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 THE 
 
 BRITISH NOVELISTS; 
 
 WITH AN 
 
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 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL, 
 
 BY 
 
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 CLARISSA; 
 
 OR, THE 
 
 HISTORY OF A YOUNG LADY 
 
 COMPREHENDING THE 
 
 MOST IMPORTANT CONCERNS 
 
 OF 
 
 PRIVATE LIFE; 
 
 AND 
 
 PARTICULARLY SHEWING THE DISTRESSES 
 
 THAT MAY ATTEND 
 
 THE MISCONDUCT 
 
 BOTH OP 
 
 PARENTS AND CHILDREN, 
 
 IN RELATION TO MARRIAGE. 
 
 IN EIGHT VOLUMES. 
 VOL. II.
 
 
 
 i
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 Let. 
 
 I. MISS Howe to Clarissa. Humorous description of Mr. 
 Hickman. Imagines, from what Lovelace, Hickman, 
 and Solmes are now, what figures they made when boys 
 at school. 
 
 II. From the same. Useful observations on general life. 
 Severe censures of the Harlowe family, for their pride, 
 formality, and other bad qualities. 
 
 III. From the same. Mr. Hickman's conversation with two 
 of Lovelace's libertine companions. 
 
 IV. From the same. An unexpected visit from Mr. Love- 
 lace. What passes in it. Repeats her advice to her to 
 resume her estate. 
 
 V. VI. VII. Clarissa to Miss Howe. Further particulars of 
 the persecutions she receives from her violent brother. 
 
 VIII. From the same. Impertinence of Betty Barnes. Over- 
 hears her brother and sister encourage Solmes to persevere 
 in his address. She writes warmly to her brother upon it. 
 
 IX. From the same. Receives a provoking letter from her 
 sister. Writes to her mother. Her mother's severe reply. 
 Is impatient. Desires Miss Howe's advice what course 
 to pursue. Tries to compose her angry passions at her 
 harpsichord. An Ode to Wisdom, by a lady. 
 
 X. From the same. Chides her for misrepresenting Mr. 
 Hickman. Fully answers her arguments about resuming 
 her estate. Her impartiality with regard to what Miss 
 Howe says of Lovelace, Solmes, and her brother. Re- 
 flections on revenge and duelling.
 
 ii CONTENTS OF VOL. II. 
 
 XL Miss Howe to Clarissa. Sir Harry Downeton's account 
 of what passed between himself and Sohnes. She wishes 
 her to avoid both men. Admires her for her manifold 
 excellencies. 
 
 XII. Clarissa to Miss Howe. Why she cannot overcome her 
 aversion to Solmes. Sharp letter to Lovelace. On what 
 occasion. All his difficulties, she tells him, owing to his 
 faulty morals, which level all distinction. Insists upon his 
 laying aside all thoughts of her. Her impartial and dutiful 
 reasonings on her difficult situation. 
 
 XIII. Miss Howe to Clarissa. A notable debate between her 
 and her mother on her case. Those who marry for love sel- 
 dom so happy as those who marry for convenience. Picture 
 of a modern marriage. A lesson both to parents and chil- 
 drenin love cases. Handsome men seldom make good 
 husbands. Miss Howe reflects on the Harlowe family, as 
 not famous for strictness in religion or piety. Her mo- 
 ther's partiality. 
 
 XIV. Clarissa to Miss Howe. Her increased apprehensions. 
 fVarmly defends her own motfier. Extenuates her father's 
 
 failings ; and expostulates with her on her undeserved 
 treatment of Mr. Hickman. A letter to her from Solmes. 
 Her spirited answer. All in an uproar upon it. Her aunt 
 Hervey's angry letter to her. She writes to her mother. 
 Her letter returned unopened. To her father. He tears 
 her letter in pieces, and sends it back to her. She then 
 writes a pathetic letter to her uncle Harlowe. 
 
 XV. From the same. Receives a gentler answer than 
 she expected from her uncle Harlowe. Makes a new pro- 
 posal in a letter to him, which she thinks must be accepted. 
 Her relations assembled upon it. Her opinion of the sacri- 
 fice which a child ought to make to her parents. 
 
 XVI. Fromthesame. She tells her, that the proposal she had 
 made to her relations, on which she bad built so much, is
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. II. Ill 
 
 rejected. Betty's sancy report upon it. Her brother's pro- 
 voking letter to her. Herletter to her uncle Harloweonthe 
 occasion. Substance of a letter excusatory from Mr. Love- 
 lace. He presses for an interview with her in the garden. 
 
 XVII. Clarissato Miss Howe. Her uncle's angry answer. Sub- 
 stance of an humble letter from Mr. Lovelace. He has got 
 a violent cold and hoarseness by his fruitless attendance all 
 night in the coppice. She is sorry he is not well. Makes a 
 conditional appointment with him for the next night, in 
 the garden. Hates tyranny in all shapes. 
 
 XVIII. From the same. A characteristic dialogue with the 
 pert Betty Barnes. Women have great advantage over 
 men in all the powers that relate to the imagination. 
 Makes a request to her uncle Harlowe, which is granted, on 
 condition that she will admit of a visit from Solmes. She 
 complies; and appoints that day sevennight. Then writes 
 to Lovelace to suspend the intended interview. Desires 
 Miss Howe to inquire into Lovelace's behaviour at the 
 little inn he puts up at in his way to Harlowe Place. 
 
 XIX. From the same. Receives a letter from Lovelace, 
 written in very high terms, on her suspending the inter- 
 view. Her angry answer. Resolves against any further 
 correspondence with him. 
 
 XX. Miss Howe to Clarissa. Humourous account of her mo- 
 ther and Mr. Hickman, in their little journey to visit her 
 dying cousin. Rallies her on her present displeasure with 
 Lovelace. 
 
 XXI. Mr. Hickman to Mrs. Howe. Resenting Miss Howe's 
 treatment of him. 
 
 XXII. Mrs. Howe. In answer. 
 
 XXIII. Miss Howe to Clarissa. Observes upon the contents 
 of her seven last letters. Advises her to send her all the 
 letters and papers she would not have her relations see ; 
 
 as
 
 IV CONTENTS OF VOL. II. 
 
 also a parcel of clothes, linen, &c. Is in hopes of procur- 
 ing an asylum for her with her mother, if things come to 
 extremity. 
 
 XXIV. Clarissa to Miss Howe. Requisites of true satire. 
 Rejoices in the hopes she gives of her mother's protection. 
 Deposits a parcel of linen, and all Lovelace's letters. Use- 
 ful observations relating to family management, and to 
 neatness of person and dress. Her contrivances to amuse 
 Betty Barnes. 
 
 XXV. Miss Howe to Clarissa. Result of an inquiry after 
 Lovelace's behaviour at the inn. Doubts not bnt he has 
 ruined the innkeeper's daughter. Passionately inveighs 
 against him. 
 
 XXVI. Clarissa. In answer. Is extremely alarmed at Love- 
 lace's supposed baseness. Declares her abhorrence of him. 
 
 XXVII. Miss Howe to Clarissa. Lovelace, on inquiry, comes 
 out to be not only innocent with regard to his Rosebud, 
 but generous. Miss Howe rallies her on the effects this 
 intelligence must have upon her generosity. 
 
 XXVIII. Clarissa. In reply. Acknowledges her generosity 
 engaged in his favour. Frankly expresses tenderness and 
 regard/or him ; and owns, that the intelligence of his sup- 
 posed baseness had affected her more than she thinks it ought. 
 Contents of a letter she has received from him. Pities him. 
 Writes to him, that her rejection of Solmes is not in favour 
 to himself; for that she is determined to hold herself free to 
 obey her parents (as she had offered to them) if they in- 
 sisted on her renouncing him as a condition of their giving up 
 Solmes. Reproaches him for his libertine declarations in 
 all companies against matrimony. Her notions of filial 
 duty, notwithstanding Hie persecutions she meets with. 
 
 XXIX. Miss Howe to Clarissa. Her treatment of Mr. Hick- 
 man on his intrusion into her company. Applauds Clarissa
 
 . CONTENTS OF VOL. II. V 
 
 for the generosity of her spirit, and the greatness of her 
 mind. 
 
 XXX. Clarissa to Miss Howe. Dr. Lewen makes her a for- 
 mal visit. Affected civility of her brother and sister to 
 her. Is visited by her uncle Harlowe, and by her sister. 
 She penetrates the low art designed in this change of their 
 outward behaviour. Substance of Lovelace's reply to her 
 last. He acknowledges his folly for having ever spoken 
 lightly of matrimony. 
 
 XXXI. From the same. Another letter from Mr. Lovelace ; 
 in which he expresses himself extremely apprehensive of 
 the issue of her interview with Solmes. Presses her to 
 escape ; proposes means for effecting it ; and threatens to 
 rescue her by violence, if they attempt to carry her to her 
 uncle Antony's against her will. Her terror on this occa- 
 sion. She insists, in her answer, on his forbearing to take 
 any rash step : and expresses herself highly dissatisfied, 
 that he should presume upon such an interest in her esteem, as 
 to think himself entitled to dispute her father's authority in 
 removing her to lwr uncle's. She relies on Mrs. Howe's pro- 
 
 ' tection till her cousin Morden arrives. 
 
 XXXII. From the same. A visit from her aunt Hervey, 
 preparative to the approaching interview with Solmes. 
 Her aunt tells her what is expected on her having con- 
 sented to that interview. 
 
 XXXIII. XXXIV. From the same. A particular account 
 of what passed in the interview with Solmes ; and of the 
 parts occasionally taken in it by her boisterous uncle, by 
 her brutal brother, by her implacable sister, and by her 
 qualifying aunt. Her persevexante and distress. Her 
 cousin Dolly's tenderness for her. Her closet searched for 
 papers. All the pens and ink they find taken from her. 
 
 XXXV. From the same. Substance of a letter from Lovelace.
 
 1 -. CONTENTS OF VOL. II. 
 
 Hjs proposals, promises, and declarations. All her present 
 wish is, to be able to escape Solmes, on one hand, and to 
 avoid incurring the disgrace of refuging with the family of 
 a man at enmity with tier own, on the other. Her emotions 
 behind the yew-hedge, on seeing her father going into the 
 garden. Grieved at what she hears him say. Dutiful mes- 
 sage to her mother. Harshly answered. She censures Mr. 
 Lovelace for his rash threatenings to rescue her. Justifies 
 her friends for resenting them ; and condemns lierselffor cor- 
 responding with him at first. 
 
 XXXVI. Miss Howe to Clarissa. Is vexed at the heart to be 
 obliged to tell her, that her mother refused to receive and 
 protect her. Offers to go away privately with her. 
 
 XXXVII. Clarissa to Miss Howe. Her disinterested argu- 
 ments in Mrs. Howe's favour, on her refusal to receive her. 
 All her consolation is, that her unhappy situation w not ow- 
 ing to her own inadvertence or folly. Is afraid she is singled 
 out either for her own faults, or for those of her family, or 
 perhaps for the faults of both, to be a very unhappy crea- 
 ture. Justifies the way of Providence, let what will befall 
 her ; and argues with exemplary greatness of mind on 
 this subject. Warmly discourages Miss Howe's motion to 
 accompany her in her flight. 
 
 XXXVIII. From the same. Further instances of her impar- 
 tiality in condemning Lovelace, and reasoning for her pa- 
 rents. Overhears her brother and sister exulting in the 
 success of their schemes ; and undertaking, the one to keep 
 his father up to his resentment on occasion of Lovelace's 
 menaces, the other her mother. Exasperated at this, and at 
 what her aunt Hervey tells her, she writes to Lovelace, 
 that she will meet him tlie following Monday, and throw her- 
 self into the protection of the ladies of his family. 
 
 XXXIX. From the same. Her frightful dream. Now, that 
 Lovelace has got her letter, she repents her appointment.
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. II. H 
 
 XL. Clarissa to Miss Howe. Receives a letter from Mr. Love- 
 lace, full of transport, vows, and promises. He presumes 
 upon her being his on her getting away, though she has not 
 given him room/or such hopes. In her answer she tells him, 
 ' that she looks not upon herself as absolutely bound by her 
 appointment: that there are many points to be adjusted be- 
 tween them (were she to leave her father's house) be/ore she 
 can give him particular encouragement: that he must expect 
 she will do her utmost to procure a reconciliation with her 
 father, and his approbation of her future steps.' All her 
 friends are to be assembled on the following Wednesday ; 
 she is to be brought before them. How to be proceeded 
 with. Lovelace, in his reply, asks pardon for writing to 
 her with so much assurance ; and declares his entire acquies- 
 ence with her will and pleasure. 
 
 XLI. From the same. Confirms her appointment; but tells 
 him what he is and what he is not to expect. Promises, 
 that if she should change her mind as to withdrawing, she 
 will take the first opportunity to see him, and acquaint him 
 with her reason. Reflections on what she has done. Her 
 deep regret to be thus driven. 
 
 XLII. Miss Howe to Clarissa. Reasons why she ought to 
 allow her to accompany her in her flight. Punctilio at an 
 end the moment she is out of her father's house. Requisites 
 of friendship. Questions, whether she will not rather choose 
 to go off with one of her own sex than with Lovelace ? 
 And if not, whether she should not marry him as soon as 
 possible ? 
 
 \ LI II. Clarissa to Miss Howe. (Miss Howe's last not re- 
 ceived). Lovelace promises compliance in every article 
 with her pleasure. Her heart misgives her notwithstand- 
 ing. She knows not but she may yet recede. 
 
 XLIV. From the same. In answer to Letter xlii. Reflections 
 worthy of herself on some of the passages in Miss Howe's
 
 Vlii CONTENTS OF VOL. II. 
 
 last letter. Gives her home-put questions a full considera- 
 tion ; and determines not to withdraw with Lovelace. 
 
 XLV. XLVI. Clarissa to Miss Howe. Substance of her letter 
 to Lovelace, revoking her appointment. Thinks herself 
 obliged ( her letter being not taken away ) as well by promise 
 as in order to prevent mischief, to meet him, and to give 
 him her reason for revoking. The hour of meeting now 
 at hand, she is apprehensive of the contest she shall have 
 with him, on her refusing to go off with him, as he will 
 come with a different expectation. 
 
 XL VII. From the same, dated from st. alban's. Writes 
 in the utmost anguish of mind for the little parcel of linen 
 she had sent to her with far better hopes. Condemns her 
 own rashness in meeting Lovelace. Begs her pity and her 
 prayers. 
 
 XLVII1. Miss Howe. In answer. Is astonished, confounded, 
 aghast. Repeats her advice to marry Lovelace. 
 
