13. and Edit. ii. p. 164. l. 13. from the bottom, after farther between us, insert,

But I see, I see, she does not hate me!—How it would mortify my vanity, if I thought there was a woman in the world, much more this, that could hate me!—'Tis evident, villain as she thinks me, that I should not be an odious villain, if I could but at last in one instance cease to be a villain! She could not hold it, determined as she had thought herself, I saw by her eyes, the moment I endeavoured to dissipate her apprehensions, on my too-ready knees, as she calls them. The moment the rough covering that my teazing behaviour has thrown over her affections is quite removed, I doubt not to find all silk and silver at bottom, all soft, bright, and charming.

I was however, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 170. l. 8. and Edit. ii. p. 172. l. 19. after be always overcome, insert,

Our Mother and her nymphs say, I am a perfect Craven, and no Lovelace: And so I think. But this is no simpering, smiling charmer, as I have found others to be, when I have touched upon affecting sub|jects at a distance; as once or twice I have tried to her, the Mother introducing them (to make Sex pal|liate the freedom to Sex), when only we three toge|ther. She is above the affectation of not seeming to understand you. She shews by her displeasure, and a fierceness not natural to her eye, that she judges of an impure heart by an impure mouth, and darts dead at once even the embryo hopes of an encroaching Lover, however distantly insinuated, before the mean|ing hint can dawn into double entendre.

By my faith, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 196. l. 28. and Edit. ii. p. 199. l. 16. dele that paragraph, and insert the following Letter:

Mr. LOVELACE, To JOHN BELFORD, Esq

AND now, that my Beloved seems secure in my net, for my project upon the vixen Miss Howe, and upon her Mother: In which the officious prancer Hickman is to come in for a dash.

But why upon her Mother, methinks thou askest; who, unknown to herself, has only acted, by thy im|pulse, thro' thy agent Joseph Leman, upon the folly of old Tony the Uncle?

No matter for that: She believes she acts upon her own judgment; and deserves to be punished for pre|tending to judgment, when she has none.—Every living soul, but myself, I can tell thee, shall be pu|nished, that treats either cruelly or disrespectfully so adored a Lady.—What a plague! is it not enough that she is teazed and tormented in person by me?

I have already broken the matter to our three con|federates; as a supposed, not a resolved-on case indeed. And yet they know, that with me, in a piece of mis|chief, Execution, with its swiftest feet, is seldom three paces behind Projection, which hardly ever limps neither.

MOWBRAY is not against it. It is a scheme, he says, worthy of us: And we have not done any-thing for a good while, that has made a noise.

BELTON indeed hesitates a little, because matters go wrong between him and his Thomasine; and the poor fellow has not the courage to have his sore place probed to the bottom.

TOURVILLE has started a fresh game, and shrugs his shoulders, and should not chuse to go abroad at pre|sent, if I please. For I apprehend that (from the na|ture of the project) there will be a kind of necessity to travel, till all is blown over.

TO ME, one country is as good as another; and I shall soon, I suppose, chuse to quit this paltry Island; except the mistress of my fate will consent to cohabit at home; and so lay me under no necessity of sur|prising her into foreign parts. TRAVELLING, thou knowest, gives the Sexes charming opportunities of being familiar with one another. A very few days and nights must now decide all matters betwixt me and my fair Inimitable.

DOLEMAN, who can act in these causes only as chamber-counsel, will inform us by pen and ink [his right hand and right side having not yet been struck, and the other side beginning to be sensible] of all that shall occur in our absence.

As for THEE, we had rather have thy company than not; for, altho' thou art a wretched fellow at contrivance, yet art thou intrepid at execution. But as thy present engagements make thy attendance un|certain, I am not for making thy part necessary to our scheme; but for leaving thee to come after us when abroad. I know thou canst not long live without us.

The project, in short, is this:—Mrs. Howe has an elder Sister in the Isle of Wight, who is lately a wi|dow; and I am well informed, that the Mother and Daughter have engaged, before the latter is married, to pay a visit to this Lady, who is rich, and intends Miss for her heiress; and in the interim will make her some valuable presents on her approaching Nup|tials; which, as Mrs. Howe, who loves money more than any-thing but herself, told one of my acquaint|ance, would be worth fetching.

Now, Jack, nothing more need be done, than to hire a little trim vessel, which shall sail a pleasuring backward and forward to Portsmouth, Spithead, and the Isle of Wight, for a week or fortnight before we enter upon our parts of the plot. And as Mrs. Howe will be for making the best bargain she can for her passage, the master of the vessel may have orders (as a

perquisite allowed him by his owners) to take what she will give; And the Master's name, be it what it will, shall be Ganmore on the occasion; for I know a rogue of that name, who is not obliged to be of any country, any more than we.

Well, then, we will imagine them on board. I will be there in disguise. They know not any of ye four—supposing (the scheme so inviting) that thou canst be one.

'Tis plaguy hard, if we cannot find, or make, a storm.

Perhaps they will be sea-sick: But whether they be or not, no doubt they will keep their Cabin.

Here will be Mrs. Howe, Miss Howe, Mr. Hick|man, a Maid, and a Footman, I suppose; and thus we will order it:

I know it will be hard weather: I know it will: And before there can be the least suspicion of the matter, we shall be in sight of Guernsey, Jersey, Dieppe, Cherbourg, or any-whither on the French coast that it shall please us to agree with the winds to blow us: And then, securing the footman, and the women being separated, one of us, according to lots that may be cast, shall overcome, either by persuasion or force, the maid-servant: That will be no hard task; and she is a likely wench [I have seen her often]: One, Mrs. Howe; nor can there be much difficulty there; for she is full of health and life, and has been long a Widow: Another [That, says the princely Lion, must be I!] the saucy Daughter; who will be too much frighted to make great resistance [Violent spirits, in that Sex, are seldom true spirits—'Tis but where they can—]: And after beating about the coast for three or four days for recreation's sake, and to make sure work, and till we see our sullen birds begin to eat and sip, we will set them all ashore where it will be most convenient; sell the vessel [To Mrs. Townsend's agents, with all my heart, or to some other

Smugglers] or give it to Ganmore; and pursue our travels, and tarry abroad till all is hushed up.

Now I know thou wilt make difficulties, as it is thy way; while it is mine to conquer them. My other vassals made theirs; and I condescended to ob|viate them: As thus I will thine, first stating them for thee according to what I know of thy phlegm.

What, in the first place, wilt thou ask, shall be done with Hickman? who will be in full parade of dress and primness, in order to shew the old Aunt what a devilish clever fellow of a Nephew she is to have.

What!—I'll tell thee—Hickman, in good man|ners, will leave the women in their Cabin—and, to shew his courage with his breeding, be upon deck—

Well, and suppose he is?

Suppose he is!—Why then I hope it is easy for Gan|more, or any-body else, myself suppose in my pea-jacket and great watch-coat (if any other make a scruple to do it) while he stands in the way, gaping and staring like a novice, to stumble against him, and push him overboard!—A rich thought!—Is it not, Belford?— He is certainly plaguy officious in the La|dies correspondence; and, I am informed, plays dou|ble between Mother and Daughter, in fear of both.— Dost not see him. Jack?—I do—popping up and down, his wig and hat floating by him; and paddling, pawing, and dashing, like a frighted mongrel— I am afraid he never ventured to learn to swim.

But thou wilt not drown the poor fellow; wilt thou?

No, no!—That is not necessary to the project—I hate to do mischiefs supererogatory. The skiff shall be ready to save him, while the vessel keeps its course: He shall be set on shore with the loss of wig and hat only, and of half of his little wits, at the place where he embarked, or any-where else.

Well, but shall we not be in danger of being hanged

for three such enormous Rapes, altho' Hickman should escape with only a bellyful of sea-water?

Yes, to be sure, when caught—But is there any likelihood of that?—Besides, have we not been in danger before now, for worse facts?—And what is there in being only in danger?— If we actually were to appear in open day in England before matters are made up, there will be greater likelihood, that these women will not prosecute, than that they will.—For my own part, I should wish they may. Would not a brave fellow chuse to appear in court to such an ar|raignment, confronting women who would do credit to his attempt? The country is more merciful in these cases, than in any others: I should therefore like to put myself upon my country.

Let me indulge a few reflections upon what thou mayst think the worst that can happen. I will suppose that thou art one of us; and that all five are actually brought to tryal on this occasion: How bravely shall we enter a court, I at the head of you, dressed out each man, as if to his wedding-appearance!—You are sure of all the women, old and young, of your side—What brave fellows!—What fine gentlemen! —There goes a charming handsome man!—meaning me, to be sure!—Who could find in their hearts to hang such a gentleman as that! whispers one Lady, sitting, perhaps, on the right hand of the Recorder [I suppose the scene to be in London]: While another disbelieves that any woman could fairly swear against me. All will croud after me: It will be each man's happiness (if ye shall chance to be bashful) to be neg|lected: I shall be found to be the greatest criminal; and my safety, for which the general voice will be en|gaged, will be yours.

But then comes the triumph of triumph, that will make the accused look up, while the accusers are co|vered with confusion.

Make room there!—Stand by!—Give back!—

One receiving a rap, another an elbow, half a score a push apiece!—

Enter the slow-moving, hooded-faced, down-look|ing Plaintiffs.—

And first the Widow, with a sorrowful countenance, tho' half-veil'd, pitying her Daughter more than her|self. The people, the women especially, who on this occasion will be five-sixths of the spectators, reproach|ing her—You'd have the conscience, would you, to have five such brave gentlemen as these hanged for you know not what?

Next comes the poor maid—who perhaps had been ravished twenty times before; and had not appeared now, but for company-sake; mincing, simpering, weeping, by turns; not knowing whether she should be sorry or glad.

But every eye dwells upon Miss!—See, see, the handsome gentleman bows to her!

To the very ground, to be sure, I shall bow; and kiss my hand.

See her confusion! See! She turns from him!— Ay! that's because it is in open court, cries an arch one!—While others admire her—Ay! that's a girl worth venturing one's neck for!

Then we shall be praised—Even the Judges, and the whole crouded Bench, will acquit us in their hearts; and every single man wish he had been me! —The women, all the time, disclaiming prosecution, were the case to be their own. To be sure, Belford, the sufferers cannot put half so good a face upon the matter as we.

Then what a noise will this matter make!—Is it not enough, suppose us moving from the Prison to the Sessions-house (a) 17.1, to make a noble heart thump it away most gloriously, when such an one finds himself

attended to his tryal by a parade of guards and officers, of miens and aspects warlike and unwarlike; himself their whole care, and their business!—weapons in their hands, some bright, some rusty, equally vene|rable for their antiquity and inoffensiveness! others, of more authoritative demeanour, strutting before with fine painted staves! shoals of people following, with a Which is he whom the young Lady appears against?—Then, let us look down, look up, look round, which way we will, we shall see all the doors, the shops, the windows, the sign-irons and balconies, (garrets, gutters, and chimney-tops included) all white-capt, black-hooded, and periwigg'd, or crop-ear'd up by the Immobile Vulgus: While the floating street-swarmers, who have seen us pass by at one place, run with stretched-out necks, and strained eye-balls, a round-about way, and elbow and shoulder themselves into places by which we have not passed, in order to obtain another sight of us; every street continuing to pour out its swarms of late-comers, to add to the gathering snowball; who are content to take descri|ptions of our persons, behaviour, and countenances, from those who had the good fortune to have been in time to see us.

Let me tell thee, Jack, I see not why (to judge according to our principles and practices) we should not be as much elated in our march, were this to hap|pen to us, as others may be upon any other the most mob-attracting occasion—Suppose a Lord Mayor on his Gawdy; suppose a victorious General, or Embas|sador, on his public Entry—Suppose (as I began with the lowest) the grandest parade that can be supposed, a Coronation—For, in all these, do not the royal guard, the heroic trained-bands, the pendent, clinging throngs of spectators, with their waving heads rolling to-and-fro from house-tops to house-bottoms and street-ways, as I have above described, make the prin|cipal part of the Raree-shew?

And let me ask thee, If thou dost not think, that either the Mayor; the Embassador, or the General, would not make very pitiful figures on their Gala's, did not the trumpets and tabrets call together the Ca|naille to gaze at them?—Nor perhaps should We be the most guilty Heroes neither: For who knows how the Magistrate may have obtained his gold chain? While the General probably returns from cutting of throats, and from murders, sanctified by custom only. —Caesar, we are told (a) 17.2, had won, at the age of Fifty-six, when he was assassinated, fifty pitched bat|tles, had taken by assault above a thousand towns, and slain near 1,200,000 men; I suppose exclusive of those who fell on his own side in slaying them. Are not you and I, Jack, innocent men, and babes in swadling cloths, compared to Caesar, and to his pre|decessor in heroism Alexander, dubbed for murders and depredation Magnus?

The principal difference that strikes me in the com|parison between us and the Mayor, the Embassador, the General, on their Gawdies, is, that the mob make a greater noise, a louder huzzaing, in the one case than in the other, which is called acclamation, and ends frequently in higher taste, by throwing dead ani|mals at one another, before they disperse; in which they have as much joy, as in the former part of the triumph: While they will attend us with all the marks of an awful or silent (at most only a whispering) re|spect; their mouths distended, as if set open with gags, and their voices generally lost in goggle-eyed ad|miration.

Well, but suppose, after all, we are convicted; what have we to do, but in time make over our estates, that the sheriffs may not revel in our spoils?— There is no fear of being hanged for such a crime as this, while we have money or friends.—And suppose

even the worst, that two or three were to die, have we not a chance, each man of us, to escape? The devil's in 'em, if they'll hang Five for ravishing Three!

I know I shall get off for one—were it but for family-sake: And being a handsome fellow, I shall have a dozen or two of young maidens, all dressed in white, go to Court to beg my life—And what a pretty shew they will make, with their white hoods, white gowns, white petticoats, white scarves, white gloves, kneeling for me, with their white handkerchiefs at their eyes, in two pretty rows, as Majesty walks thro' them, and nods my pardon for their sakes!—And, if once pardoned, all is over: For, Jack, in a crime of this nature there lies no appeal, as in a murder.

So thou seest the worst that can happen, should we not make the Grand Tour upon this occasion, but stay and take our tryals. But it is most likely, that they will not prosecute at all. If not, no risque on our side will be run; only taking our pleasure abroad, at the worst; leaving friends tired of us, in order, after a time, to return to the same friends endeared to us, as we to them, by absence.

This, Jack, is my scheme, at the first running. I know it is capable of improvement—For example: I can land these Ladies in France; whip over before they can get a passage back, or before Hickman can have recovered his fright; and so find means to en|trap my Beloved on board—And then all will be right; and I need not care if I were never to return to England.

Memorandum, To be considered of—Whether, in order to complete my vengeance, I cannot con|trive to kidnap away either James Harlowe or Solmes? or both? A man, Jack, would not go into exile for nothing.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 198. l. 10. and Edit. ii. p. 200. l. antepenult. after bring thee to it, insert,

All that vexes me, in the midst of my gloried in devices, is, that there is a sorry fellow in the world, who has presumed to question, whether the prize, when obtained, is worthy of the pains it costs me: Yet knows, with what patience and trouble a bird-man will spread an acre of ground with gins and snares; set up his stalking-horse, his glasses; plant his decoy-birds, and invite the feathered throng by his whistle; and all his prize at last (the reward of early hours, and of a whole morning's pains) only a simple Linnet.

To be serious, Belford, I must acknowlege, that all our pursuits, from childhood to manhood, are only trifles of different sorts and sizes, proportioned to our years and views: But then is not a fine woman the noblest trifle, that ever was or could be obtained by man?—And to what purpose do we say obtained, if it be not in the way we wish for?—If a man is rather to be her prize, than she his?

AND now, Belford, what dost think, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 203. l. penult. & ult. and Edit, ii. p. 206. l. 22, 23. after are superseded, insert,

But let me give thee a few particulars of our con|versation in the circumrotation we took, while in the coach—She had received a Letter from Miss Howe yesterday, I presumed?

She made no answer. How happy should I think myself to be admitted into their correspondence! I would joyfully make an exchange of communications.

So, tho' I hoped not to succeed by her consent [and little did she think I had so happily in part succecded without it] I thought it not amiss to urge for it, for several reasons: Among others, that I might account

to her for my constant employment at my pen; in order to take off her jealousy, that she was the subject of thy correspondence and mine: And that I might justify my secrecy and uncommunicativeness by her own.

I proceeded therefore—That I loved Familiar-let|ter-writing, as I had more than once told her, above all the species of writing: It was writing from the heart (without the fetters prescribed by method or study) as the very word Cor-respondence implied. Not the heart only; the soul was in it. Nothing of body, when friend writes to friend; the mind impelling so|vereignly, the vassal-fingers. It was, in short, friend|ship recorded; friendship given under hand and seal; demonstrating that the parties were under no appre|hension of changing from time or accident, when they so liberally gave testimonies, which would always be ready, on failure, or infidelity, to be turned against them.—For my own part, it was the principal diver|sion I had in her absence: But for this innocent amusement, the distance she so frequently kept me at, would have been intolerable.

Sally knew my drift; and said, She had had the ho|nour to see two or three of my letters, and of Mr. Belford's; and she thought them the most entertain|ing that she had ever read.

My friend Belford, I said, had a happy talent in the Letter-writing way; and upon all subjects.

I expected my Beloved would have been inquisitive after our subjects: But (lying perdue, as I saw) not a word said she. So I touched upon this article myself.

Our topics were various and diffuse: Sometimes upon literary articles [She was very attentive upon this]; sometimes upon the public entertainments; sometimes amusing each other with the fruits of the different correspondencies we held with persons abroad, with whom we had contracted friendships; sometimes upon the foibles and perfections of our particular friends; sometimes upon our own present and future

hopes; sometimes aiming at humour and raillery upon each other—It might indeed appear to savour of va|nity, to suppose my Letters would entertain a Lady of her delicacy and judgment: But yet I could not but say, that perhaps she would be far from thinking so hardly of me as sometimes she had seemed to do, if she were to see the Letters which generally passed be|tween Mr. Belford and me [I hope, Jack, thou hast more manners, than to give me the lye, tho' but in thy heart].

She then spoke: After declining my compliment in such a manner, as only a person could do, who de|served it, she said, For her part, she had always thought me a man of sense [A man of sense, Jack! What a niggardly praise!]—And should therefore hope, that, when I wrote, it exceeded even my speech: For that it was impossible, be the Letters written in as easy and familiar a style as they would, but that they must have that advantage from sitting down to write them which prompt speech could not always have. She should think it very strange, there|fore, if my Letters were barren of sentiment; and as strange, if I gave myself liberties upon premedi|tation, which could have no excuse at all, but from a thoughtlessness, which itself wanted excuse.—But if Mr. Belford's Letters and mine were upon subjects so general, and some of them equally (she presumed) instructive and entertaining, she could not but say, that she should be glad to see any of them; and par|ticularly those which Miss Martin had seen, and praised.

This was put close.

I looked at her, to see if I could discover any tincture of jealousy in this hint; that Miss Martin had seen what I had not shewn to her. But she did not look it: So I only said, I should be very proud to shew her not only those, but all that passed between Mr. Belford and me; but I must remind her, that she knew the condition.

No, indeed! with a sweet lip pouted out, as saucy as pretty; implying a lovely scorn, that yet can only be lovely in youth so blooming, and beauty so di|vinely distinguished.

How I long to see such a motion again! Her mouth only can give it.

But I am mad with Love—Yet eternal will be the distance, at the rate I go on: Now fire, now ice, my soul is continually upon the hiss, as I may say. In vain, however, is the trial to quench—what, after all, is unquenchable.

Pry'thee, Belford, forgive my nonsense, and my Vulcan-like metaphors—Did I not tell thee, not that I am sick of Love, but that I am mad with it? Why brought I such an angel into such a house? into such company? — And why do I not stop my ears to the Si|rens, who, knowing my aversion to wedlock, are per|petually touching that string?

I was not willing to be answered so easily: I was sure, that what passed between two such young La|dies (friends so dear) might be seen by every-body: I had more reason than any-body to wish to see the Letters that passed between her and Miss Howe; be|cause I was sure they must be full of admirable in|struction, and one of the dear correspondents had deigned to wish my entire reformation.

She looked at me, as if she would look me thro': I thought I felt eye-beam, after eye-beam, penetrate my shivering reins.—But she was silent. Nor needed her eyes the assistance of speech.

Nevertheless, a little recovering myself, I hoped that nothing unhappy had befallen either Miss Howe or her Mother. The Letter of yesterday sent by a particular hand; she opening it with great emotion— seeming to have expected it sooner—were the reasons for my apprehensions.

We were then at Muswell-hill: A pretty country within the eye, to Polly, was the remark, instead of replying to me.

But I was not so to be answered—I should expect some charming subjects and characters from two such pens: I hoped every-thing went on well between Mr. Hickman and Miss Howe. Her Mother's heart, I said, was set upon that match: Mr. Hickman was not without his merits: He was what they Ladies called a SOBER man: But I must needs say, that I thought Miss Howe deserved a husband of a very dif|ferent cast!

This, I supposed, would have engaged her into a subject from which I could have wiredrawn some|thing:—For Hickman is one of her favourites—Why, I can't divine, except for the sake of opposition of character to that of thy honest friend.

But she cut me short by a look of disapprobation, and another cool remark upon a distant view; and, How far off, Miss Horton, do you think that clump of trees may be? pointing out of the coach—So I had done.

Here endeth all I have to write concerning our con|versation on this our agreeable airing.

