CLARISSA HARLOWE

or the

HISTORY OF A YOUNG LADY

Nine VolumesVolume VIII. 

CONTENTS OF VOLUME VIII

LETTER I. Miss Howe, from the Isle of Wight. --In answer to her's, No. LXI. Of Vol. VII. Approves not of her choice ofBelford for her executor; yet thinks she cannot appoint for that officeany of her own family. Hopes she will live any years. 

LETTER II. Clarissa to Miss Howe. --Sends her a large packet of letters; but (for her relations' sake) notall she has received. Must now abide by the choice of Mr. Belford forexecutor; but farther refers to the papers she sends her, for herjustification on this head. 

LETTER III. Antony Harlowe to Clarissa. --A letter more taunting and reproachful than that of her other uncle. Towhat owing. 

LETTER IV. Clarissa. In answer. --Wishes that the circumstances of her case had been inquired into. Concludes with a solemn and pathetic prayer for the happiness of thewhole family. 

LETTER V. Mrs. Norton to Clarissa. --Her friends, through Brand's reports, as she imagines, intent upon hergoing to the plantations. Wishes her to discourage improper visiters. Difficult situations the tests of prudence as well as virtue. Dr. Lewen's solicitude for her welfare. Her cousin Morden arrived inEngland. Farther pious consolations. 

LETTER VI. Clarissa. In answer. --Sends her a packet of letters, which, for her relations' sake, she cannotcommunicate to Miss Howe. From these she will collect a good deal of herstory. Defends, yet gently blames her mother. Afraid that her cousinMorden will be set against her; or, what is worse, that he will seek toavenge her. Her affecting conclusion on her Norton's divineconsolations. 

LETTER VII. Lovelace to Belford. --Is very ill. The lady, if he die, will repent her refusal of him. Oneof the greatest felicities that can befal a woman, what. Extremely ill. His ludicrous behaviour on awaking, and finding a clergyman and hisfriends praying for him by his bedside. 

LETTER VIII. Belford to Lovelace. --Concerned at his illness. Wishes that he had died before last April. The lady, he tells him, generously pities him; and prays that he may meetwith the mercy he has not shown. 

LETTER IX. Lovelace to Belford. --In raptures on her goodness to him. His deep regrets for his treatmentof her. Blesses her. 

LETTER X. Belford to Lovelace. --Congratulates him on his amendment. The lady's exalted charity to him. Her story a fine subject for tragedy. Compares with it, and censures, the play of the Fair Penitent. She is very ill; the worse for some newinstances of the implacableness of her relations. A meditation on thesubject. Poor Belton, he tells him, is at death's door; and desirous tosee him. 

LETTER XI. Belford to Clarissa. --Acquaints her with the obligation he is under to go to Belton, and (lestshe should be surprised) with Lovelace's resolution (as signified in thenext letter) to visit her. 

LETTER XII. Lovelace to Belford. --Resolves to throw himself at the lady's feet. Lord M. Of opinion thatshe ought to admit of one interview. 

LETTER XIII. From the same. --Arrived in London, he finds the lady gone abroad. Suspects Belford. Hisunaccountable freaks at Smith's. His motives for behaving so ludicrouslythere. The vile Sally Martin entertains him with her mimicry of thedivine lady. 

LETTER XIV. From the same. --His frightful dream. How affected by it. Sleeping or waking, hisClarissa always present with him. Hears she is returned to her lodgings. Is hastening to her. 

LETTER XV. From the same. --Disappointed again. Is affected by Mrs. Lovick's expostulations. Isshown a meditation on being hunted after by the enemy of her soul, as itis entitled. His light comments upon it. Leaves word that he resolvesto see her. Makes several other efforts for that purpose. 

LETTER XVI. Belford to Lovelace. --Reproaches him that he has not kept his honour with him. Inveighsagainst, and severely censures him for his light behaviour at Smith's. Belton's terrors and despondency. Mowbray's impenetrable behaviour. 

LETTER XVII. From the same. --Mowbray's impatience to run from a dying Belton to a too-lively Lovelace. Mowbray abuses Mr. Belton's servant in the language of a rake of thecommon class. Reflection on the brevity of life. 

LETTER XVIII. Lovelace to Belford. --Receives a letter from Clarissa, written by way of allegory to induce himto forbear hunting after her. Copy of it. He takes it in a literalsense. Exults upon it. Will now hasten down to Lord M. And receive thegratulations of all his family on her returning favour. Gives aninterpretation of his frightful dream to his own liking. 

LETTER XIX. XX. From the same. --Pities Belton. Rakishly defends him on the issue of a duel, which nowadds to the poor man's terrors. His opinion of death, and the fear ofit. Reflections upon the conduct of play-writers with regardservants. He cannot account for the turn his Clarissa has taken in hisfavour. Hints at one hopeful cause of it. Now matrimony seems to be inhis power, he has some retrograde motions. 

LETTER XXI. Belford to Lovelace. --Continuation of his narrative of Belton's last illness and impatience. The poor man abuses the gentlemen of the faculty. Belford censures someof them for their greediness after fees. Belton dies. Seriousreflections on the occasion. 

LETTER XXII. Lovelace to Belford. --Hopes Belton is happy; and why. He is setting out for Berks. 

LETTER XXIII. Belford to Lovelace. --Attends the lady. She is extremely ill, and receives the sacrament. Complains of the harasses his friend had given her. Two differentpersons (from her relations, he supposes) inquire after her. Heraffecting address to the doctor, apothecary, and himself. Disposes ofsome more of her apparel for a very affecting purpose. 

LETTER XXIV. Dr. Lewen to Clarissa. --Writes on his pillow, to prevail upon her to prosecute Lovelace for hislife. 

LETTER XXV. Her pathetic and noble answer. 

LETTER XXVI. Miss Arabella Harlowe to Clarissa. --Proposes, in a most taunting and cruel manner, the prosecution ofLovelace; or, if not, her going to Pensylvania. 

LETTER XXVII. Clarissa's affecting answer. 

LETTER XXVIII. XXIX. Mrs. Norton to Clarissa. --Her uncle's cruel letter to what owing. Colonel Morden resolved on avisit to Lovelace. --Mrs. Hervey, in a private conversation with her, accounts for, yet blames, the cruelty of her family. Miss Dolly Herveywishes to attend her. 

LETTER XXX. Clarissa. In answer. --Thinks she has been treated with great rigour by her relations. Expresses more warmth than usual on this subject. Yet soon checksherself. Grieves that Colonel Morden resolves on a visit to Lovelace. Touches upon her sister's taunting letter. Requests Mrs. Norton'sprayers for patience and resignation. 

LETTER XXXI. Miss Howe to Clarissa. --Approves now of her appointment of Belford for an executor. Admires hergreatness of mind in despising Lovelace. Every body she is with takenwith Hickman; yet she cannot help wantoning with the power his obsequiouslove gives her over him. 

LETTER XXXII. XXXIII. Clarissa to Miss Howe. --Instructive lessons and observations on her treatment of Hickman. --Acquaints her with all that has happened since her last. Fears that allher allegorical letter is not strictly right. Is forced by illness tobreak off. Resumes. Wishes her married. 

LETTER XXXIV. Mr. Wyerley to Clarissa. --A generous renewal of his address to her now in her calamity; and atender of his best services. 

LETTER XXXV. Her open, kind, and instructive answer. 

LETTER XXXVI. Lovelace to Belford. --Uneasy, on a suspicion that her letter to him was a stratagem only. Whathe will do, if he find it so. 

LETTER XXXVII. Belford to Lovelace. --Brief account of his proceedings in Belton's affairs. The lady extremelyill. Thought to be near her end. Has a low-spirited day. Recovers herspirits; and thinks herself above this world. She bespeaks her coffin. Confesses that her letter to Lovelace was allegorical only. The light inwhich Belford beholds her. 

LETTER XXXVIII. Belford to Lovelace. --An affecting conversation that passed between the lady and Dr. H. Shetalks of death, he says, and prepares for it, as if it were an occurrenceas familiar to her as dressing and undressing. Worthy behaviour of thedoctor. She makes observations on the vanity of life, on the wisdom ofan early preparation for death, and on the last behaviour of Belton. 

LETTER XXXIX. XL. XLI. Lovelace to Belford. --Particulars of what passed between himself, Colonel Morden, Lord M. , andMowbray, on the visit made him by the Colonel. Proposes Belford to MissCharlotte Montague, by way of raillery, for an husband. --He enclosesBrand's letter, which misrepresents (from credulity and officiousness, rather than ill-will) the lady's conduct. 

LETTER XLII. Belford to Lovelace. --Expatiates on the baseness of deluding young creatures, whose confidencehas been obtained by oaths, vows, promises. Evil of censoriousness. People deemed good too much addicted to it. Desires to know what hemeans my his ridicule with regard to his charming cousin. 

LETTER XLIII. From the same. --A proper test of the purity of writing. The lady again makes excuses forher allegorical letter. Her calm behaviour, and generous and usefulreflections, on his communicating to her Brand's misrepresentations ofher conduct. 

LETTER XLIV. Colonel Morden to Clarissa. --Offers his assistance and service to make the best of what has happened. Advises her to marry Lovelace, as the only means to bring about a generalreconciliation. Has no doubt of his resolution to do her justice. Desires to know if she has. 

LETTER XLV. Clarissa. In answer. 

LETTER XLVI. Lovelace to Belford. --His reasonings and ravings on finding the lady's letter to him only anallegorical one. In the midst of these, the natural gayety of his heartruns him into ridicule on Belford. His ludicrous image drawn from amonument in Westminster Abbey. Resumes his serious disposition. If theworst happen, (the Lord of Heaven and Earth, says he, avert that worst!)he bids him only write that he advises him to take a trip to Paris; andthat will stab him to the heart. 

LETTER XLVII. Belford to Lovelace. --The lady's coffin brought up stairs. He is extremely shocked anddiscomposed at it. Her intrepidity. Great minds, he observes, cannotavoid doing uncommon things. Reflections on the curiosity of women. 

LETTER XLVIII. From the same. --Description of the coffin, and devices on the lid. It is placed in herbed-chamber. His serious application to Lovelace on her great behaviour. 

LETTER XLIX. From the same. --Astonished at his levity in the Abbey-instance. The lady extremely ill. 

LETTER L. Lovelace to Belford. --All he has done to the lady a jest to die for; since her triumph has everbeen greater than her sufferings. He will make over all his possessionsand all his reversions to the doctor, if he will but prolong her life forone twelvemonth. How, but for her calamities, could her equanimity blazeout as it does! He would now love her with an intellectual flame. Hecannot bear to think that the last time she so triumphantly left himshould be the last. His conscience, he says, tears him. He is sick ofthe remembrance of his vile plots. 

LETTER LI. Belford to Lovelace. --The lady alive, serene, and calm. The more serene for having finished, signed, and sealed her last will; deferred till now for reasons of filialduty. 

LETTER LII. Miss Howe to Clarissa. --Pathetically laments the illness of her own mother, and of her dearfriend. Now all her pertness to the former, she says, fly in her face. She lays down her pen; and resumes it, to tell her, with great joy, thather mother is better. She has had a visit form her cousin Morden. Whatpassed in it. 

LETTER LIII. From the same. --Displeased with the Colonel for thinking too freely of the sex. Neverknew a man that had a slight notion of the virtue of women in general, who deserved to be valued for his morals. Why women must either be moreor less virtuous than men. Useful hints to young ladies. Is out ofhumour with Mr. Hickman. Resolves to see her soon in town. 

LETTER LIV. Belford to Lovelace. --The lady writes and reads upon her coffin, as upon a desk. The doctorresolves to write to her father. Her intense, yet cheerful devotion. 

LETTER LV. Clarissa to Miss Howe. --A letter full of pious reflections, and good advice, both general andparticular; and breathing the true spirit of charity, forgiveness, patience, and resignation. A just reflection, to her dear friend, uponthe mortifying nature of pride. 

LETTER LVI. Mrs. Norton to Clarissa. --Her account of an interesting conversation at Harlowe-place between thefamily and Colonel Morden; and of another between her mother and self. The Colonel incensed against them all. Her advice concerning Belford, and other matters. Miss Howe has obtained leave, she hears, to visither. Praises Mr. Hickman. Gently censures Miss Howe on his account. Her truly maternal and pious comfortings. 

LETTER LVII. Belford to Lovelace. --The lady's sight begins to fail her. She blesses God for the serenityshe enjoys. It is what, she says, she had prayed for. What a blessing, so near to her dissolution, to have her prayers answered! Givesparticular directions to him about her papers, about her last will andapparel. Comforts the women and him on their concern for her. Anotherletter brought her from Colonel Morden. The substance of it. Belfordwrites to hasten up the Colonel. Dr. H. Has also written to her father;and Brand to Mr. John Harlowe a letter recanting his officious one. 

LETTER LVIII. Dr. H. To James Harlowe, Senior, Esq. 

LETTER LIX. Copy of Mr. Belford's letter to Colonel Morden, to hasten him up. 

LETTER LX. Lovelace to Belford. --He feels the torments of the damned, in the remorse that wrings hisheart, on looking back on his past actions by this lady. Gives him whathe calls a faint picture of his horrible uneasiness, riding up and down, expecting the return of his servant as soon as he had dispatched him. Woe be to the man who brings him the fatal news!

LETTER LXI. Belford to Lovelace. --Farther particulars of the lady's pious and exemplary behaviour. Sherejoices in the gradual death afforded her. Her thankful acknowledgmentsto Mr. Belford, Mrs. Smith, and Mrs. Lovick, for their kindness to her. Her edifying address to Mr. Belford. 

LETTER LXII. Clarissa to Mrs. Norton. In answer to her's, No. LVI. --Afflicted only for her friends. Desires not now to see her cousinMorden, nor even herself, or Miss Howe. God will have no rivals, shesays, in the hearts of those whom HE sanctifies. Advice to Miss Howe. To Mr. Hickman. Blesses all her relations and friends. 

LETTER LXIII. Lovelace to Belford. --A letter of deep distress, remorse, and impatience. Yet would he fainlighten his own guilt by reflections on the cruelty of her relations. 

LETTER LXIV. Belford to LovelaceThe lady is disappointed at the Doctor's telling her that she may yetlive two or three days. Death from grief the slowest of deaths. Hersolemn forgiveness of Lovelace, and prayer for him. Owns that once shecould have loved him. Her generous concern for his future happiness. Belford's good resolutions. 

LETTER LXV. Mr. Brand to Mr. John Walton. 

LETTER LXVI. Mr. Brand to John Harlowe, Esq. ;in excuse of his credulity, and of the misreports founded upon it. 

LETTER LXVII. Lovelace to Belford. --Blesses him for sending him word the lady is better. Her charity towardshim cuts him to the heart. He cannot bear it. His vehement selfreproaches. Curses his contriving genius, and his disbelief that therecould be such virtue in woman. The world never saw such an husband as hewill make, if she recover, and will be his. 

LETTER LXVIII. Belford to Lovelace. --The lady's pious frame. The approaches of death how supportable to her;and why. She has no reason, she says, to grieve for any thing but thesorrow she has given to her friends. 

LETTER LXIX. Lovelace to Belford. --Never prayed in his life, put all the years of it together, as he hasdone for this fortnight. Has repented of all his baseness: And willnothing do? Conjures him to send him good news in his next, as he wouldnot be answerable for consequences. 

LETTER LXX. Belford to Lovelace. --Solemn leave taken of her by the doctor and apothecary; who tell her shewill hardly see the next night. The pleasure with which she receives theintimation. How unlike poor Belton's behaviour her's! A letter fromMiss Howe. Copy of it. She cannot see to read it. Her exaltedexpressions on hearing it read. Tries to write an answer to it; butcannot. Dictates to Mrs. Lovick. Writes the superscriptive part herselfon her knees. Colonel Morden arrives in town. 

LETTER LXXI. From the same. --What passes on Colonel Morden's visit to his cousin. She enjoins theColonel not to avenge her. 

THE HISTORY

OF

CLARISSA HARLOWE

LETTER I

MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWEYARMOUTH, ISLE OF WIGHT, MONDAY, AUG. 7. 

MY DEAREST CREATURE, I can write but just now a few lines. I cannot tell how to bear thesound of that Mr. Belford for your executor, cogent as your reasons forthat measure are: and yet I am firmly of opinion, that none of yourrelations should be named for the trust. But I dwell the less on thissubject, as I hope (and cannot bear to apprehend the contrary) that youwill still live many, many years. 

Mr. Hickman, indeed, speaks very handsomely of Mr. Belford. But he, poorman! has not much penetration. --If he had, he would hardly think so wellof me as he does. 

I have a particular opportunity of sending this by a friend of my auntHarman's; who is ready to set out for London, (and this occasions myhurry, ) and is to return out of hand. I expect therefore, by him a largepacket from you; and hope and long for news of your amended health: whichHeaven grant to the prayers of

Your ever-affectionateANNA HOWE. 

LETTER II

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWEFRIDAY, AUG. 11. 

I will send you a large packet, as you desire and expect; since I can doit by so safe a conveyance: but not all that is come to my hand--for Imust own that my friends are very severe; too severe for any body, wholoves them not, to see their letters. You, my dear, would not call themmy friends, you said, long ago; but my relations: indeed I cannot callthem my relations, I think!----But I am ill; and therefore perhaps morepeevish than I should be. It is difficult to go out of ourselves to givea judgment against ourselves; and yet, oftentimes, to pass a justjudgment, we ought. 

I thought I should alarm you in the choice of my executor. But the sadnecessity I am reduced to must excuse me. 

I shall not repeat any thing I have said before on that subject: but ifyour objections will not be answered to your satisfaction by the papersand letters I shall enclose, marked 1, 2, 3, 4, to 9, I must think myselfin another instance unhappy; since I am engaged too far (and with my ownjudgment too) to recede. 

As Mr. Belford has transcribed for me, in confidence, from his friend'sletters, the passages which accompany this, I must insist that you sufferno soul but yourself to peruse them; and that you return them by the veryfirst opportunity; that so no use may be made of them that may do hurteither to the original writer or to the communicator. You'll observe Iam bound by promise to this care. If through my means any mischiefshould arise, between this humane and that inhuman libertine, I shouldthink myself utterly inexcusable. 

I subjoin a list of the papers or letters I shall enclose. You mustreturn them all when perused. *

* 1. A letter from Miss Montague, dated . . . . Aug. 1. 2. A copy of my answer . . . . . . . . . . . Aug. 3. 3. Mr. Belford's Letter to me, which will show you what my request was to him, and his compliance with it; and the desired ex- tracts from his friend's letters . . . . Aug. 3, 4. 4. A copy of my answer, with thanks; and re- questing him to undertake the executor- ship . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Aug. 4. 5. Mr. Belford's acceptance of the trust . . Aug. 4. 6. Miss Montague's letter, with a generous offer from Lord M. And the Ladies of that family . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Aug. 7. 7. Mr. Lovelace's to me . . . . . . . . . . . Aug. 7. 8. Copy of mine to Miss Montague, in answer to her's of the day before . . . . . . . Aug. 8. 9. Copy of my answer to Mr. Lovelace . . . . Aug. 11. 

You will see by these several Letters, written and received in so littlea space of time (to say nothing of what I have received and written whichI cannot show you, ) how little opportunity or leisure I can have forwriting my own story. 

I am very much tired and fatigued--with--I don't know what--with writing, I think--but most with myself, and with a situation I cannot helpaspiring to get out of, and above!

O my dear, the world we live in is a sad, a very sad world!----Whileunder our parents' protecting wings, we know nothing at all of it. Book-learned and a scribbler, and looking at people as I saw them asvisiters or visiting, I thought I knew a great deal of it. Pitiableignorance!--Alas! I knew nothing at all!

With zealous wishes for your happiness, and the happiness of every onedear to you, I am, and will ever be, Your gratefully-affectionateCL. HARLOWE. 

LETTER III

MR. ANTONY HARLOWE, TO MISS CL. HARLOWE[IN REPLY TO HER'S TO HER UNCLE HARLOWE, OF THURSDAY, AUG. 10. ]AUG. 12. 

UNHAPPY GIRL!

As your uncle Harlowe chooses not to answer your pert letter to him;and as mine, written to you before, * was written as if it were in thespirit of prophecy, as you have found to your sorrow; and as you are nowmaking yourself worse than you are in your health, and better than youare in your penitence, as we are very well assured, in order to movecompassion; which you do not deserve, having had so much warning: for allthese reasons, I take up my pen once more; though I had told yourbrother, at his going to Edinburgh, that I would not write to you, evenwere you to write to me, without letting him know. So indeed had we all;for he prognosticated what would happen, as to your applying to us, whenyou knew not how to help it. 

* See Vol. I. Letter XXXII. 

Brother John has hurt your niceness, it seems, by asking you a plainquestion, which your mother's heart is too full of grief to let her ask;and modesty will not let your sister ask; though but the consequence ofyour actions--and yet it must be answered, before you'll obtain from yourfather and mother, and us, the notice you hope for, I can tell you that. 

You lived several guilty weeks with one of the vilest fellows that everdrew breath, at bed, as well as at board, no doubt, (for is not hischaracter known?) and pray don't be ashamed to be asked after what maynaturally come of such free living. This modesty indeed would havebecome you for eighteen years of your life--you'll be pleased to markthat--but makes no good figure compared with your behaviour since thebeginning of April last. So pray don't take it up, and wipe your mouthupon it, as if nothing had happened. 

But, may be, I likewise am to shocking to your niceness!--O girl, girl!your modesty had better been shown at the right time and place--Everybody but you believed what the rake was: but you would believe nothingbad of him--What think you now?

Your folly has ruined all our peace. And who knows where it may yet end?--Your poor father but yesterday showed me this text: With bitter griefhe showed it me, poor man! and do you lay it to your heart:

'A father waketh for his daughter, when no man knoweth; and the care forher taketh away his sleep--When she is young, lest she pass away theflower of her age--[and you know what proposals were made to you atdifferent times. ] And, being married, lest she should be hated. In hervirginity, lest she should be defiled, and gotten with child in herfather's house--[and I don't make the words, mind that. ] And, having anhusband, lest she should misbehave herself. ' And what follows? 'Keepa sure watch over a shameless daughter--[yet no watch could hold you!]lest she make thee a laughing stock to thine enemies--[as you have madeus all to this cursed Lovelace, ] and a bye-word in the city, and areproach among the people, and make thee ashamed before the multitude. 'Ecclus. Xlii. 9, 10, &c. 

Now will you wish you had not written pertly. Your sister's severities!--Never, girl, say that is severe that is deserved. You know the meaningof words. No body better. Would to the Lord you had acted up but to onehalf of what you know! then had we not been disappointed and grieved, aswe all have been: and nobody more than him who was

Your loving uncle, ANTONY HARLOWE. 

This will be with you to-morrow. Perhaps you may be suffered to have some part of your estate, after you have smarted a little more. Your pertly-answered uncle John, who is your trustee, will not have you be destitute. But we hope all is not true that we hear of you. --Only take care, I advise you, that, bad as you have acted, you act not still worse, if it be possible to act worse. Improve upon the hint. 

LETTER IV

MISS CL. HARLOWE, TO ANTONY HARLOWE, ESQ. SUNDAY, AUG. 13. 

HONOURED SIR, I am very sorry for my pert letter to my uncle Harlowe. Yet I did notintend it to be pert. People new to misfortune may be too easily movedto impatience. 

The fall of a regular person, no doubt, is dreadful and inexcusable. Is like the sin of apostacy. Would to Heaven, however, that I had hadthe circumstances of mine inquired into!

If, Sir, I make myself worse than I am in my health, and better than I amin my penitence, it is fit I should be punished for my doubledissimulation: and you have the pleasure of being one of my punishers. My sincerity in both respects will, however, be best justified by theevent. To that I refer. --May Heaven give you always as much comfort inreflecting upon the reprobation I have met with, as you seem to havepleasure in mortifying a young creature, extremely mortified; and thatfrom a right sense, as she presumes to hope, of her own fault!

What you heard of me I cannot tell. When the nearest and dearestrelations give up an unhappy wretch, it is not to be wondered at thatthose who are not related to her are ready to take up and propagateslanders against her. Yet I think I may defy calumny itself, and(excepting the fatal, though involuntary step of April 10) wrap myself inmy own innocence, and be easy. I thank you, Sir, nevertheless, for yourcaution, mean it what it will. 

As to the question required of me to answer, and which is allowed to betoo shocking either for a mother to put to a daughter, or a sister to asister; and which, however, you say I must answer;--O Sir!--And must Ianswer?--This then be my answer:--'A little time, a much less time thanis imagined, will afford a more satisfactory answer to my whole family, and even to my brother and sister, than I can give in words. '

Nevertheless, be pleased to let it be remembered, that I did not petitionfor a restoration to favour. I could not hope for that. Nor yet to beput in possession of any part of my own estate. Nor even for means ofnecessary subsistence from the produce of that estate--but only for ablessing; for a last blessing!

And this I will farther add, because it is true, that I have no wilfulcrime to charge against myself: no free living at bed and at board, asyou phrase it!

Why, why, Sir, were not other inquiries made of me, as well as thisshocking one?--inquiries that modesty would have permitted a mother orsister to make; and which, if I may be excused to say so, would have beenstill less improper, and more charitable, to have been made by uncles, (were the mother forbidden, or the sister not inclined, to make them, )than those they have made. 

Although my humble application has brought upon me so much severereproach, I repent not that I have written to my mother, (although Icannot but wish that I had not written to my sister;) because I havesatisfied a dutiful consciousness by it, however unanswered by thewished-for success. Nevertheless, I cannot help saying, that mine isindeed a hard fate, that I cannot beg pardon for my capital errorswithout doing it in such terms as shall be an aggravation of the offence. 

But I had best leave off, lest, as my full mind, I find, is rising to mypen, I have other pardons to beg as I multiply lines, where none at allwill be given. 

God Almighty bless, preserve, and comfort my dear sorrowing andgrievously offended father and mother!--and continue in honour, favour, and merit, my happy sister!--May God forgive my brother, and protect himfrom the violence of his own temper, as well as from the destroyer of hissister's honour!--And may you, my dear uncle, and your no less now thanever dear brother, my second papa, as he used to bid me call him, beblessed and happy in them, and in each other!--And, in order to this, mayyou all speedily banish from your remembrance, for ever, The unhappyCLARISSA HARLOWE!

LETTER V

MRS. NORTON, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWEMONDAY, AUG. 14. 

All your friends here, my dear young lady, now seem set upon proposing toyou to go to one of the plantations. This, I believe, is owing to somemisrepresentations of Mr. Brand; from whom they have received a letter. 

I wish, with all my heart, that you could, consistently with your ownnotions of honour, yield to the pressing requests of all Mr. Lovelace'sfamily in his behalf. This, I think, would stop every mouth; and, intime, reconcile every body to you. For your own friends will not believethat he is in earnest to marry you; and the hatred between the familiesis such, that they will not condescend to inform themselves better; norwould believe him, if he were ever so solemnly to avow that he is. 

I should be very glad to have in readiness, upon occasion, some briefparticulars of your sad story under your own hand. But let me tell you, at the same time, that no misrepresentations, nor even your ownconfession, shall lessen my opinion either of your piety, or of yourprudence in essential points; because I know it was always your humbleway to make light faults heavy against yourself: and well might you, mydearest young lady, aggravate your own failings, who have ever had sofew; and those few so slight, that your ingenuousness has turned most ofthem into excellencies. 

Nevertheless, let me advise you, my dear Miss Clary, to discountenanceany visits, which, with the censorious, may affect your character. Asthat has not hitherto suffered by your wilful default, I hope you willnot, in a desponding negligence (satisfying yourself with a consciousnessof your own innocence) permit it to suffer. Difficult situations, youknow, my dear young lady, are the tests not only of prudence but ofvirtue. 

I think, I must own to you, that, since Mr. Brand's letter has beenreceived, I have a renewed prohibition to attend you. However, if youwill give me leave, that shall not detain me from you. Nor would I stayfor that leave, if I were not in hopes that, in this critical situation, I may be able to do you service here. 

I have often had messages and inquiries after your health from thetruly-reverend Dr. Lewen, who has always expressed, and still expresses, infinite concern for you. He entirely disapproves of the measures of thefamily with regard to you. He is too much indisposed to go abroad. But, were he in good health, he would not, as I understand, visit atHarlowe-place, having some time since been unhandsomely treated by yourbrother, on his offering to mediate for you with your family. 

***

I am just now informed that your cousin Morden is arrived in England. Heis at Canterbury, it seems, looking after some concerns he has there; andis soon expected in these parts. Who knows what may arise from hisarrival? God be with you, my dearest Miss Clary, and be your comforterand sustainer. And never fear but He will; for I am sure, I am verysure, that you put your whole trust in Him. 

And what, after all, is this world, on which we so much depend fordurable good, poor creatures that we are!--When all the joys of it, and(what is a balancing comfort) all the troubles of it, are but momentary, and vanish like a morning dream!

And be this remembered, my dearest young lady, that worldly joy claims nokindred with the joys we are bid to aspire after. These latter we mustbe fitted for by affliction and disappointment. You are therefore in thedirect road to glory, however thorny the path you are in. And I hadalmost said, that it depends upon yourself, by your patience, and by yourresignedness to the dispensation, (God enabling you, who never fails thetrue penitent, and sincere invoker, ) to be an heir of a blessedimmortality. 

But this glory, I humbly pray, that you may not be permitted to enterinto, ripe as you are so soon to be for it, till, with your gentle hand, (a pleasure I have so often, as you now, promised to myself, ) you haveclosed the eyes of

Your maternally-affectionateJUDITH NORTON. 

LETTER VI

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MRS. NORTONTHURSDAY, AUG. 27. 

What Mr. Brand, or any body, can have written or said to my prejudice, Icannot imagine; and yet some evil reports have gone out against me; as Ifind by some hints in a very severe letter written to me by my uncleAntony. Such a letter as I believe was never written to any poorcreature, who, by ill health of body, as well as of mind, was beforetottering on the brink of the grave. But my friends may possibly bebetter justified than the reporters--For who knows what they may haveheard?

You give me a kind caution, which seems to imply more than you express, when you advise me against countenancing visiters that may discredit me. You have spoken quite out. Surely, I have had afflictions enow tostrengthen my mind, and to enable it to bear the worst that can nowhappen. But I will not puzzle myself by conjectural evils; as I mightperhaps do, if I had not enow that were certain. I shall hear all, whenit is thought proper that I should. Mean time, let me say, for yoursatisfaction, that I know not that I have any thing criminal ordisreputable to answer for either in word or deed, since the fatal 10thof April last. 

You desire an account of what passes between me and my friends; and alsoparticulars or brief heads of my sad story, in order to serve me asoccasion shall offer. My dear good Mrs. Norton, you shall have a wholepacket of papers, which I have sent to my Miss Howe, when she returnsthem; and you shall have likewise another packet, (and that with thisletter, ) which I cannot at present think of sending to that dear friendfor the sake of my own relations; whom, without seeing that packet, sheis but too ready to censure heavily. From these you will be able tocollect a great deal of my story. But for what is previous to thesepapers, and which more particularly relates to what I have suffered fromMr. Lovelace, you must have patience; for at present I have neither headnor heart for such subjects. The papers I send you with this will bethose mentioned in the margin. * You must restore them to me as soon asperused; and upon your honour make no use of them, or of any intelligenceyou have from me, but by my previous consent. 

* 1. A copy of mine to my sister, begging off my father's malediction . . . . . . Dated July 21. 2. My sister's answer . . . . . . . . . . . Dated July 27. 3. Copy of my second letter to my sister. . Dated July 29. 4. My sister's answer . . . . . . . . . . . Dated Aug. 3. 5. Copy of my Letter to my mother . . . . . Dated Aug. 5. 6. My uncle Harlowe's letter . . . . . . . Dated Aug. 7. 7. Copy of my answer to it . . . . . . . . Dated the 1oth. 8. Letter from my uncle Antony . . . . . . Dated the 12th. 9. And lastly, the copy of my answer to it. Dated the 13th. 

These communications you must not, my good Mrs. Norton, look upon asappeals against my relations. On the contrary, I am heartily sorry thatthey have incurred the displeasure of so excellent a divine as Dr. Lewen. But you desire to have every thing before you: and I think you ought; forwho knows, as you say, but you may be applied to at last to administercomfort from their conceding hearts, to one that wants it; and whosometimes, judging by what she knows of her own heart, thinks herselfentitled to it?

I know that I have a most indulgent and sweet-tempered mother; but, having to deal with violent spirits, she has too often forfeited thatpeace of mind which she so much prefers, by her over concern to preserveit. 

I am sure she would not have turned me over for an answer to a letterwritten with so contrite and fervent a spirit, as was mine to her, to amasculine spirit, had she been left to herself. 

But, my dear Mrs. Norton, might not, think you, the revered lady havefavoured me with one private line?----If not, might not you have writtenby her order, or connivance, one softening, one motherly line, when shesaw her poor girl, whom once she dearly loved, borne so hard upon?

O no, she might not!--because her heart, to be sure, is in theirmeasures! and if she think them right, perhaps they must be right!--atleast, knowing only what they know, they must!--and yet they might knowall, if they would!--and possibly, in their own good time, they think tomake proper inquiry. --My application was made to them but lately. --Yethow deeply will it afflict them, if their time should be out of time!

When you have before you the letters I have sent to Miss Howe, you willsee that Lord M. And the Ladies of his family, jealous as they are of thehonour of their house, (to express myself in their language, ) thinkbetter of me than my own relations do. You will see an instance of theirgenerosity to me, which at the time extremely affected me, and indeedstill affects me. Unhappy man! gay, inconsiderate, and cruel! what hasbeen his gain by making unhappy a creature who hoped to make him happy!and who was determined to deserve the love of all to whom he is related!--Poor man!--but you will mistake a compassionate and placable nature forlove!--he took care, great care, that I should rein-in betimes anypassion that I might have had for him, had he known how to be butcommonly grateful or generous!--But the Almighty knows what is best forhis poor creatures. 

Some of the letters in the same packet will also let you into theknowledge of a strange step which I have taken, (strange you will thinkit); and, at the same time, give you my reasons for taking it. *

* She means that of making Mr. Belford her executor. 

It must be expected, that situations uncommonly difficult will makenecessary some extraordinary steps, which, but for those situations, would be hardly excusable. It will be very happy indeed, and somewhatwonderful, if all the measures I have been driven to take should beright. A pure intention, void of all undutiful resentment, is what mustbe my consolation, whatever others may think of those measures, when theycome to know them: which, however, will hardly be till it is out of mypower to justify them, or to answer for myself. 

I am glad to hear of my cousin Morden's safe arrival. I should wish tosee him methinks: but I am afraid that he will sail with the stream; asit must be expected, that he will hear what they have to say first. --Butwhat I most fear is, that he will take upon himself to avenge me. Ratherthan he should do so, I would have him look upon me as a creature utterlyunworthy of his concern; at least of his vindictive concern. 

How soothing to the wounded heart of your Clarissa, how balmy are theassurances of your continued love and favour;--love me, my dear mammaNorton, continue to love me, to the end!--I now think that I may, withoutpresumption, promise to deserve your love to the end. And, when I amgone, cherish my memory in your worthy heart; for in so doing you willcherish the memory of one who loves and honours you more than she canexpress. 

But when I am no more, I charge you, as soon as you can, the smartingpangs of grief that will attend a recent loss; and let all be earlyturned into that sweetly melancholy regard to MEMORY, which, engaging usto forget all faults, and to remember nothing but what was thoughtamiable, gives more pleasure than pain to survivors--especially if theycan comfort themselves with the humble hope, that the Divine mercy hastaken the dear departed to itself. 

And what is the space of time to look backward upon, between an earlydeparture and the longest survivance!--and what the consolation attendingthe sweet hope of meeting again, never more to be separated, never moreto be pained, grieved, or aspersed;--but mutually blessing, and beingblessed, to all eternity!

In the contemplation of this happy state, in which I hope, in God's goodtime, to rejoice with you, my beloved Mrs. Norton, and also with my dearrelations, all reconciled to, and blessing the child against whom theyare now so much incensed, I conclude myself

Your ever dutiful and affectionateCLARISSA HARLOWE. 

LETTER VII

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. SUNDAY, AUG. 13. 

I don't know what a devil ails me; but I never was so much indisposed inmy life. At first, I thought some of my blessed relations here had got adose administered to me, in order to get the whole house to themselves. But, as I am the hopes of the family, I believe they would not be sowicked. 

I must lay down my pen. I cannot write with any spirit at all. What aplague can be the matter with me!

***

Lord M. Paid me just now a cursed gloomy visit, to ask how I do afterbleeding. His sisters both drove away yesterday, God be thanked. Butthey asked not my leave; and hardly bid me good-bye. My Lord was moretender, and more dutiful, than I expected. Men are less unforgiving thanwomen. I have reason to say so, I am sure. For, besides implacable MissHarlowe, and the old Ladies, the two Montague apes han't been near meyet. 

***

Neither eat, drink, nor sleep!--a piteous case, Jack! If I should dielike a fool now, people would say Miss Harlowe had broken my heart. --Thatshe vexes me to the heart, is certain. 

Confounded squeamish! I would fain write it off. But must lay down mypen again. It won't do. Poor Lovelace!----What a devil ails thee?

***

Well, but now let's try for't--Hoy--Hoy--Hoy! Confound me for a gapingpuppy, how I yawn!--Where shall I begin? at thy executorship--thou shalthave a double office of it: for I really think thou mayest send me acoffin and a shroud. I shall be ready for them by the time they can comedown. 

What a little fool is this Miss Harlowe! I warrant she'll now repentthat she refused me. Such a lovely young widow--What a charming widowwould she have made! how would she have adorned the weeds! to be a widowin the first twelve months is one of the greatest felicities that canbefal a fine woman. Such pretty employment in new dismals, when she hadhardly worn round her blazing joyfuls! Such lights, and such shades! howwould they set off one another, and be adorned by the wearer!--

Go to the devil!--I will write!--Can I do anything else?

They would not have me write, Belford. --I must be ill indeed, when Ican't write. 

***

But thou seemest nettled, Jack! Is it because I was stung? It is notfor two friends, any more than for man and wife, to be out of patienceat one time. --What must be the consequence if they are?--I am in nofighting mood just now: but as patient and passive as the chickens thatare brought me in broth--for I am come to that already. 

But I can tell thee, for all this, be thy own man, if thou wilt, as tothe executorship, I will never suffer thee to expose my letters. Theyare too ingenuous by half to be seen. And I absolutely insist upon it, that, on receipt of this, thou burn them all. 

I will never forgive thee that impudent and unfriendly reflection, of mycavaliering it here over half a dozen persons of distinction: remember, too, thy words poor helpless orphan--these reflections are too serious, and thou art also too serious, for me to let these things go off asjesting; notwithstanding the Roman style* is preserved; and, indeed, butjust preserved. By my soul, Jack, if I had not been taken thusegregiously cropsick, I would have been up with thee, and the lady too, before now. 

* For what these gentlemen mean by the Roman style, see Vol. I. LetterXXXI. In the first note. 

But write on, however: and send me copies, if thou canst, of all thatpasses between our Charlotte and Miss Harlowe. I'll take no notice ofwhat thou communicatest of that sort. I like not the people here theworse for their generous offer to the lady. But you see she is as proudas implacable. There's no obliging her. She'd rather sell her clothesthan be beholden to any body, although she would oblige by permitting theobligation. 

O Lord! O Lord!--Mortal ill!--Adieu, Jack!

***

I was forced to leave off, I was so ill, at this place. And what dostthink! why Lord M. Brought the parson of the parish to pray by me; forhis chaplain is at Oxford. I was lain down in my night-gown over mywaistcoat, and in a doze: and, when I opened my eyes, who should I see, but the parson kneeling on one side the bed; Lord M. On the other; Mrs. Greme, who had been sent for to tend me, as they call it, at the feet!God be thanked, my Lord, said I in an ecstasy!--Where's Miss?--for Isupposed they were going to marry me. 

They thought me delirious at first; and prayed louder and louder. 

This roused me: off the bed I started; slid my feet into my slippers;put my hand in my waistcoat pocket, and pulled out thy letter with mybeloved's meditation in it! My Lord, Dr. Wright, Mrs. Greme, you havethought me a very wicked fellow: but, see! I can read you as good as youcan read me. 

They stared at one another. I gaped, and read, Poor mo--or--tals thecau--o--ause of their own--their own mi--ser--ry. 

It is as suitable to my case, as to the lady's, as thou'lt observe, ifthou readest it again. * At the passage where it is said, That when a manis chastened for sin, his beauty consumes away, I stept to the glass: Apoor figure, by Jupiter, cried I!--And they all praised and admired me;lifted up their hands and their eyes; and the doctor said, he alwaysthought it impossible, that a man of my sense could be so wild as theworld said I was. My Lord chuckled for joy; congratulated me; and, thankmy dear Miss Harlowe, I got high reputation among good, bad, andindifferent. In short, I have established myself for ever with all here. --But, O Belford, even this will not do--I must leave off again. 

* See Vol. VII. Letter LXXXI. 

***

A visit from the Montague sisters, led in by the hobbling Peer, tocongratulate my amendment and reformation both in one. What a luckyevent this illness with this meditation in my pocket; for we were all topieces before! Thus, when a boy, have I joined with a crowd coming outof church, and have been thought to have been there myself. 

I am incensed at the insolence of the young Levite. Thou wilt highlyoblige me, if thou'lt find him out, and send me his ears in the nextletter. 

My beloved mistakes me, if she thinks I proposed her writing to me as analternative that should dispense with my attendance upon her. That itshall not do, nor did I intend it should, unless she pleased me better inthe contents of her letter than she has done. Bid her read again. Igave no such hopes. I would have been with her in spite of you both, byto-morrow, at farthest, had I not been laid by the heels thus, like ahelpless miscreant. 

But I grow better and better every hour, I say: the doctor says not: butI am sure I know best: and I will soon be in London, depend on't. Butsay nothing of this to my dear, cruel, and implacable Miss Harlowe. 

A--dieu--u, Ja--aack--What a gaping puppy (yaw--n! yaw--n! yaw--n!)

ThyLOVELACE. 

LETTER VIII

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. MONDAY, AUG. 15. 

I am extremely concerned for thy illness. I should be very sorry to losethee. Yet, if thou diest so soon, I could wish, from my soul, it hadbeen before the beginning of last April: and this as well for thy sake, as for the sake of the most excellent woman in the world: for then thouwouldst not have had the most crying sin of thy life to answer for. 

I was told on Saturday that thou wert very much out of order; and thismade me forbear writing till I heard farther. Harry, on his return fromthee, confirmed the bad way thou art in. But I hope Lord M. In hisunmerited tenderness for thee, thinks the worst of thee. What can it be, Bob. ? A violent fever, they say; but attended with odd and severesymptoms. 

I will not trouble thee in the way thou art in, with what passes herewith Miss Harlowe. I wish thy repentance as swift as thy illness; and asefficacious, if thou diest; for it is else to be feared, that she and youwill never meet in one place. 

I told her how ill you are. Poor man! said she. Dangerously ill, sayyou?

Dangerously indeed, Madam!--So Lord M. Sends me word!

God be merciful to him, if he die!--said the admirable creature. --Then, after a pause, Poor wretch!--may he meet with the mercy he has not shown!

I send this by a special messenger: for I am impatient to hear how itgoes with thee. --If I have received thy last letter, what melancholyreflections will that last, so full of shocking levity, give to

Thy true friend, JOHN BELFORD. 

LETTER IX

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. TUESDAY, AUG. 15. *

* Text error: should be Aug. 16. 

Thank thee, Jack; most heartily I thank thee, for the sober conclusion ofthy last!--I have a good mind, for the sake of it, to forgive thy tillnow absolutely unpardonable extracts. 

But dost think I will lose such an angel, such a forgiving angel, asthis?--By my soul, I will not!--To pray for mercy for such an ungratefulmiscreant!--how she wounds me, how she cuts me to the soul, by herexalted generosity!--But SHE must have mercy upon me first!--then willshe teach me a reliance for the sake of which her prayer for me will beanswered. 

But hasten, hasten to me particulars of her health, of her employments, of her conversation. 

I am sick only of love! Oh! that I could have called her mine!--it wouldthen have been worth while to be sick!--to have sent for her down to mefrom town; and to have had her, with healing in her dove-like wings, flying to my comfort; her duty and her choice to pray for me, and to bidme live for her sake!--O Jack! what an angel have I--

But I have not lost her!--I will not lose her! I am almost well; shouldbe quite well but for these prescribing rascals, who, to do credit totheir skill, will make the disease of importance. --And I will make hermine!--and be sick again, to entitle myself to her dutiful tenderness, and pious as well as personal concern!

God for ever bless her!--Hasten, hasten particulars of her!--I am sickof love!--such generous goodness!--By all that's great and good, I willnot lose her!--so tell her!--She says, that she could not pity me, if shethought of being mine! This, according to Miss Howe's transcriptions toCharlotte. --But bid her hate me, and have me: and my behaviour to hershall soon turn that hate to love! for, body and mind, I will be whollyher's. 

LETTER X

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. THURSDAY, AUG. 17. 

I am sincerely rejoiced to hear that thou art already so much amended, asthy servant tells me thou art. Thy letter looks as if thy morals weremending with thy health. This was a letter I could show, as I did, tothe lady. 

She is very ill: (cursed letters received from her implacable family!) soI could not have much conversation with her, in thy favour, upon it. --Butwhat passed will make thee more and more adore her. 

She was very attentive to me, as I read it; and, when I had done, Poorman! said she; what a letter is this! He had timely instances that mytemper was not ungenerous, if generosity could have obliged him! But hisremorse, and that for his own sake, is all the punishment I wish him. --Yet I must be more reserved, if you write to him every thing I say!

I extolled her unbounded goodness--how could I help it, though to herface!

No goodness in it! she said--it was a frame of mind she had endeavouredafter for her own sake. She suffered too much in want of mercy, not towish it to a penitent heart. He seems to be penitent, said she; and itis not for me to judge beyond appearances. --If he be not, he deceiveshimself more than any body else. 

She was so ill that this was all that passed on the occasion. 

What a fine subject for tragedy, would the injuries of this lady, and herbehaviour under them, both with regard to her implacable friends, and toher persecutor, make! With a grand objection as to the moral, nevertheless;* for here virtue is punished! Except indeed we lookforward to the rewards of HEREAFTER, which, morally, she must be sure of, or who can? Yet, after all, I know not, so sad a fellow art thou, and sovile an husband mightest thou have made, whether her virtue is notrewarded in missing thee: for things the most grievous to human nature, when they happen, as this charming creature once observed, are often thehappiest for us in the event. 

* Mr. Belford's objections, That virtue ought not to suffer in a tragedy, is not well considered: Monimia in the Orphean, Belvidera in VenicePreserved, Athenais in Theodosius, Cordelia in Shakespeare's King Lear, Desdemona in Othello, Hamlet, (to name no more, ) are instances that atragedy could hardly be justly called a tragedy, if virtue did nottemporarily suffer, and vice for a while triumph. But he recovershimself in the same paragraph; and leads us to look up to the FUTURE forthe reward of virtue, and for the punishment of guilt: and observes notamiss, when he says, He knows not but that the virtue of such a woman asClarissa is rewarded in missing such a man as Lovelace. 

I have frequently thought, in my attendance on this lady, that ifBelton's admired author, Nic. Rowe, had had such a character before him, he would have drawn another sort of penitent than he has done, or givenhis play, which he calls The Fair Penitent, a fitter title. Miss Harloweis a penitent indeed! I think, if I am not guilty of a contradiction interms; a penitent without a fault; her parents' conduct towards her fromthe first considered. 

The whole story of the other is a pack of d----d stuff. Lothario, 'tistrue, seems such another wicked ungenerous varlet as thou knowest who:the author knew how to draw a rake; but not to paint a penitent. Calistais a desiring luscious wench, and her penitence is nothing else but rage, insolence, and scorn. Her passions are all storm and tumult; nothing ofthe finer passions of the sex, which, if naturally drawn, willdistinguish themselves from the masculine passions, by a softness thatwill even shine through rage and despair. Her character is made up ofdeceit and disguise. She has no virtue; is all pride; and her devil isas much within her, as without her. 

How then can the fall of such a one create a proper distress, when allthe circumstances of it are considered? For does she not brazen out hercrime, even after detection? Knowing her own guilt, she calls forAltamont's vengeance on his best friend, as if he had traduced her;yields to marry Altamont, though criminal with another; and actually bedsthat whining puppy, when she had given up herself, body and soul, toLothario; who, nevertheless, refused to marry her. 

Her penitence, when begun, she justly styles the phrensy of her soul;and, as I said, after having, as long as she could, most audaciouslybrazened out her crime, and done all the mischief she could do, (occasioning the death of Lothario, of her father, and others, ) she stabsherself. 

And can this be the act of penitence?

But, indeed, our poets hardly know how to create a distress withouthorror, murder, and suicide; and must shock your soul, to bring tearsfrom your eyes. 

Altamont indeed, who is an amorous blockhead, a credulous cuckold, and, (though painted as a brave fellow, and a soldier, ) a mere Tom. Essence, and a quarreler with his best friend, dies like a fool, (as we are led tosuppose at the conclusion of the play, ) without either sword or pop-gun, of mere grief and nonsense for one of the vilest of her sex: but the FairPenitent, as she is called, perishes by her own hand; and, having notitle by her past crimes to laudable pity, forfeits all claim to truepenitence, and, in all probability, to future mercy. 

But here is Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, a virtuous, noble, wise, and piousyoung lady; who being ill used by her friends, and unhappily ensnared bya vile libertine, whom she believes to be a man of honour, is in a mannerforced to throw herself upon his protection. And he, in order to obtainher confidence, never scruples the deepest and most solemn protestationsof honour. 

After a series of plots and contrivances, al baffled by her virtue andvigilance, he basely has recourse to the vilest of arts, and, to rob herof her honour, is forced first to rob her of her senses. 

Unable to bring her, notwithstanding, to his ungenerous views ofcohabitation, she over-awes him in the very entrance of a fresh act ofpremeditated guilt, in presence of the most abandoned of women assembledto assist his devilish purpose; triumphs over them all, by virtue only ofher innocence; and escapes from the vile hands he had put her into. 

She nobly, not franticly, resents: refuses to see or to marry the wretch;who, repenting his usage of so divine a creature, would fain move her toforgive his baseness, and make him her husband: and this, thoughpersecuted by all her friends, and abandoned to the deepest distress, being obliged, from ample fortunes, to make away with her apparel forsubsistence; surrounded also by strangers, and forced (in want of others)to make a friend of the friend of her seducer. 

Though longing for death, and making all proper preparations for it, convinced that grief and ill usage have broken her noble heart, sheabhors the impious thought of shortening her allotted period; and, asmuch a stranger to revenge as despair, is able to forgive the author ofher ruin; wishes his repentance, and that she may be the last victim tohis barbarous perfidy: and is solicitous for nothing so much in thislife, as to prevent vindictive mischief to and from the man who used herso basely. 

This is penitence! This is piety! And hence distress naturally arises, that must worthily effect every heart. 

Whatever the ill usage of this excellent woman is from her relations, shebreaks not out into excesses: she strives, on the contrary, to findreason to justify them at her own expense; and seems more concerned fortheir cruelty to her for their sakes hereafter, when she shall be nomore, than for her own: for, as to herself, she is sure, she says, Godwill forgive her, though no one on earth will. 

On every extraordinary provocation she has recourse to the Scriptures, and endeavours to regulate her vehemence by sacred precedents. 'Betterpeople, she says, have been more afflicted than she, grievous as shesometimes thinks her afflictions: and shall she not bear what less faultypersons have borne?' On the very occasion I have mentioned, (some newinstances of implacableness from her friends, ) the enclosed meditationwill show how mildly, and yet how forcibly, she complains. See if thou, in the wicked levity of thy heart, canst apply it to thy cause, as thoudidst the other. If thou canst not, give way to thy conscience, and thatwill make the properest application. 

MEDITATION

How long will ye vex my soul, and break me in pieces with words!

Be it indeed that I have erred, mine error remaineth with myself. 

To her that is afflicted, pity should be shown from her friend. 

But she that is ready to slip with her feet, is as a lamp despised in thethought of them that are at ease. 

There is a shame which bringeth sin, and there is a shame which bringethglory and grace. 

Have pity upon me, have pity upon me, O ye, my friends! for the hand ofGod hath touched me. 

If your soul were in my soul's stead, I also could speak as ye do: Icould heap up words against you--

But I would strengthen you with my mouth, and the moving of my lipsshould assuage your grief. 

Why will ye break a leaf driven to and fro? Why will ye pursue the drystubble? Why will ye write bitter words against me, and make me possessthe iniquities of my youth?

Mercy is seasonable in the time of affliction, as clouds of rain in thetime of drought. 

Are not my days few? Cease then, and let me alone, that I may takecomfort a little--before I go whence I shall not return; even to the landof darkness, and shadow of death!

Let me add, that the excellent lady is informed, by a letter from Mrs. Norton, that Colonel Morden is just arrived in England. He is now theonly person she wishes to see. 

I expressed some jealousy upon it, lest he should have place given overme in the executorship. She said, That she had no thoughts to do so now;because such a trust, were he to accept of it, (which she doubted, )might, from the nature of some of the papers which in that case wouldnecessarily pass through his hands, occasion mischiefs between my friendand him, that would be worse than death for her to think of. 

Poor Belton, I hear, is at death's door. A messenger is just come fromhim, who tells me he cannot die till he sees me. I hope the poor fellowwill not go off yet; since neither his affairs of this world, nor for theother, are in tolerable order. I cannot avoid going to the poor man. Yet am unwilling to stir, till I have an assurance from you that you willnot disturb the lady: for I know he will be very loth to part with me, when he gets me to him. 

Tourville tells me how fast thou mendest: let me conjure thee not tothink of molesting this incomparable woman. For thy own sake I requestthis, as well as for her's, and for the sake of thy given promise: for, should she die within a few weeks, as I fear she will, it will be said, and perhaps too justly, that thy visit has hastened her end. 

In hopes thou wilt not, I wish thy perfect recovery: else that thoumayest relapse, and be confined to thy bed. 

LETTER XI

MR. BELFORD, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWESAT. MORN. AUG. 19. 

MADAM, I think myself obliged in honour to acquaint you that I am afraid Mr. Lovelace will try his fate by an interview with you. 

I wish to Heaven you could prevail upon yourself to receive his visit. All that is respectful, even to veneration, and all that is penitent, will you see in his behaviour, if you can admit of it. But as I amobliged to set out directly for Epsom, (to perform, as I apprehend, thelast friendly offices for poor Mr. Belton, whom once you saw, ) and as Ithink it more likely that Mr. Lovelace will not be prevailed upon, thanthat he will, I thought fit to give you this intimation, lest, if heshould come, you should be too much surprised. 

He flatters himself that you are not so ill as I represent you to be. When he sees you, he will be convinced that the most obliging things hecan do, will be as proper to be done for the sake of his own future peaceof mind, as for your health-sake; and, I dare say, in fear of hurting thelatter, he will forbear the thoughts of any farther intrusion; at leastwhile you are so much indisposed: so that one half-hour's shock, if itwill be a shock to see the unhappy man, (but just got up himself from adangerous fever, ) will be all you will have occasion to stand. 

I beg you will not too much hurry and discompose yourself. It isimpossible he can be in town till Monday, at soonest. And if he resolveto come, I hope to be at Mr. Smith's before him. 

I am, Madam, with the profoundest veneration, Your most faithful and most obedient servant, J. BELFORD. 

LETTER XIIMR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. [IN ANSWER TO HIS OF AUG. 17. SEE LETTER X. OF THIS VOLUME. ]SUNDAY, AUG. 20. 

What an unmerciful fellow art thou! A man has no need of a conscience, who has such an impertinent monitor. But if Nic. Rowe wrote a play thatanswers not his title, am I to be reflected upon for that?--I havesinned; I repent; I would repair--she forgives my sin: she accepts myrepentance: but she won't let me repair--What wouldst thou have me do?

But get thee gone to Belton, as soon as thou canst. Yet whether thougoest or not, up I must go, and see what I can do with the sweet odditymyself. The moment these prescribing varlets will let me, dependupon it, I go. Nay, Lord M. Thinks she ought to permit me one interview. His opinion has great authority with me--when it squares with my own: andI have assured him, and my two cousins, that I will behave with all thedecency and respect that man can behave with to the person whom he mostrespects. And so I will. Of this, if thou choosest not to go to Beltonmean time, thou shalt be witness. 

Colonel Morden, thou hast heard me say, is a man of honour and bravery:--but Colonel Morden has had his girls, as well as you or I. And indeed, either openly or secretly, who has not? The devil always baits with apretty wench, when he angles for a man, be his age, rank, or degree, whatit will. 

I have often heard my beloved speak of the Colonel with great distinctionand esteem. I wish he could make matters a little easier, for her mind'ssake, between the rest of the implacables and herself. 

Methinks I am sorry for honest Belton. But a man cannot be ill, orvapourish, but thou liftest up thy shriek-owl note, and killest himimmediately. None but a fellow, who is for a drummer in death'sforlorn-hope, could take so much delight, as thou dost, in beating adead-march with thy goose-quills. Whereas, didst thou but know thine owntalents, thou art formed to give mirth by thy very appearance; andwouldst make a better figure by half, leading up thy brother-bears atHockley in the Hole, to the music of a Scot's bagpipe. Methinks I seethy clumsy sides shaking, (and shaking the sides of all beholders, ) inthese attitudes; thy fat head archly beating time on thy porterlyshoulders, right and left by turns, as I once beheld thee practising tothe horn-pipe at Preston. Thou remembrest the frolick, as I have donean hundred times; for I never before saw thee appear so much incharacter. 

But I know what I shall get by this--only that notable observationrepeated, 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, when I see thee, for theextracts thou hast given the lady from my letters, notwithstanding what Isaid in my last; especially if she continue to refuse me. An hundredtimes have I myself known a woman deny, yet comply at last: but, by theseextracts, thou hast, I doubt, made her bar up the door of her heart, asshe used to do her chamber-door, against me. --This therefore is adisloyalty that friendship cannot bear, nor honour allow me to forgive. 

LETTER XIII

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. LONDON, AUG. 21, MONDAY. 

I believe I am bound to curse thee, Jack. Nevertheless I won'tanticipate, but proceed to write thee a longer letter than thou hast hadfrom me for some time past. So here goes. 

That thou mightest have as little notice as possible of the time I wasresolved to be in town, I set out in my Lord's chariot-and-six yesterday, as soon as I had dispatched my letter to thee, and arrived in town lastnight: for I knew I could have no dependence on thy friendship where MissHarlowe's humour was concerned. 

I had no other place so ready, and so was forced to go to my oldlodgings, where also my wardrobe is; and there I poured out millions ofcurses upon the whole crew, and refused to see either Sally or Polly; andthis not only for suffering the lady to escape, but for the villanousarrest, and for their detestable insolence to her at the officer's house. 