 XLIX. Clarissa to Miss Howe. Gives a particular account 
 of her meeting Lovelace; of her vehement contention with 
 him ; and, at last, of her being terrified out of her prede- 
 termined resolution, and tricked away. Her grief and 
 compunction of heart upon it. Lays all to the fault of 
 corresponding with him at first against paternal prohibition. 
 Is incensed against him for his artful dealings with her, 
 and for his selfish love. 
 
 L. Mr. Lovelace to Joseph Leman. A letter which lays open 
 the whole of his contrivance to get off Clarissa. 
 
 LL Josejih Leman. In answer.
 
 THE 
 
 HISTORY 
 
 OF 
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE. 
 
 Wednesday night, March 22. 
 Angry! What should I be angry for? I am 
 mightily pleased with your freedom, as you call 
 it. I only wonder at your patience with me ; 
 that's all. I am sorry I gave you the trouble of so 
 long a letter upon the occasion*, notwithstanding 
 the pleasure I received in reading it. 
 
 I believe you did not intend reserves to me : for 
 two reasons I believe you did not: first, because 
 you say you did not: next, because you have not 
 as yet been able to convince yourselfhow it is to be 
 with you ; and persecuted as you are, how so to 
 separate the effects that spring from the two causes 
 [persecution and love'} as to give to each its par- 
 ticular due. But this I believe I hinted to you 
 
 * See Vol. I. Letter xxxvii. for the occasion : and Letters 
 xxxviii. xl. of the same volume, for the freedom Clarissa 
 apologizes for. 
 
 VOL. II. B
 
 2 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 once before ; and so will say no more upon this 
 subject at present. 
 
 Robin says you had but just deposited your last 
 parcel when he took it : for he was there but half 
 an hour before, and found nothing. He had seen 
 my impatience, and loitered about, being willing to 
 bring me something from you, if possible. 
 
 My cousin Jenny Fynnett is here, and desires to 
 be my bedfellow to-night. So I shall not have an 
 opportunity to sit down with that seriousness and 
 attention which the subjects of yours require. For 
 she is all prate, you know, and loves to set me a 
 prating ; yet comes upon a very grave occasion 
 to procure my mother to go with her to her 
 grandmother Larkin, who has been long bed-rid- 
 den ; and at last has taken it into her head that she 
 is mortal, and therefore will make her will ; a work 
 she was till now extremely averse to : but it must 
 be upon condition that my mother, who is her dis- 
 tant relation, will go to her, and advise her as to 
 the particulars of it : for she has an high opinion, 
 as every one else has, of my mother's judgment in 
 all matters relating to wills, settlements, and such- 
 like notable affairs. 
 
 Mrs. Larkin lives about seventeen miles off; and 
 as my mother cannot endure to lie out of her own 
 house, she proposes to set out early in the morning, 
 that she may be able to get back again at night. 
 So, to-morrow I shall be at your devotion from day- 
 light to day-light ; nor will I be at home to any 
 body. 
 
 As to the impertinent man, I have put him upon 
 escorting the two ladies, in order to attend my 
 mother home at night. Such expeditions as these, 
 and to give us women a little air of vanity and as- 
 suredness at public places, is all that I know these 
 dangling fellows are good for.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 3 
 
 I have hinted before, that I could almost wish 
 my mother and Mr. Hickman would make a match 
 of it : and here I repeat my wishes. What signifies 
 a difference of fifteen or twenty years ; especially 
 when the lady has spirits that will make her young 
 a long time, and the lover is a mighty sober man ? 
 I think verily, that I could like him better for a 
 papa than for a nearer relation: and they are 
 strange admirers of one another. 
 
 But allow me a perhaps still better (and, as to 
 years, more suitable and happier) disposal ; for the 
 man at least. What think you, my dear, of com- 
 promising with your friends, by rejecting both 
 your men, and encouraging my parader? If your 
 liking of one of the two go no further than condi- 
 tional, I believe it will do. A rich thought, if it 
 obtain your approbation! In this light, I should 
 have a prodigious respect for Mr. Hickman ; more 
 by half than I can have in the other. The vein is 
 opened shall I let it flow ? How difficult to with- 
 stand constitutional foibles ! 
 
 Hickman is certainly a man more in your taste 
 than any of those who have hitherto been brought 
 to address you. He is mighty sober, mighty grave, 
 and all that. Then you have told me, that he is 
 your favourite. But that is because he is my mo- 
 ther's perhaps. The man would certainly rejoice 
 at the transfer, or he must be a greater fool than I 
 take him to be. 
 
 O but your fierce lover would knock him o'the 
 head I forgot that ! What makes me incapable^ 
 of seriousness when I write about this Hickman ? 
 Yet the man so good a sort of man in the main ? 
 But who is perfect? This is one of my foibles. And 
 it is something for you to chide me for. 
 
 You believe me to be very happy in my pros- 
 it
 
 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 pects in relation to him : because you are so very 
 unhappy in the foolish usage you meet with, you 
 are apt (as I suspect) to think that tolerable which 
 otherwise would be far from being so. I dare say, 
 you would not, with all your grave airs, like him 
 for yourself; except, being addressed by Solmes 
 and him, you were obliged to have one of them. 
 I have given you a test. Let me see what you will 
 say to it. 
 
 For my own part, I confess to you, that I have 
 great exceptions to Hickman. He and tvedlock 
 never yet once entered into my head at one time. 
 Shall I give you my free thoughts of him ? Of his 
 best and his "worst ; and that as if I were writing to 
 one who knows him not ? I think I will. Yet it 
 is impossible I should do it gravely. The subject 
 won't bear to be so treated in my opinion. We 
 are not come so far as that yet, if ever we shall : 
 and to do it in another strain ill becomes my pre- 
 sent real concern for you. 
 
 # # # 
 
 Here I was interrupted on the honest man's ac- 
 count. He has been here these two hours court- 
 ing the mother for the daughter, I suppose Yet 
 she wants no courting neither : 'tis well one of us 
 does : else the man would have nothing but hal- 
 cyon ; and be remiss and saucy of course^ 
 
 He was going. His horses at the door. My 
 mother sent for me down, pretending to want to 
 say something to me. 
 
 Something she said when I came that signified 
 nothing evidently, for no reason called me, but to 
 give me an opportunity to see what a fine bow her 
 man could make ; and that he might wish me a good 
 night. She knows I am not over ready to oblige 
 him with my company, if I happen to be otherwise
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 5 
 
 engaged. I could not help an air a little upon the 
 fretful, when I found she had nothing of moment 
 to say to me, and when I saw her intention. 
 
 She smiled off the visible fretfulness, that the 
 man might go away in good humour with himself. 
 
 He bowed to the ground, and would have taken 
 my hand, his whip in the other. I did not like to 
 be so companioned: I withdrew my hand, but 
 touched his elbow with a motion, as if from his low 
 bow I had supposed him falling, and would have 
 helped him up A sad slip it might have been ! 
 said I. 
 
 A mad girl ! smiled it off my mother. 
 
 He was put quite out; took his horse bridle, 
 stumped back, back, back, bowing, till he run 
 against his servant. I laughed. He mounted his 
 horse. I mounted up stairs, after a little lecture. 
 And my head is so filled with him, that I must re- 
 sume my intention, in hopes to divert you for a few 
 moments. 
 
 Take it then his best and his worst, as I said be- 
 fore. \X\\r' 
 
 Hickman is a sort of fiddling, busy, yet, to bor- 
 row a word from you, unbusy man : has a great deal 
 to do, and seems to me to dispatch nothing. Irre- 
 solute and changeable in every thing, but in teas- 
 ing me with his nonsense ; which yet, it is evident, 
 he must continue upon my mother's interest more 
 than upon his own hopes ; for none have I given him. 
 
 Then I have a quarrel against his face, though 
 in his person, for a well-thriven man, tolerably 
 genteel not to his features so much neither ; for 
 what, as you have often observed, are features in 
 a man? But Hickman, with strong lines, and big 
 cheek and shin bones, has not the manliness in his 
 aspect, which Lovelace has with the most regular 
 and agreeable features.
 
 6 THE HISTORY Or 
 
 Then what a set and formal mortal he is in some 
 things ! I have not been able yet to laugh him out 
 of his long bib and beads. Indeed, that is, because 
 my mother thinks they become him ; and I would 
 not be so free with him, as to own I should choose 
 to have him leave it off. If he did, so particular 
 is the man, he would certainly, if left to himself, 
 fall into a King William's cravat, or some such an- 
 tique chin-cushion, as by the pictures of that prince 
 one sees was then the fashion. 
 
 As to his dress in general, he cannot indeed be 
 called a sloven, but sometimes he is too gaudy, at 
 other times too plain, to be uniformly elegant. 
 And for his manners, he makes such a bustle with 
 them, and about them, as would induce one to sus- 
 pect that they are more strangers than familiars to 
 him. You, I know, lay this to his fearfulness of 
 disobliging or offending. Indeed your over-doers 
 generally give the offence they endeavour to 
 avoid. 
 
 The man however is honest : is of family : has 
 a clear and good estate ; and may one day be a 
 baronet, an't please you. He is humane and be- 
 nevolent, tolerably generous, as people say, and as 
 I might say too, if I would accept of his bribes ; 
 which he offers in hopes of having them all back 
 again, and the bribed into the bargain. A method 
 taken by all corrupters, from old Satan to the 
 lowest of his servants. Yet, to speak in the lan- 
 guage of a person I am bound to honour, he is 
 deemed a prudent man ; that is to say, a good 
 manager. 
 
 Then I cannot but confess, that now I like not 
 any body better, whatever I did once. 
 
 He is no fox-hunter : he keeps a pack indeed ; 
 but prefers not his hounds to his fellow creatures. 
 No bad sign for a wife, I own. He loves his horse ;
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. " 
 
 but dislikes racing in a gaming way, as well as all 
 sorts of gaming. Then he is sober ; modest : they 
 say, virtuous ; in short, has qualities that mothers 
 would be fond of in a husband for their daughters ; 
 and for which perhaps their daughters would be 
 the happier could they judge as well for themselves 
 as experience possibly may teach them to judge for 
 theirjuture daughters. 
 
 Nevertheless, to own the truth, I cannot say I 
 love the man ; nor, I believe, ever shall. 
 
 Strange ! that these sober fellows cannot have a 
 decent sprightliness, a modest assurance with them ! 
 Something debonnaire ; which need not be sepa- 
 rated from that awe and reverence, when they ad- 
 dress a woman, which should shew the ardour of 
 their passion, rather than the sheepishness of their 
 nature ; for who knows not that love delights in 
 taming the lion-hearted ? That those of the sex, 
 who are most conscious of their own defect in 
 point of courage, naturally require, and therefore 
 as naturally prefer, the man who has most of it, as 
 the most able to give them the requisite protection? 
 That the greater their own cowardice, as it would 
 be called in a man, the greater is, their delight in 
 subjects of heroism ? As may be observed in their 
 reading ; which turns upon difficulties encoun- 
 tered, battles fought, and enemies overcome ; four 
 or five hundred by the prowess of one single hero, 
 the more improbable the better : in short, that their 
 man should be a hero to every one living but 
 themselves ; and to them know no bound to his 
 humility. A woman has some glory in subduing a 
 heart no man living can appal : and hence too of- 
 ten the bravo, assuming the hero, and making him- 
 self pass for one, succeeds as only a hero should. 
 
 But as for honest Hickman, the good man is so 
 generally raeek, as I imagine, that I know not whe-
 
 8 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 ther I have any -preference paid me in his obsequi- 
 ousness. And then, when I rate him, he seems to 
 be so naturally fitted for rebuke, and so much ex- 
 pects it, that I know not how to disappoint him, 
 whether he just then deserve it or not. I am sure 
 he has puzzled me many a time, when I have seen 
 him look penitent for faults he has not committed, 
 whether to pity or laugh at him. 
 
 You and I have often retrospected the faces and 
 minds of grown people ; that is to say, have formed 
 images from their present appearances, outside and 
 in, (as far as the manners of the persons would jus- 
 tify us in the latter) what sort of figures they made 
 when boys and girls. And I'll tell you the lights 
 in which Hickman, Solmes, and Lovelace, our 
 three heroes, have appeared to me, supposing them 
 boys at school. 
 
 Solmes I have imagined to be a little sordid pil- 
 fering rogue, who would purloin from every body, 
 and beg every body's bread and butter from him ; 
 while, as I have heard a reptile brag, he would in a 
 winter morning spit upon his thumbs, and spread 
 his own with it, that he might keep it all to him- 
 self. # 
 
 Hickman, a great overgrown, lank-haired, chub- 
 by boy, who would be hunched and punched by 
 every body : and go home with his finger in his 
 eye, and tell his mother. 
 
 While Lovelace I have supposed a curl-pated 
 villain, full of fire, fancy, and mischief; an orchard 
 robber, a wall climber, a horse rider, without sad- 
 dle or bridle, neck or nothing : a sturdy rogue, in 
 short, who would kick and cuff, and do no right, 
 and take no wrong of any body ; would get his 
 head broke, then a plaster for it, or let it heal of 
 itself; while he went on to do more mischief, and 
 if not to get, to deserve broken bones. And the
 
 CLARISSA MARLOWE. <? 
 
 same dispositions have grown up with them, and 
 distinguish them as men, with no very material al- 
 teration. 
 
 Only that all men are monkeys more or less, or 
 else that you and I should have such baboons as 
 these to choose out of, is a mortifying thing, my 
 dear. 
 
 I am sensible, that I am a little out of season in 
 treating thus ludicrously the subject I am upon, 
 while you are so unhappy ; and if my manner 
 does not divert you, as my flightiness used to do, I 
 am inexcusable both to you, and to my own heart : 
 which, I do assure you, notwithstanding my seem- 
 ing levity, is wholly in your case. 
 
 As this letter is entirely whimsical, I will not 
 send it until I can accompany it with something 
 more solid, and better suited to your unhappy cir- 
 cumstances : that is to say, to the present subject 
 of our correspondence. To-morrow, as I told you, 
 will be wholly my own, and of consequence yours. 
 Adieu, therefore, till then. 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE. 
 Thursday morn. 7 o'clock. 
 My mother and cousin are already gone off in our 
 chariot and four, attended by their doughty 'squire 
 on horseback, and he by two of his own servants, 
 and one of my mother's. They both love parade 
 when they go abroad, at least in compliment to 
 one another ; which shews, that each thinks the 
 other does. Robin is your servant and mine, and 
 nobody's else and the day is all my own. 
 