We have both been writing, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 210. l. 9. and Edit. ii. p. 212. l. 30. add the following paragraph:

'Tis true, I have owned more than once, that I could have liked Mr. Lovelace above all men. I re|member the debates you and I used to have on this subject, when I was your happy guest. You used to say, and once you wrote, that men of his cast are the men that our Sex do not naturally dislike: While I held, that such were not (however that might be) the men we ought to like. But what with my Relations precipitating of me, on one hand, and what with his unhappy character, and embarrassing ways, on the other, I had no more leisure than inclination to exa|mine my own heart in this particular. And this re|minds me of a passage in one of your former Letters,

which I will transcribe, tho' it was written in raillery. May it not be, say you (a) 17.3, that you have had such persons to deal with, as have not allowed you to attend to the throbs; or, if you had them a little now-and-then, whether, having had two accounts to place them to, you have not by mistake put them to the wrong one? A passage, which, altho' it came into my mind when Mr. Lovelace was least exceptionable, yet that I have denied any efficacy to, when he has teazed and vexed me, and given me cause of suspicion. For, after all, my dear, Mr. Lovelace is not wise in all his ways. And should we not endeavour, as much as is possible, (where we are not attached by natural ties) to like and dislike as reason bids us, and according to the merit or demerit of the object? If Love, as it is called, is allowed to be an excuse for our most unreasonable fol|lies, and to lay level all the fences that a careful edu|cation has surrounded us by, what is meant by the doctrine of subduing our passions?—But, O my dear|est friend, am I not guilty of a punishable fault, were I to love this man of errors? And has not my own heart deceived me, when I thought I did not? And what must be that Love, that has not some degree of purity for its object? I am afraid of recollecting some passages in my Cousin Morden's Letter (b) 17.4.—And yet why fly I from subjects that, duly considered, might tend to correct and purify my heart? I have carried, I doubt, my notions on this head too high, not for practice, but for my practice. Yet think me not guilty of Prudery neither; for had I found out as much of myself before, or, rather, had he given me heart's-ease enough before to find it out, you should have had my confession sooner.

Nevertheless let me tell you, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 232. l. 28, 29. and Edit. ii. p. 235. l. 4, 5. after the words Miss Howe's Smuggling scheme, insert,

My conscience, I should think, ought not to re|proach me for a contrivance, which is justified by the contrivances of two such girls as these: One of whom (the more excellent of the two) I have always, with her own approbation as I imagine, proposed for my imitation.

But here, Jack, is the thing that concludes me, and cases my heart with adamant: I find by Miss Howe's Letters, that it is owing to her, that I have made no greater progress with my blooming Fair-one. She loves me. The Ipecacuanha contrivance con|vinces me, that she loves me. Where there is Love, there must be confidence, or a desire of having reason to confide. Generosity, founded on my supposed ge|nerosity, has taken hold of her heart. Shall I not now see (since I must be for ever unhappy, if I marry her, and leave any trial unessayed) what I can make of her Love, and her newly-raised confidence?—Will it not be to my glory to succeed? And to hers, and to the honour of her Sex, if I cannot?— Where then will be the hurt to either, to make the trial? And cannot I, as I have often said, reward her when I will by mar|riage?

'Tis late, or rather early, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 247. l. 17. and Edit. ii. p. 249. l. 27. after in human shape, dele to the end of the Letter; and read,

It cannot but yield me some pleasure, hardly as I have sometimes thought of the people of the house, that such a good man, as Captain Tomlinson, had spoken well of them, upon enquiry.

And here I stop a minute, my dear, to receive, in fancy, your kind congratulation.

My next, I hope, will confirm my present, and open still more agreeable prospects. Mean time be assured, that there cannot possibly be any good fortune befal me, which I shall look upon with equal delight to that I have in your friendship.

My thankful compliments to your good Mr. Hick|man; to whose kind intervention I am so much ob|liged on this occasion, conclude me, my dearest Miss Howe,

Your ever-affectionate and grateful CL. HARLOWE.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 249. l. 23. and Edit. ii. p. 251. l. 29. after assented to, insert,

Her wishes, from my attentive behaviour, when with her at St. Paul's, that I would often accompany her to the Divine Service, were gently intimated, and as readily engaged for. I assured her, that I ever had respected the Clergy in a body; and some individuals of them (her Dr. Lewen for one) highly: And that were not going to church an act of Religion, I thought it [as I told thee once] a most agreeable sight to see Rich and Poor, all of a company, as I might say, as|sembled once a week in one place, and each in his or her best attire, to worship the God that made them. Nor could it be a hardship upon a man liberally edu|cated, to make one on so solemn an occasion, and to hear the harangue of a man of Letters (tho' far from being the principal part of the Service, as it is too ge|nerally looked upon to be) whose studies having taken a different turn from his own, he must always have something new to say.

She shook her head, and repeated the word New: But looked as if willing to be satisfied for the present with this answer. To be sure, Jack, she means to do great despight to his Satanic Majesty in her hopes of reforming me. No wonder therefore if he exerts himself to prevent her, and to be revenged—But how

came this in?—I am ever of party against myself.— One day, I fansy, I shall hate myself on recollecting what I am about at this instant. But I must stay till then. We must all of us do something to repent of.

The Reconciliation-prospect, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 250. l. antepenult. and Edit. ii. p. 253. l. 4, 5. after in the world, insert,

But, indeed, I know not the subject on which she does not talk with admirable distinction; insomuch that could I but get over my prejudices against Ma|trimony, and resolve to walk in the dull beaten path of my ancestors, I should be the happiest of men— And if I cannot, perhaps I may be ten times more to be pitied than she.

My heart, my heart, Belford, is not to be trusted— I break off, &c.

Vol. iv. Edit. i. p. 256. l. 4. from the bottom, and Edit. ii. p. 259. l. 11. after to be raised, insert,

But never, I believe, was there so true, so delicate a modesty in the human mind as in that of this Lady. And this has been my security all along; and, in spite of Miss Howe's advice to her, will be so still; since, if her Delicacy be a fault, she can no more overcome it than I can my aversion to Matrimony. Habit, ha|bit, Jack, seest thou not? may subject us both to weaknesses. And should she not have charity for me, as I have for her?

Twice indeed, &c.

Vol. v. p. 175. l. 2. after how it looked, insert,

So here am I in my Dining-room; and have nothing to do but write, till they return.

And what will be my subject, thinkest thou?— Why, the old beaten one, to be sure; Self-debate—

thro' temporary remorse: For the blow being not struck, her guardian angel is redoubling his efforts to save her.

If it be not that [And yet what power should her guardian angel have over me?] I don't know what it is, that gives a check to my revenge, whenever I me|ditate treason against so sovereign a virtue. Con|science is dead and gone, as I told thee; so it cannot be that. A young Conscience growing up, like the phoenix, from the ashes of the old one, it cannot be surely. But if it were, it would be hard, if I could not overlay a young Conscience.

Well then, it must be LOVE, I fansy. LOVE it|self, inspiring Love of an object so adorable—Some little attention possibly paid too to thy whining argu|ments in her favour.

Let LOVE then be allowed to be the moving prin|ciple; and the rather, as LOVE naturally makes the Lover loth to disoblige the object of its flame; and knowing, that an offence of the meditated kind will be a mortal offence to her, cannot bear that I should think of giving it.

Let LOVE and me talk together a little on this sub|ject—Be it a Young Conscience, or Love, or Thyself, Jack, thou seest that I am for giving every whiffler audience. But this must be the last debate on this subject; for is not her fate in a manner at its crisis? And must not my next step be an irretrievable one, tend it which way it will?

AND now the debate is over.

A thousand charming things (for LOVE is gentler than CONSCIENCE) has this little urchin suggested in her favour.

He pretended to know both our hearts: And he would have it, that tho' my Love was a prodigious strong and potent Love; and tho' it has the merit of many months faithful service to plead, and has had

infinite difficulties to struggle with; yet that it is not THE RIGHT SORT OF LOVE.

Right sort of Love!—A puppy!—But, with due regard to your deityship, said I, what merit has she with YOU, that you should be of her party? Is hers, I pray you, a right sort of Love? Is it Love at all? She don't pretend that it is. She owns not your sove|reignty. What a d—l moves You, to plead thus ear|nestly for a rebel, who despises your power?

And then he came with his If's and And's—And it would have been, and still, as he believed, would be, Love, and a Love of the exalted kind, if I would en|courage it by the right sort of Love he talked of: And, in justification of his opinion, pleaded her own confessions, as well those of yesterday, as of this morn|ing: And even went so far back as to my Ipecacuanha-illness.

I never talked so familiarly with his godship before: Thou mayest think therefore, that his dialect sounded oddly in my ears. And then he told me, how often I had thrown cold water upon the most charming flame that ever warmed a Lady's bosom, while yet but young and rising.

I required a definition of this right sort of Love. He tried at it: But made a sorry hand of it: Nor could I, for the soul of me, be convinced, that what he meant to extol, was LOVE.

Upon the whole, we had a notable controversy upon this subject, in which he insisted upon the unprecedented merit of the Lady. Nevertheless I got the better of him; for he was struck absolutely dumb, when (wave|ing her present perverseness, which yet was a sufficient answer to all his pleas) I asserted, and offered to prove it, by a thousand instances impromptu, that Love was not governed by merit, nor could be under the domi|nion of prudence, or any other reasoning power: And that if the Lady were capable of Love, it was of such a sort of Love, as he had nothing to do with, and which never before reigned in a female heart.

I asked him, What he thought of her flight from me, at a time when I was more than half overcome by the right sort of Love he talked of?—And then I shewed him the Letter she wrote, and left behind her for me, with an intention, no doubt, absolutely to break my heart, or to provoke me to hang, drown, or shoot myself; to say nothing of a multitude of decla|rations from her, defying his power, and imputing all that looked like Love in her behaviour to me, to the persecution and rejection of her friends; which made her think of me but as a last resort.

LOVE then gave her up. The Letter, he said, de|served neither pardon nor excuse. He did not think he had been pleading for such a declared rebel. And as to the rest, he should be a betrayer of the rights of his own sovereignty, if what I had alleged were true, and he were still to plead for her.

I swore to the truth of all. And truly I swore: Which perhaps I do not always do.

And now what thinkest thou must become of the Lady, whom LOVE itself gives up, and CONSCIENCE cannot plead for?

Vol. v. p. 200. dele paragr. penult. and read,

I sent up the Letter to my Beloved, by Mrs. Bevis, with a repeated request for admittance to her presence upon it: But neither did this stand me in stead. I suppose she thought it would be allowing of the con|sequences that were naturally to be expected to follow the obtaining of this instrument, if she had consented to see me on the contents of this Letter, having re|fused me that honour before I sent it up to her.—No surprising her!—No advantage to be taken of her in|attention to the nicest circumstances!

And now, Belford, I set out upon business.

Vol. v. p. 246. l. penult. after a merry evening, insert,

Thou wilt be curious to know, what the persons of

these women are, to whom I intend so much distin|ction. I think I have not heretofore mentioned any|thing-characteristic of their persons.

Mrs. Moore is a widow of about Thirty-eight; a little mortified by misfortunes; but those are often the merriest folks, when warmed. She has good fea|tures still; and is what they call much of a gentle|woman, and very neat in her person and dress. She has given over, I believe, all thoughts of our Sex: But when the dying embers are raked up about the half-consumed stump, there will be fuel enough left, I dare say, to blaze out, and give a comfortable warmth to a half-starved by stander.

Mrs. Bevis is comely; that is to say, plump; a lover of mirth, and one whom no grief ever dwelt with, I dare say, for a week together; about Twenty-five years of age: Mowbray will have very little dif|ficulty with her, I believe; for one cannot do every|thing one's self. And yet sometimes women of this free cast, when it comes to the point, answer not the promises their chearful forwardness gives a man who has a view upon them.

Miss Rawlins is an agreeable young Lady enough; but not beautiful. She has sense, and would be thought to know the world, as it is called; but, for her know|lege, is more indebted to Theory than Experience. A mere whipt-syllabub knowlege this, Jack, that always fails the person who trusts to it, when it should hold to do her service. For such young Ladies have so much dependence upon their own understanding and wariness, are so much above the cautions that the less opinionative may be benefited by, that their presum|ption is generally their overthrow, when attempted by a man of experience, who knows how to flatter their vanity, and to magnify their wisdom, in order to take advantage of their folly. But, for Miss Rawlins, if I can add Experience to her Theory, what an accom|plished person will she be!—And how much will she

be obliged to me; and not only she, but all those who may be the better for the precepts she thinks herself already so well qualified to give! Dearly, Jack, do I love to engage with these precept-givers, and ex|ample-setters.

Now, Belford, altho' there is nothing striking in any of these characters; yet may we, at a pinch, make a good frolicky half-day with them, if, after we have softened their wax at table by encouraging viands, we can set our women and them into dancing: Dancing, which all women love, and all men should therefore promote, for both their sakes.

And thus, when Tourville sings, Belton fiddles, Mowbray makes rough love, and I smooth; and thou, Jack, wilt be by that time well enough to join in the chorus; the devil's in't, if we don't mould them into what shape we please—our own women, by their laughing freedoms, encouraging them to break thro' all their customary reserves: For Women to Women, thou knowest, are great darers and incen|tives; not one of them loving to be outdone or out-dared, when their hearts are thoroughly warmed.

I know, at first, the difficulty will be the accidental absence of my dear Mrs. Lovelace, to whom princi|pally they will design their visit: But if we can exhi|larate them, they won't then wish to see her; and I can form twenty accidents and excuses, from one hour to another, for her absence, till each shall have a subject to take up all her thoughts.

I am really sick at heart for a frolick, &c.

Vol. v. p. 325. l. 7. after in their traces, insert,

I AM just come from these Sorceresses.

I was forced to take the Mother down; for she began with her Hoh, Sirs! with me; and to cate|chize and upbraid me, with as much insolence as if I owed her money.

I made her fly the Pit, at last. Strange wishes

wished we against each other, at her quitting it— What were they?—I'll tell thee—She wished me mar|ried, and to be jealous of my Wife; and my Heir-Apparent the child of another man. I was even with her with a vengeance. And yet thou wilt think that could not well be.—As how?—As how, Jack!— Why I wished her Conscience come to life!—And I know by the gripes mine gives me every half-hour, that she would then have a cursed time of it.

Sally and Polly gave themselves high airs too. Their first favours were thrown at me. Women to boast of those favours which they were as willing to impart, first forms all the difficulty with them! as I to receive, how whimsical! I was upbraided with Ingratitude, Dastardice, and all my difficulties with my angel charged upon myself, for want of following my blows; and for leaving the proud Lady mistress of her own will, and nothing to reproach herself with. And all agreed, that the arts used against her on a certain occasion, had too high an operation for them or me to judge what her will would have been in the arduous trial. And then they blamed one another; as I cursed them all.

They concluded that I should certainly marry, and be a lost man. And Sally, on this occasion, with an affected an malicious laugh, snapt her fingers at me, and pointing two of each hand forkedly at me, bid me remember the lines I once shewed her, of my fa|vourite Jack Dryden, as she always familiarly calls that celebrated Poet.

We women to new joys unseen may move: There are no prints left in the paths of Love. All goods besides by public marks are known: But those men most desire to keep have none.

This infernal Implement had the confidence further to hint, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 84. l. 7. from the bottom, add the following Postscript to Miss Howe's Letter:

Once more forgive me, my dearest creature, for my barbarous tauntings in mine of the 5th! Yet I can hardly forgive myself. I to be so cruel, yet to know you so well!—Whence, whence had I this vile impatiency of spirit!—

Vol. vi. p. 84. begin Clarissa's Letter thus:

FORGIVE you, my dear!—Most cordially do I forgive you—Will yours forgive me some sharp things I wrote in return to you of the 5th? You could not have loved me, as you do, nor had the concern you have always shewn for my Honour, if you had not been utterly displeased with me, on the appear|ance which my conduct wore to you when you wrote that Letter. I most heartily thank you, my best and only Love, for the opportunity you gave me of clearing it up; and for being generously ready to ac|quit of me intentional blame, the moment you hap re'd my melancholy Narrative.

I approve, my dearest Friend, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 91. l. 6. from the bottom, after Fa|ther's malediction, dele the rest of the Paragraph; and read,

The temporary part so strangely and so literally completed! —I cannot, however, think, when my mind is strongest—But what is the story of Isaac, and Jacob, and Esau, and of Rebekah's cheating the latter of the Blessing designed for him (in favour of Jacob) given us for in the 27th Chapter of Genesis? My Father used, I remember, to enforce the Doc|trine deducible from it, on his children, by many ar|guments. At least therefore, He must believe there is great weight in the curse he has announced: And

shall I not be solicitous to get it revoked, that he may not hereafter be grieved, for my sake, that he did not revoke it?

All I will at present add, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 107. l. 11. from the bottom, after the prim mouths of the young Ladies, dele the rest of the paragraph; and read,

They, perhaps, had they met with such another in|trepid Fellow as myself, who had first gained upon their affections, would not have made such a rout as my Beloved has done, about such an affair as that we were assembled upon. Young Ladies, as I have observed on an hundred occasions, fear not half so much for themselves, as their Mothers do for them. But here the Girls were forced to put on grave airs, and to seem angry, because the Antiques made the matter of such high importance. Yet so lightly sat anger and fellow-feeling at their hearts, that they were forced to purse in their mouths, to suppress the smiles I now-and-then laid out for: While the Elders having had Roses (that is to say, Daughters) of their own, and knowing how fond men are of a Trifle, would have been very loth to have had them nipt in the bud, without saying, By your leave, Mrs. Rose-bush, to the mother of it.

The next article, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 121. l. 7. after own treasury, insert,

And then, can there be so much harm done, if it can be so easily repaired by a few magical words; as I, Robert, take thee, Clarissa; and I, Clarissa, take thee, Robert; with the rest of the for-better and for-worse Legerdemain, which will hocus pocus all the wrongs, the crying wrongs, that I have done to Miss Harlowe, into acts of kindness and benevolence to Mrs. Lovelace?

But, Jack, two things I must insist upon, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 156. l. 7. after thy own faults, insert,

Dorcas, whose acquaintance this fellow is, and who recommended him for the journey, had condi|tioned with him, it seems, for a share in the expected bounty from you. Had she been to have had her share made good, I wish thou hadst broken every bone in his skin.

Under what shocking disadvantages, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 190. l. 14. after thee the wiser, dele the following paragraph; and ready,

That's a charming girl! Her spirit, her delightful spirit!—Not to be married to it—How I wish to get that lively Bird into my cage! How would I make her flutter and fly about!—Till she left a feather upon every wire!

Had I begun there, I am confident, as I have here|tofore said, that I should not have had half the diffi|culty with her, as I have had with her charming friend. For these passionate girls have high pulses, and a cle|ver fellow may make what sport he pleases with their unevennesses—Now too high, now too low, you need only to provoke and appease them by turns; to bear with them, and forbear; to teaze, and ask pardon; and sometimes to give yourself the merit of a sufferer from them; then catching them in the moment of concession, conscious of their ill usage of you, they are all your own.

But these sedate, contemplative girls, never out of temper but with reason; when that reason is given them, hardly ever pardon, or afford you another op|portunity to offend.

It was in part the apprehension that this would be so with my dear Miss Harlowe, that made me carry her to a place where I believed she would be unable to escape me, altho' I were not to succeed in my first attempts. Else widow Sorlings's would have been as

well for me, as widow Sinclair's. For early I saw, that there was no credulity in her to graft upon: No pretending to whine myself into her confidence. She was proof against amorous persuasion. She had rea|son in her Love. Her penetration and good sense made her hate all compliments that had not truth and nature in them. What could I have done with her in any other place? And yet how long, even there, was I kept in awe, in spite of natural incitement, and unnatural instigations (as I now think them) by the mere force of that native dignity, and obvious purity of mind and manners, which fill every one with re|verence, if not with holy love, as thou callest it, the moment he sees her!—Else, thinkest thou not, it was easy for me to be a fine gentleman, and a delicate Lover, or, at least, a specious and flattering one?

Lady Sarah and Lady Betty, finding the treaty, upon the success of which they have set their foolish hearts, likely to run into length, are about departing to their own Seats; having taken from me the best security the nature of the case will admit of, that is to say, my word, to marry the Lady, if she will have me.

And after all (methinks thou askest) Art thou still re|solved to repair, if reparation be put into thy power?

Why, Jack, I must needs own, that my heart has now-and-then some retrograde motions, upon thinking seriously of the irrevocable ceremony. We do not easily give up the desire of our hearts, and what we imagine essential to our happiness, let the expecta|tion or hope of compassing it be ever so unreasonable or absurd in the opinion of others. Recurrings there will be: hankerings that will, on every but remotely-favourable incident (however before discouraged and beaten back by ill success) pop up, and abate the sa|tisfaction we should otherwise take in contrariant over|tures.

'Tis ungentlemanly, Jack, man to man, to lye—

But Matrimony I do not heartily love—altho' with a CLARISSA—Yet I am in earnest to marry her.

But I am often thinking, that if now this dear creature, suffering time, and my penitence, my re|lations prayers, and Miss Howe's meditation, to sof|ten her resentments [Her revenge thou hast prettily di|stinguished away] and to recall repulsed inclination, should consent to meet me at the altar—How vain will she then make all thy eloquent periods of exe|cration!—How many charming interjections of her own will she spoil! And what a couple of old Patri|archs shall we become, going on in the mill-horse round; getting sons and daughters; providing Nurses for them first, Governors and Governesses next; teaching them lessons their Father never prac|tised, nor which their Mother, as her Parents will say, was much the better for! And at last perhaps, when life shall be turned into the dully-sober Stilness, and I become desirous to forget all my past Rogueries, what comfortable reflections will it afford, to find them all revived, with equal, or probably greater trouble and expence, in the persons and manners of so many young Lovelaces of the Boys; and to have the Girls run away with varlets perhaps not half so ingenious as myself; clumsy fellows, as it might happen, who could not afford the baggages one excuse for their weakness, be|sides those disgraceful ones of Sex and Nature!—O Belford! who can bear to think of these things!— Who, at my time of life especially, and with such a byas for mischief!