I dressed myself in a never-worn suit, which I had intended for one of mywedding-suits; and liked myself so well, that I began to think, withthee, that my outside was the best of me:

I took a chair to Smith's, my heart bounding in almost audible thumps tomy throat, with the assured expectations of seeing my beloved. I claspedmy fingers, as I was danced along: I charged my eyes to languish andsparkle by turns: I talked to my knees, telling them how they must bend;and, in the language of a charming describer, acted my part in fancy, aswell as spoke it to myself. 

 Tenderly kneeling, thus will I complain: Thus court her pity; and thus plead my pain: Thus sigh for fancy'd frowns, if frowns should rise; And thus meet favour in her soft'ning eyes. 

In this manner entertained I myself till I arrived at Smith's; and therethe fellows set down their gay burden. Off went their hats; Will. Readyat hand in a new livery; up went the head; out rushed my honour; thewoman behind the counter all in flutters, respect and fear giving duesolemnity to her features, and her knees, I doubt not, knocking againstthe inside of her wainscot-fence. 

Your servant, Madam--Will. Let the fellows move to some distance, andwait. 

You have a young lady lodges here; Miss Harlowe, Madam: Is she above?

Sir, Sir, and please your Honour: [the woman is struck with my figure, thought I:] Miss Harlowe, Sir! There is, indeed, such a young ladylodges here--But, but--

But, what, Madam?--I must see her. --One pair of stairs; is it not?--Don't trouble yourself--I shall find her apartment. And was makingtowards the stairs. 

Sir, Sir, the lady, the lady is not at home--she is abroad--she is in thecountry--

In the country! Not at home!--Impossible! You will not pass this storyupon me, good woman. I must see her. I have business of life and deathwith her. 

Indeed, Sir, the lady is not at home! Indeed, Sir, she is abroad!--

She then rung a bell: John, cried she, pray step down!--Indeed, Sir, thelady is not at home. 

Down came John, the good man of the house, when I expected one of hisjourneymen, by her saucy familiarity. 

My dear, said she, the gentleman will not believe Miss Harlowe is abroad. 

John bowed to my fine clothes: Your servant, Sir, --indeed the lady isabroad. She went out of town this morning by six o'clock--into thecountry--by the doctor's advice. 

Still I would not believe either John or his wife. I am sure, said I, she cannot be abroad. I heard she was very ill--she is not able to goout in a coach. Do you know Mr. Belford, friend?

Yes, Sir; I have the honour to know 'Squire Belford. He is gone into thecountry to visit a sick friend. He went on Saturday, Sir. 

This had also been told from thy lodgings to Will. Whom I sent to desireto see thee on my first coming to town. 

Well, and Mr. Belford wrote me word that she was exceeding ill. How thencan she be gone out?

O Sir, she is very ill; very ill, indeed--she could hardly walk to thecoach. 

Belford, thought I, himself knew nothing of the time of my coming;neither can he have received my letter of yesterday: and so ill, 'tisimpossible she would go out. 

Where is her servant? Call her servant to me. 

Her servant, Sir, is her nurse: she has no other. And she is gone withher. 

Well, friend, I must not believe you. You'll excuse me; but I must go upstairs myself. And was stepping up. 

John hereupon put on a serious, and a less respectful face--Sir, thishouse is mine; and--

And what, friend? not doubting then but she was above. --I must and willsee her. I have authority for it. I am a justice of the peace. I havea search warrant. 

And up I went; they following me, muttering, and in a plaguy flutter. 

The first door I came to was locked. I tapped at it. 

The lady, Sir, has the key of her own apartment. 

On the inside, I question not, my honest friend; tapping again. Andbeing assured, if she heard my voice, that her timorous and soft temperwould make her betray herself, by some flutters, to my listning ear, Isaid aloud, I am confident Miss Harlowe is here: dearest Madam, open thedoor: admit me but for one moment to your presence. 

But neither answer nor fluttering saluted my ear; and, the people beingvery quiet, I led on to the next apartment; and, the key being on theoutside, I opened it, and looked all around it, and into the closet. 

The mans said he never saw so uncivil a gentleman in his life. 

Hark thee, friend, said I; let me advise thee to be a little decent; orI shall teach thee a lesson thou never learnedst in all thy life. 

Sir, said he, 'tis not like a gentleman, to affront a man in his ownhouse. 

Then prythee, man, replied I, don't crow upon thine own dunghil. 

I stept back to the locked door: My dear Miss Harlowe, I beg of you toopen the door, or I'll break it open;--pushing hard against it, that itcracked again. 

The man looked pale: and, trembling with his fright, made a plaguy longface; and called to one of his bodice-makers above, Joseph, come downquickly. 

Joseph came down: a lion's-face grinning fellow; thick, and short, andbushy-headed, like an old oak-pollard. Then did master John put on asturdier look. But I only hummed a tune, traversed all the otherapartments, sounded the passages with my knuckles, to find whether therewere private doors, and walked up the next pair of stairs, singing allthe way; John and Joseph, and Mrs. Smith, following me up, trembling. 

I looked round me there, and went into two open-door bed-chambers;searched the closets, and the passages, and peeped through the key-holeof another: no Miss Harlowe, by Jupiter! What shall I do!--what shall Ido! as the girls say. --Now will she be grieved that she is out of theway. 

I said this on purpose to find out whether these people knew the lady'sstory; and had the answer I expected from Mrs. Smith--I believe not, Sir. 

Why so, Mrs. Smith? Do you know who I am?

I can guess, Sir. 

Whom do you guess me to be?

Your name is Mr. Lovelace, Sir, I make no doubt. 

The very same. But how came you to guess so well, dame Smith! You neversaw me before, did you?

Here, Jack, I laid out for a compliment, and missed it. 

'Tis easy to guess, Sir; for there cannot be two such gentlemen as you. 

Well said, dame Smith--but mean you good or bad?--Handsome was the leastI thought she would have said. 

I leave you to guess, Sir. 

Condemned, thought I, by myself, on this appeal. 

Why, father Smith, thy wife is a wit, man!--Didst thou ever find that outbefore?--But where is widow Lovick, dame Smith? My cousin John Belfordsays she is a very good woman. Is she within? or is she gone with MissHarlowe too?

She will be within by-and-by, Sir. She is not with the lady. 

Well, but my good dear Mrs. Smith, where is the lady gone? and when willshe return?

I can't tell, Sir. 

Don't tell fibs, dame Smith; don't tell fibs, chucking her under thechin: which made John's upper-lip, with chin shortened, rise to his nose. --I am sure you know!--But here's another pair of stairs: let us see: Wholives up there?--but hold, here's another room locked up, tapping at thedoor--Who's at home? cried I. 

That's Mrs. Lovick's apartment. She is gone out, and has the key withher. 

Widow Lovick! rapping again, I believe you are at home: pray open thedoor. 

John and Joseph muttered and whispered together. 

No whispering, honest friends: 'tis not manners to whisper. Joseph, whatsaid John to thee?

JOHN! Sir, disdainfully repeated the good woman. 

I beg pardon, Mrs. Smith: but you see the force of example. Had youshowed your honest man more respect, I should. Let me give you a pieceof advice--women who treat their husbands irreverently, teach strangersto use them with contempt. There, honest master John; why dost not pulloff thy hat to me?--Oh! so thou wouldst, if thou hadst it on: but thounever wearest thy hat in thy wife's presence, I believe; dost thou?

None of your fleers and your jeers, Sir, cried John. I wish everymarried pair lived as happily as we do. 

I wish so too, honest friend. But I'll be hanged if thou hast anychildren. 

Why so, Sir?

Hast thou?--Answer me, man: Hast thou, or not?

Perhaps not, Sir. But what of that?

What of that?--Why I'll tell thee: The man who has no children by hiswife must put up with plain John. Hadst thou a child or two, thou'dst becalled Mr. Smith, with a courtesy, or a smile at least, at every word. 

You are very pleasant, Sir, replied my dame. I fancy, if either myhusband or I had as much to answer for as I know whom, we should not beso merry. 

Why then, dame Smith, so much the worse for those who were obliged tokeep you company. But I am not merry--I am sad!--Hey-ho!--Where shall Ifind my dear Miss Harlowe?

My beloved Miss Harlowe! [calling at the foot of the third pair ofstairs, ] if you are above, for Heaven's sake answer me. I am coming up. 

Sir, said the good man, I wish you'd walk down. The servants' rooms, andthe working-rooms, are up those stairs, and another pair; and nobody'sthere that you want. 

Shall I go up, and see if Miss Harlowe be there, Mrs. Smith?

You may, Sir, if you please. 

Then I won't; for, if she was, you would not be so obliging. 

I am ashamed to give you all this attendance: you are the politesttraders I ever knew. Honest Joseph, slapping him upon the shoulders ona sudden, which made him jump, didst ever grin for a wager, man?--for therascal seemed not displeased with me; and, cracking his flat face fromear to ear, with a distended mouth, showed his teeth, as broad and asblack as his thumb-nails. --But don't I hinder thee? What canst earna-day, man?

Half-a-crown I can earn a-day; with an air of pride and petulance, atbeing startled. 

There then is a day's wages for thee. But thou needest not attend mefarther. 

Come, Mrs. Smith, come John, (Master Smith I should say, ) let's walkdown, and give me an account where the lady is gone, and when she willreturn. 

So down stairs led I. John and Joseph (thought I had discharged thelatter, ) and my dame, following me, to show their complaisance to astranger. 

I re-entered one of the first-floor rooms. I have a great mind to beyour lodger: for I never saw such obliging folks in my life. What roomshave you to let?

None at all, Sir. 

I am sorry for that. But whose is this?

Mine, Sir, chuffily said John. 

Thine, man! why then I will take it of thee. This, and a bed-chamber, and a garret for one servant, will content me. I will give thee thineown price, and half a guinea a day over, for those conveniencies. 

For ten guineas a day, Sir--

Hold, John! (Master Smith I should say)--Before thou speakest, consider--I won't be affronted, man. 

Sir, I wish you'd walk down, said the good woman. Really, Sir, youtake--

Great liberties I hope you would not say, Mrs. Smith?

Indeed, Sir, I was going to say something like it. 

Well, then, I am glad I prevented you; for such words better become mymouth than yours. But I must lodge with you till the lady returns. Ibelieve I must. However, you may be wanted in the shop; so we'll talkthat over there. 

Down I went, they paying diligent attendance on my steps. 

When I came into the shop, seeing no chair or stool, I went behind thecompter, and sat down under an arched kind of canopy of carved work, which these proud traders, emulating the royal niche-fillers, often givethemselves, while a joint-stool, perhaps, serves those by whom they gettheir bread: such is the dignity of trade in this mercantile nation!

I looked about me, and above me; and told them I was very proud of myseat; asking, if John were ever permitted to fill this superb niche?

Perhaps he was, he said, very surlily. 

That is it that makes thee looks so like a statue, man. 

John looked plaguy glum upon me. But his man Joseph and my man Will. Turned round with their backs to us, to hide their grinning, with eachhis fist in his mouth. 

I asked, what it was they sold?

Powder, and wash-balls, and snuff, they said; and gloves and stockings. 

O come, I'll be your customer. Will. Do I want wash-balls?

Yes, and please your Honour, you can dispense with one or two. 

Give him half a dozen, dame Smith. 

She told me she must come where I was, to serve them. Pray, Sir, walkfrom behind the compter. 

Indeed but I won't. The shop shall be mine. Where are they, if acustomer shall come in?

She pointed over my head, with a purse mouth, as if she would not havesimpered, could she have helped it. I reached down the glass, and gaveWill. Six. There--put 'em up, Sirrah. 

He did, grinning with his teeth out before; which touching my conscience, as the loss of them was owing to me, Joseph, said I, come hither. Comehither, man, when I bid thee. 

He stalked towards me, his hands behind him, half willing, and halfunwilling. 

I suddenly wrapt my arm round his neck. Will. Thy penknife, this moment. D----n the fellow, where's thy penknife?

O Lord! said the pollard-headed dog, struggling to get his head loosefrom under my arm, while my other hand was muzzling about his cursedchaps, as if I would take his teeth out. 

I will pay thee a good price, man: don't struggle thus? The penknife, Will. !

O Lord, cried Joseph, struggling still more and more: and out comesWill. 's pruning-knife; for the rascal is a gardener in the country. Ihave only this, Sir. 

The best in the world to launch a gum. D----n the fellow, why doststruggle thus?

Master and Mistress Smith being afraid, I suppose, that I had a designupon Joseph's throat, because he was their champion, (and this, indeed, made me take the more notice of him, ) coming towards me with countenancestragic-comical, I let him go. 

I only wanted, said I, to take out two or three of this rascal's broadteeth, to put them into my servant's jaws--and I would have paid him hisprice for them. --I would by my soul, Joseph. 

Joseph shook his ears; and with both hands stroked down, smooth as itwould lie, his bushy hair; and looked at me as if he knew not whether heshould laugh or be angry: but, after a stupid stare or two, stalked offto the other end of the shop, nodding his head at me as he went, stillstroking down his hair; and took his stand by his master, facing aboutand muttering, that I was plaguy strong in the arms, and he thought wouldhave throttled him. Then folding his arms, and shaking his bristledhead, added, 'twas well I was a gentleman, or he would not have takensuch an affront. 

I demanded where their rappee was? the good woman pointed to the place;and I took up a scollop-shell of it, refusing to let her weight it, andfilled my box. And now, Mrs. Smith, said I, where are your gloves?

She showed me; and I chose four pair of them, and set Joseph, who lookedas if he wanted to be taken notice of again, to open the fingers. 

A female customer, who had been gaping at the door, came in for someScots sniff; and I would serve her. The wench was plaguy homely; and Itold her so; or else, I said, I would have treated her. She, in anger, [no woman is homely in her own opinion, ] threw down her penny; and I putit in my pocket. 

Just then, turning my eye to the door, I saw a pretty, genteel lady, witha footman after her, peeping in with a What's the matter, good folks? tothe starers; and I ran to her from behind the compter, and, as she wasmaking off, took her hand, and drew her into the shop; begging that shewould be my customer; for that I had but just begun trade. 

What do you sell, Sir? said she, smiling; but a little surprised. 

Tapes, ribbands, silk laces, pins, and needles; for I am a pedlar:powder, patches, wash-balls, stockings, garters, snuffs, and pincushions--Don't we, goody Smith?

So in I gently drew her to the compter, running behind it myself, with anair of great dilingence and obligingness. I have excellent gloves andwash-balls, Madam: rappee, Scots, Portugal, and all sorts of snuff. 

Well, said she, in a very good humour, I'll encourage a young beginnerfor once. Here, Andrew, [to her footman, ] you want a pair of gloves, don't you?

I took down a parcel of gloves, which Mrs. Smith pointed to, and cameround to the fellow to fit them on myself. 

No matter for opening them, said I: thy fingers, friend, are as stiff asdrum-sticks. Push!--Thou'rt an awkward dog! I wonder such a pretty ladywill be followed by such a clumsy varlet. 

The fellow had no strength for laughing: and Joseph was mightily pleased, in hopes, I suppose, I would borrow a few of Andrew's teeth, to keep himin countenance: and, father and mother Smith, like all the world, as thejest was turned from themselves, seemed diverted with the humour. 

The fellow said the gloves were too little. 

Thrust, and be d----d to thee, said I: why, fellow, thou hast not thestrength of a cat. 

Sir, Sir, said he, laughing, I shall hurt your Honour's side. 

D----n thee, thrust I say. 

He did; and burst out the sides of the glove. 

Will. Said I, where's thy pruning-knife? By my soul, friend, I had agood mind to pare thy cursed paws. But come, here's a larger pair: trythem, when thou gettest home; and let thy sweetheart, if thou hast one, mend the other, so take both. 

The lady laughed at the humour; as did my fellow, and Mrs. Smith, andJoseph: even John laughed, though he seemed by the force put upon hiscountenance to be but half pleased with me neither. 

Madam, said I, and stepped behind the compter, bowing over it, now I hopeyou will buy something for yourself. Nobody shall use you better, norsell you cheaper. 

Come, said she, give me six-penny worth of Portugal snuff. 

They showed me where it was, and I served her; and said, when she wouldhave paid me, I took nothing at my opening. 

If I treated her footman, she told me, I should not treat her. 

Well, with all my heart, said I: 'tis not for us tradesmen to be saucy--Is it, Mrs. Smith?

I put her sixpence in my pocket; and, seizing her hand, took notice toher of the crowd that had gathered about the door, and besought her towalk into the back-shop with me. 

She struggled her hand out of mine, and would stay no longer. 

So I bowed, and bid her kindly welcome, and thanked her, and hoped Ishould have her custom another time. 

She went away smiling; and Andrew after her; who made me a fine bow. 

I began to be out of countenance at the crowd, which thickened apace; andbid Will. Order the chair to the door. 

Well, Mrs. Smith, with a grave air, I am heartily sorry Miss Harlowe isabroad. You don't tell me where she is?

Indeed, Sir, I cannot. 

You will not, you mean. --She could have no notion of my coming. I cameto town but last night. I have been very ill. She has almost broken myheart by her cruelty. You know my story, I doubt not. Tell her, I mustgo out of town to-morrow morning. But I will send my servant, to know ifshe will favour me with one half-hour's conversation; for, as soon as Iget down, I shall set out for Dover, in my way to France, if I have not acountermand from her, who has the sole disposal of my fate. 

And so flinging down a Portugal six-and-thirty, I took Mr. Smith by thehand, telling him, I was sorry we had not more time to be betteracquainted; and bidding farewell to honest Joseph, (who pursed up hismouth as I passed by him, as if he thought his teeth still in jeopardy, )and Mrs. Smith adieu, and to recommend me to her fair lodger, hummed anair, and, the chair being come, whipt into it; the people about the doorseeming to be in good humour with me; one crying, a pleasant gentleman, Iwarrant him! and away I was carried to White's, according to direction. 

As soon as I came thither, I ordered Will. To go and change his clothes, and to disguise himself by putting on his black wig, and keeping hismouth shut; and then to dodge about Smith's, to inform himself of thelady's motions. 

***

I give thee this impudent account of myself, that thou mayest rave at me, and call me hardened, and what thou wilt. For, in the first place, I, who had been so lately ill, was glad I was alive; and then I was sobalked by my charmer's unexpected absence, and so ruffled by that, and bythe bluff treatment of father John, that I had no other way to avoidbeing out of humour with all I met with. Moreover I was rejoiced tofind, by the lady's absence, and by her going out at six in the morning, that it was impossible she should be so ill as thou representest her tobe; and this gave me still higher spirits. Then I know the sex alwayslove cheerful and humourous fellows. The dear creature herself used tobe pleased with my gay temper and lively manner; and had she been toldthat I was blubbering for her in the back-shop, she would have despisedme still more than she does. 

Furthermore, I was sensible that the people of the house must needs havea terrible notion of me, as a savage, bloody-minded, obdurate fellow; aperfect woman-eater; and, no doubt, expected to see me with the claws ofa lion, and the fangs of a tiger; and it was but policy to show them whata harmless pleasant fellow I am, in order to familiarize the Johns andthe Josephs to me. For it was evident to me, by the good woman's callingthem down, that she thought me a dangerous man. Whereas now, John and Ihave shaken hands together, and dame Smith having seen that I have theface, and hands, and looks of a man, and walk upright, and prate, andlaugh, and joke, like other people; and Joseph, that I can talk of takinghis teeth out of his head, without doing him the least hurt; they willall, at my next visit, be much more easy and pleasant to me than Andrew'sgloves were to him; and we shall be as thoroughly acquainted, as if wehad known one another a twelvemonth. 

When I returned to our mother's, I again cursed her and all her nymphstogether; and still refused to see either Sally or Polly! I raved at thehorrid arrest; and told the old dragon that it was owing to her and her'sthat the fairest virtue in the world was ruined; my reputation for everblasted; and that I was not married and perfectly happy in the love ofthe most excellent of her sex. 

She, to pacify me, said she would show me a new face that would pleaseme; since I would not see my Sally, who was dying with grief. 

Where is this new face? cried I: let me see her, though I shall never seeany face with pleasure but Miss Harlowe's. 

She won't come down, replied she. She will not be at the word of commandyet. She is but just in the trammels; and must be waited upon, I'llassure you; and courted much besides. 

Ay! said I, that looks well. Lead me to her this instant. 

I followed her up: and who should she be, but that little toad Sally!

O curse you, said I, for a devil! Is it you? is your's the new face?

O my dear, dear Mr. Lovelace! cried she, I am glad any thing will bringyou to me!--and so the little beast threw herself about my neck, andthere clung like a cat. Come, said she, what will you give me, and I'llbe as virtuous for a quarter of an hour, and mimic your Clarissa to thelife?

I was Belforded all over. I could not bear such an insult upon the dearcreature, (for I have a soft and generous nature in the main, whateverthou thinkest;) and cursed her most devoutly, for taking my beloved'sname in her mouth in such a way. But the little devil was not to bebalked; but fell a crying, sobbing, praying, begging, exclaiming, fainting, that I never saw my lovely girl so well aped. Indeed I wasalmost taken in; for I could have fancied I had her before me once more. 

O this sex! this artful sex! there's no minding them. At first, indeed, their grief and their concern may be real: but, give way to thehurricane, and it will soon die away in soft murmurs, thrilling upon yourears like the notes of a well-tuned viol. And, by Sally, one sees thatart will generally so well supply the place of nature, that you shall noteasily know the difference. Miss Clarisa Harlowe, indeed, is the onlywoman in the world I believe that can say, in the words of her favouriteJob, (for I can quote a text as well as she, ) But it is not so with me. 

They were very inquisitive about my fair-one. They told me that youseldom came near them; that, when you did, you put on plaguy grave airs;would hardly stay five minutes; and did nothing but praise Miss Harlowe, and lament her hard fate. In short, that you despised them; was full ofsentences; and they doubted not, in a little while, would be a lost man, and marry. 

A pretty character for thee, is it not? thou art in a blessed way; yethast nothing to do but to go on in it: and then what work hast thou to gothrough! If thou turnest back, these sorceresses will be like the czar'scossacks, [at Pultowa, I think it was, ] who were planted with readyprimed and cocked pieces behind the regulars, in order to shoot themdead, if they did not push on and conquer; and then wilt thou be mostlamentably despised by every harlot thou hast made--and, O Jack, howformidable, in that case, will be the number of thy enemies!

I intend to regulate my motions by Will. 's intelligence; for see thisdear creature I must and will. Yet I have promised Lord M. To be down intwo or three days at farthest; for he is grown plaguy fond of me since Iwas ill. 

I am in hopes that the word I left, that I am to go out of town to-morrowmorning, will soon bring the lady back again. 

Mean time, I thought I would write to divert thee, while thou art of suchimportance about the dying; and as thy servant, it seems, comes backwardand forward every day, perhaps I may send thee another letter to-morrow, with the particulars of the interview between the dear creature and me;after which my soul thirsteth. 

LETTER XIV

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. TUESDAY, AUG. 22. 

I must write on, to divert myself: for I can get no rest; no refreshingrest. I awaked just now in a cursed fright. How a man may be affectedby dreams!

'Methought I had an interview with my beloved. I found her all goodness, condescension, and forgiveness. She suffered herself to be overcome inmy favour by the joint intercessions of Lord M. , Lady Sarah, Lady Betty, and my two cousins Montague, who waited upon her in deep mourning; theladies in long trains sweeping after them; Lord M. In a long black mantletrailing after him. They told her they came in these robs to expresstheir sorrow for my sins against her, and to implore her to forgive me. 

'I myself, I thought, was upon my knees, with a sword in my hand, offering either to put it up in the scabbard, or to thrust it into myheart, as she should command the one or the other. 

'At that moment her cousin Morden, I thought, all of a sudden, flashed inthrough a window, with his drawn sword--Die, Lovelace! said he; thisinstant die, and be d----d, if in earnest thou repairest not by marriagemy cousin's wrongs!

'I was rising to resent this insult, I thought, when Lord M. Ran betweenus with his great black mantle, and threw it over my face: and instantlymy charmer, with that sweet voice which has so often played upon myravished ears, wrapped her arms around me, muffled as I was in my Lord'smantle: O spare, spare my Lovelace! and spare, O Lovelace, my belovedcousin Morden! Let me not have my distresses augmented by the fall ofeither or both of those who are so dear to me!

'At this, charmed with her sweet mediation, I thought I would haveclasped her in my arms: when immediately the most angelic form I had everbeheld, all clad in transparent white, descended in a cloud, which, opening, discovered a firmament above it, crowded with golden cherubs andglittering seraphs, all addressing her with Welcome, welcome, welcome!and, encircling my charmer, ascended with her to the region of seraphims;and instantly, the opened cloud closing, I lost sight of her, and of thebright form together, and found wrapt in my arms her azure robe (allstuck thick with stars of embossed silver) which I had caught hold of inhopes of detaining her; but was all that was left me of my belovedClarissa. And then, (horrid to relate!) the floor sinking under me, asthe firmament had opened for her, I dropt into a hole more frightful thanthat of Elden; and, tumbling over and over down it, without view of abottom, I awaked in a panic; and was as effectually disordered for halfan hour, as if my dream had been a reality. '

Wilt thou forgive my troubling thee with such visionary stuff? Thou wiltsee by it only that, sleeping or waking, my Clarissa is always presentwith me. 

But here this moment is Will. Come running hither to tell me that hislady actually returned to her lodgings last night between eleven andtwelve; and is now there, though very ill. 

I hasten to her. But, that I may not add to her indisposition, by anyrough or boisterous behaviour, I will be as soft and gentle as the doveherself in my addresses to her. 

 That I do love her, I all ye host of Heaven, Be witness. --That she is dear to me! Dearer than day, to one whom sight must leave; Dearer than life, to one who fears to die!

The chair is come. I fly to my beloved. 

LETTER XV

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. 

Curse upon my stars!--Disappointed again! It was about eight when Iarrived at Smith's. --The woman was in the shop. 

So, old acquaintance, how do you now? I know my love is above. --Let herbe acquainted that I am here, waiting for admission to her presence, andcan take no denial. Tell her, that I will approach her with the mostrespectful duty, and in whose company she pleases; and I will not touchthe hem of her garment, without her leave. 

Indeed, Sir, you are mistaken. The lady is not in this house, nor nearit. 

I'll see that. --Will. ! beckoning him to me, and whispering, see if thoucanst any way find out (without losing sight of the door, lest she shouldbe below stairs) if she be in the neighbourhood, if not within. 

Will. Bowed, and went off. Up went I, without further ceremony; attendednow only by the good woman. 

I went into each apartment, except that which was locked before, and wasnow also locked: and I called to my Clarissa in the voice of love; but, by the still silence, was convinced she was not there. Yet, on thestrength of my intelligence, I doubted not but she was in the house. 

I then went up two pairs of stairs, and looked round the first room: butno Miss Harlowe. 

And who, pray, is in this room? stopping at the door of another. 

A widow gentlewoman, Sir. --Mrs. Lovick. 

O my dear Mrs. Lovick! said I. --I am intimately acquainted with Mrs. Lovick's character, from my cousin John Belford. I must see Mrs. Lovickby all means. --Good Mrs. Lovick, open the door. 

She did. 

Your servant, Madam. Be so good as to excuse me. --You have heard mystory. You are an admirer of the most excellent woman in the world. Dear Mrs. Lovick, tell me what is become of her?

The poor lady, Sir, went out yesterday, on purpose to avoid you. 

How so? she knew not that I would be here. 

She was afraid you would come, when she heard you were recovered fromyour illness. Ah! Sir, what pity it is that so fine a gentleman shouldmake such ill returns for God's goodness to him!

You are an excellent woman, Mrs. Lovick: I know that, by my cousin JohnBelford's account of you: and Miss Clarissa Harlowe is an angel. 

Miss Harlowe is indeed an angel, replied she; and soon will be companyfor angels. 

No jesting with such a woman as this, Jack. 

Tell me of a truth, good Mrs. Lovick, where I may see this dear lady. Upon my soul, I will neither fright for offend her. I will only beg ofher to hear me speak for one half-quarter of an hour; and, if she willhave it so, I will never trouble her more. 

Sir, said the widow, it would be death for her to see you. She was athome last night; I'll tell you truth: but fitter to be in bed all day. She came home, she said, to die; and, if she could not avoid your visit, she was unable to fly from you; and believed she should die in yourpresence. 

And yet go out again this morning early? How can that be, widow?

Why, Sir, she rested not two hours, for fear of you. Her fear gave herstrength, which she'll suffer for, when that fear is over. And findingherself, the more she thought of your visit, the less able to stay toreceive it, she took chair, and is gone nobody knows whither. But, Ibelieve, she intended to be carried to the waterside, in order to takeboat; for she cannot bear a coach. It extremely incommoded heryesterday. 

But before we talk any further, said I, if she be gone abroad, you canhave no objection to my looking into every apartment above and below;because I am told she is actually in the house. 

Indeed, Sir, she is not. You may satisfy yourself, if you please: butMrs. Smith and I waited on her to her chair. We were forced to supporther, she was so weak. She said, Whither can I go, Mrs. Lovick? whithercan I go, Mrs. Smith?--Cruel, cruel man!--tell him I called him so, if hecome again!--God give him that peace which he denies me!

Sweet creature! cried I; and looked down, and took out my handkerchief. 

The widow wept. I wish, said she, I had never known so excellent a lady, and so great a sufferer! I love her as my own child!

Mrs. Smith wept. 

I then gave over the hope of seeing her for this time, I was extremelychagrined at my disappointment, and at the account they gave of her illhealth. 

Would to Heaven, said I, she would put it in my power to repair herwrongs! I have been an ungrateful wretch to her. I need not tell you, Mrs. Lovick, how much I have injured her, nor how much she suffers by herrelations' implacableness, Mrs. Smith, that cuts her to the heart. Herfamily is the most implacable family on earth; and the dear creature, inrefusing to see me, and to be reconciled to me, shows her relation tothem a little too plainly. 

O Sir, said the widow, not one syllable of what you say belongs to thislady. I never saw so sweet a temper! she is always accusing herself, andexcusing her relations. And, as to you, Sir, she forgives you: shewishes you well; and happier than you will let her die in peace? 'tis allshe wishes for. You don't look like a hard-hearted gentleman!--How canyou thus hunt and persecute a poor lady, whom none of her relations willlook upon? It makes my heart bleed for her. 

And then she wept again. Mrs. Smith wept also. My seat grew uneasy tome. I shifted to another several times; and what Mrs. Lovick farthersaid, and showed me, made me still more uneasy. 

Bad as the poor lady was last night, said she, she transcribed into herbook a meditation on your persecuting her thus. I have a copy of it. IfI thought it would have any effect, I would read it to you. 

Let me read it myself, Mrs. Lovick. 

She gave it to me. It has an Harlowe-spirited title: and, from aforgiving spirit, intolerable. I desired to take it with me. Sheconsented, on condition that I showed it to 'Squire Belford. So here, Mr. 'Squire Belford, thou mayest read it, if thou wilt. 

ON BEING HUNTED AFTER BY THE ENEMY OF MY SOUL. 

MONDAY, AUG. 21. 

Deliver me, O Lord, from the evil man. 

Preserve me from the violent man. 

Who imagines mischief in his heart. 

He hath sharpened his tongue like a serpent. Adders' poison is under hislips. 

Keep me, O Lord, from the hands of the wicked. Preserve me from theviolent man, who hath purposed to overthrow my goings. 

He hath hid a snare for me. He hath spread a net by the way-side. Hehath set gins for me in the way wherein I walked. 

Keep me from the snares which he hath laid for me, and the gins of thisworker of iniquity. 

The enemy hath persecuted my soul. He hath smitten my life down to theground. He hath made me dwell in darkness, as those that have been longdead. 

Therefore is my spirit overwhelmed within me. My heart within me isdesolate. 

Hide not thy face from me in the day when I am in trouble. 

For my days are consumed like smoke: and my bones are burnt as thehearth. 

My heart is smitten and withered like grass: so that I forget to eat mybread. 

By reason of the voice of my groaning, my bones cleave to my skin. 

I am like a pelican of the wilderness. I am like an owl of the desart. 

I watch; and am as a sparrow alone upon the house-top. 

I have eaten ashes like bread; and mingled my drink with weeping:

Because of thine indignation, and thy wrath: for thou hast lifted me up, and cast me down. 

My days are like a shadow that declineth, and I am withered like grass. 

Grant not, O Lord, the desires of the wicked: further not his devices, lest he exalt himself. 

Why now, Mrs. Lovick, said I, when I had read this meditation, as shecalled it, I think I am very severely treated by the lady, if she mean mein all this. For how is it that I am the enemy of her soul, when I loveher both soul and body?

She says, that I am a violent man, and a wicked man. --That I have beenso, I own: but I repent, and only wish to have it in my power to repairthe injuries I have done her. 

The gin, the snare, the net, mean matrimony, I suppose--But is it a crimein me to wish to marry her? Would any other woman think it so? andchoose to become a pelican in the wilderness, or a lonely sparrow on thehouse-top, rather than have a mate that would chirp about her all day andall night?

She says, she has eaten ashes like bread--A sad mistake to be sure!--Andmingled her drink with weeping--Sweet maudlin soul! should I say of anybody confessing this, but Miss Harlowe. 

She concludes with praying, that the desires of the wicked (meaning poorme, I doubt) may not be granted; that my devices may not be furthered, lest I exalt myself. I should undoubtedly exalt myself, and with reason, could I have the honour and the blessing of such a wife. And if mydesires have so honourable an end, I know not why I should be calledwicked, and why I should not be allowed to hope, that my honest devicesmay be furthered, that I MAY exalt myself. 

But here, Mrs. Lovick, let me ask, as something is undoubtedly meant bythe lonely sparrow on the house-top, is not the dear creature at thisvery instant (tell me truly) concealed in Mrs. Smith's cockloft?--Whatsay you, Mrs. Lovick? What say you, Mrs. Smith, to this?

They assured me to the contrary; and that shew as actually abroad, andthey knew not where. 

Thou seest, Jack, that I would fain have diverted the chagrin given menot only by the women's talk, but by this collection of Scripture-textsdrawn up in array against me. Several other whimsical and light things Isaid [all I had for it!] with the same view. But the widow would not letme come off so. She stuck to me; and gave me, as I told thee, a gooddeal of uneasiness, by her sensible and serious expostulations. Mrs. Smith put in now-and-then; and the two Jack-pudding fellows, John andJoseph, not being present, I had no provocation to turn the conversationinto a farce; and, at last, they both joined warmly to endeavour toprevail upon me to give up all thoughts of seeing the lady. But I couldnot hear of that. On the contrary, I besought Mrs. Smith to let me haveone of her rooms but till I could see her; and were it but for one, two, or three days, I would pay a year's rent for it; and quit it the momentthe interview was over. But they desired to be excused; and were surethe lady would not come to the house till I was gone, were it for amonth. 

This pleased me; for I found they did not think her so very ill as theywould have me believe her to be; but I took no notice of the slip, because I would not guard them against more of the like. 

In short, I told them, I must and would see her: but that it should bewith all the respect and veneration that heart could pay to excellencelike her's: and that I would go round to all the churches in London andWestminster, where there were prayers or service, from sun-rise tosun-set, and haunt their house like a ghost, till I had the opportunitymy soul panted after. 

This I bid them tell her. And thus ended our serious conversation. 

I took leave of them; and went down; and, stepping into my chair, causedmyself to be carried to Lincoln's-Inn; and walked in the gardens till thechapel was opened; and then I went in, and staid prayers, in hopes ofseeing the dear creature enter: but to no purpose; and yet I prayed mostdevoutly that she might be conducted thither, either by my good angel, orher own. And indeed I burn more than ever with impatience to be oncemore permitted to kneel at the feet of this adorable woman. And had Imet her, or espied her in the chapel, it is my firm belief that I shouldnot have been able (though it had been in the midst of the sacred office, and in the presence of thousands) to have forborne prostration to her, and even clamorous supplication for her forgiveness: a christian act; theexercise of it therefore worthy of the place. 

After service was over, I stept into my chair again, and once more wascarried to Smith's, in hopes I might have surprised her there: but nosuch happiness for thy friend. I staid in the back-shop an hour and anhalf, by my watch; and again underwent a good deal of preachment from thewomen. John was mainly civil to me now; won over a little by my serioustalk, and the honour I professed for the lady. They all three wishedmatters could be made up between us: but still insisted that she couldnever get over her illness; and that her heart was broken. A cue, Isuppose, they had from you. 

While I was there a letter was brought by a particular hand. They seemedvery solicitous to hide it from me; which made me suspect it was for her. I desired to be suffered to cast an eye upon the seal, and thesuperscription; promising to give it back to them unopened. 

Looking upon it, I told them I knew the hand and seal. It was from hersister. * And I hoped it would bring her news that she would be pleasedwith. 

* See Letter XXVI. Of this volume. 

They joined most heartily in the same hope: and, giving the letter tothem again, I civilly took leave, and went away. 

But I will be there again presently; for I fancy my courteous behaviourto these women will, on their report of it, procure me the favour I soearnestly covet. And so I will leave my letter unsealed, to tell theethe event of my next visit at Smith's. 

***

Thy servant just calling, I sent thee this: and will soon follow it byanother. Mean time, I long to hear how poor Belton is: to whom my bestwishes. 

LETTER XVI

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. TUESDAY, AUG. 22. 

I have been under such concern for the poor man, whose exit I almosthourly expect, and at the shocking scenes his illness and his agoniesexhibit, that I have been only able to make memoranda of the melancholypassages, from which to draw up a more perfect account, for theinstruction of us all, when the writing appetite shall return. 

***

It is returned! Indignation has revived it, on receipt of thy letters ofSunday and yesterday; by which I have reason to reproach thee in veryserious terms, that thou hast not kept thy honour with me: and if thybreach of it be attended with such effects as I fear it will be, I shalllet thee know more of my mind on this head. 

If thou wouldst be thought in earnest in thy wishes to move the poor ladyin thy favour, thy ludicrous behaviour at Smith's, when it comes to berepresented to her, will have a very consistent appearance; will itnot?--I will, indeed, confirm in her opinion, that the grave is more tobe wished-for, by one of her serious and pious turn, than a husbandincapable either of reflection or remorse; just recovered, as thou art, from a dangerous, at least a sharp turn. 

I am extremely concerned for the poor unprotected lady. She was soexcessively low and weak on Saturday, that I could not be admitted to herspeech: and to be driven out of her lodgings, when it was fitter for herto be in bed, is such a piece of cruelty, as he only could be guilty ofwho could act as thou hast done by such an angel. 

Canst thou thyself say, on reflection, that it has not the look of awicked and hardened sportiveness, in thee, for the sake of a wantonhumour only, (since it can answer no end that thou proposest to thyself, but the direct contrary, ) to hunt from place to place a poor lady, who, like a harmless deer, that has already a barbed shaft in her breast, seeks only a refuge from thee in the shades of death. 

But I will leave this matter upon thy own conscience, to paint thee sucha scene from my memoranda, as thou perhaps wilt be moved by moreeffectually than by any other: because it is such a one as thou thyselfmust one day be a principal actor in, and, as I thought, hadst verylately in apprehension: and is the last scene of one of thy more intimatefriends, who has been for the four past days labouring in the agonies ofdeath. For, Lovelace, let this truth, this undoubted truth, be engravedon thy memory, in all thy gaieties, That the life we are so fond of ishardly life; a mere breathing space only; and that, at the end of itslongest date, Thou must die, as well as Belton. 

Thou knowest, by Tourville, what we had done as to the poor man's worldlyaffairs; and that we had got his unhappy sister to come and live with him(little did we think him so very near to his end): and so I will proceedto tell thee, that when I arrived at his house on Saturday night, I foundhim excessively ill: but just raised, and in his elbow-chair, held up byhis nurse and Mowbray (the roughest and most untouched creature that everentered a sick man's chamber); while the maid-servants were trying tomake that bed easier for him which he was to return to; his mind tentimes uneasier than that could be, and the true cause that the down wasno softer to him. 

He had so much longed to see me, as I was told by his sister, (whom Isent for down to inquire how he was, ) that they all rejoiced when Ientered: Here, said Mowbray, here, Tommy, is honest Jack Belford!

Where, where? said the poor man. 

I hear his voice, cried Mowbray: he is coming up stairs. 

In a transport of joy, he would have raised himself at my entrance, buthad like to have pitched out of the chair: and when recovered, called mehis best friend! his kindest friend! but burst into a flood of tears: OJack! O Belford! said he, see the way I am in! See how weak! So much, and so soon reduced! Do you know me? Do you know your poor friendBelton?

You are not so much altered, my dear Belton, as you think you are. But Isee you are weak; very weak--and I am sorry for it. 

Weak, weak, indeed, my dearest Belford, said he, and weaker in mind, ifpossible, than in body; and wept bitterly--or I should not thus unmanmyself. I, who never feared any thing, to be forced to show myself sucha nursling!--I am quite ashamed of myself!--But don't despise me; dearBelford, don't despise me, I beseech thee. 

I ever honoured a man that could weep for the distresses of others; andever shall, said I; and such a one cannot be insensible of his own. 

However, I could not help being visibly moved at the poor fellow's emotion. 

Now, said the brutal Mowbray, do I think thee insufferable, Jack. Ourpoor friend is already a peg too low; and here thou art letting him downlower and lower still. This soothing of him in his dejected moments, andjoining thy womanish tears with his, is not the way; I am sure it is not. If our Lovelace were here, he'd tell thee so. 

Thou art an impenetrable creature, replied I; unfit to be present at ascene, the terrors of which thou wilt not be able to feel till thoufeelest them in thyself; and then, if thou hadst time for feeling, mylife for thine, thou behavest as pitifully as those thou thinkest mostpitiful. 

Then turning to the poor sick man, Tears, my dear Belton, are no signs ofan unmanly, but, contrarily of a humane nature; they ease theover-charged heart, which would burst but for that kindly and naturalrelief. 

 Give sorrow words (says Shakspeare) --The grief that does not speak, Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break. 

I know, my dear Belton, thou usedst to take pleasure in repetitions fromthe poets; but thou must be tasteless of their beauties now: yet be notdiscountenanced by this uncouth and unreflecting Mowbray, for, as Juvenalsays, Tears are the prerogative of manhood. 

'Tis at least seasonably said, my dear Belford. It is kind to keep me incountenance for this womanish weakness, as Mowbray has been upbraidinglycalling it, ever since he has been with me: and in so doing, (whatever Imight have thought in such high health as he enjoys, ) has convinced me, that bottle-friends feel nothing but what moves in that little circle. 

Well, well, proceed in your own way, Jack. I love my friend Belton aswell as you can do; yet for the blood of me, I cannot but think, thatsoothing a man's weakness is increasing it. 

If it be a weakness, to be touched at great and concerning events, inwhich our humanity is concerned, said I, thou mayest be right. 

I have seen many a man, said the rough creature, going up Holborn-hill, that has behaved more like a man than either of you. 

Ay, but, Mowbray, replied the poor man, those wretches have not had theirminds enervated by such infirmities of body as I have long labouredunder. Thou art a shocking fellow, and ever wert. --But to be able toremember nothing in these moments but what reproaches me, and to knowthat I cannot hold it long, and what may then be my lot, if--butinterrupting himself, and turning to me, Give me thy pity, Jack; 'tisbalm to my wounded soul; and let Mowbray sit indifferent enough to thepangs of a dying friend, to laugh at us both. 

The hardened fellow then retired, with the air of a Lovelace; only morestupid; yawning and stretching, instead of humming a tune as thou didstat Smith's. 

I assisted to get the poor man into bed. He was so weak and low, that hecould not bear the fatigue, and fainted away; and I verily thought wasquite gone. But recovering, and his doctor coming, and advising to keephim quiet, I retired, and joined Mowbray in the garden; who took moredelight to talk of the living Lovelace and levities, than of the dyingBelton and his repentance. 

I just saw him again on Saturday night before I went to bed; which I didearly; for I was surfeited with Mowbray's frothy insensibility, and couldnot bear him. 

It is such a horrid thing to think of, that a man who had lived in suchstrict terms of--what shall I call it? with another; the proof does notcome out so, as to say, friendship; who had pretended so much love forhim; could not bear to be out of his company; would ride an hundred mileson end to enjoy it; and would fight for him, be the cause right or wrong:yet now, could be so little moved to see him in such misery of body andmind, as to be able to rebuke him, and rather ridicule than pity him, because he was more affected by what he felt, than he had seen amalefactor, (hardened perhaps by liquor, and not softened by previoussickness, ) on his going to execution. 

This put me strongly in mind of what the divine Miss HARLOWE once said tome, talking of friendship, and what my friendship to you required of me:'Depend upon it, Mr. Belford, ' said she, 'that one day you will beconvinced, that what you call friendship, is chaff and stubble; and thatnothing is worthy of that sacred name, 'That has not virtue for its base. '

Sunday morning, I was called up at six o'clock, at the poor man's earnestrequest, and found him in a terrible agony. O Jack! Jack! said he, looking wildly, as if he had seen a spectre--Come nearer me!--Dear, dearBelford, save me! Then clasping my arm with both his hands, and rearingup his head towards me, his eyes strangely rolling, Save me! dearBelford, save me! repeated he. 

I put my other arm about him--Save you from what, my dear Belton! said I;save you from what? Nothing shall hurt you. What must I save you from?

Recovering from his terror, he sunk down again, O save me from myself!said he; save me from my own reflections. O dear Jack! what a thing itis to die; and not to have one comfortable reflection to revolve! Whatwould I give for one year of my past life?--only one year--and to havethe same sense of things that I now have?

I tried to comfort him as well as I could: but free-livers to free-liversare sorry death-bed comforters. And he broke in upon me: O my dearBelford, said he, I am told, (and I have heard you ridiculed for it, )that the excellent Miss Harlowe has wrought a conversion in you. May itbe so! You are a man of sense: O may it be so! Now is your time! Now, that you are in full vigour of mind and body!--But your poor Belton, alas! your poor Belton kept his vices, till they left him--and see themiserable effects in debility of mind and despondency! Were Mowbrayhere, and were he to laugh at me, I would own that this is the cause ofmy despair--that God's justice cannot let his mercy operate for mycomfort: for, Oh! I have been very, very wicked; and have despised theoffers of his grace, till he has withdrawn it from me for ever. 

I used all the arguments I could think of to give him consolation: andwhat I said had such an effect upon him, as to quiet his mind for thegreatest part of the day; and in a lucid hour his memory served him torepeat these lines of Dryden, grasping my hand, and looking wistfullyupon me:

 O that I less could fear to lose this being, Which, like a snow-ball, in my coward hand, The more 'tis grasped, the faster melts away!

In the afternoon of Sunday, he was inquisitive after you, and yourpresent behaviour to Miss Harlowe. I told him how you had been, and howlight you made of it. Mowbray was pleased with your impenetrablehardness of heart, and said, Bob. Lovelace was a good edge-tool, andsteel to the back: and such coarse but hearty praises he gave you, as anabandoned man might give, and only an abandoned man could wish todeserve. 

But hadst thou heard what the poor dying Belton said on this occasion, perhaps it would have made thee serious an hour or two, at least. 

'When poor Lovelace is brought, ' said he, 'to a sick-bed, as I am now, and his mind forebodes that it is impossible he should recover, (whichhis could not do in his late illness: if it had, he could not havebehaved so lightly in it;) when he revolves his past mis-spent life; hisactions of offence to helpless innocents; in Miss Harlowe's caseparticularly; what then will he think of himself, or of his past actions?his mind debilitated; his strength turned into weakness; unable to stiror to move without help; not one ray of hope darting in upon hisbenighted soul; his conscience standing in the place of a thousandwitnesses; his pains excruciating; weary of the poor remnant of life hedrags, yet dreading, that, in a few short hours, his bad will be changedto worse, nay, to worst of all; and that worst of all, to last beyondtime and to all eternity; O Jack! what will he then think of the poortransitory gratifications of sense, which now engage all his attention?Tell him, dear Belford, tell him, how happy he is if he know his owndying happiness; how happy, compared to his poor dying friend, that hehas recovered from his illness, and has still an opportunity lent him, for which I would give a thousand worlds, had I them to give!'

I approved exceedingly of his reflections, as suited to his presentcircumstances; and inferred consolations to him from a mind so properlytouched. 

He proceeded in the like penitent strain. I have lived a very wickedlife; so have we all. We have never made a conscience of doing whatevermischief either force or fraud enabled us to do. We have laid snares forthe innocent heart; and have not scrupled by the too-ready sword toextend, as occasions offered, the wrongs we did to the persons whom wehad before injured in their dearest relations. But yet, I flattermyself, sometimes, that I have less to answer for than either Lovelace orMowbray; for I, by taking to myself that accursed deceiver from whom thouhast freed me, (and who, for years, unknown to me, was retaliating uponmy own head some of the evils I had brought upon others, ) and retiring, and living with her as a wife, was not party to half the mischiefs, thatI doubt they, and Tourville, and even you, Belford, committed. As to theungrateful Thomasine, I hope I have met with my punishment in her. Butnotwithstanding this, dost thou not think, that such an action--and suchan action--and such an action; [and then he recapitulated severalenormities, in the perpetration of which (led on by false bravery, andthe heat of youth and wine) we have all been concerned;] dost thou notthink that these villanies, (let me call them now by their proper name, )joined to the wilful and gloried-in neglect of every duty that our bettersense and education gave us to know were required of us as men andchristians, are not enough to weigh down my soul into despondency?--Indeed, indeed, they are! and now to hope for mercy; and to depend uponthe efficacy of that gracious attribute, when that no less shining one ofjustice forbids me to hope; how can I!--I, who have despised allwarnings, and taken no advantage of the benefit I might have reaped fromthe lingering consumptive illness I have laboured under, but left all tothe last stake; hoping for recovery against hope, and driving offrepentance, till that grace is denied me; for, oh! my dear Belford! I cannow neither repent, nor pray, as I ought; my heart is hardened, and I cando nothing but despair!--

More he would have said; but, overwhelmed with grief and infirmity, hebowed his head upon his pangful bosom, endeavouring to hide from thesight of the hardened Mowbray, who just then entered the room, thosetears which he could not restrain. 

Prefaced by a phlegmatic hem; sad, very sad, truly! cried Mowbray; whosat himself down on one side of the bed, as I sat on the other: his eyeshalf closed, and his lips pouting out to his turned-up nose, his chincurdled [to use one of thy descriptions]; leaving one at a loss to knowwhether stupid drowsiness or intense contemplation had got most hold ofhim. 

An excellent, however uneasy lesson, Mowbray! said I. --By my faith it is!It may one day, who knows how soon? be our own case!

I thought of thy yawning-fit, as described in thy letter of Aug. 13. Forup started Mowbray, writhing and shaking himself as in an ague-fit; hishands stretched over his head--with thy hoy! hoy! hoy! yawning. And thenrecovering himself, with another stretch and a shake, What's o'clock?cried he; pulling out his watch--and stalking by long tip-toe stridesthrough the room, down stairs he went; and meeting the maid in thepassage, I heard him say--Betty, bring me a bumper of claret; thy poormaster, and this d----d Belford, are enough to throw a Hercules into thevapours. 

Mowbray, after this, assuming himself in our friend's library, which is, as thou knowest, chiefly classical and dramatical, found out a passage inLee's Oedipus, which he would needs have to be extremely apt; and in hecame full fraught with the notion of the courage it would give the dyingman, and read it to him. 'Tis poetical and pretty. This is it:

 When the sun sets, shadows that show'd at noon But small, appear most long and terrible: So when we think fate hovers o'er our heads, Our apprehensions shoot beyond all bounds: Owls, ravens, crickets, seem the watch of death; Nature's worst vermin scare her godlike sons: Echoes, the very leavings of a voice, Grow babbling ghosts, and call us to our graves. Each mole-hill thought swells to a huge Olympus; While we, fantastic dreamers, heave and puff, And sweat with our imagination's weight. 

He expected praises for finding this out. But Belton turning his headfrom him, Ah, Dick! (said he, ) these are not the reflections of a dyingman!--What thou wilt one day feel, if it be what I now feel, willconvince thee that the evils before thee, and with thee, are more thanthe effects of imagination. 

I was called twice on Sunday night to him; for the poor fellow, when hisreflections on his past life annoy him most, is afraid of being left withthe women; and his eyes, they tell me, hunt and roll about for me. Where's Mr. Belford?--But I shall tire him out, cries he--yet beg of himto step to me--yet don't--yet do; were once the doubting and changefulorders he gave: and they called me accordingly. 

But, alas! What could Belford do for him? Belford, who had been but toooften the companion of his guilty hours; who wants mercy as much as hedoes; and is unable to promise it to himself, though 'tis all he can bidhis poor friend rely upon!

What miscreants are we! What figures shall we make in these terriblehours!

If Miss HARLOWE'S glorious example, on one hand, and the terrors of thispoor man's last scene on the other, affect me not, I must be abandoned toperdition; as I fear thou wilt be, if thou benefittest not thyself fromboth. 

Among the consolatory things I urged, when I was called up the last timeon Sunday night, I told him, that he must not absolutely give himself upto despair: that many of the apprehensions he was under, were such as thebest men must have, on the dreadful uncertainty of what was to succeed tothis life. 'Tis well observed, said I, by a poetical divine, who was anexcellent christian, * That

 Death could not a more sad retinue find, Sickness and pain before, and darkness all behind. 

* The Rev Mr. Norris, of Bremerton. 

About eight o'clock yesterday (Monday) morning, I found him a littlecalmer. He asked me who was the author of the two lines I had repeatedto him; and made me speak them over again. A sad retinue, indeed! saidthe poor man. And then expressing his hopelessness of life, and histerrors at the thoughts of dying; and drawing from thence terribleconclusions with regard to his future state; There is, said I, such anatural aversion to death in human nature, that you are not to imagine, that you, my dear Belton, are singular in the fear of it, and in theapprehensions that fill the thoughtful mind upon its approach; but youought, as much as possible, to separate those natural fears which all menmust have on so solemn an occasion, from those particular ones which yourjustly-apprehended unfitness fills you with. Mr. Pomfret, in hisProspect of Death, which I dipped into last night from a collection inyour closet, which I put into my pocket, says, [and I turned to theplace]

 Merely to die, no man of reason fears; For certainly we must, As we are born, return to dust; 'Tis the last point of many ling-ring years; But whither then we go, Whither, we fain would know; But human understanding cannot show. This makes US tremble----

Mr. Pomfret, therefore, proceeded I, had such apprehensions of this darkstate as you have: and the excellent divine I hinted at last night, whohad very little else but human frailties to reproach himself with, andwhose miscellanies fell into my hands among my uncle's books in myattendance upon him in his last hours, says, It must be done, my soul: but 'tis a strange, A dismal, and mysterious change, When thou shalt leave this tenement of clay, And to an unknown--somewhere--wing away; When time shall be eternity, and thou Shalt be--thou know'st not what--and live-- thou know'st not how! Amazing state! no wonder that we dread To think of death, or view the dead; Thou'rt all wrapt up in clouds, as if to thee Our very knowledge had antipathy. 

Then follows, what I repeated, Death could not a more sad retinue find, Sickness and pain before, and darkness all behind. 

Alas! my dear Belford [inferred the unhappy deep-thinker] what poorcreatures does this convince me we mortals are at best!--But what thenmust be the case of such a profligate as I, who by a past wicked lifehave added greater force to these natural terrors? If death be sorepugnant a thing to human nature, that good men will be startled at it, what must it be to one who has lived a life of sense and appetite; norever reflected upon the end which I now am within view of?

What could I say to an inference so fairly drawn? Mercy, mercy, unbounded mercy, was still my plea, though his repeated opposition ofjustice to it, in a manner silenced that plea: and what would I havegiven to have had rise in my mind, one good, eminently good action tohave remembered him of, in order to combat his fears with it?

I believe, Lovelace, I shall tire thee, and that more with the subjectof my letter, than even with the length of it. But really, I think thyspirits are so offensively up since thy recovery, that I ought, as themelancholy subjects offer, to endeavour to reduce thee to the standardof humanity, by expatiating upon them. And then thou canst not but becurious to know every thing that concerns the poor man, for whom thouhast always expressed a great regard. I will therefore proceed as I havebegun. If thou likest not to read it now, lay it by, if thou wilt, tillthe like circumstances befall thee, till like reflections from thosecircumstances seize thee; and then take it up, and compare the two casestogether. 

***

At his earnest request, I sat up with him last night; and, poor man! itis impossible to tell thee, how easy and safe he thought himself in mycompany, for the first part of the night: A drowning man will catch at astraw, the proverb well says: and a straw was I, with respect to any realhelp I could give him. He often awaked in terrors; and once calling outfor me, Dear Belford, said he, Where are you!--Oh! There you are!--Giveme your friendly hand!--Then grasping it, and putting his clammy, half-cold lips to it--How kind! I fear every thing when you are absent. But the presence of a friend, a sympathising friend--Oh! how comfortable!

But, about four in the morning, he frighted me much: he waked with threeterrible groans; and endeavoured to speak, but could not presently--andwhen he did, --Jack, Jack, Jack, five or six times repeated he as quick asthought, now, now, now, save me, save me, save me--I am going--goingindeed!

I threw my arms about him, and raised him upon his pillow, as he wassinking (as if to hide himself) in the bed-clothes--And staring wildly, Where am I? said he, a little recovering. Did you not see him? turninghis head this way and that; horror in his countenance; Did you not seehim?

See whom, see what, my dear Belton!

O lay me upon the bed again, cried he!--Let me not die upon the floor!--Lay me down gently; and stand by me!--Leave me not!--All, all will soonbe over!

You are already, my dear Belton, upon the bed. You have not been uponthe floor. This is a strong delirium; you are faint for want ofrefreshment [for he had refused several times to take any thing]: let mepersuade you to take some of this cordial julap. I will leave you, ifyou will not oblige me. 

He then readily took it; but said he could have sworn that Tom. Metcalfehad been in the room, and had drawn him out of bed by the throat, upbraiding him with the injuries he had first done his sister, and thenhim, in the duel to which he owed that fever which cost him his life. 

Thou knowest the story, Lovelace, too well, to need my repeating it: but, mercy on us, if in these terrible moments all the evils we do rise to ourfrighted imaginations!--If so, what shocking scenes have I, but stillwhat more shocking ones hast thou, to go through, if, as the noble poetsays, If any sense at that sad time remains!

The doctor ordered him an opiate this morning early, which operated sowell, that he dosed and slept several hours more quietly than he had donefor the two past days and nights, though he had sleeping-draughts givenhim before. But it is more and more evident every hour that nature isalmost worn out in him. 

***

Mowbray, quite tired with this house of mourning, intends to set out inthe morning to find you. He was not a little rejoiced to hear you werein town; I believe to have a pretence to leave us. 

***

He has just taken leave of his poor friend, intending to go away early:an everlasting leave, I may venture to say; for I think he will hardlylive till to-morrow night. 

I believe the poor man would not have been sorry had he left him when Iarrived; for 'tis a shocking creature, and enjoys too strong health toknow how to pity the sick. Then (to borrow an observation from thee) hehas, by nature, strong bodily organs, which those of his soul are notlikely to whet out; and he, as well as the wicked friend he is going to, may last a great while from the strength of their constitutions, thoughso greatly different in their talents, if neither the sword nor thehalter interpose. 