 I must begin with blaming you, my dear, for
 
 10 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 your resolution not to litigate for your right, if 
 occasion were to be given you. Justice is due to 
 ourselves, as well as to every body else. Still more 
 must I blame you for declaring to your aunt and 
 sister, that you will not : since (as they will tell it 
 to your father and brother) the declaration must 
 needs give advantage to spirits who have so little 
 of that generosity for which you are so much dis- 
 tinguished. 
 
 There never was a spirit in the world that would 
 insult where it dared, but it would creep and cringe 
 where it dared not. Let me remind you of a sen- 
 tence of your own, the occasion for which I have 
 forgotten : ' That little spirits will always accommo- 
 date themselves to the temper of those they would 
 work upon : will fawn upon a sturdy tempered per- 
 son : will insult the meek :' and another given to 
 Miss Biddulph, upon an occasion you cannot for- 
 get : ' If we assume a dignity in what we say and 
 do, and take care not to disgrace by arrogance our 
 own assumption, every body will treat us with re- 
 spect and deference.' 
 
 I remember that you once made an observation, 
 which you said you was obliged to Mrs. Norton for, 
 and she to her father, upon an excellent preacher, 
 who was but an indifferent liver : ' That to excel 
 in theory, and to excel in practice, generally re- 
 quired different talents ; which did not always meet 
 in the same person.' Do you, my dear, (to whom 
 theory and practice are the same thing in almost 
 every laudable quality) apply the observation to 
 yourself, in this particular case, where resolution is 
 required, and where the performance of the will of 
 the defunct is the question no more to be dis- 
 pensed with by you, in whose favour it was made, 
 than by any body else who have only themselves 
 ia view by breaking through it.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 11 
 
 I know how much you despise riches in the main : 
 but yet it behoves you to remember, that in one 
 instance you yourself have judged them valuable 
 1 In that they put it into our power to lay obliga- 
 tions ; while the want of that power puts a person 
 under a necessity of receiving favours receiving 
 them perhaps from grudging and narrow spirits, 
 who know not how to confer them with that grace, 
 which gives the principal merit to a beneficent 
 action.' Reflect upon this, my dear, and see how 
 it agrees with the declaration you have made to 
 your aunt and sister, that you would not resume 
 your estate, were you to be turned out of doors, and 
 reduced to indigence and want. Their very fears 
 that you mil resume, point out to you the necessity 
 of resuming upon the treatment you meet with. 
 
 I own, that (at first reading) I was much affected 
 with your mother's letter sent with the patterns. 
 A strange measure however from a mother! for 
 she did not intend to insult you ; and I cannot but 
 lament that so sensible and so fine a woman shoidd 
 stoop to so much art as that letter is written with : 
 and which also appears in some of the conversa- 
 tions you have given me an account of. See you 
 not in her passiveness what boisterous spirits can 
 obtain from gentler, merely by teasing and ill- 
 nature ? 
 
 I know the pride they have always taken in 
 calling you an Harlowe Clarissa Harlotve, so for- 
 mal and so set, at every word, when they are grave 
 or proudly solemn. Your mother has learnt it of 
 them and as in marriage, so in will, has been 
 taught to bury her own superior name and family 
 in theirs. I have often thought that the same spirit 
 governed them, in this piece of affectation, and 
 others of the like nature (as Harloxve Place, and so- 
 forth, though not the elder brother's or paternal 
 7
 
 12 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 seat), as governed the tyrant Tudor*, who marry- 
 ing Elizabeth, the heiress of the house of York, 
 made himself a title to a throne, which he would 
 not otherwise have had (being but a base descen- 
 dant of the Lancaster line) ; and proved a gloomy 
 and vile husband to her ; for no other cause, than 
 because she had laid him under obligations which 
 his pride would not permit him to own. Nor 
 would the unprincely wretch marry her till he was 
 in possession of the crown, that he might not be 
 supposed to owe it to her claim. 
 
 You have chidden me, and again will, I doubt 
 not, for the liberties I take with some of your rela- 
 tions. But, my dear, need I tell you, that pride in 
 ourselves must, and for ever will, provoke contempt, 
 and bring down upon us abasement from others f 
 Have we not, in the case of a celebrated bard, ob- 
 served, that those who aim at more than their due, 
 will be refused the honours they may justly claim? 
 I am very loth to offend you ; yet I cannot help 
 speaking of your. relations, as well as of others, as 
 I think they deserve. Praise or dispraise is the 
 reward or punishment which the world confers or 
 inflicts on merit or demerit ; and, for my part, I 
 neither can nor will confound them in the applica- 
 tion. I despise them all but your mother : indeed I 
 do : and as for her but I will spare the good lady 
 for your sake and one argument, indeed, I think 
 may be pleaded in her favour, in the present con- 
 tention she who has for so many years, and with 
 such absolute resignation, borne what she has 
 borne, to the sacrifice of her own will, may think 
 it an easier task than another person can imagine 
 it, for her daughter to give up hers. But to think 
 to whose instigation all this is originally owing 
 
 Henry VII.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 18 
 
 God forgive me; but with such usage I should have 
 been with Lovelace before now! Yet remember, 
 my dear, that the step which Would not be won- 
 dered at from such an hasty-tempered creature as 
 me, would be inexcusable in such a considerate 
 person as you. 
 
 After your mother as been thus drawn in against 
 her judgment, I am the less surprised, that your 
 aunt Hervey should go along with her; since the 
 two sisters never separate. I have enquired into 
 the nature of the obligation which Mr. Hervey 's 
 indifferent conduct in his affairs has laid him un- 
 der it is only, it seems, that your brother has paid 
 off for him a mortgage upon one part of his estate, 
 which the mortgagee was about to foreclose ; and 
 taken it upon himself. A small favour (as he has 
 ample security in his hands) from kindred to kin- 
 dred: but such a one, it is plain, as has laid the 
 whole family of the Herveys under obligation to 
 the ungenerous lender, who has treated him, and 
 his aunt too (as Miss Dolly Hervey has privately 
 complained) with the less ceremony ever since. 
 
 Must I, my dear, call such a creature your bro- 
 ther? I believe I must because he is your fa- 
 ther s son. There is no harm, I hope, in saying that. 
 
 I am concerned, that you ever wrote at all to 
 him. It was taking too much notice of him: it was 
 adding to his self significance: and a call upon him 
 to treat you with insolence. A call which you 
 might have been assured he would not fail to an- 
 swer. 
 
 But such a pretty master as this to run riot 
 against such a man as Lovelace, who had taught 
 him to put his sword into his scabbard, when he 
 had pulled it out by accident ! These in-door in- 
 solents, who, turning themselves into bugbears, 
 frighten women, children, and servants, are gene- 
 
 VOL. II. c
 
 14 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 rally cravens among men. Were he to come fairly 
 cross me, and say to my face some of the free 
 things which I am told he has said of me behind 
 my back, or that (as by your account) he has said 
 of our sex, I would take upon myself to ask him 
 two or three questions ; although he were to send 
 me a challenge likewise. 
 
 I repeat, you know that I will speak my mind, 
 and write it too. He is not my brother. Can you 
 say, he is yours? So, for your life, if youare just, 
 you can't be angry with me: for would you side 
 with a false brother against a true friend? A bro- 
 ther may not be a friend: but a friend will be 
 always a brother mind that, as your uncle Tony 
 says! 
 
 I cannot descend so low, as to take very parti- 
 cular notice of the epistles of those poor souls, 
 whom you call uncles. Yet I love to divert myself 
 with such grotesque characters too. But I know 
 them and love you; and so cannot make the jest of 
 them which their absurdities call for. 
 
 You chide me, my dear *, for my freedoms with 
 relations still nearer and dearer to you, than either 
 uncles or brother or sister. You had better have 
 permitted me (uncorrected) to have taken my own 
 way. Do not those freedoms naturally arise from 
 the subject before us? And from whom arises that 
 subject, I pray you? Can you for one quarter of 
 an hour put yourself in my place, or in the 
 place of those who are still more indifferent to 
 the case than I can be if you can but although 
 I have you not often at advantage, I will not push 
 you. 
 
 Permit me, however, to subjoin, that well may 
 your father love your mother, as you say he does. 
 
 See Vol. I. Letter xxviii.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 15 
 
 A wife who has no will but his ! but were there 
 not, think you, some struggles between them at 
 first, gout out of the question? Your mother, 
 when a maiden, had as I have heard (and it is very 
 likely) a good share of those lively spirits which 
 she liked in your father. She has none of them 
 now. How came they to be dissipated? Ah! my 
 dear! She has been too long resident in Tropho- 
 nius's cave, I doubt*. 
 
 Let me add one reflection upon this subject, and 
 so entitle myself to your correction for all at once. 
 It is upon the conduct of those wives (for you 
 and I know more than one such) who can suffer 
 themselves to be out-blustered and out-gloomed of 
 their own wills, instead of being fooled out of them 
 by acts of tenderness and complaisance. I wish, 
 that it does not demonstrate too evidently, that, 
 with some of the sex, insolent control is a more 
 efficacious subduer than kindness or concession. 
 Upon my life, my dear, I have often thought that 
 many of us are mere babies in matrimony: per- 
 verse fools, when too much indulged and humour- 
 ed; creeping slaves, when treated harshly. But 
 shall it be said, that fear makes us more gentle 
 obligers than love? Forbid it, honour! forbid it, 
 gratitude! forbid it, justice! that any woman of 
 sense should give occasion to have this said of her! 
 
 Did I think you would have any manner of 
 doubt, from the style or contents of this letter, 
 whose saucy pen it is that has run on at this rate, 
 I would write my name at length ; since it comes 
 too much from my heart to disavow it: but at pre- 
 sent the initials shall serve ; and I will go on again 
 directly. 
 
 A. H. 
 
 * Spectator, Vol. VIII. No. 599. 
 C2
 
 16 THE HISTORY OP 
 
 \ 
 
 LETTER IIL 
 
 MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE. 
 
 Thursday morn. (10 o'clock) March 23. 
 I will postpone, or perhaps pass by, several obser- 
 vations which I had to make on other parts of your 
 letters; to acquaint you, that Mr. Hickman, when 
 in London, found an opportunity to inquire after 
 Mr. Lovelace's town life and conversation. 
 
 At the Cocoa-tree, in Pall-mall, he fell in with 
 two of his intimates, the one named Belton, the 
 other Mowbray; both very free of speech, and 
 probably as free in their lives: but the waiters 
 paid them great respect, and on Mr. Hickman's 
 inquiry after their characters, called them men of 
 fortune and honour. 
 
 They began to talk of Mr. Lovelace of their own 
 accord; and upon some gentlemen in the room 
 asking when they expected him in town, answered, 
 that very day. Mr. Hickman (as they both went 
 on praising Lovelace) said, he had indeed heard 
 that Mr. Lovelace was a very fine gentleman and 
 was proceeding, when one of them interrupting 
 him, said Only, sir, the finest gentleman in the 
 world; that's all. 
 
 And he then led them on to expatiate more par- 
 ticularly on his qualities, which they were very 
 fond of doing: but said not one single word in 
 behalf of his morals mind that also in your 
 uncle's style. 
 
 Mr. Hickman said, that Mr. Lovelace was very 
 happy, as he understood, in the esteem of the la- 
 dies; and smiling, to make them believe he did 
 not think amiss of it, that he pushed his good for- 
 tune as far as it would go.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 17 
 
 Well put, Mr. Hickman! thought I; equally 
 grave and sage thou seemest not to be a stranger 
 to their dialect, as I suppose this is. But I said 
 nothing; for I have often tried to find out this 
 mighty sober man of my mother's; but hitherto 
 have only to say, that he is either very moral or 
 very cunning. 
 
 No doubt of it, replied one of them ; and out 
 came an oath, with a who would not? That he 
 did as every young fellow would do. 
 
 Very true! said my mother's puritan but I 
 hear he is in treaty with a fine lady 
 
 So he was, Mr. Belton said the devil fetch her ! 
 [vile brute!] for she engrossed all his time but 
 that the lady's family ought to be something 
 [Mr. Hickman desired to be excused repeating 
 what though he had repeated what was worse] 
 and might dearly repent their usage of a man of his 
 family and merit. 
 
 Perhaps they may think him too wild, cried 
 Hickman : and their's is, I hear, a very sober fa- 
 mily 
 
 Sober: said one of them: a good honest word, 
 Dick! Where the devil has it lain all this time? 
 D me if I have heard of it in this sense ever 
 since I was at college ! And then we bandied it 
 about among twenty of us as an obsolete. 
 
 These, my dear, are Mr. Lovelace's companions : 
 you'll be pleased to take notice of that I 
 
 Mr. Hickman said, this put him out of counte- 
 nance. 
 
 I stared at him, and with such a meaning in my 
 eyes as he knew how to take; and so he was out of 
 countenance again. 
 
 Don't you remember, my dear, who it was that 
 told a young gentleman designed for the gown, 
 who owned that he was apt to be too easily put
 
 18 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 out of countenance when he came into free com- 
 pany ; ' That it was a bad sign ; that it looked as 
 if his morals were not proof; but that his good 
 disposition seemed rather the effect of accident 
 and education, than of such a choice as was found- 
 ed upon principle ?' And don't you know the les- 
 son the very same young lady gave him, ' To en- 
 deavour to stem and discountenance vice, and to 
 glory in being an advocate in all companies for 
 virtue ;' particularly observing, ' That it was natu- 
 ral for a man to shun, or to give up, what he was 
 ashamed of!' Which she should be sorry to think 
 his case on this occasion: adding, ' that vice was a 
 coward, and would hide its head when opposed by 
 such a virtue as had presence of mind, and a full 
 persuasion of its own rectitude to support it.' The 
 lady, you may remember, modestly put her doc- 
 trine into the mouth of a worthy preacher, Dr. 
 Lewen, as she uses to do when she has a mind not 
 to be thought to be what she is at so early an age; 
 and that it may give more weight to any thing she 
 hit upon,' that might appear tolerable, was her mo- 
 dest manner of speech. 
 
 Mr. Hickman, upon the whole, professed to me, 
 upon his second recovery, that he had no reason to 
 think well of Mr. Lovelace's morals, from what he 
 heard of him in town : yet his two intimates talked 
 of his being more regular than he used to be: that 
 he had made a very good resolution, that of old 
 Tom Wharton was the expression, that he would 
 never give a challenge, nor refuse one; which they 
 praised in him highly : that, in short, he was a 
 very brave fellow, and the most agreeable compa- 
 nion in the world: and would one day make a great 
 figure in his country: since there was nothing he 
 was not capable of 
 
 I am afraid that this last assertion is too true.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 19 
 
 And this, my dear, is all that Mr. Hickman could 
 pick up about him : and is it not enough to deter- 
 mine such a mind as yours, if not already deter- 
 mined? 
 