Of this I am absolutely convinced, that if a man ever intends to marry, and to enjoy in peace his own reflections; and not be afraid of retribution, or of the consequences of his own example; he should ne|ver be a Rake.

This looks like Conscience; don't it, Belford?

But, being in earnest still, as I have said, All I have to do, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 191. l. 20. after can ever love him, dele the two following paragraphs; and read,

Every one knows, tbat the Mother (sawcy as the Daughter sometimes is) crams him down her throat. Her Mother is one of the most violent-spirited wo|men in England. Her late Husband could not stand in the matrimonial contention of Who should? but tipt off the perch in it, neither knowing how to yield, nor how to conquer.

A charming encouragement for a man of intrigue, whee he has reason to believe, that the woman he has a view upon has no Love for her Husband! What good Principles must that Wife have, who is kept in against temptation by a sense of her duty, and plighted faith, where affection has no hold of her!

Pr'ythee let's know, very particularly, how it fares with poor Belton—'Tis an honest fellow—Something more than his Thomasine seems to stick with him.

Thou hast not been preaching to him Conscience and Reformation; hast thou?—Thou shouldst not take liberries with him of this sort, unless thou thoughtest him absolutely irrecoverable. A man in ill health, and cropsick, cannot play with these solemn things, as thou canst, and be neither better nor worse for them.—Repentance, Jack, I have a notion, should be set about while a man is in health and spirits. What's a man fit for [Not to begin a new work surely] when he is not himself, nor master of his fa|culties?—Hence, as I apprehend, it is that a death-bed repentance is supposed to be such a precarious and ineffectual thing.

As to myself, I hope I have a great deal of time before me; since I intend one day to be a Reformed man. I have very serious reflections now-and-then. Yet am I half-afraid of the truth of what my Charmer once told me, that a man cannot repent when he will. — Not to hold it, I suppose she meant! By fits and starts I have repented a thousand times.

Casting my eye over the two preceding paragraphs, I fansy there is something like contradiction in them. But I will not reconsider them. The subject is a very serious one. I don't, at present, quite understand it. But now for one more airy.

Tourville, Mowbray, and myself, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 196. l. 26. after to be of them, insert,

To what, Lovelace, shall we attribute the tender|ness which a reputed Father frequently shews to the children of another man?—What is that, I pray thee, which we call Nature, and Natural Affection? And what has man to boast of as to sagacity and penetra|tion, when he is as easily brought to cover and rear, and even to love, and often to prefer, the product of another's guilt with his Wife or Mistress, as a hen or a goose the eggs, and even young, of others of their kind?

Nay, let me ask, If instinct, as it is called, in the animal creation, does not enable them to distinguish their own, much more easily than we, with our boasted reason and sagacity, in this nice particular, can do?

If some men, who have Wives but of doubtful vir|tue, considered this matter duly, I believe their inor|dinate ardor after gain would be a good deal cooled, when they could not be certain (tho' their Mates could) for whose children they were elbowing, bustling, gripe|ing, and perhaps cheating, those with whom they have concerns, whether friends, neighbours, or more cer|tain next-of-kin, by the Mother's side however.

But I will not push this notion so far as it might be carried; because, if propagated, it might be of un|social or unnatural consequence; since women of vir|tue would perhaps be more liable to suffer by the mis|trusts and caprices of bad-hearted and foolish-headed Husbands, than those who can screen themselves from detection by arts and hypocrisy, to which a woman of

virtue cannot have recourse. And yet, were this no|tion duly and generally considered, it might be at|tended with no bad effects; as good education, good inclinations, and established virtue, would be the prin|cipally sought-after qualities, and not money, when a man (not byassed by mere personal attractions) was looking round him for a partner in his fortunes, and for a mother of his future children, which are to be the heirs of his possessions, and to enjoy the fruits of his industry.

But to return to poor Belton.

If I have occasion for your assistance, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 198. l. 3. after a life mis-spent, insert,

It will be your turns by-and-by, every man of ye, if the justice of your country interpose not.

Thou art the only Rake we have herded with, if thou wilt not except myself, who hast preserved en|tire thy health and thy fortunes.

Mowbray indeed is indebted to a robust constitu|tion, that he has not yet suffered in his health; but his Estate is dwindling away year by year.

Three-fourths of Tourville's very considerable for|tunes are already dissipated; and the remaining fourth will probably soon go after the other three.

Poor Belton! we see how it is with him!—His only felicity is, that he will hardly live to want.

Thou art too proud, and too prudent, ever to be destitute; and, to do thee justice, hast a spirit to assist such of thy friends as may be reduced; and wilt, if thou shouldst then be living. But I think thou must, much sooner than thou imaginest, be called to thy account—knocked on the head perhaps by the friends of those whom thou hast injured; for if thou escapest this fate from the Harlowe family, thou wilt go on tempting danger and vengeance, till thou meetest with vengeance; and this, whether thou marriest, or not: For the nuptial life will not, I

doubt, till age join with it, cure thee of that spirit for intrigue, which is continually running away with thee, in spite of thy better sense, and transitory reso|lutions.

Well, then, I will suppose thee laid down quietly among thy worthier ancestors.

And now let me look forward to the ends of Tour|ville and Mowbray [Belton will be crumbled into dust before thee, perhaps], supposing thy early exit has saved them from gallows intervention.

Reduced, probably, by riotous waste to conse|quential want, behold them refuged in some obscene hole or garret; obliged to the careless care of some dirty old woman, whom nothing but her poverty pre|vails upon to attend to perform the last offices for men who have made such shocking ravage among the young ones.

Then how miserably will they whine thro' squeak|ing organs! Their big voices turned into puling pity-begging lamentations! Their now-offensive paws, how helpless then!—Their now-erect necks then denying support to their aching heads; those globes of mischief dropping upon their quaking shoul|ders. Then what wry faces will they make! their hearts, and their heads, reproaching each other!— Distended their parched mouths!—Sunk their un|muscled cheeks!—Dropt their under-jaws!—Each grunting like the swine he had resembled in his life! Oh! what a vile wretch have I been!—Oh! that I had my life to come over again!—Confessing to the poor old woman, who cannot shrive them! Imagin|ary ghosts of deflowered Virgins, and polluted ma|trons, flitting before their glassy eyes! And old Satan, to their apprehensions, grinning behind a looking-glass held up before them, to frighten them with the horror visible in their own countenances!

For my own part, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 209. l. 10, 11. after when disappointed, insert,

There was Miss DORRINGTON [Perhaps you know her not] who ran away with her Father's groom, be|cause he would not let her have a half-pay officer, with whom (her passions all up) she fell in love at first sight, as he accidentally passed under her window.

There was Miss SAVAGE; she married her Mo|ther's coachman, because her Mother refused her a journey to Wales, in apprehension, that Miss intended to league herself with a remote Cousin of unequal for|tunes, of whom she was not a little fond when he was a visiting guest at their house for a week.

There was the young widow SANDERSON; who believing herself flighted by a younger Brother of a noble family (Sarah Stout like) took it into her head to drown herself.

Miss SALLY ANDERSON [You have heard of her, no doubt] being checked by her Uncle for encouraging an address beneath her, in spite, threw herself into the arms of an ugly dog, a shoemaker's Apprentice; running away with him in a pair of shoes he had just fitted to her feet, tho' she never saw the fellow before, and hated him ever after: And at last took Laudanum to make her forget for ever her own folly.

But can there be a stronger instance in point, than what the unaccountable resentments of such a Lady as Miss Clarissa Harlowe afford us? Who, at this very instant, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 214. l. 17. after word of command, insert,

Mowbray and Tourville each intend to give thee a Letter; and I leave to those rough varlets to handle thee as thou deservest, for the shocking picture thou hast drawn of their last ends. Thy own past guilt has stared thee full in the face, one may see by it; and made thee, in consciousness of thy demerits, sketch

out these cursed out-lines. I am glad thou hast got the old fiend to hold the glass before thy own face so soon. Thou must be in earnest surely, when thou wrotest it, and have severe convictions upon thee: For what a hardened varlet must he be, who could draw such a picture as this in sport?

As for thy resolution of repenting, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 226. l. antepenult, after pride truly spiri|tual, insert,

One of my Loves in Paris was a Devotée. She took great pains to convert me. I gave way to her kind endeavours for the good of my soul. She thought it a point gained to make me profess some Religion. The Catholic has its conveniencies. I permitted her to bring a Father to me. My Reformation went on swimmingly. The Father had hopes of me: He pa|plauded her zeal: So did I. And how dost think it ended?—Not a girl in England, reading thus far, but would guess!—In a word, very happily! For she not only brought me a Father, but made me one: And then, being satisfied with each other's conversion, we took different Routes: She, into Navarre; I, into Italy: Both well inclined to propagate the good les|sons in which we had so well instructed each other.

But to return. One consolation, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 291. l. ult. after against me to thee, insert,

But thou seest, Jack, by her refusal of money from Hickman, or Miss Howe, that the dear Extra|vagant takes a delight in oddnesses, chusing to part with her cloaths, tho' for a song. Dost think she is not a little touched at times? I am afraid she is. A little spice of that insanity, I doubt, runs thro' her, that she had in a stronger degree, in the first week of my operations. Her contempt of life; her procla|mations; her refusal of matrimony; and now of mo|ney

from her most intimate friends; are sprinklings of this kind, and no other way, I think, to be ac|counted for.

Her Apothecary is a good honest fellow. I like him much. But the silly dear's harping so continu|ally upon one string, dying, dying, dying, is what I have no patience with. I hope all this melancholy jargon is owing entirely to the way I would have her to be in. And it being as new to her as the Bible beau|ties to thee, no wonder she knows not what to make of herself; and so fansies she is breeding death, when the event will turn out quite the contrary.

Thou art a sorry fellow in thy remarks on the edu|cation and qualification of Smarts and Beaux of the Rakish order; if by thy We's and Us's thou meanest thyself or me: For I pretend to say, that the picture has no resemblance of Us, who have read and conversed as we have done. It may indeed, and I believe it does, resemble the generality of the fops and coxcombs about town. But That let them look to; for, if it affects not me, to what purpose thy random shot?—If indeed thou findest, by the new light darted in upon thee, since thou hast had the honour of conversing with this admirable creature, that the cap fits thy own head, why then, according to the Qui capit rule, e'en take and clap it on: And I will add a string of Bells to it, to complete thee for the fore-horse of the idiot team.

Altho' I just now said a kind thing or two for this fellow Hickman; yet I can tell thee, I could (to use one of my noble Peer's humble phrases) eat him up without a corn of salt, when I think of his impu|dence to salute my charmer twice at parting: And have still less patience with the Lady herself for pre|suming to offer her cheek or lip [Thou sayest not which] to him, and to press his clumsy fist between her charming hands. An honour worth a King's ransom; and what I would give—What would I not give? to have!—And then he, in return, to press

her, as thou sayest he did, to his stupid heart; at that time, no doubt, more sensible, than ever it was be|fore!

By thy description of their parting, I see thou wilt be a delicate fellow in time. My Mortification in this Lady's displeasure, will be thy exaltation from her conversation. I envy thee as well for thy opportuni|ties as for thy improvements: And such an impression has thy concluding paragraph made upon me, that I wish I do not get into a Reformation-humour as well as thou: And then what a couple of lamentable pup|pies shall we make, howling in recitative to each other's discordant music!

Let me improve upon the thought, and imagine that, turned Hermits, we have opened the two old Caves at Hornsey, or dug new ones; and in each of our cells set up a death's head, and an hour-glass, for objects of contemplation—I have seen such a picture: But then, Jack, had not the old penitent fornicator a suffocating long grey beard? What figures would a couple of brocaded or laced-waistcoated toupets make with their sour screw'd up half-cock'd faces, and more than half-shut eyes, in a kneeling attitude, recapitulating their respective rogueries? This scheme, were we only to make trial of it, and return after|wards to our old ways, might serve to better purpose by far, than Horner's in the Country Wife, to bring the pretty wenches to us.

Let me see; The Author of Hudibras has some|where a description that would suit us, when met in one of our Caves, and comparing our dismal notes together. This is it. Suppose me described —

—He sat upon his rump, His head like one in doleful dump; Betwixt his knees his hands apply'd Unto his cheeks, on either side: And by him, in another hole, Sat stupid Belford, cheek by jowl.

I know thou wilt think me too ludicrous. I think myself so. It is truly, to be ingenuous, a forced put: For my passions are so wound up, that I am obliged either to laugh or cry. Like honest drunken Jack Daventry [Poor fellow!—What an unhappy end was his!]—Thou knowest, I used to observe, that whenever he rose from an entertainment, which he never did sober, it was his way, as soon as he got to the door, to look round him, like a carrier-pigeon just thrown up, in order to spy out his course; and then, taking to his heels, he would run all the way home, tho' it were a mile or two, when he could hardly stand, and must have tumbled on his nose if he had attempted to walk moderately. This then be my ex|cuse, in this my unconverted estate, for a conclusion so unworthy of the conclusion to thy third Letter.

What a length have I run!—Thou wilt own, that if I pay thee not in quality, &c.

Vol. vi. p. 383. l. 5. after with thy goose-quills, insert,

Whereas, didst thou but know thine own talents, thou art formed to give mirth by thy very appearance; and wouldst make a better figure by half, leading up thy brother-bears at Hockley in the Hole, to the mu|sic of a Scots bagpipe. Methinks I see thy clumsy sides shaking (and shaking the sides of all beholders) in these very attitudes; thy fat head archly beating time on thy porterly shoulders, right and left by turns, as I once beheld thee practising to the horn-pipe at Preston. Thou remembrest the frolick, as I have done an hundred times; for I never before saw thee appear so much in character.

But I know what I shall get by this—Only that no|table observation repeated, That thy outside is the worst of thee, and mine the best of me. And so let it be. Nothing thou writest of this sort can I take amiss.

But I shall call thee seriously to account, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 109. to Mr. Lovelace's Letter add the following POSTSCRIPT.

Charlotte, in a whim of delicacy, is displeased that I send the inclosed Letter to you—That her hand|writing, forsooth! should go into the hands of a single man!

There's encouragement for thee, Belford! This is a certain sign that thou mayst have her if thou wilt. And yet, till she had given me this unerring demon|stration of her glancing towards thee, I could not have thought it. Indeed I have often in pleasantry told her, that I would bring such an affair to a bear. But I never intended it; because she really is dainty girl. And thou art such a clumsy fellow in thy per|son, that I should have as soon have wished her a Rhinoceros for an husband, as thee. But, poor little dears! they must stay till their time's come! They won't have this man, and they won't have that man, from Seventeen to Twenty-five: But then, afraid, as the saying is, that God has forgot them, and finding their bloom departing, they are glad of whom they can get, and verify the fable of the Parson and the Pears.

Vol. vii. p. 113. l. 26. after with my Letter, insert,

One word more, as to a matter of erudition, which you greatly love to hear me start, and dwell upon. Dr. Lewen once, in your presence (as you, my good Patron, cannot but remember) in a smartish kind of debate between him and me, took upon him to censure the parenthetical style, as I call it. He was a very learned and judicious man, to be sure, and an ornament to our Fun|ction: But yet I must needs say, that it is a style which I greatly like; and the good Doctor was then past his youth, and that time of life, of

consequence, when a fertile imagination, and rich fancy, pour in ideas so fast upon a writer, that parentheses are often wanted (and that for the sake of brevity, as well as perspicuity) to save the reader the trouble of reading a passage more than once. Every man to his talent (as I said before). We are all so apt to set up our natural byasses for general standards, that I wondered the less at the worthy Doctor's stiffness on this occa|sion. He smiled at me, you may remember, Sir—And, whether I was right or not, I am sure I smiled at him. And you, my worthy Pa|tron (as I had the satisfaction to observe) seemed to be of my Party. But was it not strange, that the old gentleman and I should so widely differ, when the end with both (that is to say, perspi|cuity or clearness) was the same?—But what shall we say?—

Errare est hominis, sed non persistere—

I think I have nothing to add, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 117. l. 11. after I left them, insert,

As to what thou sayest of thy charming Cousin, let me know, if thou hast any meaning in it. I have not the vanity to think myself deserving of such a Lady as Miss Montague: And should not therefore care to expose myself to her scorn, and to thy derision. But were I assured I might avoid both these, I would soon acquaint thee, that I should think no pains nor assi|duity too much to obtain a share in the good graces of such a Lady.

But I know thee too well to depend upon any-thing thou sayest on this subject. Thou lovest to make thy friends the object of ridicule to Ladies; and ima|ginest, from the vanity (and in this respect, I will say littleness) of thine own heart, that thou shinest the brighter for the foil.

Thus didst thou once play off the rough Mowbray with Miss Hatton, till the poor fellow knew not how to go either backward or forward.

Vol. vii. p. 120. dele the two first paragraphs of Colonel Morden's Letter; and read,

I SHOULD not, my dearest Cousin, have been a fortnight in England, without either doing my|self the honour of waiting upon you in person, or of writing to you; if I had not been busying myself almost all the time in your service, in hopes of make|ing my Visit or Letter still more acceptable to you— acceptable as I have reason to presume either will be from the unquestionable Love I ever bore you, and from the esteem you always honoured me with.

Little did I think, that so many days would have been required to effect my well-intended purpose, where there used to be a Love so ardent on one side, and where there still is, as I am thoroughly convinced, the most exalted Merit on the other!

I was yesterday with Mr. Lovelace, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 189. dele the Paragraph beginning Mr. Brand's Recantation-Letters, &c. and insert,

Mr. BRAND, To Mr. JOHN WALTON.

Sat. Night, Sept. 2.

Dear Mr. WALTON,

I AM obliged to you for the very handsomely penned (and elegantly written) Letter which you have sent me on purpose to do justice to the character of the younger Miss Harlowe: And yet I must tell you, that I had reason, before that came, to think (and to know indeed) that we were all wrong: And so I had employed the greatest part of this week, in drawing up an apologetical Letter to my worthy Pa|tron Mr. John Harlowe, in order to set all matters

right between me and them, and (as far as I could) between them and Miss. So it required little more than connexion and transcribing, when I received yours; and it will be with Mr. Harlowe aforesaid, to-morrow morning; and this, and the copy of that, will be with you on Monday morning.

You cannot imagine how sorry I am, that you, and Mrs. Walton, and Mrs. Barker, and I myself, should have taken matters up so lightly (judging, alas-a-day! by appearance and conjecture) where character and reputation are concerned. Horace says truly,

Et semel emissum volat irrevocabile verbum.

That is, Words once spoken cannot be recalled: But (Mr. Walton) they may be contradicted by other Words; and we may confess ourselves guilty of a mistake; and express our concern for being mistaken; and resolve to make our mistake a warning to us for the future: And this is all that can be done; and what every worthy mind will do; and what nobody can be readier to do, than we four undesigning of|fenders (as I see by your Letter, on your part; and as you will see by the inclosed copy, on mine); which, if it be received as I think it ought (and as I believe it will) must give me a speedy opportunity to see you, when I visit the Lady; to whom (as you will see in it) I expect to be sent up with the olive-branch.

The matter in which we all erred, must be owned to be very nice; and (Mr. Belford's character consi|dered) appearances ran very strong against the Lady: But all that this serveth to shew, is, That in doubtful matters the wisest people may be mistaken; for so saith the Poet,

Fallitur in dubiis hominum solertia rebus.

If you have an opportunity, you may (as if from yourself, and unknown to me) shew the inclosed to

Mr. Belford, who (you tell me) resenteth the mat|ter very heinously; but not to let him see, or hear read, those words that relate to him, in the para|graph at the bottom of the second page, beginning [But yet I do insist upon it] to the End of that para|graph; for one would not make one's self enemies, you know: And I have reason to think, that this Mr. Belford is as passionate and fierce a man as Mr. Lovelace. What pity it is the Lady could find no worthier a Protector! You may paste those lines over with blue or black paper, before he seeth it; and if he insisteth upon taking a copy of my Letter (for he, or any-body, that seeth it, or heareth it read, will, no doubt, be glad to have by them the copy of a Letter so full of the sentiments of the noblest writers of antiquity, and so well adapted, as I will be bold to say they are, to the point in hand; I say, if he insisteth upon taking a copy) let him give you the strongest assurances not to suffer it to be printed, on any account; and I make the same request to you, that you will not: For if any-thing be to be made of a man's works, who, but the author, should have the advantage? And if the Spectators, the Tatlers, the Examiners, the Guardians, and other of our polite papers, make such a strutting with a single verse, or so, by way of motto, in the front of each day's paper; and if other authors pride themselves in finding out and embellishing the title-pages of their books with a verse or adage from the classical writers; what a figure would such a Letter as the inclosed make, so full fraught with admirable precepts, and à-propos quotations, from the best authority?

I have been told, that a certain noble Lord, who once sat himself down to write a pamphlet in behalf of a great minister, after taking infinite pains to no purpose to find a Latin motto, gave commission to a friend of his to offer to any one, who could help him to a suitable one, but of one or two lines, a hamper

of claret. Accordingly, his Lordship had a motto found him from Juvenal; which he unhappily mis|taking (not knowing Juvenal was a poet) printed as a prose sentence in his title-page.