I must repeat, That I cannot but be very uneasy for the poor lady whomyou so cruelly persecute; and that I do not think that you have kept yourhonour with me. I was apprehensive, indeed, that you would attempt tosee her, as soon as you got well enough to come up; and I told her asmuch, making use of it as an argument to prepare her for your visit, andto induce her to stand it. But she could not, it is plain, bear theshock of it: and indeed she told me that she would not see you, thoughbut for one half-hour, for the world. 

Could she have prevailed upon herself, I know that the sight of her wouldhave been as affecting to you, as your visit could have been to her; whenyou had seen to what a lovely skeleton (for she is really lovely still, nor can she, with such a form and features, be otherwise) you have, in afew weeks, reduced one of the most charming women in the world; and thatin the full bloom of her youth and beauty. 

Mowbray undertakes to carry this, that he may be more welcome to you, hesays. Were it to be sent unsealed, the characters we write in would beHebrew to the dunce. I desire you to return it; and I'll give you a copyof it upon demand; for I intend to keep it by me, as a guard against theinfection of your company, which might otherwise, perhaps, some timehence, be apt to weaken the impressions I always desire to have of theawful scene before me. God convert us both!

LETTER XVII

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. WEDNESDAY MORN. 11 O'CLOCK. 

I believe no man has two such servants as I have. Because I treat themwith kindness, and do not lord it over my inferiors, and d--n and cursethem by looks and words like Mowbray; or beat their teeth out likeLovelace; but cry, Pr'ythee, Harry, do this, and, Pr'ythee, Jonathan, dothat; the fellows pursue their own devices, and regard nothing I say, butwhat falls in with these. 

Here, this vile Harry, who might have brought your letter of yesterday ingood time, came not in with it till past eleven at night (drunk, Isuppose); and concluding that I was in bed, as he pretends (because hewas told I sat up the preceding night) brought it not to me; and havingoverslept himself, just as I had sealed up my letter, in comes thevillain with the forgotten one, shaking his ears, and looking as if hehimself did not believe the excuses he was going to make. I questionedhim about it, and heard his pitiful pleas; and though I never think itbecomes a gentleman to treat people insolently who by their stations arehumbled beneath his feet, yet could I not forbear to Lovelace and Mowbrayhim most cordially. 

And this detaining Mowbray (who was ready to set out to you before) whileI write a few lines upon it, the fierce fellow, who is impatient toexchange the company of a dying Belton for that of a too-lively Lovelace, affixed a supplement of curses upon the staring fellow, that was largerthan my book--nor did I offer to take off the bear from such a mongrel, since, on this occasion, he deserved not of me the protection which everymaster owes to a good servant. 

He has not done cursing him yet; for stalking about the court-yard withhis boots on, (the poor fellow dressing his horse, and unable to get fromhim, ) he is at him without mercy; and I will heighten his impatience, (since being just under the window where I am writing, he will not let meattend to my pen, ) by telling you how he fills my ears as well as thefellow's, with his--Hay, Sir! And G--d d--n ye, Sir! And were ye myservant, ye dog ye! And must I stay here till the mid-day sun scorchesme to a parchment, for such a mangy dog's drunken neglect?--Ye lie, Sirrah!--Ye lie, I tell you--[I hear the fellow's voice in an humbleexcusatory tone, though not articulately] Ye lie, ye dog!--I'd a goodmind to thrust my whip down your drunken throat: d--n me, if I would notflay the skin from the back of such a rascal, if thou wert mine, and havedog's-skin gloves made of it, for thy brother scoundrels to wear inremembrance of thy abuses of such a master. 

The poor horse suffers for this, I doubt not; for, What now! and, Standstill, and be d--d to ye, cries the fellow, with a kick, I suppose, whichhe better deserves himself; for these varlets, where they can, areMowbrays and Lovelaces to man or beast; and not daring to answer him, isflaying the poor horse. 

I hear the fellow is just escaped, the horse, (better curried thanordinary, I suppose, in half the usual time, ) by his clanking shoes, andMowbray's silence, letting me know, that I may now write on: and so, Iwill tell thee that, in the first place, (little as I, as well as you, regard dreams, ) I would have thee lay thine to heart; for I could givethee such an interpretation of it, as would shock thee, perhaps; and ifthou askest me for it, I will. 

Mowbray calls to me from the court-yard, that 'tis a cursed hot day, andhe shall be fried by riding in the noon of it: and that poor Belton longsto see me. So I will only add my earnest desire, that you will give overall thoughts of seeing the lady, if, when this comes to your hand, youhave not seen her: and, that it would be kind, if you'd come, and, forthe last time you will ever see your poor friend, share my concern forhim; and, in him, see what, in a little time, will be your fate and mine, and that of Mowbray, Tourville, and the rest of us--For what are ten, fifteen, twenty, or thirty years, to look back to; in the longest ofwhich periods forward we shall all perhaps be mingled with the dust fromwhich we sprung?

LETTER XVIII

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. WEDNESDAY MORN. AUG. 23. 

All alive, dear Jack, and in ecstacy!--Likely to be once more a happyman! For I have received a letter from my beloved Miss HARLOWE; inconsequence, I suppose, of that which I mentioned in my last to be leftfor her from her sister. And I am setting out for Berks directly, toshow the contents to my Lord M. And to receive the congratulations of allmy kindred upon it. 

I went, last night, as I intended, to Smith's: but the dear creature wasnot returned at near ten o'clock. And, lighting upon Tourville, I tookhim home with me, and made him sing me out of my megrims. I went to bedtolerably easy at two; had bright and pleasant dreams; (not such of afrightful one as that I gave thee an account of;) and at eight thismorning, as I was dressing, to be in readiness against the return of myfellow, whom I had sent to inquire after the lady, I had the followingletter brought to me by a chairman:

TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. TUESDAY NIGHT, 11 O'CLOCK (AUG. 22. )

SIR, I have good news to tell you. I am setting out with all diligence for myfather's house, I am bid to hope that he will receive his poor penitentwith a goodness peculiar to himself; for I am overjoyed with theassurance of a thorough reconciliation, through the interposition of adear, blessed friend, whom I always loved and honoured. I am so taken upwith my preparation for this joyful and long-wished-for journey, that Icannot spare one moment for any other business, having several matters ofthe last importance to settle first. So, pray, Sir, don't disturb orinterrupt me--I beseech you don't. You may possibly in time see me at myfather's; at least if it be not your own fault. 

I will write a letter, which shall be sent you when I am got thither andreceived: till when, I am, &c. 

CLARISSA HARLOWE. 

***

I dispatched instantly a letter to the dear creature, assuring her, withthe most thankful joy, 'That I would directly set out for Berks, and waitthe issue of the happy reconciliation, and the charming hopes she hadfilled me with. I poured out upon her a thousand blessings. I declaredthat it should be the study of my whole life to merit such transcendentgoodness: and that there was nothing which her father or friends shouldrequire at my hands, that I would not for her sake comply with, in orderto promote and complete so desirable a reconciliation. '

I hurried it away without taking a copy of it; and I have ordered thechariot-and-six to be got ready; and hey for M. Hall! Let me but knowhow Belton does. I hope a letter from thee is on the road. And if thepoor fellow can spare thee, make haste, I command thee, to attend thistruly divine lady. Thou mayest not else see her of months perhaps; atleast, not while she is Miss HARLOWE. And oblige me, if possible, withone letter before she sets out, confirming to me and accounting for thisgenerous change. 

But what accounting for it is necessary? The dear creature cannotreceive consolation herself but she must communicate it to others. Hownoble! She would not see me in her adversity; but no sooner does the sunof prosperity begin to shine upon her than she forgives me. 

I know to whose mediation all this is owing. It is to Colonel Morden's. She always, as she says, loved and honoured him! And he loved her aboveall his relations. 

I shall now be convinced that there is something in dreams. The openingcloud is the reconciliation in view. The bright form, lifting up mycharmer through it to a firmament stuck round with golden cherubims andseraphims, indicates the charming little boys and girls, that will be thefruits of this happy reconciliation. The welcomes, thrice repeated, arethose of her family, now no more to be deemed implacable. Yet are theyfamily, too, that my soul cannot mingle with. 

But then what is my tumbling over and over through the floor into afrightful hole, descending as she ascends? Ho! only this! it alludes tomy disrelish to matrimony: Which is a bottomless pit, a gulph, and I knownot what. And I suppose, had I not awoke in such a plaguy fright, I hadbeen soused into some river at the bottom of the hole, and then beencarried (mundified or purified from my past iniquities, ) by the samebright form (waiting for me upon the mossy banks, ) to my beloved girl;and we should have gone on cherubiming of it and caroling to the end ofthe chapter. 

But what are the black sweeping mantles and robes of Lord M. Thrown overmy face? And what are those of the ladies? O Jack! I have these too:They indicate nothing in the world but that my Lord will be so good as todie, and leave me all he has. So, rest to thy good-natured soul, honestLord M. 

Lady Sarah Sadleir and Lady Betty Lawrance, will also die, and leave meswinging legacies. 

Miss Charlotte and her sister--what will become of the?--Oh! they will bein mourning, of course, for their uncle and aunts--that's right!

As to Morden's flashing through the window, and crying, Die, Lovelace, and be d----d, if thou wilt not repair my cousin's wrong! That is only, that he would have sent me a challenge, had I not been disposed to do thelady justice. 

All I dislike is this part of the dream: for, even in a dream, I wouldnot be thought to be threatened into any measure, though I liked it everso well. 

And so much for my prophetic dream. 

Dear charming creature! What a meeting will there be between her and herfather and mother and uncles! What transports, what pleasure, will thishappy, long-wished-for reconciliation give her dutiful heart! And indeednow methinks I am glad she is so dutiful to them; for her duty to herparents is a conviction to me that she will be as dutiful to her husband:since duty upon principle is an uniform thing. 

Why pr'ythee, now, Jack, I have not been so much to blame as thouthinkest: for had it not been for me, who have led her into so muchdistress, she could neither have received nor given the joy that will nowoverwhelm them all. So here rises great and durable good out oftemporary evil. 

I know they loved her (the pride and glory of their family, ) too well tohold out long!

I wish I could have seen Arabella's letter. She has always been so mucheclipsed by her sister, that I dare say she has signified thisreconciliation to her with intermingled phlegm and wormwood; and herinvitation must certainly runs all in the rock-water style. 

I shall long to see the promised letter too when she is got to herfather's, which I hope will give an account of the reception she willmeet with. 

There is a solemnity, however, I think, in the style of her letter, whichpleases and affects me at the same time. But as it is evident she lovesme still, and hopes soon to see me at her father's, she could not helpbeing a little solemn, and half-ashamed, [dear blushing pretty rogue!] toown her love, after my usage of her. 

And then her subscription: Till when, I am, CLARISSA HARLOWE: as much asto say, after that, I shall be, if not to your own fault, CLARISSA LOVELACE!

O my best love! My ever-generous and adorable creature! How much doesthis thy forgiving goodness exalt us both!--Me, for the occasion giventhee! Thee, for turning it so gloriously to thy advantage, and to thehonour of both!

And if, my beloved creature, you will but connive at the imperfections ofyour adorer, and not play the wife with me: if, while the charms ofnovelty have their force with me, I should happen to be drawn aside bythe love of intrigue, and of plots that my soul delights to form andpursue; and if thou wilt not be open-eyed to the follies of my youth, [atransitory state;] every excursion shall serve but the more to endearthee to me, till in time, and in a very little time too, I shall getabove sense; and then, charmed by thy soul-attracting converse; andbrought to despise my former courses; what I now, at distance, consideras a painful duty, will be my joyful choice, and all my delight willcentre in thee!

***

Mowbray is just arrived with thy letters. I therefore close my agreeablesubject, to attend to one which I doubt will be very shocking. 

I have engaged the rough varlet to bear me company in the morning toBerks; where I shall file off the rust he has contracted in hisattendance upon the poor fellow. 

He tells me that, between the dying Belton and the preaching Belford, heshan't be his own man these three days: and says that thou addest to theunhappy fellow's weakness, instead of giving him courage to help him tobear his destiny. 

I am sorry he takes the unavoidable lot so heavily. But he has been longill; and sickness enervates the mind as well as the body; as he himselfvery significantly observed to thee. 

LETTER XIX

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. WEDN. EVENING. 

I have been reading thy shocking letter--Poor Belton! what a multitude oflively hours have we passed together! He was a fearless, cheerfulfellow: who'd have thought all that should end in such dejectedwhimpering and terror?

But why didst thou not comfort the poor man about the rencounter betweenhim and that poltroon Metcalfe? He acted in that affair like a man oftrue honour, and as I should have acted in the same circumstances. Tellhim I say so; and that what happened he could neither help nor foresee. 

Some people are as sensible of a scratch from a pin's point, as othersfrom a push of a sword: and who can say any thing for the sensibility ofsuch fellows? Metcalfe would resent for his sister, when his sisterresented not for herself. Had she demanded her brother's protection andresentment, that would have been another man's matte, to speak in LordM. 's phrase: but she herself thought her brother a coxcomb to busyhimself undesired in her affairs, and wished for nothing but to beprovided for decently and privately in her lying-in; and was willing totake the chance of Maintenon-ing his conscience in her favour, * andgetting him to marry when the little stranger came; for she knew whatan easy, good-natured fellow he was. And indeed if she had prevailedupon him, it might have been happy for both; as then he would not havefallen in with his cursed Thomasine. But truly this officious brother ofher's must interpose. This made a trifling affair important: And whatwas the issue? Metcalfe challenged; Belton met him; disarmed him; gavehim his life: but the fellow, more sensible in his skin than in his head, having received a scratch, was frighted: it gave him first a puke, thena fever, and then he died, that was all. And how could Belton help that?--But sickness, a long tedious sickness, will make a bugbear of any thingto a languishing heart, I see that. And so far was Mowbray à-propos inthe verses from Nat. Lee, which thou hast described. 

* Madam Maintenon was reported to have prevailed upon Lewis XIV. OfFrance, in his old age, (sunk, as he was, by ill success in the field, )to marry her, by way of compounding with his conscience for the freedomsof his past life, to which she attributed his public losses. 

Merely to die, no man of reason fears, is a mistake, say thou, or saythy author, what ye will. And thy solemn parading about the naturalrepugnance between life and death, is a proof that it is. 

Let me tell thee, Jack, that so much am I pleased with this world, inthe main; though, in some points too, the world (to make a person of it, )has been a rascal to me; so delighted am I with the joys of youth; withmy worldly prospects as to fortune; and now, newly, with the charminghopes given me by my dear, thrice dear, and for ever dear CLARISSA; thatwere I even sure that nothing bad would come hereafter, I should be veryloth (very much afraid, if thou wilt have it so, ) to lay down my lifeand them together; and yet, upon a call of honour, no man fears deathless than myself. 

But I have not either inclination or leisure to weigh thy leadenarguments, except in the pig, or, as thou wouldst say, in the lump. 

If I return thy letters, let me have them again some time hence, that isto say, when I am married, or when poor Belton is half forgotten; or whentime has enrolled the honest fellow among those whom we have so longlost, that we may remember them with more pleasure than pain; and then Imay give them a serious perusal, and enter with thee as deeply as thouwilt into the subject. 

When I am married, said I?--What a sound has that!

I must wait with patience for a sight of this charming creature, till sheis at her father's. And yet, as the but blossoming beauty, as thoutellest me, is reduced to a shadow, I should have been exceedinglydelighted to see her now, and every day till the happy one; that I mighthave the pleasure of observing how sweetly, hour by hour, she will riseto her pristine glories, by means of that state of ease and contentment, which will take place of the stormy past, upon her reconciliation withher friends, and our happy nuptials. 

LETTER XX

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. 

Well, but now my heart is a little at ease, I will condescend to takebrief notice of some other passages in thy letters. 

I find I am to thank thee, that the dear creature has avoided my visit. Things are now in so good a train that I must forgive thee; else thoushouldst have heard more of this new instance of disloyalty to thygeneral. 

Thou art continually giving thyself high praise, by way of opposition, asI may say, to others; gently and artfully blaming thyself for qualitiesthou wouldst at the same time have to be thought, and which generally arethought, praise-worthy. 

Thus, in the airs thou assumest about thy servants, thou wouldst pass fora mighty humane mortal; and that at the expense of Mowbray and me, whomthou representest as kings and emperors to our menials. Yet art thoualways unhappy in thy attempts of this kind, and never canst make us, whoknow thee, believe that to be a virtue in thee, which is but the effectof constitutional phlegm and absurdity. 

Knowest thou not, that some men have a native dignity in their manner, that makes them more regarded by a look, than either thou canst be in thylow style, or Mowbray in his high?

I am fit to be a prince, I can tell thee, for I reward well, and I punishseasonably and properly; and I am generally as well served by any man. 

The art of governing these underbred varlets lies more in the dignity oflooks than in words; and thou art a sorry fellow, to think humanityconsists in acting by thy servants, as men must act who are not able topay them their wages; or had made them masters of secrets, which, ifdivulged, would lay them at the mercy of such wretches. 

Now to me, who never did any thing I was ashamed to own, and who havemore ingenuousness than ever man had; who can call a villany by its ownright name, though practised by myself, and (by my own readiness toreproach myself) anticipate all reproach from others; who am not such ahypocrite, as to wish the world to think me other or better than I am--it is my part, to look a servant into his duty, if I can; nor will I keepone who knows not how to take me by a nod, or a wink; and who, when Ismile, shall not be all transport; when I frown, all terror. If, indeed, I am out of the way a little, I always take care to rewards the varletsfor patiently bearing my displeasure. But this I hardly ever am but whena fellow is egregiously stupid in any plain point of duty, or will bewiser than his master; and when he shall tell me, that he thought actingcontrary to my orders was the way to serve me best. 

One time or other I will enter the lists with thee upon thy conduct andmine to servants; and I will convince thee, that what thou wouldst havepass for humanity, if it be indiscriminately practised to all tempers, will perpetually subject thee to the evils thou complainest of; andjustly too; and that he only is fit to be a master of servants, who cancommand their attention as much by a nod, as if he were to pr'ythee afellow to do his duty, on one hand, or to talk of flaying, andhorse-whipping, like Mowbray, on the other: for the servant who beingused to expect thy creeping style, will always be master of his master, and he who deserves to be treated as the other, is not fit to be anyman's servant; nor would I keep such a fellow to rub my horse's heels. 

I shall be the readier to enter the lists with thee upon this argument, because I have presumption enough to think that we have not in any of ourdramatic poets, that I can at present call to mind, one character of aservant of either sex, that is justly hit off. So absurdly wise some, and so sottishly foolish others; and both sometime in the same person. Foils drawn from lees or dregs of the people to set off the characters oftheir masters and mistresses; nay, sometimes, which is still more absurd, introduced with more wit than the poet has to bestow upon theirprincipals. --Mere flints and steels to strike fire with--or, to vary themetaphor, to serve for whetstones to wit, which, otherwise, could not bemade apparent; or, for engines to be made use of like the machinery ofthe antient poets, (or the still more unnatural soliloquy, ) to help on asorry plot, or to bring about a necessary eclaircissement, to save thepoet the trouble of thinking deeply for a better way to wind up hisbottoms. 

Of this I am persuaded, (whatever my practice be to my own servants, )that thou wilt be benefited by my theory, when we come to controvert thepoint. For then I shall convince thee, that the dramatic as well asnatural characteristics of a good servant ought to be fidelity, commonsense, cheerful obedience, and silent respect; that wit in his station, except to his companions, would be sauciness; that he should neverpresume to give his advice; that if he venture to expostulate upon anyunreasonable command, or such a one a appeared to him to be so, he shoulddo it with humility and respect, and take a proper season for it. Butsuch lessons do most of the dramatic performances I have seen give, whereservants are introduced as characters essential to the play, or to actvery significant or long parts in it, (which, of itself, I think afault;) such lessons, I say, do they give to the footmen's gallery, thatI have not wondered we have so few modest or good men-servants amongthose who often attend their masters or mistresses to plays. Then howmiserably evident must that poet's conscious want of genius be, who canstoop to raise or give force to a clap by the indiscriminate roar of theparty-coloured gallery!

But this subject I will suspend to a better opportunity; that is to say, to the happy one, when my nuptials with my Clarissa will oblige me toincrease the number of my servants, and of consequence to enter morenicely into their qualifications. 

***

Although I have the highest opinion that man can have of the generosityof my dear Miss Harlowe, yet I cannot for the heart of me account forthis agreeable change in her temper but one way. Faith and troth, Belford, I verily believe, laying all circumstances together, that thedear creature unexpectedly finds herself in the way I have so ardentlywished her to be in; and that this makes her, at last, incline to favourme, that she may set the better face upon her gestation, when at herfather's. 

If this be the case, all her falling away, and her fainting fits, arecharmingly accounted for. Nor is it surprising, that such a sweet novicein these matters should not, for some time, have known to what toattribute her frequent indispositions. If this should be the case, how Ishall laugh at thee! and (when I am sure of her) at the dear noviceherself, that all her grievous distresses shall end in a man-child; whichI shall love better than all the cherubims and seraphims that may comeafter; though there were to be as many of them as I beheld in my dream;in which a vast expanse of firmament was stuck as full of them as itcould hold!

I shall be afraid to open thy next, lest it bring me the account of poorBelton's death. Yet, as there are no hopes of his recovery--but whatshould I say, unless the poor man were better fitted--but thy heavysermon shall not affect me too much neither. 

I enclose thy papers; and do thou transcribe them for me, or return them;for there are some things in them, which, at a proper season, a mortalman should not avoid attending to; and thou seemest to have entereddeeply into the shocking subject. --But here I will end, lest I grow tooserious. 

***

Thy servant called here about an hour ago, to know if I had any commands;I therefore hope that thou wilt have this early in the morning. And ifthou canst let me hear from thee, do. I'll stretch an hour or two inexpectation of it. Yet I must be at Lord M. 's to-morrow night, ifpossible, though ever so late. 

Thy fellow tells me the poor man is much as he was when Mowbray left him. 

Wouldst thou think that this varlet Mowbray is sorry that I am so nearbeing happy with Miss Harlowe? And, 'egad, Jack, I know not what to sayto it, now the fruit seems to be within my reach--but let what will come, I'll stand to't: for I find I can't live without her. 

LETTER XXI

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. WEDNESDAY, THREE O'CLOCK. 

I will proceed where I left off in my last. 

As soon as I had seen Mowbray mounted, I went to attend upon poor Belton;whom I found in dreadful agonies, in which he awoke, after he generallydoes. 

The doctor came in presently after, and I was concerned at the scene thatpassed between them. 

It opened with the dying man's asking him, with melancholy earnestness, if nothing--if nothing at all could be done for him?

The doctor shook his head, and told him, he doubted not. 

I cannot die, said the poor man--I cannot think of dying. I am verydesirous of living a little longer, if I could but be free from thesehorrible pains in my stomach and head. Can you give me nothing to makeme pass one week--but one week, in tolerable ease, that I may die like aman, if I must die!

But, Doctor, I am yet a young man; in the prime of my years--youth is agood subject for a physician to work upon--Can you do nothing--nothing atall for me, Doctor?

Alas! Sir, replied his physician, you have been long in a bad way. Ifear, I fear, nothing in physic can help you!

He was then out of all patience: What, then, is your art, Sir?--I havebeen a passive machine for a whole twelvemonth, to be wrought upon at thepleasure of you people of the faculty. --I verily believe, had I not takensuch doses of nasty stuff, I had been now a well man--But who the plaguewould regard physicians, whose art is to cheat us with hopes while theyhelp to destroy us?--And who, not one of you, know any thing but byguess?

Sir, continued he, fiercely, (and with more strength of voice andcoherence, than he had shown for several hours before, ) if you give meover, I give you over. --The only honest and certain part of the art ofhealing is surgery. A good surgeon is worth a thousand of you. I havebeen in surgeons' hands often, and have always found reason to dependupon their skill; but your art, Sir, what is it?--but to daub, daub, daub; load, load, load; plaster, plaster, plaster; till ye utterlydestroy the appetite first, and the constitution afterwards, which youare called in to help. I had a companion once, my dear Belford, thouknewest honest Blomer, as pretty a physician he would have made as anyin England, had he kept himself from excess in wine and women; and healways used to say, there was nothing at all but the pick-pocket paradein the physician's art; and that the best guesser was the best physician. And I used to believe him too--and yet, fond of life, and fearful ofdeath, what do we do, when we are taken ill, but call ye in? And whatdo ye do, when called in, but nurse our distempers, till from pigmies youmake giants of them? and then ye come creeping with solemn faces, when yeare ashamed to prescribe, or when the stomach won't bear its naturalfood, by reason of your poisonous potions, --Alas, I am afraid physic cando no more for him!--Nor need it, when it has brought to the brink of thegrave the poor wretch who placed all his reliance in your cursed slops, and the flattering hopes you gave him. 

The doctor was out of countenance; but said, if we could make mortal menimmortal, and would not, all this might be just. 

I blamed the poor man; yet excused him to the physician. To die, dearDoctor, when, like my poor friend, we are so desirous of life, is amelancholy thing. We are apt to hope too much, not considering that theseeds of death are sown in us when we begin to live, and grow up, till, like rampant weeds, they choke the tender flower of life; which declinesin us as those weeds flourish. We ought, therefore, to begin early tostudy what our constitutions will bear, in order to root out, bytemperance, the weeds which the soil is most apt to produce; or, atleast, to keep them down as they rise; and not, when the flower or plantis withered at the root, and the weed in its full vigour, expect, thatthe medical art will restore the one, or destroy the other; when thatother, as I hinted, has been rooting itself in the habit from the time ofour birth. 

This speech, Bob. , thou wilt call a prettiness; but the allegory is just;and thou hast not quite cured me of the metaphorical. 

Very true, said the doctor; you have brought a good metaphor toillustrate the thing. I am sorry I can do nothing for the gentleman; andcan only recommend patience, and a better frame of mind. 

Well, Sir, said the poor angry man, vexed at the doctor, but more atdeath, you will perhaps recommend the next succession to the physician, when he can do no more; and, I suppose, will send your brother to pray byme for those virtues which you wish me. 

It seems the physician's brother is a clergyman in the neighbourhood. 

I was greatly concerned to see the gentleman thus treated; and so I toldpoor Belton when he was gone; but he continued impatient, and would notbe denied, he said, the liberty of talking to a man, who had taken somany guineas of him for doing nothing, or worse than nothing, and neverdeclined one, though he know all the time he could do him no good. 

It seems the gentleman, though rich, is noted for being greedy afterfees! and poor Belton went on raving at the extravagant fees of Englishphysicians, compared with those of the most eminent foreign ones. But, poor man! he, like the Turks, who judge of a general by his success, (outof patience to think he must die, ) would have worshipped the doctor, andnot grudged thee times the sum, could he have given him hopes ofrecovery. 

But, nevertheless, I must needs say, that gentlemen of the faculty shouldbe more moderate in their fees, or take more pains to deserve them; for, generally, they only come into a room, feel the sick man's pulse, ask thenurse a few questions, inspect the patient's tongue, and, perhaps, hiswater; then sit down, look plaguy wise, and write. The golden fee findsthe ready hand, and they hurry away, as if the sick man's room wereinfectious. So to the next they troll, and to the next, if men of greatpractice; valuing themselves upon the number of visits they make in amorning, and the little time they make them in. They go to dinner andunload their pockets; and sally out again to refill them. And thus, in alittle time, they raise vast estates; for, as Ratcliffe said, when firsttold of a great loss which befell him, It was only going up and down onehundred pairs of stairs to fetch it up. 

Mrs. Sambre (Belton's sister) had several times proposed to him aminister to pray by him, but the poor man could not, he said, bear thethoughts of one; for that he should certainly die in an hour or twoafter; and he was willing to hope still, against all probability, that hemight recover; and was often asking his sister if she had not seen peopleas bad as he was, who, almost to a miracle, when every body gave themover, had got up again?

She, shaking her head, told him she had; but, once saying, that theirdisorders were of an acute kind, and such as had a crisis in them, hecalled her Small-hopes, and Job's comforter; and bid her say nothing, ifshe could not say more to the purpose, and what was fitter for a sick manto hear. And yet, poor fellow, he has no hopes himself, as is plain byhis desponding terrors; one of which he fell into, and a very dreadfulone, soon after the doctor went. 

***

WEDNESDAY, NINE O'CLOCK AT NIGHT. 

The poor man had been in convulsions, terrible convulsions! for an hourpast. O Lord! Lovelace, death is a shocking thing! by my faith it is!--I wish thou wert present on this occasion. It is not merely the concerna man has for his friend; but, as death is the common lot, we see, in hisagonies, how it will be one day with ourselves. I am all over as if coldwater were poured down my back, or as if I had a strong ague-fit upon me. I was obliged to come away. And I write, hardly knowing what. --I wishthou wert here. 

***

Though I left him, because I could stay no longer, I can't be easy bymyself, but must go to him again. 

ELEVEN O'CLOCK. 

Poor Belton!--Drawing on apace! Yet was he sensible when I went in--toosensible, poor man! He has something upon his mind to reveal, he tellsme, that is the worst action of his life; worse than ever you or I knewof him, he says. It must then be very bad!

He ordered every body out; but was seized with another convulsion-fit, before he could reveal it; and in it he lies struggling between life anddeath--but I'll go in again. 

ONE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. 

All now must soon be over with him: Poor, poor fellow! He has given mesome hints of what he wanted to say; but all incoherent, interrupted bydying hiccoughs and convulsions. 

Bad enough it must be, Heaven knows, by what I can gather!--Alas!Lovelace, I fear, I fear, he came too soon into his uncle's estate. 

If a man were to live always, he might have some temptation to do basethings, in order to procure to himself, as it would then be, everlastingease, plenty, or affluence; but, for the sake of ten, twenty, thirtyyears of poor life to be a villain--Can that be worth while? with aconscience stinging him all the time too! And when he comes to wind upall, such agonizing reflections upon his past guilt! All then appearingas nothing! What he most valued, most disgustful! and not one thing tothink of, as the poor fellow says twenty and twenty times over, but whatis attended with anguish and reproach!--

To hear the poor man wish he had never been born!--To hear him pray to benothing after death! Good God! how shocking!

By his incoherent hints, I am afraid 'tis very bad with him. No pardon, no mercy, he repeats, can lie for him!

I hope I shall make a proper use of this lesson. Laugh at me if thouwilt; but never, never more, will I take the liberties I have taken; butwhenever I am tempted, will think of Belton's dying agonies, and what myown may be. 

***

THURSDAY, THREE IN THE MORNING. 

He is now at the last gasp--rattles in the throat--has a new convulsionevery minute almost! What horror is he in! His eyes look likebreath-stained glass! They roll ghastly no more; are quite set; his facedistorted, and drawn out, by his sinking jaws, and erected staringeyebrows, with his lengthened furrowed forehead, to double its usuallength, as it seems. It is not, it cannot be the face of Belton, thyBelton, and my Belton, whom we have beheld with so much delight over thesocial bottle, comparing notes, that one day may be brought against us, and make us groan, as they very lately did him--that is to say, while hehad strength to groan; for now his voice is not to be heard; all inward, lost; not so much as speaking by his eyes; yet, strange! how can it be?the bed rocking under him like a cradle. 

FOUR O'CLOCK. 

 Alas: he's gone! that groan, that dreadful groan, Was the last farewell of the parting mind! The struggling soul has bid a long adieu To its late mansion--Fled! Ah! whither fled?

Now is all indeed over!--Poor, poor Belton! by this time thou knowest ifthy crimes were above the size of God's mercies! Now are every one'scares and attendance at an end! now do we, thy friends, --poor Belton!--know the worst of thee, as to this life! Thou art released frominsufferable tortures both of body and mind! may those tortures, and thyrepentance, expiate for thy offences, and mayest thou be happy to alleternity!

We are told, that God desires not the death, the spiritual death of asinner: And 'tis certain, that thou didst deeply repent! I hope, therefore, as thou wert not cut off in the midst of thy sins by the swordof injured friendship, which more than once thou hadst braved, [thedreadfullest of all deaths, next to suicide, because it gives noopportunity for repentance] that this is a merciful earnest that thypenitence is accepted; and that thy long illness, and dreadful agonies inthe last stages of it, were thy only punishment. 

I wish indeed, I heartily wish, we could have seen one ray of comfortdarting in upon his benighted mind, before he departed. But all, alas!to the very last gasp, was horror and confusion. And my only fear arisesfrom this, that, till within the four last days of his life, he could notbe brought to think he should die, though in a visible decline formonths; and, in that presumption, was too little inclined to set about aserious preparation for a journey, which he hoped he should not beobliged to take; and when he began to apprehend that he could not put itoff, his impatience, and terror, and apprehension, showed too little ofthat reliance and resignation, which afford the most comfortablereflections to the friends of the dying, as well as to the dyingthemselves. 

But we must leave poor Belton to that mercy, of which we have all so muchneed; and, for my own part (do you, Lovelace, and the rest of thefraternity, as ye will) I am resolved, I will endeavour to begin torepent of my follies while my health is sound, my intellects untouched, and while it is in my power to make some atonement, as near torestitution or reparation, as is possible, to those I have wronged ormisled. And do ye outwardly, and from a point of false bravery, make aslight as ye will of my resolution, as ye are none of ye of the class ofabandoned and stupid sots who endeavour to disbelieve the futureexistence of which ye are afraid, I am sure you will justify me in yourhearts, if not by your practices; and one day you will wish you hadjoined with me in the same resolution, and will confess there is moregood sense in it, than now perhaps you will own. 

SEVEN O'CLOCK, THURSDAY MORNING. 

You are very earnest, by your last letter, (just given me) to hear againfrom me, before you set out for Berks. I will therefore close with a fewwords upon the only subject in your letter which I can at present touchupon: and this is the letter of which you give me a copy from the lady. 

Want of rest, and the sad scene I have before my eyes, have rendered mealtogether incapable of accounting for the contents of it in any shape. You are in ecstacies upon it. You have reason to be so, if it be as youthink. Nor would I rob you of your joy: but I must say I am amazed atit. 

Surely, Lovelace, this surprising letter cannot be a forgery of thy own, in order to carry on some view, and to impose upon me. Yet, by the styleof it, it cannot though thou art a perfect Proteus too. 

I will not, however, add another word, after I have desired the return ofthis, and have told you that I am

Your true friend, and well-wisher, J. BELFORD. 

LETTER XXII

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. AUG. 24, THURSDAY MORNING. 

I received thy letter in such good time, by thy fellow's dispatch, thatit gives me an opportunity of throwing in a few paragraphs upon it. Iread a passage or two of it to Mowbray; and we both agree that thou artan absolute master of the lamentable. 

Poor Belton! what terrible conflicts were thy last conflicts!--I hope, however, that he is happy: and I have the more hope, because the hardnessof his death is likely to be such a warning to thee. If it have theeffect thou declarest it shall have, what a world of mischief will itprevent! how much good will it do! how many poor wretches will rejoice atthe occasion, (if they know it, ) however melancholy in itself, whichshall bring them in a compensation for injuries they had been forced tosit down contented with! But, Jack, though thy uncle's death has madethee a rich fellow, art thou sure that the making good of such a vow willnot totally bankrupt thee?

Thou sayest I may laugh at thee, if I will. Not I, Jack: I do not takeit to be a laughing subject: and I am heartily concerned at the loss weall have in poor Belton: and when I get a little settled, and haveleisure to contemplate the vanity of all sublunary things (a subject thatwill now-and-then, in my gayest hours, obtrude itself upon me) it is verylikely that I may talk seriously with thee upon these topics; and, ifthou hast not got too much the start of me in the repentance thou artentering upon, will go hand-in-hand with thee in it. If thou hast, thouwilt let me just keep thee in my eye; for it is an up-hill work; and Ishall see thee, at setting out, at a great distance; but as thou art amuch heavier and clumsier fellow than myself, I hope that without muchpuffing and sweating, only keeping on a good round dog-trot, I shall beable to overtake thee. 

Mean time, take back thy letter, as thou desirest. I would not have itin my pocket upon any account at present; nor read it once more. 

I am going down without seeing my beloved. I was a hasty fool to writeher a letter, promising that I would not come near her till I saw her ather father's. For as she is now actually at Smith's, and I so near her, one short visit could have done no harm. 

I sent Will. , two hours ago, with my grateful compliments, and to knowhow she does. 

How must I adore this charming creature! for I am ready to think myservant a happier fellow than myself, for having been within a pair ofstairs and an apartment of her. 

Mowbray and I will drop a tear a-piece, as we ride along, to the memoryof poor Belton:--as we ride along, said I: for we shall have so much joywhen we arrive at Lord M. 's, and when I communicate to him and my cousinsthe dear creature's letter, that we shall forget every thing grievous:since now their family-hopes in my reformation (the point which lies sonear their hearts) will all revive; it being an article of their faith, that if I marry, repentance and mortification will follow of course. 

Neither Mowbray nor I shall accept of thy verbal invitation to thefuneral. We like not these dismal formalities. And as to the respectthat is supposed to be shown to the memory of a deceased friend in suchan attendance, why should we do any thing to reflect upon those who havemade it a fashion to leave this parade to people whom they hire for thatpurpose?

Adieu, and be cheerful. Thou canst now do no more for poor Belton, wertthou to howl for him to the end of thy life. 

LETTER XXIII

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. SAT. AUG. 26. 

On Thursday afternoon I assisted at the opening of poor Belton's will, inwhich he has left me his sole executor, and bequeathed me a legacy of anhundred guineas; which I shall present to his unfortunate sister, to whomhe has not been so kind as I think he ought to have been. He has alsoleft twenty pounds a-piece to Mowbray, Tourville, thyself, and me, for aring to be worn in remembrance of him. 

After I had given some particular orders about the preparations to bemade for his funeral, I went to town; but having made it late before Igot in on Thursday night, and being fatigued for want of rest severalnights before, and now in my spirits, [I could not help it, Lovelace!] Icontented myself to send my compliments to the innocent sufferer, toinquire after her health. 

My servant saw Mrs. Smith, who told him, she was very glad I was come totown; for that lady was worse than she had yet been. 

It is impossible to account for the contents of her letter to you; or toreconcile those contents to the facts I have to communicate. 

I was at Smith's by seven yesterday (Friday) morning; and found that thelady was just gone in a chair to St. Dunstan's to prayers: she was tooill to get out by six to Covent-garden church; and was forced to besupported to her chair by Mrs. Lovick. They would have persuaded heragainst going; but she said she knew not but it would be her lastopportunity. Mrs. Lovick, dreading that she would be taken worse atchurch, walked thither before her. 

Mrs. Smith told me she was so ill on Wednesday night, that she haddesired to receive the sacrament; and accordingly it was administered toher, by the parson of the parish: whom she besought to take allopportunities of assisting her in her solemn preparation. 

This the gentleman promised: and called in the morning to inquire afterher health; and was admitted at the first word. He staid with her abouthalf an hour; and when he came down, with his face turned aside, and afaltering accent, 'Mrs. Smith, ' said he, 'you have an angel in yourhouse. --I will attend her again in the evening, as she desires, and asoften as I think it will be agreeable to her. '

Her increased weakness she attributed to the fatigues she had undergoneby your means; and to a letter she had received from her sister, whichshe answered the same day. 

Mrs. Smith told me that two different persons had called there, one onThursday morning, one in the evening, to inquire after her state ofhealth; and seemed as if commissioned from her relations for thatpurpose; but asked not to see her, only were very inquisitive after hervisiters: (particularly, it seems, after me: What could they mean bythat?) after her way of life, and expenses; and one of them inquiredafter her manner of supporting them; to the latter of which, Mrs. Smithsaid, she had answered, as the truth was, that she had been obliged tosell some of her clothes, and was actually about parting with more; atwhich the inquirist (a grave old farmer-looking man) held up his hands, and said, Good God!--this will be sad, sad news to somebody! I believeI must not mention it. But Mrs. Smith says she desired he would, let himcome from whom he would. He shook his head, and said if she died, theflower of the world would be gone, and the family she belonged to wouldbe no more than a common family. * I was pleased with the man'sexpression. 

* This man came from her cousin Morden; as will be seen hereafter, Letters LII. And LVI. Of this volume. 

You may be curious to know how she passed her time, when she was obligedto leave her lodging to avoid you. 

Mrs. Smith tells me 'that she was very ill when she went out on Mondaymorning, and sighed as if her heart would break as she came down stairs, and as she went through the shop into the coach, her nurse with her, asyou had informed me before: that she ordered the coachman (whom she hiredfor the day) to drive any where, so it was into the air: he accordinglydrove her to Hampstead, and thence to Highgate. There at theBowling-green House, she alighted, extremely ill, and having breakfasted, ordered the coachman to drive very slowly any where. He crept along toMuswell-hill, and put up at a public house there; where she employedherself two hours in writing, though exceedingly weak and low, till thedinner she had ordered was brought in: she endeavoured to eat, but couldnot: her appetite was gone, quite gone, she said. And then she wrote onfor three hours more: after which, being heavy, she dozed a little in anelbow-chair. When she awoke, she ordered the coachman to drive her veryslowly to town, to the house of a friend of Mrs. Lovick; whom, as agreedupon, she met there: but, being extremely ill, she would venture home ata late hour, although she heard from the widow that you had been there;and had reason to be shocked at your behaviour. She said she found therewas no avoiding you: she was apprehensive she should not live many hours, and it was not impossible but the shock the sight of you must give herwould determine her fate in your presence. 

'She accordingly went home. She heard the relation of your astonishingvagaries, with hands and eyes often lifted up; and with these wordsintermingled, Shocking creature! incorrigible wretch! And will nothingmake him serious? And not being able to bear the thoughts of aninterview with a man so hardened, she took to her usual chair early inthe morning, and was carried to the Temple-stairs, where she had orderedher nurse before her, to get a pair of oars in readiness (for herfatigues the day before made her unable to bear a coach;) and then shewas rowed to Chelsea, where she breakfasted; and after rowing about, putin at the Swan at Brentford-ait, where she dined; and would have written, but had no conveniency either of tolerable pens, or ink, or private room;and then proceeding to Richmond, they rowed her back to Mort-lake; whereshe put in, and drank tea at a house her waterman recommended to her. She wrote there for an hour; and returned to the Temple; and, when shelanded, made one of the watermen get her a chair, and so was carried tothe widow's friend, as the night before; where she again met the widow, who informed her that you had been after her twice that day. 

'Mrs. Lovick gave her there her sister's letter;* and she was so muchaffected with the contents of it, that she was twice very nigh faintingaway; and wept bitterly, as Mrs. Lovick told Mrs. Smith; dropping somewarmer expressions than ever they had heard proceed from her lips, inrelation to her friends; calling them cruel, and complaining of illoffices done her, and of vile reports raised against her. 

* See Letter XXVI. Of this volume. 

'While she was thus disturbed, Mrs. Smith came to her, and told her, thatyou had been there a third time, and was just gone, (at half an hourafter nine, ) having left word how civil and respectful you would be; butthat you was determined to see her at all events. 

'She said it was hard she could not be permitted to die in peace: thather lot was a severe one: that she began to be afraid she should notforbear repining, and to think her punishment greater than her fault:but, recalling herself immediately, she comforted herself, that her lifewould be short, and with the assurance of a better. '

By what I have mentioned, you will conclude with me, that the letterbrought her by Mrs. Lovick (the superscription of which you saw to bewritten in her sister's hand) could not be the letter on the contents ofwhich she grounded that she wrote to you, on her return home. And yetneither Mrs. Lovick, nor Mrs. Smith, nor the servant of the latter, knowof any other brought her. But as the women assured me, that she actuallydid write to you, I was eased of a suspicion which I had begun toentertain, that you (for some purpose I could not guess at) had forgedthe letter from her of which you sent me a copy. 

On Wednesday morning, when she received your letter, in answer to her's, she said, Necessity may well be called the mother of invention--butcalamity is the test of integrity. --I hope I have not taken aninexcusable step--And there she stopt a minute or two; and then said, Ishall now, perhaps, be allowed to die in peace. 

I staid till she came in. She was glad to see me; but, being very weak, said, she must sit down before she could go up stairs: and so went intothe back-shop; leaning upon Mrs. Lovick: and when she had sat down, 'I amglad to see you, Mr. Belford, said she; I must say so--let mis-reporterssay what they will. '

I wondered at this expression;* but would not interrupt her. 

* Explained in Letter XXVIII. Of this volume. 

O Sir, said she, I have been grievously harassed. Your friend, who wouldnot let me live with reputation, will not permit me to die in peace. Yousee how I am. Is there not a great alteration in me within this week!but 'tis all for the better. Yet were I to wish for life, I must saythat your friend, your barbarous friend, has hurt me greatly. 

She was so weak, so short breathed, and her words and actions so verymoving, that I was forced to walk from her; the two women and her nurseturning away their faces also, weeping. 

I have had, Madam, said I, since I saw you, a most shocking scene beforemy eyes for days together. My poor friend Belton is no more. He quittedthe world yesterday morning in such dreadful agonies, that the impressionthey have left upon me have so weakened my mind--

I was loth to have her think that my grief was owing to the weak state Isaw her in, for fear of dispiriting her. 

That is only, Mr. Belford, interrupted she, in order to strengthen it, ifa proper use be made of the impression. But I should be glad, since youare so humanely affected with the solemn circumstance, that you couldhave written an account of it to your gay friend, in the style and manneryou are master of. Who knows, as it would have come from an associate, and of an associate, it might have affected him?

That I had done, I told her, in such a manner as had, I believed, someeffect upon you. 

His behaviour in this honest family so lately, said she, and his cruelpursuit of me, give me but little hope that any thing serious or solemnwill affect him. 

We had some talk about Belton's dying behaviour, and I gave her severalparticulars of the poor man's impatience and despair; to which she wasvery attentive; and made fine observations upon the subject ofprocrastination. 

A letter and packet were brought her by a man on horseback from MissHowe, while we were talking. She retired up stairs to read it; and whileI was in discourse with Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Lovick, the doctor andapothecary both came in together. They confirmed to me my fears, as tothe dangerous way she is in. They had both been apprized of the newinstances of implacableness in her friends, and of your persecutions: andthe doctor said he would not for the world be either the unforgivingfather of that lady, or the man who had brought her to this distress. Her heart's broken: she'll die, said he: there is no saving her. Buthow, were I either the one or the other of the people I have named, Ishould support myself afterwards, I cannot tell. 

When she was told we were all three together, she desired us to walk up. She arose to receive us, and after answering two or three generalquestions relating to her health, she addressed herself to us, to thefollowing effect:

As I may not, said she, see you three gentlemen together again, let metake this opportunity to acknowledge my obligations to you all. I aminexpressibly obliged to you, Sir, and to you, Sir, [courtesying to thedoctor and to Mr. Goddard] for your more than friendly, your paternalcare and concern for me. Humanity in your profession, I dare say, is farfrom being a rare qualification, because you are gentlemen by yourprofession: but so much kindness, so much humanity, did never desolatecreature meet with, as I have met with from you both. But indeed I havealways observed, that where a person relies upon Providence, it neverfails to raise up a new friend for every old one that falls off. 

This gentleman, [bowing to me, ] who, some people think, should have beenone of the last I should have thought of for my executor--is, nevertheless, (such is the strange turn that things have taken!) the onlyone I can choose; and therefore I have chosen him for that charitableoffice, and he has been so good as to accept of it: for, rich as I mayboast myself to be, I am rather so in right than in fact, at thispresent. I repeat, therefore, my humble thanks to you all three, and begof God to return to you and yours [looking to each] an hundred-fold, thekindness and favour you have shown me; and that it may be in the power ofyou and of yours, to the end of time, to confer benefits, rather than tobe obliged to receive them. This is a godlike power, gentlemen: I oncerejoiced in it some little degree; and much more in the prospect I had ofits being enlarged to me; though I have had the mortification toexperience the reverse, and to be obliged almost to every body I haveseen or met with: but all, originally, through my own fault; so I oughtto bear the punishment without repining: and I hope I do. Forgive theseimpertinencies: a grateful heart, that wants the power it wishes for, toexpress itself suitably to its own impulses, will be at a loss whatproperly to dictate to the tongue; and yet, unable to restrain itsoverflowings, will force the tongue to say weak and silly things, ratherthan appear ungratefully silent. Once more, then, I thank ye all threefor your kindness to me: and God Almighty make you that amends which atpresent I cannot!

She retired from us to her closet with her eyes full; and left us lookingupon one another. 

We had hardly recovered ourselves, when she, quite easy, cheerful, andsmiling, returned to us: Doctor, said she (seeing we had been moved) youwill excuse me for the concern I give you; and so will you, Mr. Goddard, and you, Mr. Belford; for 'tis a concern that only generous natures canshow: and to such natures sweet is the pain, if I may say so, thatattends such a concern. But as I have some few preparations still tomake, and would not (though in ease of Mr. Belford's future cares, whichis, and ought to be, part of my study) undertake more than it is likely Ishall have time lent me to perform, I would beg of you to give me youropinions [you see my way of living, and you may be assured that I will donothing wilfully to shorten my life] how long it may possibly be, beforeI may hope to be released from all my troubles. 

They both hesitated, and looked upon each other. Don't be afraid toanswer me, said she, each sweet hand pressing upon the arm of eachgentleman, with that mingled freedom and reserve, which virgin modesty, mixed with conscious dignity, can only express, and with a look serenelyearnest, tell me how long you think I may hold it! and believe me, gentlemen, the shorter you tell me my time is likely to be, the morecomfort you will give me. 

With what pleasing woe, said the Doctor, do you fill the minds of thosewho have the happiness to converse with you, and see the happy frame youare in! what you have undergone within a few days past has much hurt you:and should you have fresh troubles of those kinds, I could not beanswerable for your holding it--And there he paused. 

How long, Doctor?--I believe I shall have a little more ruffling--I amafraid I shall--but there can happen only one thing that I shall not betolerably easy under--How long then, Sir?--

He was silent. 

A fortnight, Sir?

He was still silent. 

Ten days?--A week?--How long, Sir? with smiling earnestness. 

If I must speak, Madam, if you have not better treatment than you havelately met with, I am afraid--There again he stopt. 

Afraid of what, Doctor? don't be afraid--How long, Sir?

That a fortnight or three weeks may deprive the world of the finestflower in it. 

A fortnight or three weeks yet, Doctor?--But God's will be done! Ishall, however, by this means, have full time, if I have but strengthand intellect, to do all that is now upon my mind to do. And so, Sirs, I can but once more thank you [turning to each of us] for all yourgoodness to me; and, having letters to write, will take up no more ofyour time--Only, Doctor, be pleased to order me some more of those drops:they cheer me a little, when I am low; and putting a fee into hisunwilling hand--You know the terms, Sir!--Then, turning to Mr. Goddard, you'll be so good, Sir, as to look in upon me to-night or to-morrow, asyou have opportunity: and you, Mr. Belford, I know, will be desirous toset out to prepare for the last office for your late friend: so I wishyou a good journey, and hope to see you when that is performed. 

She then retired with a cheerful and serene air. The two gentlemenwent away together. I went down to the women, and, inquiring, found, that Mrs. Lovick was this day to bring her twenty guineas more, for someother of her apparel. 

The widow told me that she had taken the liberty to expostulate with herupon the occasion she had for raising this money, to such greatdisadvantage; and it produced the following short and affectingconversation between them. 

None of my friends will wear any thing of mine, said she. I shall leavea great many good things behind me. --And as to what I want the money for--don't be surprised:--But suppose I want it to purchase a house?

You are all mystery, Madam. I don't comprehend you. 

Why, then, Mrs. Lovick, I will explain myself. --I have a man, not awoman, for my executor: and think you that I will leave to his care anything that concerns my own person?--Now, Mrs. Lovick, smiling, do youcomprehend me?

Mrs. Lovick wept. 

O fie! proceeded the Lady, drying up her tears with her own handkerchief, and giving her a kiss--Why this kind weakness for one with whom you havebeen so little while acquainted? Dear, good Mrs. Lovick, don't beconcerned for me on a prospect with which I have occasion to be pleased;but go to-morrow to your friends, and bring me the money they have agreedto give you. 

Thus, Lovelace, it is plain she means to bespeak her last house! Here'spresence of mind; here's tranquillity of heart, on the most affectingoccasion--This is magnanimity indeed!--Couldst thou, or could I, with allour boisterous bravery, and offensive false courage, act thus?--PoorBelton! how unlike was thy behaviour!

Mrs. Lovick tells me that the lady spoke of a letter she had receivedfrom her favourite divine Dr. Lewen, in the time of my absence; and of anletter she had returned to it. But Mrs. Lovick knows not the contents ofeither. 

When thou receivest the letter I am now writing, thou wilt see what willsoon be the end of all thy injuries to this divine lady. I say when thoureceivest it; for I will delay it for some little time, lest thoushouldest take it into thy head (under pretence of resenting thedisappointment her letter must give thee) to molest her again. 

This letter having detained me by its length, I shall not now set out forEpsom till to-morrow. 

I should have mentioned that the lady explained to me what the one thingwas that she was afraid might happen to ruffle her. It was theapprehension of what may result from a visit which Col. Morden, as she isinformed, designs to make you. 

LETTER XXIV

THE REV. DR. LEWEN, TO MISS CL. HARLOWEFRIDAY, AUG. 18. 

Presuming, dearest and ever-respectable young lady, upon your formerfavour, and upon your opinion of my judgment and sincerity, I cannot helpaddressing you by a few lines on your present unhappy situation. 

I will not look back upon the measures into which you have either beenled or driven. But will only say as to those, that I think you are theleast to blame of any young lady that was ever reduced from happy tounhappy circumstances; and I have not been wanting to say as much, whereI hoped my freedom would have been better received than I have had themortification to find it to be. 

What I principally write for now is, to put you upon doing a piece ofjustice to yourself, and to your sex, in the prosecuting for his life (Iam assured his life is in your power) the most profligate and abandonedof men, as he must be, who could act so basely, as I understand Mr. Lovelace has acted by you. 

I am very ill; and am now forced to write upon my pillow; my thoughtsconfused; and incapable of method: I shall not therefore aim at method:but to give you in general my opinion--and that is, that your religion, your duty to your family, the duty you owe to your honour, and evencharity to your sex, oblige you to give public evidence against this verywicked man. 

And let me add another consideration: The prevention, by this means, ofthe mischiefs that may otherwise happen between your brother and Mr. Lovelace, or between the latter and your cousin Morden, who is now, Ihear, arrived, and resolves to have justice done you. 

A consideration which ought to affect your conscience, [forgive me, dearest young lady, I think I am now in the way of my duty;] and to beof more concern to you, than that hard pressure upon your modesty whichI know the appearance against him in an open court must be of to such alady as you; and which, I conceive, will be your great difficulty. But Iknow, Madam, that you have dignity enough to become the blushes of themost naked truth, when necessity, justice, and honour, exact it from you. Rakes and ravishers would meet with encouragement indeed, and most fromthose who had the greatest abhorrence of their actions, if violatedmodesty were never to complain of the injury it received from thevillanous attempters of it. 

In a word, the reparation of your family dishonour now rests in your ownbosom: and which only one of these two alternatives can repair; to wit, either to marry the offender, or to prosecute him at law. Bitterexpedients for a soul so delicate as your's!

He, and all his friends, I understand, solicit you to the first: and itis certainly, now, all the amends within his power to make. But I amassured that you have rejected their solicitations, and his, with theindignation and contempt that his foul actions have deserved: but yet, that you refuse not to extend to him the christian forgiveness he has solittle reason to expect, provided he will not disturb you farther. 

But, Madam, the prosecution I advise, will not let your present andfuture exemption from fresh disturbance from so vile a molester dependupon his courtesy: I should think so noble and so rightly-guided a spiritas your's would not permit that it should, if you could help it. 

And can indignities of any kind be properly pardoned till we have it inour power to punish them? To pretend to pardon, while we are labouringunder the pain or dishonour of them, will be thought by some to be butthe vaunted mercy of a pusillanimous heart, trembling to resent them. The remedy I propose is a severe one: But what pain can be more severethan the injury? Or how will injuries be believed to grieve us, that arenever honourably complained of?

I am sure Miss Clarissa Harlowe, however injured and oppressed, remainsunshaken in her sentiments of honour and virtue: and although she wouldsooner die than deserve that her modesty should be drawn into question;yet she will think no truth immodest that is to be uttered in thevindicated cause of innocence and chastity. Little, very littledifference is there, my dear young lady, between a suppressed evidence, and a false one. 

It is a terrible circumstance, I once more own, for a young lady of yourdelicacy to be under the obligation of telling so shocking a story inpublic court: but it is still a worse imputation, that she should passover so mortal an injury unresented. 

Conscience, honour, justice, are on your side: and modesty would, bysome, be thought but an empty name, should you refuse to obey theirdictates. 

I have been consulted, I own, on this subject. I have given it as myopinion, that you ought to prosecute the abandoned man--but without myreasons. These I reserved, with a resolution to lay them before youunknown to any body, that the result, if what I wish, may be your own. 

I will only add that the misfortunes which have befallen you, had theybeen the lot of a child of my own, could not have affected me more thanyour's have done. My own child I love: but I both love and honour you:since to love you, is to love virtue, good sense, prudence, and everything that is good and noble in woman. 

Wounded as I think all these are by the injuries you have received, youwill believe that the knowledge of your distresses must have afflicted, beyond what I am able to express, Your sincere admirer, and humble servant, ARTHUR LEWEN. 

I just now understand that your sister will, by proper authority, propose this prosecution to you. I humbly presume that the reason why you resolved not upon this step from the first, was, that you did not know that it would have the countenance and support of your relations. 

LETTER XXV

MISS CL. HARLOWE, TO THE REV. DR. LEWENSAT. AUG. 19. 

REVEREND AND DEAR SIR, I thought, till I received your affectionate and welcome letter, that Ihad neither father, uncle, brother left; nor hardly a friend among myformer favourers of your sex. Yet, knowing you so well, and having noreason to upbraid myself with a faulty will, I was to blame, (evenalthough I had doubted the continuance of your good opinion, ) to declinethe trial whether I had forfeited it or not; and if I had, whether Icould not honourably reinstate myself in it. 

But, Sir, it was owing to different causes that I did not; partly toshame, to think how high, in my happier days, I stood in your esteem, andhow much I must be sunk in it, since those so much nearer in relation tome gave me up; partly to deep distress, which makes the humbled heartdiffident; and made mine afraid to claim the kindred mind in your's, which would have supplied to me in some measure all the dear and lostrelations I have named. 

Then, so loth, as I sometimes was, to be thought to want to make a partyagainst those whom both duty and inclination bid me reverence: so longtrailed on between hope and doubt: so little my own mistress at one time;so fearful of making or causing mischief at another; and not beingencouraged to hope, by your kind notice, that my application to you wouldbe acceptable:--apprehending that my relations had engaged your silenceat least*--THESE--But why these unavailing retrospections now?--I was tobe unhappy--in order to be happy; that is my hope!--Resigning thereforeto that hope, I will, without any further preamble, write a few lines, (if writing to you, I can write but a few, ) in answer to the subject ofyour kind letter. 