 Yet it must be said too, that if there be a woman 
 in the world that can reclaim him, it is you. And, 
 by your account of his behaviour in the interview 
 between you, I own I have some hope of him. At 
 least, this I will say, that all the arguments he 
 then used with you, seem to be just and right, and 
 if you are to be his but no more of that: he can- 
 not, after all, deserve you. 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE. 
 
 Thursday afternoon, March '23. 
 An unexpected visitor has turned the course of my 
 thoughts, and changed the subject I had intended 
 to pursue. The only one for whom I would have 
 dispensed with my resolution not to see any body 
 all the dedicated day: a visitor, whom, according 
 to Mr. Hickman's report from the expectations of 
 his libertine friends, I supposed to be in town. 
 Now, my dear, have I saved myself the trouble of 
 telling you, that it was your too agreeable rake. 
 Our sex is said to love to trade in surprises: yet 
 have I, by my promptitude, surprised myself out 
 of mine. I had intended, you must know, to run 
 twice the length, before I had suffered you so much 
 as to guess who, and whether man or woman, my 
 visitor was : but since you have the discovery at 
 so cheap a rate, you are welcome to it. 
 
 The end of his coming was to engage my interest 
 with my charming friend ; and as he was sure that
 
 20 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 I knew all your mind, to acquaint him what he 
 had to trust to. 
 
 He mentioned what had passed in the interview 
 between you : but could not be satisfied with the 
 result of it, and with the little satisfaction he had 
 obtained from you ; the malice of your family to 
 him increasing, and their cruelty to you not abat- 
 ing. His heart, he told me, was in tumults, for 
 fear you should be prevailed upon in favour, of a 
 man despised by every body. 
 
 He gave me fresh instances of indignities cast 
 upon himself by your uncles and brother ; and 
 declared, that if you suffered yourself to be forced 
 into the arms or the man for whose sake he was 
 loaded with undeserved abuses, you should be one 
 of the youngest, as you would be one of the love- 
 liest widows in England: and that he would more- 
 over call your brother to account for the liberties 
 he takes with his character to every one he meets 
 with. 
 
 He proposed several schemes, for you to choose 
 some one of them, in order to enable you to avoid 
 the persecutions you labour under. One I will 
 mention: that you will resume your estate; and if 
 you find difficulties that can be no otherwise sur- 
 mounted, that you will, either avowedly or pri- 
 vately, as he had proposed to you, accept of Lady 
 Betty Lawrance's or Lord M.'s assistance to instate 
 you in it. He declared, that if you did, he would 
 leave you absolutely to your own pleasure after- 
 wards, and to the advice which your cousin Morden 
 on his arrival should give you, whether to encou- 
 rage his address or not, as you should be convinced 
 of the sincerity of the reformation which his ene- 
 mies make him so much want. ; 
 
 I had now a good opportunity to sound him, as 
 you wished Mr t Hickman would Lord M. as to the
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 21 
 
 continued or diminished favour of the ladies, and 
 of his lordship, towards you, upon their being ac- 
 quainted with the animosity of your relations to 
 them, as well as to their kinsman. I laid hold of 
 the opportunity, and he satisfied me, by reading 
 some passages of a letter he had about him, from 
 Lord M. That an alliance with you, and that on 
 the foot of your own single merit, would be the 
 most desirable event to them that could happen: 
 and so far to the purpose of your wished inquiry 
 does his lordship go in this letter, that he assures 
 him, that whatever you suffer in fortune from the 
 violence of your relations on his account, he and 
 Lady Sarah and Lady Betty will join to make it 
 up to him. And yet that the reputation of a fa- 
 mily so splendid, would, no doubt, in a case of such 
 importance to the honour of both, make them pre- 
 fer a general consent. 
 
 I told him, as you yourself, I knew, had done, 
 that you were extremely averse to Mr. Solmes ; 
 and that, might you be left to your own choice, it 
 would be the single life. As to himself, I plainly 
 said, that you had great and just objections to him 
 on the score of his careless morals : that it was sur- 
 prising, that men who gave themselves the liberties 
 he was said to take, should presume to think, that 
 whenever they took it into their heads to marry, 
 the most virtuous and worthy of their sex were to 
 fall to their lot : that as to the resumption, it had 
 been very strongly urged by mj'self, and would 
 be still further urged; though you had been hi- 
 therto averse to that measure : that your chief re- 
 liance and hopes were upon your cousin Morden : 
 and that to suspend or gain time till he arrived, 
 was, as I believed, your principal aim. 
 
 I told him, that with regard to the mischief he 
 threatened, neither the act nor the menace could
 
 22 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 serve any turn but theirs who persecuted you; as 
 it would give them a pretence for carrying into 
 effect their compulsory projects ; and that with 
 the approbation of all the world ; since he must 
 not think the public would give its voice in favour 
 of a violent young man, of no extraordinary cha- 
 racter as to morals, who should seek to rob a family 
 of eminence of a child so valuable ; and who 
 threatened, if he could not obtain her in preference 
 to a man chosen by themselves, that he would 
 avenge himself upon them all by acts of violence. 
 
 I added, that he was very much mistaken, if he 
 thought to intimidate yon by such menaces : for 
 that, though your disposition was all sweetness, yet 
 I knew not a steadier temper in the world than 
 yours ; nor one more inflexible (as your friends 
 had found, and would still further find, if they 
 continued to give occasion for its exertion) when- 
 ever you thought yourself in the right ; and that 
 you were ungenerously dealt with in matters of 
 too much moment to be indifferent about. Miss 
 Clarissa Harlowe, Mr. Lovelace, let me tell you, 
 said I, timid as her foresight and prudence may 
 make her in some, cases, where she apprehends 
 dangers to those she loves, is above fear in points 
 where her honour and the true dignity of her sex 
 are concerned. In short, sir, you must not think 
 to frighten Miss Clarissa Harlowe into such a mean 
 or unworthy conduct as only a weak or unsteady 
 mind can be guilty of. 
 
 He was so very far from intending to intimidate 
 you, he said, that he besought me not to mention 
 one word to you of what had passed between us ; 
 that what he had hinted at, which carried the air 
 of a menace, was owing to the fervor of his spirits, 
 raised by his apprehensions of losing all hope of 
 you for ever: and on a supoosition, that you were
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 23 
 
 to be actually forced into the arms of a man you 
 hated : that were this to be the case, he must own, 
 that he should pay very little regard to the world, 
 or its censures : especially as the menaces of some 
 of your family now, and their triumph over him 
 afterwards, would both provoke and warrant all the 
 vengeance he could take. 
 
 He added, that all the countries in the world 
 were alike to- him, but on your account. So that 
 whatever he should think fit to do, were you lost to 
 him, he should have nothing to apprehend from the 
 laws of this. 
 
 I did not like the determined air he spoke this 
 with : he is certainly capable of great rashness. 
 
 He palliated a little this fierceness (which by the 
 way I warmly censured) by saying, that while you 
 remain single, he will bear all the indignities that 
 shall be cast upon him by your family. But would 
 you throw yourself, if you were still further driven, 
 into any other protection, if not Lord M.'s, or that 
 of the ladies of his family, into my mother's*, 
 suppose; or would you go to London to private 
 lodgings, where he would never visit you, unless 
 he had your leave (and from whence you might 
 make your own terms with your relations); he 
 would be entirely satisfied; and would, as he had 
 said before, wait the effect of your cousin's arrival, 
 and your free determination as to his own fate. 
 Adding, that he knew the family so well, and how 
 
 * Perhaps it will be unnecessary to remind the reader, 
 that although Mr. Lovelace proposes (as above) to Miss 
 Howe, that her fair friend should have recourse to the 
 protection of Mrs. Howe, if further driven : yet he had art- 
 fully taken care, by means of his agent in the Harlowe 
 family, not only to inflame the family against her, but to 
 deprive her of Mrs. Howe's, and of every other protection 
 being from the first resolved to reduce her -to an absolute 
 dependence upon himself. See Vol. I. Letter xxxi. 
 D 2
 
 J4< THE HISTORY OF 
 
 much fixed they were upon their measures, as well 
 as the absolute dependence they had upon your 
 temper and principles, that he could not but ap- 
 prehend the worst, while you remained in their 
 power, and under the influence of their persuasion 
 and menaces. 
 
 We had a great deal of other discourse : but as 
 the reciting of the rest would be but a repetition 
 of many of the things that passed between you 
 and him in the interview between you in the 
 woodhouse, I refer myself to your memory on that 
 occasion*. 
 
 And now, my dear, upon the whole, I think it 
 behoves you to make yourself independent : all 
 then will fall right. This man is a violent man. I 
 should wish, methinks, that you should not have 
 either him or Solmes. You will find, if you get 
 out of your brother's and sister's way, what you 
 can or cannot do with regard to either. If your 
 relations persist in their foolish scheme, I think I 
 will take his hint, and, at a proper opportunity, 
 sound my mother. Meantime, let me have your 
 clear opinion of the resumption, which I join with 
 Lovelace in advising. You can but see how your 
 demand will work. To demand is not to litigate. 
 But be your resolution what it will, do not by any 
 means repeat to them, that you will not assert your 
 right. If they go on to give you provocation, you 
 may have sufficient reason to change your mind: 
 and let them expect that you voill change it. They 
 have not the generosity to treat you the better for 
 disclaiming the power they know you have. That, 
 I think, need not now be told you. I am, my 
 dearest friend, and will be ever, 
 
 Your most affectionate and faithful 
 
 ANNA HOWE. 
 See Vol. I. Letter xxxvi.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 25 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 Wedn. night, March 22. 
 On the report made by my aunt and sister of my 
 obstinacy, my assembled relations have taken an 
 unanimous resolution (as Betty tells me it is) against 
 me. This resolution you will find signified to me 
 in the enclosed letter from my brother, just now 
 brought me. Be pleased to return it when perused. 
 I may have occasion for it in the altercations be- 
 tween my relations and me. 
 
 MISS CLARY, 
 
 I am commanded to let you know, that my father 
 and uncles having heard your aunt Hervey's ac- 
 count of all that has passed between her and you : 
 having heard from your sister what sort of treat- 
 ment she has had from you : having recollected all 
 that has passed between your mother and you: 
 having weighed all your pleas and proposals : hav- 
 ing taken into consideration their engagements with 
 Mr. Solmes; that gentleman's patience, and great 
 affection for you ; and the little opportunity you 
 have given yourself to be acquainted either with 
 his merit or his proposals : having considered two 
 points more ; to wit, the wounded authority of a 
 father, and Mr. Solmes's continual entreaties (little 
 as you have deserved regard from him) that you 
 may be freed from a confinement to which he is 
 desirous to attribute your perverseness to him 
 [averseness I should have said, but let it go] he be- 
 ing unable to account otherwise for so strong a one, 
 supposing you told truth to your mother when you 
 asserted that your heart was free; and which Mr. 
 d 3
 
 26 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 Solmes is willing to believe, though nobody else 
 does for all these reasons, it is resolved, that you 
 shall go to your uncle Antony's: and you must 
 accordingly prepare yourself so to do. You will 
 have but short notice of the day, for obvious rea- 
 sons. 
 
 I will honestly tell you the motive for your go- 
 ing: it is a double one; first, that they may be 
 sure that you shall not correspond with any body 
 they do not like (for they find from Mrs. Howe, 
 that, by some means or other, you do correspond 
 with her daughter; and through her perhaps with 
 somebody else) : and next, that you may receive 
 the visits of Mr. Solmes ; which you have thought 
 fit to refuse to do here ; by which means you have 
 deprived yourself of the opportunity of knowing 
 whom and tvhat you have hitherto refused. 
 
 If after one fortnight's conversation with Mr. 
 Solmes, and after you have heard what your friends 
 shall further urge in his behalf, unhardened by 
 clandestine correspondences, you shall convince 
 them that Virgil's amor omnibus idem (for the ap- 
 plication of which I refer you to the Georgic as 
 translated by Dryden) is verified in you, as well as 
 in the rest of the animal creation ; and that you 
 cannot, or will not, forego your prepossession in fa- 
 vour of the moral, the virtuous, the pious Lovelace 
 [I would please you if I could!] it will then be 
 considered, whether to humour you, or to renounce 
 you for ever. 
 
 It is hoped, that as you must go, you will go 
 cheerfully. Your uncle Antony will make every 
 thing at his house agreeable to you. But indeed 
 he won't promise, that he will not, at proper times t 
 draw up the bridge. 
 
 Your visitors, besides Mr. Solmes, will be myself, 
 if you permit me that honour, Miss Clary ; your
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 27 
 
 sister, and, as you behave to Mr. Solmes, your 
 aunt Hervey and your uncle Harlowe ; and yet the 
 two latter will hardly come neither, if they think 
 it will be to hear your whining vocatives. Betty 
 Barnes will be your attendant : and I must needs 
 tell you, miss, that we none of us think the worse 
 of the faithful maid for your dislike of her: although 
 Betty, who would be glad to oblige you, laments it 
 as a misfortune. 
 
 Your answer is required, whether you cheerfully 
 consent to go ? And your indulgent mother bids 
 me remind you from her, that a fortnight's visits 
 from Mr. Solmes are all that is meant at present. 
 
 I am, as you shall be pleased to deserve, 
 Your's, &c. 
 JAMES HARLOWE, Jun. 
 
 So here is the master-stroke of my brother's po- 
 licy ! Called upon to consent to go to my uncle 
 Antony's, avowedly to receive Mr. Solmes's visits ! 
 A chapel! A moated house! Deprived of the 
 opportunity of corresponding with you! or of any 
 possibility of escape, should violence be used to 
 compel me to be that odious man's* ! 
 
 Late as it was when I received this insolent let- 
 ter, I wrote an answer to it directly, that it might 
 be ready for the writer's time of rising. I enclose 
 the rough draught of it. You will see by it how 
 much his vile hint from the Georgic, and his rude 
 one of my whining vocatives, have set me up. Be- 
 sides, as the command to get ready to go to my 
 uncle's is in the name of my father and uncles, it is 
 
 * These violent measures, and the obstinate persever- 
 ance of the whole family in them, will be the less wondered 
 at, when it is considered, that all the time they were but 
 as so many puppets danced upon Mr. Lovelace wires, as 
 he boasts. Vol. I. Letter xxxi.
 
 28 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 but to shew a piece of the art they accuse me of, 
 to resent the vile hint I have so much reason to 
 resent in order to palliate my refusal of preparing 
 to go to my uncle's ; which refusal would otherwise 
 be interpreted an act of rebellion by my brother 
 and sister : for it seems plain to me, that they will 
 work but half their ends, if they do not deprive me of 
 my father 's and uncle's favour, even although it were 
 possible for me to comply with their own terms. 
 