If then one or two lines were of so much worth (A hamper of claret! No less!) of what inestimable value would such a Letter as mine be deemed?—And who knoweth but that this noble P—r (who is now (a) 18.1 living) if he should happen to see this Letter shining with such a glorious string of jewels, might give the writer a scarf, in order to have him always at hand, or be a means (some way or other) to bring him into notice? And I will be bold to say (bad as the world is) a man of sound learning wanteth no|thing but an initiation, to make his fortune.

I hope (my good friend) that the Lady will not die: I shall be much grieved, if she doth; and the more, because of mine unhappy misrepresentation: So will you, for the same cause: So will her parents and friends. They are very rich and very worthy Gentlefolks.

But let me tell you, by-the-by, that they had car|ried the matter against her so far, that I believe in my heart they were glad to justify themselves by my report; and would have been less pleased, had I made a more favourable one: And yet in their hearts they dote upon her. But now they are all (as I hear) inclined to be friends with her, and forgive her; her Brother, as well as the rest.

But their Cousin, Col. Morden, a very fine Gen|tleman, hath had such high words with them, and they with him, that they know not how to stoop, lest it should look like being frighted into an Accommo|dation. Hence it is, that I have taken the greater liberty to press the Reconciliation; and I hope in such good season, that they will all be pleased with it: For can they have a better handle to save their pride

all round, than by my Mediation? And let me tell you (inter nos, betwixt ourselves) very proud they all are.

By this honest means (for by dishonest ones I would not be Archbishop of Canterbury) I hope to please every-body; to be forgiven, in the first place, by the Lady (whom, being a lover of learning and learn|ed men, I shall have great opportunities of obliging— For, when she departed from her Father's house, I had but just the honour of her notice, and she seemed highly pleased with my conversation); and, next, to be thanked and respected by her parents, and all her family; as I am (I bless God for it) by my dear friend Mr. John Harlowe: Who indeed is a man that professeth a great esteem for men of erudition; and who (with singular delight, I know) will run over with me the Authorities I have quoted, and wonder at my memory, and the happy knack I have of re|commending mine own sense of things in the words of the greatest sages of antiquity.

Excuse me, my good friend, for this seeming va|nity. The great Cicero (you must have heard, I suppose) had a much greater spice of it, and wrote a long Letter begging and praying to be flattered: But if I say less of myself, than other people (who know me) say of me, I think I keep a medium between vanity and false modesty; the latter of which often|times gives itself the lye, when it is declaring off the compliments, that every-body gives it as its due: An hypocrisy, as well as folly, that (I hope) I shall for ever scorn to be guilty of.

I have another reason (as I may tell to you, my old schoolfellow) to make me wish for this fine Lady's recovery and health; and that is (by some distant in|timations) I have heard from Mr. John Harlowe, that it is very likely (because of the Slur she hath re|ceived) that she will chuse to live privately and pe|nitently—and will probably (when she cometh into

her Estate) keep a Chaplain to direct her in her devotions and penitence—If she doth, who can stand a better chance than myself?—And as I find (by your account, as well as by every-body's) that she is in|nocent as to intention, and is resolved never to think of Mr. Lovelace more, Who knoweth what (in time) may happen?—And yet it must be after Mr. Love|lace's death (which may possibly sooner happen than he thinketh of, by means of his detestable courses): For after all, a man who is of public utility, ought not (for the finest woman in the world) to lay his throat at the mercy of a man who boggleth at nothing.

I beseech you, let not this hint go farther than to yourself, your Spouse, and Mrs. Barker. I know I may trust my life in your hands and theirs. There have been (let me tell ye) unlikelier things come to pass, and that with rich widows (some of quality truly!) whose choice in their first marriages hath (perhaps) been guided by motives of convenience, or mere corporalities, as I may say; but who by their second have had for their view the corporal and spiri|tual mingled; which is the most eligible (no doubt) to substances composed of both, as men and women are.

Nor think (Sir) that should such a thing come to pass, either would be disgraced; since the Lady, in me, would marry a Gentleman, and a Scholar: And as to mine own honour, as the Slur would bring her high fortunes down to an equivalence with my mean ones (if fortune only, and not merit, be considered) so hath not the life of this Lady been so tainted (either by length of time, or naughtiness of practice) as to put her on a foot with the cast Abigails, that too-too often (God knoweth) are thought good enough for a young Clergyman, who, perhaps, is drawn in by a poor benefice; and (if the wicked one be not quite worn out) groweth poorer and poorer upon it, by an encrease of family he knoweth not whether is most his, or his noble (ignoble I should say) patron's.

But, all this apart, and in confidence.

I know you made at school but a small progress in languages. So I have restrained myself from many illustrations from the classics, that I could have filled this Letter with (as I have done the inclosed one): And, being at a distanc••, I cannot explain them to you, as I do to my friend Mr. John Harlowe; who (after all) is obliged to me for pointing out to him many beauties of the authors I quote, which other|wise would lie concealed from him, as they must from every common observer.—But this (too) inter nos—For he would not take it well to have it known —Jays (you know, old Schoolfellow, Jays, you know) will strut in peacocks feathers.

But whither am I running? I never know where to end, when I get upon learned topics. And albeit I cannot compliment you with the name of a learned man; yet are you a sensible man; and (as such) must have pleasure in learned men, and in their writings.

In this confidence (Mr. Walton) with my kind respects to the good Ladies (your Spouse and Sister) and in hopes, for the young Lady's sake, soon to follow this long, long epistle, in person, I conclude myself

Your loving and faithful friend, ELIAS BRAND.

You will perhaps, Mr. Walton, wonder at the meaning of the lines drawn under many of the words and sentences (UNDERSCORING we call it); and were my Letters to be printed, those would be put in a different character. Now, you must know, Sir, that we learned men do this to point out to the readers who are not so learned, where the jet of our arguments lieth, and the emphasis they are to lay upon those words; whereby they will take in readily our sense and cogency. Some pragmatical people

have said, that an author who doth a great deal of this, either calleth his readers fools, or ta|citly condemneth his own style, as supposing his meaning would be dark without it, or that all his force lay in words. But all of those with whom I have conversed in the learned way think as I think. And to give a very pretty tho' familiar illustration, I have considered a a page distinguished by different characters, as verdant field overspread with butter-flowers and daisies, and other summer-flowers. These the poets liken to enamelling—Have you not read in the poets of enamelled meads, and so forth?

Mr. BRAND, To JOHN HARLOWE, Esq

Sat. Night, Sept. 2.

Worthy Sir,

I AM under no small concern, that I should (unhap|pily) be the occasion (I am sure I intended nothing like it) of widening differences by light misreport, when it is the duty of one of my function (and no less consisting with my inclination) to heal and reconcile.

I have received two Letters to set me right: One from a particular acquaintance (whom I set to en|quire of Mr. Belford's character); and that came on Tuesday last, informing me, that your unhappy Niece was greatly injured in the account I had had of her (for I had told him of it, and that with very great concern, I am sure, apprehending it to be true). So I then set about writing to you, to ac|knowlege the error: And had gone a good way in it; when the second Letter came (a very handsome one it is, both in style and penmanship) from my friend Mr. Walton (tho' I am sure it cannot be his in|diting) expressing his sorrow, and his Wife's, and his Sister-in-law's likewise, for having been the cause of misleading me, in the account I gave of the said young Lady; whom they now say (upon further

enquiry) they find to be the most unblameable, and most prudent, and (it seems) the most pious young Lady, that ever (once) committed a great error; as (to be sure) hers was, in leaving such worthy Pa|rents and Relations for so vile a man as Mr. Love|lace: But what shall we say?—Why, the divine Virgil tells us,

Improbe Amor, quid non-mortalia pectora cogis?

For my part, I was but too much afraid (for we have great opportunities, you are sensible, Sir, at the University, of knowing human nature from books, the calm result of the wise mens wisdom, as I may say,

(Haurit aquam cribro, qui discere vult sine libro)

uninterrupted by the noise and vanities, that will mingle with personal conversation, which (in the turbulent world) is not to be enjoyed but over a bottle, where you have an hundred foolish things pass to one that deserveth to be remembred; I was but too much afraid, I say) that so great a slip might be at|tended with still greater and worse: For your Ho|race, and my Horace, the most charming writer that ever lived among the Pagans (for the lyric kind of poetry, I mean; for, to be sure, Homer and Virgil would otherwise be first named in their way) well observeth (and who understood human nature better than he?)

Nec vera virtus, cum semel excidit, Curat reponi deterioribus.

And Ovid no less wisely observeth:

Et mala sunt vicina bonis. Errore sub illo Pro vitio virtus crimina saepe tulit.

Who, that can draw knowlege from its fountain-head, the works of the sages of antiquity (improved by the comments of the moderns) but would prefer to

all others the silent quiet life, which contemp••••aire men lead in the seats of learning, were they 〈◊〉〈◊〉 called out (according to their dedication) to the•••• vice and instruction of the world?

Now, Sir, another favourite poet of min••S not the less a favourite for being a Christian) 〈◊〉〈◊〉 us, that it is the custom of some, when in a fa••••••, to throw the blame upon the backs of others,

—Hominum quoque mos est, Quae nos cunque premunt, alieno imponere tergo. MANT.

But I, tho' (in this case) misled (well-intendedly, nevertheless, both in the misleaders and misled, and therefore entitled to lay hold of that plea, if any|body is so entitled) will not, however, be classed among such extenuators; but (contrarily) will al|ways keep in mind that verse, which comforteth in mistake, as well as instructeth; and which I quoted in my last Letter;

Errare est hominis, sed non persisiere—

And will own, that I was very rash to take up with conjectures and consequences drawn from proba|bilities, where (especially) the character of so fine a Lady was concerned.

Credere fallaci gravis est dementia famae. MANT.

Notwithstanding, Miss Clarissa Harlowe (I must be bold to say) is the only young Lady, that ever I heard of (or indeed read of) that, having made such a false step, so soon (of her own accord, as I may say) recovered herself, and conquered her Love of the deceiver (A great conquest indeed!); and who flieth him, and resolveth to die, rather than to be his; which now to her never-dying honour (I am well assured) is the case—And, in justice to her, I am now ready to take to myself (with no small vex|ation) that of Ovid,

Heu! patior telis vulnera facta meis.

But yet I do insist upon it, that all that part of my information, which I took upon mine own per|sonal enquiry, which is what relates to Mr. Belford, and his character, is literally true; for there is not any-where to be met with a man of a more libertine character as to women, Mr. Lovelace excepted, than he beareth.

And so, Sir, I must desire of you, that you will not let any blame lie upon my intention; since you see how ready I am to accuse myself of too lightly giving ear to a rash information (not knowing it so to be, however): For I depended the more upon it, as the people I had it from are very sober, and live in the fear of God: And indeed when I wait upon you, you will see by their Letter, that they must be conscientious good people: Wherefore, Sir, let me be entitled, from all your good family, to that of my last-named poet,

Aspera confesso verba remitte reo.

And now, Sir (what is much more becoming of my function) let me, instead of appearing with the face of an accuser, and a rash censurer (which in my heart I have not deserved to be thought), assume the character of a reconciler; and propose (by way of penance to myself for my fault) to be sent up as a messenger of peace to the pious young Lady; for they write me word absolutely (and, I believe in my heart, truly) that the Doctors have given her over, and that she cannot live. Alas! alas! what a sad thing would that be, if the poor bough, that was only designed (as I very well know, and am fully assured) to be bent, should be broken!

Let it not, dear Sir, seem to the world, that there was any-thing in your resentments (which, while meant for reclaiming, were just and fit) that hath the

appearance of violence, and fierce wrath, and inexora|bility (as it would look to some, if carried to extre|mity, after repentance, and contrition, and humili|ation, on the fair offender's side): For all this while (it seemeth) she hath been a second Magdalen in her pe|nitence, and yet not so bad as a Magdalen in her faults (faulty, nevertheless, as she hath been once, the Lord knoweth!

Nam vitiis nemo sine nascitur: optimus ille est, Qui minimis urgetur— saith Horace).

Now, Sir, if I may be named for this blessed em|ployment (For, Blessed is the peacemaker!) I will hasten to London; and (as I know Miss had always a great regard to the function I have the honour to be of) I have no doubt of making myself acceptable to her, and to bring her, by sound arguments, and good advice, into a liking of life, which must be the first step to her recovery: For, when the mind is made easy, the body will not long suffer; and the love of life is a natural passion, that is soon revived, when fortune turneth about, and smileth:

Vivere quisque diu, quamvis & egenus & aeger, Optat — OVID.

And the sweet Lucan truly observeth,

—Fatis debentibus annos Mors invita subit—

And now, Sir, let me tell you what shall be the tenor of my pleadings with her, and comfortings of her, as she is, as I may say, a learned Lady; and as I can explain to her those sentences, which she can|not so readily construe herself: And this in order to convince you (did you not already know my qualifi|cations) how well qualified I am for the Christian Office to which I commend myself.

I will, IN THE FIRST PLACE, put her in mind of the common course of things in this sublunary world,

in which joy and sorrow, sorrow and joy, succeed one another by turns; in order to convince her, that her griefs have been but according to that com|mon course of things:

Gaudia post luctus veniunt, post gaudia luctus.

SECONDLY, I will remind her of her own notable description of Sorrow, when she was once called upon to distinguish wherein Sorrow, Grief, and Melancholy, differed from each other; which she did impromptu, by their effects, in a truly admirable manner, to the high satisfaction of every one: I myself could not, by study, have distinguished better, nor more concisely—SORROW, said she, wears; GRIEF tears; but MELANCHOLY sooths.

My inference to her shall be, that since a happy Reconciliation will take place, Grief will be banished; Sorrow dismissed; and only sweet Melancholy remain to sooth and indulge her contrite heart, and shew to all the world the penitent sense she hath of her great error.

THIRDLY, That her Joys (a) 19.1, when restored to health and favour, will be the greater, the deeper her griefs were.

Gaudia, quae multo parta labore, placent.

FOURTHLY, That having really been guilty of a great error, she should not take impatiently the cor|rection and anger with which she hath been treated.

Leniter, ex merito quicquid patiare, ferundum est.

FIFTHLY, That Virtue must be established by Patience; as saith Prudentius:

Haec virtus vidua est, quam non patientia firmat.

SIXTHLY, That, in the words of Horace, she may expect better times, than (of late) she had reason to look for:

Grata superveniet, quae non sperabitur, hora.

SEVENTHLY, That she is really now in a way to be happy, since, according to Ovid, she can count up all her woe:

Felix, qui patitur quae numerare potest.

And those comforting lines,

Estque serena dies post longos gratior imbres, Et post triste malum gratior ipsa salus.

EIGHTHLY, That, in the words of Mantuan, her Parents and Uncles could not help loving her all the time they were angry at her:

Aequa tamen semper mens est, & amica voluntas, Sit licet in natos facies austera parentum.

NINTHLY, That the ills she hath met with may be turned (by the good use to be made of them) to her everlasting benefit; for that,

Cum furit atque ferit, Deus olim parcere quaerit.

TENTHLY, That she will be able to give a fine lesson (a very fine lesson) to all the young Ladies of her acquaintance, of the vanity of being lifted up in prosperity, and the weakness of being cast down in adversity; since no one is so high, as to be above being humbled; so low, as to need to despair: For which purpose the advice of Ausonius,

Dum fortuna juvat, caveto tolli: Dum fortuna tonat, caveto mergi.

I shall tell her, that Lucan saith well, when he calleth adversity the element of patience:

—Gaudet patientia duris.

That

Fortunam superat virtus, prudentia famam.

That while weak souls are crushed by fortune, the brave mind maketh the fickle deity afraid of it:

Fortuna fortes metuit, ignavos premit,

ELEVENTHLY, That if she take the advice of Horace,

Fortiaque adversis opponite pectora rebus,

it will delight her hereafter (as Virgil saith) to revolve her past troubles:

—Forsan & haec olim meminisse juvabit.

And, to the same purpose, Juvenal speaking of the prating joy of mariners, after all their dangers are over:

Gaudent securi narrare pericula nautae.

Which suiting the case so well, you'll forgive me, Sir, for popping down in English metre, as the trans|lative impulse (pardon a new word, and yet we scholars are not fond of authenticating new words) came upon me uncalled for:

The Seaman, safe on shore, with joy doth tell What cruel dangers him at sea befell.

With these, Sir, and an hundred more, wise adages, which I have always at my fingers end, will I (when reduced to form and method) entertain Miss; and as she is a well-read, and (I might say, but for this one great error) a wise young Lady, I make no doubt but I shall prevail upon her, if not by mine own ar|guments, by those of wits and capacities that have a

congeniality (as I may say) to her own, to take heart,

—Nor of the laws of fate complain, Since, tho' it has been cloudy, now 't clears up again.—

Oh! what wisdom is there in these noble classical authors! A wise man will (upon searching into them) always find that they speak his sense of men and things. Hence it is, that they so readily occur to my memory on every occasion—Tho' this may look like vanity, it is too true to be omitted: And I see not why a man may not know those things of himself, which every-body seeth and saith of him; who, ne|vertheless, perhaps know not half so much as he, in other matters.

I know but of one objection, Sir, that can lie against my going; and that will arise from your kind care and concern for the safety of my person, in case that fierce and terrible man, the wicked Mr. Lovelace (of whom every one standeth in fear) should come cross me, as he may be resolved to try once more to gain a footing in Miss's affections: But I will trust in providence for my safety, while I shall be engaged in a cause so worthy of my function; and the more trust in it, as he is a learned man, as I am told.

Strange too, that so vile a Rake (I hope he will never see this!) should be a learned man; that is to say, that a learned man should find leisure to be a Rake. Altho', possibly, a learned man may be a sly sinner, and take opportunities, as they come in his way—Which, however, I do assure you, I never did.

I repeat, That as he is a learned man, I shall vest myself, as I may say, in classical armour; beginning meekly with him (for, Sir, bravery and meekness are qualities very consistent with each other, and in no per|sons so shiningly exert themselves, as in the Christian priesthood; beginning meekly with him, I say) from Ovid,

Corpora magnanimo satis est prostrâsse leoni:

So that, if I should not be safe behind the shield of mine own prudence, I certainly should behind the shields of the ever-admirable classics: Of Horace par|ticularly; who, being a Rake (and a jovial Rake too) himself, must have great weight with all learned Rakes.

And who knoweth but I may be able to bring even this Goliath in wickedness, altho' in person but a little David myself (armed with the slings and stones of the antient sages), to a due sense of his errors? And what a victory would that be!

I could here, Sir, pursuing the allegory of David and Goliath, give you some of the stones (Hard ar|guments may be called stones, since they knock down a pertinacious opponent) which I could pelt him with, were he to be wroth with me; and this in order to take from you, Sir, all apprehensions for my life, or my bones; but I forbear them till you demand them of me, when I have the honour to attend you in person.

And now (my dear Sir) what remaineth, but that, having shewn you (what yet, I believe, you did not doubt) how well qualified I am to attend the Lady wi••h the olive-branch, I beg of you to dispatch me with it out of hand? For if she be so very ill, and if she should not live to receive the grace, which (to my knowlege) all the worthy family design her, how much will that grieve you all! And then, Sir, of what avail will be the eulogies you shall all, per|adventure, join to give to her memory? For, as Martial wisely observeth,

—Post cineres gloria sera venit.

Then, as Ausonius layeth it down with equal pro|priety, that those favours, which are speedily con|ferred, are the most graceful and obliging—

And to the same purpose Ovid:

Gratia ab officio, quod mora tardat, abest.

And, Sir, whatever you do, let the Lady's par|don be as ample, and as chearfully given, as she can wish for it; that I may be able to tell her, that it hath your hands, your countenances, and your whole hearts, with it—For, as the Latin verse hath it (and I presume to think I have not weakened its sense by my humble advice)

Dat bene, dat multum, qui dat cum munere vultum.

And now, Sir, when I survey this long Letter (a) 19.2, (albeit I see it enamelled, as a beautiful meadow is enamelled by the spring or summer flowers, very glo|rious to behold!) I begin to be afraid, that I may have tired you; and the more likely, as I have written without that method or order, which think constituteth the beauty of good writing: Which me|thod or order, nevertheless, may be the better ex|cused in a familiar epistle (as this may be called), you pardoning, Sir, the familiarity of the word: But yet not altogether here, I must needs own; because this is a Letter, and not a Letter, as I may say; but a kind of short and pithy Discourse, touching upon various and sundry topics, every one of which might be a fit theme to enlarge upon, even to volumes: If this Epistolary Discourse (then let me call it) should be pleasing to you (as I am inclined to think it will, because of the sentiments and aphorisms of the wisest of the antients, which glitter thro' it like so many

dazling sun-beams), I will (at my leisure) work it up into a methodical Discourse; and perhaps may one day print it, with a dedication to my honoured patron (if, Sir, I have your leave) singly first (but not till I have thrown out anonymously two or three smaller things, by the success of which I shall have made myself of some account in the Commonwealth of Let|ters), and afterwards in my Works—Not for the vanity of the thing (however) I will say, but for the use it may be of to the public; for (as one well ob|serveth) Tho' glory always followeth virtue, yet it should be considered only as its shadow.

Contemnit laudem virtus, licet usque sequatur Gloria virtutem, corpus ut umbra suum.

A very pretty saying, and worthy of all mens ad|miration!

And now (most worthy Sir, my very good friend and patron) referring the whole to yours, and to your two Brothers, and to young Mr. Harlowe's con|sideration, and to the wise consideration of good Madam Harlowe, and her excellent Daughter Miss Arabella Harlowe; I take the liberty to subscribe myself, what I truly am, and ever shall delight to be, in all cases, and at all times,

Your and their most ready and obedient as well as faithful Servant, ELIAS BRAND.