* The stiff visit this good divine was prevailed upon to make her, asmentioned in Vol. II. Letter XXXI. (of which, however, she was toogenerous to remind him) might warrant the lady to think that he hadrather inclined to their party, as to the parental side, than to her's. 

Permit me, then, to say, That I believe your arguments would have beenunanswerable in almost every other case of this nature, but in that ofthe unhappy Clarissa Harlowe. 

It is certain that creatures who cannot stand the shock of public shame, should be doubly careful how they expose themselves to the danger ofincurring private guilt, which may possibly bring them to it. But as tomyself, suppose there were no objections from the declining way I am inas to my health; and supposing I could have prevailed upon myself toappear against this man; were there not room to apprehend that the end somuch wished for by my friends, (to wit, his condign punishment, ) wouldnot have been obtained, when it came to be seen that I had consented togive him a clandestine meeting; and, in consequence of that, had beenweakly tricked out of living under one roof with him for several weeks;which I did, (not only without complaint, but) without cause ofcomplaint?

Little advantage in a court, (perhaps, bandied about, and jestedprofligately with, ) would some of those pleas in my favour have been, which out of court, and to a private and serious audience, would havecarried the greatest weight against him--Such, particularly, as theinfamous methods to which he had recourse--

It would, no doubt, have been a ready retort from every mouth, that Iought not to have thrown myself into the power of such a man, and that Iought to take for my pains what had befallen me. 

But had the prosecution been carried on to effect, and had he even beensentenced to death, can it be supposed that his family would not have hadinterest enough to obtain his pardon, for a crime thought too lightly of, though one of the greatest that can be committed against a creaturevaluing her honour above her life?--While I had been censured as pursuingwith sanguinary views a man who offered me early all the reparation inhis power to make?

And had he been pardoned, would he not then have been at liberty to do asmuch mischief as ever?

I dare say, Sir, such is the assurance of the man upon whom my unhappydestiny threw me; and such his inveteracy to my family, (which would thenhave appeared to be justified by their known inveteracy to him, and bytheir earnest endeavours to take away his life;) that he would not havebeen sorry to have had an opportunity to confront me, and my father, uncles, and brother, at the bar of a court of justice, on such anoccasion. In which case, would not (on his acquittal, or pardon)resentments have been reciprocally heightened? And then would mybrother, or my cousin Morden, have been more secure than now?

How do these conditions aggravate my fault! My motives, at first, werenot indeed blamable: but I had forgotten the excellent caution, which yetI was not ignorant of, That we ought not to do evil that good may come ofit. 

In full conviction of the purity of my heart, and of the firmness of myprinciples, [Why may I not, thus called upon, say what I am conscious of, and yet without the imputation of faulty pride; since all is but a duty, and I should be utterly inexcusable, could I not justly say what I do?--In this full conviction, ] he has offered me marriage. He has avowed hispenitence: a sincere penitence I have reason to think it, though perhapsnot a christian one. And his noble relations, (kinder to the poorsufferer than her own, ) on the same conviction, and his own notungenerous acknowledgements, have joined to intercede with me to forgiveand accept of him. Although I cannot comply with the latter part oftheir intercession, have not you, Sir, from the best rules, and from thedivinest example, taught me to forgive injuries?

The injury I have received from him is indeed of the highest nature, andit was attended with circumstances of unmanly baseness and premeditation;yet, I bless God, it has not tainted my mind; it has not hurt my morals. No thanks indeed to the wicked man that it has not. No vile courses havefollowed it. My will is unviolated. The evil, (respecting myself, andnot my friends, ) is merely personal. No credulity, no weakness, no wantof vigilance, have I to reproach myself with. I have, through grace, triumphed over the deepest machinations. I have escaped from him. Ihave renounced him. The man whom once I could have loved, I have beenenabled to despise: And shall not charity complete my triumph? and shallI not enjoy it?--And where would be my triumph if he deserved myforgiveness?--Poor man! he has had a loss in losing me! I have the prideto think so, because I think I know my own heart. I have had none inlosing him. 

But I have another plea to make, which alone would have been enough (as Ipresume) to answer the contents of your very kind and friendly letter. 

I know, my dear and reverend friend, the spiritual guide and director ofmy happier days! I know, that you will allow of my endeavour to bringmyself to this charitable disposition, when I tell you how near I thinkmyself to that great and awful moment, in which, and even in the ardentpreparation to which, every sense of indignity or injury that concernsnot the immortal soul, ought to be absorbed in higher and more importantcontemplations. 

Thus much for myself. 

And for the satisfaction of my friends and favourers, Miss Howe issolicitous to have all those letters and materials preserved, which willset my whole story in a true light. The good Dr. Lewen is one of theprincipal of those friends and favourers. 

The warning that may be given from those papers to all such youngcreatures as may have known or heard of me, may be of more efficacy tothe end wished for, as I humbly presume to think, than my appearancecould have been in a court of justice, pursuing a doubtful event, underthe disadvantages I have mentioned. And if, my dear and good Sir, youare now, on considering every thing, of this opinion, and I could knowit, I should consider it as a particular felicity; being as solicitousas ever to be justified in what I may in your eyes. 

I am sorry, Sir, that your indisposition has reduced you to the necessityof writing upon your pillow. But how much am I obliged to that kind andgenerous concern for me, which has impelled you, as I may say, to write aletter, containing so many paternal lines, with such inconvenience toyourself!

May the Almighty bless you, dear and reverend Sir, for all your goodnessto me of long time past, as well as for that which engaged my presentgratitude! Continue to esteem me to the last, as I do and will venerateyou! And let me bespeak your prayers, the continuance, I should say, ofyour prayers; for I doubt not, that I have always had them: and to them, perhaps, has in part been owing (as well as to your pious preceptsinstilled through my earlier youth) that I have been able to make thestand I have made; although every thing that you prayed for has not beengranted to me by that Divine Wisdom, which knows what is best for itspoor creatures. 

My prayers for you are, that it will please God to restore you to youraffectionate flock; and after as many years of life as shall be for hisservice, and to your own comfort, give us a happy meeting in thoseregions of blessedness, which you have taught me, as well by example, asby precept, to aspire to!

CLARISSA HARLOWE. 

LETTER XXVI

MISS ARAB. HARLOWE, TO MISS CL. HARLOWE[IN ANSWER TO HER'S TO HER UNCLE ANTONY OF AUG. 13. *]MONDAY, AUG. 21. 

* See Letter IV. Of this volume. 

SISTER CLARY, I find by your letters to my uncles, that they, as well as I, are ingreat disgrace with you for writing our minds to you. 

We can't help it, sister Clary. 

You don't think it worth your while, I find, a second time to press forthe blessing you pretend to be so earnest about. You think, no doubt, that you have done your duty in asking for it: so you'll sit downsatisfied with that, I suppose, and leave it to your wounded parents torepent hereafter that they have not done theirs, in giving it to you, atthe first word; and in making such inquiries about you, as you thinkought to have been made. Fine encouragement to inquire after a run-awaydaughter! living with her fellow as long as he would live with her! Yourepent also (with your full mind, as you modestly call it) that you wroteto me. 

So we are not likely to be applied to any more, I find, in this way. 

Well then, since this is the case, sister Clary, let me, with allhumility, address myself with a proposal or two to you; to which you willbe graciously pleased to give an answer. 

Now you must know, that we have had hints given us, from severalquarters, that you have been used in such a manner by the villain you ranaway with, that his life would be answerable for his crime, if it werefairly to be proved. And, by your own hints, something like it appearsto us. 

If, Clary, there be any thing but jingle and affected period in whatproceeds from your full mind, and your dutiful consciousness; and ifthere be truth in what Mrs. Norton and Mrs. Howe have acquainted us with;you may yet justify your character to us, and to the world, in everything but your scandalous elopement; and the law may reach the villain:and, could we but bring him to the gallows, what a meritorious revengewould that be to our whole injured family, and to the innocents he hasdeluded, as well as the saving from ruin many others!

Let me, therefore, know (if you please) whether you are willing to appearto do yourself, and us, and your sex, this justice? If not, sisterClary, we shall know what to think of you; for neither you nor we cansuffer more than we have done from the scandal of your fall: and, if youwill, Mr. Ackland and counselor Derham will both attend you to makeproper inquiries, and to take minutes of your story, to found a processupon, if it will bear one with as great a probability of success as weare told it may be prosecuted with. 

But, by what Mrs. Howe intimates, this is not likely to be complied with;for it is what she hinted to you, it seems, by her lively daughter, butnot without effect;* so prudently in some certain points, as to entitleyourself to public justice; which, if true, the Lord have mercy upon you!

* See Vol. VI. Letter LXXII. 

One word only more as to the above proposal:--Your admirer, Dr. Lewen, isclear, in his opinion, that you should prosecute the villain. 

But if you will not agree to this, I have another proposal to make toyou, and that in the name of every one in the family; which is, that youwill think of going to Pensylvania to reside there for some few yearstill all is blown over: and, if it please God to spare you, and yourunhappy parents, till they can be satisfied that you behave like a trueand uniform penitent; at least till you are one-and-twenty; you may thencome back to your own estate, or have the produce of it sent you thither, as you shall choose. A period which my father fixes, because it is thecustom; and because he thinks your grandfather should have fixed it; andbecause, let me add, you have fully proved by your fine conduct, that youwere not at years of discretion at eighteen. Poor doting, though goodold man!--Your grandfather, he thought--But I would not be too severe. 

Mr. Hartley has a widow-sister at Pensylvania, with whom he willundertake you may board, and who is a sober, sensible, well-read woman. And if you were once well there, it would rid your father and mother ofa world of cares, and fears, and scandal; and that I think is what youshould wish for of all things. 

Mr. Hartley will engage for all accommodations in your passage suitableto your rank and fortune; and he has a concern in a ship, which will sailin a month; and you may take your secret-keeping Hannah with you, or whomyou will of your newer acquaintance. 'Tis presumed that your companionswill be of your own sex. 

These are what I had to communicate to you; and if you'll oblige me withan answer, (which the hand that conveys this will call for on Wednesdaymorning, ) it will be very condescending. 

ARABELLA HARLOWE. 

LETTER XXVII

MISS CL. HARLOWE, TO MISS ARAB. HARLOWETUESDAY, AUG. 22. 

Write to me, my hard-hearted Sister, in what manner you please, I shallalways be thankful to you for your notice. But (think what you will ofme) I cannot see Mr. Ackland and the counselor on such a business as youmention. 

The Lord have mercy upon me indeed! for none else will. 

Surely I am believed to a creature past all shame, or it could not bethought of sending two gentlemen to me on such an errand. 

Had my mother required of me (or would modesty have permitted you toinquire into) the particulars of my sad story, or had Mrs. Norton beendirected to receive them from me, methinks it had been more fit: and Ipresume to think that it would have been more in every one's charactertoo, had they been required of me before such heavy judgment had beenpassed upon me as has been passed. 

I know that this is Dr. Lewen's opinion. He has been so good as toenforce it in a kind letter to me. I have answered his letter; and givensuch reasons as I hope will satisfy him. I could wish it were thoughtworth while to request of him a sight of my answer. *

* Her letter, containing the reasons she refers to, was not asked for;and Dr. Lewen's death, which fell out soon after he had received it, wasthe reason that it was not communicated to the family, till it was toolate to do the service that might have been hoped for from it. 

To your other proposal, of going to Pensylvania; this is my answer--Ifnothing happen within a month which may full as effectually rid myparents and friends of that world of cares, and fears, and scandals, which you mention, and if I am then able to be carried on board of ship, I will cheerfully obey my father and mother, although I were sure to diein the passage. And, if I may be forgiven for saying so (for indeed itproceeds not from a spirit of reprisal) you shall set over me, instead ofmy poor obliging, but really-unculpable, Hannah, your Betty Barnes; towhom I will be answerable for all my conduct. And I will make it worthher while to accompany me. 

I am equally surprised and concerned at the hints which both you and myuncle Antony give of new points of misbehaviour in me!--What can be meantby them?

I will not tell you, Miss Harlowe, how much I am afflicted at yourseverity, and how much I suffer by it, and by your hard-hearted levity ofstyle, because what I shall say may be construed into jingle and period, and because I know it is intended, very possibly for kind ends, tomortify me. All I will therefore say is, that it does not lose its end, if that be it. 

But, nevertheless, (divesting myself as much as possible of allresentment, ) I will only pray that Heaven will give you, for your ownsake, a kinder heart than at present you seem to have; since a kindheart, I am convinced, is a greater blessing to its possessor than it canbe to any other person. Under this conviction I subscribe myself, mydear Bella, Your ever-affectionate sister, CL. HARLOWE. 

LETTER XXVIII

MRS. NORTON, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE[IN ANSWER TO HER'S OF THURSDAY, AUG. 17. *]TUESDAY, AUG. 22. 

* See Letter VI. Of this volume. 

MY DEAREST YOUNG LADY, The letters you sent me I now return by the hand that brings you this. 

It is impossible for me to express how much I have been affected by them, and by your last of the 17th. Indeed, my dear Miss Clary, you are veryharshly used; indeed you are! And if you should be taken from us, whatgrief and what punishment are not treasuring up against themselves in theheavy reflections which their rash censures and unforgivingness willoccasion them!

But I find to what your uncle Antony's cruel letter is owing, as well asone you will be still more afflicted by, [God help you, my poor dearchild!] when it comes to your hand, written by your sister, withproposals to you. *

* See Letter XXVI. Ibid. 

It was finished to send you yesterday, I know; and I apprize you of it, that you should fortify your heart against the contents of it. 

The motives which incline them all to this severity, if well grounded, would authorize any severity they could express, and which, while theybelieve them to be so, both they and you are to be equally pitied. 

They are owning to the information of that officious Mr. Brand, who hasacquainted them (from some enemy of your's in the neighbourhood aboutyou) that visits are made you, highly censurable, by a man of a freecharacter, and an intimate of Mr. Lovelace; who is often in private withyou; sometimes twice or thrice a day. 

Betty gives herself great liberties of speech upon this occasion, and allyour friends are too ready to believe that things are not as they shouldbe; which makes me wish that, let the gentleman's views be ever sohonourable, you could entirely drop acquaintance with him. 

Something of this nature was hinted at by Betty to me before, but sodarkly that I could not tell what to make of it; and this made me mentionto you so generally as I did in my last. 

Your cousin Morden has been among them. He is exceedingly concerned foryour misfortunes; and as they will not believe Mr. Lovelace would marryyou, he is determined to go to Lord M. 's, in order to inform himself fromMr. Lovelace's own mouth, whether he intends to do you that justice ornot. 

He was extremely caressed by every one at his first arrival; but I amtold there is some little coldness between them and him at present. 

I was in hopes of getting a sight of this letter of Mr. Brand: (a rashofficious man!) but it seems Mr. Morden had it given him yesterday toread, and he took it away with him. 

God be your comfort, my dear Miss! But indeed I am exceedingly disturbedat the thoughts of what may still be the issue of all these things. Iam, my beloved young lady, Your most affectionate and faithfulJUDITH NORTON. 

LETTER XXIX

MRS. NORTON, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWETUESDAY, AUG. 22. 

After I had sealed up the enclosed, I had the honour of a private visitfrom your aunt Hervey; who has been in a very low-spirited way, and kepther chamber for several weeks past; and is but just got abroad. 

She longed, she said, to see me, and to weep with me, on the hard fatethat had befallen her beloved niece. 

I will give you a faithful account of what passed between us; as I expectthat it will, upon the whole, administer hope and comfort to you. 

'She pitied very much your good mother, who, she assured me, is obligedto act a part entirely contrary to her inclinations; as she herself, sheowns, had been in a great measure. 

'She said, that the poor lady was with great difficulty with-held fromanswering your letter to her; which had (as was your aunt's expression)almost broken the heart of every one: that she had reason to think thatshe was neither consenting to your two uncles writing, nor approving ofwhat they wrote. 

'She is sure they all love you dearly; but have gone so far, that theyknow not how to recede. 

'That, but for the abominable league which your brother had got everybody into (he refusing to set out for Scotland till it was renewed, andtill they had all promised to take no step towards a reconciliation inhis absence but by his consent; and to which your sister's resentmentskept them up); all would before now have happily subsided. 

'That nobody knew the pangs which their inflexible behaviour gave them, ever since you had begun to write to them in so affecting and humble astyle. 

'That, however, they were not inclined to believe that you were either soill, or so penitent as you really are; and still less, that Mr. Lovelaceis in earnest in his offers of marriage. 

'She is sure, however, she says, that all will soon be well: and thesooner for Mr. Morden's arrival: who is very zealous in your behalf. 

'She wished to Heaven that you would accept of Mr. Lovelace, wicked as hehas been, if he were now in earnest. 

'It had always, ' she said, 'been matter of astonishment to her, that soweak a pride in her cousin James, of making himself the whole family, should induce them all to refuse an alliance with such a family as Mr. Lovelace's was. 

'She would have it, that your going off with Mr. Lovelace was theunhappiest step for your honour and your interest that could have beentaken; for that although you would have had a severe trial the next day, yet it would probably have been the last; and your pathetic powers musthave drawn you off some friends--hinting at your mother, at your uncleHarlowe, at your uncle Hervey, and herself. '

But here (that the regret that you did not trust to the event of thatmeeting, may not, in your present low way, too much afflict you) I mustobserve, that it seems a little too evident, even from this opinion ofyour aunt's, that it was not absolutely determined that all compulsionwas designed to be avoided, since your freedom from it must have beenowing to the party to be made among them by your persuasive eloquence anddutiful expostulation. 

'She owned, that some of them were as much afraid of meeting you as youcould be of meeting them:'--But why so, if they designed, in the lastinstance, to give you your way?

Your aunt told me, 'That Mrs. Williams* had been with her, and asked heropinion, if it would be taken amiss, if she desired leave to go up, toattend her dearest young lady in her calamity. Your aunt referred her toyour mother: but had heard no more of it. 

* The former housekeeper at Harlowe-place. 

'Her daughter, ' (Miss Dolly, ) she said, 'had been frequently earnest withher on the same subject; and renewed her request with the greatestfervour when your first letter came to hand. '

Your aunt says, 'That she then being very ill, wrote to your mother uponit, hoping it would not be taken amiss if she permitted Dolly to go; butthat your sister, as from your mother, answered her, That now you seemedto be coming-to, and to have a due sense of your faults, you must be leftentirely to their own management. 

'Miss Dolly, ' she said, 'had pined ever since she had heard of Mr. Lovelace's baseness, being doubly mortified by it: first, on account ofyour sufferings; next, because she was one who rejoiced in your gettingoff, and vindicated you for it; and had incurred censure and ill-will onthat account; especially from your brother and sister; so that she seldomwent to Harlowe-place. '

Make the best use of these intelligences, my dearest young lady, for yourconsolation. 

I will only add, that I am, with the most fervent prayers for yourrecovery and restoration to favour, Your ever-faitfulJUDITH NORTON. 

LETTER XXX

MISS CL. HARLOWE, TO MRS. JUDITH NORTONTHURSDAY, AUG. 24. 

The relation of such a conversation as passed between my aunt and youwould have given me pleasure, had it come some time ago; because it wouldhave met with a spirit more industrious than mine now is, to pick outremote comfort in the hope of a favourable turn that might one day haverewarded my patient duty. 

I did not doubt my aunt't good-will to me. Her affection I did notdoubt. But shall we wonder that kings and princes meet with so littlecontroul in their passions, be they every so violent, when, in a privatefamily, an aunt, nay, even a mother in that family, shall choose to giveup a once-favoured child against their own inclinations, rather thanoppose an aspiring young man, who had armed himself with the authority ofa father, who, when once determined, never would be expostulated with?

And will you not blame me, if I say, that good sense, that kindredindulgence, must be a little offended at the treatment I have met with;and if I own, that I think that great rigour has been exercised towardsme! And yet I am now authorized to call it rigour by the judgment of twoexcellent sisters, my mother and my aunt, who acknowledge (as you tell mefrom my aunt) that they have been obliged to join against me, contrary totheir inclinations; and that even in a point which might seem to concernmy eternal welfare. 

But I must not go on at this rate. For may not the inclination my motherhas given up be the effect of a too-fond indulgence, rather than that Imerit the indulgence? And yet so petulantly perverse am I, that I musttear myself from the subject. 

All then that I will say further to it, at this time, is, that were theintended goodness to be granted to me but a week hence, it would possiblybe too late--too late I mean to be of the consolation to me that I wouldwish from it: for what an inefficacious preparation must I have beenmaking, if it has not, by this time, carried me above--But above what?--Poor mistaken creature! Unhappy self-deluder! that finds herself abovenothing! Nor able to subdue her own faulty impatience!

But in-deed, to have done with a subject that I dare not trust myselfwith, if it come in your way, let my aunt Hervey, let my dear cousinDolly, let the worthy Mrs. Williams, know how exceedingly grateful to metheir kind intentions and concern for me are: and, as the best warrantor justification of their good opinions, (since I know that their favourfor me is founded on the belief that I loved virtue, ) tell them, that Icontinued to love virtue to my last hour, as I presume to hope it may besaid; and assure them that I never made the least wilful deviation, however unhappy I became for one faulty step; which nevertheless was notowing to unworthy or perverse motives. 

I am very sorry that my cousin Morden has taken a resolution to see Mr. Lovelace. 

My apprehensions on this intelligence are a great abatement to thepleasure I have in knowing that he still loves me. 

My sister's letter to me is a most affecting one--so needlessly, soludicrously taunting!--But for that part of it that is so, I ought ratherto pity her, than to be so much concerned at it as I am. 

I wonder what I have done to Mr. Brand--I pray God to forgive both himand his informants, whoever they be. But if the scandal arise solelyfrom Mr. Belford's visits, a very little time will confute it. Meanwhile, the packet I shall send you, which I sent to Miss Howe, will, Ihope, satisfy you, my dear Mrs. Norton, as to my reasons for admittinghis visits. 

My sister's taunting letter, and the inflexibleness of my dearer friends--But how do remoter-begun subjects tend to the point which lies nearestthe heart!--As new-caught bodily disorders all crowd to a fractured ordistempered part. 

I will break off, with requesting your prayers that I may be blessed withpatience and due resignation; and with assuring you, that I am, and willbe to the last hour of my life, Your equally grateful and affectionateCL. HARLOWE. 

LETTER XXXI

MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE[IN REPLY TO HER'S OF FRIDAY, AUG. 11. *]YARMOUTH, ISLE OF WIGHT, AUG. 23. 

* See Letter II. Of this volume. 

MY DEAREST FRIEND, I have read the letters and copies of letters you favoured me with: and Ireturn them by a particular hand. I am extremely concerned at yourindifferent state of health: but I approve of all your proceedings andprecautions in relation to the appointment of Mr. Belford for an office, in which, I hope, neither he nor any body else will be wanted to act, formany, very many years. 

I admire, and so we do all, that greatness of mind which can make you sostedfastly [sic] despise (through such inducements as no other womancould resist, and in such desolate circumstances as you have been reducedto) the wretch that ought to be so heartily despised and detested. 

What must the contents of those letters from your relations be, which youwill not communicate to me!--Fie upon them! How my heart rises!--But Idare say no more--though you yourself now begin to think they use youwith great severity. 

Every body here is so taken with Mr. Hickman (and the more from thehorror they conceive at the character of the detestable Lovelace, ) that Ihave been teased to death almost to name a day. This has given him airs:and, did I not keep him to it, he would behave as carelessly and asinsolently as if he were sure of me. I have been forced to mortify himno less than four times since we have been here. 

I made him lately undergo a severe penance for some negligences that werenot to be passed over. Not designed ones, he said: but that was a poorexcuse, as I told him: for, had they been designed, he should never havecome into my presence more: that they were not, showed his want ofthought and attention; and those were inexcusable in a man only in hisprobatory state. 

He hoped he had been more than in a probatory state, he said. 

And therefore, Sir, might be more careless!--So you add ingratitude tonegligence, and make what you plead as accident, that itself wants anexcuse, design, which deserves none. 

I would not see him for two days, and he was so penitent, and so humble, that I had like to have lost myself, to make him amends: for, as you havesaid, resentment carried too high, often ends in amends too humble. 

I long to be nearer to you: but that must not yet be, it seems. Pray, mydear, let me hear from you as often as you can. 

May Heaven increase your comforts, and restore your health, are theprayers of

Your ever faithful and affectionateANNA HOWE. 

P. S. Excuse me that I did not write before: it was owing to a little coasting voyage I was obliged to give into. 

LETTER XXXII

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWEFRIDAY, AUG. 25. 

You are very obliging, my dear Miss Howe, to account to me for yoursilence. I was easy in it, as I doubted not that, among such near anddear friends as you are with, you was diverted from writing by some suchagreeable excursion as that you mention. 

I was in hopes that you had given over, at this time of day, those verysprightly airs, which I have taken the liberty to blame you for, as oftenas you have given me occasion to so do; and that has been very often. 

I was always very grave with you upon this subject: and while your ownand a worthy man's future happiness are in the question, I must enterinto it, whenever you forget yourself, although I had not a day to live:and indeed I am very ill. 

I am sure it was not your intention to take your future husband with youto the little island to make him look weak and silly among those of yourrelations who never before had seen him. Yet do you think it possiblefor them (however prepared and resolved they may be to like him) toforbear smiling at him, when they see him suffering under your whimsicalpenances? A modest man should no more be made little in his own eyes, than in the eyes of others. If he be, he will have a diffidence, whichwill give an awkwardness to every thing he says or does; and this will beno more to the credit of your choice than to that of the approbation hemeets with from your friends, or to his own credit. 

I love an obliging, and even an humble, deportment in a man to the womanhe addresses. It is a mark of his politeness, and tends to give her thatopinion of herself, which it may be supposed bashful merit wants to beinspired with. But if the woman exacts it with an high hand, she showsnot either her own politeness or gratitude; although I must confess shedoes her courage. I gave you expectations that I would be very seriouswith you. 

O my dear, that it had been my lot (as I was not permitted to livesingle, ) to have met with a man by whom I could have acted generously andunreservedly!

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 shouldbe allowed for: which often make seeming occasions for censureunavoidable. I deserved not blame from him who made mine difficult. Andyou, my dear, had I any other man to deal with, or had he but half themerit which Mr. Hickman has, would have found that my doctrine on thissubject should have governed my practice. 

But to put myself out of the question--I'll tell you what I should think, were I an indifferent by-stander, of those high airs of your's, in returnfor Mr. Hickman's humble demeanour. 'The lady thinks of having thegentleman, I see plainly, would I say. But I see as plainly, that shehas a very great indifference to him. And to what may this indifferencebe owing? To one or all of these considerations, no doubt: that shereceives his addresses rather from motives of convenience than choice:that she thinks meanly of his endowments and intellects; at least morehighly of her own: or, she has not the generosity to use that power withmoderation, which his great affection for her puts into her hands. '

How would you like, my dear, to have any of these things said?

Then to give but the shadow of a reason for free-livers and free speakersto say, or to imagine, that Miss Howe gives her hand to a man who has noreason to expect any share in her heart, I am sure you would not wishthat such a thing should be so much as supposed. Then all the regardfrom you to come afterwards; none to be shown before; must, should Ithink, be capable of being construed as a compliment to the husband, madeat the expense of the wife's and even of the sex's delicacy!

There is no fear that attempts could be formed by the most audacious [twoLovelaces there cannot be!] upon a character so revered for virtue, andso charmingly spirited, as Miss Howe's: yet, to have any man encouragedto despise a husband by the example of one who is most concerned to dohim honour; what, my dear, think you of that? It is but too natural forenvious men (and who that knows Miss Howe, will not envy Mr. Hickman!) toscoff at, and to jest upon, those who are treated with or will bearindignity from a woman. 

If a man so treated have a true and ardent love for the woman headdresses, he will be easily overawed by her displeasure: and this willput him upon acts of submission, which will be called meanness. And whatwoman of true spirit would like to have it said, that she would imposeany thing upon the man from whom she one day expects protection anddefence, that should be capable of being construed as a meanness, orunmanly abjectness in his behaviour, even to herself?--Nay, I am notsure, and I ask it of you, my dear, to resolve me, whether, in your ownopinion, it is not likely, that a woman of spirit will despise ratherthan value more, the man who will take patiently an insult at her hands;especially before company. 

I have always observed, that prejudices in disfavour of a person at hisfirst appearance, fix deeper, and are much more difficult to be removedwhen fixed, than that malignant principle so eminently visible in littleminds, which makes them wish to bring down the more worthy characters totheir own low level, I pretend not to determine. When once, therefore, awoman of your good sense gives room to the world to think she has not anhigh opinion of the lover, whom nevertheless she entertains, it will bevery difficult for her afterwards to make that world think so well as shewould have it of the husband she has chosen. 

Give me leave to observe, that to condescend with dignity, and to commandwith such kindness, and sweetness of manners, as should let thecondescension, while in a single state, be seen and acknowledged, arepoints, which a wise woman, knowing her man, should aim at: and a wisewoman, I should think, would choose to live single all her life ratherthan give herself to a man whom she thinks unworthy of a treatment sonoble. 

But when a woman lets her lover see that she has the generosity toapprove of and reward a well-meant service; that she has a mind thatlifts her above the little captious follies, which some (toolicentiously, I hope, ) attribute to the sex in general: that she resentsnot (if ever she thinks she has reason to be displeased) with petulance, or through pride: nor thinks it necessary to insist upon little points, to come at or secure great ones, perhaps not proper to be aimed at: norleaves room to suppose she has so much cause to doubt her own merit, asto put the love of the man she intends to favour upon disagreeable orarrogant trials: but let reason be the principal guide of her actions--she will then never fail of that true respect, of that sincereveneration, which she wishes to meet with; and which will make herjudgment after marriage consulted, sometimes with a preference to a man'sown; at other times as a delightful confirmation of his. 

And so much, my beloved Miss Howe, for this subject now, and I dare say, for ever!

I will begin another letter by-and-by, and send both together. Meantime, I am, &c. 

LETTER XXXIII

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE

[In this letter, the Lady acquaints Miss Howe with Mr. Brand's report; with her sister's proposals either that she will go abroad, or prosecute Mr. Lovelace. She complains of the severe letters of her uncle Antony and her sister; but in milder terms than they deserved. 

She sends her Dr. Lewen's letter, and the copy of her answer to it. 

She tells her of the difficulties she had been under to avoid seeing Mr. Lovelace. She gives her the contents of the letter she wrote to him to divert him from his proposed visit: she is afraid, she says, that it is a step that is not strictly right, if allegory or metaphor be not allowable to one in her circumstances. 

She informs her of her cousin Morden's arrival and readiness to take her part with her relations; of his designed interview with Mr. Lovelace; and tells her what her apprehensions are upon it. 

She gives her the purport of the conversation between her aunt Hervey and Mrs. Norton. And then add:]

But were they ever so favourably inclined to me now, what can they do forme? I wish, and that for their sakes more than for my own, that theywould yet relent--but I am very ill--I must drop my pen--a suddenfaintness overspreads my heart--excuse my crooked writing!--Adieu, mydear!--Adieu!

THREE O'CLOCK, FRIDAY. 

Once more I resume my pen. I thought I had taken my last farewell toyou. I never was so very oddly affected: something that seemed totallyto overwhelm my faculties--I don't know how to describe it--I believe Ido amiss in writing so much, and taking too much upon me: but an activemind, though clouded by bodily illness, cannot be idle. 

I'll see if the air, and a discontinued attention, will help me. But, ifit will not, don't be concerned for me, my dear. I shall be happy. Nay, I am more so already than of late I thought I could ever be in this life. --Yet how this body clings!--How it encumbers!

SEVEN O'CLOCK. 

I could not send this letter away with so melancholy an ending, as youwould have thought it. So I deferred closing it, till I saw how I shouldbe on my return from my airing: and now I must say I am quite anotherthing: so alert! that I could proceed with as much spirit as I began, andadd more preachment to your lively subject, if I had not written morethan enough upon it already. 

I wish you would let me give you and Mr. Hickman joy. Do, my dear. Ishould take some to myself, if you would. 

My respectful compliments to all your friends, as well to those I havethe honour to know, as to those I do not know. 

***

I have just now been surprised with a letter from one whom I long agogave up all thoughts of hearing from. From Mr. Wyerley. I will encloseit. You'll be surprised at it as much as I was. This seems to be a manwhom I might have reclaimed. But I could not love him. Yet I hope Inever treated him with arrogance. Indeed, my dear, if I am not toopartial to myself, I think I refused him with more gentleness, than youretain somebody else. And this recollection gives me less pain than Ishould have had in the other case, on receiving this instance of agenerosity that affects me. I will also enclose the rough draught of myanswer, as soon as I have transcribed it. 

If I begin another sheet, I shall write to the end of it: wherefore Iwill only add my prayers for your honour and prosperity, and for a long, long, happy life; and that, when it comes to be wound up, you may be ascalm and as easy at quitting it as I hope in God I shall be. I am, andwill be, to the latest moment, Your truly affectionate and obliged servant, CL. HARLOWE. 

LETTER XXXIV

MR. WYERLEY, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWEWEDNESDAY, AUG. 23. 

DEAREST MADAM, You will be surprised to find renewed, at this distance of time, anaddress so positively though so politely discouraged: but, however it bereceived, I must renew it. Every body has heard that you have beenvilely treated by a man who, to treat you ill, must be the vilest of men. Every body knows your just resentment of his base treatment: that you aredetermined never to be reconciled to him: and that you persist in thesesentiments against all the entreaties of his noble relations, against allthe prayers and repentance of his ignoble self. And all the world thathave the honour to know you, or have heard of him, applaud yourresolution, as worthy of yourself; worthy of your virtue, and of thatstrict honour which was always attributed to you by every one who spokeof you. 

But, Madam, were all the world to have been of a different opinion, itcould never have altered mine. I ever loved you; I ever must love you. Yet have I endeavoured to resign to my hard fate. When I had so manyways, in vain, sought to move you in my favour, I sat down seeminglycontented. I even wrote to you that I would sit down contented. And Iendeavoured to make all my friends and companions think I was. Butnobody knows what pangs this self-denial cost me! In vain did the chace, in vain did travel, in vain did lively company, offer themselves, andwere embraced in their turn: with redoubled force did my passion for yourenew my unhappiness, when I looked into myself, into my own heart; forthere did your charming image sit enthroned; and you engrossed me all. 

I truly deplore those misfortunes, and those sufferings, for your ownsake; which nevertheless encourage me to renew my old hope. I know notparticulars. I dare not inquire after them; because my sufferings wouldbe increased with the knowledge of what your's have been. I thereforedesire not the know more than what common report wounds my ears with; andwhat is given me to know, by your absence from your cruel family, andfrom the sacred place, where I, among numbers of your rejected admirers, used to be twice a week sure to behold you doing credit to that serviceof which your example gave me the highest notions. But whatever be thosemisfortunes, of whatsoever nature those sufferings, I shall bless theoccasion for my own sake (though for your's curse the author of them, ) ifthey may give me the happiness to know that this my renewed address maynot be absolutely rejected. --Only give me hope, that it may one day meetwith encouragement, if in the interim nothing happen, either in my moralsor behaviour, to give you fresh offence. Give me but hope of this--notabsolutely to reject me is all the hope I ask for; and I will love you, if possible, still more than I ever loved you--and that for yoursufferings; for well you deserve to be loved, even to adoration, who can, for honour's and for virtue's sake, subdue a passion which common spirits[I speak by cruel experience] find invincible; and this at a time whenthe black offender kneels and supplicates, as I am well assured he does, (all his friends likewise supplicating for him, ) to be forgiven. 

That you cannot forgive him, not forgive him so as to receive him againto favour, is no wonder. His offence is against virtue: this is a partof your essence. What magnanimity is this! How just to yourself, and toyour spotless character! Is it any merit to admire more than ever a ladywho can so exaltedly distinguish? It is not. I cannot plead it. 

What hope have I left, may it be said, when my address was beforerejected, now, that your sufferings, so nobly borne, have, with all thegood judges, exalted your character? Yet, Madam, I have to pride myselfin this, that while your friends (not looking upon you in the just lightI do) persecute and banish you; while your estate is withheld from you, and threatened (as I know, ) to be withheld, as long as the chicaning law, or rather the chicaneries of its practisers, can keep it from you: whileyou are destitute of protection; every body standing aloof, eitherthrough fear of the injurer of one family, or of the hard-hearted of theother; I pride myself, I say, to stand forth, and offer my fortune, andmy life, at your devotion. With a selfish hope indeed: I should be toogreat an hypocrite not to own this! and I know how much you abhorinsincerity. 

But, whether you encourage that hope or not, accept my best services, Ibeseech you, Madam: and be pleased to excuse me for a piece of honestart, which the nature of the case (doubting the honour of your noticeotherwise) makes me choose to conclude with--it is this:

If I am to be still the most unhappy of men, let your pen by one linetell me so. If I am permitted to indulge a hope, however distant, yoursilence shall be deemed, by me, the happiest indication of it that youcan give--except that still happier--(the happiest than can befall me, )a signification that you will accept the tender of that life and fortune, which it would be my pride and my glory to sacrifice in your service, leaving the reward to yourself. 

Be your determination as it may, I must for ever admire and love you. Nor will I ever change my condition, while you live, whether you changeyour's or not: for, having once had the presumption to address you, Icannot stoop to think of any other woman: and this I solemnly declare inthe presence of that God, whom I daily pray to bless and protect you, beyour determination what it will with regard to, dearest Madam, Your most devoted and ever affectionateand faithful servant, ALEXANDER WYERLEY. 

LETTER XXXV

MISS CL. HARLOWE, TO ALEX. WYERLEY, ESQ. SAT. AUG. 26. 

SIR, The generosity of your purpose would have commanded not only my notice, but my thanks, although you had not given me the alternative you arepleased to call artful. And I do therefore give you my thanks for yourkind letter. 

At the time you distinguished me by your favourable opinion, I told you, Sir, that my choice was the single life. And most truly did I tell youso. 

When that was not permitted me, and I looked round upon the severalgentlemen who had been proposed to me, and had reason to believe thatthere was not one of them against whose morals or principles there laynot some exception, it would not have been much to be wondered at, ifFANCY had been allowed to give a preference, where JUDGMENT was at a lossto determine. 

Far be it from me to say this with a design to upbraid you, Sir, or toreflect upon you. I always wished you well. You had reason to think Idid. You had the generosity to be pleased with the frankness of mybehaviour to you; as I had with that of your's to me; and I am sorry, very sorry, to be now told, that the acquaintance you obliged me withgave you so much pain. 

Had the option I have mentioned been allowed me afterwards, (as I notonly wished, but proposed, ) things had not happened that did happen. Butthere was a kind of fatality by which our whole family was impelled, as Imay say; and which none of us were permitted to avoid. But this is asubject that cannot be dwelt upon. 

As matters are, I have only to wish, for your own sake, that you willencourage and cultivate those good motions in your mind, to which manypassages in your kind and generous letter now before me must be owing. Depend upon it, Sir, that such motions, wrought into habit, will yieldyou pleasure at a time when nothing else can; and at present, shining outin your actions and conversation, will commend you to the worthiest ofour sex. For, Sir, the man who is so good upon choice, as well as byeducation, has that quality in himself, which ennobles the human race, and without which the most dignified by birth or rank or ignoble. 

As to the resolution you solemnly make not to marry while I live, Ishould be concerned at it, were I not morally sure that you may keep it, and yet not be detrimented by it: since a few, a very few days, willconvince you, that I am got above all human dependence; and that there isno need of that protection and favour, which you so generously offer to, Sir, Your obliged well-wisher, and humble servant, CL. HARLOWE. 

LETTER XXXVI

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. MONDAY NOON, AUG. 28. 

About the time of poor Belton's interment last night, as near as we couldguess, Lord M. , Mowbray, and myself, toasted once, To the memory ofhonest Tom. Belton; and, by a quick transition to the living, Health toMiss Harlowe; which Lord M. Obligingly began, and, To the happyreconciliation; and then we stuck in a remembrance To honest JackBelford, who, of late, we all agreed, is become an useful and humane man;and one who prefers his friend's service to his own. 

But what is the meaning I hear nothing from thee?* And why dost thou notlet me into the grounds of the sudden reconciliation between my belovedand her friends, and the cause of the generous invitation which she givesme of attending her at her father's some time hence?

* Mr. Belford has not yet sent him his last-written letter. His reasonfor which see Letter XXIII. Of this volume. 

Thou must certainly have been let into the secret by this time; and I cantell thee, I shall be plaguy jealous if there is to be any one thing passbetween my angel and thee that is to be concealed from me. For either Iam a principal in this cause, or I am nothing. 

I have dispatched Will. To know the reason of thy neglect. 

But let me whisper a word or two in thy ear. I begin to be afraid, afterall, that this letter was a stratagem to get me out of town, and fornothing else: for, in the first place, Tourville, in a letter I receivedthis morning, tells me, that the lady is actually very ill! [I am sorryfor it with all my soul!]. This, thou'lt say, I may think a reason whyshe cannot set out as yet: but then I have heard, on the other hand, butlast night, that the family is as implacable as ever; and my Lord and Iexpect this very afternoon a visit from Colonel Morden; who, undertakes, it seems, to question me as to my intention with regard to his cousin. 

This convinces me, that if she has apprized her friends of my offers toher, they will not believe me to be in earnest, till they are assuredthat I am so from my own mouth. But then I understand, that the intendedvisit is an officiousness of Morden's own, without the desire of any ofher friends. 

Now, Jack, what can a man make of all this? My intelligence as to thecontinuance of her family's implacableness is not to be doubted; and yetwhen I read her letter, what can one say?--Surely, the dear little roguewill not lie!

I never knew her dispense with her word, but once; and that was, when shepromised to forgive me after the dreadful fire that had like to havehappened at our mother's, and yet would not see me the next day, andafterwards made her escape to Hampstead, in order to avoid forgiving me:and as she severely smarted for this departure from her honour given, (for it is a sad thing for good people to break their word when it is intheir power to keep it, ) one would not expect that she should set aboutdeceiving again; more especially by the premeditation of writing. Thou, perhaps, wilt ask, what honest man is obliged to keep his promise with ahighwayman? for well I know thy unmannerly way of making comparisons; butI say, every honest man is--and I will give thee an illustration. 

Here is a marauding varlet, who demands your money, with a pistol at yourbreast. You have neither money nor valuable effects about you; andpromise solemnly, if he will spare your life, that you will send him anagreed-upon sum, by such a day, to such a place. 

The question is, if your life is not in the fellow's power?

How he came by the power is another question; for which he must answerwith his life when caught--so he runs risque for risque. 

Now if he give you your life, does he not give, think you, a valuableconsideration for the money you engage your honour to send him? If not, the sum must be exorbitant, or your life is a very paltry one, even inyour own opinion. 

I need not make the application; and I am sure that even thou thyself, who never sparest me, and thinkest thou knowest my heart by thy own, canst not possibly put the case in a stronger light against me. 

Then, why do good people take upon themselves to censure, as they do, persons less scrupulous than themselves? Is it not because the latterallow themselves in any liberty, in order to carry a point? And can mynot doing my duty, warrant another for not doing his?--Thou wilt not sayit can. 

And how would it sound, to put the case as strongly once more, as mygreatest enemy would put it, both as to fact and in words--here has thatprofligate wretch Lovelace broken his vow with and deceived Miss ClarissaHarlowe. --A vile fellow! would an enemy say: but it is like him. Butwhen it comes to be said that the pious Clarissa has broken her word withand deceived Lovelace; Good Lord! would every one say; sure it cannot be!

Upon my soul, Jack, such is the veneration I have for this admirablewoman, that I am shocked barely at putting the case--and so wilt thou, ifthou respectest her as thou oughtest: for thou knowest that men andwomen, all the world over, form their opinions of one another by eachperson's professions and known practices. In this lady, therefore, itwould be unpardonable to tell a wilful untruth, as it would be strange ifI kept my word. --In love cases, I mean; for, as to the rest, I am anhonest, moral man, as all who know me can testify. 

And what, after all, would this lady deserve, if she has deceived me inthis case? For did she not set me prancing away, upon Lord M. 's bestnag, to Lady Sarah's, and to Lady Betty's, with an erect and triumphingcountenance, to show them her letter to me?

And let me tell thee, that I have received their congratulations upon it:Well, and now, cousin Lovelace, cries one: Well, and now, cousinLovelace, cries t'other; I hope you will make the best of husbands to soexcellent and so forgiving a lady!--And now we shall soon have thepleasure of looking upon you as a reformed man, added one! And now weshall see you in the way we have so long wished you to be in, cried theother!

My cousins Montague also have been ever since rejoicing in the newrelationship. Their charming cousin, and their lovely cousin, at everyword! And how dearly they will love he! What lessons they will takefrom her! And yet Charlotte, who pretends to have the eye of an eagle, was for finding out some mystery in the style and manner, till I overboreher, and laughed her out of it. 

As for Lord M. He has been in hourly expectation of being sent to withproposals of one sort or other from the Harlowes; and still we have it, that such proposals will be made by Colonel Morden when he comes; andthat the Harlowes only put on a fae of irreconcileableness, till theyknow the issue of Morden's visit, in order to make the better terms withus. 

Indeed, if I had not undoubted reason, as I said, to believe thecontinuance of their antipathy to me, and implacableness to her, I shouldbe apt to think there might be some foundation for my Lord's conjecture;for there is a cursed deal of low cunning in all that family, except inthe angel of it; who has so much generosity of soul, that she despisescunning, both name and thing. 

What I mean by all this is, to let thee see what a stupid figure I shallmake to all my own family, if my Clarissa has been capable, as Gulliverin his abominable Yahoo story phrases it, if it were only that I shouldbe outwitted by such a novice at plotting, and that it would make me looksilly to my kinswomen here, who know I value myself upon my contrivances, it would vex me to the heart; and I would instantly clap a featherbedinto a coach and six, and fetch her away, sick or well, and marry her atmy leisure. 

But Col. Morden is come, and I must break off. 

LETTER XXXVII

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. MONDAY NIGHT, AUG. 28. 

I doubt you will be all impatience that you have not heard from me sincemine of Thursday last. You would be still more so, if you knew that Ihad by me a letter ready written. 

I went early yesterday morning to Epsom; and found every thing disposedaccording to the directions I had left on Friday; and at night the solemnoffice was performed. Tourville was there; and behaved very decently, and with greater concern than I thought he would every have expressed forany body. 

Thomasine, they told me, in a kind of disguise, was in an obscure pew, out of curiosity (for it seems she was far from showing any tokens ofgrief) to see the last office performed for the man whose heart she hadso largely contributed to break. 

I was obliged to stay till this afternoon, to settle several necessarymatters, and to direct inventories to be taken, in order forappraisement; for every thing is to be turned into money, by his will. I presented his sister with the hundred guineas the poor man left me ashis executor, and desired her to continue in the house, and take thedirection of every thing, till I could hear from his nephew at Antigua, who is heir at law. He had left her but fifty pounds, although he knewher indigence; and that it was owing to a vile husband, and not toherself, that she was indigent. 

The poor man left about two hundred pounds in money, and two hundredpounds in two East-India bonds; and I will contrive, if I can, to makeup the poor woman's fifty pounds, and my hundred guineas, two hundredpounds to her; and then she will have some little matter coming incertain, which I will oblige her to keep out of the hands of a son, whohas completed that ruin which his father had very nearly effected. 

I gave Tourville his twenty pounds, and will send you and Mowbray your'sby the first order. 

And so much for poor Belton's affairs till I see you. 

I got to town in the evening, and went directly to Smith's. I found Mrs. Lovick and Mrs. Smith in the back shop, and I saw they had been both intears. They rejoiced to see me, however; and told me, that the Doctorand Mr. Goddard were but just gone; as was also the worthy clergyman, whooften comes to pray by her; and all three were of opinion, that she wouldhardly live to see the entrance of another week. I was not so muchsurprised as grieved; for I had feared as much when I left her onSaturday. 

I sent up my compliments; and she returned, that she would take it for afavour if I would call upon her in the morning by eight o'clock. Mrs. Lovick told me that she had fainted away on Saturday, while she waswriting, as she had done likewise the day before; and having receivedbenefit then by a little turn in a chair, she was carried abroad again. She returned somewhat better; and wrote till late; yet had a pretty goodnight: and went to Covent-garden church in the morning; but came home soill that she was obliged to lie down. 

When she arose, seeing how much grieved Mrs. Lovick and Mrs. Smith werefor her, she made apologies for the trouble she gave them--You werehappy, said she, before I came hither. It was a cruel thing in me tocome amongst honest strangers, and to be sick, and die with you. 

When they touched upon the irreconcileableness of her friends, I have hadill offices done me to them, said she, and they do not know how ill I am;nor will they believe any thing I should write. But yet I cannotsometimes forbear thinking it a little hard, that out of so many near anddear friends as I have living, not one of them will vouchsafe to lookupon me. No old servant, no old friend, proceeded she, to be permittedto come near me, without being sure of incurring displeasure! And tohave such a great work to go through by myself, a young creature as I am, and to have every thing to think of as to my temporal matters, and toorder, to my very interment! No dear mother, said the sweet sufferer, topray by me and bless me!--No kind sister to sooth and comfort me!--Butcome, recollected she, how do I know but all is for the best--if I canbut make a right use of my discomforts?--Pray for me, Mrs. Lovick--prayfor me, Mrs. Smith, that I may--I have great need of your prayers. --Thiscruel man has discomposed me. His persecutions have given mea pain justhere, [putting her hand to her heart. ] What a step has he made me taketo avoid him!--Who can touch pitch, and not be defiled? He had made abad spirit take possession of me, I think--broken in upon all my duties--and will not yet, I doubt, let me be at rest. Indeed he is very cruel--but this is one of my trials, I believe. By God's grace, I shall beeasier to-morrow, and especially if I have no more of his tormentings, and if I can get a tolerable night. And I will sit up till eleven, thatI may. 

She said, that though this was so heavy a day with her, she was at othertimes, within these few days past especially, blessed with bright hours;and particularly that she had now and then such joyful assurances, (whichshe hoped were not presumptuous ones, ) that God would receive her to hismercy, that she could hardly contain herself, and was ready to thinkherself above this earth while she was in it: And what, inferred she toMrs. Lovick, must be the state itself, the very aspirations after whichhave often cast a beamy light through the thickest darkness, and, when Ihave been at the lowest ebb, have dispelled the black clouds ofdespondency?--As I hope they soon will this spirit of repining. 

She had a pretty good night, it seems; and this morning went in a chairto St. Dunstan's church. 

The chairmen told Mrs. Smith, that after prayers (for she did not returntill between nine and ten) they carried her to a house in Fleet-street, whither they never waited on her before. And where dost think this was?--Why to an undertaker's! Good Heaven! what a woman is this! She wentinto the back shop, and talked with the master of it about half an hour, and came from him with great serenity; he waiting upon her to her chairwith a respectful countenance, but full of curiosity and seriousness. 

'Tis evident that she went to bespeak her house that she talked of*--Assoon as you can, Sir, were her words to him as she got into the chair. Mrs. Smith told me this with the same surprise and grief that I heard it. 

* See Letter XXIII. Of this volume. 

She was very ill in the afternoon, having got cold either at St. Dunstan's, or at chapel, and sent for the clergyman to pray by her; andthe women, unknown to her, sent both for Dr. H. And Mr. Goddard: who werejust gone, as I told you, when I came to pay my respects to her thisevening. 

And thus have I recounted from the good women what passed to this nightsince my absence. 

I long for to-morrow, that I may see her: and yet it is such a melancholylonging as I never experienced, and know not how to describe. 

TUESDAY, AUG. 29. 

I was at Smith's at half an hour after seven. They told me that the ladywas gone in a chair to St. Dunstan's: but was better than she had been ineither of the two preceding days; and that she said she to Mrs. Lovickand Mrs. Smith, as she went into the chair, I have a good deal to answerfor to you, my good friends, for my vapourish conversation of last night. 

If, Mrs. Lovick, said she, smiling, I have no new matters to discomposeme, I believe my spirits will hold out purely. 

She returned immediately after prayers. 

Mr. Belford, said she, as she entered the back shop where I was, (andupon my approaching her, ) I am very glad to see you. You have beenperforming for your poor friend a kind last office. 'Tis not long agosince you did the same for a near relation. Is it not a little hard uponyou, that these troubles should fall so thick to your lot? But they arecharitable offices: and it is a praise to your humanity, that poor dyingpeople know not where to choose so well. 

I told her I was sorry to hear she had been so ill since I had the honourto attend her; but rejoiced to find that now she seemed a good dealbetter. 

It will be sometimes better, and sometimes worse, replied she, with poorcreatures, when they are balancing between life and death. But no moreof these matters just now. I hope, Sir, you'll breakfast with me. I wasquite vapourish yesterday. I had a very bad spirit upon me. Had I not, Mrs. Smith? But I hope I shall be no more so. And to-day I am perfectlyserene. This day rises upon me as if it would be a bright one. 

She desired me to walk up, and invited Mr. Smith and his wife, and Mrs. Lovick also, to breakfast with her. I was better pleased with herliveliness than with her looks. 

The good people retiring after breakfast, the following conversationpassed between us:

Pray, Sir, let me ask you, if you think I may promise myself that I shallbe no more molested by your friend?

I hesitated: For how could I answer for such a man?

What shall I do, if he comes again?--You see how I am. --I cannot fly fromhim now--If he has any pity left for the poor creature whom he has thusreduced, let him not come. --But have you heard from him lately? And willhe come?

I hope not, Madam. I have not heard from him since Thursday last, thathe went out of town, rejoicing in the hopes your letter gave him of areconciliation between your friends and you, and that he might in goodtime see you at your father's; and he is gone down to give all hisfriends joy of the news, and is in high spirits upon it. 

Alas! for me: I shall then surely have him come up to persecute me again!As soon as he discovers that that was only a stratagem to keep him away, he will come up, and who knows but even now he is upon the road? Ithought I was so bad that I should have been out of his and every body'sway before now; for I expected not that this contrivance would serve meabove two or three days; and by this time he must have found out that Iam not so happy as to have any hope of a reconciliation with my family;and then he will come, if it be only in revenge for what he will think adeceit, but is not, I hope, a wicked one. 

I believe I looked surprised to hear her confess that her letter was astratagem only; for she said, You wonder, Mr. Belford, I observe, that Icould be guilty of such an artifice. I doubt it is not right: it wasdone in a hurry of spirits. How could I see a man who had so mortallyinjured me; yet pretending a sorrow for his crimes, (and wanting to seeme, ) could behave with so much shocking levity, as he did to the honestpeople of the house? Yet, 'tis strange too, that neither you nor hefound out my meaning on perusal of my letter. You have seen what Iwrote, no doubt?

I have, Madam. And then I began to account for it, as an innocentartifice. 

Thus far indeed, Sir, it is an innocent, that I meant him no hurt, andhad a right to the effect I hoped for from it; and he had none to invademe. But have you, Sir, that letter of his in which he gives you (as Isuppose he does) the copy of mine?

I have, Madam. And pulled it out of my letter-case. But hesitating--Nay, Sir, said she, be pleased to read my letter to yourself--I desirenot to see his--and see if you can be longer a stranger to a meaning soobvious. 

I read it to myself--Indeed, Madam, I can find nothing but that you aregoing down to Harlowe-place to be reconciled to your father and otherfriends: and Mr. Lovelace presumed that a letter from your sister, whichhe saw brought when he was at Mr. Smith's, gave you the welcome news ofit. 

She then explained all to me, and that, as I may say, in six words--Areligious meaning is couched under it, and that's the reason that neitheryou nor I could find it out. 

'Read but for my father's house, Heaven, said she, and for theinterposition of my dear blessed friend, suppose the mediation of mySaviour (which I humbly rely upon); and all the rest of the letter willbe accounted for. ' I hope (repeated she) that it is a pardonableartifice. But I am afraid it is not strictly right. 

I read it so, and stood astonished for a minute at her invention, herpiety, her charity, and at thine and mine own stupidity to be thus takenin. 

And now, thou vile Lovelace, what hast thou to do (the lady allconsistent with herself, and no hopes left for thee) but to hang, drown, or shoot thyself, for an outwitted boaster?

My surprise being a little over, she proceeded: As to the letter thatcame from my sister while your friend was here, you will soon see, Sir, that it is the cruellest letter she ever wrote me. 

And then she expressed a deep concern for what might be the consequenceof Colonel Morden's intended visit to you; and besought me, that if now, or at any time hereafter, I had opportunity to prevent any furthermischief, without detriment or danger to myself, I would do it. 

I assured her of the most particular attention to this and to all hercommands; and that in a manner so agreeable to her, that she invoked ablessing upon me for my goodness, as she called it, to a desolatecreature who suffered under the worst of orphanage; those were her words. 

She then went back to her first subject, her uneasiness for fear of yourmolesting her again; and said, If you have any influence over him, Mr. Belford, prevail upon him that he will give me the assurance that theshort remainder of my time shall be all my own. I have need of it. Indeed I have. Why will he wish to interrupt me in my duty? Has he notpunished me enough for my preference of him to all his sex? Has he notdestroyed my fame and my fortune? And will not his causeless vengeanceupon me be complete, unless he ruin my soul too?--Excuse me, Sir, forthis vehemence! But indeed it greatly imports me to know that I shall beno more disturbed by him. And yet, with all this aversion, I wouldsooner give way to his visit, though I were to expire the moment I sawhim, than to be the cause of any fatal misunderstanding between you andhim. 

I assured her that I would make such a representation of the matter toyou, and of the state of her health, that I would undertake to answer foryou, that you would not attempt to come near her. 

And for this reason, Lovelace, do I lay the whole matter before you, anddesire you will authorize me, as soon as this and mine of Saturday lastcome to your hands, to dissipate her fears. 

This gave her a little satisfaction; and then she said that had I nottold her that I could promise for you, she was determined, ill as she is, to remove somewhere out of my knowledge as well as out of your's. Andyet, to have been obliged to leave people I am but just got acquaintedwith, said the poor lady, and to have died among perfect strangers, wouldhave completed my hardships. 

This conversation, I found, as well from the length as the nature of it, had fatigued her; and seeing her change colour once or twice, I made thatmy excuse, and took leave of her: desiring her permission, however, toattend her in the evening; and as often as possible; for I could not helptelling her that, every time I saw her, I more and more considered her asa beatified spirit; and as one sent from Heaven to draw me after her outof the miry gulf in which I had been so long immersed. 

And laugh at me if thou wilt; but it is true that, every time I approachher, I cannot but look upon her as one just entering into a companionshipwith saints and angels. This thought so wholly possessed me, that Icould not help begging, as I went away, her prayers and her blessing, with the reverence due to an angel. 

In the evening, she was so low and weak, that I took my leave of her inless than a quarter of an hour. I went directly home. Where, to thepleasure and wonder of my cousin and her family, I now pass many honestevenings: which they impute to your being out of town. 

I shall dispatch my packet to-morrow morning early by my own servant, tomake thee amends for the suspense I must have kept thee in: thou'lt thankme for that, I hope; but wilt not, I am sure, for sending thy servantback without a letter. 