 You might have told me, brother, in three lines, 
 what the determination of my friends was ; only, 
 that then you would not have had room to display 
 your pedantry by so detestable an allusion or re- 
 ference to the Georgic. Give me leave to tell you, 
 sir, that if humanity were a branch of your studies 
 at the university, it has not found a genius in you 
 for mastering it. Nor is either my sex or myself, 
 though a sister, 1 see, entitled to the least decency 
 from a brother, who has studied, as it seems, rajher 
 to cultivate the malevolence of his natural temper, 
 than any tendency which one would have hoped 
 his parentage, if not his education, might have given 
 him to a tolerable politeness. 
 
 I doubt not, that you will take amiss my free- 
 dom : but as you have deserved it from me, I shall 
 be less and less concerned on that score, as I see 
 you are more and more intent to shew your wit at 
 the expense of justice and compassion. 
 
 The time is indeed come that I can no longer bear 
 those contempts and reflections which a brother 
 least of all men is entitled to give. And let me beg 
 'of you one favour, officious sir ; it is this, that you 
 will not give yourself any concern about a husband 
 for me, till I shall have the forwardness to propose 
 a wife to you. Pardon me, sir; but I cannot help 
 thinking, that could I have the art to get my father
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 29 
 
 of my side, I should have as much right to pre- 
 scribe for you as you have for me. 
 
 As to the communication you make me, I must 
 take upon me to say, that although I will receive, 
 as becomes me, any of my father's commands ; yet, 
 as this signification is made by a brother, who has 
 shown of late so much of an unbrotherly animosity 
 to me (for no reason in the world that I know 
 of, but that he believes he has in me one sister too 
 many for his interest) I think myself entitled to 
 conclude, that such a letter as you have sent me is 
 all your own and of course to declare, that, while 
 I so think it, I will not willingly, nor even without 
 violence, go to any place, avowedly to receive Mr. 
 Solmes's visits. 
 
 I think myself so much entitled to resent your 
 infamous hint, and this as well for the sake or my 
 sex, as for my own, that I ought to declare, as I 
 do, that I will not receive any more of your letters, 
 unless commanded to do so by an authority I never 
 will dispute, except in a case where I think my 
 future as well as present happiness concerned 
 and were such a case to happen, I am sure my fa- 
 ther's harshness wilL be less owing to himself than 
 to you ; and to the specious absurdities of your 
 ambitious and selfish schemes. Very true, sir ! 
 
 One word more, provoked as I am, I will add : 
 that had I been thought as really obstinate and 
 perverse as of late I am said to be, I should not have 
 been so disgracefully treated as I have been lay 
 your hand upon your heart, brother, and say, by 
 whose instigations and examine what I have done 
 to deserve to be made thus unhappy, and to be 
 obliged to style myself 
 
 Your injured sister, 
 
 CL. HAULOWE.
 
 30 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 When, my dear, you have read my answer to 
 my brother's letter, tell me what you think of me ? 
 It shall go ! 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 Thursday morning, March 23. 
 My. letter has set them o^in tumults : for, it seems, 
 none of them went home last night ; and they all 
 were desired to be present to give their advice, if I 
 should refuse compliance with a command thought 
 so reasonable as it seems this is. 
 
 Betty tells me, that at first, my father, in a rage, 
 was for coming up to me himself, and for turning 
 me out of his doors directly. Nor was he restrained, 
 till it was hinted to him, that that was no doubt my 
 wish, and would answer all my perverse views. 
 But the result was. that my brother (having really, 
 as my mother and aunt insisted, taken wrong mea- 
 sures with me) should write again in a more mode- 
 rate manner : for nobody else was permitted or 
 cared to write to such a ready scribbler. And I 
 having declared that I would not receive any more 
 of his letters, without command from a superior 
 authority, my mother was to give it hers : and ac- 
 cordingly has done so in the following lines, writ- 
 ten on the superscription of his letter to me : which 
 letter also follows, together with my reply. 
 
 CLARY HARLOWE, 
 
 Receive and read this, with the temper that be- 
 comes your sex, your character, your education, 
 and your duty : and return an answer to it, direct- 
 ed to your brother. 
 
 CHARLOTTE HARLOWE.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 31 
 
 TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE. 
 
 Thursday morning. 
 Once more I write, although imperiously prohibit- 
 ed by a younger sister. Your mother will have me 
 do so, that you may be destitute of all defence, if 
 you persist in your pervicacy. Shall I be a. pedant, 
 miss, for this word? She is willing to indulge in you 
 the least appearance of that delicacy for which she 
 once, as well as every body else, admired you 
 before you knew Lovelace : I cannot, however, 
 help saying that : and she, and your aunt Hervey, 
 will have it [they would fain favour you, if they 
 could] that I may have provoked from you the 
 answer they nevertheless own to be so exceedingly 
 unbecoming. I am now learning, you see, to take 
 up the softer language, where you have laid it 
 down. This then is the case : 
 
 They entreat, they pray, they beg, they supplicate 
 [will either of these do, Miss Clary ?] that you will 
 make no scruple to go to your uncle Antony's : and 
 fairly I am to tell you, for the very purpose men- 
 tioned in my last or, 'tis presumable, they need 
 not entreat, beg, pray, supplicate. Thus much is 
 promised to Mr. Solmes, who is your advocate, and 
 very uneasy that you should be under constraint, 
 supposing that your dislike to him arises from that. 
 And, if he finds that you are not to be moved in his 
 favour, when you are absolutely freed from what 
 you call a control, he will forbear thinking of you, 
 whatever it costs him. He loves you too well : and 
 in this I really think his understanding, which you 
 have reflected upon, is to be questioned. 
 
 Only for one fortnight, therefore, permit his 
 visits. Your education [you tell me of mine, you 
 know] ought to make you incapable of rudeness to 
 any body. He will not, I hope, be the first man,
 
 32 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 myself excepted, whom you ever treated rudely, 
 purely because he is esteemed by us all. I am, 
 what you have a mind to make me, friend, brother, 
 or servant I wish I could be still more polite, to 
 so polite, so delicate a sister. 
 
 JA. HARLOWE. 
 
 You must still write to me, if you condescend 
 to reply. Your mother will not be permit- 
 ted to be disturbed with your nothing-mean- 
 ing vocatives ! Vocatives once more, Ma- 
 dam Clary, repeats the pedant, your brother ! 
 
 TO JAMES HARLOWE, JUN. ESQ. 
 
 Thursday, March 23. 
 Permit me, my ever-dear and honoured papa and 
 mamma, in this manner to surprise you into an au- 
 dience (presuming this will be read to you) since I 
 am denied the honour of writing to you directly. 
 Let me beg of you to believe, that nothing but the 
 most unconquerable dislike could make me stand 
 against your pleasure. What are riches, what are 
 settlements, to happiness ? Let me not thus cruelly 
 be given up to a man my very soul is averse to. 
 Permit me to repeat, that I cannot honestly be his. 
 Had I a slighter, notion of the matrimonial duty 
 than I have, perhaps I might. But when I am to 
 bear all the misery, and that for life ; when my 
 heart is less concerned in this matter than my soul; 
 my temporary, perhaps, than my future good ; why 
 should I be denied the liberty of refusing? That 
 liberty is all I ask. 
 
 It were easy for me to give way to hear Mr. 
 Solmes talk for the mentioned fortnight, although 
 it is impossible for me, say what he would, to get 
 over my dislike to him. But the moated house, 
 the chapel there, aud the little mercy my brother
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 33 
 
 and sister, who are to be there, have hitherto 
 shewn me, are what I am extremely apprehensive 
 of. And why does my brother say, my restraint is 
 to be taken off (and that too at Mr. Solmes's de- 
 sire) when I am to be a still closer prisoner than 
 before ; the bridge threatened to be drawn up ; 
 and no dear papa and mamma near me, to appeal 
 to, in the last resort ? 
 
 Transfer not, I beseech you, to a brother and 
 sister your own authority over your child to a 
 brother and sister, who treat me with unkindness 
 and reproach ; and, as I have too much reason to 
 apprehend, misrepresent my words and behaviour ; 
 or greatly favoured as I used to be, it is impossible 
 I should be sunk so low in your opinions, as I un- 
 happily am ! 
 
 Let but this my hard, my disgraceful confine- 
 ment be put an end to. Permit me, my dear 
 mamma, to pursue my needleworks in your pre- 
 sence, as one of your maidens ; and you shall be 
 witness, that it is not either wilfulness or prepos- 
 session that governs me. Let me not, however, be 
 put out of your own house. Let Mr Solmes come 
 and go, as my papa pleases : let me but stay or 
 retire when he comes, as I can ; and leave the rest 
 to Providence. 
 
 Forgive me, brother, that thus, with an appear- 
 ance of art, I address myself to my father and 
 mother, to whom I am forbidden to approach, or 
 to write. Hard it is to be reduced to such a con- 
 trivance ! Forgive likewise the plain dealing I have 
 used in the above, with the nobleness of a gentle- 
 man, and the gentleness due from a brother to a 
 sister. Although of late you have given me but 
 little room to hope either for your favour or com- 
 passion ; yet having not deserved to forfeit either y 
 I presume to claim both : for I am confident it is at 
 
 VOL. II. e
 
 34 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 present much in your power, although but my 
 brother (my honoured parents both, I bless God, 
 in being) to give peace to the greatly disturbed 
 mind of 
 
 Your unhappy sister, 
 
 CL. HARLOWE. 
 
 Betty tells me, my brother has taken my letter 
 all in pieces ; and has undertaken to write such 
 an answer to it, as shall confirm the wavering 
 So, it is plain, that I should have moved somebody 
 by it, but for this hard-hearted brother God for- 
 give him ! 
 
 LETTER VII. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 Thursday night, March 23. 
 I send you the boasted confutation letter, just now 
 put into my hands My brother and sister, my 
 uncle Antony and Mr. Solmes, are, I understand, 
 exulting over the copy of it below, as an unan- 
 swerable performance. 
 
 TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE. 
 
 Once again, my inflexible sister, I write to you. It 
 is to, let you know, that the pretty piece of art you 
 found out to make me the vehicle of your whining 
 pathetics to your father and mother, has not had 
 the expected effect. 
 
 I do assure you, that your behaviour has not been 
 misrepresented nor need it. Your mother, who 
 is solicitous to take all opportunities of putting 
 the most favourable constructions upon all you do, 
 has been forced, as you well know, to give you 
 
 3
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 35 
 
 up, upon full trial : no need then of the expedient 
 of pursuing your needleworks in her sight. She 
 cannot bear your whining pranks : and it is for her 
 sake, that you are not permitted to come into her 
 presence nor will be, but upon her own terms. 
 
 You had like to have made a simpleton of your 
 aunt Hervey yesterday : she came down from you, 
 pleading in your favour ; but when she was asked, 
 what concession she had broughtyou to? she looked 
 about her, and knew not what to answer. So your 
 mother, when surprised into the beginning of your 
 cunning address to her and to your father, under 
 my name (for I had begun to read it, little sus- 
 pecting such an ingenious subterfuge) and would 
 then make me read it through, wrung her hands, 
 Oh ! her dear child, her dear child, must not be 
 so compelled! But when she was asked, whether 
 she would* be willing to have for her son-in-law 
 the man who bids defiance to her whole family ; 
 and who had like to have murdered her son ? And 
 what concessions she had gained from her dear 
 child to merit this tenderness ? And that for one 
 who had apparently deceived her in assuring her 
 that her heart was free? Then could she look 
 about her, as her sister had done before : then was 
 she again brought to herself, and to a resolution to 
 assert her authority [Not to transfer it, witty pre- 
 sumer !] over the rebel who of late has so ingrate- 
 fully struggled to throw it off. 
 
 You seem, child, to have a high notion of the 
 matrimonial duty ; and I'll warrant, like the rest of 
 your sex (one or two, whom I have the honour to 
 know, excepted) that you will go to church to pro- 
 mise what you will never think of afterwards. But, 
 sxveet child ! as your worthy mamma Norton calls 
 you, think a little less of the matrimonial (at least, 
 e2
 
 36 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 till you come into that state) and a little more of 
 the filial duty. 
 
 How can you say, you are to bear all the misery, 
 when you give so large a share of it to your 
 parents, to your uncles, to your aunt, to myself, 
 and to your sister ; who all, for eighteen years of 
 your life, loved you so well ? 
 
 If of late I have not given you room to hope for 
 my favour or compassion, it is because of late you 
 have not deserved either. 1 know what you mean, 
 little reflecting fool, by saying it is much in my 
 power, although but your brother (a very slight 
 degree of relationship with ) r ou) to give you that 
 peace which you can give yourself whenever you 
 please. 
 
 The liberty of refusing, pretty miss, is denied 
 3'ou, because we are all sensible, that the liberty of 
 choosing, to every one's dislike, must follow. The 
 vile wretch you have set your heart upon speaks 
 this plainly to every body, though you won't. lie 
 says you are his, and shall be his, and he will be 
 the death of any man who robs him of his pro- 
 perty. So, miss, we have a mind to try this point 
 with him. My father supposing he has the right 
 of a father in his child, is absolutely determined 
 not to be bullied out of that right. And what 
 must that child be, who prefers the rake to a 
 father? 
 
 This is the light in which this whole debate 
 ought to be taken. Blush, then, delicacy, that 
 cannot bear the poet's amor omnibus idem! Blush, 
 then, purity ! Be ashamed, virgin modesty ! And, 
 if capable of conviction, surrender j'our whole will 
 to the will of the honoured pair, to whom you owe 
 your being : and beg of all your friends to forgive 
 and forget the part you have of late acted.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 37 
 
 I have written a longer letter, than ever I de- 
 signed to write to you, after the insolent treatment 
 and prohibition you have given me : and, now I 
 am commissioned to tell you, that your friends are 
 as weary of confining you, as you are of being con- 
 fined. And therefore you must prepare yourself 
 to go in a very few days, as you have been told 
 before, to your uncle Antony's ; who, notwith- 
 standing your apprehensions, will draw up his 
 bridge when he pleases ; will see what company 
 he pleases in his own house ; nor will he demolish 
 his chapel to cure you of your foolish late com- 
 menced antipathy to a place of divine worship. 
 The more foolish, as, if we intended to use force, 
 we could have the ceremony pass in your cham- 
 ber, as well as any where else. 
 
 Prejudice against Mr. Solmes has evidently blind- 
 ed you, and there is a charitable necessity to open 
 your eyes : since no one but you thinks the gen- 
 tleman so contemptible in his person ; nor, for a 
 plain country gentleman, who has too much solid 
 sense to appear like a coxcomb, justly blameable 
 in his manners And as to his temper, it is neces- 
 sary you should speak upon fuller knowledge, than 
 at present it is plain you can have of him. 
 