Vol. vii. p. 267. l. 9. from the bottom, after whose more transient? insert,

Now, Lovelace, let me know if the word Grace can be re'd from my pen without a sneer from thee and thy associates? I own that once it sounded oddly in my ears. But I shall never forget what a grave man once said on this very word—That with him it was a

Rake's Shibboleth (a) 19.3. He had always hopes of one who could bear the mention of it without ridiculing it; and ever gave him up for an abandoned man, who made a jest of it, or of him who used it.

Don't be disgusted, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 344. l. 13. after thy wise consideration, insert,

Mr. Belford returns a very serious Answer to the preceding Letter; which appears not.

In it, he most heartily wishes that he had withstood Mr. Lovelace, whatever had been the conse|quence, in designs so elaborately-base and un|grateful, and so long and steadily pursued, against a Lady whose merit and innocence en|titled her to the protection of every man who had the least pretences to the title of a Gentle|man; and who deserved to be even the Public Care.

He most severely censures himself for his false no|tions of Honour to his Friend, on this head; and recollects what the Divine Lady, as he calls her, said to him on this very subject, as related by himself in his Letter to Lovelace, Vol. VI. p. 178, 179. to which Lovelace also (both Instigator and Accuser, refers, and to his own regret and shame on the occasion. He distinguishes, however, between an irreparable injury intended to a CLARISSA, and one designed to such of the Sex, as contribute by their weakness and indiscretion to their own fall, and thereby entitle themselves to a large share of the guilt which accompanies the crime.

He offers not, he says, to palliate or extenuate the crimes he himself has been guilty of: But la|ments, for Mr. Lovelace's own sake, that he gives him, with so ludicrous and unconcerned

an air, such solemn and useful Lessons and Warnings. Nevertheless, he resolves to make it his whole endeavour, he tells him, to render them efficacious to himself: And should think himself but too happy, if he shall be enabled to set him such an example, as may be a means to bring about the Reformation of a man so dear to him as he has always been, from the first of their acquaintance; and who is capable of think|ing so rightly and deeply; tho' at present to such little purpose, as makes his very Knowlege add to his Condemnation.

Vol. vii. p. 354. l. 8. after pursue his vengeance, insert,

And the rather, as thro' an absence of six years (high as just report, and the promises of her early youth from childhood, had raised her in his esteem) he could not till now know one half of her excel|lencies—Till now! that we have lost, for ever lost, the admirable creature!—

But I will force myself from the subject, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 357. l. 10. from the bottom, after all the authority with her that, dele the rest of that, and the following Paragraph; and read,

—A Mother ought to have. Miss Howe is indeed a woman of fine sense; but it requires a high degree of good understanding, as well as a sweet and gentle disposition of mind, and great discretion, in a child, when grown up, to let it be seen, that she mingles Reverence with her Love, to a Parent, who has ta|lents visibly inferior to her own.

Miss Howe is open, generous, noble. The Mother has not any of her fine qualities. Parents, in order to preserve their childrens veneration for them, should take great care not to let them see any-thing in their conduct, or behaviour, or principles, which they themselves would not approve of in others.

Mr. Hickman has, however, this consideration to comfort himself with; that the same vivacity by which he suffers, makes Miss Howe's own Mother, at times, equally sensible. And as he sees enough of this before-hand, he will have more reason to blame himself than the Lady, should she prove as lively a Wife, as she was a Mistress, for having continued his addresses, and married her, against such threatening appearances.

There is also another circumstance which good-na|tured men who engage with even lively women, may look forward to with pleasure; a circumstance which generally lowers the spirits of the Ladies, and dome|sticates them, as I may call it: And which, as it will bring those of Mr. Hickman and Miss Howe nearer to a par, that worthy gentleman will have double reason, when it happens to congratulate himself upon it.

But, after all, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 381. l. penult, after will confirm this, dele the four following Paragraphs; and read,

In her dress she was elegant beyond imitation; and generally led the fashion to all the Ladies round her without seeming to intend it, and without being proud of doing so.

She was rather tall, than of a midling stature; and had a dignity in her aspect and air, that bespoke the mind that animated every feature.

This native dignity, as I may call it, induced some superficial persons, who knew not how to account for the reverence which involuntarily filled their hearts on her appearance, to impute pride to her. But these were such as knew that they should have been proud of any one of her perfections: Judging therefore by their own narrowness, they thought it impossible that the Lady who possessed so many, should not think her|self superior to them all.

Indeed, I have heard her noble aspect found fault with, as indicating pride and superiority: But people

awed and controuled, tho' but by their own consci|ousness of inferiority, will find fault, right or wrong, with those of whose rectitude of mind and manners, their own culpable hearts give them to be afraid. But, in the bad sense of the word, Miss Clarissa Har|lowe knew not what pride was.

You may, if you touch upon this subject, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 383. l. 12. after to condemn it, insert,

Once I remember in a large circle of Ladies, every one of which [I among the rest] having censured a ge|nerally reported indiscretion in a young Lady—Come, my Miss Howe, said she [for we had agreed to take each other to task when either thought the other gave occasion for it; and when by blaming each other, we intended a general reprehension, which, as she used to say, it would appear arrogant or assuming to level more properly] let me be Miss Fanny Darling|ton. Then removing out of the circle, and standing up,—Here I stand, unworthy of a seat with the rest of the company, till I have cleared my self. And now, suppose me to be her, let me hear your charge, and do you hear what the poor culprit can say to it in her own defence. And then answering the conjectural and unproved circumstances, by circumstances as fairly to be supposed favourable, she brought off triumph|antly the censured Lady; and so much to every one's satisfaction, that she was led to her chair, and voted a double rank in the circle,—as the reinstated Miss Fanny Darlington, and as Miss Clarissa Harlowe.

'Very few persons, she used to say, would be con|demned, or even accused, in the circles of Ladies, were they present: It is generous therefore, nay, it is but just, said she, to take the part of the absent, if not flagrantly culpable.'

But tho' Wisdom was her birthright, as I may say, yet she had not lived years enow to pretend to so much experience, as to exempt her from the necessity of

sometimes altering her opinion both of persons and things: But, when she found herself obliged to do this, she took care that the particular instance of mis|taken worthiness in the person should not narrow or contract her almost universal charity into general doubt or jealousy. An instance of what I mean, occurs to my memory. You must every-where, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 383. dele the four last lines; and p. 384. line 9. after caution and prudence, insert,

Indeed, when she was convinced of any error or mis|take (however seemingly derogatory to her judgment and sagacity) no one was ever so acknowleging, so in|genuous, as she.

'It was a merit, she used to say, next in degree to that of having avoided error, frankly to own an error. And that the offering at an excuse in a blameable matter, was the undoubted mark of a disingenuous, if not of a perverse mind.'

But I ought to add, on this head [of her great cha|rity where character was concerned, and where there was room for charity] that she was always deservedly severe in her reprehensions of a wilful and studied vile|ness. How could she then forgive the wretch by whose premeditated villainy she was entangled?

If you mention, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 383. l. 22. after with him than before, insert,

And yet his behaviour before her was too specious, to have been very exceptionable to a woman who had a less share of that charming delicacy, and of that penetration, which so much distinguished her.

In obedience, &c.

Ibid. l. 7. from the bottom, after discard him for ever, insert,

She was an admirable mistress of all the graces of elocution. The hand she wrote, for the neat and

free cut of her letters (like her mind solid, and above all flourish) for its fairness, evenness, and swiftness, distinguished her as much as the correctness of her or|thography, and even punctuation, from the generality of her own Sex, and left her none amongst the most accurate of the other, who excelled her.

Her ingenuity, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 384. l. 27. after all natural beauty, insert,

Then, stiffened and starched [Let me add] into dry and indelectable affectation, one sort of these scholars assume a style as rough as frequently are their manners: They spangle over their productions with metaphors: They rumble into bombast: The sublime, with them, lying in words and not in sentiment, they fansy them|selves most exalted when least understood; and down they sit, fully satisfied with their own performances, and call them MASCULINE. While a second sort, aiming at wit, that wicked misleader, forfeit all title to judgment. And a third, sinking into the classical pits, there poke and scramble about, never seeking to shew genius of their own; all their lives spent in com|mon-place quotation; fit only to write Notes and Com|ments upon other peoples Texts; all their pride, that they know those beauties of two thousand years old in another tongue, which they can only admire, but not imitate, in their own.

And these, truly, must be learned men, and despisers of our insipid Sex!

But I need not mention the exceptions which my beloved friend always made [and to which I subscribe] in favour of men of sound learning, true taste, and ex|tensive abilities: Nor, in particular, her respect even to reverence for gentlemen of the cloth: Which, I dare say, will appear in every paragraph of her Letters where-ever any of the Clergy are mentioned. Indeed the pious Dr. Lewen, the worthy Dr. Blome, the in|genious

Mr. Arnold, and Mr. Tompkins, gentlemen whom she names in one article of her will, as learned Divines with whom she held an early correspondence, well deserved her respect; since to their conversation and correspondence she owed many of her valuable acquirements.

Nor were the little slights she would now-and-then (following, as I must own, my lead) put upon such mere scholars [And her stupid and pedantic Brother was one of those who deserved those slights] as despised not only our Sex, but all such as had not had their oppor|tunities of being acquainted with the Parts of Speech [I cannot speak low enough of such] and with the dead Languages, owing to that contempt, which some affect for what they have not been able to master; for she had an admirable facility in learning languages, and re'd with great ease both Italian and French. She had begun to apply herself to Latin; and having such a critical knowlege of her own tongue, and such a foun|dation from the two others, would soon have made herself an adept in it.

And one hint, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 385. l. 10. after what she acquires, dele the two next Paragraphs; and read,

'All that a woman can learn, she used to say [ex|patiating on this maxim, above the useful knowlege proper to her Sex, let her learn. This will shew that she is a good housewife of her time; and that she not a narrow or confined genius. But then let her not give up for these, those more necessary, and there|fore, not meaner, employments, which will qualify her to be a good Mistress of a family, a good Wife, and a good Mother: For what can be more disgrace|ful to a woman, than either, thro' negligence of dress, to be found to be a learned Slattern; or, thro' igno|rance of houshold-management, to be known to be a stranger to domestic oeconomy?'

Then would she instance to me two particular La|dies; one of which, while she was fond of giving her opinion, in the company of her Husband, and of his learned friends, upon doubtful or difficult passages in Virgil or Horace, knew not how to put on her cloaths with that necessary grace and propriety, which should preserve to her the love of her Husband, and the respect of every other person: While the other, af|fecting to be thought as learned as men, could find no better way to assert her pretensions, than by de|spising her own Sex, and by dismissing that charac|teristic delicacy, the loss of which no attainment can supply.

She would have it indeed, sometimes, from the frequent ill use learned Women make of that respect|able acquirement, that it was no great matter whether the Sex aimed at any-thing but excelling in the know|lege of the beauties and graces of their mother-tongue: And once she said, that this was field enough for a woman; and an ampler was but endangering her fa|mily usefulness. But I, who think our Sex inferior in nothing to the other, but in want of opportunities, of which the narrow-minded mortals industriously seek to deprive us, lest we should surpass them as much in what they chiefly value themselves upon, as we do in all the graces of a fine imagination, could never agree with her in that. And yet I was entirely of her opinion, that those women who were solicitous to obtain that knowlege or learning, which they sup|posed would add to their significance in sensible com|pany, and in their attainment of it imagined them|selves above all domestic usefulness, deservedly in|curred the contempt which they hardly ever failed to meet with.

Perhaps you will not think it amiss, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 385. l. 19. after who saw her in it, dele that and the following Paragraph; and read,

Her Grandfather, in honour of her dexterity, and of her skill in all the parts of the dairy-management, as well as of the elegance of the offices allotted for that use, would have his Seat, before known by the name of The Grove, to be called, The Dairy-house. She had an easy, convenient, and graceful habit made on purpose, which she put on when she employed herself in these works; and it was noted of her, that in the same hour that she appeared to be a most ele|gant Dairy-maid, she was, when called to a change of dress, the finest Lady that ever graced a circle.

Her Grandfather, Father, Mother, Uncles, Aunt, and even her Brother and Sister, made her frequent visits there, and were delighted with her silent ease, and unaffected behaviour in her works; for she always out of modesty chose rather the operative than the directive part, that she might not discourage the servant whose proper business it was.

Each was fond of taking a regale from her hands in her Dairy-house. Her Mother and Aunt Hervey generally admired her in silence, that they might not give uneasiness to her Sister; a spiteful, perverse, unimitating thing, who usually looked upon her all the time with speechless envy. Now-and-then, however, the pouting creature would suffer extorted and sparing praise to burst open her lips; though looking at the same time like Saul meditating the pointed javelin at the heart of David, the glory of his kingdom. And now, methinks, I see my Angel-friend (too superior to take notice of her gloom) courting her acceptance of the milk-white curd from hands more pure than that.

Her skill and dexterity in every branch of family management, seem to be the only excellence of her innumerable ones, which she owed to her family: Whose narrowness, immensely rich, and immensely

carking, put them upon indulging her in the turn she took to this part of knowlege; while her elder Sister affected dress without being graceful in it; and the Fine Lady, which she could never be; and which her Sister was without studying for it, or seeming to know she was so.

It was usual with the one Sister, when company was expected, to be half the morning dressing; while the other would give directions for the whole business and entertainment of the day; and then go up to her dressing-room, and, before she could well be missed, [having all her things in admirable order] come down fit to receive company, and with all that graceful ease and tranquillity as if she had had nothing else to think of.

Long after her [hours perhaps of previous prepa|ration having passed] down would come rustling and bustling the tawdry and aukward Bella, disordering more her native disorderliness at the sight of her serene Sister, by her sullen envy, to see herself so much surpassed with such little pains, and in a sixth part of the time.

Yet was this admirable creature mistress of all these domestic qualifications without the least intermixture of narrowness. She knew how to distinguish between Frugality, a necessary virtue, and Niggardliness, an odious vice: And used to say,

'That to define Gene|rosity, it must be called the happy medium betwixt parsimony and profusion.'

She was the most graceful Reader I ever knew. She added by her melodious voice graces to those she found in the parts of books she re'd-out to her friends; and gave grace and significance to others where they were not. She had no tone, no whine. Her accent was always admirably placed. The em|phasis she always forcibly laid, as the subject required. No buskin-elevation, no tragedy-pomp, could mis|lead her; and yet poetry was poetry indeed, when she re'd it.

But if her voice was melodious when she re'd, it was all harmony when she sung. And the delight she gave by that, and by her skill and great compass, was heightened by the ease and gracefulness of her air and manner, and by the alacrity with which she obliged.

Nevertheless she generally chose rather to hear others sing or play, than either to play or sing her|self.

She delighted to give praise where deserved: Yet she always bestowed it in such a manner, as gave not the least suspicion that she laid out for a return of it to herself, tho' so universally allowed to be her due.

She had a talent of saying uncommon things in such an easy manner, that every-body thought they could have said the same; and which yet required both genius and observation to say them.

Even severe things appeared gentle, tho' they lost not their force, from the sweetness of her air and ut|terance, and the apparent benevolence of her pur|pose.

We form the truest judgment of persons, by their behaviour on the most familiar occasions. I will give an instance or two of the correction she favoured me with on such a one.

When very young, I was guilty of the fault of those who want to be courted to sing. She cured me of it, at the first of our happy intimacy, by her own ex|ample; and by the following correctives, occasi|onally, yet privately enforced.

'Well, my dear, shall we take you at your word? Shall we suppose, that you sing but indifferently? Is not, however, the act of obliging (the company so worthy!) preferable to the talent of singing? And shall not young Ladies endeavour to make up for their defects in one part of education, by their ex|cellence in another?'

Again,

'You must convince us, by attempting to sing, that you cannot sing; and then we will rid

you, not only of present, but of future importunity.'

—An indulgence, however, let me add, that but tolerable singers do not always wish to meet with.

Again,

'I know you will favour us by-and-by; and what do you by your excuses, but raise our expecta|tions, and enhance your own difficulties?'

At another time,

'Has not this accomplishment been a part of your education, my Nancy? How then, for your own honour, can we allow of your excuses?'

And I once pleading a cold, the usual pretence of those who love to be entreated—

'Sing, however, my dear, as well as you can. The greater the difficulty to you, the higher the compliment to the company. Do you think you are among those who know not how to make allowances? You should sing, my Love, lest there should be any-body present who may think your excuses owing to affectation.'

At another time, when I had truly observed, that a young Lady present sung better than I; and that therefore I chose not to sing before that Lady—'Fie!' said she (drawing me on one side)

'Is not this pride, my Nancy? Does it not look as if your principal motive to oblige, was to obtain applause? A gene|rous mind will not scruple to give advantage to a per|son of merit, tho' not always to her own advantage. And yet she will have a high merit in doing that. Supposing this excelling person absent, who, my dear, if your example spread, shall sing after you? You know every one else must be but as a foil to you. Indeed I must have you as much superior to other Ladies in these smaller points, as you are in greater.'

—So she was pleased to say, to shame me.

She was as much above Reserve, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 385. l. 6. from the bottom, after the sweet instructress, dele the two next Paragraphs; and read,

She had a pretty hand at drawing, which she ob|tained

with a very little instruction. Her time was too much taken up, to allow, tho' to so fine an art, the attention which was necessary to make her greatly excel in it: And she used to say,

'That she was afraid of aiming at too many things, for fear she should not be tolerable at any-thing?'

For her years, and her opportunities, she was an extraordinary judge of Painting. In this, as in every|thing else, Nature was her Art, her Art was Nature. She even prettily performed in it. Her Grandfather, for this reason, bequeathed to her all the family pic|tures. Charming was her fancy: Alike sweet and easy was every touch of her pencil and her pen. Yet her judgment exceeded her performance. She did not practise enough to excel in the executive part. She could not in every-thing excel. But, upon the whole, she knew what every subject required, according to the nature of it: In other words, was an absolute Mistress of the should-be.

To give a familiar instance, for the sake of young Ladies; she (untaught) observed when but a child, that the Sun, Moon, and Stars, never appeared at once; and were therefore never to be in one piece: That bears, tygers, lions, were not natives of an English climate, and should not therefore have place in an English landschape: That these ravagers of the forest consorted not with lambs, kids, or fawns: Nor kites, hawks, and vulturs, with doves, partridges, and pheasants.

And, alas! she knew, before she was nineteen years of age, by fatal experience she knew! that all these beasts and birds of prey were outdone in trea|cherous cruelty by MAN! Vile, barbarous, plotting, destructive MAN! who, infinitely less excuseable than those, destroys thro' wantonness and sport, what those only destroy thro' hunger and necessity!

The mere pretenders to those branches of Science which she aimed at acquiring, she knew how to detect;

and all from Nature. Propriety, another word for Na|ture, was (as I have hinted) her Law, as it is the foundation of all true judgment. But nevertheless, she was always uneasy, if what she said exposed those pre|tenders to knowlege, even in their absence, to the ridi|cule of lively spirits.

Let the modern Ladies, who have not any one of her excellent qualities; whose whole time, in the short days they generally make, and in the inverted night and day, where they make them longer, is wholly spent in dress, visits, cards, plays, operas, and musical entertainments; wonder at what I have written, and shall further write: And let them look upon it as an incredible thing, that when, at a maturer age, they cannot boast one of her perfections, there should have been a Lady so young, who had so many.

These must be such as know not how she employ'd her time; and cannot form the least idea of what may be done in those hours, in which they lie enveloped with the shades of death, as she used to call sleep.

But before I come to mention the distribution she usually made of her time, let me say a few words upon another subject, in which she excelled all the young Ladies I ever knew.

This was her skill in almost all sorts of fine Needle-works: Of which, however, I shall say the less, since possibly you will find it mentioned in some of the Letters.

That piece which she bequeaths, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 386. l. 17. after and not presents, dele to the words against playing high; and read,

As to her diversions, the accomplishments and ac|quirements she was mistress of, will shew, what they must have been. She was far from being fond of Cards, the fashionable foible of modern Ladies: Nor, as will be easily perceived from what I have said, and more from what I shall further say, had she much time for

Play. She never therefore promoted their being called for; and often insensibly diverted the Company from them, by starting some entertaining subject, when she could do it without incurring the imputation of parti|cularity.

Indeed very few of her intimates would propose Cards, if they could engage her to read, to talk, to touch the keys, or to sing, when any new book, or new piece of music, came down. But when company was so numerous, that conversation could not take that agreeable turn which it oftenest does among four or five friends of like years and inclinations, and it be|came in a manner necessary to detach off some of it, to make the rest better company, she would not refuse to play, if, upon casting-in, it fell to her lot. And then she shewed, that her disrelish to cards was the effect of choice only; and that she was an easy mistress of every genteel game played with them. But then she always declared against playing high. Except for trifles, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 386. l. 9. from the bottom, after what is our neighbour's, dele the four next Paragraphs; and read,

She was exceedingly charitable; the only one of her family that knew the meaning of the word: And this with regard both to the souls and the bodies of those who were the well-chosen objects of her benevolence. She kept a list of these, whom she used to call her Poor, entering one upon it, as another was provided for, by death, or any other way: But always made a reserve, nevertheless, for unforeseen cases, and for acci|dental distresses. And it must be owned, that in the prudent distribution of them, she had neither Example nor Equal.

The Aged, the Blind, the Lame, the Widow, the Orphan, the unsuccessful Industrious, were particularly the objects of it; and the contributing to the schooling

of some, to the putting out to trades and husbandry the children of others of the labouring or needy poor, aod setting them forward at the expiration of their ser|vitude, were her great delights; as was the giving good books to others, and, when she had opportunity, the instructing the poorer sort of her honest neighbours, and Father's tenants, in the use of them.