I long for the particulars of the conversation between you and Mr. Morden; the lady, as I have hinted, is full of apprehensions about it. Send me back this packet when perused; for I have not had either time orpatience to take a copy of it. And I beseech you enable me to make goodmy engagements to the poor lady that you will not invade her again. 

LETTER XXXVIII

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. WEDNESDAY, AUG. 30. 

I have a conversation to give you that passed between this admirable ladyand Dr. H. Which will furnish a new instance of the calmness and serenitywith which she can talk of death, and prepare for it, as if it were anoccurrence as familiar to her as dressing and undressing. 

As soon as I had dispatched my servant to you with my letters of the26th, 28th, and yesterday the 29th, I went to pay my duty to her, and hadthe pleasure to find her, after a tolerable night, pretty lively andcheerful. She was but just returned from her usual devotions; and DoctorH. Alighted as she entered the door. 

After inquiring how she did, and hearing her complaints of shortness ofbreath, (which she attributed to inward decay, precipitated by her lateharasses, as well from her friends as from you, ) he was for advising herto go into the air. 

What will that do for me? said she: tell me truly, good Sir, with acheerful aspect, (you know you cannot disturb me by it, ) whether now youdo not put on the true physician; and despairing that any thing inmedicine will help me, advise me to the air, as the last resource?--Canyou think the air will avail in such a malady as mine?

He was silent. 

I ask, said she, because my friends (who will possibly some time henceinquire after the means I used for my recovery) may be satisfied that Iomitted nothing which so worthy and skilful a physician prescribed?

The air, Madam, may possibly help the difficulty of breathing, which hasso lately attacked you. 

But, Sir, you see how weak I am. You must see that I have been consumingfrom day to day; and now, if I can judge by what I feel in myself, putting her hand to her heart, I cannot continue long. If the air wouldvery probably add to my days, though I am far from being desirous to havethem lengthened, I would go into it; and the rather, as I know Mrs. Lovick would kindly accompany me. But if I were to be at the trouble ofremoving into new lodgings, (a trouble which I think now would be toomuch for me, ) and this only to die in the country, I had rather the scenewere to shut up here. For here have I meditated the spot, and themanner, and every thing, as well of the minutest as of the highestconsequence, that can attend the solemn moments. So, Doctor, tell metruly, may I stay here, and be clear of any imputations of curtailing, through wilfulness or impatiency, or through resentments which I hope Iam got above, a life that might otherwise be prolonged?--Tell me, Sir;you are not talking to a coward in this respect; indeed you are not!--Unaffectedly smiling. 

The doctor, turning to me, was at a loss what to say, lifting up his eyesonly in admiration of her. 

Never had any patient, said she, a more indulgent and more humanephysician. But since you are loth to answer my question directly, I willput it in other words--You don't enjoin me to go into the air, Doctor, doyou?

I do not, Madam. Nor do I now visit you as a physician; but as a personwhose conversation I admire, and whose sufferings I condole. And, toexplain myself more directly, as to the occasion of this day's visit inparticular, I must tell you, Madam, that, understanding how much yousuffer by the displeasure of your friends; and having no doubt but that, if they knew the way you are in, they would alter their conduct to you;and believing it must cut them to the heart, when too late, they shall beinformed of every thing; I have resolved to apprize them by letter(stranger as I am to their persons) how necessary it is for some of themto attend you very speedily. For their sakes, Madam, let me press foryour approbation of this measure. 

She paused; and at last said, This is kind, very kind, in you, Sir. ButI hope that you do not think me so perverse, and so obstinate, as to haveleft till now any means unessayed which I thought likely to move myfriends in my favour. But now, Doctor, said she, I should be too muchdisturbed at their grief, if they were any of them to come or to send tome: and perhaps, if I found they still loved me, wish to live; and soshould quit unwillingly that life, which I am now really fond ofquitting, and hope to quit as becomes a person who has had such aweaning-time as I have been favoured with. 

I hope, Madam, said I, we are not so near as you apprehend to thatdeplorable catastrophe you hint at with such an amazing presence of mind. And therefore I presume to second the doctor's motion, if it were onlyfor the sake of your father and mother, that they may have thesatisfaction, if they must lose you, to think they were first reconciledto you. 

It is very kindly, very humanely considered, said she. But, if you thinkme not so very near my last hour, let me desire this may be postponedtill I see what effect my cousin Morden's mediation may have. Perhaps hemay vouchsafe to make me a visit yet, after his intended interview withMr. Lovelace is over; of which, who knows, Mr. Belford, but your nextletters may give an account? I hope it will not be a fatal one to anybody. Will you promise me, Doctor, to forbear writing for two days only, and I will communicate to you any thing that occurs in that time; and thenyou shall take your own way? Mean time, I repeat my thanks for yourgoodness to me. --Nay, dear Doctor, hurry not away from me soprecipitately [for he was going, for fear of an offered fee]: I will nomore affront you with tenders that have pained you for some time past:and since I must now, from this kindly-offered favour, look upon you onlyas a friend, I will assure you henceforth that I will give you no moreuneasiness on that head: and now, Sir, I know I shall have the pleasureof seeing you oftener than heretofore. 

The worthy gentleman was pleased with this assurance, telling her that hehad always come to see her with great pleasure, but parted with her, onthe account she hinted at, with as much pain; and that he should not haveforborne to double his visits, could he have had this kind assurance asearly as he wished for it. 

There are few instances of like disinterestedness, I doubt, in thistribe. Till now I always held it for gospel, that friendship andphysician were incompatible things; and little imagined that a man ofmedicine, when he had given over his patient to death, would think of anyvisits but those of ceremony, that he might stand well with the family, against it came to their turns to go through his turnpike. 

After the doctor was gone, she fell into a very serious discourse of thevanity of life, and the wisdom of preparing for death, while health andstrength remained, and before the infirmities of body impaired thefaculties of the mind, and disabled them from acting with the necessaryefficacy and clearness: the whole calculated for every one's meridian, but particularly, as it was easy to observe, for thine and mine. 

She was very curious to know farther particulars of the behaviour of poorBelton in his last moments. You must not wonder at my inquiries, Mr. Belford, said she; For who is it, that is to undertake a journey into acountry they never travelled to before, that inquires not into thedifficulties of the road, and what accommodations are to be expected inthe way?

I gave her a brief account of the poor man's terrors, and unwillingnessto die: and, when I had done, Thus, Mr. Belford, said she, must it alwaysbe with poor souls who have never thought of their long voyage till themoment they are to embark for it. 

She made other such observations upon this subject as, coming from themouth of a person who will so soon be a companion for angels, I shallnever forget. And indeed, when I went home, that I might engraft themthe better on my memory, I entered them down in writing: but I will notlet you see them until you are in a frame more proper to benefit by themthan you are likely to be in one while. 

Thus far had I written, when the unexpected early return of my servantwith your packet (your's and he meeting at Slough, and exchangingletters) obliged me to leave off to give its contents a reading. --Here, therefore, I close this letter. 

LETTER XXXIX

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. TUESDAY MORN. AUG. 29. 

Now, Jack, will I give thee an account of what passed on occasion of thevisit made us by Col. Morden. 

He came on horseback, attended by one servant; and Lord M. Received himas a relation of Miss Harlowe's with the highest marks of civility andrespect. 

After some general talk of the times, and of the weather, and suchnonsense as Englishmen generally make their introductory topics toconversation, the Colonel addressed himself to Lord M. And to me, asfollows:

I need not, my Lord, and Mr. Lovelace, as you know the relation I bear tothe Harlowe family, make any apology for entering upon a subject, which, on account of that relation, you must think is the principal reason ofthe honour I have done myself in this visit. 

Miss Harlowe, Miss Clarissa Harlowe's affair, said Lord M. With his usualforward bluntness. That, Sir, is what you mean. She is, by allaccounts, the most excellent woman in the world. 

I am glad to hear that is your Lordship's opinion of her. It is everyone's. 

It is not only my opinion, Col. Morden (proceeded the prating Peer), butit is the opinion of all my family. Of my sisters, of my nieces, and ofMr. Lovelace himself. 

Col. Would to Heaven it had been always Mr. Lovelace's opinion of her!

Lovel. You have been out of England, Colonel, a good many years. Perhaps you are not yet fully apprized of all the particulars of thiscase. 

Col. I have been out of England, Sir, about seven years. My cousinClary was then about 12 years of age: but never was there at twenty sodiscreet, so prudent, and so excellent a creature. All that knew her, orsaw her, admired her. Mind and person, never did I see such promises ofperfection in any young lady: and I am told, nor is it to be wondered at, that, as she advanced to maturity, she more than justified and made goodthose promises. --Then as to fortune--what her father, what her uncles, and what I myself, intended to do for her, besides what her grandfatherhad done--there is not a finer fortune in the country. 

Lovel. All this, Colonel, and more than this, is Miss Clarissa Harlowe;and had it not been for the implacableness and violence of her family(all resolved to push her upon a match as unworthy of her as hateful toher) she had still been happy. 

Col. I own, Mr. Lovelace, the truth of what you observed just now, thatI am not thoroughly acquainted with all that has passed between you andmy cousin. But permit me to say, that when I first heard that you madeyour addresses to her, I knew but of one objection against you; that, indeed, a very great one: and upon a letter sent me, I gave her my freeopinion upon that subject. * But had it not been for that, I own, that, in my private mind, there could not have been a more suitable match: foryou are a gallant gentleman, graceful in your person, easy and genteel inyour deportment, and in your family, fortunes, and expectations, happy asa man can wish to be. Then the knowledge I had of you in Italy(although, give me leave to say, your conduct there was not whollyunexceptionable) convinces me that you are brave: and few gentlemen comeup to you in wit and vivacity. Your education has given you greatadvantages; your manners are engaging, and you have travelled; and Iknow, if you'll excuse me, you make better observations than you aregoverned by. All these qualifications make it not at all surprising thata young lady should love you: and that this love, joined to thatindiscreet warmth wherewith my cousin's friends would have forced herinclinations in favour of men who are far your inferiors in the qualitiesI have named, should throw herself upon your protection. But then, ifthere were these two strong motives, the one to induce, the other toimpel, her, let me ask you, Sir, if she were not doubly entitled togenerous usage from a man whom she chose for her protector; and whom, letme take the liberty to say, she could so amply reward for the protectionhe was to afford her?

* See Vol. IV. Letter XIX. 

Lovel. Miss Clarissa Harlowe was entitled, Sir, to have the best usagethat man could give her. I have no scruple to own it. I will always doher the justice she so well deserves. I know what will be your inference;and have only to say, that time past cannot be recalled; perhaps I wishit could. 

The Colonel then, in a very manly strain, set forth the wickedness ofattempting a woman of virtue and character. He said, that men hadgenerally too many advantages from the weakness, credulity, andinexperience of the fair sex: that their early learning, which chieflyconsisted in inflaming novels, and idle and improbable romances, contributed to enervate and weaken their minds: that his cousin, however, he was sure, was above the reach of common seduction, and not to beinfluenced to the rashness her parents accused her of, by weaker motivesthan their violence, and the most solemn promises on my part: but, nevertheless, having those motives, and her prudence (eminent as it was)being rather the effect of constitution than experience, (a fineadvantage, however, he said, to ground an unblamable future life upon, )she might not be apprehensive of bad designs in a man she loved: it was, therefore, a very heinous thing to abuse the confidence of such a woman. 

He was going on in this trite manner; when, interrupting him, I said, These general observations, Colonel, suit not perhaps this particularcase. But you yourself are a man of gallantry; and, possibly, were youto be put to the question, might not be able to vindicate every action ofyour life, any more than I. 

Col. You are welcome, Sir, to put what questions you please to me. And, I thank God, I can both own an be ashamed of my errors. 

Lord M. Looked at me; but as the Colonel did not by his manner seem tointend a reflection, I had no occasion to take it for one; especially asI can as readily own my errors, as he, or any man, can his, whetherashamed of them or not. 

He proceeded. As you seem to call upon me, Mr. Lovelace, I will tell you(without boasting of it) what has been my general practice, till lately, that I hope I have reformed it a good deal. 

I have taken liberties, which the laws of morality will by no meansjustify; and once I should have thought myself warranted to cut thethroat of any young fellow who should make as free with a sister of mineas I have made with the sisters and daughters of others. But then I tookcare never to promise any thing I intended not to perform. A modest earshould as soon have heard downright obscenity from my lips, as matrimony, if I had not intended it. Young ladies are generally ready enough tobelieve we mean honourably, if they love us; and it would look lie astrange affront to their virtue and charms, that it should be supposedneedful to put the question whether in your address you mean a wife. Butwhen once a man make a promise, I think it ought to be performed; and awoman is well warranted to appeal to every one against the perfidy of adeceiver; and is always sure to have the world on her side. 

Now, Sir, continued he, I believe you have so much honour as to own, thatyou could not have made way to so eminent a virtue, without promisingmarriage; and that very explicitly and solemnly--

I know very well, Colonel, interrupted I, all you would say. You willexcuse me, I am sure, that I break in upon you, when you find it is toanswer the end you drive at. 

I own to you then that I have acted very unworthily by Miss ClarissaHarlowe; and I'll tell you farther, that I heartily repent of myingratitude and baseness to her. Nay, I will say still farther, that Iam so grossly culpable as to her, that even to plead that the abuses andaffronts I daily received from her implacable relations were in anymanner a provocation to me to act vilely by her, would be a mean and lowattempt to excuse myself--so low and so mean, that it would doublycondemn me. And if you can say worse, speak it. 

He looked upon Lord M. And then upon me, two or three times. And my Lordsaid, My kinsman speaks what he thinks, I'll answer for him. 

Lovel. I do, Sir; and what can I say more? And what farther, in youropinion, can be done?

Col. Done! Sir? Why, Sir, [in a haughty tone he spoke, ] I need nottell you that reparation follows repentance. And I hope you make noscruple of justifying your sincerity as to the one or the other. 

I hesitated, (for I relished not the manner of his speech, and hishaughty accent, ) as undetermined whether to take proper notice of it ornot. 

Col. Let me put this question to you, Mr. Lovelace: Is it true, as Ihave heard it is, that you would marry my cousin, if she would have you?--What say you, Sir?--

This wound me up a peg higher. 

Lovel. Some questions, as they may be put, imply commands, Colonel. Iwould be glad to know how I am to take your's? And what is to be the endof your interrogatories?

Col. My questions are not meant by me as commands, Mr. Lovelace. Theend is, to prevail upon a gentleman to act like a gentleman, and a man ofhonour. 

Lovel. (briskly) And by what arguments, Sir, do you propose to prevailupon me?

Col. By what arguments, Sir, prevail upon a gentleman to act like agentleman!--I am surprised at that question from Mr. Lovelace. 

Lovel. Why so, Sir?

Col. WHY so, Sir! (angrily)--Let me--

Lovel. (interrupting) I don't choose, Colonel, to be repeated upon, inthat accent. 

Lord M. Come, come, gentlemen, I beg of you to be willing to understandone another. You young gentlemen are so warm--

Col. Not I, my Lord--I am neither very young, nor unduly warm. Yournephew, my Lord, can make me be every thing he would have me to be. 

Lovel. And that shall be, whatever you please to be, Colonel. 

Col. (fiercely) The choice be your's, Mr. Lovelace. Friend or foe! asyou do or are willing to do justice to one of the finest women in theworld. 

Lord M. I guessed, from both your characters, what would be the casewhen you met. Let me interpose, gentlemen, and beg you but to understandone another. You both shoot at one mark; and, if you are patient, willboth hit it. Let me beg of you, Colonel, to give no challenges--

Col. Challenges, my Lord!--They are things I ever was readier to acceptthan to offer. But does your Lordship think that a man, so nearlyrelated as I have the honour to be to the most accomplished woman onearth, --

Lord M. (interrupting) We all allow the excellencies of the lady--andwe shall all take it as the greatest honour to be allied to her that canbe conferred upon us. 

Col. So you ought, my Lord!--

A perfect Chamont; thought I. *

* See Otway's Orphan. 

Lord M. So we ought, Colonel! and so we do!--and pray let every one doas he ought!--and no more than he ought; and you, Colonel, let me tellyou, will not be so hasty. 

Lovel. (coolly) Come, come, Col. Morden, don't let this dispute, whateveryou intend to make of it, go farther than with you and me. Youdeliver yourself in very high terms. Higher than ever I was talked to inmy life. But here, beneath this roof, 'twould be inexcusable for me totake that notice of it which, perhaps, it would become me to takeelsewhere. 

Col. That is spoken as I wish the man to speak whom I should be pleasedto call my friend, if all his actions were of a piece; and as I wouldhave the man speak whom I would think it worth my while to call my foe. I love a man of spirit, as I love my soul. But, Mr. Lovelace, as my Lordthinks we aim at one mark, let me say, that were we permitted to be alonefor six minutes, I dare say, we should soon understand one anotherperfectly well. --And he moved to the door. 

Lovel. I am entirely of your opinion, Sir; and will attend you. 

My Lord rung, and stept between us: Colonel, return, I beseech youreturn, said he: for he had stept out of the room while my Lord held me--Nephew, you shall not go out. 

The bell and my Lord's raised voice brought in Mowbray, and Clements, myLord's gentleman; the former in his careless way, with his hands behindhim, What's the matter, Bobby? What's the matter, my Lord?

Only, only, only, stammered the agitated peer, these young gentlemen are, are, are--are young gentlemen, that's all. --Pray, Colonel Morden, [whoagain entered the room with a sedater aspect, ] let this cause have a fairtrial, I beseech you. 

Col. With all my heart, my Lord. 

Mowbray whispered me, What is the cause, Bobby?--Shall I take thegentleman to task for thee, my boy?

Not for the world, whispered I. The Colonel is a gentleman, and I desireyou'll not say one word. 

Well, well, well, Bobby, I have done. I can turn thee loose to the bestman upon God's earth; that's all, Bobby; strutting off to the other endof the room. 

Col. I am sorry, my Lord, I should give your Lordship the leastuneasiness. I came not with such a design. 

Lord M. Indeed, Colonel, I thought you did, by your taking fire soquickly. I am glad to hear you say you did not. How soon a little sparkkindles into a flame; especially when it meets with such combustiblespirits!

Col. If I had had the least thought of proceeding to extremities, I amsure Mr. Lovelace would have given me the honour of a meeting where Ishould have been less an intruder: but I came with an amicable intention;to reconcile differences rather than to widen them. 

Lovel. Well then, Colonel Morden, let us enter upon the subject in yourown way. I don't know the man I should sooner choose to be upon termswith than one whom Miss Clarissa Harlowe so much respects. But I cannotbear to be treated, either in word or accent, in a menacing way. 

Lord M. Well, well, well, well, gentlemen, this is somewhat like. Angry men make to themselves beds of nettles, and, when they lie down inthem, are uneasy with every body. But I hope you are friends. Let mehear you say you are. I am persuaded, Colonel, that you don't know allthis unhappy story. You don't know how desirous my kinsman is, as wellas all of us, to have this matter end happily. You don't know, do you, Colonel, that Mr. Lovelace, at all our requests, is disposed to marry thelady?

Col. At all your requests, my Lord?--I should have hoped that Mr. Lovelace was disposed to do justice for the sake of justice; and when atthe same time the doing of justice was doing himself the highest honour. 

Mowbray lifted up his before half-closed eyes to the Colonel, and glancedthem upon me. 

Lovel. This is in very high language, Colonel. 

Mowbr. By my soul, I thought so. 

Col. High language, Mr. Lovelace? Is it not just language?

Lovel. It is, Colonel. And I think, the man that does honour to MissClarissa Harlowe, does me honour. But, nevertheless, there is a mannerin speaking, that may be liable to exception, where the words, withoutthat manner, can bear none. 

Col. Your observation in the general is undoubtedly just: but, if youhave the value for my cousin that you say you have, you must needs think--

Lovel. You must allow me, Sir, to interrupt you--IF I have the value Isay I have--I hope, Sir, when I say I have that value, there is no roomfor that if, pronounced as you pronounced it with an emphasis. 

Col. You have broken in upon me twice, Mr. Lovelace. I am as littleaccustomed to be broken in upon, as you are to be repeated upon. 

Lord M. Two barrels of gunpowder, by my conscience! What a devil willit signify talking, if thus you are to blow one another up at every word?

Lovel. No man of honour, my Lord, will be easy to have his veracitycalled into question, though but by implication. 

Col. Had you heard me out, Mr. Lovelace, you would have found, that myif was rather an if of inference, than of doubt. But 'tis, really astrange liberty gentlemen of free principles take; who at the same timethat they would resent unto death the imputation of being capable oftelling an untruth to a man, will not scruple to break through the mostsolemn oaths and promises to a woman. I must assure you, Mr. Lovelace, that I always made a conscience of my vows and promises. 

Lovel. You did right, Colonel. But let me tell you, Sir, that you knownot the man you talk to, if you imagine he is not able to rise to aproper resentment, when he sees his generous confessions taken for a markof base-spiritedness. 

Col. (warmly, and with a sneer, ) Far be it from me, Mr. Lovelace, toimpute to you the baseness of spirit you speak of; for what would that bebut to imagine that a man, who has done a very flagrant injury, is notready to show his bravery in defending it--

Mowbr. This is d----d severe, Colonel. It is, by Jove. I could nottake so much at the hands of any man breathing as Mr. Lovelace beforethis took at your's. 

Col. Who are you, Sir? What pretence have you to interpose in a causewhere there is an acknowledged guilt on one side, and the honour of aconsiderable family wounded in the tenderest part by that guilt on theother?

Mowbr. (whispering to the Colonel) My dear child, you will oblige mehighly if you will give me the opportunity of answering your question. And was going out. 

The Colonel was held in by my Lord. And I brought in Mowbray. 

Col. Pray, my good Lord, let me attend this officious gentleman, Ibeseech you do. I will wait upon your Lordship in three minutes, dependupon it. 

Lovel. Mowbray, is this acting like a friend by me, to suppose meincapable of answering for myself? And shall a man of honour andbravery, as I know Colonel Morden to be, (rash as perhaps in this visithe has shown himself, ) have it to say, that he comes to my Lord M. 'shouse, in a manner naked as to attendants and friends, and shall not forthat reason be rather borne with than insulted? This moment, my dearMowbray, leave us. You have really no concern in this business; and ifyou are my friend, I desire you'll ask the Colonel pardon for interferingin it in the manner you have done. 

Mowbr. Well, well, Bob. ; thou shalt be arbiter in this matter; I know Ihave no business in it--and, Colonel, (holding out his hand, ) I leave youto one who knows how to defend his own cause as well as any man inEngland. 

Col. (taking Mowbray's hand, at Lord M. 's request, ) You need not tellme that, Mr. Mowbray. I have no doubt of Mr. Lovelace's ability todefend his own cause, were it a cause to be defended. And let me tellyou, Mr. Lovelace, that I am astonished to think that a brave man, and agenerous man, as you have appeared to be in two or three instances thatyou have given in the little knowledge I have of you, should be capableof acting as you have done by the most excellent of her sex. 

Lord M. Well, but, gentlemen, now Mr. Mowbray is gone, and you haveboth shown instances of courage and generosity to boot, let me desire youto lay your heads together amicably, and think whether there be any thingto be done to make all end happily for the lady?

Lovel. But hold, my Lord, let me say one thing, now Mowbray is gone;and that is, that I think a gentleman ought not to put up tamely one ortwo severe things that the Colonel has said. 

Lord M. What the devil canst thou mean? I thought all had been over. Why thou hast nothing to do but to confirm to the Colonel that thou artwilling to marry Miss Harlowe, if she will have thee. 

Col. Mr. Lovelace will not scruple to say that, I suppose, notwithstanding all that has passed: but if you think, Mr. Lovelace, Ihave said any thing I should not have said, I suppose it is this, thatthe man who has shown so little of the thing honour, to a defencelessunprotected woman, ought not to stand so nicely upon the empty name ofit, with a man who is expostulating with him upon it. I am sorry to havecause to say this, Mr. Lovelace; but I would, on the same occasion, repeat it to a king upon his throne, and surrounded by all his guards. 

Lord M. But what is all this, but more sacks upon the mill? more coalsupon the fire? You have a mind to quarrel both of you, I see that. Areyou not willing, Nephew, are you not most willing, to marry this lady, ifshe can be prevailed upon to have you?

Lovel. D---n me, my Lord, if I'd marry my empress upon such treatmentas this. 

Lord M. Why now, Bob. , thou art more choleric than the Colonel. It washis turn just now. And now you see he is cool, you are all gunpowder. 

Lovel. I own the Colonel has many advantages over me; but, perhaps, there is one advantage he has not, if it were put to the trial. 

Col. I came not hither, as I said before, to seek the occasion: but ifit were offered me, I won't refuse it--and since we find we disturb mygood Lord M. I'll take my leave, and will go home by the way of St. Alban's. 

Lovel. I'll see you part of the way, with all my heart, Colonel. 

Col. I accept your civility very cheerfully, Mr. Lovelace. 

Lord M. (interposing again, as we were both for going out, ) And whatwill this do, gentlemen? Suppose you kill one another, will the matterbe bettered or worsted by that? Will the lady be made happier orunhappier, do you think, by either or both of your deaths? Yourcharacters are too well known to make fresh instances of the courage ofeither needful. And, I think, if the honour of the lady is your view, Colonel, it can by no other way so effectually promoted as by marriage. And, Sir, if you would use your interest with her, it is very probablethat you may succeed, though nobody else can. 

Lovel. I think, my Lord, I have said all that a man can say, (sincewhat is passed cannot be recalled:) and you see Colonel Morden rises inproportion to my coolness, till it is necessary for me to assert myself, or even he would despise me. 

Lord M. Let me ask you, Colonel, have you any way, any method, that youthink reasonable and honourable to propose, to bring about areconciliation with the lady? That is what we all wish for. And I cantell you, Sir, it is not a little owing to her family, and to theirimplacable usage of her, that her resentments are heightened against mykinsman; who, however, has used her vilely; but is willing to repair herwrongs. --

Lovel. Not, my Lord, for the sake of her family; nor for thisgentleman's haughty behaviour; but for her own sake, and in full sense ofthe wrongs I have done her. 

Col. As to my haughty behaviour, as you call it, Sir, I am mistaken ifyou would not have gone beyond it in the like case of a relation someritorious, and so unworthily injured. And, Sir, let me tell you, thatif your motives are not love, honour, and justice, and if they have theleast tincture of mean compassion for her, or of an uncheerful assent onyour part, I am sure it will neither be desired or accepted by a personof my cousin's merit and sense; nor shall I wish that it should. 

Lovel. Don't think, Colonel, that I am meanly compounding off a debate, that I should as willingly go through with you as to eat or drink, if Ihave the occasion given me for it: but thus much I will tell you, that myLord, that Lady Sarah Sadleir, Lady Betty Lawrance, my two cousinsMontague, and myself, have written to her in the most solemn and sinceremanner, to offer her such terms as no one but herself would refuse, andthis long enough before Colonel Morden's arrival was dreamt of. 

Col. What reason, Sir, may I ask, does she give, against listening toso powerful a mediation, and to such offers?

Lovel. It looks like capitulating, or else--

Col. It looks not like any such thing to me, Mr. Lovelace, who have asgood an opinion of your spirit as man can have. And what, pray, is thepart I act, and my motives for it? Are they not, in desiring thatjustice may be done to my Cousin Clarissa Harlowe, that I seek toestablish the honour of Mrs. Lovelace, if matters can once be brought tobear?

Lovel. Were she to honour me with her acceptance of that name, Mr. Morden, I should not want you or any man to assert the honour of Mrs. Lovelace. 

Col. I believe it. But still she has honoured you with thatacceptance, she is nearer to me than to you, Mr. Lovelace. And I speakthis, only to show you that, in the part I take, I mean rather to deserveyour thanks than your displeasure, though against yourself, were thereoccasion. Nor ought you take it amiss, if you rightly weigh the matter:For, Sir, whom does a lady want protection against but her injurers? Andwho has been her greatest injurer?--Till, therefore, she becomes entitledto your protection, as your wife, you yourself cannot refuse me somemerit in wishing to have justice done my cousin. But, Sir, you weregoing to say, that if it were not to look like capitulating, you wouldhint the reasons my cousin gives against accepting such an honourablemediation?

I then told him of my sincere offers of marriage: 'I made no difficulty, I said, to own my apprehensions, that my unhappy behaviour to her hadgreatly affected her: but that it was the implacableness of her friendsthat had thrown her into despair, and given her a contempt for life. ' Itold him, 'that she had been so good as to send me a letter to divert mefrom a visit my heart was set upon making her: a letter on which I builtgreat hopes, because she assured me that in it she was going to herfather's; and that I might see her there, when she was received, if itwere not my own fault. 

Col. Is it possible? And were you, Sir, thus earnest? And did shesend you such a letter?

Lord M. Confirmed both; and also, that, in obedience to her desires, andthat intimation, I had come down without the satisfaction I had proposedto myself in seeing her. 

It is very true, Colonel, said I: and I should have told you this before:but your heat made me decline it; for, as I said, it had an appearance ofmeanly capitulating with you. An abjectness of heart, of which, had Ibeen capable, I should have despised myself as much as I might haveexpected you would despise me. 

Lord M. Proposed to enter into the proof of all this. He said, in hisphraseological way, That one story was good till another was heard; andthat the Harlowe family and I, 'twas true, had behaved like so manyOrsons to one another; and that they had been very free with all ourfamily besides: that nevertheless, for the lady's sake, more than fortheir's, or even for mine, (he could tell me, ) he would do greater thingsfor me than they could ask, if she could be brought to have me: and thatthis he wanted to declare, and would sooner have declared, if he couldhave brought us sooner to patience, and a good understanding. 

The Colonel made excuses for his warmth, on the score of his affection tohis cousin. 

My regard for her made me readily admit them: and so a fresh bottle ofBurgundy, and another of Champagne, being put upon the table, we sat downin good humour, after all this blustering, in order to enter closer intothe particulars of the case: which I undertook, at both their desires, todo. 

But these things must be the subject of another letter, which shallimmediately follow this, if it do not accompany it. 

Mean time you will observe that a bad cause gives a man greatdisadvantages: for I myself thing that the interrogatories put to me withso much spirit by the Colonel made me look cursedly mean; at the sametime that it gave him a superiority which I know not how to allow to thebest man in Europe. So that, literally speaking, as a good man wouldinfer, guilt is its own punisher: in that it makes the most lofty spiritlook like the miscreant he is--a good man, I say: So, Jack, prolepticallyI add, thou hast no right to make the observation. 

LETTER XL

MR. LOVELACE[IN CONTINUATION. ]TUESDAY AFTERNOON, AUG. 29. 

I went back, in this part of our conversation, to the day that I wasobliged to come down to attend my Lord in the dangerous illness whichsome feared would have been his last. 

I told the Colonel, 'what earnest letters I had written to a particularfriend, to engage him to prevail upon the lady not to slip a day that hadbeen proposed for the private celebration of our nuptials; and of myletters* written to her on that subject;' for I had stepped to my closet, and fetched down all the letters and draughts and copies of lettersrelating to this affair. 

* See Vol. VI. Letters XXXVII. XXXVIII. XXXIX. XLIII. 

I read to him, 'several passages in the copies of those letters, which, thou wilt remember, make not a little to my honour. ' And I told him, 'that I wished I had kept copies of those to my friend on the sameoccasion; by which he would have seen how much in earnest I was in myprofessions to her, although she would not answer one of them;' and thoumayest remember, that one of those four letters accounted to herself whyI was desirous she should remain where I had left her. *

* See Vol. VI. Letter XXXVII. 

I then proceeded to give him an account 'of the visit made by Lady Sarahand Lady Betty to Lord M. And me, in order to induce me to do herjustice: of my readiness to comply with their desires; and of their highopinion of her merit: of the visit made to Miss Howe by my cousinsMontague, in the name of us all, to engage her interest with her friendin my behalf: of my conversation with Miss Howe, at a private assembly, to whom I gave the same assurances, and besought her interest with herfriend. '

I then read a copy of the letter (though so much to my disadvantage)which was written to her by Miss Charlotte Montague, Aug. 1, * entreatingher alliance in the names of all our family. 

* See Vol. VII. Letter LXVI. 

This made him ready to think that his fair cousin carried her resentmentagainst me too far. He did not imagine, he said, that either myself orour family had been so much in earnest. 

So thou seest, Belford, that it is but glossing over one part of a story, and omitting another, that will make a bad cause a good one at any time. What an admirable lawyer should I have made! And what a poor hand wouldthis charming creature, with all her innocence, have made of it in acourt of justice against a man who had so much to say and to show forhimself!

I then hinted at the generous annual tender which Lord M. And his sistersmade to his fair cousin, in apprehension that she might suffer by herfriends' implacableness. 

And this also the Colonel highly applauded, and was pleased to lament theunhappy misunderstanding between the two families, which had made theHarlowes less fond of an alliance with a family of so much honour as thisinstance showed ours to be. 

I then told him, 'That having, by my friend, [meaning thee, ] who wasadmitted into her presence, (and who had always been an admirer of hervirtues, and had given me such advice from time to time in relation toher as I wished I had followed, ) been assured that a visit from me wouldbe very disagreeable to her, I once more resolved to try what a letterwould do; and that, accordingly, on the seventh of August, I wrote herone. 

'This, Colonel, is the copy of it. I was then out of humour with my LordM. And the ladies of my family. You will, therefore, read it toyourself. '*

* See Vol. VII. Letter LXXIX. 

This letter gave him high satisfaction. You write here, Mr. Lovelace, from your heart. 'Tis a letter full of penitence and acknowledgement. Your request is reasonable--To be forgiven only as you shall appear todeserve it after a time of probation, which you leave to her to fix. Pray, Sir, did she return an answer to this letter?

She did, but with reluctance, I own, and not till I had declared by myfriend, that, if I could not procure one, I would go up to town, andthrow myself at her feet. 

I wish I might be permitted to see it, Sir, or to hear such parts of itread as you shall think proper. 

Turning over my papers, Here it is, Sir. * I will make no scruple to putit into your hands. 

This is very obliging, Mr. Lovelace. 

He read it. My charming cousin!--How strong her resentments!--Yet howcharitable her wishes!--Good Heaven! that such an excellent creature--But, Mr. Lovelace, it is to your regret, as much as to mine, I doubt not--

Interrupting him, I swore that it was. 

So it ought, said he. Nor do I wonder that it should be so. I shalltell you by-and-by, proceeded he, how much she suffers with her friendsby false and villanous reports. But, Sir, will you permit me to takewith me these two letters? I shall make use of them to the advantage ofyou both. 

I told him I would oblige him with all my heart. And this he took verykindly (as he had reason); and put them in his pocket-book, promising toreturn hem in a few days. 

I then told him, 'That upon this her refusal, I took upon myself to go totown, in hopes to move her in my favour; and that, though I went withoutgiving her notice of my intention, yet had she got some notion of mycoming, and so contrived to be out of the way: and at last, when shefound I was fully determined at all events to see her, before I wentabroad, (which I shall do, said I, if I cannot prevail upon her, ) shesent me the letter I have already mentioned to you, desiring me tosuspend my purposed visit: and that for a reason which amazes andconfounds me; because I don't find there is any thing in it: and yet Inever knew her once dispense with her word; for she always made it amaxim, that it was not lawful to do evil, that good might come of it: andyet in this letter, for no reason in the world but to avoid seeing me (togratify an humour only) has she sent me out of town, depending upon theassurance she had given me. '

Col. This is indeed surprising. But I cannot believe that my cousin, for such an end only, or indeed for any end, according to the character Ihear of her, should stoop to make use of such an artifice. 

Lovel. This, Colonel, is the thing that astonishes me; and yet, seehere!--This is the letter she wrote me--Nay, Sir, 'tis her own hand. 

Col. I see it is; and a charming hand it is. 

Lovel. You observe, Colonel, that all her hopes of reconciliation withher parents are from you. You are her dear blessed friend! She alwaystalked of you with delight. 

Col. Would to Heaven I had come to England before she leftHarlowe-place!--Nothing of this had then happened. Not a man of thosewhom I have heard that her friends proposed for her should have had her. Nor you, Mr. Lovelace, unless I had found you to be the man every one whosees you must wish you to be: and if you had been that man, no one livingshould I have preferred to you for such an excellence. 

My Lord and I both joined in the wish: and 'faith I wished it mostcordially. 

The Colonel read the letter twice over, and then returned it to me. 'Tisall a mystery, said he. I can make nothing of it. For, alas! herfriends are as averse to a reconciliation as ever. 

Lord M. I could not have thought it. But don't you think there issomething very favourable to my nephew in this letter--something thatlooks as if the lady would comply at last?

Col. Let me die if I know what to make of it. This letter is verydifferent from her preceding one!--You returned an answer to it, Mr. Lovelace?

Lovel. An answer, Colonel! No doubt of it. And an answer full oftransport. I told her, 'I would directly set out for Lord M. 's, inobedience to her will. I told her that I would consent to any thing sheshould command, in order to promote this happy reconciliation. I toldher that it should be my hourly study, to the end of my life, to deservea goodness so transcendent. ' But I cannot forbear saying that I am not alittle shocked and surprised, if nothing more be meant by it than to getme into the country without seeing her. 

Col. That can't be the thing, depend upon it, Sir. There must be morein it than that. For, were that all, she must think you would soon beundeceived, and that you would then most probably resume your intention--unless, indeed, she depended upon seeing me in the interim, as she knew Iwas arrived. But I own I know not what to make of it. Only that shedoes me a great deal of honour, if it be me that she calls her dearblessed friend, whom she always loved and honoured. Indeed I ever lovedher: and if I die unmarried, and without children, shall be as kind toher as her grandfather was: and the rather, as I fear there is too muchof envy and self-love in the resentments her brother and sister endeavourto keep up in her father and mother against her. But I shall know betterhow to judge of this, when my cousin James comes from Edinburgh; and heis every hour expected. 

But let me ask you, Mr. Lovelace, what is the name of your friend, who isadmitted so easily into my cousin's presence? Is it not Belford, pray?

Lovel. It is, Sir; and Mr. Belford's a man of honour; and a greatadmirer of your fair cousin. 

Was I right, as to the first, Jack? The last I have such strong proofof, that it makes me question the first; since she would not have beenout of the way of my intended visit but for thee. 

Col. Are you sure, Sir, that Mr. Belford is a man of honour?

Lovel. I can swear for him, Colonel. What makes you put this question?

Col. Only this: that an officious pragmatical novice has been sent upto inquire into my cousin's life and conversation: And, would you believeit? the frequent visits of this gentlemen have been interpreted basely toher disreputation. --Read that letter, Mr. Lovelace; and you will beshocked at ever part of it. 

This cursed letter, no doubt, is from the young Levite, whom thou, Jack, describest as making inquiry of Mrs. Smith about Miss Harlowe's characterand visiters. *

* See Vol. VII. Letter LXXXI. 

I believe I was a quarter of an hour in reading it: for I made it, thoughnot a short one, six times as long as it is, by the additions of oathsand curses to every pedantic line. Lord M. Too helped to lengthen it, bythe like execrations. And thou, Jack, wilt have as much reason to curseit as we. 

You cannot but see, said the Colonel, when I had done reading it, thatthis fellow has been officious in his malevolence; for what he says ismere hearsay, and that hearsay conjectural scandal without fact, or theappearance of fact, to support it; so that an unprejudiced eye, upon theface of the letter, would condemn the writer of it, as I did, and acquitmy cousin. But yet, such is the spirit by which the rest of my relationsare governed, that they run away with the belief of the worst itinsinuates, and the dear creature has had shocking letters upon it; thepedant's hints are taken; and a voyage to one of the colonies has beenproposed to her, as the only way to avoid Mr. Belford and you. I havenot seen these letters indeed; but they took a pride in repeating some oftheir contents, which must have cut the poor soul to the heart; andthese, joined to her former sufferings, --What have you not, Mr. Lovelace, to answer for?

Lovel. Who the devil could have expected such consequences as these?Who could have believe there could be parents so implacable? Brother andsister so immovably fixed against the only means that could be taken toput all right with every body?--And what now can be done?

Lord M. I have great hopes that Col. Morden may yet prevail upon hiscousin. And, by her last letter, it runs in my mind that she has somethoughts of forgiving all that's past. Do you think, Colonel, if thereshould not be such a thing as a reconciliation going forward at present, that her letter may not imply that, if we could bring such a thing tobear with her friends, she would be reconciled with Mr. Lovelace?

Col. Such an artifice would better become the Italian subtilty than theEnglish simplicity. Your Lordship has been in Italy, I presume?

Lovel. My Lord has read Boccaccio, perhaps; and that's as well, as tothe hint he gives, which may be borrowed from one of that author'sstories. But Miss Clarissa Harlowe is above all artifice. She must havesome meaning I cannot fathom. 

Col. Well, my Lord, I can only say that I will make some use of theletters Mr. Lovelace has obliged me with: and after I have had some talkwith my cousin James, who is hourly expected; and when I have dispatchedtwo or three affairs that press upon me; I will pay my respects to mydear cousin; and shall then be able to form a better judgment of things. Mean time I will write to her; for I have sent to inquire about her, andfind she wants consolation. 

Lovel. If you favour me, Colonel, with the d----d letter of that fellowBrand for a day or two, you will oblige me. 

Col. I will. But remember, the man is a parson, Mr. Lovelace; aninnocent one too, they say. Else I had been at him before now. Andthese college novices, who think they know every thing in theircloisters, and that all learning lies in books, make dismal figures whenthey come into the world among men and women. 

Lord M. Brand! Brand! It should have been Firebrand, I think in myconscience!

Thus ended this doughty conference. 

I cannot say, Jack, but I am greatly taken with Col. Morden. He is braveand generous, and knows the world; and then his contempt of the parsonsis a certain sign that he is one of us. 

We parted with great civility: Lord M. (not a little pleased that we did, and as greatly taken with Colonel) repeated his wish, after the Colonelwas gone, that he had arrived in time to save the lady, if that wouldhave done it. 

I wish so too. For by my soul, Jack, I am every day more and more uneasyabout her. But I hope she is not so ill as I am told she is. 

I have made Charlotte transcribe the letter of this Firebrand, as my Lordcalls him; and will enclose her copy of it. All thy phlegm I know willbe roused into vengeance when thou readest it. 

I know not what to advise as to showing it to the lady. Yet, perhaps, she will be able to reap more satisfaction than concern from it, knowingher own innocence; in that it will give her to hope that her friends'treatment of her is owing as much to misrepresentation as to their ownnatural implacableness. Such a mind as her's, I know, would be glad tofind out the shadow of a reason for the shocking letters the Colonel saysthey have sent her, and for their proposal to her of going to some one ofthe colonies [confound them all--but, if I begin to curse, I shall neverhave done]--Then it may put her upon such a defence as she might be gladof an opportunity to make, and to shame them for their monstrouscredulity--but this I leave to thy own fat-headed prudence--Only it vexesme to the heart, that even scandal and calumny should dare to surmise thebare possibility of any man sharing the favours of a woman, whom nowmethinks I could worship with a veneration due only to a divinity. 

Charlotte and her sister could not help weeping at the base aspersion:When, when, said Patty, lifting up her hands, will this sweet lady'ssufferings be at an end?--O cousin Lovelace!--

And thus am I blamed for every one's faults!--When her brutal fathercurses her, it is I. I upbraid her with her severe mother. Theimplacableness of her stupid uncles is all mine. The virulence of herbrother, and the spite of her sister, are entirely owing to me. Theletter of this rascal Brand is of my writing--O Jack, what a wretch isthy Lovelace!

***

Returned without a letter!--This d----d fellow Will. Is returned withouta letter!--Yet the rascal tells me that he hears you have been writing tome these two days!

Plague confound thee, who must know my impatience, and the reason for it!

To send a man and horse on purpose; as I did! My imagination chained meto the belly of the beast, in order to keep pace with him!--Now he is gotto this place; now to that; now to London; now to thee!

Now [a letter given him] whip and spur upon the return. This town justentered, not staying to bait: that village passed by: leaves the windbehind him; in a foaming sweat man and horse. 

And in this way did he actually enter Lord M. 's courtyard. 

The reverberating pavement brought me down--The letter, Will. ! Theletter, dog!--The letter, Sirrah!

No letter, Sir!--Then wildly staring round me, fists clenched, andgrinning like a maniac, Confound thee for a dog, and him that sent theewithout one!--This moment out of my sight, or I'll scatter thy stupidbrains through the air. I snatched from his holsters a pistol, while therascal threw himself from the foaming beast, and ran to avoid the fatewhich I wished with all my soul thou hadst been within the reach of me tohave met with. 

But, to be as meek as a lamb to one who has me at his mercy, and canwring and torture my soul as he pleases, What canst thou mean to sendback my varlet without a letter?--I will send away by day-dawn anotherfellow upon another beast for what thou hast written; and I charge theeon thy allegiance, that thou dispatch him not back empty-handed. 

POSTSCRIPT

Charlotte, in a whim of delicacy, is displeased that I send the enclosedletter to you--that her handwriting, forsooth! should go into the handsof a single man!

There's encouragement for thee, Belford! This is a certain sign thatthou may'st have her if thou wilt. And yet, till she has given me thisunerring demonstration of her glancing towards thee, I could not havethought it. Indeed I have often in pleasantry told her that I wouldbring such an affair to bear. But I never intended it; because shereally is a dainty girl; and thou art such a clumsy fellow in thy person, that I should as soon have wished her a rhinoceros for a husband as thee. But, poor little dears! they must stay till their time's come! Theywon't have this man, and they won't have that man, from seventeen totwenty-five: but then, afraid, as the saying is, that God has forgotthem, and finding their bloom departing, they are glad of whom they canget, and verify the fable of the parson and the pears. 

LETTER XLI

MR. BRAND, TO JOHN HARLOWE, ESQ. [ENCLOSED IN THE PRECEDING. ]

WORTHY SIR, MY VERY GOOD FRIEND AND PATRON, I arrived in town yesterday, after a tolerably pleasant journey(considering the hot weather and dusty roads). I put up at the Bull andGate in Holborn, and hastened to Covent-garden. I soon found the housewhere the unhappy lady lodgeth. And, in the back shop, had a good dealof discourse* with Mrs. Smith, (her landlady, ) whom I found to be so'highly prepossessed'** in her 'favour, ' that I saw it would not answeryour desires to take my informations 'altogether' from her: and beingobliged to attend my patron, (who to my sorrow, * See Vol. VII. Letter LXXXI. ** Transcriber's note: Mr. Brand's letters are characterized by a stylethat makes excessive use of italics for emphasis. Although in theremainder of _Clarissa_ I have largely disregarded italics for the sakeof plain-text formatting, this style makes such emphatic use of italicsthat I have indicated all such instances in his letters by placing theitalicized words and phrases in quotations, thus ' '. 

 'Miserum et aliena vivere quadra, ')

I find wanteth much waiting upon, and is 'another' sort of man than hewas at college: for, Sir, 'inter nos, ' 'honours change manners. ' For the'aforesaid causes, ' I thought it would best answer all the ends of thecommission with which you honoured me, to engage, in the desiredscrutiny, the wife of a 'particular friend, ' who liveth almostover-against the house where she lodgeth, and who is a gentlewoman of'character, ' and 'sobriety, ' a 'mother of children, ' and one who'knoweth' the 'world' well. 

To her I applied myself, therefore, and gave her a short history of thecase, and desired she would very particularly inquire into the 'conduct'of the unhappy young lady; her 'present way of life' and 'subsistence';her 'visiters, ' her 'employments, ' and such-like: for these, Sir, youknow, are the things whereof you wished to be informed. 

Accordingly, Sir, I waited upon the gentlewoman aforesaid, this day; and, to 'my' very great trouble, (because I know it will be to 'your's, ' andlikewise to all your worthy family's, ) I must say, that I do find thingslook a little more 'darkly' than I hoped the would. For, alas! Sir, thegentlewoman's report turneth out not so 'favourable' for Miss'sreputation, as 'I' wished, as 'you' wished, and as 'every one' of herfriends wished. But so it is throughout the world, that 'one false step'generally brings on 'another'; and peradventure 'a worse, ' and 'a stillworse'; till the poor 'limed soul' (a very fit epithet of the DivineQuarles's!) is quite 'entangled, ' and (without infinite mercy) lost forever. 

It seemeth, Sir, she is, notwithstanding, in a very 'ill state ofhealth. ' In this, 'both' gentlewomen (that is to say, Mrs. Smith, herlandlady, and my friend's wife) agree. Yet she goeth often out in achair, to 'prayers' (as it is said). But my friend's wife told me, thatnothing is more common in London, than that the frequenting of the churchat morning prayers is made the 'pretence' and 'cover' for 'privateassignations. ' What a sad thing is this! that what was designed for'wholesome nourishment' to the 'poor soul, ' should be turned into 'rankpoison!' But as Mr. Daniel de Foe (an ingenious man, though a'dissenter') observeth (but indeed it is an old proverb; only I think hewas the first that put it into verse)

 God never had a house of pray'r But Satan had a chapel there. 

Yet to do the lady 'justice, ' nobody cometh home with her: nor indeed'can' they, because she goeth forward and backward in a 'sedan, ' or'chair, ' (as they call it). But then there is a gentleman of 'no goodcharacter' (an 'intimado' of Mr. Lovelace) who is a 'constant' visiterof her, and of the people of the house, whom he 'regaleth' and'treateth, ' and hath (of consequence) their 'high good words. '

I have thereupon taken the trouble (for I love to be 'exact' in any'commission' I undertake) to inquire 'particularly' about this'gentleman, ' as he is called (albeit I hold no man so but by his actions:for, as Juvenal saith, --'Nobilitas sola est, atque unica virtus')

And this I did 'before' I would sit down to write to you. 

His name is Belford. He hath a paternal estate of upwards of onethousand pounds by the year; and is now in mourning for an uncle who lefthim very considerably besides. He beareth a very profligate character asto 'women, ' (for I inquired particularly about 'that, ') and is Mr. Lovelace's more especial 'privado, ' with whom he holdeth a 'regularcorrespondence'; and hath been often seen with Miss (tête à tête) at the'window'--in no 'bad way, ' indeed: but my friend's wife is of opinionthat all is not 'as it should be. ' And, indeed, it is mighty strange tome, if Miss be so 'notable a penitent' (as is represented) and if shehave such an 'aversion' to Mr. Lovelace, that she will admit his'privado' into 'her retirements, ' and see 'no other company. '

I understand, from Mrs. Smith, that Mr. Hickman was to see her some timeago, from Miss Howe; and I am told, by 'another' hand, (you see, Sir, howdiligent I have been to execute the 'commissions' you gave me, ) that hehad no 'extraordinary opinion' of this Belford at first; though they wereseen together one morning by the opposite neighbour, at 'breakfast': andanother time this Belford was observed to 'watch' Mr. Hickman's comingfrom her; so that, as it should seem, he was mighty zealous to'ingratiate' himself with Mr. Hickman; no doubt to engage him to make a'favourable report to Miss Howe' of the 'intimacy' he was admitted intoby her unhappy friend; who ('as she is very ill') may 'mean no harm' inallowing his visits, (for he, it seemeth, brought to her, or recommended, at least, the doctor and apothecary that attend her:) but I think (uponthe whole) 'it looketh not well. '

I am sorry, Sir, I cannot give you a better account of the young lady's'prudence. ' But, what shall we say?

 'Uvaque conspectâ livorem ducit ab uvâ, '

as Juvenal observeth. 

One thing I am afraid of; which is, that Miss may be under 'necessities';and that this Belford (who, as Mrs. Smith owns, hath 'offered her money, 'which she, 'at the time, ' refused) may find an opportunity to 'takeadvantage' of those 'necessities': and it is well observed by that poet, that

 'Ægrè formosam poteris servare puellam: Nunc prece, nunc pretio, forma petita ruit. '

And this Belford (who is a 'bold man, ' and hath, as they say, the 'look'of one) may make good that of Horace, (with whose writings you are sowell acquainted; nobody better;)

 'Audax omnia perpeti, Gens humana ruit per vetitum nefas. '

Forgive me, Sir, for what I am going to write: but if you could prevailupon the rest of your family to join in the scheme which 'you, ' and her'virtuous sister, ' Miss Arabella, and the Archdeacon, and I, once talkedof, (which is to persuade the unhappy young lady to go, in some'creditable' manner, to some one of the foreign colonies, ) it might notsave only her 'own credit' and 'reputation, ' but the 'reputation' and'credit' of all her 'family, ' and a great deal of 'vexation' moreover. For it is my humble opinion, that you will hardly (any of you) enjoyyourselves while this ('once' innocent) young lady is in the way of beingso frequently heard of by you: and this would put her 'out of the way'both of 'this Belford' and of 'that Lovelace, ' and it might, peradventure, prevent as much 'evil' as 'scandal. '

You will forgive me, Sir, for this my 'plainness. ' Ovid pleadeth for me, '----Adulator nullus amicus erit. '

And I have no view but that of approving myself a 'zealous well-wisher'to 'all' your worthy family, (whereto I owe a great number ofobligations, ) and very particularly, Sir, Your obliged and humble servant, ELIAS BRAND. 

WEDN. AUG. 9. 

P. S. I shall give you 'farther hints' when I come down, (which will be in a few days;) and who my 'informants' were; but by 'these' you will see, that I have been very assiduous (for the time) in the task you set me upon. 

The 'length' of my letter you will excuse: for I need not tell you, Sir, what 'narrative, ' 'complex, ' and 'conversation' letters (such a one as 'mine') require. Every one to his 'talent. ' 'Letter-writing' is mine. I will be bold to say; and that my 'correspondence' was much coveted in the university, on that account, by 'tyros, ' and by 'sophs, ' when I was hardly a 'soph' myself. But this I should not have taken upon myself to mention, but only in defence of the 'length' of my letter; for nobody writeth 'shorter' or 'pithier, ' when the subject requireth 'common forms' only--but, in apologizing for my 'prolixity, ' I am 'adding' to the 'fault, ' (if it were one, which, however, I cannot think it to be, the 'subject' considered: but this I have said before in other words:) so, Sir, if you will excuse my 'post-script, ' I am sure you will not find fault with my 'letter. '

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 'paranthetical' style, as I call it. He was a very learned and judicious man, to be sure, and an ornament to 'our function': 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 a '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 biasses' for 'general standards, ' that I wondered 'the less' at the worthy Doctor's 'stiffness' on this occasion. 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 patron, ' (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, 'perspicuity' or 'clearness, ') was the same?--But what shall we say?--

 'Errare est hominis, sed non persistere. '

I think I have nothing to add until I have the honour of attending you in 'person'; but I am, (as above, ) &c. &c. &c. 

E. B. 

LETTER XLII

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. WEDNESDAY NIGHT, AUG. 30. 

It was lucky enough that our two servants met at Hannah's, * which gavethem so good an opportunity of exchanging their letters time enough foreach to return to his master early in the day. 

* The Windmill, near Slough. 

Thou dost well to boast of thy capacity for managing servants, and to setup for correcting our poets in their characters of this class of people, *when, like a madman, thou canst beat their teeth out, and attempt toshoot them through the head, for not bringing to thee what they had nopower to obtain. 

* See Letter XX. Of this volume. 

You well observe* that you would have made a thorough-paced lawyer. Thewhole of the conversation-piece between you and the Colonel affords aconvincing proof that there is a black and a white side to every cause:But what must the conscience of a partial whitener of his own cause, orblackener of another's, tell him, while he is throwing dust in the eyesof his judges, and all the time knows his own guilt?

* See Letter XL. Of this volume. 

The Colonel, I see, is far from being a faultless man: but while hesought not to carry his point by breach of faith, he has an excuse whichthou hast not. But, with respect to him, and to us all, I can now, withthe detestation of some of my own actions, see, that the taking advantageof another person's good opinion of us to injure (perhaps to ruin) thatother, is the most ungenerous wickedness that can be committed. 

Man acting thus by man, we should not be at a loss to give such actions aname: But is it not doubly and trebly aggravated, when such advantage istaken of an unexperienced and innocent young creature, whom we pretend tolove above all the women in the world; and when we seal our pretences bythe most solemn vows and protestations of inviolable honour that we caninvent?

I see that this gentleman is the best match thou ever couldest have had, upon all accounts: his spirit such another impetuous one as thy own; soontaking fire; vindictive; and only differing in this, that the cause heengages in is a just one. But commend me to honest brutal Mowbray, who, before he knew the cause, offers his sword in thy behalf against a manwho had taken the injured side, and whom he had never seen before. 

As soon as I had run through your letters, and the copy of that of theincendiary Brand's, (by the latter of which I saw to what cause a greatdeal of this last implacableness of the Harlowe family is owing, ) I tookcoach to Smith's, although I had been come from thence but about an hour, and had taken leave of the lady for the night. 

I sent up for Mrs. Lovick, and desired her, in the first place, toacquaint the lady (who was busied in her closet, ) that I had letters fromBerks: in which I was informed, that the interview between Colonel Mordenand Mr. Lovelace had ended without ill consequences; that the Colonelintended to write to her very soon, and was interesting himself meanwhile, in her favour, with her relations; that I hoped that thisagreeable news would be means of giving her good rest; and I would waitupon her in the morning, by the time she should return from prayers, withall the particulars. 

She sent me word that she should be glad to see me in the morning; andwas highly obliged to me for the good news I had sent her up. 

I then, in the back shop, read to Mrs. Lovick and to Mrs. Smith the copyof Brand's letter, and asked them if they could guess at the man'sinformant? They were not at a loss; Mrs. Smith having seen the samefellow Brand who had talked with her, as I mentioned in the former, * comeout of a milliner's shop over against them; which milliner, she said, hadalso lately been very inquisitive about the lady. 

* See Vol. VII. Letter LXXXI. 

I wanted no farther hint; but, bidding them take no notice to the lady ofwhat I had read, I shot over the way, and, asking for the mistress of thehouse, she came to me. 

Retiring with her, at her invitation, into her parlour, I desired to knowif she were acquainted with a young country clergyman of the name ofBrand. She hesitatingly, seeing me in some emotion, owned that she hadsome small knowledge of the gentleman. Just then came in her husband, who is, it seems, a petty officer of excise, (and not an ill-behavedman, ) who owned a fuller knowledge of him. 

I have the copy of a letter, said I, from this Brand, in which he hastaken great liberties with my character, and with that of the mostunblamable lady in the world, which he grounds upon information that you, Madam, have given him. And then I read to them several passages in hisletter, and asked what foundation she had for giving that fellow suchimpressions of either of us?

They knew not what to answer: but at last said, that he had told them howwickedly the young lady had run away from her parents: what worthy andrich people they were: in what favour he stood with them; and that theyhad employed him to inquire after her behaviour, visiters, &c. 