 Upon the whole, it will not be amiss, that you 
 prepare for your speedy removal, as well for the 
 sake of your own conveniency, as to shew your 
 readiness, in one point, at least, to oblige your 
 friends ; one Of whom you may, if you please to 
 deserve it, reckon, though but a brother, 
 
 JAMES HARLOWE. 
 
 P. S. If you are disposed to see Mr. Solmes, and to 
 make some excuses to him for your past con- 
 duct, in order to be able to meet him somewhere 
 else with the less concern to yourself for your 
 
 44606
 
 38 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 freedoms with him; he shall attend you where 
 
 you please. 
 If you have a mind to read the settlements, before 
 
 they are read to j r ou for your signing, they shall 
 
 be sent you up Who knows, but they will help 
 
 you to some fresh objections ? Your heart is 
 free, you know It must For, did you not tell 
 
 your mother it was? And will the pious Clarissa 
 
 fib to her mamma? 
 I desire no reply. The case requires none. Yet I 
 
 will ask you, have you, miss, no more proposals 
 
 to make ? 
 
 I was so vexed when I came to the end of this 
 letter (the postscript to which, perhaps, might be 
 written after the others had seen the letter) that I 
 took up my pen, with an intent to write to my 
 uncle Harlowe about resuming my own estate, in 
 pursuance of your advice : but my heart failed me, 
 when I recollected, that I had not one friend to 
 stand by or support me in my claim; and that it 
 would but the more incense them, without an- 
 swering any good end. O that my cousin were 
 but come ! 
 
 Is it not a sad thing, beloved as I thought myself 
 so lately by every one, that now I have not one 
 person in the world to plead for me, to stand by 
 me, or who would afford me refuge, were I to be 
 under the necessity of seeking for it! I who had 
 the vanity to think I had as many friends as I saw 
 faces, and flattered myself too, that it was not alto- 
 gether unmerited, because I saw not my Maker's 
 image, either in man, woman, or child, high or low, 
 rich or poor, whom, comparatively, I loved not as 
 myself. Would to heaven, my dear, that you were 
 married ! Perhaps, then, you could have induced 
 Mr. Hickman to afford me protection, till these
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 39 
 
 storms were over-blown. But then this might have 
 involved him in difficulties and dangers ; and that 
 I would not have done for the world. 
 
 I don't know what to do, not I! God forgive me, 
 but I am very impatient! I wish but I don't know 
 what to wish, without a sin ! Yet I wish it would 
 please God to take me to his mercy ! I can meet 
 with none here What a world is this ? What is 
 there in it desirable ? The good we hope for, so 
 strangely mixed, that one knows not what to wish 
 for ! And one half of mankind tormenting the other, 
 and being tormented themselves in tormenting ! 
 For here in this my particular case, my relations 
 cannot be happy, though they make me unhappy ! 
 Except my brother and sister, indeed and they 
 seem to take delight in and enjoy the mischief 
 they make. 
 
 But it is time to lay down my pen, since my ink 
 runs nothing but gall. 
 
 LETTER Vin. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 Friday morning, 6 o'clock. 
 Mrs. Betty tells me, there is now nothing talked 
 of but of my going to my uncle Antony's. She has 
 been ordered, she says, to get ready to attend me 
 thither : and, upon my expressing my averseness 
 to go, had the confidence to say, that having heard 
 me often praise the romanticness of the place, she 
 was astonished (her hands and eyes lifted up) that 
 I should set myself against going to a house so 
 much in my taste. 
 
 I asked if this was her own insolence, or her 
 young mistress's observation ?
 
 40 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 She half-astonished me by her answer ; that it 
 was hard she could not say a good thing, without 
 being robbed of the merit of it. 
 
 As the wench looked as if she really thought she 
 had said a good thing, without knowing the bold- 
 ness of it, I let it pass. But, to say the truth, this 
 creature has surprised me on many occasions with 
 her smartness : for, since she has been employed 
 in this controlling office, I have discovered a great 
 deal of wit in her assurance, which I never sus- 
 pected before. This shews, that insolence is her 
 talent ; and that fortune, in placing her as a servant 
 to my sister, had not done so kindly by her as 
 nature : for that she would make a better figure as 
 her companion. And indeed I can't help thinking 
 sometimes, that I myself was better fitted by nature 
 to be the servant of both, that the mistress of the 
 one, or the sister of the other. And within these 
 few months ipast, Jbrt une has acted by me, as if she 
 were of the same mind. 
 
 Friday, 10 o'clock. 
 
 Going down to my poultry-yard, just now, I 
 heard my brother and sister and that Solmes 
 laughing and triumphing together. The high yew 
 hedge between us, which divides the yard from 
 the garden, hindered them from seeing me. 
 
 My brother, as I found, had been reading part, 
 or the whole perhaps, of the copy of his last letter 
 Mighty prudent, and consistent you'll say, with 
 their views to make me the wife of a man from 
 whom they conceal not what, were I to be such, it 
 would be kind in them to endeavour to conceal, out 
 of regard to my future peace! But I have no 
 doubt, that they hate me heartily. 
 
 Indeed you was up with her there, brother, said 
 my sister. You need not have bid her not to write
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 41 
 
 to you. I'll engage, with all her wit, she'll never 
 pretend to answer it. 
 
 Why, indeed, said my brother, with an air of 
 college-sufficiency, with which he abounds (for he 
 thinks nobody writes like himself), I believe I 
 have given her a choke-pear. What say you, Mr. 
 Solmes? 
 
 Why, sir, said he, I think it is unanswerable. But 
 will it not exasperate her more against me? 
 
 Never fear, Mr. Solmes, said my brother, but 
 we'll carry our point, if she do not tire you out 
 first. We have gone too far in this method to 
 recede. Her cousin Morden will soon be here: so 
 all must be over before that time, or she'll be 
 made independent of us all. 
 
 There, Miss Howe, is the reason given for their 
 Jehu-driving. 
 
 Mr. Solmes declared that he was determined to 
 persevere while my brother gave him any hopes, 
 and while my father stood firm. 
 
 My sister told my brother, that he hit me charm- 
 ingly on the reason why I ought to converse with 
 Mr. Solmes: but that he should not be so smart 
 upon the sex, for the faults of this perverse girl. 
 
 Some lively, and I suppose, witty answer, my 
 brother returned : for he and Mr. Solmes laughed 
 outrageously upon it, and Bella, laughing too, called 
 him a naughty man: but I heard no more of what 
 they said; they walking on into the garden. 
 
 If you think, my dear, that what I have related 
 did not again fire me, you will find yourself mis- 
 taken when you read at this place the inclosed copy 
 of my letter to my brother; struck of while the 
 iron was redhot. 
 
 No more call me meek and gentle, I beseech 
 you.
 
 42 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 TO MR. JAMES HARLOWE. 
 sir, Friday morning. 
 
 If, notwithstanding your prohibition, I should be 
 silent, on occasion of your last, you would, perhaps, 
 conclude, that I was consenting to go to my uncle 
 Antony's upon the condition you mention. My fa- 
 ther must do as he pleases with his child. He may 
 turn me out of his doors, if he thinks fit, or give 
 you leave to do it: but (loth as I am to say it) I 
 should think it very hard to be carried by force 
 to any body's house when I have one of my otvn to 
 goto. 
 
 Far be it from me, notwithstanding yours and my 
 sister's provocations, to think of taking my estate 
 into my own hands, without my father's leave: but 
 why, if I must not stay any longer here, may I not 
 be permitted to go thither? I will engage to see 
 nobody they would not have me see, if this favour 
 be permitted. Favour I call it, and am ready to 
 receive and acknowledge it as such, although my 
 grandfather's will has made it matter of right. 
 
 You ask me, in a very unbrotherly manner, in 
 the postcript to your letter, if I have not some 
 new proposals to make? I have (since you put the 
 question) three or four ; new ones all, I think ; 
 though 1 will be bold to say, that, submitting the 
 case to any one person whom you have not set 
 against me, my old ones ought not to have been 
 rejected. I think this: why then should I not 
 write it? Nor have you any more reason to storm 
 at your sister for telling it you (since you seem in 
 your letter to make it your boast how you turned 
 my mother and my aunt Hervey against me ) than 
 I have to be angry with my brother, for treating me 
 as no brother ought to treat a sister.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 43 
 
 These, then, are my new proposals. 
 
 That, as above, I may not be hindered from going 
 to reside (under such conditions as shall be pre- 
 scribed to me, which I will most religiously ob- 
 serve) at my grandfather's late house. I will not 
 again in this place call it mine. I have reason to 
 think it a great misfortune, that ever it was so 
 Indeed I have. 
 
 If this be not permitted, I desire leave to go for 
 a month, or for what time shall be thought fit, to 
 Miss Howe's. I dare say her mother will consent 
 to it, if I have my father's permission to go. 
 
 If this, neither, be allowed, and I am to be 
 turned out of my father's house, I beg I may be 
 suffered to go to my aunt Hervey's, where I will 
 inviolably observe her commands, and those of my 
 father and mother. 
 
 But if this, neither, is to be granted, it is my 
 humble request, that I may be sent to my uncle 
 Harlowe's, instead of my uncle Antony's. I mean 
 not by this any disrespect to my uncle Antony : 
 but his moat, with his bridge threatened to be drawn 
 up, and perhaps the chapel there, terrify me be- 
 yond expression, notwithstanding your imtty ridi- 
 cule upon me for that apprehension. 
 
 If this likewise be refused, and if I must be car- 
 ried to the moated house, which used to be a de- 
 lightful one to me, let it be promised me, that I 
 shall not be compelled to receive Mr. Solmes's 
 visits there ; and then I will as cheerfully go, as 
 ever I did. 
 
 So, here, sir, are my new proposals. And if none 
 of them answer your end, as each of them tends 
 to the exclusion of that ungenerous persister s visits, 
 be pleased to know, that there is no misfortune I 
 will not submit to, rather than yield to give my
 
 44 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 hand to the man to whom I can allow no share in 
 my heart. 
 
 If I write in a style different from my usual, and 
 different from what I wished to have occasion to 
 write, an impartial person, who knew what I have 
 accidentally, within this hour past, heard from 
 your mouth, and my sister's, and a third person's 
 (particularly the reason you give for driving on at 
 this violent rate; to wit, my cousin Morden's soon 
 expected arrival) would think I have but too much 
 reason for it. Then be pleased to remember, sir, 
 that when my whining vocatives have subjected me 
 to so much scorn and ridicule, it is time, were it 
 but to imitate example so excellent as you and my 
 sister set me, that I should endeavour to assert my 
 character in order to be thought less an alien, and 
 nearer of kin to you both, than either of you of 
 late have seemed to suppose me. 
 
 Give me leave, in order to empty my female quiver 
 at once, to add, that I know no other reason which 
 you can have for forbidding me to reply to you, 
 after you have written what you pleased to me, than 
 that you are conscious you cannot answer to reason 
 and to justice- the treatment you give me. 
 
 If it be otherwise, I, an unlearned, unlogical 
 girl, younger by near a third than yourself, will 
 venture (so assured am I of the justice of my cause) 
 to put my fate upon an issue with you : with you, 
 sir, who have had the advantage of an academical 
 education; whose mind must have been strength- 
 ened by observation, and learned conversation, and 
 who, pardon my going so low, have been accus- 
 tomed to give choke-pears to those you vouchsafe 
 to write against. 
 
 Any impartial person, your late tutor, for in- 
 stance, or the pious and worthy Dr. Lewen, may
 
 CLARISSA HAIILOWE. 45 
 
 be judge between us: and if either give it against 
 me, I will promise to resign to my destiny : pro- 
 vided, if it be given against you, that my father will 
 be pleased only to allow of my negative to the 
 person so violently sought to be imposed upon me. 
 
 I flatter myself, brother, that you will the readier 
 come into this proposal, as you seem to have a high 
 opinion of your talents for argumentation : and not 
 a loto one of the cogency of the arguments con- 
 tained in your last letter. And as I can possibly 
 have no advantage in a contention with you, if the 
 justice of my cause affords me not any (as you have 
 no opinion it will); it behoves you, methinks, to 
 shew to an impartial moderator, that / am wrong, 
 and you not so. 
 
 If this be accepted, there is a necessity for its 
 being carried on by the pen ; the facts to be stated, 
 and agreed upon by both; and the decision to be 
 given, according to the force of the arguments 
 each shall produce in support of their side of the 
 question : for, give me leave to say, I know too well 
 the manliness of your temper, to offer at a personal 
 debate with you. 
 
 If it be not accepted, I shall conclude, that you 
 cannot defend your conduct towards me; and shall 
 only beg of you, that, for the future, you will treat 
 me with the respect due to a sister from a brother 
 who would be thought as polite as learned. 
 
 And now, sir, if I have seemed to shew some 
 spirit, not quite foreign to the relation I have the 
 honour to bear to you, and to my sister; and which 
 may be deemed not altogether of a piece with that 
 part of my character, which once, it seems, gained 
 me every one's love; be pleased to consider to 
 whom, and to what it is owing; and that this part of 
 that character was not dispensed with, till it sub- 
 jected me to that scorn, and to those insults, which 
 
 VOL. II. F
 
 46 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 a brother, who has been so tenacious of an inde- 
 pendence voluntarily given up by me, and who has 
 appeared so exalted upon it, ought not to have 
 shewn to any body, much less to a weak and defence- 
 less sister: who is, notwithstanding, an affectionate 
 and respectful one, and would be glad to shew her- 
 self to be so upon all future occasions; as she has 
 in every action of her past life, although of late she 
 has met with such unkind returns. 
 
 CL. HARLOWE. 
 
 See, my dear, the force, and volubility, as I may 
 say, of passion; for the letter I send you, is my first 
 draught, struck off without a blot or erasure. 
 
 Friday, 3 o'clock. 
 As soon as I had transcribed it, I sent it down to 
 my brother by Mrs. Betty. 
 
 The wench came up soon after, all aghast, with 
 a Laud, miss! What have you done? What have 
 you written? For you have set them all in a joyful 
 uproar! 
 
 # * * 
 
 My sister is but this moment gone from me : she 
 came up all in a flame ; which obliged me abruptly 
 to lay down my pen : she ran to me 
 
 spirit! said she; tapping my neck a little too 
 hard. 'And is it come to this at last! 
 
 Do you beat me, Bella? 
 
 Do you call this beating you? Only tapping 
 your shoulder thus, said she; tapping again more 
 gently this is what we expected it would come to 
 you want to be independent my father has 
 lived too long for you! 
 