'That charity, she used to say, which provides for the morals, as well as for the bodily wants of the poor, gives a double benefit to the Public, as it adds to the number of the hopeful, what it takes from that of the profligate. And can there be, in the eyes of that God, she was wont to say, who requires nothing so much from us as acts of beneficence to one another, a charity more worthy?'

Her Uncle Antony, when he came to settle in Eng|land, with his vast fortune obtained in the Indies, used to say,

'This girl by her charities will bring down a blessing upon us all.'

And it must be owned they trusted pretty much to this presumption.

But I need not say more on this head; nor perhaps was it necessary to say so much; since the charitable be|quests in her Will sufficiently set forth her excellence in this branch of duty.

She was extremely moderate in her diet.

'Quan|tity in food,' she used to say, was more to be re|garded 'than quality: That a full meal was the great enemy both to study and industry: That a well-built house required but little repairs.'

By this moderation in her diet, she enjoyed, with a delicate frame of body, a fine state of health; was always serene, lively; chearful of course. And I ne|ver knew but of one illness she had; and that was by a violent cold caught in an open chaise, by a sudden storm of hail and rain, in a place where was no shel|ter; and which threw her into a fever, attended with dangerous symptoms, that no doubt were lightened by her temperance; but which gave her friends,

who then knew her value, infinite apprehensions for her (a) 19.4.

In all her Readings, and in her Conversations upon them, she was fonder of finding beauties than blemishes, and chose to applaud both Authors and Books, where she could find the least room for it. Yet she used to lament, that certain writers of the first class, who were capable of exalting virtue, and of putting vice out of countenance, too generally employed themselves in works of imagination only, upon subjects merely specula|tive, disinteresting, and unedifying; from which no useful moral or example could be drawn.

But she was a severe Censurer of pieces of a light or indecent turn, which had a tendency to corrupt the morals of youth, to convey polluted images, or to wound religion, whether in itself, or thro' the sides of its professors, and this whoever were the authors, and how admirable soever the execution. She often pitied the celebrated Dr. Swift for so employing his admirable pen, that a pure eye was afraid of looking into his works, and a pure ear of hearing any-thing quoted from them. 'Such authors,' she used to say,

'were nor hones•• to their own talents, nor grateful to the God who gave them.'

Nor would she, on these oc|casions, admit their beauties as a palliation; on the contrary, she held it as an aggravation of their crime,

that they who were so capable of mending the heart, should in any places shew a corrupt one in themselves; which must weaken the influences of their good works, and pull down with one hand what they built up with the other.

All she said, and all she did, was accompanied with a natural ease and dignity, which set her above affect|ation, or the suspicion of it; insomuch that that de|grading fault, so generally imputed to a learned woman, was never laid to her charge. For, with all her excel|lencies, she was forwarder to hear than speak; and hence no doubt derived no small part of her improvement.

Altho' she was well read in the English, French, and Italian Poets, and had read the best translations of the Latin Classics; yet seldom did she quote or repeat from them, either in her Letters or Conversation, tho' exceedingly happy in a tenacious memory; principally thro' modesty, and to avoid the imputation of that affectation which I have just mentioned.

Mr. Wyerley once said of her, she had such a fund of knowlege of her own, and made naturally such fine observations upon persons and things, being capable by the Egg [that was his familiar expression] of judging of the BIRD, that she had seldom either room or ne|cessity for foreign assistances.

But it was plain from her whole conduct and beha|viour, that she had not so good an opinion of herself, however deserved; since, whenever she was urged to give her sentiments on any subject, altho' all she thought fit to say was clear and intelligible; yet she seemed in haste to have done speaking. Her reason for it, I know, was two-fold; That she might not lose the benefit of other peoples sentiments, by engrossing the conversation; and lest, as were her words, she should be praised into loquaciousness, and so forfeit the good opinion which a person always maintains with her friends, who knows when she has said enough.— It was, finally, a rule with her,

'to leave her hearers

wishing her to say more, rather than to give them cause to shew, by their inattention, an uneasiness that she had said so much.—'

You are curious to know, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 387. l. 25. after Age and Sex, insert,

Her Sex, did I say? What honour to the other does this imply! When one might challenge the proudest Pedant of them all, to say he has been disciplined into greater improvement than she had made from the mere force of genius and application. But it is demonstra|ble to all who know how to make observations on their acquaintance of both Sexes, arrogant as some are of their superficialities, that a Lady at Eighteen, take the world thro', is more prudent and conversable than a man at Twenty-five. I can prove this by Nineteen instances out of Twenty in my own knowlege. Yet how do these poor boasters value themselves upon the advan|tages their education gives them! Who has not seen some one of them, just come from the University, dis|dainfully smile at a mistaken or ill-pronounced word from a Lady, when her sense has been clear, and her sentiments just; and when he could not himself utter a single sentence fit to be repeated, but what he borrowed from the authors he had been obliged to study, as a painful exercise to slow and creeping parts? But how I digress!

This excellent young Lady used to say, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 390. l. 12. after dispensed with her rules, insert,

—in mere indulgence to my foibles, and idler habits; for I also (tho' I had the benefit of an example I so much admired) am too much of a Modern. Yet, as to morn|ing Risings, I had corrected myself by such a prece|dent in the summer-time; and can witness to the be|nefit I found by it in my health; as also to the many use|ful things I was enabled by that means with ease and pleasure to perform. And in her Account-Book, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 390. l. 6. from the bottom, after for my re|ward, dele the next Paragraph; and read,

I had indeed too much impatience in my temper, to observe such a regularity in accounting between me and myself. I satisfied myself in a Lump Account, as I may call it, if I had nothing greatly wrong to reproach myself with, when I looked back on a past week, as she had taught me to do.

For she used indulgently to say,

'I do not think ALL I do necessary for another to do: Nor even for myself: But when it is more pleasant to me to keep such an account, than to let it alone; why may I not proceed in my supererogatories?—There can be no harm in it. It keeps up my attention to accounts; which one day may be of use to me in more material instances. Those who will not keep a strict account, seldom long keep any. I neglect not more useful em|ployments for it. And it teaches me to be covetous of Time; the only thing of which we can be allow|ably covetous; since we live but once in this world; and when gone, are gone from it for ever.'

She always reconciled the necessity under which these interventions, as she called them, laid her, of now-and-then breaking into some of her appropriations; saying,

'There was good sense, and good manners too, in the common lesson, When at Rome, do as they do at Rome: And that to be easy of persuasion, in matters where one could oblige without endangering virtue, or worthy habits, was an Apostolical excellency; since, if a person conformed with a view of making herself an interest in her friend's affecti••ns, in order to be heeded in greater points, it was imitating his example, who became all things to all men, that he might gain some.'

Nor is it to be doubted, had life been spared her, that the sweetness of her temper, and her chearful piety, would have made Virtue and Re|ligion appear so lovely, that her example would have

had no small influence upon the minds and manners of those who would have had the honour of conversings with her.

O Mr. Belford! &c.

Vol. vii. p. 416. dele the two last paragraphs; and read,

And still the less, as the inconsolable Mother rested not, till she had procured, by means of Colonel Mor|den, large extracts from some of the Letters that com|pose this History, which convinced them all, that the very correspondence which Clarissa, while with them, renewed with Mr. Lovelace, was renewed for their sakes, more than for her own: That she had given him no encouragement contrary to her duty, and to that prudence for which she was so early noted: That had they trusted to a discretion which they owned she had never brought into question, she would have extricated them and herself (as she once proposed (a) 19.5 to her Mo|ther) from all difficulties as to Lovelace: That she, if any woman ever could, would have given a glorious instance of a passion conquered, or at least kept under, by Reason, and by Piety, the man being too immoral to be implicitly beloved.

The unhappy Parents and Uncles, from the perusal of these Extracts, too evidently for their peace, saw, That it was entirely owing to the avarice, the ambi|tion, the envy of her implacable Brother and Sister, and to the senseless confederacy entered into by the whole family, to compel her to give her hand to a man she must despise, or she had not been a CLARISSA, and to their consequent persecutions of her, that she ever thought of quitting her Father's house: And that even when she first entertained such a thought, it was with intent, if possible, to procure for herself a private asylum with Mrs. Howe, or at some other place of safety (but not with Mr. Lovelace, nor with any of the

Ladies of his family, tho' invited by the latter) from whence she might propose terms which ought to have been complied with, and which were entirely consistent with her duty—That tho' she found herself disappointed of the hoped-for refuge and protection, she intended not by meeting Mr. Lovelace, to put herself into his power; all that she aimed at by taking that step, being to endeavour to pacify so fierce a spirit, lest he should (as he indeed was determined to do) pay a visit to her friends which might have been attended with fatal con|sequences; but was spirited away by him in such a manner, as made her an object of pity, rather than of blame.

These Extracts further convinced them all, that it was to her unaffected regret, that she found, that Mar|riage was not in her power afterwards for a long time; and at last, but on one occasion, when their unnatural cruelty to her (on a new application she had made to her Aunt Hervey, to procure mercy and pardon) ren|dered her incapable of receiving his proffer'd hand; and so obliged her to suspend the day; intending only to suspend it, till recovered.

They saw, with equal abhorrence of Lovelace, and of their own cruelty, and with the highest admiration of her, That the majesty of her virtue had awed the most daring spirit in the world, so that he durst not attempt to carry his base designs into execution, till, by wicked potions, he had made her senses the previous sacrifice.

But how did they in a manner adore her memory! How did they recriminate upon each other! when they found, that she had not only preserved herself from repeated outrage, by the most glorious and in|trepid behaviour, in defiance, and to the utter confu|sion, of all his Libertine notions; but had the forti|tude, constantly, and with a noble disdain, to reject Him.—Whom?—Why, the Man she once could have loved, kneeling for pardon, and begging to be per|mitted

to make her the best reparation then in his power to make her; that is to say, by Marriage. His fortunes high and unbroken. She his prisoner at the time in a vile house: Rejected by all her friends; upon repeated application to them, for mercy and for|giveness, rejected—Mercy and forgiveness, and a last blessing, afterwards imploring; and that as much to lighten their future remorses, as for the comfort of her own pious heart—Yet, tho' savagely refused, on a supposition that she was not so near her End, as was represented, departed, forgiving and blessing them all.

Then they recollected, that her posthumous Let|ters, instead of reproaches, were filled with comfort|ings: That she had in her Last Will, in their own way, laid obligations upon them all; obligations which they neither deserved nor expected; as if she thought to repair the injustice which self-partiality made some of them conclude done to them by her Grandfather in his Will.

These intelligences and recollections were perpetual subjects of recrimination to them: Heightened their anguish for the loss of a child who was the glory of their family; and not seldom made them shun each other (at the times they were accustomed to meet to|gether) that they might avoid the mutual reproaches of Eyes that spoke, when Tongues were silent— Their stings also sharpened by time; what an un|happy family was This! Well might Colonel Mor|den, in the words of Juvenal, challenge all other miserable families to produce such a growing distress as that of the Harlowes (a few months before so happy!) were able to produce.

Humani generis mores tibi nôsse volenti Sufficit una domus: paucos consume dies, & Dicere te miserum, postquam illinc veneris, aude.

Mrs. HARLOWE lived about two years and an half, after the lamented death of her CLARISSA.

Mr. HARLOWE had the additional affliction to survive his Lady about half a year; her death, by new-pointing his former anguish and remorse, hasten|ing his own.

Both, in their last hours, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 419. l. 5. after names and families, dele the following Paragraph; and read,

As those Sisters in iniquity, SALLY MARTIN and POLLY HORTON, had abilities and education superior to what creatures of their cast generally can boast of; and as their Histories are no-where given in the pre|ceding Papers, in which they are frequently mentioned; it cannot fail of gratifying the reader's curiosity, as well as answering the good ends designed by the publica|tion of this Work, to give a brief account of their Parentage, and manner of Training-up, preparative to the vile courses they fell into, and of what became of them, after the dreadful exit of the infamous Sinclair.

SALLY MARTIN was the Daughter of a substantial Mercer at the Court end of the town; to whom her Mother, a Grocer's Daughter in the city, brought a handsome fortune; and both having a gay turn, and being fond of the fashions which it was their business to promote; and which the wives and daughters of the uppermost tradesmen (especially in that quarter of the town) generally affect to follow; it was no wonder that they brought up their Daughter accordingly: Nor that she, who was a very sprightly and ready-witted girl, and reckoned very pretty and very genteel, should every year improve upon such examples.

She early found herself mistress of herself. All she did was right: All she said was admired. Early, very early, did she dismiss blushes from her cheek. She could not blush, because she could not doubt: And silence, whatever were the subject, was as much a stranger to her, as diffidence.

She never was left out of any party of pleasure, after she had passed her Ninth year; and, in honour of her prattling vein, was considered as a principal person in the frequent Treats and Entertainments which her parents, fond of luxurious living, gave with a view to encrease their acquaintance for the sake of their businese. Not duly reflecting, that the part they suffered her to take in what made for their interest, would probably be a means to quicken the appetites and ruin the morals of that Daughter, for whose sake, as an only child, they were solicitous to obtain wealth.

The CHILD so much a Woman, what must the WOMAN be?

At Fifteen or Sixteen, she affected, both in dress and manners, to ape such of the quality, as were most Apish. The richest silks in her Father's shop were not too rich for her. At all public diversions, she was the leader, instead of the led, of all her fe|male kindred and acquaintance; tho' they were a third older than herself. She would bustle herself into a place, and make room for her more bashful companions, through the frowns of the first possessors, at a crouded theatre; leaving every one near her amazed at her self-consequence, wondering she had no servant to keep place for her; whisperingly en|quiring who she was; and then sitting down ad|miring her fortitude.

She officiously made herself of consequence to the most noted Players; who, as one of their patronesses, applied to her for her interest, on their Benefit-nights. She knew the Christian, as well as Sur-Name of every pretty fellow who frequented public places; and affected to speak of them by their former.

Those who had not obeyed the call her eyes al|ways made upon all of them for notice at her en|trance, or before she took her seat, were spoken of with haughtiness, as, Jack's, or Tom's; while her

favourites, with an affectedly-endearing familiarity, and a prettiness of accent, were Jackeys and Tom|mys; and if they stood very high in her graces, Dear Devils, and Agreeable Toads.

She sat in judgment, and an inexorable judge she was, upon the actions and conduct of every man and woman of quality and fashion, as they became the subjects of conversation. She was deeply learned in the scandalous Chronicle: She made every character, every praise, and every censure, serve to exalt herself. She should scorn to do so or so!—Or, That was ever her way; and just what she did, or liked to do; and judging herself by the vileness of the most vile of her Sex, she wiped her mouth, and sat down satisfied witli her own virtue.

She had her Chair to attend her where-ever she went, and found people among her Betters, as her pride stooped to call some of the most insignificant people in the world, to encourage her visits.

She was practised in all the arts of the Card-table: A true Spartan girl; and had even courage, occasion|ally, to wrangle off a detection. Late hours (turn|ing night into day, and day into night) were the al|most unavoidable consequence of her frequent play. Her parents pleased themselves that their Sally had a charming constitution: And as long as she suffered not in her health, they were regardless of her morals.

The Needle she hated: And made the constant subjects of her ridicule the fine works that used to employ, and to keep out of idleness, luxury, and ex|travagance, and at home (were they to have been of no other service) the women of the last age, when there were no Vaux-halls, Ranelaghs, Marybones, and such-like places of diversion, to dress out for, and gad after.

And as to Family-management, her parents had not required any knowlege of that sort from her; and she considered it as a qualification only necessary

for hirelings, and the low-born, and as utterly un|worthy of the attention of a modern fine Lady.

Altho' her Father had great business, yet, living in so high and expensive a way, he pretended not to give her a fortune answerable to it. Neither he nor his Wife, having set out with any notion of frugality, could think of retrenching. Nor did their Daughter desire that they should retrench. They thought glare or ostentation reputable. They called it living gen|teelly. And as they lifted their heads above their neighbours, they supposed their credit concerned to go forward rather than backward in outward appearances. They flattered themselves, and they flattered their girl, and she was entirely of their opinion, that she had charms and wit enough to attract some man of rank; of Fortune at least: And yet this Daughter of a Mercer-Father and Grocer-Mother could not bear the thoughts of a creeping Cit; encouraging herself with the few instances (comparatively few) which she had always in her head as common ones, of girls much inferior to her|self in station, talents, education, and even fortune, who had succeeded—as she doubted not to succeed. Handsome Settlements, and a Chariot, that tempting gewgaw to the vanity of the middling class of females, were the least that she proposed to herself. But all this while, neither her parents nor herself considered, that she had appetites indulged to struggle with, and a turn of education given her, as well as a warm constitution, unguarded by sound principles, and unbenefited by example, which made her much better qualified for a Mistress than a Wife.

Her Twentieth year, to her own equal wonder and regret, passed over her head, and she had not had one offer that her pride would permit her to accept of. A girl from Fifteen to Eighteen, her beauty then begin|ning to blossom, will, as a new thing, attract the eyes of men: But if she make her face cheap at public places, she will find, that new faces will draw more at|tention

than fine faces constantly seen. Policy there|fore, if nothing else were considered, would induce a young Beauty, if she could tame her vanity, just to shew herself, and to be talked of, and then withdraw|ing, as if from discretion (and discreet it will be to do so) expect to be sought after, rather than to be thought to seek for; only reviving now-and-then the memory of herself, at the public places in turn, if she find her|self likely to be forgotten; and then she will be new again. But this observation ought young Ladies al|ways to have in their heads, that they can hardly ever expect to gratify their vanity, and at the same time gain the admiration of men worthy of making partners for life. They may, in short, have many admirers at public places, but not one Lover.

Sally Martin knew nothing of this doctrine. Her beauty was in its bloom, and yet she found her|self neglected.

'Sally Martin, the Mercer's Daughter: she never fails being here;'

was the answer, and the accompanying observation, made to every Questioner, Who is that Lady?

At last, her destiny approached. It was at a Mas|querade, that she first saw the gay, the handsome Love|lace, who was just returned from his travels. She was immediately struck with his figure, and with the bril|liant things that she heard fall from his lips as he hap|pened to sit near her. He, who was not then looking out for a Wife, was taken with Sally's smartness, and with an air that at the same time shewed her to be equally genteel and self-significant; and signs of ap|probation mutually passing, he found no difficulty in acquainting himself where to visit her next day. And yet it was some mortification to a person of her self-consequence, and gay appearance, to submit to be known by so fine a young gentleman as no more than a Mercer's daughter. So natural is it for a girl brought up as Sally was, to be occasionally ashamed of those whose folly had set her above herself.

But whatever it might be to Sally, it was no disap|pointment to Mr. Lovelace, to find his Mistress of no higher degree; because he hoped to reduce her soon to the lowest condition that an unhappy woman can fall into.

But when Miss Martin had informed herself, that her Lover was the Nephew and presumptive Heir of Lord M. she thought him the very man for whom she had been so long and so impatiently looking out; and for whom it was worth her while to spread her toils. And here it may not be amiss to observe, that it is very probable, that Mr. Lovelace had Sally Martin in his thoughts, and perhaps two or three more whose hopes of marriage from him had led them to their ruin, when he drew the following whimsical picture, in a Letter to his friend Belford, not inserted in the preceding Collection.

'Methinks, says he, I see a young couple in court|ship, having each a design upon the other: The girl plays off: She is very happy as she is: She cannot be happier: She will not change her single state: The man, I will suppose, is one who does not confess, that he desires not that she should: She holds ready a net under her apron; he another under his coat; each intending to throw it over the other's neck; she over his, when her pride is gratified, and she thinks she can be sure of him; he over hers, when the watched-for yielding moment has carried consent too far—And suppose he happens to be the more dextrous of the two, and whips his net over her, before she can cast hers over him; how, I would fain know, can she be justly entitled to cry out upon cruelty, barbarity, deception, sacrifices, and all the rest of the exclama|tory nonsense with which the pretty fools, in such a case, are wont to din the ears of their conquerors? Is it not just, thinkest thou, when she makes her ap|peals to gods and men, that both gods and men should laugh at her, and hitting her in the teeth with her

own felonious intentions, bid her sit down patiently under her deserved disappointment?'

In short, Sally's parents, as well as herself, encou|raged Mr. Lovelace's visits. They thought they might trust to a discretion in her which she herself was too wise to doubt. Pride they knew she had. And that, in these cases, is often called discretion —Lord help the Sex, says Lovelace, if they had not Pride!—Nor did they suspect danger from that specious air of sin|cerity, and gentleness of manners, which he could as|sume or lay aside whenever he pleased.

The second Masquerade, which was no more than their third meeting abroad, completed her ruin, from so practised, tho' so young a deceiver; and that before she well knew she was in danger: For, having pre|vailed on her to go off with him about Twelve o'clock to his Aunt Forbes's, a Lady of honour and fortune, to whom he had given reason to expect her future Niece [the only hint of Marriage he ever gave her], he carried her to the house of the wicked woman, who bears the name of Sinclair in these Papers: And there, by promises which she understood in the favourable sense (for where a woman loves, she seldom doubts enough for her own safety) obtained an easy conquest over a virtue that was little more than nominal.

He found it not difficult to induce her to proceed in the guilty commerce, till the effects of it became too apparent to be hid. Her Parents then (in the first fury of their disappointment, and vexation for being deprived of all hopes of such a Son-in-law) turned her out of doors.