They said, 'That indeed they knew very little of the young lady; but that[curse upon their censoriousness!] it was but too natural to think, that, where a lady had given way to a delusion, and taken so wrong a step, shewould not stop there: that the most sacred places and things were but toooften made clokes for bad actions; that Mr. Brand had been informed(perhaps by some enemy of mine) that I was a man of very free principles, and an intimado, as he calls it, of the man who had ruined her. And thattheir cousin Barker, a manteau-maker, who lodged up one pair of stairs, '(and who, at their desire, came down and confirmed what they said, ) 'hadoften, from her window, seen me with the lady in her chamber, and bothtalking very earnestly together; and that Mr. Brand, being unable toaccount for her admiring my visits, and knowing I was but a newacquaintance of her's, and an old one of Mr. Lovelace, thought himselfobliged to lay these matters before her friends. '

This was the sum and substance of their tale. O how I cursed thecensoriousness of this plaguy triumvirate! A parson, a milliner, and amantua-maker! The two latter, not more by business led to adorn thepersons, than generally by scandal to destroy the reputations, of thosethey have a mind to exercise their talents upon!

The two women took great pains to persuade me that they themselves werepeople of conscience;--of consequence, I told them, too much addicted, Ifeared, to censure other people who pretended not to their strictness;for that I had ever found censoriousness, with those who affected to bethought more pious than their neighbours. 

They answered, that that was not their case; and that they had sinceinquired into the lady's character and manner of life, and were very muchconcerned to think any thing they had said should be made use of againsther: and as they heard from Mrs. Smith that she was not likely to livelong, they should be sorry she should go out of the world a sufferer bytheir means, or with an ill opinion of them, though strangers to her. The husband offered to write, if I pleased, to Mr. Brand, in vindicationof the lady; and the two women said they should be glad to wait upon herin person, to beg her pardon for any thing she had reason to take amissfrom them; because they were now convinced that there was not suchanother young lady in the world. 

I told them that the least said of the affair to the lady, in her presentcircumstances, was best. That she was a heavenly creature, and fond oftaking all occasions to find excuses for her relations on theirimplacableness to her: that therefore I should take some notice to her ofthe uncharitable and weak surmises which gave birth to so vile a scandal:but that I would have him, Mr. Walton, (for that is the husband's name, )write to his acquaintance Brand as soon as possible, as he had offered;and so I left them. 

As to what thou sayest of thy charming cousin, let me know if thou hastany meaning in it. I have not the vanity to think myself deserving ofsuch a lady as Miss Montague; and should not therefore care to exposemyself to her scorn and to thy derision. But were I assured I mightavoid both of these, I would soon acquaint thee that I should think nopains nor assiduity too much to obtain a share in the good graces of sucha lady. 

But I know thee too well to depend upon any thing thou sayest on thissubject. Thou lovest to make thy friends the objects of ridicule toladies; and imaginest, from the vanity, (and, in this respect, I will saylittleness, ) of thine own heart, that thou shinest the brighter for thefoil. 

Thus didst thou once play off the rough Mowbray with Miss Hatton, tillthe poor fellow knew not how to go either backward or forward. 

LETTER XLIII

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. THURSDAY, 11 O'CLOCK, AUG. 31. 

I am just come from the lady, whom I left cheerful and serene. 

She thanked me for my communication of the preceding night. I read toher such parts of your letters as I could read to her; and I thought itwas a good test to distinguish the froth and whipt-syllabub in them fromthe cream, in what one could and could not read to a woman of so fine amind; since four parts out of six of thy letters, which I thoughtentertaining as I read them to myself, appeared to me, when I should haveread them to her, most abominable stuff, and gave me a very contemptibleidea of thy talents, and of my own judgment. 

She as far from rejoicing, as I had done, at the disappointment herletter gave you when explained. 

She said, she meant only an innocent allegory, which might carryinstruction and warning to you, when the meaning was taken, as well asanswer her own hopes for the time. It was run off in a hurry. She wasafraid it was not quite right in her. But hoped the end would excuse (ifit could not justify) the means. And then she again expressed a gooddeal of apprehension lest you should still take it into your head tomolest her, when her time, she said, was so short, that she wanted everymoment of it; repeating what she had once said before, that, when shewrote, she was so ill that she believed she should not have lived tillnow: if she had thought she should, she must have studied for anexpedient that would have better answered her intentions. Hinting at aremoval out of the knowledge of us both. 

But she was much pleased that the conference between you and ColonelMorden, after two or three such violent sallies, as I acquainted her youhad had between you, ended so amicably; and said she must absolutelydepend upon the promise I had given her to use my utmost endeavours toprevent farther mischief on her account. 

She was pleased with the justice you did her character to her cousin. 

She was glad to hear that he had so kind an opinion of her, and that hewould write to her. 

I was under an unnecessary concern, how to break to her that I had thecopy of Brand's vile letter: unnecessary, I say; for she took it just asyou thought she would, as an excuse she wished to have for theimplacableness of her friends; and begged I would let her read itherself; for, said she, the contents cannot disturb me, be they what theywill. 

I gave it to her, and she read it to herself; a tear now and then beingready to start, and a sigh sometimes interposing. 

She gave me back the letter with great and surprising calmness, considering the subject. 

There was a time, said she, and that not long since, when such a letteras this would have greatly pained me. But I hope I have now go above allthese things: and I can refer to your kind offices, and to those of MissHowe, the justice that will be done to my memory among my friends. Thereis a good and a bad light in which every thing that befalls us may betaken. If the human mind will busy itself to make the worst of everydisagreeable occurrence, it will never want woe. This letter, affectingas the subject of it is to my reputation, gives me more pleasure thanpain, because I can gather from it, that had not my friends beenprepossessed by misinformed or rash and officious persons, who are alwaysat hand to flatter or soothe the passions of the affluent, they could nothave been so immovably determined against me. But now they aresufficiently cleared from every imputation of unforgivingness; for, whileI appeared to them in the character of a vile hypocrite, pretending totrue penitence, yet giving up myself to profligate courses, how could Iexpect either their pardon or blessing?

But, Madam, said I, you'll see by the date of this letter, that theirseverity, previous to that, cannot be excused by it. 

It imports me much, replied she, on account of my present wishes, as tothe office you are so kind to undertake, that you should not thinkharshly of my friends. I must own to you, that I have been apt sometimesmyself to think them not only severe but cruel. Suffering minds will bepartial to their own cause and merits. Knowing their own hearts, ifsincere, they are apt to murmur when harshly treated: But, if they arenot believed to be innocent, by persons who have a right to decide upontheir conduct according to their own judgments, how can it be helped?Besides, Sir, how do you know, that there are not about my friends aswell-meaning misrepresenters as Mr. Brand really seems to be? But, bethis as it will, there is no doubt that there are and have beenmultitudes of persons, as innocent as myself, who have suffered uponsurmises as little probable as those on which Mr. Brand founds hisjudgment. Your intimacy, Sir, with Mr. Lovelace, and (may I say?) acharacter which, it seems, you have been less solicitous formerly tojustify than perhaps you will be for the future, and your frequent visitsto me may well be thought to be questionable circumstances in my conduct. 

I could only admire her in silence. 

But you see, Sir, proceeded she, how necessary it is for young people ofour sex to be careful of our company. And how much, at the same time, itbehoves young persons of your's to be chary of their own reputation, wereit only for the sake of such of our's as they may mean honourably by, andwho otherwise may suffer in their good names for being seen in theircompany. 

As to Mr. Brand, continued she, he is to be pitied; and let me enjoinyou, Mr. Belford, not to take any resentments against him which may bedetrimental either to his person or his fortunes. Let his function andhis good meaning plead for him. He will have concern enough, when hefinds every body, whose displeasure I now labour under, acquitting mymemory of perverse guilt, and joining in a general pity for me. 

This, Lovelace, is the woman whose life thou hast curtailed in theblossom of it!--How many opportunities must thou have had of admiring herinestimable worth, yet couldst have thy senses so much absorbed in theWOMAN, in her charming person, as to be blind to the ANGEL, that shinesout in such full glory in her mind! Indeed, I have ever thought myself, when blest with her conversation, in the company of a real angel: and Iam sure it would be impossible for me, were she to be as beautiful, andas crimsoned over with health, as I have seen her, to have the leastthought of sex, when I heard her talk. 

THURSDAY, THREE O'CLOCK, AUG. 31. 

On my re-visit to the lady, I found her almost as much a sufferer fromjoy as she had sometimes been from grief; for she had just received avery kind letter from her cousin Morden; which she was so good as tocommunicate to me. As she had already begun to answer it, I begged leaveto attend her in the evening, that I might not interrupt her in it. 

The letter is a very tender one * * * *

[Here Mr. Belford gives the substance of it upon his memory; but that is omitted; as the letter is given at length (see the next letter. ) And then adds:]

But, alas! all will be now too late. For the decree is certainly goneout--the world is unworthy of her. 

LETTER XLIV

COLONEL MORDEN, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWETUESDAY, AUG. 29. 

I should not, my dearest Cousin, have been a fortnight in England, without either doing myself the honour of waiting upon you in person, orof writing to you; if I had not been busying myself almost all the timein your service, in hopes of making my visit or letter still moreacceptable to you--acceptable as I have reason to presume either will befrom the unquestionable love I ever bore you, and from the esteem youalways honoured me with. 

Little did I think that so many days would have been required to effectmy well-intended purpose, where there used to be a love so ardent on oneside, and where there still is, as I am thoroughly convinced, the mostexalted merit on the other!

I was yesterday with Mr. Lovelace and Lord M. I need not tell you, itseems, how very desirous the whole family and all the relations of thatnobleman are of the honour of an alliance with you; nor how exceedinglyearnest the ungrateful man is to make you all the reparation in hispower. 

I think, my dear Cousin, that you cannot now do better than to give himthe honour of your hand. He says just and great things of your virtue, and so heartily condemns himself, that I think there is honorable roomfor you to forgive him: and the more room, as it seems you are determinedagainst a legal prosecution. 

Your effectual forgiveness of Mr. Lovelace, it is evident to me, willaccelerate a general reconciliation: for, at present, my other cousinscannot persuade themselves that he is in earnest to do you justice; orthat you would refuse him, if you believed he was. 

But, my dear Cousin, there may possibly be something in this affair, towhich I may be a stranger. If there be, and you will acquaint me withit, all that a naturally-warm heart can do in your behalf shall be done. 

I hope I shall be able, in my next visits to my several cousins, to setall right with them. Haughty spirits, when convinced that they havecarried resentments too high, want but a good excuse to condescend: andparents must always love the child they once loved. 

But if I find them inflexible, I will set out, and attend you withoutdelay; for I long to see you, after so many years' absence. 

Mean while, I beg the favour of a few lines, to know if you have reasonto doubt Mr. Lovelace's sincerity. For my part, I can have none, if I amto judge from the conversation that passed between us yesterday, inpresence of Lord M. 

You will be pleased to direct for me at your uncle Antony's. 

Permit me, my dearest Cousin, till I can procure a happy reconciliationbetween you and your father, and brother, and uncles, to supply the placeto you of all those near relations, as well as that of

Your affectionate kinsman, and humble servant, WM. MORDEN. 

LETTER XLV

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO WM. MORDEN, ESQ. THURSDAY, AUG. 31. 

I most heartily congratulate you, dear Sir, on your return to your nativecountry. 

I heard with much pleasure that you were come; but I was both afraid andashamed, till you encouraged me by a first notice, to address myself toyou. 

How consoling is it to my wounded heart to find that you have not beencarried away by that tide of resentment and displeasure with which I havebeen so unhappily overwhelmed--but that, while my still nearer relationshave not thought fit to examine into the truth of vile reports raisedagainst me, you have informed yourself of my innocence, and generouslycredited the information!

I have not the least reason to doubt Mr. Lovelace's sincerity in hisoffers of marriage; nor that all his relations are heartily desirous ofranking me among them. I have had noble instances of their esteem forme, on their apprehending that my father's displeasure must have hadabsolutely refused their pressing solicitations in their kinsman's favouras well as his own. 

Nor think me, my dear Cousin, blamable for refusing him. I had given Mr. Lovelace no reason to think me a weak creature. If I had, a man of hischaracter might have thought himself warranted to endeavour to takeungenerous advantage of the weakness he had been able to inspire. Theconsciousness of my own weakness (in that case) might have brought me toa composition with his wickedness. 

I can indeed forgive him. But that is, because I think his crimes haveset me above him. Can I be above the man, Sir, to whom I shall give myhand and my vows, and with them a sanction to the most premeditatedbaseness? No, Sir, let me say, that your cousin Clarissa, were shelikely to live many years, and that (if she married not this man) inpenury or want, despised and forsaken by all her friends, puts not sohigh a value upon the conveniencies of life, nor upon life itself, as toseek to re-obtain the one, or to preserve the other, by giving such asanction: a sanction, which (were she to perform her duty, ) would rewardthe violator. 

Nor is it so much from pride as from principle that I say this. What, Sir! when virtue, when chastity, is the crown of a woman, andparticularly of a wife, shall form an attempt upon her's but upon apresumption that she was capable of receiving his offered hand when hehad found himself mistaken in the vile opinion he had conceived of her?Hitherto he has not had reason to think me weak. Nor will I give aninstance so flagrant, that weak I am in a point in which it would becriminal to be found weak. 

One day, Sir, you will perhaps know all my story. But, whenever it isknown, I beg that the author of my calamities may not be vindictivelysought after. He could not have been the author of them, but for astrange concurrence of unhappy causes. As the law will not be able toreach him when I am gone, the apprehension of any other sort of vengeanceterrifies me; since, in such a case, should my friends be safe, whathonour would his death bring to my memory?--If any of them should come tomisfortune, how would my fault be aggravated!

God long preserve you, my dearest Cousin, and bless you but in proportionto the consolation you have given me, in letting me know that you stilllove me; and that I have one near and dear relation who can pity andforgive me; (and then you will be greatly blessed;) is the prayer of

Your ever grateful and affectionateCL. HARLOWE. 

LETTER XLVI

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. [IN ANSWER TO HIS LETTERS XXIII. XXXVII. OF THIS VOLUME. ]THURSDAY, AUG. 31. 

I cannot but own that I am cut to the heart by this Miss Harlowe'sinterpretation of her letter. She ought never to be forgiven. She, ameek person, and a penitent, and innocent, and pious, and I know notwhat, who can deceive with a foot in the grave!--

'Tis evident, that she sat down to write this letter with a design tomislead and deceive. And if she be capable of that, at such a crisis, she has as much need of Heaven's forgiveness, as I have of her's: and, with all her cant of charity and charity, if she be not more sure of itthan I am of her real pardon, and if she take the thing in the light sheought to take it in, she will have a few darker moments yet to come thanshe seems to expect. 

Lord M. Himself, who is not one of those (to speak in his own phrase) whocan penetrate a millstone, sees the deceit, and thinks it unworthy ofher; though my cousins Montague vindicate her. And no wonder this cursedpartial sex [I hate 'em all--by my soul, I hate 'em all!] will neverallow any thing against an individual of it, where our's is concerned. And why? Because, if they censure deceit in another, they must condemntheir own hearts. 

She is to send me a letter after she is in Heaven, is she? The deviltake such allegories, and the devil take thee for calling this absurdityan innocent artifice!

I insist upon it, that if a woman of her character, at such a criticaltime, is to be justified in such a deception, a man in full health andvigour of body and mind, as I am, may be excused for all his stratagemsand attempts against her. And, thank my stars, I can now sit me downwith a quiet conscience on that score. By my soul, I can, Jack. Nor hasany body, who can acquit her, a right to blame me. But with some, indeed, every thing she does must be good, every thing I do must be bad--And why? Because she has always taken care to coax the stupid misjudgingworld, like a woman: while I have constantly defied and despised itscensures, like a man. 

But, notwithstanding all, you may let her know from me that I will notmolest her, since my visits would be so shocking to her: and I hope shewill take this into her consideration as a piece of generosity which shecould hardly expect after the deception she has put upon me. And let herfarther know, that if there be any thing in my power, that willcontribute either to her ease or honour, I will obey her, at the veryfirst intimation, however disgraceful or detrimental to myself. Allthis, to make her unapprehensive, and that she may have nothing to pullher back. 

If her cursed relations could be brought as cheerfully to perform theirparts, I'd answer life for life for her recovery. 

But who, that has so many ludicrous images raised in his mind by theawkward penitence, can forbear laughing at thee? Spare, I beseech thee, dear Belford, for the future, all thine own aspirations, if thou wouldstnot dishonour those of an angel indeed. 

When I came to that passage, where thou sayest that thou considerest her*as one sent from Heaven to draw thee after her--for the heart of me Icould not for an hour put thee out of my head, in the attitude of dameElizabeth Carteret, on her monument in Westminster Abbey. If thou neverobservedst it, go thither on purpose: and there wilt thou see this damein effigy, with uplifted head and hand, the latter taken hold of by acupid every inch of stone, one clumsy foot lifted up also, aiming, as thesculptor designed it, to ascend; but so executed, as would rather makeone imagine that the figure (without shoe or stocking, as it is, thoughthe rest of the body is robed) was looking up to its corn-cutter: theother riveted to its native earth, bemired, like thee (immersed thoucallest it) beyond the possibility of unsticking itself. Both figures, thou wilt find, seem to be in a contention, the bigger, whether it shouldpull down the lesser about its ears--the lesser (a chubby fat littlevarlet, of a fourth part of the other's bigness, with wings not muchlarger than those of a butterfly) whether it should raise the larger to aHeaven it points to, hardly big enough to contain the great toes ofeither. 

* See Letter XXXVII. Of this volume. 

Thou wilt say, perhaps, that the dame's figure in stone may do credit, inthe comparison, to thine, both in grain and shape, wooden as thou art allover: but that the lady, who, in every thing but in the trick she hasplayed me so lately, is truly an angel, is but sorrily represented by thefat-flanked cupid. This I allow thee. But yet there is enough in thyaspirations to strike my mind with a resemblance of thee and the lady tothe figures on the wretched monument; for thou oughtest to remember, that, prepared as she may be to mount to her native skies, it isimpossible for her to draw after her a heavy fellow who has so much torepent of as thou hast. 

But now, to be serious once more, let me tell you, Belford, that, if thelady be really so ill as you write she is, it will become you [no Romanstyle here!] in a case so very affecting, to be a little less pointed andsarcastic in your reflections. For, upon my soul, the matter begins tograte me most confoundedly. 

I am now so impatient to hear oftener of her, that I take the hintaccidentally given me by our two fellows meeting at Slough, and resolveto go to our friend Doleman's at Uxbridge; whose wife and sister, as wellas he, have so frequently pressed me to give them my company for a weekor two. There shall I be within two hours' ride, if any thing shouldhappen to induce her to see me: for it will well become her piety, andavowed charity, should the worst happen, [the Lord of Heaven and Earth, however, avert that worst!] to give me that pardon from her lips, whichshe has not denied to me by pen and ink. And as she wishes myreformation, she knows not what good effects such an interview may haveupon me. 

I shall accordingly be at Doleman's to-morrow morning, by eleven atfarthest. My fellow will find me there at his return from you (with aletter, I hope). I shall have Joel with me likewise, that I may sendthe oftener, as matters fall out. Were I to be still nearer, or in town, it would be impossible to withhold myself from seeing her. 

But, if the worst happen!--as, by your continual knelling, I know notwhat to think of it!--[Yet, once more, Heaven avert that worst!--Hownatural it is to pray, when once cannot help one's self!]--THEN say not, in so many dreadful words, what the event is--Only, that you advise me totake a trip to Paris--And that will stab me to the heart. 

***

I so well approve of your generosity to poor Belton's sister, that I havemade Mowbray give up his legacy, as I do mine, towards her India bonds. When I come to town, Tourville shall do the like; and we will buy each aring to wear in memory of the honest fellow, with our own money, that wemay perform his will, as well as our own. 

My fellow rides the rest of the night. I charge you, Jack, if you wouldsave his life, that you send him not back empty-handed. 

LETTER XLVII

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. TUESDAY NIGHT, AUG. 30. 

When I concluded my last, I hoped that my next attendance upon thissurprising lady would furnish me with some particulars as agreeable asnow could be hoped for from the declining way she is in, by reason ofthe welcome letter she had received from her cousin Morden. But itproved quite otherwise to me, though not to herself; for I think I wasnever more shocked in my life than on the occasion I shall mentionpresently. 

When I attended her about seven in the evening, she told me that shefound herself in a very petulant way after I had left her. Strange, saidshe, that the pleasure I received from my cousin's letter should havesuch an effect upon me! But I could not help giving way to a comparativehumour, as I may call it, and to think it very hard that my nearerrelations did not take the methods which my cousin Morden kindly took, byinquiring into my merit or demerit, and giving my cause a fair auditbefore they proceeded to condemnation. 

She had hardly said this, when she started, and a blush overspread hersweet face, on hearing, as I also did, a sort of lumbering noise upon thestairs, as if a large trunk were bringing up between two people: and, looking upon me with an eye of concern, Blunderers! said she, they havebrought in something two hours before the time. --Don't be surprised, Sir--it is all to save you trouble. 

Before I could speak, in came Mrs. Smith: O Madam, said she, what haveyou done?--Mrs. Lovick, entering, made the same exclamation. Lord havemercy upon me, Madam! cried I, what have you done?--For she, stepping atthe same instant to the door, the women told me it was a coffin. --OLovelace! that thou hadst been there at that moment!--Thou, the causer ofall these shocking scenes! Surely thou couldst not have been lessaffected than I, who have no guilt, as to her, to answer for. 

With an intrepidity of a piece with the preparation, having directed themto carry it to her bed-chamber, she returned to us: they were not to havebrought it in till after dark, said she--Pray, excuse me, Mr. Belford:and don't you, Mrs. Lovick, be concerned: nor you, Mrs. Smith. --Whyshould you? There is nothing more in it than the unusualness of thething. Why may we not be as reasonably shocked at going to church whereare the monuments of our ancestors, with whose dust we even hope our dustshall be one day mingled, as to be moved at such a sight as this?

We all remaining silent, the women having their aprons at their eyes, Whythis concern for nothing at all? said she. If I am to be blamed for anything, it is for showing too much solicitude, as it may be thought, forthis earthly part. I love to do every thing for myself that I can do. Iever did. Every other material point is so far done, and taken care of, that I have had leisure for things of lesser moment. Minutenesses may beobserved, where greater articles are not neglected for them. I mighthave had this to order, perhaps, when less fit to order it. I have nomother, no sister, no Mrs. Norton, no Miss Howe, near me. Some of youmust have seen this in a few days, if not now; perhaps have had thefriendly trouble of directing it. And what is the difference of a fewdays to you, when I am gratified rather than discomposed by it? I shallnot die the sooner for such a preparation. Should not every body thathas any thing to bequeath make their will? And who, that makes a will, should be afraid of a coffin?--My dear friends, [to the women] I haveconsidered these things; do not, with such an object before you as youhave had in me for weeks, give me reason to think you have not. 

How reasonable was all this!--It showed, indeed, that she herself hadwell considered it. But yet we could not help being shocked at thethoughts of the coffin thus brought in; the lovely person before oureyes who is, in all likelihood, so soon to fill it. 

We were all silent still, the women in grief; I in a manner stunned. Shewould not ask me, she said; but would be glad, since it had thus earlierthan she had intended been brought in, that her two good friends wouldwalk in and look upon it. They would be less shocked when it was mademore familiar to their eye: don't you lead back, said she, a startingsteed to the object he is apt to start at, in order to familiarize him toit, and cure his starting? The same reason will hold in this case. Come, my good friends, I will lead you in. 

I took my leave; telling her she had done wrong, very wrong; and oughtnot, by any means, to have such an object before her. 

The women followed her in. --'Tis a strange sex! Nothing is too shockingfor them to look upon, or see acted, that has but novelty and curiosityin it. 

Down I posted; got a chair; and was carried home, extremely shocked anddiscomposed: yet, weighing the lady's arguments, I know not why I was soaffected--except, as she said, at the unusualness of the thing. 

While I waited for a chair, Mrs. Smith came down, and told me that therewere devices and inscriptions upon the lid. Lord bless me! is a coffin aproper subject to display fancy upon?--But these great minds cannot avoiddoing extraordinary things!

LETTER XLVIII

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. FRIDAY MORN. SEPT. 1. 

It is surprising, that I, a man, should be so much affected as I was, atsuch an object as is the subject of my former letter; who also, in mylate uncle's case, and poor Belton's had the like before me, and thedirecting of it: when she, a woman, of so weak and tender a frame, whowas to fill it (so soon perhaps to fill it!) could give orders about it, and draw out the devices upon it, and explain them with so little concernas the women tell me she did to them last night after I was gone. 

I really was ill, and restless all night. Thou wert the subject of myexecration, as she was of my admiration, all the time I was quite awake:and, when I dozed, I dreamt of nothing but of flying hour-glasses, deaths-heads, spades, mattocks, and eternity; the hint of her devices (asgiven me by Mrs. Smith) running in my head. 

However, not being able to keep away from Smith's, I went thither aboutseven. The lady was just gone out: she had slept better, I found, thanI, though her solemn repository was under her window, not far from herbed-side. 

I was prevailed upon by Mrs. Smith and her nurse Shelburne (Mrs. Lovickbeing abroad with her) to go up and look at the devices. Mrs. Lovick hassince shown me a copy of the draught by which all was ordered; and I willgive thee a sketch of the symbols. 

The principal device, neatly etched on a plate of white metal, is acrowned serpent, with its tail in its mouth, forming a ring, the emblemof eternity: and in the circle made by it is this inscription:

 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 

 April x. 

 [Then the year. ]

 ÆTAT. XIX. 

For ornaments: at top, an hour-glass, winged. At bottom, an urn. 

Under the hour-glass, on another plate, this inscription:

 HERE the wicked cease from troubling: and HERE the weary be at rest. Job. Iii. 17. 

Over the urn, near the bottom:

 Turn again unto thy rest, O my soul! for the Lord hath rewarded thee: And why? Thou hast delivered my soul from death; mine eyes from tears; and my feet from falling. Ps. Cxvi. 7, 8. 

Over this is the head of a white lily snapt short off, and just fallingfrom the stalk; and this inscription over that, between the principalplate and the lily:

 The days of man are but as grass. For he flourisheth as a flower of the field: for, as soon as the wind goeth over it, it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more. Ps. Ciii. 15, 16. 

She excused herself to the women, on the score of her youth, and beingused to draw for her needleworks, for having shown more fancy than wouldperhaps be thought suitable on so solemn an occasion. 

The date, April 10, she accounted for, as not being able to tell what herclosing-day would be; and as that was the fatal day of her leaving herfather's house. 

She discharged the undertaker's bill after I went away, with as muchcheerfulness as she could ever have paid for the clothes she sold topurchase this her palace: for such she called it; reflecting upon herselffor the expensiveness of it, saying, that they might observe in her, thatpride left not poor mortals to the last: but indeed she did not know buther father would permit it, when furnished, to be carried down to bedeposited with her ancestors; and, in that case, she ought not todiscredit those ancestors in her appearance amongst them. 

It is covered with fine black cloth, and lined with white satin; soon, she said, to be tarnished with viler earth than any it could be coveredby. 

The burial-dress was brought home with it. The women had curiosityenough, I suppose, to see her open that, if she did open it. --And, perhaps, thou wouldst have been glad to have been present to have admiredit too!--

Mrs. Lovick said, she took the liberty to blame her; and wished theremoval of such an object--from her bed-chamber, at least: and was soaffected with the noble answer she made upon it, that she entered it downthe moment she left her. 

'To persons in health, said she, this sight may be shocking; and thepreparation, and my unconcernedness in it, may appear affected: but tome, who have had so gradual a weaning-time from the world, and so muchreason not to love it, I must say, I dwell on, I indulge, (and, strictlyspeaking, I enjoy, ) the thoughts of death. For, believe me, ' [lookingstedfastly at the awful receptacle, ] 'believe what at this instant I feelto be most true, That there is such a vast superiority of weight andimportance in the thought of death, and its hoped-for happy consequences, that it in a manner annihilates all other considerations and concerns. Believe me, my good friends, it does what nothing else can do: it teachesme, by strengthening in me the force of the divinest example, to forgivethe injuries I have received; and shuts out the remembrance of past evilsfrom my soul. '

And now let me ask thee, Lovelace, Dost thou think that, when the timeshall come that thou shalt be obliged to launch into the boundless oceanof eternity, thou wilt be able (any more than poor Belton) to act thypart with such true heroism, as this sweet and tender blossom of a womanhas manifested, and continues to manifest!

Oh! no! it cannot be!--And why can't it be?--The reason is evident: shehas no wilful errors to look back upon with self-reproach--and her mindis strengthened by the consolations which flow from that religiousrectitude which has been the guide of all her actions; and which hastaught her rather to choose to be a sufferer than an aggressor!

This was the support of the divine Socrates, as thou hast read. When ledto execution, his wife lamenting that he should suffer being innocent, Thou fool, said he, wouldst thou wish me to be guilty!

LETTER XLIX

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. FRIDAY, SEPT. 1. 

How astonishing, in the midst of such affecting scenes, is thy mirth onwhat thou callest my own aspirations! Never, surely, was there suchanother man in this world, thy talents and thy levity taken together!--Surely, what I shall send thee with this will affect thee. If not, nothing can, till thy own hour come: and heavy will then thy reflectionsbe!

I am glad, however, that thou enablest me to assure the lady that thouwilt no more molest her; that is to say, in other words, that, afterhaving ruined her fortunes, and all her worldly prospects, thou wilt beso gracious, as to let her lie down and die in peace. 

Thy giving up to poor Belton's sister the little legacy, and thyundertaking to make Mowbray and Tourville follow thy example, are, I mustsay to thy honour, of a piece with thy generosity to thy Rose-bud and herJohnny; and to a number of other good actions in pecuniary matters:although thy Rose-bud's is, I believe, the only instance, where a prettywoman was concerned, of such a disinterested bounty. 

Upon my faith, Lovelace, I love to praise thee; and often and often, asthou knowest, have I studied for occasions to do it: insomuch that when, for the life of me, I could not think of any thing done by thee thatdeserved praise, I have taken pains to applaud the not ungraceful mannerin which thou hast performed actions that merited the gallows. 

Now thou art so near, I will dispatch my servant to thee, if occasionrequires. But, I fear, I shall soon give thee the news thou artapprehensive of. For I am just now sent for by Mrs. Smith; who hasordered the messenger to tell me, that she knew not if the lady will bealive when I come. 

FRIDAY, SEPT. 1, TWO O'CLOCK, AT SMITH'S. 

I could not close my letter in such an uncertainty as must have added toyour impatience. For you have, on several occasions, convinced me, thatthe suspense you love to give would be the greatest torment to you thatyou could receive. A common case with all aggressive and violentspirits, I believe. I will just mention then (your servant waiting heretill I have written) that the lady has had two very severe fits: in thelast of which whilst she lay, they sent to the doctor and Mr. Goddard, who both advised that a messenger should be dispatched for me, as herexecutor; being doubtful whether, if she had a third, it would not carryher off. 

She was tolerably recovered by the time I cane; and the doctor made herpromise before me, that, while she was so weak, she would not attempt anymore to go abroad; for, by Mrs. Lovick's description, who attended her, the shortness of her breath, her extreme weakness, and the fervour of herdevotions when at church, were contraries, which, pulling different ways(the soul aspiring, the body sinking) tore her tender frame in pieces. 

So much for the present. I shall detain Will. No longer than just to begthat you will send me back this packet and the last. Your memory is sogood, that once reading is all you ever give, or need to give, to anything. And who but ourselves can make out our characters, were youinclined to let any body see what passes between us? If I cannot beobliged, I shall be tempted to withhold what I write, till I have time totake a copy of it. *

* It may not be amiss to observe, that Mr. Belford's solicitude to getback his letters was owing to his desire of fulfilling the lady's wishesthat he would furnish Miss Howe with materials to vindicate her memory. 

A letter from Miss Howe is just now brought by a particular messenger, who says he must carry back a few lines in return. But, as the lady isjust retired to lie down, the man is to call again by-and-by. 

LETTER L

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. UXBRIDGE, SEPT. 1, TWELVE O'CLOCK AT NIGHT. 

I send you the papers with this. You must account to me honestly andfairly, when I see you, for the earnestness with which you write forthem. And then also will we talk about the contents of your lastdispatch, and about some of your severe and unfriendly reflections. 

Mean time, whatever thou dost, don't let the wonderful creature leave us!Set before her the sin of her preparation, as if she thought she coulddepart when she pleased. She'll persuade herself, at this rate, that shehas nothing to do, when all is ready, but to lie down, and go to sleep:and such a lively fancy as her's will make a reality of a jest at anytime. 

A jest I call all that has passed between her and me; a mere jest to diefor--For has not her triumph over me, from first to last, been infinitelygreater than her sufferings from me?

Would the sacred regard I have for her purity, even for her personal aswell as intellectual purity, permit, I could prove this as clear as thesun. Tell, therefore, the dear creature that she must not be wicked inher piety. There is a too much, as well as too little, even inrighteousness. Perhaps she does not think of that. --Oh! that she wouldhave permitted my attendance, as obligingly as she does of thine!--Thedear soul used to love humour. I remember the time that she knew how tosmile at a piece of apropos humour. And, let me tell thee, a smile uponthe lips, or a sparkling in the eye, must have had its correspondentcheerfulness in a heart so sincere as her's. 

Tell the doctor I will make over all my possessions, and all myreversions, to him, if he will but prolong her life for one twelvemonthto come. But for one twelvemonth, Jack!--He will lose all his reputationwith me, and I shall treat him as Belton did his doctor, if he cannot dothis for me, on so young a subject. But nineteen, Belford!--nineteencannot so soon die of grief, if the doctor deserve that title; and soblooming and so fine a constitution as she had but three or four monthsago!

But what need the doctor to ask her leave to write to her friends? Couldhe not have done it without letting her know any thing of the matter?That was one of the likeliest means that could be thought of to bringsome of them about her, since she is so desirous to see them. At leastit would have induced them to send up her favourite Norton. But theseplaguy solemn fellows are great traders in parade. They'll cram downyour throat their poisonous drugs by wholesale, without asking you aquestion; and have the assurance to own it to be prescribing: but whenthey are to do good, they are to require your consent. 

How the dear creature's character rises in every line of thy letters!But it is owing to the uncommon occasions she has met with that sheblazes out upon us with such a meridian lustre. How, but for thoseoccasions, could her noble sentiments, her prudent consideration, herforgiving spirit, her exalted benevolence, and her equanimity in view ofthe most shocking prospects (which set her in a light so superior to allher sex, and even to the philosophers of antiquity) have been manifested?

I know thou wilt think I am going to claim some merit to myself, forhaving given her such opportunities of signalizing her virtues. But I amnot; for, if I did, I must share that merit with her implacablerelations, who would justly be entitled to two-thirds of it, at least:and my soul disdains a partnership in any thing with such a family. 

But this I mention as an answer to thy reproaches, that I could be solittle edified by perfections, to which, thou supposest, I was for solong together daily and hourly a personal witness--when, admirable as shewas in all she said, and in all she did, occasion had not at that timeripened, and called forth, those amazing perfections which now astonishand confound me. 

Hence it is that I admire her more than ever; and that my love for her isless personal, as I may say, more intellectual, than ever I thought itcould be to a woman. 

Hence also it is that I am confident (would it please the Fates to spareher, and make her mine) I could love her with a purity that would draw onmy own FUTURE, as well as ensure her TEMPORAL, happiness. --And hence, bynecessary consequence, shall I be the most miserable of all men, if I amdeprived of her. 

Thou severely reflectest upon me for my levity: the Abbey instance inthine eye, I suppose. And I will be ingenuous enough to own, that asthou seest not my heart, there may be passages, in every one of myletters, which (the melancholy occasion considered) deserve thy mostpointed rebukes. But faith, Jack, thou art such a tragi-comical mortal, with thy leaden aspirations at one time, and thy flying hour-glasses anddreaming terrors at another, that, as Prior says, What serious is, thouturn'st to farce; and it is impossible to keep within the bounds ofdecorum or gravity when one reads what thou writest. 

But to restrain myself (for my constitutional gayety was ready to runaway with me again) I will repeat, I must ever repeat, that I am mostegregiously affected with the circumstances of the case: and, were thisparagon actually to quit the world, should never enjoy myself one hourtogether, though I were to live to the age of Methusalem. 

Indeed it is to this deep concern, that my levity is owing: for Istruggle and struggle, and try to buffet down my cruel reflections asthey rise; and when I cannot, I am forced, as I have often said, to tryto make myself laugh, that I may not cry; for one or other I must do: andis it not philosophy carried to the highest pitch, for a man to conquersuch tumults of soul as I am sometimes agitated by, and, in the veryheight of the storm, to be able to quaver out an horse-laugh?

Your Seneca's, your Epictetus's, and the rest of your stoical tribe, withall their apathy nonsense, could not come up to this. They could forbearwry faces: bodily pains they could well enough seem to support; and thatwas all: but the pangs of their own smitten-down souls they could notlaugh over, though they could at the follies of others. They read gravelectures; but they were grave. This high point of philosophy, to laughand be merry in the midst of the most soul-harrowing woes, when theheart-strings are just bursting asunder, was reserved for thy Lovelace. 

There is something owing to constitution, I own; and that this is thelaughing-time of my life. For what a woe must that be, which for an hourtogether can mortify a man six or seven and twenty, in high blood andspirits, of a naturally gay disposition, who can sing, dance, andscribble, and take and give delight in them all?--But then my grief, asmy joy, is sharper-pointed than most other men's; and, like what DollyWelby once told me, describing the parturient throes, if there were notlucid intervals, if they did not come and go, there would be no bearingthem. 

***

After all, as I am so little distant from the dear creature, and as sheis so very ill, I think I cannot excuse myself from making her one visit. Nevertheless, if I thought her so near--[what word shall I use, that mysoul is not shocked at!] and that she would be too much discomposed by avisit, I would not think of it. --Yet how can I bear the recollection, that, when she last went from me (her innocence so triumphant over mypremeditated guilt, as was enough to reconcile her to life, and to sether above the sense of injuries so nobly sustained, that) she should thendepart with an incurable fracture in her heart; and that that should bethe last time I should ever see her!--How, how, can I bear thisreflection!

O Jack! how my conscience, that gives edge even to thy blunt reflections, tears me!--Even this moment would I give the world to push the cruelreproacher from me by one ray of my usual gayety!--Sick of myself!--sickof the remembrance of my vile plots; and of my light, my momentaryecstacy [villanous burglar, felon, thief, that I was!] which has broughton me such durable and such heavy remorse! what would I give that I hadnot been guilty of such barbarous and ungrateful perfidy to the mostexcellent of God's creatures!

I would end, methinks, with one sprightlier line!--but it will not be. --Let me tell thee then, and rejoice at it if thou wilt, that I am

Inexpressibly miserable!

LETTER LI

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. SAT. MORNING, SEPT. 2. 

I have some little pleasure given me by thine, just now brought me. Isee now that thou hast a little humanity left. Would to Heaven, for thedear lady's sake, as well as for thy own, that thou hadst rummaged it upfrom all the dark forgotten corners of thy soul a little sooner!

The lady is alive, and serene, and calm, and has all her noble intellectsclear and strong: but nineteen will not however save her. She says shewill now content herself with her closet duties, and the visits of theparish-minister; and will not attempt to go out. Nor, indeed, will she, I am afraid, ever walk up or down a pair of stairs again. 

I am sorry at my soul to have this to say: but it would be a folly toflatter thee. 

As to thy seeing her, I believe the least hint of that sort, now, wouldcut off some hours of her life. 

What has contributed to her serenity, it seems, is, that taking the alarmher fits gave her, she has entirely finished, and signed and sealed, herlast will: which she had deferred till this time, in hopes, as she said, of some good news from Harlowe-place; which would have induced her toalter some passages in it. 

Miss Howe's letter was not given her till four in the afternoon, yesterday; at which time the messenger returned for an answer. Sheadmitted him into her presence in the dining-room, ill as she then was, and she would have written a few lines, as desired by Miss Howe; but, notbeing able to hold a pen, she bid the messenger tell her that she hopedto be well enough to write a long letter by the next day's post; andwould not now detain him. 

***

SATURDAY, SIX IN THE AFTERNOON. 

I called just now, and found the lady writing to Miss Howe. She made mea melancholy compliment, that she showed me not Miss Howe's letter, because I should soon have that and all her papers before me. But shetold me that Miss Howe had very considerably obviated to Colonel Mordenseveral things which might have occasioned misapprehensions between himand me; and had likewise put a lighter construction, for the sake ofpeace, on some of your actions than they deserved. 

She added, that her cousin Morden was warmly engaged in her favour withher friends: and one good piece of news Miss Howe's letter contained, that her father would give up some matters, which (appertaining to her ofright) would make my executorship the easier in some particulars that hadgiven her a little pain. 

She owned she had been obliged to leave off (in the letter she waswriting) through weakness. 

Will. Says he shall reach you to-night. I shall send in the morning;and, if I find her not worse, will ride to Edgware, and return in theafternoon. 

LETTER LII

MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWETUESDAY, AUG. 29. 

MY DEAREST FRIEND, We are at length returned to our own home. I had intended to wait on youin London: but my mother is very ill--Alas! my dear, she is very illindeed--and you are likewise very ill--I see that by your's of the 25th--What shall I do, if I lose two such near, and dear, and tender friends?She was taken ill yesterday at our last stage in our return home--and hasa violent surfeit and fever, and the doctors are doubtful about her. 

If she should die, how will all my pertnesses to her fly in my face!--Why, why, did I ever vex her? She says I have been all duty andobedience!--She kindly forgets all my faults, and remembers every thing Ihave been so happy as to oblige her in. And this cuts me to the heart. 

I see, I see, my dear, that you are very bad--and I cannot bear it. Do, my beloved Miss Harlowe, if you can be better, do, for my sake, bebetter; and send me word of it. Let the bearer bring me a line. Be sureyou send me a line. If I lose you, my more than sister, and lose mymother, I shall distrust my own conduct, and will not marry. And whyshould I?--Creeping, cringing in courtship!--O my dear, these men are avile race of reptiles in our day, and mere bears in their own. See inLovelace all that is desirable in figure, in birth, and in fortune: butin his heart a devil!--See in Hickman--Indeed, my dear, I cannot tellwhat any body can see in Hickman, to be always preaching in his favour. And is it to be expected that I, who could hardly bear control from amother, should take it from a husband?--from one too, who has neithermore wit, nor more understanding, than myself? yet he to be myinstructor!--So he will, I suppose; but more by the insolence of his willthan by the merit of his counsel. It is in vain to think of it. Icannot be a wife to any man breathing whom I at present know. This I therather mention now, because, on my mother's danger, I know you will befor pressing me the sooner to throw myself into another sort ofprotection, should I be deprived of her. But no more of this subject, orindeed of any other; for I am obliged to attend my mamma, who cannot bearme out of her sight. 

***

WEDNESDAY, AUG. 30. 

My mother, Heaven be praised! has had a fine night, and is much better. Her fever has yielded to medicine! and now I can write once more withfreedom and ease to you, in hopes that you also are better. If this begranted to my prayers, I shall again be happy, I writhe with still themore alacrity as I have an opportunity given me to touch upon a subjectin which you are nearly concerned. 

You must know then, my dear, that your cousin Morden has been here withme. He told me of an interview he had on Monday at Lord M. 's withLovelace; and asked me abundance of questions about you, and about thatvillanous man. 

I could have raised a fine flame between them if I would: but, observingthat he is a man of very lively passions, and believing you would bemiserable if any thing should happen to him from a quarrel with a man whois known to have so many advantages at his sword, I made not the worst ofthe subjects we talked of. But, as I could not tell untruths in hisfavour, you must think I said enough to make him curse the wretch. 

I don't find, well as they all used to respect Colonel Morden, that hehas influence enough upon them to bring them to any terms ofreconciliation. 

What can they mean by it!--But your brother is come home, it seems: so, the honour of the house, the reputation of the family, is all the cry!

The Colonel is exceedingly out of humour with them all. Yet has he nothitherto, it seems, seen your brutal brother. --I told him how ill youwere, and communicated to him some of the contents of your letter. Headmired you, cursed Lovelace, and raved against all your family. --Hedeclared that they were all unworthy of you. 

At his earnest request, I permitted him to take some brief notes of suchof the contents of your letter to me as I thought I could read to him;and, particularly, of your melancholy conclusion. *

* See Letter XXXII. Of this volume. 

He says that none of your friends think you are so ill as you are; norwill believe it. He is sure they all love you; and that dearly too. 

If they do, their present hardness of heart will be the subject ofeverlasting remorse to them should you be taken from us--but now it seems[barbarous wretches!] you are to suffer within an inch of your life. 

He asked me questions about Mr. Belford: and, when he had heard what Ihad to say of that gentleman, and his disinterested services to you, heraved at some villanous surmises thrown out against you by that officiouspedant, Brand: who, but for his gown, I find, would come off poorly enoughbetween your cousin and Lovelace. 

He was so uneasy about you himself, that on Thursday, the 24th, he sentup an honest serious man, * one Alston, a gentleman farmer, to inquire ofyour condition, your visiters, and the like; who brought him word thatyou was very ill, and was put to great straits to support yourself: butas this was told him by the gentlewoman of the house where you lodge, who, it seems, mingled it with some tart, though deserved, reflectionsupon your relations' cruelty, it was not credited by them: and I myselfhope it cannot be true; for surely you could not be so unjust, I willsay, to my friendship, as to suffer any inconveniencies for want ofmoney. I think I could not forgive you, if it were so. 

* See Letter XXIII. Ibid. 

The Colonel (as one of your trustees) is resolved to see you put intopossession of your estate: and, in the mean time, he has actually engagedthem to remit to him for you the produce of it accrued since yourgrandfather's death, (a very considerable sum;) and proposes himself toattend you with it. But, by a hint he dropt, I find you had disappointedsome people's littleness, by not writing to them for money and supplies;since they were determined to distress you, and to put you at defiance. 

Like all the rest!--I hope I may say that without offence. 

Your cousin imagines that, before a reconciliation takes place, they willinsist that you make such a will, as to that estate, as they shallapprove of: but he declares that he will not go out of England till hehas seen justice done you by every body; and that you shall not beimposed on either by friend or foe--

By relation or foe, should he not have said?--for a friend will notimpose upon a friend. 

So, my dear, you are to buy your peace, if some people are to have theirwills!

Your cousin [not I, my dear, though it was always my opinion*] says, thatthe whole family is too rich to be either humble, considerate, orcontented. And as for himself, he has an ample fortune, he says, andthinks of leaving it wholly to you. 

* See Vol. I. Letter X. 

Had this villain Lovelace consulted his worldly interest only, what afortune would he have had in you, even although your marrying him haddeprived you of a paternal share!

I am obliged to leave off here. But having a good deal still more towrite, and my mother better, I will pursue the subject in another letter, although I send both together. I need not say how much I am, and willever be, Your affectionate, &c. ANNA HOWE. 

LETTER LIII

MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWETHURSDAY, AUGUST 31. 

The Colonel thought fit once, in praise of Lovelace's generosity, to say, that (as a man of honour ought) he took to himself all the blame, andacquitted you of the consequences of the precipitate step you had taken;since he said, as you loved him, and was in his power, he must have hadadvantages which he would not have had, if you had continued at yourfather's, or at any friend's. 

Mighty generous, I said, (were it as he supposed, ) in such insolentreflectors, the best of them; who pretend to clear reputations whichnever had been sullied but by falling into their dirty acquaintance! butin this case, I averred, that there was no need of any thing but thestrictest truth, to demonstrate Lovelace to be the blackest of villains, you the brightest of innocents. 

This he catched at; and swore, that if any thing uncommon or barbarous inthe seduction were to come out, as indeed one of the letters you hadwritten to your friends, and which had been shown him, very stronglyimplied; that is to say, my dear, if any thing worse than perjury, breachof faith, and abuse of a generous confidence, were to appear! [sorryfellows!] he would avenge his cousin to the utmost. 

I urged your apprehensions on this head from your last letter to me: buthe seemed capable of taking what I know to be real greatness of soul, inan unworthy sense: for he mentioned directly upon it the expectationsyour friends had, that you should (previous to any reconciliation withthem) appear in a court of justice against the villain--IF you could doit with the advantage to yourself that I hinted might be done. 

And truly, if I would have heard him, he had indelicacy enough to havegone into the nature of the proof of the crime upon which they wanted tohave Lovelace arraigned. Yet this is a man improved by travel andlearning!--Upon my word, my dear, I, who have been accustomed to the mostdelicate conversation ever since I had the honour to know you, despisethis sex from the gentleman down to the peasant. 

Upon the whole, I find that Mr. Morden has a very slender notion ofwomen's virtue in particular cases: for which reason I put him down, though your favourite, as one who is not entitled to cast the firststone. 

I never knew a man who deserved to be well thought of himself for hismorals, who had a slight opinion of the virtue of our sex in general. For if, from the difference of temperament and education, modesty, chastity, and piety too, are not to be found in our sex preferably tothe other, I should think it a sign of much worse nature in ours. 

He even hinted (as from your relations indeed) that it is impossiblebut there most be some will where there is much love. 

These sort of reflections are enough to make a woman, who has at hearther own honour and the honour of her sex, to look about her, and considerwhat she is doing when she enters into an intimacy with these wretches;since it is plain, that whenever she throws herself into the power of aman, and leaves for him her parents or guardians, every body will believeit to be owing more to her good luck than to her discretion if there benot an end of her virtue: and let the man be ever such a villain to her, she must take into her own bosom a share of his guilty baseness. 

I am writing to general cases. You, my dear, are out of the question. Your story, as I have heretofore said, will afford a warning as well asan example:* For who is it that will not infer, that if a person of yourfortune, character, and merit, could not escape ruin, after she had putherself into the power of her hyæna, what can a thoughtless, fond, giddycreature expect?

* See Vol. IV. Letter XXIII. 

Every man, they will say, is not a LOVELACE--True: but then, neither isevery woman a CLARISSA. And allow for the one and for the other theexample must be of general use. 

I prepared Mr. Morden to expect your appointment of Mr. Belford for anoffice that we both hope he will have no occasion to act in (nor any bodyelse) for many, very many years to come. He was at first startled at it:but, upon hearing such of your reasons as had satisfied me, he only saidthat such an appointment, were it to take place, would exceedingly affecthis other cousins. 

He told me, he had a copy of Lovelace's letter to you, imploring yourpardon, and offering to undergo any penance to procure it;* and also ofyour answer to it. **

* See Vol. VII. Letter LXXIX. ** Ibid. Letter LXXXIII. 

I find he is willing to hope that a marriage between you may still takeplace; which, he says, will heal up all breaches. 

I would have written much more--on the following particulars especially;to wit, of the wretched man's hunting you out of your lodgings: of yourrelations' strange implacableness, [I am in haste, and cannot think of aword you would like better just now:] of your last letter to Lovelace, todivert him from pursuing you: of your aunt Hervey's penitentialconversation with Mrs. Norton: of Mr. Wyerley's renewed address: of yourlessons to me in Hickman's behalf, so approvable, were the man more sothan he is; but indeed I am offended with him at this instant, and havebeen for these two days: of your sister's transportation-project: and oftwenty and twenty other things: but am obliged to leave off, to attend mytwo cousins Spilsworth, and my cousin Herbert, who are come to visit uson account of my mother's illness--I will therefore dispatch these byRogers; and if my mother gets well soon (as I hope she will) I amresolved to see you in town, and tell you every thing that now is upon mymind; and particularly, mingling my soul with your's, how much I am, andwill ever be, my dearest, dear friend, Your affectionateANNA HOWE. 

Let Rogers bring one line, I pray you. I thought to have sent him this afternoon; but he cannot set out till to-morrow morning early. 

I cannot express how much your staggering lines and your conclusion affect me!

LETTER LIV

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. SUNDAY EVENING, SEPT. 3. 

I wonder not at the impatience your servant tells me you express to hearfrom me. I was designing to write you a long letter, and was justreturned from Smith's for that purpose; but, since you are urgent, youmust be contented with a short one. 

I attended the lady this morning, just before I set out for Edgware. Shewas so ill over-night, that she was obliged to leave unfinished herletter to Miss Howe. But early this morning she made an end of it, andjust sealed it up as I came. She was so fatigued with writing, that shetold me she would lie down after I was gone, and endeavour to recruit herspirits. 

They had sent for Mr. Goddard, when she was so ill last night; and notbeing able to see him out of her own chamber, he, for the first time, sawher house, as she calls it. He was extremely shocked and concerned atit; and chid Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Lovick for not persuading her to havesuch an object removed form her bed-chamber: and when they excusedthemselves on the little authority it was reasonable to suppose they musthave with a lady so much their superior, he reflected warmly on those whohad more authority, and who left her to proceed with such a shocking andsolemn whimsy, as he called it. 

It is placed near the window, like a harpsichord, though covered over tothe ground: and when she is so ill that she cannot well go to her closet, she writes and reads upon it, as others would upon a desk or table. But(only as she was so ill last night) she chooses not to see any body inthat apartment. 

I went to Edgware; and, returning in the evening, attended her again. She had a letter brought her from Mrs. Norton (a long one, as it seems byits bulk, ) just before I came. But she had not opened it; and said, thatas she was pretty calm and composed, she was afraid to look into thecontents, lest she should be ruffled; expecting now to hear of nothingthat could do her good or give her pleasure from that good woman's dearhard-hearted neighbours, as she called her own relations. 

Seeing her so weak and ill, I withdrew; nor did she desire me to tarry, as sometimes she does, when I make a motion to depart. 

I had some hints, as I went away, from Mrs. Smith, that she hadappropriated that evening to some offices, that were to save trouble, asshe called it, after her departure; and had been giving orders to hernurse, and to Mrs. Lovick, and Mrs. Smith, about what she would have donewhen she was gone; and I believe they were of a very delicate andaffecting nature; but Mrs. Smith descended not to particulars. 

The doctor had been with her, as well as Mr. Goddard; and they bothjoined with great earnestness to persuade her to have her house removedout of her sight; but she assured them that it gave her pleasure andspirits; and, being a necessary preparation, she wondered they should besurprised at it, when she had not any of her family about her, or any oldacquaintance, on whose care and exactness in these punctilios, as shecalled them, she could rely. 

The doctor told Mrs. Smith, that he believed she would hold out longenough for any of her friends to have notice of her state, and to seeher; and hardly longer; and since he could not find that she had anycertainty of seeing her cousin Morden, (which made it plain that herrelations continued inflexible, ) he would go home, and write a letter toher father, take it as she would. 

She had spent great part of the day in intense devotions; and to-morrowmorning she is to have with her the same clergyman who has often attendedher; from whose hands she will again receive the sacrament. 

Thou seest, Lovelace, that all is preparing, that all will be ready; andI am to attend her to-morrow afternoon, to take some instructions fromher in relation to my part in the office to be performed for her. Andthus, omitting the particulars of a fine conversation between her andMrs. Lovick, which the latter acquainted me with, as well as anotherbetween her and the doctor and apothecary, which I had a design thisevening to give you, they being of a very affecting nature, I haveyielded to your impatience. 

 I shall dispatch Harry to-morrow morning early with her letter to Miss Howe: an offer she took very kindly; as she is extremely solicitous to lessen that young lady's apprehensions for her on not hearing from her by Saturday's post: and yet, if she write truth, as no doubt but she will, how can her apprehensions be lessened?

LETTER LV

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWESATURDAY, SEPT. 2. 

I write, my beloved Miss Howe, though very ill still: but I could not bythe return of your messenger; for I was then unable to hold a pen. 

Your mother's illness (as mentioned in the first part of your letter, )gave me great distress for you, till I read farther. You bewailed it asbecame a daughter so sensible. May you be blessed in each other formany, very many years to come! I doubt not, that even this sudden andgrievous indisposition, by the frame it has put you in, and theapprehension it has given you of losing so dear a mother, will contributeto the happiness I wish you: for, alas! my dear, we seldom know how tovalue the blessings we enjoy, till we are in danger of losing them, orhave actually lost them: and then, what would we give to have themrestored to us!

What, I wonder, has again happened between you and Mr. Hickman? AlthoughI know not, I dare say it is owing to some petty petulance, to somehalf-ungenerous advantage taken of his obligingness and assiduity. Willyou never, my dear, give the weight you and all our sex ought to give tothe qualities of sobriety and regularity of life and manners in that sex?Must bold creatures, and forward spirits, for ever, and by the best andwisest of us, as well as by the indiscreetest, be the most kindlytreated?

My dear friends know not that I have actually suffered within less thanan inch of my life. 

Poor Mr. Brand! he meant well, I believe. I am afraid all will turnheavily upon him, when he probably imagined that he was taking the bestmethod to oblige. But were he not to have been so light of belief, andso weakly officious; and had given a more favourable, and, it would bestrange if I could not say, a juster report; things would have been, nevertheless, exactly as they are. 

I must lay down my pen. I am very ill. I believe I shall be betterby-and-by. The bad writing would betray me, although I had a mind tokeep from you what the event must soon--

***

Now I resume my trembling pen. Excuse the unsteady writing. It willbe so--

I have wanted no money: so don't be angry about such a trifle as money. Yet I am glad of what you inclined me to hope, that my friends will giveup the produce of my grandfather's estate since it has been in theirhands: because, knowing it to be my right, and that they could not wantit, I had already disposed of a good part of it; and could only hope theywould be willing to give it up at my last request. And now how richshall I think myself in this my last stage!--And yet I did not wantbefore--indeed I did not--for who, that has many superfluities, can besaid to want!

Do not, my dear friend, be concerned that I call it my last stage; Forwhat is even the long life which in high health we wish for? What, but, as we go along, a life of apprehension, sometimes for our friends, oftener for ourselves? And at last, when arrived at the old age wecovet, one heavy loss or deprivation having succeeded another, we seeourselves stript, as I may say, of every one we loved; and find ourselvesexposed, as uncompanionable poor creatures, to the slights, to thecontempts, of jostling youth, who want to push us off the stage, in hopesto possess what we have:--and, superadded to all, our own infirmitiesevery day increasing: of themselves enough to make the life we wished forthe greatest disease of all! Don't you remember the lines of Howard, which once you read to me in my ivy-bower?*

* These are the lines the lady refers to:

 From death we rose to life: 'tis but the same, Through life to pass again from whence we came. With shame we see our PASSIONS can prevail, Where reason, certainty, and virtue fail. HONOUR, that empty name, can death despise; | SCORN'D LOVE to death, as to a refuge, flies; | And SORROW waits for death with longing eyes. | HOPE triumphs o'er the thoughts of death; and FATE Cheats fools, and flatters the unfortunate. We fear to lose, what a small time must waste, Till life itself grows the disease at last. Begging for life, we beg for more decay, And to be long a dying only pray. 

In the disposition of what belongs to me, I have endeavoured to do everything in the justest and best manner I could think of; putting myself inmy relations' places, and, in the greater points, ordering my matters asif no misunderstanding had happened. 

I hope they will not think much of some bequests where wanted, and wheredue from my gratitude: but if they should, what is done, is done; and Icannot now help it. Yet I must repeat, that I hope, I hope, I havepleased every one of them. For I would not, on any account, have itthought that, in my last disposition, any thing undaughterly, unsisterly, or unlike a kinswoman, should have had place in a mind that is a trulyfree (as I will presume to say) from all resentment, that it nowoverflows with gratitude and blessings for the good I have received, although it be not all that my heart wished to receive. Were it even anhardship that I was not favoured with more, what is it but an hardshipof half a year, against the most indulgent goodness of eighteen years andan half, that ever was shown to a daughter?