 1 was going to speak with vehemence ; but she 
 put her handkerchief before my mouth, very 
 rudely You have done enough with your pen,
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 47 
 
 mean listener as you are ! But, know, that neither 
 your independent scheme, nor any of your visiting 
 ones, will be granted you. Take your course, per- 
 verse one : call in your rake to help you to an in- 
 dependence upon your parents, and a dependence 
 upon him! Do so! Prepare this moment re- 
 solve what you will take with you to-morrow you 
 go depend upon it to-morrow you go! No longer 
 shall you stay here, watching and creeping about 
 to hearken to what people say 'tis determined, 
 child! You go to-morrow my brother would 
 have come up to tell you so; but I persuaded him 
 to the contrary for I know not what had become 
 of you, if he had such a letter! such an insolent, 
 such a conceited challenger ! O thou vain creature ! 
 But prepare yourself, I say to-morrow you go 
 my brother will accept of your bold challenge ; 
 but it must be personal; and at my uncle Antony's 
 or perhaps at Mr. Solmes's 
 
 Thus she ran on, almost foaming with passion till, 
 quite out of patience, I said, No more of your vio- 
 lence, Bella had I known in what a way you de- 
 signed to come up, you should not have found my 
 chamber-door open. Talk to your servant in this 
 manner. Unlike you, as I bless God I am, I am 
 nevertheless your sister* and let me tell you, that 
 I won't go to-morrow, nor next day, nor next day 
 to that except I am dragged away by violence. 
 
 What! not if your father or your mother com- 
 mand it girl? said she, intending another word, 
 by her pause and manner before it came out. 
 
 Let it come to that, Bella ; then I shall know 
 what to say. But it shall be from their own mouths, 
 if I do not from yours, nor your Betty's and 
 say another word to me, in this manner, and be 
 the consequence what it may, I will force myself 
 f2
 
 48 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 into their presence; and demand what I have done 
 to be used thus! 
 
 Come along, child! Come along, meekness 
 taking my hand, and leading me towards the door 
 demand it of them now you'll find both your 
 despised parent* together! What! does your heart 
 fail you? for I resisted, being thus insolently 
 oifered to be led, and pulled my hand from her. 
 
 I want not to be led, said I ; and since I can 
 plead your invitation, I will go ; and was hastening 
 to the stairs accordingly in my passion but she 
 got between me and the door, and shut it 
 
 Let me first, bold one, said she, apprise them of 
 your visit for your own sake let me for my bro- 
 ther is with them. But yet opening the door again, 
 seeing me shrink back Go, if you will! Why 
 don't you go? Why don't you go, miss? follow- 
 ing me to my closet, whither I retired, with my 
 heart full, and pulled the sash-door after me; and 
 could no longer hold in my tears. 
 
 Nor would I answer one word to her repeated 
 aggravations, nor to her demands upon me to open 
 my door (for the key was on the inside) ; nor so 
 much as turn my head towards her, as she looked 
 through the glass at me. And at last, which 
 vexed her to the heart, I drew the silk curtain, that 
 she should not see me, and down she went mutter- 
 ing all the way. 
 
 Is not this usage enough to provoke a rashness 
 n,ever before thought of? 
 
 As it is but too probable that I may be hurried 
 away to my uncle's without being able to give you 
 previous notice of it ; I beg that as soon as you 
 6hall hear of such a violence, you would send to 
 the usual place, to take back such of your letter*
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 49 
 
 as may not have reached my hands, or to fetch any 
 of mine that may be there. 
 May you, my dear, be always happy, prays your 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 
 
 I have received your four letters. But am in 
 such a ferment, that I cannot at present write to 
 them. 
 
 LETTER IX. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 Friday night, March 24. 
 I have a most provoking letter from my sister. I 
 might have supposed, she would resent the con- 
 tempt she brought upon herself in my chamber. 
 Her conduct surely can only be accounted for by 
 the rage instigated by a supposed rivalry. 
 
 TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE. 
 
 I am to tell you, that your mother has begged you 
 off for the morrow: but that you have effectually 
 done your business with her, as well as with every 
 body else. 
 
 In your proposals, and letter to your brother, you 
 have shewn yourself so silly, and so wise; so 
 young, and so old ; so gentle, and so obstinate ; so 
 meek, and so violent ; that never was there so mixed 
 a character. 
 
 We all know of whom you have borrowed this 
 new spirit. And yet the seeds of it must be in your 
 heart, or it could not all at once shew itself so 
 rampant. It would be doing Mr. Solrnes a 6pite to 
 wish him such a shy, un-shy girl; another of your 
 j? 3
 
 50 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 contradictory qualities I leave you to make out 
 what I mean by it. 
 
 Here, miss, your mother will not let you remain ! 
 she cannot have any peace of mind while such a 
 rebel of a child is so near her: your aunt Hervey 
 will not take a charge which all the family put 
 together cannot manage : your uncle Harlowe will 
 not see you at his house, till you are married sq, 
 thanks to your own stubbornness, you have nobody 
 (that will receive you but your uncle Antony. 
 Thither you must go in a very few days; and when 
 there, your brother will settle with you, in my 
 presence, all that relates to your modest chal- 
 lenge: for it is accepted, I assure you. Dr. Lewen 
 will possibly be there, since you make choice of 
 him. Another gentleman likewise, were it but to 
 convince you, that he is another sort of man than 
 you have taken him to he. Your two uncles will 
 possibly be there too, to see that the poor, wea,k r 
 and defenceless sjsfer has fair play. So, you see, 
 miss, what company your smart challenge will draw 
 together. 
 
 Prepare for the day. You'll soon be called upon. 
 Adieu, mamma Norton's sweet child! 
 
 ARA1J. HARLOWE. 
 
 I transcribed this letter, and sent it to my mo- 
 ther, with these lines: 
 
 A very few words, my ever-honoured mamma f 
 If my sister wrote the inolosed by my father's di- 
 rection, or yours, I must submit to the usage she 
 gives me in it, with this only observation, that it is 
 short of the personal treatment I have received 
 from her. If it be of her own head why then, 
 madam but I knew, that when 1 was banished from 
 your presence yet, till I know if she has or has
 
 CLABISSA HAHLOWE. 51 
 
 not authority for this usage, I will only write fur* 
 ther, that I am 
 
 Your very unhappy child, 
 
 CL. HARLOWE. 
 
 This answer I received in an open slip of paper; 
 but it was wet in one place. I kissed the place; 
 for I am sure it was blistered, as I may say, by a 
 mother's tear ! She must (I hope she must) have 
 written it reluctantly. 
 
 To apply for protection, where authority is defied, 
 is bold. Your sister, who would not in your cir- 
 cumstances have been guilty of your perverseness, 
 may allowably be angry at you for it. However, 
 we have told her to moderate her zeal for our in- 
 sulted authority. See, if you can deserve another 
 behaviour, than that you complain of; which can- 
 not, however, be so grievous to you, as the cause of 
 i| is to 
 
 Your more unhappy mother. 
 
 How often must I forbid you any address to me! 
 
 Give me, my dearest Miss Howe, your opinion, 
 what I can, what I ought to do. Not what you 
 would do (pushed as I am pushed) in resentment or 
 passion since, so instigated, you tell me, that you 
 should have been with somebody before now and 
 steps taken in passion hardly ever fail of giving 
 cause for repentance: but acquaint me with what, 
 you think cool judgment, and after-reflection, what- 
 ever were to be the event, will justify. 
 
 I doubt not your sympathizing love : but yet you 
 cannot possibly feel indignity and persecution sq 
 very sensibly as the immediate sufferer feels th(?m
 
 52 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 are Jitter therefore to advise me, than I am my- 
 self. 
 
 I will here rest my cause. Have I, or have I 
 not suffered or borne enough? And if they will still 
 persevere; if that strange persister against an anti- 
 pathy so strongly avowed, will still persist ; say, 
 What can I do? What course pursue? Shall I 
 fly to London, and endeavour to hide myself from 
 Lovelace, as well as from all my own relations, till 
 my cousin Morden arrives? Or shall I embark for 
 Leghorn in my way to my cousin ? Yet my sex, 
 my youth, considered, how full of danger is this 
 last measure ! And may not my cousin be set out 
 for England, while I am getting thither ? What 
 can I do? Tell me, tell me, my dearest Miss 
 Howe [for I dare not trust myself] tell me, what 
 I can do. 
 
 Eleven o'clock at night. 
 
 I have been forced to try to compose my angry 
 passions at my harpsichord; having first shut close 
 my doors and windows, that I might not be heard 
 below. As I was closing the shutters of the win- 
 dows, the distant whooting of the bird of Minerva, as 
 from the often-visited wood-house, reminded me of 
 that charming ode to wisoom, which does honour 
 to our sex, as it was written by one of it. I made 
 an essay, a week ago, to set the three last stanzas 
 of it, as not unsuitable to my unhappy situation ; 
 and after I had re-perused the ode, those were my 
 lesson ; and I am sure, in the solemn address they 
 contain to the all-wise and all-powerful Deity, my 
 heart went with my fingers. 
 
 I inclose the ode, and my effort with it. The 
 subject is solemn: my circumstances are affecting; 
 and I flatter myself, that I have not been quite un-
 
 CLARISSA HAULOWE. 53 
 
 happy in the performance. If it obtain your ap- 
 probation, I shall be out of doubt: and should be 
 still more assured, could I bear it tried by your 
 voice and finger. 
 
 ODE TO WISDOM. 
 
 BY A LADY. 
 
 The solitary bird of night 
 
 Through the thick shades now wings his flight, 
 
 And quits the time-shook tow'r ; 
 Where shelter'd from the blaze of day, 
 1 11 philosophic gloom he lay, 
 
 Beneath his ivy bow'r. 
 
 With joy I hear the solemn sound, 
 Which midnight echoes waft around, 
 
 And sighing gales repeat. 
 Fav'rite of Pallas! I attend, 
 And, faithful to thy summons, bend 
 
 At wisdom's awful seat. 
 
 .She loves the cool, the silent eve, 
 Where no false shows of life deceive, 
 
 Beneath the lunar ray. 
 Here folly drops each vain disguise ; 
 Nor sport her gaily colour'd dyes, 
 
 As in the beam of day. 
 
 O Pallas! queen of ev'ry art, 
 
 That glads the sense, and mends the heart, 
 
 Bless'd source of purer joys! 
 In ev'ry form of beauty bright, 
 That captivates the mental sight 
 
 With pleasure and surprise ; 
 To thy unspotted shrine I bow : 
 Attend thy modest suppliant's vow, 
 
 That breathes no wild desires ; 
 But, taught by thy unerring rules, 
 To shun the fruitless wish of fools. 
 
 To nobler views aspires.,
 
 54 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 Not fortune's gem, ambition's plume, 
 Nor Cytherea's fading bloom, 
 
 Be objects of my prayer: 
 JLet avarice, vanity, and pride, 
 Those envied glittering toys divide, 
 
 The dull rewards of care. 
 
 To me thy better gifts impart, 
 Each moral beauty of the heart, 
 
 By studious thought refin'd ; 
 For wealth, the smiles of glad content; 
 For power, its amplest, best extent, 
 
 An empire o'er my mind. 
 
 When fortune drops her gay parade, 
 When pleasure's transient roses fade, 
 
 And wither in the tomb, 
 Unchang'd is thy immortal prize ; 
 Thy ever-verdant laurels rise 
 
 In undecaying bloom. 
 
 By thee protected, I defy 
 
 The coxcomb's sneer, the stupid Jie 
 
 Of ignorance and spite : 
 Alike contemn the leaden fool, 
 And all the pointed ridicule 
 
 Of undiscerning wit. 
 
 From envy, hurry, noise, and strife, 
 The dull impertinence of life, 
 
 In thy retreat I rest: 
 Pursue thee to the peaceful groves, 
 Where Plato's sacred spirit roves, 
 
 In all thy beauties drest. 
 
 He "bad llyssus' tuneful stream 
 Convey thy philosophic theme 
 
 Of perfect, fair, and good : 
 Attentive Athens caught the sound, 
 And all her list'ning sons around 
 
 In awful silence stood : 
 
 Reclaim'd her wild licentious youth, 
 Confess'd the potent voice of truth, 
 
 And felt its just control. 
 The passions ceas'd their loud alarms, 
 And virtue's soft persuasive chatim 
 
 O'er all their senses stole.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 55 
 
 Thy breath inspires the poet's song, 
 The patriot's free, unbiass'd tongue, 
 
 The hero's gen'rous strife ; 
 Thine are retirement's silent joys, 
 And all the sweet engaging ties 
 
 Of still, domestic life. 
 
 LETTER X. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 Friday, midnight. 
 I have now a calmer moment. Envy, ambition, 
 high and selfish resentment, and all the violent 
 passions, are now, most probably, asleep all around 
 me; and shall not my own angry ones give way 
 to the silent hour, and subside likewise? They 
 have given way to it ; and I have made use of the 
 gentler space to re-peruse your last letters. I will 
 touch upon some passages in them. And that I 
 may the less endanger the but just recovered calm, 
 I will begin With what you write about Mr. Hick- 
 man. 
 
 Give me leave to say, that I am sorry you can- 
 not yet persuade yourself to think better, that is to 
 say more justly, of that gentleman, than your whim- 
 sical picture of him shews you do; or, at least, 
 than the humourousness of your natural vein would 
 make one think you do. 
 
 I do not imagine, that you yourself will say, he 
 sat for the picture you have drawn. And yet, upon 
 the whole, it is not greatly to his disadvantage. 
 Were I at ease in my mind, I would venture to 
 draw a much more amiable and just likeness. 
 
 If Mr. Hickman has not that assurance which 
 some men have, he has that humanity and gentle- 
 ness which many want ; and which, with the in-
 
 56 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 finite value lie has for you, will make hhu one of 
 the properest husbands in the world for a person 
 of your vivacity and spirit. 
 
 Although you say I would not like him myself, 
 I do assure you, if Mr. Solmes were such a man as- 
 Mr. Hickman in person, mind, and behaviour, my 
 friends and I had never disagreed about him, if 
 they would not have permitted me to live single ; 
 Mr. Lovelace (having such a character as he has) 
 would have stood no chance with me. This 1 can 
 the more boldly aver, because I plainly perceive, 
 that of the two passions, love an&Jear, this man will 
 be able to inspire one with a much greater propor- 
 tion of the latter, than I imagine is compatible with 
 the former, to make a happy marriage. 
 