Her disgrace thus published, she became hardened; and, protected by her seducer, whose favourite Mistress she then was, she was so incensed against her Parents, for an indignity so little suiting with her pride, and the head they had always given her, that she refused to re|turn to them, when, repenting of their passonate treat|ment of her, they would have been reconciled to her:

And, becoming the favourite Daughter of her Mother Sinclair, at the persuasions of that abandoned woman, she practised to bring on an abortion, which she ef|fected, tho' she was so far gone, that it had like to have cost her her life.

Thus, unchastity her first crime, murder her next, her conscience became seared; and, young as she was, and fond of her deceiver, soon grew indelicate enough, having so thorough-paced a School-mistress, to do all she could to promote the pleasures of the man who had ruined her; scrupling not, with a spirit truly diabo|lical, to endeavour to draw in others to follow her example. And it is hardly to be believed what mis|chiefs of this sort she was the means of effecting; woman confiding in, and daring woman; and she a creature of specious appearance, and great art.

A still viler wickedness, if possible, remains to be said of Sally Martin.

Her Father dying, her Mother, in hopes to reclaim her, as she called it, proposed to her to quit the house of the infamous Sinclair, and to retire with her into the country, where her disgrace, and her then wicked way of live, would not be known; and there so to life, as to save appearances; the only virtue she had ever taught her; besides that of endeavouring rather to delude than to be deluded.

To this Sally consented; but with no other in|tention, as she often owned (and gloried in it) than to cheat her Mother of the greatest part of her sub|stance, in revenge for consenting to her being turned out of doors long before, and by way of reprisal for having persuaded her Father, as she would have it, to cut her off, in his last Will, from any share in his fortune.

This unnatural wickedness, in half a year's time, she brought about; and then the Serpent retired to her obscene den with her spoils, laughing at what she had done; even after it had broken her Mother's

heart, as it did in a few months time: A severe, but just punishment for the unprincipled education she had given her.

It ought to be added, that this was an iniquity, of which neither Mr. Lovelace, nor any of his friends, could bear to hear her boast; and always check'd her for it whenever she did; condemning it with one voice: And it is certain, that this and other instances of her complicated wickedness, turned early Love|lace's heart against her; and, had she not been sub|servient to him in his other pursuits, he would not have endured her: For, speaking of her, he would say, Let not any one reproach us, Jack: There is no wickedness like the wickedness of a woman (a) 19.6.

A bad education was the preparative, it must be confessed: And for this Sally Martin had reason to thank her Parents: As they had reason to thank themselves, for what followed: But, had she not met with a Lovelace, she had avoided a Sinclair; and might have gone on at the common rate of wives so educated; and been the Mother of children turned out to take their chance in the world, as she was; so many lumps of soft was, fit to take any impression that the first accident gave them; neither happy, nor making happy; every-thing but useful; and well off, if not extremely miserable.

POLLY HORTON was the Daughter of a gentle|woman well descended; whose Husband, a man of family, and of honour, was a Captain in the Guards.

He died when Polly was about Nine years of age, leaving her to the care of her Mother, a lively young Lady of about Twenty-six; with a genteel provision for both.

Her Mother was extremely fond of her Polly; but had it not in herself to manifest the true, the genuine fondness of a Parent, by a strict and guarded educa|tion; dressing out, and visiting, and being visited by

the gay of her own Sex, and casting out her eye abroad, as one very ready to try her fortune again in the married state.

This induced those airs, and a love to those diver|sions, which make a young widow, of so lively a turn, the unfittest Tutress in the world, even to her own Daughter.

Mrs. Horton herself having had an early turn to Music, and that sort of Reading, which is but an earlier debauchery for young minds, preparative to the grosser at riper years, to wit, Romances and No|vels, Songs and Plays, and those without distinction, moral or immoral, she indulged her Daughter in the same taste; and at those hours, when they could not take part in the more active and lively amusements and Kill-times, as some call them, used to employ Miss to read to her; happy enough in her own ima|gination, that, while she was diverting her own ears, and sometimes, as the piece was, corrupting her own heart, and her childs too, she was teaching Miss to read, and improve her mind; for it was the boast of every tea-table half-hour, That Miss Horton, in pro|priety, accent, and emphasis, surpassed all the young Ladies of her age: And, at other times, compliment|ing the pleased Mother—Bless me, Madam, with what a surprising grace Miss Horton reads!—She enters into the very spirit of her subject—This she could have from nobody but you! An intended praise; but, as the subjects were, would have been a severe satire in the mouth of an enemy! —While the fond, the inconsiderate Mother, with a delighted air, would cry, Why, I cannot but say, Miss Horton does credit to her Tutress! And then a Come-hither, my best Love! And, with a kiss of approbation, What a pleasure to your dear Papa, had he lived to see your improvements, my Charmer!—Concluding with a sigh of satisfaction; her eyes turning round upon the circle, to take in all the silent applauses of theirs!

But little thought the fond, the foolish Mother, what the plant would be, which was springing up from these seeds! Little imagined she, that her own ruin, as well as her child's, was to be the consequence of this fine education; and that, in the same ill-fated hour, the honour both of Mother and Daughter was to become a sacrifice to the intriguing Invader.

This the laughing girl, when abandoned to her evil destiny, and in company with her Sister Sally, and others, each recounting their settings-out, their progress, and their fall, frequently related to be her education and manner of training-up.

This, and to see a succession of Humble Servants buzzing about a Mother, who took too much pride in addresses of that kind, what a beginning, what an example, to a constitution of tinder, so prepared to receive the spark struck from the steely forehead, and flinty heart, of such a Libertine, as at last it was their fortune to be encountered by!

In short, as Miss grew up under the influ|ences of such a Directress, and of books so light and frothy, with the inflaming additions of Mu|sic, Concerts, Opera's, Plays, Assemblies, Balls, and the rest of the rabble of amusements of the mo|dern life, it is no wonder, that, like early fruit, she was soon ripened to the hand of the insidious gatherer.

At Fifteen, she own'd, she was ready to fansy herself the Heroine of every Novel, and of every Comedy she read, so well did she enter into the spirit of her subject: She glowed to become the object of some Hero's flame; and perfectly longed to begin an intrigue, and even to be run away with by some en|terprising Lover: Yet had neither Confinement nor Check to apprehend from her indiscreet Mother: Which she thought absolutely necessary to constitute a Parthenissa!

Nevertheless, with all these fine modern qualities, did she complete her Nineteenth year, before she met

with any address of consequence: One half of her ad|mirers being afraid, because of her gay turn, and but middling fortune, to make serious applications for her favour; while others were kept at distance, by the superior airs she assumed; and a third sort, not sufficiently penetrating the foibles either of Mother or Daughter, were kept off by the supposed watchful care of the former.

But when the man of intrepidity and intrigue was found, never was Heroine so soon subdued, never Goddess so early stript of her celestials! For, at the Opera, a diversion at which neither she nor her Mo|ther ever missed to be present, she beheld the specious Lovelace; beheld him invested with all the airs of heroic insult, resenting a slight affront offered to his Sally Martin, by Two gentlemen who had known her in her more hopeful state, one of whom Mr. Lovelace obliged to sneak away with a broken head, given with the pommel of his sword, the other with a bloody nose; neither of them well supporting that readiness of offence, which, it seems, was a part of their known characters to be guilty of.

The gallantry of this action drawing every by|stander on the side of the Hero, O the brave man! cried Polly Horton aloud, to her Mother, in a kind of rapture, How needful the protection of the Brave to the Fair! with a softness in her voice, which she had taught herself, to suit her fansied high condition of life.

A speech so much in his favour, could not but take the notice of a man who was but too sensible of the advantages which his fine person, and noble air, gave him over the gentler hearts, who was always watching every female eye, and who had his ear con|tinually turned to every affected voice; for that was one of his indications of a proper subject to be at|tempted —Affectation of every sort, he used to say, is a certain sign of a wrong-turned head; of a faulty judgment: And upon such a basis I seldom build in vain.

He instantly resolved to be acquainted with a young creature, who seemed so strongly prejudiced in his favour. Never man had a readier invention for all sorts of mischief. He gave his Sally her Cue. He called her Sister in their hearing. And Sally whisperingly gave the young Lady, and her Mother, in her own way, the particulars of the affront she had received; making herself an Angel of Light, to cast the brighter ray upon the character of her heroic Brother. She particularly praised his known and approved courage; and mingled with her praises of him, such circumstances relating to his birth, his fortune and endowments, as left him nothing to do but to fall in love with the enamoured Polly.

Mr. Lovelace presently saw what turn to give to his professions: So brave a man! yet of manners so gentle! hit the young Lady's taste: Nor could she suspect the heart, that such an aspect cover'd. This was the man! the very man! she whispered to her Mother: And, when the Opera was over, his ser|vant procuring a coach, he undertook, with his spe|cious Sister, to set them down at their own lodgings, tho' situated a quite different way from his: And there were they prevailed upon to alight, and partake of a slight repast.

Sally pressed them to return the favour to her at her Aunt Forbes's, and hoped it would be before her Bro|ther went to his own seat.

They promised her, and named their evening.

A splendid entertainment was provided. The guests came, having in the interim found all that was said of his name, and family, and fortune, to be true. Per|sons of so little strictness in their own morals, took it not into their heads to be very inquisitive after his.

Music and dancing had their share in the entertain|ment: These opened their hearts, already half-opened by Love: The Aunt Forbes, and the Lover's Sister, kept them open by their own example: The Hero

sung, vowed, promised: Their gratitude was moved, their delights were augmented, their hopes increased; their confidence was engaged; all their appetites up in arms; the rich wines co-operating; beat quite off their guard, and not Thought enough remaining so much as for suspicion; Miss, detach'd from her Mo|ther by Sally, soon fell a sacrifice to the successful In|triguer.

The widow herself, half intoxicated, and raised as she was with artful mixtures, and inflamed by Love unexpectedly tendered by one of the libertines his con|stant companions (to whom an Opportunity was con|trived to be given to be alone with her, and that closely followed by Importunity) fell into her Daughter's error. The consequences of which, in length of time, becoming apparent, grief, shame, remorse, seized her heart (her own indiscretion not allowing her to arraign her Daughter's); and she survived not her de|livery; leaving Polly with child likewise: Who, when delivered, being too fond of the gay Deluder to re|nounce his company, even when she found herself de|luded, fell into a course of extravagance and dissolute|ness; ran through her fortune in a very little time; and, as an high preferment, at last, with Sally, was admitted a quarter-partner with the detestable Sin|clair.

All that is necessary to add to the History of these unhappy women, will be comprised in a very little compass.

After the death, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 424. l. 5. from the bottom, on the words deny it him, add the following Note:

Several worthy persons have wished, that the heinous practice of Duelling had been more forcibly discouraged, by way of Note, at the Conclusion of a work designed to recommend the highest and most important Doctrines of Christianity. It is humbly presumed, that those persons

have not sufficiently attended to what is already done on that subject in Vol. ii. Letter x. and in Vol. vii. Letters lxix.xciii.xciv.xcv.

Vol. vii. p. 425. add the following POSTSCRIPT; in which several Objections that have been made, as well to the Catastrophe as to different Parts of the preceding History, are briefly considered.

The foregoing Work having been published at three different periods of time, the Author, in the course of its publication, was favoured with many anonymous Letters, in which the Writers differently expressed their wishes with regard to the apprehended catastrophe.

Most of those directed to him by the gentler Sex, turned in favour of what they called a Fortunate End|ing. Some of the fair writers, enamoured, as they de|clared, with the character of the Heroine, were warmly solicitous to have her made happy: And others, like|wise of their mind, insisted that Poetical Justice re|quired that it should be so. And when, says one in|genious Lady, whose undoubted motive was good-nature and humanity, it must be concluded, that it is in an author's power to make his piece end as he pleases, why should he not give pleasure rather than pain to the Reader whom he has interested in favour of his principal characters?

Others, and some Gentlemen, declared against Tragedies in general, and in favour of Comedies, al|most in the words of Lovelace, who was supported in his taste by all the women at Mrs. Sinclair's, and by Sinclair herself.

'I have too much Feeling, said he (a) 19.7. There is enough in the world to make our hearts sad, without carrying grief into our diversions, and making the distresses of others our own.'

And how was this happy ending to be brought about? Why, by this very easy and trite expedient;

to wit, by reforming Lovelace, and marrying him to Clarissa—Not, however, abating her one of her tri|als, nor any of her sufferings [for the sake of the sport her distresses would give to the tender-hearted reader as she went along] the last outrage excepted: That indeed, partly in compliment to Lovelace himself, and partly for delicacy-sake, they were willing to spare her.

But whatever were the fate of his work, the Au|thor was resolved to take a different method. He al|ways thought, that sudden Conversions, such especially, as were left to the candour of the Reader to suppose and make out, had neither Art, nor Nature, nor even Probability, in them; and that they were moreover of very bad example. To have a Lovelace for a se|ries of years glory in his wickedness, and think that he had nothing to do, but as an act of grace and favour to hold out his hand to receive that of the best of wo|men, whenever he pleased, and to have it thought, that Marriage would be a sufficient amends for all his enormities to others, as well as to her; he could not bear that. Nor is Reformation, as he has shewn in another piece, to be secured by a fine face; by a passion that has sense for its object; nor by the goodness of a Wife's heart, or even example, if the heart of the Husband be not graciously touched by the Divine Finger.

It will be seen by this time, that the Author had a great end in view. He has lived to see Scepticism and Infidelity openly avowed, and even endeavoured to be propagated from the Press: The great doctrines of the Gospel brought into question: Those of self-de|nial and mortification blotted out of the catalogue of christian virtues: And a taste even to wantonness for out-door pleasure and luxury, to the general exclusion of domestic as well as public virtue, industriously pro|moted among all ranks and degrees of people.

In this general depravity, when even the Pulpit has

lost great part of its weight, and the Clergy are con|sidered as a body of interested men, the Author thought, he should be able to answer it to his own heart, be the success what it would, if he threw in his mite towards introducing a Reformation so much wanted: And he imagined, that if in an age given up to diversion and entertainment, he could steal in, as may be said, and investigate the great doctrines of Christianity under the fashionable guise of an amusement; he should be most likely to serve his purpose; remembring that of the Poet:

A verse may find him who a sermon flies, And turn delight into a sacrifice.

He was resolved therefore to attempt something that never yet had been done. He considered, that the Tragic poets have as seldom made their heroes true ob|jects of pity, as the Comic theirs laudable ones of imi|tation: And still more rarely have made them in their deaths look forward to a future Hope. And thus, when they die, they seem totally to perish. Death, in such instances, must appear terrible. It must be considered as the greatest evil. But why is Death set in shocking lights, when it is the universal lot?

He has indeed thought fit to paint the death of the wicked as terrible as he could paint it. But he has en|deavoured to draw that of the good in such an amiable manner, that the very Balaams of the world should not forbear to wish that their latter end might be like that of the Heroine.

And after all, what is the Poetical Justice so much contended for by some, as the generality of writers have managed it, but another sort of dispensation than that with which God, by Revelation, teaches us, He has thought fit to exercise mankind; whom placing here only in a state of probation, he hath so intermingled good and evil, as to necessitate us to look forward for a more equal dispensation of both?

The Author of the History (or rather Dramatic Nar|rative) of Clarissa is therefore well justified by the Christian System, in deferring to extricate suffering Vir|tue to the time in which it will meet with the Comple|tion of its Reward.

But we have no need, &c.

Vol. 7. p. 429. l. 11. dele Thus far Mr. Addison, and read,

This subject is further considered in a Letter to the Spectator (a) 19.8.

'I find your opinion, says the author of it, con|cerning the late-invented term called Poetical Justice, is controverted by some eminent critics. I have drawn up some additional arguments to strengthen the opinion which you have there delivered; having endeavoured to go to the bottom of that matter....

'The most perfect man has vices enough to draw down punishments upon his head, and to justify Pro|vidence in regard to any miseries that may befal him. For this reason I cannot think but that the instruction and moral are much finer, where a man who is vir|tuous in the main of his character falls into distress, and sinks under the blows of fortune, at the end of a Tragedy, than when he is represented as happy and triumphant. Such an example corrects the insolence of human nature, softens the mind of the beholder with sentiments of pity and compassion, comforts him under his own private affliction, and teaches him not to judge of mens virtues by their successes (b) 19.9. I can|not think of one real hero in all antiquity so far raised above human infirmities, that he might not be very naturally represented in a Tragedy as plunged in mis|fortunes and calamities. The Poet may still find out some prevailing passion or indiscretion in his cha|racter,

and shew it in such a manner as will sufficiently acquit Providence of any injustice in his sufferings: For, as Horace observes, the best man is faulty, tho' not in so great a degree as those whom we generally call vicious men (a) 19.10.

'If such a strict Poetical Justice (proceeds the Letter-writer) as some gentlemen insist upon, were to be observed in this art, there is no manner of reason why it should not extend to heroic Poetry, as well as Tra|gedy. But we find it so little observed in Homer, that his Achilles is placed in the greatest point of glory and success, tho' his Character is morally vicious, and only poetically good, if I may use the phrase of our modern Critics. The Aeneid is filled with innocent unhappy persons. Nisus and Euryalus, Lausus and Pallas, come all to unfortunate ends. The Poet takes notice in particular, that, in the sacking of Troy, Ripheus fell, who was the most just man among the Trojans:

'—Cadit & Ripheus, justissimus unus 'Qui fuit in Teucris, & servantissimus aequi. 'Diis aliter visum est—

'The gods thought fit.—So blameless Ripheus fell, 'Who lov'd fair Justice, and observ'd it well.'

'And that Pantheus could neither be preserved by his transcendent piety, nor by the holy fillets of Apollo, whose priest he was:

'—Nec te tua plurima, Pantheu, 'Labentem pietas, nec Apollinis infula texit. Aen. II.

'Nor could thy piety thee, Pantheus, save, 'Nor ev'n thy priesthood, from an early grave.

'I might here mention the practice of antient Tra|gic Poets, both Greek and Latin; but as this parti|cular

is touched upon in the paper above-mentioned, I shall pass it over in silence. I could produce passages out of Aristotle in favour of my opinion: And if in one place he says, that an absolutely virtuous man should not be represented as unhappy, this does not justify any one who should think fit to bring in an absolutely virtuous man upon the stage. Those who are acquainted with that author's way of writing, know very well, that to take the whole extent of his subject into his divisions of it, he often makes use of such cases as are imaginary, and not reducible to practice....

'I shall conclude, says this gentleman, with observ|ing, that tho' the Spectator above-mentioned is so far against the rule of Poetical Justice, as to affirm, that good men may meet with an unhappy Catastrophe in Tragedy, it does not say, that ill men may go off unpunished. The reason for this distinction is very plain; namely, because the best of men [as is said above] have faults enough to justify Providence for any misfortunes and afflictions which may befal them; but there are many men so criminal, that they can have no claim or pretence to happiness. The best of men may deserve punishment; but the worst of men cannot deserve happiness.'

Mr. Addison, as we have seen above, tells us, that Aristotle, in considering the Tragedies that were written in either of the kinds, observes, that those which ended unhappily had always pleased the people, and carried away the prize, in the public disputes of the Stage, from those that ended happily.

Our fair Readers, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 430. l. 7. after chasle and virtuous, insert,

These are the great authorities so favourable to the stories that end unhappily. And we beg leave to re|inforce this inference from them, That if the tempo|rary sufferings of the Virtuous and the Good can be

accounted for and justified on Pagan principles, many more and infinitely stronger reasons will occur to a Christian Reader in behalf of what are called unhappy Catastrophes from the consideration of the doctrine of future rewards; which is every-where strongly enforced in the History of Clarissa.

Of this (to give but one instance) an ingenious Modern, distinguished by his rank, but much more by his excellent defence of some of the most important doctrines of Christianity, appears convinced in the conclusion of a pathetic Monody, not long ago published; in which, after he had deplored, as a man without hope (expressing ourselves in the Scripture phrase) the loss of an excellent Wife; he thus consoles himself:

Yet, O my soul! thy rising murmurs stay, Nor dare th' All-wise Disposer to arraign, Or against his supreme decree With impious grief complain. That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade, Was his most righteous Will: And be that Will obey'd.

Would thy fond love his grace to her controul, And in these low abodes of sin and pain Her pure, exalted soul, Unjustly, for thy partial good, detain? No—rather strive thy grov'ling mind to raise Up to that unclouded blaze, That heav'nly radiance of eternal light, In which enthron'd she now with pity sees, How frail, how insecure, how slight Is ev'ry mortal bliss.

But of infinitely greater weight than all that has been above produced on this subject, are the words of the Psalmist.

'As for me, says he (a) 19.11, my feet were almost gone, my steps had well-nigh slipt: For I was envious at

the foolish, when I saw the prosperity of the wicked. For their strength is firm: They are not in trouble as other men; neither are they plagued like other men—Their eyes stand out with fatness: They have more than their heart could wish—Verily I have cleansed mine heart in vain, and washed my hands in innocence; for all the day long have I been plagued, and chastened every morning. When I thought to know this, it was too painful for me. Until I went into the sanctuary of God; then understood I their end—Thou shalt guide me with thy counsel, and af|terward receive me to glory.'

This is the Psalmist's comfort and dependence. And shall man, presuming to alter the common course of nature, and, so far as he is able, to elude the tenure by which frail mortality indispensably holds, imagine, that he can make a better dispensation; and by call|ing it Poetical Justice, indirectly reflect on the Di|vine?

The more pains have been taken to obviate the ob|jections arising from the notion of Poetical Justice, as the doctrine built upon it had obtained general credit among us; and as it must be confessed to have the ap|pearance of humanity and good-nature for its supports. And yet the writer of the History of Clarissa, &c.