My cousin, you tell me, thinks I was off my guard, and that I was takenat some advantage. Indeed, my dear, I was not. Indeed I gave no roomfor advantage to be taken of me. I hope, one day, that will be seen, ifI have the justice done me which Mr. Belford assures me of. 

I should hope that my cousin has not taken the liberties which you (by anobservation not, in general, unjust) seem to charge him with. For it issad to think, that the generality of that sex should make so light ofcrimes, which they justly hold so unpardonable in their own most intimaterelations of our's--yet cannot commit them without doing such injuries toother families as they think themselves obliged to resent unto death, when offered to their own. 

But we women are to often to blame on this head; since the most virtuousamong us seldom make virtue the test of their approbation of the othersex; insomuch that a man may glory in his wickedness of this sort withoutbeing rejected on that account, even to the faces of women ofunquestionable virtue. Hence it is, that a libertine seldom thinkshimself concerned so much as to save appearances: And what is it not thatour sex suffers in their opinion on this very score? And what have I, more than many others, to answer for on this account in the world's eye?

May my story be a warning to all, how they prefer a libertine to a man oftrue honour; and how they permit themselves to be misled (where they meanthe best) by the specious, yet foolish hope of subduing riveted habits, and, as I may say, of altering natures!--The more foolish, as constantexperience might convince us, that there is hardly one in ten, of eventolerably happy marriages, in which the wife keeps the hold in thehusband's affections, which she had in the lover's. What influence thencan she hope to have over the morals of an avowed libertine, who marriesperhaps for conveniency, who despises the tie, and whom, it is tooprobable, nothing but old age, or sickness, or disease, (the consequenceof ruinous riot, ) can reclaim?

I am very glad you gave my cous--

SUNDAY MORNING, SEPT. 3, SIX O'CLOCK. 

Hither I had written, and was forced to quit my pen. And so much weakerand worse I grew, that had I resumed it, to have closed here, it musthave been with such trembling unsteadiness, that it would have given youmore concern for me, than the delay of sending it away by last night'spost can do. I deferred it, therefore, to see how it would please God todeal with me. And I find myself, after a better night than I expected, lively and clear; and hope to give a proof that I do, in the continuationof my letter, which I will pursue as currently as if I had not left off. 

I am glad that you so considerately gave my cousin Morden favourableimpressions of Mr. Belford; since, otherwise, some misunderstanding mighthave happened between them: for although I hope this Mr. Belford is analtered man, and in time will be a reformed one, yet is he one of thosehigh spirits that has been accustomed to resent imaginary indignities tohimself, when, I believe, he has not been studious to avoid giving realoffences to others; men of this cast acting as if they thought all theworld was made to bar with them, and they with nobody in it. 

Mr. Lovelace, you tell me, thought fit to intrust my cousin with the copyof his letter of penitence to me, and with my answer to it, rejecting himand his suit: and Mr. Belford, moreover, acquaints me, how much concernedMr. Lovelace is for his baseness, and how freely he accused himself to mycousin. This shows, that the true bravery of spirit is to be above doinga vile action; and that nothing subjects the human mind to so muchmeanness, as the consciousness of having done wilful wrong to our fellowcreatures. How low, how sordid, are the submissions which elaboratebaseness compels! that that wretch could treat me as he did, and thencould so poorly creep to me for forgiveness of crimes so wilful, soblack, and so premeditated! how my soul despised him for his meanness ona certain occasion, of which you will one day be informed!* and him whoseactions one's heart despises, it is far from being difficult to reject, had one ever so partially favoured him once. 

* Meaning his meditated second violence (See Vol. VI. Letter XXXVI. ) andhis succeeding letters to her, supplicating for her pardon. 

Yet am I glad this violent spirit can thus creep; that, like a poisonousserpent, he can thus coil himself, and hide his head in his own narrowcirclets; because this stooping, this abasement, gives me hope that nofarther mischief will ensue. 

All my apprehension is, what may happen when I am gone; lest then mycousin, or any other of my family, should endeavour to avenge me, andrisk their own more precious lives on that account. 

If that part of Cain's curse were Mr. Lovelace's, to be a fugitive andvagabond in the earth; that is to say, if it meant no more harm to himthan that he should be obliged to travel, as it seems he intends, (thoughI wish him no ill in his travels;) and I could know it; then should I beeasy in the hoped-for safety of my friends from his skilful violence--Oh!that I could hear he was a thousand miles off!

When I began this letter, I did not think I could have run to such alength. But 'tis to YOU, my dearest friend, and you have a title to thespirits you raise and support; for they are no longer mine, and willsubside the moment I cease writing to you. 

But what do you bid me hope for, when you tell me that, if your mother'shealth will permit, you will see me in town? I hope your mother's healthwill be perfected as you wish; but I dare not promise myself so great afavour; so great a blessing, I will call it--and indeed I know not if Ishould be able to bear it now!

Yet one comfort it is in your power to give me; and that is, let me know, and very speedily it must be, if you wish to oblige me, that all mattersare made up between you and Mr. Hickman; to whom, I see, you areresolved, with all your bravery of spirit, to owe a multitude ofobligations for his patience with your flightiness. Think of this, mydear proud friend! and think, likewise, of what I have often told you, that PRIDE, in man or woman, is an extreme that hardly ever fails, sooneror later, to bring forth its mortifying CONTRARY. 

May you, my dear Miss Howe, have no discomforts but what you make toyourself! as it will be in your own power to lessen such as these, theyought to be your punishment if you do not. There is no such thing asperfect happiness here, since the busy mind will make to itself evils, were it to find none. You will, therefore, pardon this limited wish, strange as it may appear, till you consider it: for to wish you noinfelicity, either within or without you, were to wish you what can neverhappen in this world; and what perhaps ought not to be wished for, if bya wish one could give one's friend such an exemption; since we are not tolive here always. 

We must not, in short, expect that our roses will grow without thorns:but then they are useful and instructive thorns: which, by pricking thefingers of the too-hasty plucker, teach future caution. And who knowsnot that difficulty gives poignancy to our enjoyments; which are apt tolose their relish with us when they are over easily obtained?

I must conclude--

God for ever bless you, and all you love and honour, and reward you hereand hereafter for your kindness to

Your ever obliged and affectionateCLARISSA HARLOWE. 

LETTER LVI

MRS. NORTON, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE[IN ANSWER TO HER'S OF THURSDAY, AUGUST 24. SEE LETTER XXX. OF THISVOLUME. ]THURSDAY, AUG. 31. 

I had written sooner, my dearest young lady, but that I have beenendeavouring, ever since the receipt of your last letter, to obtain aprivate audience of your mother, in hopes of leave to communicate it toher. But last night I was surprised by an invitation to breakfast atHarlowe-place this morning; and the chariot came early to fetch me--anhonour I did not expect. 

When I came, I found there was to be a meeting of all your family withCol. Morden, at Harlowe-place; and it was proposed by your mother, andconsented to, that I should be present. Your cousin, I understand, hadwith difficulty brought this meeting to bear; for your brother had beforeindustriously avoided all conversation with him on the affecting subject;urging that it was not necessary to talk to Mr. Morden upon it, who, being a remoter relation than themselves, had no business to make himselfa judge of their conduct to their daughter, their niece, and theirsister; especially as he had declared himself in her favour; adding, thathe should hardly have patience to be questioned by Mr. Morden on thathead. 

I was in hopes that your mother would have given me an opportunity oftalking with her alone before the company met; but she seemed studiouslyto avoid it; I dare say, however, not with her inclination. 

I was ordered in just before Mr. Morden came; and was bid to sit down--which I did in the window. 

The Colonel, when he came, began the discourse, by renewing, as he calledit, his solicitations in your favour. He set before them your penitence;your ill health; your virtue, though once betrayed, and basely used; hethen read to them Mr. Lovelace's letter, a most contrite one indeed, * andyour high-souled answer;** for that was what he justly called it; and hetreated as it deserved Mr. Brand's officious information, (of which I hadbefore heard he had made them ashamed, ) by representations founded uponinquiries made by Mr. Alston, *** whom he had procured to go up on purposeto acquaint himself with your manner of life, and what was meant by thevisits of that Mr. Belford. 

* See Vol. VII. LXXIX. ** Ibid. Letter LXXXIII. *** See Vol. VIII. Letter XXIII. 

He then told them, that he had the day before waited upon Miss Howe, andhad been shown a letter from you to her, * and permitted to take somememorandums from it, in which you appeared, both by handwriting, and thecontents, to be so very ill, that it seemed doubtful to him, if it werepossible for you to get over it. And when he read to them that passage, where you ask Miss Howe, 'What can be done for you now, were your friendsto be ever so favourable? and wish for their sakes, more than for yourown, that they would still relent;' and then say, 'You are very ill--youmust drop your pen--and ask excuse for your crooked writing; and take, asit were, a last farewell of Miss Howe;--adieu, my dear, adieu, ' are yourwords--

* Ibid. Letter XXXIII. 

O my child! my child! said you mamma, weeping, and clasping her hands. 

Dear Madam, said your brother, be so good as to think you have morechildren than this ungrateful one. 

Yet your sister seemed affected. 

Your uncle Harlowe, wiping his eyes, O cousin, said he, if one thoughtthe poor girl was really so ill--

She must, said your uncle Antony. This is written to her private friend. God forbid she should be quite lost!

Your uncle Harlowe wished they did not carry their resentments too far. 

I begged for God's sake, wringing my hands, and with a bended knee, thatthey would permit me to go up to you; engaging to give them a faithfulaccount of the way you were in. But I was chidden by your brother; andthis occasioned some angry words between him and Mr. Morden. 

I believe, Sir, I believe, Madam, said your sister to her father andmother, we need not trouble my cousin to read any more. It does butgrieve and disturb you. My sister Clary seems to be ill: I think, ifMrs. Norton were permitted to go up to her, it would be right; wickedlyas she has acted, if she be truly penitent--

Here she stopt; and every one being silent, I stood up once more, andbesought them to let me go; and then I offered to read a passage or twoin your letter to me of the 24th. But I was taken up again by yourbrother, and this occasioned still higher words between the Colonel andhim. 

Your mother, hoping to gain upon your inflexible brother, and to divertthe anger of the two gentlemen from each other, proposed that the Colonelshould proceed in reading the minutes he had taken from your letter. 

He accordingly read, 'of your resuming your pen; that you thought you hadtaken your last farewell; and the rest of that very affecting passage, inwhich you are obliged to break off more than once, and afterwards to takean airing in a chair. ' Your brother and sister were affected at this;and he had recourse to his snuff-box. And where you comfort Miss Howe, and say, 'You shall be happy;' It is more, said he, than she will let anybody else be. 

Your sister called you sweet soul! but with a low voice: then grewhard-hearted again; set said [sic], Nobody could help being affected byyour pathetic grief--but that it was your talent. 

The Colonel then went on to the good effect your airing had upon you; toyour good wishes to Miss Howe and Mr. Hickman; and to your concludingsentence, that when the happy life you wished to her comes to be woundup, she may be as calm and as easy at quitting it, as you hope in God youshall be. Your mother could not stand this; but retired to a corner ofthe room, and sobbed, and wept. Your father for a few minutes could notspeak, though he seemed inclined to say something. 

Your uncles were also both affected; but your brother went round to each, and again reminded your mother that she had other children. --What wasthere, he said, in what was read, but the result of the talent you had ofmoving the passions? And he blamed them for choosing to hear read whatthey knew their abused indulgence could not be a proof against. 

This set Mr. Morden up again--Fie upon you, Cousin Harlowe, said he, Isee plainly to whom it is owing that all relationship and ties of blood, with regard to this sweet sufferer, are laid aside. Such rigours asthese make it difficult for a sliding virtue ever to recover itself. 

Your brother pretended the honour of the family; and declared, that nochild ought to be forgiven who abandoned the most indulgent of parentsagainst warning, against the light of knowledge, as you had done. 

But, Sir, and Ladies, said I, rising from the seat in the window, andhumbly turning round to each, if I may be permitted to speak, my dearMiss asks only for a blessing. She does not beg to be received tofavour; she is very ill, and asks only for a last blessing. 

Come, come, good Norton, [I need not tell you who said this, ] you areup again with your lamentables!--A good woman, as you are, to forgiveso readily a crime, that has been as disgraceful to your part in hereducation as to her family, is a weakness that would induce one tosuspect your virtue, if you were to be encountered by a temptationproperly adapted. 

By some such charitable logic, said Mr. Morden, as this, is my cousinArabella captivated, I doubt not. If virtue, you, Mr. James Harlowe, are the most virtuous young man in the world. 

I knew how it would be, replied your brother, in a passion, if I met Mr. Morden upon this business. I would have declined it; but you, Sir, tohis father, would not permit me to do so. 

But, Sir, turning to the Colonel, in no other presence----

Then, Cousin James, interrupted the other gentleman, that which is yourprotection, it seems, is mine. I am not used to bear defiances thus--you are my Cousin, Sir, and the son and nephew of persons as dear as nearto me--There he paused--

Are we, said your father, to be made still more unhappy among ourselves, when the villain lives that ought to be the object of every one'sresentment who has either a value for the family, or for this ungratefulgirl?

That's the man, said your cousin, whom last Monday, as you know, I wentpurposely to make the object of mine. But what could I say, when I foundhim so willing to repair his crime?--And I give it as my opinion, andhave written accordingly to my poor cousin, that it is best for all roundthat his offer should be accepted; and let me tell you--

Tell me nothing, said your father, quite enraged, or that very vilefellow! I have a rivetted hatred to him. I would rather see the rebeldie an hundred deaths, were it possible, than that she should give such avillain as him a relation to my family. 

Well, but there is no room to think, said you mother, that she will giveus such a relation, my dear. The poor girl will lessen, I fear, thenumber of our relations not increase it. If she be so ill as we are toldshe is, let us send Mrs. Norton up to her. --That's the least we can do--let us take her, however, out of the hands of that Belford. 

Both your uncles supported this motion; the latter part of it especially. 

Your brother observed, in his ill-natured way, what a fine piece ofconsistency it was in you to refuse the vile injurer, and the amends heoffered; yet to throw yourself upon the protection of his fast friend. 

Miss Harlowe was apprehensive, she said, that you would leave all youcould leave to that pert creature, Miss Howe, [so she called her, ] if youshould die. 

O do not, do not suppose that, my Bella, said your poor mother. I cannotthink of parting with my Clary--with all her faults, she is my child--herreasons for her conduct are not heard--it would break my heart to loseher. --I think, my dear, to your father, none so fit as I to go up, if youwill give me leave, and Mrs. Norton shall accompany me. 

This was a sweet motion, and your father paused upon it. Mr. Mordenoffered his service to escort her; your uncles seemed to approve of it;but your brother dashed all. I hope, Sir, said he, to his father--Ihope, Madam, to his mother--that you will not endeavour to recover afaulty daughter by losing an unculpable son. I do declare, that if evermy sister Clary darkens these doors again, I never will. I will set out, Madam, the same hour you go to London, (on such an errand, ) to Edinburgh;and there I will reside, and try to forget that I have relations inEngland, so near and so dear as you are now all to me. 

Good God, said the Colonel, what a declaration is this! And suppose, Sir, and suppose, Madam, [turning to your father and mother, ] this shouldbe the case, whether it is better, think you, that you should lose forever such a daughter as my cousin Clary, or that your son should go toEdinburgh, and reside there upon an estate which will be the better forhis residence upon it?--

Your brother's passionate behaviour hereupon is hardly to be described. He resented it as promising an alienation of the affection of the familyto him. And to such an height were resentments carried, every one sidingwith him, that the Colonel, with hands and eyes lifted up, cried out, What hearts of flint am I related to!--O, Cousin Harlowe, to your father, are you resolved to have but one daughter?--Are you, Madam, to be taught, by a son, who has no bowels, to forget you are a mother?

The Colonel turned from them to draw out his handkerchief, and could notfor a minute speak. The eyes of every one, but the hard-hearted brother, caught tears from his. 

But then turning to them, (with the more indignation, as it seemed, as hehad been obliged to show a humanity, which, however, no brave heartshould be ashamed of, ) I leave ye all, said he, fit company for oneanother. I will never open my lips to any of you more upon this subject. I will instantly make my will, and in me shall the dear creature have thefather, uncle, brother, she has lost. I will prevail upon her to takethe tour of France and Italy with me; nor shall she return till ye knowthe value of such a daughter. 

And saying this, he hurried out of the room, went into the court-yard, and ordered his horse. 

Mr. Antony Harlowe went to him there, just as he was mounting, and saidhe hoped he should find him cooler in the evening, (for he, till then, had lodged at his house, ) and that then they would converse calmly, andevery one, mean time, would weigh all matters well. --But the angrygentleman said, Cousin Harlowe, I shall endeavour to discharge theobligations I owe to your civility since I have been in England; but Ihave been so treated by that hot-headed young man, (who, as far as Iknow, has done more to ruin his sister than Lovelace himself, and thiswith the approbation of you all, ) that I will not again enter into yourdoors, or theirs. My servants shall have orders whither to bring whatbelongs to me from your house. I will see my dear cousin Clary as soonas I can. And so God bless you altogether!--only this one word to yournephew, if you please--That he wants to be taught the difference betweencourage and bluster; and it is happy for him, perhaps, that I am hiskinsman; though I am sorry he is mine. 

I wondered to hear your uncle, on his return to them all, repeat this;because of the consequences it may be attended with, though I hope itwill not have bad ones; yet it was considered as a sort of challenge, andso it confirmed every body in your brother's favour; and Miss Harloweforgot not to inveigh against that error which had brought on all theseevils. 

I took the liberty again, but with fear and trembling, to desire leave toattend you. 

Before any other person could answer, your brother said, I suppose youlook upon yourself, Mrs. Norton, to be your own mistress. Pray do youwant our consents and courtship to go up?--If I may speak my mind, youand my sister Clary are the fittest to be together. --Yet I wish you wouldnot trouble your head about our family matters, till you are desired todo so. 

But don't you know, brother, said Miss Harlowe, that the error of anybranch of a family splits that family into two parties, and makes notonly every common friend and acquaintance, but even servants judges overboth?--This is one of the blessed effects of my sister Clary's fault!

There never was a creature so criminal, said your father, looking withdispleasure at me, who had not some weak heads to pity and side with her. 

I wept. Your mother was so good as to take me by the hand; come, goodwoman, said she, come along with me. You have too much reason to beafflicted with what afflicts us, to want additions to your grief. 

But, my dearest young lady, I was more touched for your sake than for myown; for I have been low in the world for a great number of years; and, of consequence, have been accustomed to snubs and rebuffs from theaffluent. But I hope that patience is written as legibly on my forehead, as haughtiness on that of any of my obligers. 

Your mother led me to her chamber; and there we sat and wept together forseveral minutes, without being able to speak either of us one word to theother. At last she broke silence, asking me, if you were really andindeed so ill as it was said you were?

I answered in the affirmative; and would have shown her your last letter;but she declined seeing it. 

I would fain have procured from her the favour of a line to you, with herblessing. I asked, what was intended by your brother and sister? Wouldnothing satisfy them but your final reprobation?--I insinuated, how easyit would be, did not your duty and humility govern you, to make yourselfindependent as to circumstances; but that nothing but a blessing, a lastblessing, was requested by you. And many other thins I urged in yourbehalf. The following brief repetition of what she was pleased to say inanswer to my pleas, will give you a notion of it all; and of the presentsituation of things. 

She said, 'She was very unhappy!--She had lost the little authority sheonce had over her other children, through one child's failing! and allinfluence over Mr. Harlowe and his brothers. Your father, she said, hadbesought her to leave it to him to take his own methods with you; and, (as she valued him, ) to take no step in your favour unknown to him andyour uncles; yet she owned, that they were too much governed by yourbrother. They would, however, give way in time, she knew, to areconciliation--they designed no other, for they all still loved you. 

'Your brother and sister, she owned, were very jealous of your cominginto favour again;--yet could but Mr. Morden have kept his temper, andstood her son's first sallies, who (having always had the family grandeurin view) had carried his resentment so high, that he knew not how todescend, the conferences, so abruptly broken off just now, would haveended more happily; for that she had reason to think that a fewconcessions on your part, with regard to your grandfather's estate, andyour cousin's engaging for your submission as from proper motives, wouldhave softened them all. 

'Mr. Brand's account of your intimacy with the friend of the obnoxiousman, she said, had, for the time very unhappy effects; for before thatshe had gained some ground: but afterwards dared not, nor indeed hadinclination, to open her lips in your behalf. Your continued intimacywith that Mr. Belford was wholly unaccountable, and as whollyinexcusable. 

'What made the wished-for reconciliation, she said, more difficult, was, first, that you yourself acknowledged yourself dishonoured; (and it wastoo well known, that it was your own fault that you ever were in thepower of so great a profligate;) of consequence, that their and yourdisgrace could not be greater than it was; yet, that you refuse toprosecute the wretch. Next, that the pardon and blessing hoped for mustprobably be attended with your marriage to the man they hate, and whohates them as much: very disagreeable circumstances, she said, I mustallow, to found a reconciliation upon. 

'As to her own part, she must needs say, that if there were any hope thatMr. Lovelace would become a reformed man, the letter her cousin Mordenhad read to them from him to you, and the justice (as she hoped it was)he did your character, though to his own condemnation, (his family andfortunes being unexceptionable, ) and all his relations earnest to berelated to you, were arguments that would weigh with her, could they haveany with your father and uncles. '

To my plea of your illness, 'she could not but flatter herself, sheanswered, that it was from lowness of spirits, and temporary dejection. A young creature, she said, so very considerate as you naturally were, and fallen so low, must have enough of that. Should they lose you, whichGod forbid! the scene would then indeed be sadly changed; for then thosewho now most resented, would be most grieved; all your fine qualitieswould rise to their remembrance, and your unhappy error would be quiteforgotten. 

'She wished you would put yourself into your cousin's protectionentirely, and have nothing to more to say to Mr. Belford. 

And I would recommend it to your most serious consideration, my dear MissClary, whether now, as your cousin (who is your trustee for yourgrandfather's estate, ) is come, you should not give over all thoughts ofMr. Lovelace's intimate friend for your executor; more especially, asthat gentleman's interfering in the concerns of your family, should thesad event take place (which my heart aches but to think of) might beattended with those consequences which you are so desirous, in othercases, to obviate and prevent. And suppose, my dear young lady, you wereto write one letter more to each of your uncles, to let them know how illyou are?--And to ask their advice, and offer to be governed by it, inrelation to the disposition of your estate and effects?--Methinks I wishyou would. 

I find they will send you up a large part of what has been received fromthat estate since it was your's; together with your current cash whichyou left behind you: and this by your cousin Morden, for fear you shouldhave contracted debts which may make you uneasy. 

They seem to expect, that you will wish to live at your grandfather'shouse, in a private manner, if your cousin prevail not upon you to goabroad for a year or two. 

FRIDAY MORNING. 

Betty was with me just now. She tells me, that your cousin Morden is somuch displeased with them all, that he has refused to lodge any more atyour uncle Antony's; and has even taken up with inconvenient lodgings, till he is provided with others to his mind. This very much concernsthem; and they repent their violent treatment of him: and the more, as heis resolved, he says, to make you his sole executrix, and heir to all hisfortune. 

What noble fortunes still, my dearest young lady, await you! I amthoroughly convinced, if it please God to preserve your life and yourhealth, that every body will soon be reconciled to you, and that you willsee many happy days. 

Your mother wished me not to attend you as yet, because she hopes that Imay give myself that pleasure soon with every body's good liking, andeven at their desire. Your cousin Morden's reconciliation with them, which they are very desirous of, I am ready to hope will include theirswith you. 

But if that should happen which I so much dread, and I not with you, Ishould never forgive myself. Let me, therefore, my dearest young lady, desire you to command my attendance, if you find any danger, and if youwish me peace of mind; and no consideration shall withhold me. 

I hear that Miss Howe has obtained leave from her mother to see you; andintends next week to go to town for that purpose; and (as it is believed)to buy clothes for her approaching nuptials. 

Mr. Hickman's mother-in-law is lately dead. Her jointure of 600£. A-yearis fallen to him; and she has, moreover, as an acknowledgement of hisgood behaviour to her, left him all she was worth, which was veryconsiderable, a few legacies excepted to her own relations. 

These good men are uniformly good: indeed could not else be good; andnever fare the worse for being so. All the world agrees he will makethat fine young lady an excellent husband: and I am sorry they are not asmuch agreed in her making him an excellent wife. But I hope a woman ofher principles would not encourage his address, if, whether she atpresent love him or not, she thought she could not love him; or if shepreferred any other man to him. 

Mr. Pocock undertakes to deliver this; but fears it will be Saturdaynight first, if not Sunday morning. 

May the Almighty protect and bless you!--I long to see you--my dearestyoung lady, I long to see you; and to fold you once more to my fondheart. I dare to say happy days are coming. Be but cheerful. Give wayto hope. 

Whether for this world, or the other, you must be happy. Wish to live, however, were it only because you are so well fitted in mind to makeevery one happy who has the honour to know you. What signifies thistransitory eclipse? You are as near perfection, by all I have heard, as any creature in this world can be: for here is your glory--you arebrightened and purified, as I may say, by your sufferings!--How I long tohear your whole sad, yet instructive story, from your own lips!

For Miss Howe's sake, who, in her new engagements will so much want you;for your cousin Morden's sake, for your mother's sake, if I must go onfarther in your family; and yet I can say, for all their sakes; and formy sake, my dearest Miss Clary; let your resumed and accustomedmagnanimity bear you up. You have many things to do which I know not theperson who will do if you leave us. 

Join your prayers then to mine, that God will spare you to a world thatwants you and your example; and, although your days may seem to have beennumbered, who knows but that, with the good King Hezekiah, you may havethem prolonged? Which God grant, if it be his blessed will, to theprayers of

YourJUDITH NORTON

LETTER LVII

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. MONDAY, SEPT. 4. 

The lady would not read the letter she had from Mrs. Norton till she hadreceived the Communion, for fear it should contain any thing that mightdisturb that happy calm, which she had been endeavouring to obtain forit. And when that solemn office was over, she was so composed, she said, that she thought she could receive any news, however affecting, withtranquillity. 

Nevertheless, in reading it, she was forced to leave off several timesthrough weakness and a dimness in her sight, of which she complained; ifI may say complained; for so easy and soft were her complaints, that theycould hardly be called such. 

She was very much affected at divers parts of this letter. She weptseveral times, and sighed often. Mrs. Lovick told me, that these werethe gentle exclamations she broke out into, as she read:--Her unkind, hercruel brother!--How unsisterly!--Poor dear woman! seeming to speak ofMrs. Norton. Her kind cousin!--O these flaming spirits! And thenreflecting upon herself more than once--What a deep error is mine!--Whatevils have I been the occasion of!--

When I was admitted to her presence, I have received, said she, a longand not very pleasing letter from my dear Mrs. Norton. It will soon bein your hands. I am advised against appointing you to the office youhave so kindly accepted of: but you must resent nothing of these things. My choice will have an odd appearance to them: but it is now too late toalter it, if I would. 

I would fain write an answer to it, continued she: but I have no distinctsight, Mr. Belford, no steadiness of fingers. --This mistiness, however, will perhaps be gone by-and-by. --Then turning to Mrs. Lovick, I don'tthink I am dying yet--not actually dying, Mrs. Lovick--for I have nobodily pain--no numbnesses; no signs of immediate death, I think. --And mybreath, which used of late to be so short, is now tolerable--my headclear, my intellects free--I think I cannot be dying yet--I shall haveagonies, I doubt--life will not give up so blessedly easy, I fear--yethow merciful is the Almighty, to give his poor creature such a sweetserenity!--'Tis what I have prayed for!--What encouragement, Mrs. Lovick, so near one's dissolution, to have it to hope that one's prayers areanswered. 

Mrs. Smith, as well as Mrs. Lovick, was with her. They were both intears; nor had I, any more than they, power to say a word in answer: yetshe spoke all this, as well as what follows, with a surprising composureof mind and countenance. 

But, Mr. Belford, said she, assuming a still sprightlier air and accent, let me talk a little to you, while I am thus able to say what I have tosay. 

Mrs. Lovick, don't leave us, [for the women were rising to go, ] pray sitdown; and do you, Mrs. Smith, sit down too. --Dame Shelbourne, take thiskey, and open the upper drawer. I will move to it. 

She did, with trembling knees. Here, Mr. Belford, is my will. It iswitnessed by three persons of Mr. Smith's acquaintance. 

I dare to hope, that my cousin Morden will give you assistance, if yourequest it of him. My cousin Morden continued his affection for me: butas I have not seen him, I leave all the trouble upon you, Mr. Belford. This deed may want forms; and it does, no doubt: but the less, as I havemy grandfather's will almost by heart, and have often enough heard thatcanvassed. I will lay it by itself in this corner; putting it at thefurther end of the drawer. 

She then took up a parcel of letters, enclosed in one cover, sealed withthree seals of black wax: This, said she, I sealed up last night. Thecover, Sir, will let you know what is to be done with what it encloses. This is the superscription [holding it close to her eyes, and rubbingthem]; As soon as I am certainly dead, this to be broke open by Mr. Belford. --Here, Sir, I put it [placing it by the will]. --These foldedpapers are letters, and copies of letters, disposed according to theirdates. Miss Howe will do with those as you and she shall think fit. If I receive any more, or more come when I cannot receive them, they maybe put into this drawer, [pulling out and pushing in the looking-glassdrawer, ] to be given to Mr. Belford, be they from whom they will. You'llbe so kind as to observe that, Mrs. Lovick, and dame Shelbourne. 

Here, Sir, proceeded she, I put the keys of my apparel [putting them intothe drawer with her papers]. All is in order, and the inventory uponthem, and an account of what I have disposed of: so that nobody need toask Mrs. Smith any questions. 

There will be no immediate need to open or inspect the trunks whichcontain my wearing apparel. Mrs. Norton will open them, or ordersomebody to do it for her, in your presence, Mrs. Lovick; for so I havedirected in my will. They may be sealed up now: I shall never more haveoccasion to open them. 

She then, though I expostulated with her to the contrary, caused me toseal them up with my seal. 

After this, she locked up the drawer where were her papers; first takingout her book of meditations, as she called it; saying, she should, perhaps, have use for that; and then desired me to take the key of thatdrawer; for she should have no further occasion for that neither. 

All this in so composed and cheerful a manner, that we were equallysurprised and affected with it. 

You can witness for me, Mrs. Smith, and so can you, Mrs. Lovick, proceeded she, if any one ask after my life and conversation, since youhave known me, that I have been very orderly; have kept good hours; andnever have lain out of your house but when I was in prison; and then youknow I could not help it. 

O, Lovelace! that thou hadst heard her or seen her, unknown to herself, on this occasion!--Not one of us could speak a word. 

I shall leave the world in perfect charity, proceeded she. And turningtowards the women, don't be so much concerned for me, my good friends. This is all but needful preparation; and I shall be very happy. 

Then again rubbing her eyes, which she said were misty, and looked moreintently round upon each, particularly on me--God bless you all! saidshe; how kindly are you concerned for me!--Who says I am friendless? Whosays I am abandoned, and among strangers?--Good Mr. Belford, don't be sogenerously humane!--Indeed [putting her handkerchief to her charmingeyes, ] you will make me less happy, than I am sure you wish me to be. 

While we were thus solemnly engaged, a servant came with a letter fromher cousin Morden:--Then, said she, he is not come himself!

She broke it open; but every line, she said, appeared two to her: sothat, being unable to read it herself, she desired I would read it toher. I did so; and wished it were more consolatory to her: but she wasall patient attention: tears, however, often trickling down her cheeks. By the date, it was written yesterday; and this is the substance of it. 

He tells her, 'That the Thursday before he had procured a general meetingof her principal relations, at her father's; though not withoutdifficulty, her haughty brother opposing it, and, when met, rendering allhis endeavours to reconcile them to her ineffectual. He censures him, asthe most ungovernable young man he ever knew: some great sickness, hesays, some heavy misfortune, is wanted to bring him to a knowledge ofhimself, and of what is due from him to others; and he wishes that hewere not her brother, and his cousin. Nor doe he spare her father anduncles for being so implicitly led by him. '

He tells her, 'That he parted with them all in high displeasure, andthought never more to darken any of their doors: that he declared as muchto her two uncles, who came to him on Saturday, to try to accommodatewith him; and who found him preparing to go to London to attend her; andthat, notwithstanding their pressing entreaties, he determined so to do, and not to go with them to Harlowe-place, or to either of their ownhouses; and accordingly dismissed them with such an answer. 

'But that her noble letter, ' as he calls it, of Aug. 31, * 'being broughthim about an hour after their departure, he thought it might affect themas much as it did him; and give them the exalted opinion of her virtuewhich was so well deserved; he therefore turned his horse's head backto her uncle Antony's, instead of forwards toward London. 

* See Letter XLV. Of this volume. 

'That accordingly arriving there, and finding her two uncles together, heread to them the affecting letter; which left none of the three a dryeye: that the absent, as is usual in such cases, bearing all the load, they accused her brother and sister; and besought him to put off hisjourney to town, till he could carry with him the blessings which she hadformerly in vain solicited for; and (as they hoped) the happy tidings ofa general reconciliation. 

'That not doubting but his visit would be the more welcome to her, ifthese good ends could be obtained, he the more readily complied withtheir desires. But not being willing to subject himself to thepossibility of receiving fresh insult from her brother, he had given heruncles a copy of her letter, for the family to assemble upon; and desiredto know, as soon as possible, the result of their deliberations. 

'He tells her, that he shall bring her up the accounts relating to theproduce of her grandfather's estate, and adjust them with her; havingactually in his hands the arrears due to her from it. 

'He highly applauds the noble manner in which she resents your usage ofher. It is impossible, he owns, that you can either deserve her, or tobe forgiven. But as you do justice to her virtue, and offer to make herall the reparation now in your power; and as she is so very earnest withhim not to resent that usage; and declares, that you could not have beenthe author of her calamities but through a strange concurrence of unhappycauses; and as he is not at a loss to know how to place to a properaccount that strange concurrence; he desires her not to be apprehensiveof any vindictive measures from him. '

Nevertheless (as may be expected) 'he inveighs against you; as he findsthat she gave you no advantage over her. But he forbears to enterfurther into this subject, he says, till he has the honour to see her;and the rather, as she seems so much determined against you. However, hecannot but say, that he thinks you a gallant man, and a man of sense; andthat you have the reputation of being thought a generous man in everyinstance but where the sex is concerned. In such, he owns, that you havetaken inexcusable liberties. And he is sorry to say, that there are veryfew young men of fortune but who allow themselves in the same. Bothsexes, he observes, too much love to have each other in their power: yethe hardly ever knew man or woman who was very fond of power make a rightuse of it. 

'If she be so absolutely determined against marrying you, as she declaresshe is, he hopes, he says, to prevail upon her to take (as soon as herhealth will permit) a little tour abroad with him, as what will probablyestablish it; since traveling is certainly the best physic for all thosedisorders which owe their rise to grief or disappointment. An absence oftwo or three years will endear her to every one, on her return, and everyone to her. 

'He expresses his impatience to see her. He will set out, he says, themoment he knows the result of her family's determination; which, hedoubts not, will be favourable. Nor will he wait long for that. '

When I had read the letter through to the languishing lady, And so, myfriends, said she, have I heard of a patient who actually died, whilefive or six principal physicians were in a consultation, and not agreedupon what name to give his distemper. The patient was an emperor, theemperor Joseph, I think. 

I asked, if I should write to her cousin, as he knew not how ill she was, to hasten up?

By no means, she said; since, if he were not already set out, she waspersuaded that she should be so low by the time he could receive myletter, and come, that his presence would but discompose and hurry her, and afflict him. 

I hope, however, she is not so very near her end. And without saying anymore to her, when I retired, I wrote to Colonel Morden, that if heexpects to see his beloved cousin alive, he must lose no time in settingout. I sent this letter by his own servant. 

Dr. H. Sent away his letter to her father by a particular hand thismorning. 

Mrs. Walton the milliner has also just now acquainted Mrs. Smith, thather husband had a letter brought by a special messenger from ParsonBrand, within this half hour, enclosing the copy of one he had written toMr. John Harlowe, recanting his officious one. 

And as all these, and the copy of the lady's letter to Col. Morden, willbe with them pretty much at a time, the devil's in the family if they arenot struck with a remorse that shall burst open the double-barred doorsof their hearts. 

Will. Engages to reach you with this (late as it will be) before you goto rest. He begs that I will testify for him the hour and the minute Ishall give it him. It is just half an hour after ten. 

I pretend to be (now by use) the swiftest short-hand writer in England, next to yourself. But were matter to arise every hour to write upon, andI had nothing else to do, I cannot write so fast as you expect. And letit be remembered, that your servants cannot bring letters or messagesbefore they are written or sent. 

LETTER LVIII

DR. H. TO JAMES HARLOWE, SENIOR, ESQ. LONDON, SEPT. 4. 

SIR, If I may judge of the hearts of other parents by my own, I cannot doubtbut you will take it well to be informed that you have yet an opportunityto save yourself and family great future regret, by dispatching hithersome one of it with your last blessing, and your lady's, to the mostexcellent of her sex. 

I have some reason to believe, Sir, that she has been represented to youin a very different light from the true one. And this it is that inducesme to acquaint you, that I think her, on the best grounds, absolutelyirreproachable in all her conduct which has passed under my eye, or cometo my ear; and that her very misfortunes are made glorious to her, andhonourable to all that are related to her, by the use she has made ofthem; and by the patience and resignation with which she supports herselfin a painful, lingering, and dispiriting decay! and by the greatness ofmind with which she views her approaching dissolution. And all this fromproper motives; from motives in which a dying saint might glory. 

She knows not that I write. I must indeed acknowledge, that I offered todo so some days ago, and that very pressingly: nor did she refuse me fromobstinacy--she seemed not to know what that is--but desired me to forbearfor two days only, in hopes that her newly-arrived cousin, who, as sheheard, was soliciting for her, would be able to succeed in her favour. 

I hope I shall not be thought an officious man on this occasion; but, ifI am, I cannot help it, being driven to write, by a kind of parental andirresistible impulse. 

But, Sir, whatever you think fit to do, or permit to be done, must bespeedily done; for she cannot, I verily think, live a week: and how longof that short space she may enjoy her admirable intellects to takecomfort in the favours you may think proper to confer upon her cannot besaid. I am, Sir, Your most humble servant, R. H. 

LETTER LIX

MR. BELFORD, TO WILLIAM MORDEN, ESQ. LONDON, SEPT. 4. 

SIR, The urgency of the case, and the opportunity by your servant, willsufficiently apologize for this trouble from a stranger to your person, who, however, is not a stranger to your merit. 

I understand you are employing your good offices with the parents ofMiss Clarissa Harlowe, and other relations, to reconcile them to the mostmeritorious daughter and kinswoman that ever family had to boast of. 

Generously as this is intended by you, we here have too much reason tothink all your solicitudes on this head will be unnecessary: for it isthe opinion of every one who has the honour of being admitted to herpresence, that she cannot lie over three days: so that, if you wish tosee her alive, you must lose no time to come up. 

She knows not that I write. I had done it sooner, if I had had the leastdoubt that before now she would not have received from you some news ofthe happy effects of your kind mediation in her behalf. I am, Sir, Your most humble servant, J. BELFORD. 

LETTER LX

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. [IN ANSWER TO LETTER LVII. ]UXBRIDGE, TUESDAY MORN, BETWEEN 4 AND 5. 

And can it be, that this admirable creature will so soon leave thiscursed world! For cursed I shall think it, and more cursed myself, whenshe is gone. O, Jack! thou who canst sit so cool, and, like Addison'sAngel, direct, and even enjoy, the storm, that tears up my happiness bythe roots; blame me not for my impatience, however unreasonable! If thouknowest, that already I feel the torments of the damned, in the remorsethat wrings my heart, on looking back upon my past actions by her, thouwouldst not be the devil thou art, to halloo on a worrying conscience, which, without my merciless aggravations, is altogether intolerable. 

I know not what to write, nor what I would write. When the company thatused to delight me is as uneasy to me as my reflections are painful, andI can neither help nor divert myself, must not every servant about mepartake in a perturbation so sincere!

Shall I give thee a faint picture of the horrible uneasiness with whichmy mind struggles? And faint indeed it must be; for nothing butoutrageous madness can exceed it; and that only in the apprehension ofothers; since, as to the sufferer, it is certain, that actual distraction(take it out of its lucid intervals) must be an infinitely more happystate than the state of suspense and anxiety, which often brings it on. 

Forbidden to attend the dear creature, yet longing to see her, I wouldgive the world to be admitted once more to her beloved presence. I ridetowards London three or four times a day, resolving pro and con, twentytimes in two or three miles; and at last ride back; and, in view ofUxbridge, loathing even the kind friend, and hospitable house, turn myhorse's head again towards the town, and resolve to gratify my humour, let her take it as she will; but, at the very entrance of it, afterinfinite canvassings, once more alter my mind, dreading to offend andshock her, lest, by that means, I should curtail a life so precious. 

Yesterday, in particular, to give you an idea of the strength of thatimpatience, which I cannot avoid suffering to break out upon my servants, I had no sooner dispatched Will. , than I took horse to meet him on hisreturn. 

In order to give him time, I loitered about on the road, riding up thislane to the one highway, down that to the other, just as my horsepointed; all the way cursing my very being; and though so lately lookingdown upon all the world, wishing to change conditions with the poorestbeggar that cried to me for charity as I rode by him--and throwing himmoney, in hopes to obtain by his prayers the blessing my heart pantsafter. 

After I had sauntered about an hour or two, (which seemed three or fourtedious ones, ) fearing I had slipt the fellow, I inquired at everyturnpike, whether a servant in such a livery had not passed through inhis return from London, on a full gallop; for woe had been to the dog, had I met him on a sluggish trot! And lest I should miss him at one endof Kensingtohn, as he might take either the Acton or Hammersmith road; orat the other, as he might come through the Park, or not; how many scoretimes did I ride backwards and forwards from the Palace to the Gore, making myself the subject of observation to all passengers whether onhorseback or on foot; who, no doubt, wondered to see a well-dressed andwell-mounted man, sometimes ambling, sometimes prancing, (as the beasthad more fire than his master) backwards and forwards in so short acompass!

Yet all this time, though longing to espy the fellow, did I dread to meethim, lest he should be charged with fatal tidings. 

When at distance I saw any man galloping towards me, myresemblance-forming fancy immediately made it to be him; and then myheart choked me. But when the person's nearer approach undeceived me, how did I curse the varlet's delay, and thee, by turns! And how readywas I to draw my pistol at the stranger, for having the impudence togallop; which none but my messenger, I thought, had either right orreason to do! For all the business of the world, I am ready to imagine, should stand still on an occasion so melancholy and so interesting to me. Nay, for this week past, I could cut the throat of any man or woman I seelaugh, while I am in such dejection of mind. 

I am now convinced that the wretches who fly from a heavy scene, labourunder ten times more distress in the intermediate suspense andapprehension, than they could have, were they present at it, and to seeand know the worst: so capable is fancy or imagination, the moreimmediate offspring of the soul, to outgo fact, let the subject be eitherjoyous or grievous. 

And hence, as I conceive, it is, that all pleasures are greater in theexpectation, or in the reflection, than in fruition; as all pains, whichpress heavy upon both parts of that unequal union by which frailmortality holds its precarious tenure, are ever most acute in the time ofsuffering: for how easy sit upon the reflection the heaviest misfortunes, when surmounted!--But most easy, I confess, those in which body has moreconcern than soul. This, however, is a point of philosophy I haveneither time nor head just now to weigh: so take it as it falls from amadman's pen. 

Woe be to either of the wretches who shall bring me the fatal news thatshe is no more! For it is but too likely that a shriek-owl so hated willnever hoot or scream again; unless the shock, that will probably disordermy whole frame on so sad an occasion, (by unsteadying my hand, ) shalldivert my aim from his head, heart, or bowels, if it turn not against myown. 

But, surely, she will not, she cannot yet die! Such a matchlessexcellence, ----whose mind Contains a world, and seems for all things fram'd, could not be lent to be so soon demanded back again!

But may it not be, that thou, Belford, art in a plot with the dearcreature, (who will not let me attend her to convince myself, ) in orderto work up my soul to the deepest remorse; and that, when she isconvinced of the sincerity of my penitence, and when my mind is made suchwax, as to be fit to take what impression she pleases to give it, shewill then raise me up with the joyful tidings of her returning health andacceptance of me!

What would I give to have it so! And when the happiness of hundreds, aswell as the peace and reconciliation of several eminent families, dependupon her restoration and happiness, why should it not be so?

But let me presume it will. Let me indulge my former hope, howeverimprobable--I will; and enjoy it too. And let me tell thee how ecstaticmy delight would be on the unravelling of such a plot as this!

Do, dear Belford, let it be so!--And, O, my dearest, and ever-dearClarissa, keep me no loner in this cruel suspense; in which I suffer athousand times more than ever I made thee suffer. Nor fear thou that Iwill resent, or recede, on an ecclaircissement so desirable; for I willadore thee for ever, and without reproaching thee for the pangs thou hasttortured me with, confess thee as much my superior in virtue and honour!

But once more, should the worst happen--say not what that worst is--and Iam gone from this hated island--gone for ever--and may eternal--but I amcrazed already--and will therefore conclude myself, Thine more than my own, (and no great compliment neither)R. L. 

LETTER LXI

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. TUES. SEPT. 9 IN THE MORN. AT MR. SMITH'S. 

When I read yours of this morning, I could not help pitying you for theaccount you give of the dreadful anxiety and suspense you labour under. I wish from my heart all were to end as you are so willing to hope: butit will not be; and your suspense, if the worst part of your torment, asyou say it is, will soon be over; but, alas! in a way you wish not. 

I attended the lady just now. She is extremely ill: yet is she aimingat an answer to her Norton's letter, which she began yesterday in her ownchamber, and has written a good deal: but in a hand not like her own fineone, as Mrs. Lovick tells me, but larger, and the lines crooked. 

I have accepted of the offer of a room adjoining to the widow Lovick's, till I see how matters go; but unknown to the lady; and I shall go homeevery night, for a few hours. I would not lose a sentence that I couldgain from lips so instructive, nor the opportunity of receiving anycommand from her, for an estate. 

In this my new apartment I now write, and shall continue to write, asoccasions offer, that I may be the more circumstantial: but I depend uponthe return of my letters, or copies of them, on demand, that I may havetogether all that relates to this affecting story; which I shallre-peruse with melancholy pleasure to the end of my life. 

I think I will send thee Brand's letter to Mr. John Harlowe, recantinghis base surmises. It is a matchless piece of pedantry; and may perhapsa little divert thy deep chagrin: some time hence at least it may, if notnow. 

What wretched creatures are there in the world! What strangely mixedcreatures!--So sensible and so silly at the same time! What a various, what a foolish creature is man!--

THREE O'CLOCK. 

The lady has just finished her letter, and has entertained Mrs. Lovick, Mrs. Smith, and me, with a noble discourse on the vanity and brevity oflife, to which I cannot do justice in the repetition: and indeed I am sogrieved for her, that, ill as she is, my intellects are not half so clearas her's. 

A few things which made the strongest impression upon me, as well fromthe sentiments themselves as from her manner of uttering them, Iremember. She introduced them thus:

I am thinking, said she, what a gradual and happy death God Almighty(blessed be his name) affords me! Who would have thought, that, sufferingwhat I have suffered, and abandoned as I have been, with such atender education as I have had, I should be so long a dying!--But see nowby little and little it had come to this. I was first take off from thepower of walking; then I took a coach--a coach grew too violent anexercise: then I took up a chair--the prison was a large DEATH-STRIDEupon me--I should have suffered longer else!--Next, I was unable to go tochurch; then to go up or down stairs; now hardly can move from one roomto another: and a less room will soon hold me. --My eyes begin to fail me, so that at times I cannot see to read distinctly; and now I can hardlywrite, or hold a pen. --Next, I presume, I shall know nobody, nor be ableto thank any of you; I therefore now once more thank you, Mrs. Lovick, and you, Mrs. Smith, and you, Mr. Belford, while I can thank you, for allyour kindness to me. And thus by little and little, in such a gradualsensible death as I am blessed with, God dies away in us, as I may say, all human satisfaction, in order to subdue his poor creatures to himself. 

Thou mayest guess how affected we all were at this moving account of herprogressive weakness. We heard it with wet eyes; for what with thewomen's example, and what with her moving eloquence, I could no more helpit than they. But we were silent nevertheless; and she went on applyingherself to me. 

O Mr. Belford! This is a poor transitory life in the best enjoyments. We flutter about here and there, with all our vanities about us, likepainted butterflies, for a gay, but a very short season, till at last welay ourselves down in a quiescent state, and turn into vile worms: Andwho knows in what form, or to what condition we shall rise again?

I wish you would permit me, a young creature, just turned of nineteenyears of age, blooming and healthy as I was a few months ago, now nipt bythe cold hand of death, to influence you, in these my last hours, to alife of regularity and repentance for any past evils you may have beenguilty of. For, believe me, Sir, that now, in this last stage, very fewthings will bear the test, or be passed as laudable, if pardonable, atour own bar, much less at a more tremendous one, in all we have done, ordelighted in, even in a life not very offensive neither, as we may think!--Ought we not then to study in our full day, before the dark hoursapproach, so to live, as may afford reflections that will soften theagony of the last moments when they come, and let in upon the departingsoul a ray of Divine mercy to illuminate its passage into an awfuleternity?

She was ready to faint, and choosing to lie down, I withdrew; I need notsay with a melancholy heart: and when I got to my new-taken apartment, myheart was still more affected by the sight of the solemn letter theadmirable lady had so lately finished. It was communicated to me by Mrs. Lovick; who had it to copy for me; but it was not to be delivered to metill after her departure. However, I trespassed so far, as to prevailupon the widow to let me take a copy of it; which I did directly incharacter. 

I send it enclosed. If thou canst read it, and thy heart not bleed atthy eyes, thy remorse can hardly be so deep as thou hast inclined me tothink it is. 

LETTER LXII

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MRS. NORTON[IN ANSWER TO LETTER LVI. *]

* Begun on Monday Sept. 4, and by piecemeal finished on Tuesday; but notsent till the Thursday following. 

MY DEAREST MRS. NORTON, I am afraid I shall not be able to write all that is upon my mind to sayto you upon the subject of your last. Yet I will try. 

As to my friends, and as to the sad breakfasting, I cannot help beingafflicted for them. What, alas! has not my mother, in particular, suffered by my rashness!--Yet to allow so much for a son!--so little fora daughter!--But all now will soon be over, as to me. I hope they willbury all their resentments in my grave. 

As to your advice, in relation to Mr. Belford, let me only say, that theunhappy reprobation I have met with, and my short time, must be myapology now. --I wish I could have written to my mother and my uncles asyou advise. And yet, favours come so slowly from them. 

The granting of one request only now remains as a desirable one fromthem. Which nevertheless, when granted, I shall not be sensible of. Itis that they will be pleased to permit my remains to be laid with thoseof my ancestors--placed at the feet of my dear grandfather, as I havementioned in my will. This, however, as they please. For, after all, this vile body ought not so much to engage my cares. It is a weakness--but let it be called a natural weakness, and I shall be excused;especially when a reverential gratitude shall be known to be thefoundation of it. You know, my dear woman, how my grandfather loved me. And you know how much I honoured him, and that from my very infancy tothe hour of his death. How often since have I wished, that he had notloved me so well!

I wish not now, at the writing of this, to see even my cousin Morden. O, my blessed woman! My dear maternal friend! I am entering upon abetter tour than to France or Italy either!--or even than to settle at myonce-beloved Dairy-house!--All these prospects and pleasures, which usedto be so agreeable to me in health, how poor seem they to me now!--

Indeed, indeed, my dear Mamma Norton, I shall be happy! I know I shall!--I have charming forebodings of happiness already!--Tell all my dearfriends, for their comfort, that I shall!--Who would not bear thepunishments I have borne, to have the prospects and assurances I rejoicein!--Assurances I might not have had, were my own wishes to have beengranted to me!

Neither do I want to see even you, my dear Mrs. Norton. Nevertheless Imust, in justice to my own gratitude, declare, that there was a time, could you have been permitted to come, without incurring displeasure fromthose whose esteem it is necessary for you to cultivate and preserve, that your presence and comfortings would have been balm to my woundedmind. But were you now, even by consent, and with reconciliatorytidings, to come, it would but add to your grief; and the sight of one Iso dearly love, so happily fraught with good news, might but draw me backto wishes I have had great struggles to get above. And let me tell youfor your comfort, that I have not left undone any thing that ought to bedone, either respecting mind or person; no, not to the minutestpreparation: so that nothing is left for you to do for me. Every one hasher direction as to the last offices. --And my desk, that I now write upon--O my dearest Mrs. Norton, all is provided!--All is ready! And all willbe as decent as it should be!

And pray let my Miss Howe know, that by the time you will receive this, and she your signification of the contents of it, will, in allprobability, be too late for her to do me the inestimable favour, as Ishould once have thought it, to see me. God will have no rivals in thehearts of those he sanctifies. By various methods he deadens all othersensations, or rather absorbs them all in the love of him. 

I shall nevertheless love you, my Mamma Norton, and my Miss Howe, whoselove to me has passed the love of woman, to my latest hour!--But yet, Iam now above the quick sense of those pleasures which once delighted me, and once more I say, that I do not wish to see objects so dear to me, which might bring me back again into sense, and rival my supreme love. 

***

Twice have I been forced to leave off. I wished, that my last writingmight be to you, or to Miss Howe, if it might not be to my dearest Ma----

Mamma, I would have wrote--is the word distinct?--My eyes are so misty!--If, when I apply to you, I break off in half-words, do you supply them--the kindest are your due. --Be sure take the kindest, to fill up chasmswith, if any chasms there be--

***

Another breaking off!--But the new day seems to rise upon me with healingin its wings. I have gotten, I think, a recruit of strength: spirits, Ibless God, I have not of late wanted. 

Let my dearest Miss Howe purchase her wedding-garments--and may alltemporal blessings attend the charming preparation!--Blessings will, Imake no question, notwithstanding the little cloudiness that Mr. Hickmanencounters with now and then, which are but prognostications of a futuregolden day to him: for her heart is good, and her head not wrong. --Butgreat merit is coy, and that coyness had not always its foundation inpride: but if it should seem to be pride, take off the skin-deepcovering, and, in her, it is noble diffidence, and a love that wants butto be assured!

Tell Mr. Hickman I write this, and write it, as I believe, with my lastpen; and bid him bear a little at first, and forbear; and all the futurewill be crowning gratitude, and rewarding love: for Miss Howe had greatsense, fine judgment, and exalted generosity; and can such a one beungrateful or easy under those obligations which his assiduity andobligingness (when he shall be so happy as to call her his) will lay herunder to him?

As for me, never bride was so ready as I am. My wedding garments arebought---and though not fine or gawdy to the sight, though not adornedwith jewels, and set off with gold and silver, (for I have no beholders'eyes to wish to glitter in, ) yet will they be the easiest, the happiestsuit, that ever bridal maiden wore--for they are such as carry with thema security against all those anxieties, pains, and perturbations, whichsometimes succeed to the most promising outsettings. 

And now, my dear Mrs. Norton, do I wish for no other. 

O hasten, good God, if it be thy blessed will, the happy moment that I amto be decked out in his all-quieting garb! And sustain, comfort, bless, and protect with the all-shadowing wing of thy mercy, my dear parents, myuncles, my brother, my sister, my cousin Morden, my ever-dear andever-kind Miss Howe, my good Mrs. Norton, and every deserving person towhom they wish well! is the ardent prayer, first and last, of everybeginning hour, as the clock tells it me, (hours now are days, nay, years, ) of

Your now not sorrowing or afflicted, but happy, CLARISSA HARLOWE. 

LETTER LXIII

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. WED. MORN. SEPT. 6, HALF AN HOUR AFTER THREE. 

I am not the savage which you and my worst enemies think me. My soul istoo much penetrated by the contents of the letter which you enclosed inyour last, to say one word more to it, than that my heart has bled overit from every vein!--I will fly from the subject--but what other can Ichoose, that will not be as grievous, and lead into the same?

I could quarrel with all the world; with thee, as well as the rest;obliging as thou supposest thyself for writing to me hourly. How darestthou, (though unknown to her, ) to presume to take an apartment under thesane roof with her?--I cannot bear to think that thou shouldest be seen, at all hours passing to and repassing from her apartments, while I, whohave so much reason to call her mine, and one was preferred by her to allthe world, am forced to keep aloof, and hardly dare to enter the citywhere she is!

If there be any thing in Brand's letter that will divert me, hasten it tome. But nothing now will ever divert me, will ever again give me joy orpleasure! I can neither eat, drink, nor sleep. I am sick of all theworld. 

Surely it will be better when all is over--when I know the worst theFates can do against me--yet how shall I bear that worst?--O Belford, Belford! write it not to me!--But if it must happen, get somebody else towrite; for I shall curse the pen, the hand, the head, and the heart, employed in communicating to me the fatal tidings. But what is thissaying, when already I curse the whole world except her--myself most?

In fine, I am a most miserable being. Life is a burden to me. I wouldnot bear it upon these terms for one week more, let what would be my lot;for already is there a hell begun in my own mind. Never more mention itto me, let her, or who will say it, the prison--I cannot bear it--Mayd----n----n seize quick the cursed woman, who could set death upon takingthat large stride, as the dear creature calls it!--I had no hand in it!--But her relations, her implacable relations, have done the business. Allelse would have been got over. Never persuade me but it would. The fireof youth, and the violence of passion, would have pleaded for me to goodpurpose, with an individual of a sex, which loves to be addressed withpassionate ardour, even to tumult, had it not been for that cruelty andunforgivingness, which, (the object and the penitence considered, ) haveno example, and have aggravated the heinousness of my faults. 

Unable to rest, though I went not to bed till two, I dispatch this erethe day dawn--who knows what this night, this dismal night, may haveproduced!

I must after my messenger. I have told the varlet I will meet him, perhaps at Knightsbridge, perhaps in Piccadilly; and I trust not myselfwith pistols, not only on his account, but my own--for pistols are tooready a mischief. 

I hope thou hast a letter ready for him. He goes to thy lodgings first--for surely thou wilt not presume to take thy rest in an apartment nearher's. If he miss thee there, he flies to Smith's, and brings me wordwhether in being, or not. 

I shall look for him through the air as I ride, as well as on horseback;for if the prince of it serve me, as well as I have served him, he willbring the dog by his ears, like another Habakkuk, to my saddle-bow, withthe tidings that my heart pants after. 

Nothing but the excruciating pangs the condemned soul fells, at itsentrance into the eternity of the torments we are taught to fear, canexceed what I now feel, and have felt for almost this week past; andmayest thou have a spice of those, if thou hast not a letter readywritten for thy

LOVELACE. 

LETTER LXIV

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. TUEDAY, SEPT. 5, SIX O'CLOCK. 