Vol. vii. p. 431. l. 9. after Heaven only could reward, insert,

We shall now, according to expectation given in the Preface to this Edition, proceed to take brief no|tice of such other objections as have come to our know|lege: For, as is there said,

'This work being ad|dressed to the Public as an History of Life and Man|ners, those parts of it which are proposed to carry with them the force of Example, ought to be as un|objectible as is consistent with the design of the whole, and with human Nature.'

Several persons have censured the Heroine as too

cold in her love, too haughty, and even sometimes provoking. But we may presume to say, that this objection has arisen from want of attention to the Story, to the Character of Clarissa, and to her parti|cular Situation.

It was not intended that she should be in Love, but in Liking only, if that expression may be admitted. It is meant to be every-where inculcated in the Story, for Example-sake, that she never would have married Mr. Lovelace, because of his immoralities, had she been left to herself; and that her ruin was principally owing to the persecutions of her friends.

What is too generally called Love, ought (perhaps as generally) to be called by another name. Cupidity, or a Paphian Stimulus, as some women, even of con|dition, have acted, are not words too harsh to be substituted on the occasion, however grating they may be to delicate ears. But take the word Love in the gentlest and most honourable sense, it would have been thought by some highly improbable, that Clarissa should have been able to shew such a command of her passions, as makes so distinguishing a part of her Cha|racter, had she been as violently in Love, as certain warm and fierce spirits would have had her to be. A few Observations are thrown in by way of Note in the present Edition, at proper places, to obviate this Objection, or rather to bespeak the Attention of hasty Readers to what lies obviously before them. For thus the Heroine anticipates this very Objection, expostu|lating with Miss Howe on her contemptuous treat|ment of Mr. Hickman; which [far from being guilty of the same fault herself] she did on all occasions, and declares she would do, whenever Miss Howe forgot herself, altho' she had not a day to live:

'O my dear, says she, that it had been my Lot (as I was not permitted to live single) to have met with a man, by whom I could have acted generously and unreservedly!

'Mr. Lovelace, it is now plain, in order to have a pretence against me, taxed my behaviour to him with stiffness and distance. You, at one time, thought me guilty of some degree of Prudery. Difficult situations should be allowed for; which often make seeming occasions for censure unavoidable. I deserved not blame from him, who made mine difficult. And if I had had any other man to deal with than Mr. Love|lace, or had he had but half the merit which Mr. Hickman has, you, my dear, should have found, that my Doctrine, on this subject, should have go|verned my Practice.'

See this whole Letter (a) 19.12; see also Mr. Lovelace's Letter N^o cxi. Vol. VII. p. 403, & seq. where, just before his Death, he entirely acquits her conduct on this head.

It has been thought by some worthy and ingenious persons, that if Lovelace had been drawn an Infidel or Scoffer, his Character, according to the Taste of the present worse than Sceptical Age, would have been more natural. It is, however, too well known, that there are very many persons, of his Cast, whose ac|tions discredit their belief. And are not the very De|vils, in Scripture, said to believe and tremble?

But the Reader must have observed, that great, and, it is hoped, good Use, has been made throughout the Work, by drawing Lovelace an Infidel only in Pra|ctice; and this as well in the arguments of his friend Belford, as in his own frequent Remorses, when touched with temporary Compunction, and in his last Scenes; which could not have been made, had either of them been painted as sentimental Unbelievers. Not to say, that Clarissa, whose great Objection to Mr. Wyerley was, that he was a Scoffer, must have been inexcuseable had she known Lovelace to be so, and had given the least attention to his Addresses. On the con|trary, thus she comforts herself, when she thinks she

must be his—

'This one consolation, however, re|mains: 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 (a) 19.13.'

And it must be observed, that Scoffers are too witty in their own opinion; in other words, value themselves too much upon their profligacy, to aim at concealing it.

Besides, had Lovelace added ribbald jests upon Re|ligion, to his other liberties, the freedoms which would then have passed between him and his friend, must have been of a nature truly infernal. And this far|ther hint was meant to be given, by way of inference, that the man who allowed himself in those liberties either of speech or action, which Lovelace thought shameful, was so far a worse man than Lovelace. For this reason is he every-where made to treat jests on sacred things and subjects, even down to the My|thology of the Pagans, among Pagans, as undoubted marks of the ill-breeding of the jesters; obscene images and talk, as liberties too shameful for even Rakes to allow themselves in; and injustice to creditors, and in matters of Meum and Tuum, as what it was beneath him to be guilty of.

Some have objected to the meekness, to the tame|ness, as they will have it to be, of the character of Mr. Hickman. And yet Lovelace owns, that he rose upon him with great spirit in the interview between them; once, when he thought a reflection was but implied on Miss Howe (b) 19.14; and another time, when he imagined himself treated contemptuously (c) 19.15. Miss Howe, it must be owned (tho' not to the credit of her own character) treats him ludicrously on several occasions. But so she does her Mother. And per|haps a Lady of her lively turn would have treated as

whimsically any man but a Lovelace. Mr. Belford speaks of him with honour and respect (a) 19.16. So does Colonel Morden (b) 19.17. And so does Clarissa on every occasion. And all that Miss Howe herself says of him, tends more to his reputation than discredit (c) 19.18, as Clarissa indeed tells her (d) 19.19.

And as to Lovelace's treatment of him, the Reader must have observed, that it was his way to treat every man with contempt, partly by way of self-exaltation, and partly to gratify the natural gaiety of his disposi|tion. He says himself to Belford (e) 19.20,

'Thou knowest I love him not, Jack; and whom we love not, we cannot allow a merit to; perhaps not the merit they should be granted.'

'Modest and diffident men,' writes Belford, to Lovelace, in praise of Mr. Hick|man,

'wear not soon off those little precisenesses, which the confident, if ever they had them, presently get over.'

But, as Miss Howe treats her Mother as freely as she does her Lover; so does Mr. Lovelace take still greater liberties with Mr. Belford, than he does with Mr. Hickman, with respect to his person, air, and address, as Mr. Belford himself hints to Mr. Hick|man (f) 19.21. And yet he is not so readily believed to the discredit of Mr. Belford, by the Ladies in general, as he is when he disparages Mr. Hickman. Whence can this partiality arise?—

Mr. Belford had been a Rake: But was in a way of reformation.

Mr. Hickman had always been a good man.

And Lovelace confidently says, That the women love a man whose regard for them is founded in the knowlege of them (g) 19.22.

Nevertheless, it must be owned, that it was not pro|posed to draw Mr. Hickman, as the man of whom the Ladies in general were likely to be very fond. Had it been so, Goodness of heart, and Gentleness of manners, great Assiduity, and inviolable and modest Love, would not of themselves have been supposed sufficient recom|mendations. He would not have been allowed the least share of preciseness or formality, altho' those de|fects might have been imputed to his reverence for the object of his passion: But in his character it was designed to shew, that the same man could not be every-thing; and to intimate to Ladies, that in chusing companions for life, they should rather prefer the ho|nest heart of a Hickman, which would be all their own, than to risque the chance of sharing, perhaps with scores, (and some of those probably the most profligate of the Sex) the volatile mischievous one of a Love|lace: In short, that they should chuse, if they wished for durable happiness, for rectitude of mind, and not for speciousness of person or address: Nor make a jest of a good man in favour of a bad one, who would make a jest of them and of their whole Sex.

Two Letters, however, by way of accommodation, are inserted in this edition, which perhaps will give Mr. Hickman's character some heightening with such Ladies, as love spirit in a man; and had rather suffer by it, than not meet with it.—

Women, born to be controul'd, Stoop to the Forward and the Bold,

Says Waller—And Lovelace too!

Some have wished that the Story had been told in the usual narrative way of telling Stories designed to amuse and divert, and not in Letters written by the respective persons whose history is given in them. The Author thinks he ought not to prescribe to the taste of others; but imagined himself at liberty to follow his own. He perhaps mistrusted his talents for the nar|rative

kind of writing. He had the good fortune to succeed in the Epistolary way once before. A Story in which so many persons were concerned either prin|cipally or collaterally, and of characters and dispositions so various, carried on with tolerable connexion and perspicuity, in a series of Letters from different per|sons, without the aid of digressions and episodes foreign to the principal end and design, he thought had no|velty to be pleaded for it: And that, in the present age, he supposed would not be a slight recommenda|tion.

But besides what has been said above, and in the Preface, on this head, the following opinion of an in|genious and candid Foreigner, on this manner of writing, may not be improperly inserted here.

'The method which the Author has pursued in the History of Clarissa, is the same as in the Life of Pamela: Both are related in familiar Letters by the parties themselves, at the very time in which the events happened: And this method has given the au|thor great advantages, which he could not have drawn from any other species of narration. The minute par|ticulars of events, the sentiments and conversation of the parties, are, upon this plan, exhibited with all the warmth and spirit, that the passion supposed to be pre|dominant at the very time, could produce, and with all the distinguishing characteristics which memory can supply in a History of recent transactions.

'Romances in general, and Marivaux's amongst others, are wholly improbable; because they suppose the History to be written after the series of events is closed by the catastrophe: A circumstance which im|plies a strength of memory beyond all example and probability in the persons concerned, enabling them, at the distance of several years, to relate all the parti|culars of a transient conversation: Or rather, it im|plies a yet more improbable confidence and famili|arity between all these persons and the author.

'There is, however, one difficulty attending the Epistolary method; for it is necessary, that all the characters should have an uncommon taste for this kind of conversation, and that they should suffer no event, nor even a remarkable conversation, to pass, without immediately committing it to writing. But for the preservation of the Letters once written, the author has provided with great judgment, so as to render this circumstance highly probable (a) 19.23.'

It is presumed that what this gentleman says of the difficulties attending a Story thus given in the Episto|lary manner of writing, will not be found to reach the History before us. It is very well accounted for in it, how the two principal Female characters come to take so great a delight in writing. Their subjects are not merely subjects of amusement; but greatly interesting to both: Yet many Ladies there are who now lauda|bly correspond, when at distance from each other, on occasions that far less affect their mutual welfare and friendships, than those treated of by these Ladies. The two principal gentlemen had motives of gaiety and vain-glory for their inducements. It will generally be found, that persons who have talents for familiar write|ing, as these correspondents are presumed to have, will not forbear amusing themselves with their pens, on less arduous occasions than what offer to these. These FOUR (whose Stories have a connexion with each other) out of a great number of characters which are introduced in this History, are only eminent in the Epistolary way: The rest appear but as occasional writers, and as drawn in rather by necessity than

choice, from the different relations in which they stand with the four principal persons.

Vol. vii. p. 432. l. 2. after the principal characters, insert,

Some there are, and Ladies too! who have supposed that the excellencies of the Heroine are carried to an improbable, and even to an impracticable height, in this History. But the education of Clarissa from early childhood ought to be considered, as one of her very great advantages; as, indeed, the foundation of all her excellencies: And it is hoped, for the sake of the doctrine designed to be inculcated by it, that it will.

She had a pious, a well-re'd, a not meanly-de|scended woman for her Nurse, who with her milk, as Mrs. Harlowe says (a) 19.24, gave her that nurture which no other Nurse could give her. She was very early happy in the conversation-visits of her learned and worthy Dr. Lewen, and in her correspondencies, not with him only, but with other Divines mentioned in her last Will. Her Mother was, upon the whole, a good woman, who did credit to her birth and her fortune; and both delighted in her for those improve|ments and attainments, which gave her, and them in her, a distinction that caused it to be said, that when she was out of the family, it was considered but as a common family (b) 19.25. She was moreover a Country Lady; and, as we have seen in Miss Howe's charac|ter of her (c) 19.26, took great delight in rural and hous|hold employments; tho' qualified to adorn the brightest circle.

It must be confessed, that we are not to look for Clarissa's among the constant frequenters of Ranelagh and Vaux-hall, nor among those who may be called Daughters of the Card-table. If we do, the character

of our Heroine may then indeed be justly thought not only improbable, but unattainable. But we have nei|ther room in this place, nor inclination, to pursue a subject so invidious. We quit it therefore, after we have repeated, that we know there are some, and we hope there are many, in the British dominions [or they are hardly any-where in the European world] who, as far as occasion has called upon them to exert the like humble and modest, yet steady and useful, virtues, have reached the perfections of a Clarissa.

Having thus briefly taken notice of the most mate|rial objections that have been made to different parts of this History, it is hoped we may be allowed to add, That had we thought ourselves at liberty to give copies of some of the many Letters that have been written on the other side of the question, that is to say, in appro|bation of the Catastrophe, and of the general Conduct and Execution of the work, by some of the most emi|nent judges of composition in every branch of Litera|ture; most of what has been written in this Postscript might have been spared.

But as the principal objection with many has lain against the length of the piece, we shall add to what we have said above on that subject, in the words of one of those eminent writers:

'That, If, in the Hi|story before us, &c.'

Notes

• (a) 1.1

  This passage is inserted in Vol. i. p. 179, 180. of the 2d Edit.
• (b) 1.2

  See Edit. i. p. 31, 32. Edit. ii. p. 31.
• (a) 5.1

  This passage is inserted, Vol. ii. Edit. ii. p. 13, 14.
• (b) 5.2

  See before, p. 1, 2.
• (c) 5.3

  Spectator, Vol. viii. No. 599.
• (d) 5.4

  This Note is inserted in Vol. ii. p. 21. of the 2d Edition.
• (a) 5.5

  See Vol. ii. Edit. i. p. 115. and Edit. ii. p. 113.
• (a) 7.1

  This Note is inserted Vol. ii. p. 146. of the 2d Edition.
• (a) 7.2

  This Note is inserted Vol. iii. p. 39. of the 2d Edition.
• (b) 7.3

  This Passage is inserted Vol. iii. p. 62. of the 2d Edition.
• (a) 7.4

  This passage is inserted Vol. iii. p. 87. of the 2d Edition.
• (a) 7.5

  See Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 47. Edit. ii. p. 46.
• (a) 7.6

  This Note is inserted Vol. iii. p. 100. of the 2d Edition.
• (b) 7.7

  This Note is inserted Vol. iii. p. 103. of the 2d Edition.
• (a) 8.1

  See this confirmed by Mr. Lovelace, Vol. iii. Edit. i. and ii. p. 77.
• (b) 8.2

  Ibid. p. 152,
• (a) 8.3

  See Vol. iii. Edit. i. and ii. p. 113. 115.
• (a) 8.4

  See Vol. iii. Edit. i. and ii. p. 38.41.
• (a) 8.5

  See Vol. iii. Edit. i. and ii. p. 40.
• (a) 8.6

  See Vol. i. Edit. i. and ii. p. 11, 12.
• (a) 9.1

  See Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 68, 69. and Edit. ii. p. 68.
• (a) 9.2

  Luke xv. 7. The parable is concerning the 99 Sheep, not the Prodigal Son, as Mr. Lovelace erroneously imagines.
• (a) 9.3

  See Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 136, 137. Edit. ii. p. 136.
• (a) 9.4

  This Note is inserted in Vol. iii. p. 164. of the 2d Edition.
• (a) 9.5

  See before, p. 28,
• (b) 9.6

  Ibid. p. 31, 32.
• (a) 9.7

  This passage is inserted Vol. iii. p. 175. of the 2d Edition,
• (a) 9.8

  See Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 161. and Edit. ii. p. 160.
• (b) 9.9

  This passage is inserted Vol. iii. p. 193. of the 2d Edition.
• (d) 9.10

  This passage is inserted Vol. iii. p. 207. of the 2d Edition.
• (b) 10.1

  These Letters are inserted at large as follows, Vol. iii. p. 229 — 242. of the 2d Edition.
• (a) 10.2

  See Vol. ii. Edit. i. p. 81—83. Edit. ii. p. 79—81.
• (a) 11.1

  See Vol. iii. p. 234—236. of the first Edition, for the Re|mainder of this Letter.
• (a) 11.2

  This passage is inserted Vol. iii. p. 266, 267. of the 2d Edition.
• (a) 11.3

  This passage is inserted in Vol. iii. p. 317. of the 2d Edition.
• (b) 11.4

  These instructions are given at large, Vol. iii. p. 318—322. of the 2d Edition.
• (c) 11.5

  See Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 184, & seq. and Edit. ii. p. 183, & seq.
• (a) 13.1

  This passage is inserted Vol. iii. p. 357—360. of the 2d Edit.
• (a) 13.2

  See Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 130. and Edit. ii. p. 129.
• (b) 13.3

  This passage is inserted Vol. iii. p. 363—365. of the 2d Edit.
• (a) 13.4

  In the 2d Edition, Vol. iv. p. 9. this paragraph is inserted ac|cording to the present amendment.
• (a) 13.5

  This passage is inserted Vol. iv. p. 11. of the 2d Edition.
• (a) 15.1

  Clarissa proposes Mr. Hickman to write for Miss Howe. See Vol. iii. p. 336. of the 1st Edition, and p. 344, 345. of the 2d.
• (a) 15.2

  This passage is inserted Vol. iv. p. 63. of the 2d Edition.
• (b) 15.3

  This passage is also inserted Vol. iv. p. 64. of the 2d Edition.
• (c) 15.4

  This passage is also inserted Vol. iv. p. 64. of the 2d Edition.
• (a) 15.5

  This Note is inserted Vol. iv. p. 66. of the 2d Edition.
• (a) 15.6

  This passage is inserted Vol. iv. p. 78, 79. of the 2d Edition.
• (a) 15.7

  This passage is inserted Vol. iv. p. 86. of the 2d Edition.
• (a) 16.1

  See before, p. 87.
• (a) 16.2

  See before, p. 82.
• (a) 17.1

  Within these few years past, a passage has been made from the Prison to the S••ssions house, whereby malefactors are carried into court without going thro' the street. Lovelace's triumph on their suppos••d march shews the wisdom of this alteration.
• (a) 17.2

  Pliny gives this account, putting the number of men slain at 1,100,092, See also Lipsius de Constantia.
• (a) 17.3

  See Vol. i. p. 66. of both Editions.
• (b) 17.4

  See Vol. iii. Edit. i. p. 356, & seq. and Edit. ii. p. 370, & seq.
• (a) 18.1

  i. e. At the time this Letter was written.
• (a) 19.1

  Joy, let me here observe, my dear Sir, by way of Note, is not absolutely inconsistent with Melancholy; a soft gentle Joy, not a rapid, not a rampant Joy, however; but such a Joy, as shall lift her temporarily out of her soothing Melancholy, and then let her down gently into it again; for Melancholy, to be sure, her reflection will generally make to be her-state.
• (a) 19.2

  And here, by way of Note, permit me to say, that no sermon, I ever composed, cost me half the pains that this Letter hath done— But I know your great appetite after, as well as admiration of, the antient wisdom, which you so justly prefer to the modern—And indeed I join with you to think, that the modern is only borrowed (as the moon doth its light from the sun); at least, that we excel them in nothing; and that our best cogitations may be found, generally speaking, more elegantly dressed and expressed by them.
• (a) 19.3

  See Judges xii. 6.
• (a) 19.4

  In her Common-place-book she has the following note upon the recollection of this illness, in the time of her distress.

  'In a dangerous illness, with which I was visited a few years before I had the unhappiness to know this ungrateful man! [Would to Heaven I had died in it!] my Bed was surrounded by my dear Rela|tions— Father, Mother, brother, Sister, my two Uncles weeping, kneeling round me, then put up their vows to Heaven for my reco|very; and I, fearing that I should drag down with me to my grave, one or other of my sorrowing friends, wished and prayed to recover for their sakes.—Alas! how shall Parents in such cases know what to wish for! How happy for them, and for me, had I then been denied to their prayers! — But now am I eased of that care. All those dear Relations are living still—But not one of them (such, as they think, has been the heinousness of my error!) but, far from being grieved, would rejoice to heat of my death.'
• (a) 19.5

  See Vol. I. p. 117.
• (a) 19.6

  Ecclus. xxv. 19.
• (a) 19.7

  See Vol. IV. p. 97.
• (a) 19.8

  See Spect. Vol. VII. N^o 248.
• (b) 19.9

  A caution that our Blessed Saviour himself gives in the case of the Eighteen persons killed by the fall of the tower of Siloam, Luke xiii.a.
• (a) 19.10

  Vitiis nemo sine nascitur: optimus ille, Qui minimis urgetur.—
• (a) 19.11

  Psalm lxxiii.
• (a) 19.12

  Vol. VII. p. 64, 65.
• (a) 19.13

  See Vol. IV. p. 246.
• (b) 19.14

  See Vol. VI. p. 207.
• (c) 19.15

  See Vol. VI. p. 210.
• (a) 19.16

  Vol. VI. p. 260, 261.
• (b) 19.17

  Vol. VII. p. 357.
• (c) 19.18

  Vol. II. p. 4 —8. and Vol. III. p. 194.
• (d) 19.19

  See Vol. II. p. 51.
• (e) 19.20

  Vol. VI. p. 199.
• (f) 19.21

  Vol. VII. p. 315.
• (g) 19.22

  See Vol. V. p. 76.
• (a) 19.23

  This quotation is translated from a CRITIQUE on the HISTORY of CLARISSA, written in French, and published at Amsterdam. The whole C••itique is rendered into English, and inserted in the Gentleman's Magazine of June and August 1749. The author has done great ho|nour in it to the History of Clarissa; and as there are Remarks pub|lished with it, answering several objections made to different passages by that candid Foreigner, the Reader is referred to the aforesaid Maga|zines, for both.
• (a) 19.24

  See Vol. IV. p. 34.
• (b) 19.25

  See Vol. VII. p. 37. See also her Mother's praises of her to Mrs. Norton, Vol. I. p. 258.
• (c) 19.26

  See Vol. VII. p. 385.