The lady remains exceedingly weak and ill. Her intellects, nevertheless, continue clear and strong, and her piety and patience are withoutexample. Every one thinks this night will be her last. What a shockingthing is that to say of such an excellence! She will not, however, sendaway her letter to her Norton, as yet. She endeavoured in vain tosuperscribe it: so desired me to do it. Her fingers will not hold thepen with the requisite steadiness. --She has, I fear, written and read herlast!

EIGHT O'CLOCK. 

She is somewhat better than she was. The doctor had been here, andthinks she will hold out yet a day or two. He has ordered her, as forsome time past, only some little cordials to take when ready to faint. She seemed disappointed, when he told her she might yet live two or threedays; and said, she longed for dismission!--Life was not so easilyextinguished, she saw, as some imagined. --Death from grief, was, shebelieved, the slowest of deaths. But God's will must be done!--Her onlyprayer was now for submission to it: for she doubted not but by theDivine goodness she should be an happy creature, as soon as she could bedivested of these rags of mortality. 

Of her own accord she mentioned you; which, till then, she had avoided todo. She asked, with great serenity, where you were?

I told her where, and your motives for being so near; and read to her afew lines of your's of this morning, in which you mention your wishes tosee her, your sincere affliction, and your resolution not to approach herwithout her consent. 

I would have read more; but she said, Enough, Mr. Belford, enough!--Poorman, does his conscience begin to find him!--Then need not any body towish him a greater punishment!--May it work upon him to an happy purpose!

I took the liberty to say, that as she was in such a frame that nothingnow seemed capable of discomposing her, I could wish that you might havethe benefit of her exhortations, which, I dared to say, while you were soseriously affected, would have a greater force upon you than a thousandsermons; and how happy you would think yourself, if you could but receiveher forgiveness on your knees. 

How can you think of such a thing, Mr. Belford? said she, with someemotion; my composure is owing, next to the Divine goodness blessing myearnest supplications for it, to the not seeing him. Yet let him knowthat I now again repeat, that I forgive him. --And may God Almighty, clasping her fingers, and lifting up her eyes, forgive him too; andperfect repentance, and sanctify it to him!--Tell him I say so! And tellhim, that if I could not say so with my whole heart, I should be veryuneasy, and think that my hopes of mercy were but weakly founded; andthat I had still, in my harboured resentment, some hankerings after alife which he has been the cause of shortening. 

The divine creature then turning aside her head--Poor man, said she! Ionce could have loved him. This is saying more than ever I could say ofany other man out of my own family! Would he have permitted me to havebeen an humble instrument to have made him good, I think I could havemade him happy! But tell him not this if he be really penitent--it maytoo much affect him!--There she paused. --

Admirable creature!--Heavenly forgiver!--Then resuming--but pray tellhim, that if I could know that my death might be a mean to reclaim andsave him, it would be an inexpressible satisfaction to me!

But let me not, however, be made uneasy with the apprehension of seeinghim. I cannot bear to see him!

Just as she had done speaking, the minister, who had so often attendedher, sent up his name; and was admitted. 

Being apprehensive that it would be with difficulty that you couldprevail upon that impetuous spirit of your's not to invade her in herdying hours, and of the agonies into which a surprise of this naturewould throw her, I thought this gentleman's visit afforded a properopportunity to renew the subject; and, (having asked her leave, )acquainted him with the topic we had been upon. 

The good man urged that some condescensions were usually expected, onthese solemn occasions, from pious souls like her's, however satisfiedwith themselves, for the sake of showing the world, and for example-sake, that all resentments against those who had most injured them weresubdued; and if she would vouchsafe to a heart so truly penitent, as Ihad represented Mr. Lovelace's to be, that personal pardon, which I hadbeen pleading for there would be no room to suppose the least lurkingresentment remained; and it might have very happy effects upon thegentleman. 

I have no lurking resentment, Sir, said she--this is not a time forresentment: and you will be the readier to believe me, when I can assureyou, (looking at me, ) that even what I have most rejoiced in, the trulyfriendly love that has so long subsisted between my Miss Howe and herClarissa, although to my last gasp it will be the dearest to me of allthat is dear in this life, has already abated of its fervour; has alreadygiven place to supremer fervours; and shall the remembrance of Mr. Lovelace's personal insults, which I bless God never corrupted that mindwhich her friendship so much delighted, be stronger in these hours withme, then the remembrance of a love as pure as the human heart everboasted? Tell, therefore, the world, if you please, and (if, Mr. Belford, you think what I said to you before not strong enough, ) tell thepoor man, that I not only forgive him, but have such earnest wishes forthe good of his soul, and that from consideration of its immortality, that could my penitence avail for more sins than my own, my last tearshould fall for him by whom I die!

Our eyes and hands expressed to us both what our lips could not utter. 

Say not, then, proceeded she, nor let it be said, that my resentments areunsubdued!--And yet these eyes, lifted up to Heaven as witness to thetruth of what I have said, shall never, if I can help it, behold himmore!--For do you not consider, Sirs, how short my time is; what muchmore important subjects I have to employ it upon; and how unable I shouldbe, (so weak as I am, ) to contend even with the avowed penitence of aperson in strong health, governed by passions unabated, and alwaysviolent?--And now I hope you will never urge me more on this subject?

The minister said, it were pity ever to urge this plea again. 

You see, Lovelace, that I did not forget the office of a friend, inendeavouring to prevail upon her to give you her last forgivenesspersonally. And I hope, as she is so near her end, you will not invadeher in her last hours; since she must be extremely discomposed at such aninterview; and it might make her leave the world the sooner for it. 

This reminds me of an expression which she used on your barbarous huntingof her at Smith's, on her return to her lodgings; and that with aserenity unexampled, (as Mrs. Lovick told me, considering the occasion, and the trouble given her by it, and her indisposition at the time;) hewill not let me die decently, said the angelic sufferer!--He will not letme enter into my Maker's presence with the composure that is required inentering into the drawing-room of an earthly prince!

I cannot, however, forbear to wish, that the heavenly creature could haveprevailed upon herself, in these her last hours, to see you; and that formy sake, as well as yours; for although I am determined never to beguilty of the crimes, which, till within these few past weeks haveblackened my former life; and for which, at present, I most heartily hatemyself; yet should I be less apprehensive of such a relapse, if wroughtupon by the solemnity which such an interview must have been attendedwith, you had become a reformed man: for no devil do I fear, but one inyour shape. 

***

It is now eleven o'clock at night. The lady who retired to rest an hourago, is, as Mrs. Lovick tells me, in a sweet slumber. 

I will close here. I hope I shall find her the better for it in themorning. Yet, alas! how frail is hope--How frail is life; when we areapt to build so much on every shadowy relief; although in such adesperate case as this, sitting down to reflect, we must know, that it isbut shadowy!

I will enclose Brand's horrid pedantry. And for once am aforehand withthy ravenous impatience. 

LETTER LXV

MR. BRAND, TO MR. JOHN WALTONSAT. NIGHT, SEPT. 2. 

DEAR MR. WALTON, I am obliged to you for the very 'handsomely penned', (and 'elegantlywritten, ') letter which you have sent me on purpose to do 'justice' tothe 'character' of the 'younger' Miss Harlowe; and yet I must tell youthat I had reason, 'before that came, ' to 'think, ' (and to 'know'indeed, ) that we were 'all wrong. ' And so I had employed the 'greatestpart' of this 'week, ' in drawing up an 'apologetical letter' to my worthy'patron, ' 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 'connection' and 'transcribing, ' when Ireceived 'your's'; and it will be with Mr. Harlowe aforesaid, 'to-morrowmorning'; and this, and the copy of that, will be with you on 'Mondaymorning. '

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 one spoken cannot be recalled. ' But, Mr. Walton, theymay be 'contradicted' by 'other' words; and we may confess ourselvesguilty of a 'mistake, ' and express our 'concern' for being 'mistaken';and resolve to make our 'mistake' a 'warning' to us for the 'future': andthis is all that 'can be done, ' and what every 'worthy mind will do'; andwhat nobody can be 'readier to do' than 'we four undesigning offenders, '(as I see by 'your letter, ' on 'your part, ' and as you will see by the'enclosed copy, ' on 'mine';) which, if it be received as I 'think itought, ' (and as I 'believe it will, ') must give me a 'speedy' opportunityto see you when I 'visit the lady'; to whom, (as you will see in it, ) Iexpect 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 considered') 'appearances' ran very strong'against the lady. ' But all that this serveth to show is, 'that indoubtful 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') show the enclosed to Mr. Belford, who (you tell me)'resenteth' the matter very heinously; but not to let him 'see' or 'hearread, ' those words 'that relate to him, ' in the paragraph at the 'bottomof the second page, ' beginning, ['But yet I do insist upon it, ] to the'end' of that paragraph; for one would not make one's self 'enemies, ' youknow; and I have 'reason to think, ' that this Mr. 'Belford' is as'passionate' and 'fierce' a man as Mr. Lovelace. What pity it is thelady could find no 'worthier a protector!' You may paste those linesover with 'blue' or 'black paper, ' before he seeth it: and if heinsisteth 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 themthe 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, ) lethim 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' willnot; 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 politepapers, 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 enclosed make, ' so full fraughtwith 'admirable precepts, ' and 'à-propos quotations, ' from the 'bestauthority'?

I have been told that a 'certain noble Lord, ' who once sat himself downto write a 'pamphlet' in behalf of a 'great minister, ' after taking'infinite pains' to 'no purpose' to find a 'Latin motto, ' gave commissionto 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, ' whichhe 'unhappily mistaking, ' (not knowing 'Juvenal' was a 'poet, ') printedas a prose 'sentence' in his 'title-page. '

If, then, 'one' or 'two' lines were of so much worth, (A 'hamper ofclaret'! No 'less'!) of what 'inestimable value' would 'such a letter asmine' be deemed?--And who knoweth but that this noble P--r, (who is now*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 tohave him 'always at hand, ' or be a 'mean' (some way or other) to bringhim into 'notice'? And I would be bold to say ('bad' as the 'world' is)a man of 'sound learning' wanteth nothing but an 'initiation' to make his'fortune. '

* i. E. At the time this Letter was written. 

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 'unhappymisrepresentation': 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 carried the matteragainst 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 'therest. '

But their 'cousin, ' Col. Morden, 'a very fine gentleman, ' had 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 'accommodation. 'Hence it is, that 'I' have taken the greater liberty to 'press thereconciliation'; 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, (internos, '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 oflearning' and 'learned men, ' I shall have great 'opportunities' of'obliging'; for, when she departed from her father's house, I had butjust 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 'dearfriend' Mr. John Harlowe: who indeed is a man that professeth a 'greatesteem' for 'men of erudition'; and who (with 'singular delight, ' I know)will run over with me the 'authorities' I have 'quoted, ' and 'wonder' atmy 'memory, ' and the 'happy knack' I have of recommending 'mine own senseof things' in the words of the 'greatest sages of antiquity. '

Excuse me, my good friend, for this 'seeming vanity. ' The great Cicero(you must have heard, I suppose) had a 'much greater' spice of it, andwrote a 'long letter begging' and 'praying' to be 'flattered. ' But if Isay 'less of myself' than other people (who know me) 'say of me, ' I thinkI keep a 'medium' between 'vanity' and 'false modesty'; the latter ofwhich oftentimes gives itself the 'lie, ' when it is 'declaring of' the'compliments, ' that 'every body' gives it as its due: an hypocrisy, aswell 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 school-fellow') tomake me wish for this 'fine lady's recovery' and 'health'; and that is, (by some distant intimations, ) I have heard from Mr. John Harlowe, thatit is 'very likely' (because of the 'slur' she hath received) that shewill choose to 'live privately' and 'penitently'--and will probably (whenshe 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 'everybody's') that she is innocent as to 'intention, ' and is resolved never tothink of Mr. 'Lovelace more, ' who knoweth 'what' (in time) 'may happen'?--And yet it must be after Mr. 'Lovelace's death, ' (which may possiblysooner happen than he 'thinketh' of, by means of his 'detestablecourses':) 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 'yourhands' 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) beenguided by 'motives of convenience, ' or 'mere corporalities, ' as I maysay; but who by their 'second' have had for their view the 'corporal' and'spiritual' mingled; which is the most eligible (no doubt) to 'substance'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 'castAbigails, ' that too, too often, (God knoweth, ) are thought good enoughfor a 'young clergyman, ' who, perhaps, is drawn in by a 'poor benefice';and (if the 'wicked one' be not 'quite worn out') groweth poorer andpoorer upon it, by an 'increase of family' he knoweth not whether 'ismost his, ' or his 'noble, ' ('ignoble, ' I should say, ) 'patrons. '

But, all this 'apart, ' and 'in confidence. '

I know you made at school but a small progress in 'languages. ' So I haverestrained myself from 'many illustrations' from the 'classics, ' that Icould have filled this letter with, (as I have done the enclosed one:)and, being at a 'distance, ' I cannot 'explain' them to you, as I 'do tomy friend, ' Mr. John Harlowe; and who, (after all, ) is obliged to 'me'for pointing out to 'him' many 'beauties' of the 'authors I quote, ' whichotherwise would lie concealed from 'him, ' as they must from every 'commonobserver. '--But this (too) 'inter nos'--for he would not take it well to'have it known'--'Jays' (you know, old school-fellow, '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 ofa 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 goodladies, (your 'spouse' and 'sister, ') and in hopes, for the 'young lady'ssake, ' soon to follow this long, long epistle, in 'person, ' I concludemyself, 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 tacitly condemneth 'his own style, ' as supposing his meaning would be 'dark' without it, or that all of his 'force' lay in 'words. ' But all of those with whom I have conversed in a learned way, 'think as I think. ' And to give a very 'pretty, ' though 'familiar illustration, ' I have considered a page distinguished by 'different characters, ' as a '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?

LETTER LXVI

MR. BRAND, TO JOHN HARLOWE, ESQ. SAT. NIGHT, SEPT. 2. 

WORTHY SIR, I am under no 'small concern, ' that I should (unhappily) be the'occasion' (I am sure I 'intended' nothing like it) of 'wideningdifferences' by 'light misreport, ' when it is the 'duty' of one of 'myfunction' (and no less consisting with my 'inclination') to 'heal' and'reconcile. '

I have received two letter to set me 'right': one from a 'particularacquaintance, ' (whom I set to inquire of Mr. Belford's character); andthat came on Tuesday last, informing me, that your 'unhappy niece' wasgreatly 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 tobe 'true. ') So I 'then' set about writing to you, to 'acknowledge' the'error. ' And had gone a good way in it, when the second letter came (avery 'handsome one' it is, both in 'style' and 'penmanship') from myfriend Mr. Walton, (though I am sure it cannot be 'his inditing, ')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 ofthe said 'young lady'; whom they 'now' say (upon 'further inquiry') theyfind to be the 'most unblameable, ' and 'most prudent, ' and (it seems) themost 'pious' young lady, that ever (once) committed a 'great error'; as(to be sure) 'her's was, ' in leaving such 'worthy parents' and'relations' for so 'vile a man' as Mr. Lovelace; 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 'greatopportunities, ' you are sensible, Sir, at the 'University, ' of knowing'human nature' from 'books, ' the 'calm result' of the 'wise man'swisdom, ' 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 beenjoyed but over a 'bottle, ' where you have an 'hundred foolish things'pass to 'one that deserveth to be remembered'; I was but too much afraid'I say') that so 'great a slip' might be attended with 'still greater'and 'worse': for 'your' Horace, and 'my' Horace, the most charming writerthat ever lived among the 'Pagans' (for the 'lyric kind of poetry, ' Imean; for, the 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 sæpe tulit. '

Who, that can draw 'knowledge' from its 'fountain-head, ' the works of the'sages of antiquity, ' (improved by the 'comments' of the 'moderns, ') butwould 'prefer' to all others the 'silent quiet life, ' which'contemplative men' lead in the 'seats of learning, ' were they not calledout (according to their 'dedication') to the 'service' and 'instruction'of the world?

Now, Sir, 'another' favourite poet of mine (and not the 'less afavourite' for being a 'Christian') telleth us, that ill is the custom of'some, ' when in a 'fault, ' to throw the blame upon the backs of 'others, '

 '----Hominum quoque mos est, Quæ nos cunque premunt, alieno imponere tergo. ' MANT. 

But I, though (in this case) 'misled, ' ('well intendedly, ' nevertheless, both in the 'misleaders' and 'misled, ' and therefore entitled to lay holdof that plea, if 'any body' is so entitled, ) will not however, be classedamong such 'extenuators'; but (contrarily) will always keep in mind thatverse, which 'comforteth in mistake, ' as well as 'instructeth'; and whichI quoted in my last letter;

 'Errare est hominis, sed non persistere----'

And will own, that I was very 'rash' to take up with 'conjectures' and'consequences' drawn from 'probabilites, ' where (especially) the'character' of so 'fine a lady' was concerned. 

 'Credere fallacy gravis est dementia famæ. ' 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, 'havingmade such a false step, ' so 'soon' (of 'her own accord, ' as I may say)'recovered' herself, and conquered her 'love of the deceiver'; (a greatconquest indeed!) and who flieth him, and resolveth to 'die, ' rather thanto be his; which now, to her never-dying 'honour' (I am well assured) isthe case--and, in 'justice' to her, I am now ready to take to myself(with no small vexation) 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 'personal inquiry, ' which is what relates toMr. 'Belford' and 'his character, ' is 'literally true'; for there is notany 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' lieupon my 'intention'; since you see how ready I am to 'accuse myself' oftoo lightly giving ear to a 'rash information' (not knowing it to be so, 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 waitupon you, you will see by their letter, that they must be 'conscientious'good people: wherefore, Sir, let me be entitled, from 'all your goodfamily, ' 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 'rashcensurer, ' (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 believein my heart, 'truly') that the 'doctors' have 'given her over, ' and thatshe '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 inyour 'resentments' (which, while meant for 'reclaiming, ' were just andfit) that hath the 'appearance' of 'violence, ' and 'fierce wrath, ' and'inexorability'; (as it would look to some, if carried to extremity, after 'repentance' and 'contrition, ' and 'humiliation, ' on the 'fairoffender's' side:) for all this while (it seemeth) she hat been a 'secondMagdalen' in her 'penitence, ' 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 urgentur'----saith Horace). 

Now, Sir, if I may be named for this 'blessed' employment, (for, 'Blessedis the peace-maker!') I will hasten to London; and (as I know Miss hadalways a 'great regard' to the 'function' I have the honour to be of) Ihave no doubt of making myself acceptable to her, and to bring her, by'sound arguments, ' and 'good advice, ' into a 'liking of life, ' which mustbe the 'first step' to her 'recovery': for, when the 'mind' is 'madeeasy, ' 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 & ager, 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 'learnedlady'; and as I can 'explain' to her 'those sentences, ' which she cannotso readily 'construe herself': and this in order to convince 'you' (didyou not already 'know' my 'qualifications') how well qualified I 'am' forthe 'christian office' to which I commend myself. 

I will, IN THE FIRST PLACE, put her in mind of the 'common course ofthings' in this 'sublunary world, ' in which 'joy' and 'sorrow, sorrow'and joy, ' succeed one another by turns'; in order to convince her, thather griefs have been but according to 'that' common course of things:

 'Gaudia post luctus veniunt, post gaudia luctus. '

SECONDLY, I will remind her of her own notable description of 'sorrow, 'whence she was once called upon to distinguish wherein 'sorrow, grief, 'and 'melancholy, ' differed from each other; which she did 'impromptu, ' bytheir 'effects, ' in a truly admirable manner, to the high satisfaction ofevery one: I myself could not, by 'study, ' have distinguished 'better, 'nor more 'concisely'--SORROW, said she, 'wears'; GRIEF 'tears'; butMELANCHOLY 'sooths. '

My inference to her shall be, that since a happy reconciliation will takeplace, 'grief' will be banished; 'sorrow' dismissed; and only sweet'melancholy' remain to 'sooth' and 'indulge' her contrite 'heart, ' andshow to all the world the penitent sense she hath of her great error. 

THIRDLY, That her 'joys, '* when restored to health and favour, will bethe greater, the deeper her griefs were. 

* 'Joy, ' let me here observe, my dear Sir, by way of note, is notabsolutely inconsistent with 'melancholy'; a 'soft gentle joy, ' not a'rapid, ' not a 'rampant joy, ' however; but such a 'joy, ' as shall lifther 'temporarily' out of her 'soothing melancholy, ' and then 'let herdown gently' into it again; for 'melancholy, ' to be sure, her'reflection' will generally make to be her state. 

 'Gaudia, quæ multo parta labore, placent. '

FOURTHLY, That having 'really' been guilty of a 'great error, ' she shouldnot take 'impatiently' the 'correction' and 'anger' with which she hathbeen treated. 

 'Leniter, ex merito quicquid patiare ferundum est. '

FIFTHLY, That 'virtue' must be established by 'patience'; as saithPrudentius:

 'Hæc 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, quæ 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 quæ 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' couldnot 'help loving her' all the time they were 'angry at her':

 'Æqua tamen mens est, & amica voluntas, Sit licet in natos austere parentum. '

NINTHLY, That the 'ills she hath met with' may be turned (by the 'gooduse' to be made of them) to her 'everlasting benefit'; for that, 'Cum furit atque ferit, Deus olim parcere quærit. '

TENTHLY, That she will be able to give a 'fine lesson' (a 'very' finelesson) to all the 'young ladies' of her 'acquaintance, ' of the 'vanity'of being 'lifted up' in 'prosperity, ' and the 'weakness' of being 'castdown' in 'adversity'; since no one is so 'high, ' as to be above being'humbled'; so 'low, ' as to 'need to despair': for which purpose theadvice of 'Ausonius, '

 'Dum fortuna juvat, caveto tolli: Dum fortuna tonat, caveto mergi. '

I shall tell her, that Lucan saith well, when he calleth 'adversity theelement of patience';

 '----Gaudet patientia duris:'

That

 'Fortunam superat virtus, prudential famam. '

That while weak souls are 'crushed by fortune, ' the 'brave mind' makeththe fickle deity afraid of it:

 'Fortuna fortes metuit, ignavos permit. '

ELEVENTHLY, That if she take the advice of 'Horace, '

 'Fortiaque adversis opponite pectora rebus, '

it will delight her 'hereafter' (as 'Virgil' saith) to 'revoke her pasttroubles':

 '----Forsan & hæc olim meminisse juvabit. '

And, to the same purpose, 'Juvenal' speaking of the 'prating joy' ofmariners, after all their 'dangers are over':

 'Gaudent securi narrare pericula nautæ. '

Which suiting the case so well, you'll forgive me, Sir, for 'poppingdown' in 'English metre, ' as the 'translative impulse' (pardon a newword, 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 havealways 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 forthis 'one' great error) a 'wise' young lady, I make no doubt but I shall'prevail' upon her, if not by 'mine own arguments, ' by those of 'wits'and 'capacities' that have a 'congeniality' (as I may say) to 'her own, 'to take to heart, ----Nor of the laws of fate complain, Since, though it has been cloudy, now't clears up again. ----

Oh! what 'wisdom' is there in these 'noble classical authors!' A 'wiseman' will (upon searching into them, ) always find that they speak 'his'sense of 'men' and 'things. ' Hence it is, that they so readily occur tomy 'memory' on every occasion--though this may look like 'vanity, ' it istoo true to be omitted; and I see not why a man may not 'know thesethings of himself, ' which 'every body' seeth and 'saith of him'; who, nevertheless, perhaps know not 'half so much as he, ' in other matters. 

I know but of 'one objection, ' Sir, that can lie against my going; andthat will arise from your kind 'care' and 'concern' for the 'safety of myperson, ' in case that 'fierce' and 'terrible man, ' the wicked Mr. Lovelace, (of whom every one standeth in fear, ) should come cross me, ashe may be resolved to try once more to 'gain a footing in Miss'saffections': but I will trust in 'Providence' for 'my safety, ' while Ishall 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' 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 maysay, in 'classical armour'; beginning 'meekly' with him (for, Sir, 'bravery' and 'meekness' are qualities 'very consistent with each other, 'and in no persons so shiningly 'exert' themselves, as in the 'Christianpriesthood'; beginning 'meekly' with him, I say) from Ovid, 'Corpora magnanimo satis est protrasse leoni:'

So that, if I should not be safe behind the 'shield of mine ownprudence, ' I certainly should be behind the 'shields' of the'ever-admirable classics': of 'Horace' particularly; 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 inwickedness, ' although in 'person' but a 'little David' myself, (armedwith the 'slings' and 'stones' of the 'ancient sages, ') to a due sense ofhis errors? And what a victory would that be!

I could here, Sir, pursuing the allegory of David and Goliath, give yousome of the 'stones' ('hard arguments' may be called 'stones, ' since they'knock down a pertinacious opponent') which I could 'pelt him with, ' werehe to be wroth with me; and this in order to take from you, Sir, allapprehensions for my 'life, ' or my 'bones'; but I forbear them till youdemand them of me, when I have the honour to attend you in person. 

And now, (my dear Sir, ) what remaineth, but that having shown you (whatyet, I believe, you did not doubt) how 'well qualified' I am to attendthe lady with 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 liveto receive the grace, which (to my knowledge) all the 'worthy family'design her, how much will that grieve you all! And then, Sir, of whatavail will be the 'eulogies' you shall all, peradventure, join to give toher memory? For, as Martial wisely observeth, '---- Post cineres gloria sera venit. '

Then, as 'Ausonius' layeth it down with 'equal propriety, ' that 'thosefavours which are speedily conferred are the most grateful and obliging'----

And to the same purpose Ovid:

 'Gratia ab officio, quod mora tar dat, abest. '

And, Sir, whatever you do, let the 'lady's pardon' be as 'ample, ' and as'cheerfully given, ' as she can 'wish for it': that I may be able to tellher, that it hath your 'hands, ' your 'countenances, ' and your 'wholehearts, ' with it--for, as the Latin verse hath it, (and I presume tothink 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, * (albeit I see itenamelled, as a 'beautiful meadow' is enamelled by the 'spring' or'summer' flowers, very glorious to behold!) I begin to be afraid that Imay have tired you; and the more likely, as I have written without that'method' or 'order, ' which I think constituteth the 'beauty' of 'goodwriting': which 'method' or 'order, ' nevertheless, may be the 'betterexcused' in a 'familiar epistle, ' (as this may be called, ) you pardoning, Sir, the 'familiarity' of the 'word'; but yet not altogether 'here, ' Imust needs own; because this is 'a letter' and 'not a letter, ' as I maysay; but a kind of 'short' and 'pithy discourse, ' touching upon 'various'and 'sundry topics, ' every one of which might be a 'fit theme' to enlargeupon of volumes; if this 'epistolary discourse' (then let me call it)should be pleasing to you, (as I am inclined to think it will, because ofthe 'sentiments' and 'aphorisms' of the 'wisest of the antients, ' which'glitter through it' like so many dazzling 'sunbeams, ') I will (at myleisure) work it up into a 'methodical discourse'; and perhaps may oneday print it, with a 'dedication' to my 'honoured patron, ' (if, Sir, Ihave 'your' leave, ) 'singly' at first, (but not till I have thrown out'anonymously, ' two or three 'smaller things, ' by the success of which Ishall have made myself of 'some account' in the 'commonwealth ofletters, ') and afterwards in my 'works'--not for the 'vanity' of thething (however) I will say, but for the 'use' it may be of to the'public'; for, (as one well observeth, ) 'though glory always followethvirtue, yet it should be considered only as its shadow. '

* And here, by way of note, permit me to say, that no 'sermon' I evercomposed cost me half the 'pains' that this letter hath done--but I knewyour great 'appetite' after, as well as 'admiration' of, the 'antientwisdom, ' which you so justly prefer to the 'modern'--and indeed I joinwith you to think, that the 'modern' is only 'borrowed, ' (as the 'moon'doth its light from the 'sun, ') at least, that we 'excel' them innothing; and that our 'best cogitations' may be found, generallyspeaking, more 'elegantly' dressed and expressed by them. 

 'Contemnit laudem virtus, licet usque sequatur Gloria virtutem, corpus ut umbra suum. '

A very pretty saying, and worthy of all men's admiration. 

And now, ('most worthy Sir, ' my very good friend and patron, ) referringthe whole to 'your's, ' and to your 'two brothers, ' and to 'young Mr. Harlowe's' consideration, and to the wise consideration of good 'MadamHarlowe, ' and her excellent daughter, 'Miss Arabella Harlowe'; I take theliberty to subscribe myself, what I 'truly am, ' and 'every shall delightto be, ' in 'all cases, ' and at 'all times, '

Your and their most ready and obedientas well as faithful servant, ELIAS BRAND. 

LETTER LXVII

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. [IN ANSWER TO LETTER LXIV. OF THIS VOLUME. ]WEDN. MORN. SEPT. 6. 

And is she somewhat better?--Blessings upon thee without number ormeasure! Let her still be better and better! Tell me so at least, ifshe be not so: for thou knowest not what a joy that poor temporaryreprieve, that she will hold out yet a day or two, gave me. 

But who told this hard-hearted and death-pronouncing doctor that she willhold it no longer? By what warrant says he this? What presumption inthese parading solemn fellows of a college, which will be my contempt tothe latest hour of my life, if this brother of it (eminent as he isdeemed to be) cannot work an ordinary miracle in her favour, or rather inmine!

Let me tell thee, Belford, that already he deserves the utmost contempt, for suffering this charming clock to run down so low. What must be hisart, if it could not wind it up in a quarter of the time he has attendedher, when, at his first visits, the springs and wheels of life and motionwere so god, that they seemed only to want common care and oiling!

I am obliged to you for endeavouring to engage her to see me. 'Twasacting like a friend. If she had vouchsafed me that favour, she shouldhave seen at her feet the most abject adorer that ever kneeled tojustly-offended beauty. 

What she bid you, and what she forbid you, to tell me, (the latter fortender considerations:) that she forgives me; and that, could she havemade me a good man, she would have made me a happy one! That she evenloved me! At such a moment to own that she once loved me! Never beforeloved any man! That she prays for me! That her last tear should be shedfor me, could she by it save a soul, doomed, without her, to perdition!--O Belford! Belford! I cannot bear it!--What a dog, what a devil have Ibeen to a goodness so superlative!--Why does she not inveigh against me?--Why does she not execrate me?--O the triumphant subduer! Ever aboveme!--And now to leave me so infinitely below her!

Marry and repair, at any time; this, wretch that I was, was my plea tomyself. To give her a lowering sensibility; to bring her down from amongthe stars which her beamy head was surrounded by, that my wife, sogreatly above me, might not despise me; this was one of my reptilemotives, owing to my more reptile envy, and to my consciousness ofinferiority to her!--Yet she, from step to step, from distress todistress, to maintain her superiority; and, like the sun, to break outupon me with the greater refulgence for the clouds that I had contrivedto cast about her!--And now to escape me thus!--No power left me torepair her wrongs!--No alleviation to my self-reproach!--No dividing ofblame with her!--

Tell her, O tell her, Belford, that her prayers and wishes, hersuperlatively-generous prayers and wishes, shall not be vain: that I can, and do repent--and long have repented. --Tell her of my frequent deepremorses--it was impossible that such remorses should not at last produceeffectual remorse--yet she must not leave me--she must live, if she wouldwish to have my contrition perfect--For what can despair produce?

***

I will do every thing you would have me do, in the return of yourletters. You have infinitely obliged me by this last, and by pressingfor an admission for me, though it succeeded not. 

Once more, how could I be such a villain to so divine a creature! Yetlove her all the time, as never man loved woman!--Curse upon mycontriving genius!--Curse upon my intriguing head, and upon my secondingheart!--To sport with the fame, with the honour, with the life, of suchan angel of a woman!--O my d----d incredulity! That, believing her to bea woman, I must hope to find her a woman! On my incredulity, that therecould be such virtue (virtue for virtue's sake) in the sex, founded I myhope of succeeding with her. 

But say not, Jack, that she must leave us yet. If she recover, and if Ican but re-obtain her favour, then, indeed, will life be life to me. Theworld never saw such an husband as I will make. I will have no will buther's. She shall conduct me in all my steps. She shall open and directmy prospects, and turn every motion of my heart as she pleases. 

You tell me, in your letter, that at eleven o'clock she had sweet rest;and my servant acquaints me, from Mrs. Smith, that she has had a goodnight. What hopes does this fill me with! I have given the fellow fiveguineas for his good news, to be divided between him and hisfellow-servant. 

Dear, dear Jack! confirm this to me in thy next--for Heaven's sake, do!--Tell the doctor I'll make a present of a thousand guineas if he recoverher. Ask if a consultation then be necessary. 

Adieu, dear Belford! Confirm, I beseech thee, the hopes that now, withsovereign gladness, have taken possession of a heart, that, next toher's, is

Thine. 

LETTER LXVIII

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. WEDN. MORN. EIGHT O'CLOCK, (6 SEPT. )

Your servant arrived here before I was stirring. I sent him to Smith'sto inquire how the lady was; and ordered him to call upon me when he cameback. I was pleased to hear she had tolerable rest. As soon as I haddispatched him with the letter I had written over night, I went to attendher. 

I found hr up, and dressed; in a white sattin night-gown. Ever elegant;but now more so than I had seen her for a week past: her aspect serenelycheerful. 

She mentioned the increased dimness of her eyes, and the tremor which hadinvaded her limbs. If this be dying, said she, there is nothing at allshocking in it. My body hardly sensible of pain, my mind at ease, myintellects clear and perfect as ever. What a good and gracious God haveI!--For this is what I always prayed for. 

I told her it was not so serene with you. 

There is not the same reason for it, replied she. 'Tis a choice comfort, Mr. Belford, at the winding up of our short story, to be able to say, Ihave rather suffered injuries myself, than offered them to others. Ibless God, though I have bee unhappy, as the world deems it, and once Ithought more so than at present I think I ought to have done, since mycalamities were to work out for me my everlasting happiness; yet have Inot wilfully made any one creature so. I have no reason to grieve forany thing but for the sorrow I have given my friends. 

But pray, Mr. Belford, remember me in the best manner to my cousinMorden; and desire him to comfort them, and to tell them, that all wouldhave been the same, had they accepted of my true penitence, as I wish andas I trust the Almighty has done. 

I was called down: it was to Harry, who was just returned from MissHowe's, to whom he carried the lady's letter. The stupid fellow beingbid to make haste with it, and return as soon as possible, staid notuntil Miss Howe had it, she being at the distance of five minutes, although Mrs. Howe would have had him stay, and sent a man and horsepurposely with it to her daughter. 

WEDNESDAY MORNING, TEN O'CLOCK. 

The poor lady is just recovered from a fainting fit, which has left herat death's door. Her late tranquillity and freedom from pain seemed buta lightening, as Mrs. Lovick and Mrs. Smith call it. 

By my faith, Lovelace, I had rather part with all the friends I have inthe world, than with this lady. I never knew what a virtuous, a holyfriendship, as I may call mine to her, was before. But to be so new toit, and to be obliged to forego it so soon, what an affliction! Yet, thank Heaven, I lose her not by my own fault!--But 'twould be barbarousnot to spare thee now. 

She has sent for the divine who visited her before, to pray with her. 

LETTER LXIX

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. KENSINGTON, WEDNESDAY NOON. 

Like Æsop's traveller, thou blowest hot and cold, life and death, in thesame breath, with a view, no doubt, to distract me. How familiarly dostthou use the words, dying, dimness, tremor? Never did any mortal ring somany changes on so few bells. Thy true father, I dare swear, was abutcher, or an undertaker, by the delight thou seemest to take in scenesof death and horror. Thy barbarous reflection, that thou losest her notby thy own fault, is never to be forgiven. Thou hast but one way toatone for the torments thou hast given me, and that is, by sending meword that she is better, and will recover. Whether it be true or not, let me be told so, and I will go abroad rejoicing and believing it, andmy wishes and imaginations shall make out all the rest. 

If she live but one year, that I may acquit myself to myself (no matterfor the world!) that her death is not owing to me, I will compound forthe rest. 

Will neither vows nor prayers save her? I never prayed in my life, putall the years of it together, as I have done for this fortnight past: andI have most sincerely repented of all my baseness to her--And willnothing do?

But after all, if she recovers not, this reflection must be my comfort;and it is truth; that her departure will be owing rather to wilfulness, to downright female wilfulness, than to any other cause. 

It is difficult for people, who pursue the dictates of a violentresentment, to stop where first they designed to stop. 

I have the charity to believe, that even James and Arabella Harlowe, atfirst, intended no more by the confederacy they formed against this theirangel sister, than to disgrace and keep her down, lest (sordid wretches!)their uncles should follow the example their grandfather had set, totheir detriment. 

So this lady, as I suppose, intended only at first to vex and plague me;and, finding she could do it to purpose, her desire of revenge insensiblybecame stronger in her than the desire of life; and now she is willing todie, as an event which she thinks will cut my heart-strings asunder. Andstill, the more to be revenged, puts on the Christian, and forgives me. 

But I'll have none of her forgiveness! My own heart tells me I do notdeserve it; and I cannot bear it!--And what is it but a mere verbalforgiveness, as ostentatiously as cruelly given with a view to magnifyherself, and wound me deeper! A little, dear, specious--but let me stop--lest I blaspheme!

***

Reading over the above, I am ashamed of my ramblings; but what wouldesthave me do?--Seest thou not that I am but seeking to run out of myself, in hope to lose myself; yet, that I am unable to do either?

If ever thou lovedst but half so fervently as I love--but of that thyheavy soul is not capable. 

Send me word by the next, I conjure thee, in the names of all her kindredsaints and angels, that she is living, and likely to live!--If thousendest ill news, thou wilt be answerable for the consequences, whetherit be fatal to the messenger, or to

ThyLOVELACE. 

LETTER LXX

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. WEDNESDAY, ELEVEN O'CLOCK. 

Dr. H. Has just been here. He tarried with me till the minister had donepraying by the lady; and then we were both admitted. Mr. Goddard, whocame while the doctor and the clergyman were with her, went away withthem when they went. They took a solemn and everlasting leave of her, asI have no scruple to say; blessing her, and being blessed by her; andwishing (when it came to be their lot) for an exit as happy as her's islikely to be. 

She had again earnestly requested of the doctor his opinion how long itwas now probable that she could continue; and he told her, that heapprehended she would hardly see to-morrow night. She said, she shouldnumber the hours with greater pleasure than ever she numbered any in herlife on the most joyful occasion. 

How unlike poor Belton's last hours her's! See the infinite differencesin the effects, on the same awful and affecting occasion, between a goodand a bad conscience!

This moment a man is come from Miss Howe with a letter. Perhaps I shallbe able to send you the contents. 

***

She endeavoured several times with earnestness, but in vain, to read theletter of her dear friend. The writing, she said, was too fine for hergrosser sight, and the lines staggered under her eye. And indeed shetrembled so, she could not hold the paper; and at last desired Mrs. Lovick to read it to her, the messenger waiting for an answer. 

Thou wilt see in Miss Howe's letter, how different the expression of thesame impatience, and passionate love, is, when dictated by the gentlermind of a woman, from that which results from a mind so boisterous andknotty as thine. For Mrs. Lovick will transcribe it, and I shall sendit--to be read in this place, if thou wilt. 

MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWETUESDAY, SEPT. 5. 

O MY DEAREST FRIEND!

What will become of your poor Anna Howe! I see by your writing, as wellas read by your own account, (which, were you not very, very ill, youwould have touched more tenderly, ) how it is with you! Why have I thuslong delayed to attend you! Could I think, that the comfortings of afaithful friend were as nothing to a gentle mind in distress, that Icould be prevailed upon to forbear visiting you so much as once in allthis time! I, as well as every body else, to desert and abandon my dearcreature to strangers! What will become of you, if you be as bad as myapprehensions make you!

I will set out this moment, little as the encouragement is that you giveme to do so! My mother is willing I should! Why, O why was she notbefore willing?

Yet she persuades me too, (lest I should be fatally affected were I tofind my fears too well justified, ) to wait the return of this messenger, who rides our swiftest horse. --God speed him with good news to me--Oneline from your hand by him!--Send me but one line to bid me attend you!I will set out the moment, the very moment I receive it. I am nowactually ready to do so! And if you love me, as I love you, the sightof me will revive you to my hopes. --But why, why, when I can think this, did I not go up sooner!

Blessed Heaven! deny not to my prayers, my friend, my admonisher, myadviser, at a time so critical to myself. 

But methinks, your style and sentiments are too well connected, toofull of life and vigour, to give cause for so much despair as thystaggering pen seems to forbode. 

I am sorry I was not at home, [I must add thus much, though the servantis ready mounted at the door, ] when Mr. Belford's servant came with youraffecting letter. I was at Miss Lloyd's. My mamma sent it to me--and Icame home that instant. But he was gone: he would not stay, it seems. Yet I wanted to ask him an hundred thousand questions. But why delay Ithus my messenger? I have a multitude of things to say to you--to advisewith you about!--You shall direct me in every thing. I will obey theholding up of your finger. But, if you leave me--what is the world, orany thing in it, to your

ANNA HOWE?

The effect this letter had on the lady, who is so near the end which thefair writer so much apprehends and deplores, obliged Mrs. Lovick to makemany breaks in reading it, and many changes of voice. 

This is a friend, said the divine lady, (taking the letter in her hand, and kissing it, ) worth wishing to live for. --O my dear Anna Howe! howuninterruptedly sweet and noble has been our friendship!--But we shallone day meet, (and this hope must comfort us both, ) never to part again!Then, divested of the shades of body, shall be all light and all mind!--Then how unalloyed, how perfect, will be our friendship! Our love thenwill have one and the same adorable object, and we shall enjoy it andeach other to all eternity!

She said, her dear friend was so earnest for a line or two, that she fainwould write, if she could: and she tried--but to no purpose. She coulddictate, however, she believed; and desired Mrs. Lovick would take penand paper. Which she did, and then she dictated to her. I would havewithdrawn; but at her desire staid. 

She wandered a good deal at first. She took notice that she did. Andwhen she got into a little train, not pleasing herself, she apologized toMrs. Lovick for making her begin again and again; and said, that thethird time should go, let it be as it would. 

She dictated the farewell part without hesitation; and when she came toblessing and subscription, she took the pen, and dropping on her knees, supported by Mrs. Lovick, wrote the conclusion; but Mrs. Lovick wasforced to guide her hand. 

You will find the sense surprisingly entire, her weakness considered. 

I made the messenger wait while I transcribed it. I have endeavoured toimitate the subscriptive part; and in the letter made pauses where, tothe best of my remembrance, she paused. In nothing that relates to thisadmirable lady can I be too minute. 

WEDN. NEAR THREE O'CLOCK. 

MY DEAREST MISS HOWE, You must not be surprised--nor grieved--that Mrs. Lovick writes for me. Although I cannot obey you, and write with my pen, yet my heart writesby her's--accept it so--it is the nearest to obedience I can!

And now, what ought I to say? What can I say?--But why should not youknow the truth? since soon you must--very soon. 

Know then, and let your tears be those, if of pity, of joyful pity! forI permit you to shed a few, to embalm, as I may say, a fallen blossom--know then, that the good doctor, and the pious clergyman, and the worthyapothecary, have just now--with joint benedictions--taken their lastleave of me; and the former bids me hope--do, my dearest, let me say hope--hope for my enlargement before to-morrow sun-set. 

Adieu, therefore, my dearest friend!--Be this your consolation, as it ismine, that in God's good time we shall meet in a blessed eternity, nevermore to part!--Once more, then, adieu!--and be happy!--Which a generousnature cannot be, unless--to its power--it makes others so too. 

God for ever bless you!--prays, dropt on my bended knees, althoughsupported upon them, Your obliged, grateful, affectionate, CL. HARLOWE. 

***

When I had transcribed and sealed this letter, by her direction, I gaveit to the messenger myself, who told me that Miss Howe waited for nothingbut his return to set out for London. 

Thy servant is just come; so I will close here. Thou art a mercilessmaster. These two fellows are battered to death by thee, to use a femaleword; and all female words, though we are not sure of their derivation, have very significant meanings. I believe, in their hearts, they wishthe angel in the Heaven that is ready to receive her, and thee at theproper place, that there might be an end of their flurries--another wordof the same gender. 

What a letter hast thou sent me!--Poor Lovelace!--is all the answer Iwill return. 

FIVE O'CLOCK. ] Col. Morden is this moment arrived. 

LETTER LXXI

MR. BELFORD[IN CONTINUATION. ]EIGHT IN THE EVENING. 

I had but just time, in my former, to tell you that Col. Morden wasarrived. He was on horseback, attended by two servants, and alightedat the door just as the clock struck five. Mrs. Smith was then below inher back-shop, weeping, her husband with her, who was as much affected asshe; Mrs. Lovick having left them a little before, in tears likewise; forthey had been bemoaning one another; joining in opinion that theadmirable lady would not live the night over. She had told them, it washer opinion too, from some numbnesses, which she called the forerunnersof death, and from an increased inclination to doze. 

The Colonel, as Mrs. Smith told me afterwards, asked with greatimpatience, the moment he alighted, how Miss Harlowe was? She answered--Alive!--but, she feared, drawing on apace. --Good God! said he, with hishands and eyes lifted up, can I see her? My name is Morden. I have thehonour to be nearly related to her. --Step up, pray, and let her know, (she is sensible, I hope, ) that I am here--Who is with her?

Nobody but her nurse, and Mrs. Lovick, a widow gentlewoman, who is ascareful of her as if she were her mother. 

And more careful too, interrupted he, or she is not careful at all----

Except a gentleman be with her, one Mr. Belford, continued Mrs. Smith, who has been the best friend she has had. 

If Mr. Belford be with her, surely I may--but pray step up, and let Mr. Belford know that I shall take it for a favour to speak with him first. 

Mrs. Smith came up to me in my new apartment. I had but just dispatchedyour servant, and was asking her nurse if I might be again admitted? Whoanswered, that she was dozing in the elbow chair, having refused to liedown, saying, she should soon, she hoped, lie down for good. 

The Colonel, who is really a fine gentleman, received me with greatpoliteness. After the first compliments--My kinswoman, Sir, said he, ismore obliged to you than to any of her own family. For my part, I havebeen endeavouring to move so many rocks in her favour; and, littlethinking the dear creature so very bad, have neglected to attend her, asI ought to have done the moment I arrived; and would, had I known how illshe was, and what a task I should have had with the family. But, Sir, your friend has been excessively to blame; and you being so intimatelyhis friend, has made her fare the worse for your civilities to her. Butare there no hopes of her recovery?

The doctors have left her, with the melancholy declaration that there arenone. 

Has she had good attendance, Sir? A skilful physician? I hear thesegood folks have been very civil and obliging to her. 

Who could be otherwise? said Mrs. Smith, weeping. --She is the sweetestlady in the world!

The character, said the Colonel, lifting up his eyes and one hand, thatshe has from every living creature!--Good God! How could your accursedfriend--

And how could her cruel parents? interrupted I. --We may as easily accountfor him, as for them. 

Too true! returned me, the vileness of the profligates of our sexconsidered, whenever they can get any of the other into their power. 

I satisfied him about the care that had been taken of her, and told himof the friendly and even paternal attendance she had had from Dr. H. AndMr. Goddard. 

He was impatient to attend her, having not seen her, as he said, sinceshe was twelve years old; and that then she gave promises of being one ofthe finest women in England. 

She was so, replied I, a very few months ago: and, though emaciated, shewill appear to you to have confirmed those promises; for her features areso regular and exact, her proportions so fine, and her manner soinimitably graceful, that, were she only skin and bone, she must be abeauty. 

Mrs. Smith, at his request, stept up, and brought us down word that Mrs. Lovick and her nurse were with her; and that she was in so sound a sleep, leaning upon the former in her elbow-chair, that she had neither heardher enter the room, nor go out. The Colonel begged, if not improper, that he might see her, though sleeping. He said, that his impatiencewould not let him stay till he awaked. Yet he would not have herdisturbed; and should be glad to contemplate her sweet features, when shesaw not him; and asked, if she thought he could not go in, and come out, without disturbing her?

She believed he might, she answered; for her chair's back was towards thedoor. 

He said he would take care to withdraw, if she awoke, that his suddenappearance might not surprise her. 

Mrs. Smith, stepping up before us, bid Mrs. Lovick and nurse not stir, when we entered; and then we went up softly together. 

We beheld the lady in a charming attitude. Dressed, as I told youbefore, in her virgin white. She was sitting in her elbow-chair, Mrs. Lovick close by her, in another chair, with her left arm round her neck, supporting it, as it were; for, it seems, the lady had bid her do so, saying, she had been a mother to her, and she would delight herself inthinking she was in her mamma's arms; for she found herself drowsy;perhaps, she said, for the last time she should be so. 

One faded cheek rested upon the good woman's bosom, the kindly warmth ofwhich had overspread it with a faint, but charming flush; the other palerand hollow, as if already iced over by death. Her hands white as thelily, with her meandering veins more transparently blue than ever I hadseen even her's, (veins so soon, alas! to be choked up by the congealmentof that purple stream, which already so languidly creeps, rather thanflows, through them!) her hands hanging lifelessly, one before her, theother grasped by the right-hand of the kind widow, whose tears bedewedthe sweet face which her motherly boson supported, though unfelt by thefair sleeper; and either insensibly to the good woman, or what she wouldnot disturb her to wipe off, or to change her posture: her aspect wassweetly calm and serene: and though she started now and then, yet hersleep seemed easy; her breath, indeed short and quick; but tolerablyfree, and not like that of a dying person. 

In this heart-moving attitude she appeared to us when we approached her, and came to have her lovely face before us. 

The Colonel, sighing often, gazed upon her with his arms folded, and withthe most profound and affectionate attention; till at last, on herstarting, and fetching her breath with greater difficulty than before, heretired to a screen, that was drawn before her house, as she calls it, which, as I have heretofore observed, stands under one of the windows. This screen was placed there at the time she found herself obliged totake to her chamber; and in the depth of our concern, and the fulness ofother discourse at our first interview, I had forgotten to apprize theColonel of what he would probably see. 

Retiring thither, he drew out his handkerchief, and, overwhelmed withgrief, seemed unable to speak; but, on casting his eye behind the screen, he soon broke silence; for, struck with the shape of the coffin, helifted up a purplish-coloured cloth that was spread over it, and, starting back, Good God! said he, what's here?

Mrs. Smith standing next him, Why, said he, with great emotion, is mycousin suffered to indulge her sad reflections with such an object beforeher?

Alas! Sir, replied the good woman, who should controul her? We are allstrangers about her, in a manner: and yet we have expostulated with herupon this sad occasion. 

I ought, said I, (stepping softly up to him, the lady again falling intoa doze, ) to have apprized you of this. I was here when it was broughtin, and never was so shocked in my life. But she had none of her friendsabout her, and no reason to hope for any of them to come near her; and, assured she should not recover, she was resolved to leave as little aspossible, especially as to what related to her person, to her executor. But it is not a shocking object to her, though it be to every body else. 

Curse upon the hard-heartedness of those, said he, who occasioned her tomake so sad a provision for herself!--What must her reflections have beenall the time she was thinking of it, and giving orders about it? Andwhat must they be every time she turns her head towards it? Theseuncommon genius's--but indeed she should have been controuled in it, hadI been here. 

The lady fetched a profound sigh, and, starting, it broke off our talk;and the Colonel then withdrew farther behind the screen, that his suddenappearance might not surprise her. 

Where am I?--said she. How drowsy I am! How long have I dozed? Don'tgo, Sir, (for I was retiring, ) I am very stupid, and shall be more andmore so, I suppose. 

She then offered to raise herself; but being ready to faint throughweakness, was forced to sit down again, reclining her head on her chairback; and, after a few moments, I believe now, my good friends, said she, all your kind trouble will soon be over. I have slept, but am notrefreshed, and my fingers' ends seem numbed--have no feeling! (holdingthem up, )--'tis time to send the letter to my good Norton. 

Shall I, Madam, send my servant post with it?

O no, Sir, I thank you. It will reach the dear woman too soon, (as shewill think, ) by the post. 

I told her this was not post-day. 

Is it Wednesday still, said she; bless me! I know not how the time goes--but very tediously, 'tis plain. And now I think I must soon take to mybed. All will be most conveniently, and with least trouble, over there--will it not, Mrs. Lovick?--I think, Sir, turning to me, I have leftnothing to these last incapacitating hours. Nothing either to say, or todo--I bless God, I have not. If I had, how unhappy should I be! Canyou, Sir, remind me of any thing necessary to be done or said to makeyour office easy?

If, Madam, your cousin Morden should come, you would be glad to see him, I presume?

I am too weak to wish to see my cousin now. It would but discompose me, and him too. Yet, if he come while I can see him, I will see him, wereit but to thank him for former favours, and for his present kindintentions to me. Has any body been here from him?

He has called, and will be here, Madam, in half an hour; but he feared tosurprise you. 

Nothing can surprise me now, except my mamma were to favour me with herlast blessing in person. That would be a welcome surprise to me, evenyet. But did my cousin come purposely to town to see me?

Yes, Madam, I took the liberty to let him know, by a line last Monday, how ill you were. 

You are very kind, Sir. I am, and have been greatly obliged to you. ButI think I shall be pained to see him now, because he will be concerned tosee me. And yet, as I am not so ill as I shall presently be--the soonerhe comes the better. But if he come, what shall I do about the screen?He will chide me, very probably, and I cannot bear chiding now. Perhaps, [leaning upon Mrs. Lovick and Mrs. Smith, ] I can walk into the nextapartment to receive him. 

She motioned to rise, but was ready to faint again, and forced to sitstill. 

The Colonel was in a perfect agitation behind the screen to hear thisdiscourse; and twice, unseen by his cousin, was coming from it towardsher; but retreated for fear of surprising her too much. 

I stept to him, and favoured his retreat; she only saying, Are you going, Mr. Belford? Are you sent for down? Is my cousin come? For she heardsomebody step softly across the room, and thought it to be me; herhearing being more perfect than her sight. 

I told her, I believed he was; and she said, We must make the best of it, Mrs. Lovick, and Mrs. Smith. I shall otherwise most grievously shock mypoor cousin: for he loved me dearly once. --Pray give me a few of thedoctor's last drops in water, to keep up my spirits for this oneinterview; and that is all, I believe, that can concern me now. 

The Colonel, (who heard all this, ) sent in his name; and I, pretending togo down to him, introduced the afflicted gentleman; she having firstordered the screen to be put as close to the window as possible, that hemight not see what was behind it; while he, having heard what she hadsaid about it, was determined to take no notice of it. 

He folded the angel in his arms as she sat, dropping down on one knee;for, supporting herself upon the two elbows of the chair, she attemptedto rise, but could not. Excuse, my dear Cousin, said she, excuse me, that I cannot stand up--I did not expect this favour now. But I am gladof this opportunity to thank you for all your generous goodness to me. 

I never, my best-beloved and dearest Cousin, said he, (with eyes runningover, ) shall forgive myself, that I did not attend you sooner. Littledid I think you were so ill; nor do any of your friends believe it. Ifthey did--

If they did, repeated she, interrupting him, I should have had morecompassion from them. I am sure I should--But pray, Sir, how did youleave them? Are you reconciled to them? If you are not, I beg, if youlove your poor Clarissa, that you will; for every widened differenceaugments but my fault; since that is the foundation of all. 

I had been expecting to hear from them in your favour, my dear Cousin, said he, for some hours, when this gentleman's letter arrived, whichhastened me up; but I have the account of your grandfather's estate tomake up with you, and have bills and drafts upon their banker for thesums due to you; which they desire you may receive, lest you should haveoccasion for money. And this is such an earnest of an approachingreconciliation, that I dare to answer for all the rest being according toyour wishes, if----

Ah! Sir, interrupted she, with frequent breaks and pauses--I wish--I wishthis does not rather show that, were I to live, they would have nothingmore to say to me. I never had any pride in being independent of them;all my actions, when I might have made myself more independent, show this--But what avail these reflections now?--I only beg, Sir, that you, andthis gentleman--to whom I am exceedingly obliged--will adjust thosematters--according to the will I have written. Mr. Belford will excuseme; but it was in truth more necessity than choice that made me think ofgiving him the trouble he so kindly accepts. Had I the happiness to seeyou, my Cousin, sooner--or to know that you still honoured me with yourregard--I should not have had the assurance to ask this favour of him. --But, though the friend of Mr. Lovelace, he is a man of honour, and hewill make peace rather than break it. And, my dear Cousin, let me begof you while I have nearer relations than my Cousin Morden, dear as youare, and always were to me, you have no title to avenge my wrongs uponhim who has been the occasion of them. But I wrote to you my mind onthis subject, and my reasons--and I hope I need not further urge them. 

I must do Mr. Lovelace so much justice, answered he, wiping his eyes, asto witness how sincerely he repents him of his ungrateful baseness toyou, and how ready he is to make you all the amends in his power. Heowns his wickedness, and your merit. If he did not, I could not pass itover, though you have nearer relations; for, my dear Cousin, did not yourgrandfather leave me in trust for you? And should I think myselfconcerned for your fortune, and not for your honour? But since he is sodesirous to do you justice, I have the less to say; and you may makeyourself entirely easy on that account. 

I thank you, thank you, Sir, said she;--all is now as I wished. --But I amvery faint, very weak. I am sorry I cannot hold up; that I cannot betterdeserve the honour of this visit--but it will not be--and saying this, shesunk down in her chair, and was silent. 

Hereupon we both withdrew, leaving word that we would be at the BedfordHead, if any thing extraordinary happened. 

We bespoke a little repast, having neither of us dined; and, while it wasgetting ready, you may guess at the subject of our discourse. Bothjoined in lamentation for the lady's desperate state; admired hermanifold excellencies; severely condemned you and her friends. Yet, tobring him into better opinion of you, I read to him some passages fromyour last letters, which showed your concern for the wrongs you had doneher, and your deep remorse: and he said it was a dreadful thing to labourunder the sense of a guilt so irredeemable. 

We procured Mr. Goddard, (Dr. H. Not being at home, ) once more to visither, and to call upon us in his return. He was so good as to do so; buthe tarried with her not five minutes; and told us, that she was drawingon apace; that he feared she would not live till morning; and that shewished to see Colonel Morden directly. 

The Colonel made excuses where none were needed; and though our littlerefection was just brought in, he went away immediately. 

I could not touch a morsel; and took pen and ink to amuse myself, andoblige you; knowing how impatient you would be for a few lines: for, fromwhat I have recited, you see it was impossible I could withdraw to writewhen your servant came at half an hour after five, or have an opportunityfor it till now; and this is accidental; and yet your poor fellow wasafraid to go away with the verbal message I sent; importing, as no doubthe told you, that the Colonel was with us, the lady excessively ill, andthat I could not stir to write a line. 

TEN O'CLOCK. 

The Colonel sent to me afterwards, to tell me that the lady having beenin convulsions, he was so much disordered that he could not possiblyattend me. 

I have sent every half hour to know how she does--and just now I have thepleasure to hear that her convulsions have left her; and that she is goneto rest in a much quieter way than could be expected. 

Her poor cousin is very much indisposed; yet will not stir out of thehouse while she is in such a way; but intends to lie down on a couch, having refused any other accommodation. 

END OF VOL. 8.