 I am glad you own, that you like no one better 
 than Mr. Hickman. In a little while, I make no 
 doubt, you will be able, if you challenge your heart 
 upon it, to acknowledge, that you like not any man 
 so well: especially, when you come to consider, 
 that the very faults you find in Mr. Hickman, ad- 
 mirably fit him to make you happy: that is to say, 
 if it be necessary to your happiness, that you should 
 have your oivn will in every thing. 
 
 But let me add one thing; and that is thisr 
 you have such a sprightly turn, that, with your ad- 
 mirable talents, you would make any man in the 
 world, who loved you, look like a fool, except he 
 were such a one as Lovelace. 
 
 Forgive me, my dear, for my frankness : and 
 forgive me also, for so soon returning to subjects so 
 immediately relative to myself, as those I now must 
 touch upon. 
 
 You again insist (strengthened by Mr. Lovelace's 
 opinion) upon my assuming my own estate [I can- 
 not call it resuming, having never been in posses- 
 sion of it] : and I have given you room to expect,
 
 CLAnfSSA ifAlttdWE. ff! 
 
 that I will consider this subject moi'e closely than. 
 I have done before. I must however own, that 
 the reasons which I had to offer against taking 
 your advice, were so obvious, that I thought you 
 would have seen them yourself, and been deter- 
 mined by them, against your own hastier counsel. 
 But since this has not been so, and that both 
 you atld Mr. Lovelace call upon me to assume my 
 own estate, I will enter briefly into the subject. 
 In the first place, let me ask you, my dear, sup- 
 
 })osingI were inclined to follow your advice, whom 
 lave I to support me in my demand ? My uncle 
 Harlowe is one of my trustees he is against me. 
 My cousin Morden is the other he is in Italy, 
 and very probably may be set against me too. 
 
 My brother has declared, that they are resolved 
 to carry their point before he arrives: so that, as 
 they drive on, all will probably be decided before 
 1 can have an answer from him, were I to write: 
 and, confined as I am, were the answer to come in 
 time, and they did not like it, they Would keep it 
 from me. 
 
 In the next plaCe, parents have great advantages 
 in every eye over the child, if she dispute their 
 pleasure in the disposing of her* : and so they 
 ought; since out of twenty instances, perhaps two 
 could not be produced, when they were not in the 
 right, the child in the wrong. 
 
 You w'ould not, I am sure, have me accept of Mr. 
 Lovelace's offered assistance in such a claim. If I 
 would embrace any other person's, who else would 
 care to appear for a child against parents, ever, 
 till of late, so affectionate? But were such a pro- 
 tector to be found, what a length of time would it 
 take up in a course of litigation ? The will and the 
 deeds have flaws in them, they say. My brother 
 sometimes talks of going to reside at the Grove : 
 
 VOL. II. o
 
 58 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 I suppose, with a design to make ejectments ne- 
 cessary, were I to offer at assuming ; or, were I to 
 marry Mr. Lovelace, in order to give him all the 
 opposition and difficulty the law would help him to 
 give. 
 
 These cases I have put to myself, for argument- 
 sake: but they are all out of the question, although 
 any body tvere to be found who would espouse my 
 cause: for I do assure you, I would sooner beg 
 my bread, than litigate for my right with my fa- 
 ther: since I am convinced, that whether the 
 parent do his duty by the child or not, the child 
 cannot be excused from doing hers to him. And 
 to go to law with my father, what a sound has that? 
 You will see, that I have mentioned my wish (as 
 an alternative, and as a favour) to be permitted, if 
 I must be put out of his house, to go thither : but 
 not one step further can I go. And you see how 
 this is resented. 
 
 Upon the whole, then, what have I to hope for, 
 but a change in my father's resolution? And is 
 there any probability of that ; such an ascendancy 
 as my brother and sister have obtained over every 
 body ; and such an interest to pursue the enmity 
 they have now openly avowed against me ? 
 
 As to Mr. Lovelace's approbation of your as- 
 sumption-scheme, I wonder not at it. He very pro- 
 bably penetrates the difficulties I should have to 
 bring it to effect, without his assistance. Were I to 
 find myself as free as I would wish myself to be, 
 perhaps Mr. Lovelace would stand a worse chance 
 with me, than his vanity may permit him to ima- 
 gine ; notwithstanding the pleasure you take in 
 rallying me on his account. How know you, but ' 
 all that appears to be specious and reasonable in his 
 offers; such as, standing his chance for my favour, 
 after I became independent, as I may call it [by
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. , 59 
 
 which I mean no more, than to have the liberty of 
 refusing for my husband a man whom it hurts me 
 but to think of in that light]; and such as his not 
 visiting me but by my leave ; and till Mr. Morden 
 come ; and till I am satisfied of his reformation ; 
 how know you, I say, that he gives not himself 
 these airs purely to stand better in your opinion as 
 well as mine, by offering of his own accord condi- 
 tions which he must needs think would be insisted 
 on, were the case to happen ? 
 
 Then am I utterly displeased with him. To 
 threaten as he threatens ; yet to pretend, that it is 
 not to intimidate me ; and to beg of you not to tell 
 me, when he must know you ivould, and no doubt 
 intended that you should, is so meanly artful ! The 
 man must think he has a frighted fool to deal with. 
 I, to join hands with such a man of violence ! 
 my own brother the man whom he threatens ! 
 And what has Mr. Solmes done to him ? Is he to 
 be blamed, if he thinks a person would make a wife 
 worth having, to endeavour to obtain her ? O that 
 my friends would but leave me to my own way in 
 this one point ! For have I given the man encou- 
 ragement sufficient to ground these threats upon ? 
 Were Mr. Solmes a man to whom I could be but 
 indifferent, it might be found, that to have the merit 
 of a sufferer given him from such a flaming spirit, 
 would very little answer the views of that spirit. 
 It is my fortune to be treated as a fool by my bro- 
 ther: but Mr. Lovelace shall find Yet I will let 
 him know my mind, and then it will come with a 
 better grace to your knowledge. 
 
 Meantime, give me leave to tell you, that it goes 
 against me, in my cooler moments, unnatural as my 
 brother is to me, to have you, my dear, who are 
 my other self, write such very severe reflections 
 upon him, in relation to the advantage Lovelace 
 g 2
 
 60 THE HISTORY 01? 
 
 had over him. He is not indeed your brother : but 
 remember, that you write to his sister. Upon my 
 word, my dear Miss Howe, you dip your pen in 
 gall whenever you are offended : and I am almost 
 ready to question, when I read some of your ex- 
 pressions against others of my relations as well as 
 him (although in my favour) whether you are so 
 thoroughly warranted by your own patience, as you 
 think yourself, to eall other people to account for 
 their warmth. Should we not be particularly care- 
 ful to keep clear of the faults we censure ? And 
 yet I am so angry both at my brother and sister, 
 that I should not have taken this liberty with my 
 dear friend, notwithstanding I know you never 
 loved them, had you not made so light of so shock* 
 ing a transaction, where a brother's life was at 
 stake : when his credit in the eye of the mis-- 
 chievous sex has received a still deeper wound 
 than he personally sustained ; and when a revival 
 of the same wicked resentments (which may end 
 more fatally) is threatened. 
 
 His credit, I say, in the eye of the mischievous 
 sex : Who is not warranted to call it so, when it 
 is reckoned among the men such an extraordinary 
 piece of self-conquest (as the two libertines his 
 companions gloried) to resolve never to give a 
 challenge ; and among whom duelling is so fa- 
 shionable a part of brutal bravery, that the man of 
 temper, who is, mostly, I believe, the truly brave 
 man, is often at a loss so to behave in some cases 
 as to avoid incurring either a mortal guilt, or a 
 general contempt ? 
 
 To enlarge a little upon this subject, may we not 
 infer, that those who would be guilty of throwing 
 these contempts upon a man of temper, who would 
 rather pass by a verbal injury, than to imbrue his 
 hands in blood, know not the measure of true magi
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 61 
 
 nanimity ? nor how much nobler it is to forgive y 
 and even how much more manly to despise, than to 
 resent an injury? Were I a man, methinks, I 
 should have too much scorn for a person, who 
 could wilfully do me a mean wrong, to put a value 
 upon his life, equal to what I put upon my oivn. 
 What an absurdity, because a man had done me a 
 small injury, that I should put it in his power ( at 
 least, to an equal risk) to do me, and those who 
 love me, an irreparable one ? Were it not a wilful 
 injury, nor avowed to be so, there could not be 
 room for resentment. 
 
 How willingly would I run away from myself, 
 and what most concerns myself, if I could ! This 
 digression brings me back again to the occasion of 
 it and that to the impatience I was in, when I 
 ended my last letter, for my situation is not al- 
 tered. I renew therefore my former earnestness, 
 as the new day approaches, and will bring with it 
 perhaps new trials, that you will (as undivestedly 
 as possible of favour or resentment) tell me what 
 you would have me do : for, if I am obliged to go 
 to my uncle Antony's, all, I doubt, will be over 
 with me. Yet how to avoid it that's the diffi- 
 culty! 
 
 I shall deposit this the first thing. When you 
 have it, lose no time, I pray you, to advise (lest it 
 be too late) 
 
 Your ever obliged 
 
 CL. HARLOWE. 
 
 G 3
 
 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 LETTER XI. 
 
 MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE. 
 
 Saturday, March 25. 
 
 What can I advise you to do, my noble creature? 
 Your merit is your crime. You can no more 
 change your nature, than your persecutors can 
 theirs. Your distress is owing to the vast disparity 
 between you and them. What would you have of 
 them ? Do they not act in character ? And to 
 whom ? To an alien. You are not one of them. 
 They have two dependencies in their hope to move 
 you to compliance. Upon their impenetrableness 
 one [I'd give it a more proper name, if I dared] ; 
 the other, on the regard you have always had for 
 your character [have they not heretofore owned 
 as much?] and upon your apprehensions from that 
 of Lovelace, which would discredit you, should 
 you take any step by his means to extricate your* 
 self. Then they know, that resentment and un- 
 persuadableness are not natural to you ; and that 
 the anger they have wrought you up to, wjll sub- 
 side, as all extraordinaries soon do ; and that once, 
 married, you will make the best of it. 
 
 But surely your father s son and eldest daughter 
 have a view (by communicating to so narrow a 
 soul all they know of your just aversion to him) to 
 entail unhappiness for life upon you, were you to 
 have the man who is already more nearly related 
 to them, than ever he can be to you, although the 
 shocking compulsion should take place. 
 
 As to that wretch's perseverance, those only, 
 who know not the man, will wonder at it. He has not 
 the least delicacy. His principal view in marriage 
 
 is not to the mind. How shall those beauties bo
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 65 
 
 taJued, which cannot be comprehended? Were you 
 to be his, and shew a visible want of tenderness to 
 him, it is my opinion, he would not be much con- 
 cerned at it. I have heard you well observe, from 
 your Mrs. Norton, that a person who has any over- 
 ruling passion, will compound by giving up twenty 
 secondary or under-satisfactions, though more laud- 
 able ones, in order to have that gratified. 
 
 I'll give you the substance of a conversation {[no 
 fear you can be made to like him worse than you do 
 already J that passed between Sir Harry Downeton 
 and this Solmes, but three days ago, as Sir Harry 
 told it but yesterday to my mother and me. It 
 will confirm to you that what your sister's insolent 
 Betty reported he should say, of governing by 
 fear, was not of her own head. 
 
 Sir Harry told him, he wondered he should wish 
 to obtain you so much against your inclination as 
 every body knew it would be, if he did. 
 
 He mattered not that, he said: coy maids made 
 the fondest wives [a sorry fellow!] It would not 
 at all grieve him to see a pretty woman make wry 
 faces, if she gave him cause to vex her. And 
 your estate, by the convenience of its situation, 
 would richly pay him for all he could bear with 
 your shyness. 
 
 He should be sure, he said, after a while, of your 
 complaisance, if not of your love : and in that 
 should be happier than nine parts in ten of his 
 married acquaintance. 
 What a wretch is this! 
 
 For the rest, your known virtue would be as 
 great a security to him, as he could wish for. 
 
 She will look upon you, said Sir Harry, if she 
 be forced to marry you, as Elizabeth of France did 
 upon Philip II. of Spain, when he received her on 
 
 his frontiers as her husband, who was to have b^en. 
 
 4
 
 64 THE HISTORY OP 
 
 but her father-in-law: that is, with fear and terror, 
 rather than with complaisance and love : and you 
 will perhaps be as surly to her, as that old monarch 
 was to his young bride. 
 
 Fear and terror, the wretch, the horrid wretch ! 
 said, looked pretty in a bride as well as in a wife: 
 and, laughing [yes, my dear, the hideous fellow 
 laughed immoderately, as Sir Harry told us, when 
 he said it] it should be his care to perpetuate the 
 occasion for that fear, if he could not think he had 
 the love. And, truly, he was of opinion, that if 
 love and fear must be separated in matrimony, 
 the man who made himself Jeared, fared best. 
 
 If my eyes would carry with them the execution 
 which the eyes of the basilisk are said to do, I 
 would make it my first business to see this crea- 
 ture. 
 
 My mother, however, says, it would be a pro- 
 digious merit in you, if you could get over your 
 aversion to him. Where, asks she [as you have 
 been asked before] is the praiseworthiness of obe- 
 dience, if it be only paid in instances where we 
 give up nothing? 
 
 What a fatality, that you have no better an op- 
 tion either a Scylla or a Charybdis. 
 
 Were it not you, I should know how (barbar- 
 ously used as you are used) to advise you in a mo- 
 ment. But such a noble character to suffer from 
 a (supposed) rashness and indiscretion of such a 
 nature, would, as I have heretofore observed, be a 
 wound to the sex. 
 
 While I was in hope, that the asserting of your 
 own independence would have helped you, I was 
 pleased, that you had one resource, as I thought: 
 but now, that you have so well proved, that such a 
 step would not avail you, I am entirely at a loss 
 what to say.
 
 CLARISSA HA11L0WE. 05 
 
 I will lay down nay pen and tiiink. 
 
 * # # 
 
 I have considered, and considered agafn; but, 
 I protest, I know no more what to say now, than 
 before. Only this : that I ana young, like your- 
 self; and have a much weaker judgment, and 
 stronger passions, than you have, 
 
 I have heretofore said, that you have offered as 
 much as you ought, in offering to live single. If 
 you were never to marry, the estate they are so 
 loth should go out of their name, would, in time, 
 I suppose, revert to your brother: and he or his 
 would have it, perhaps, much more certainly this 
 way, than by the precarious reversions which 
 /Solmes makes them hope for. Have you put this 
 into their odd heads, my dear ? The tyrant word 
 authority, as they use it, can be the only ob- 
 jection against this offer. 
 
 One thing you must consider, that, if you leave 
 your parents, your duty and love will not suffer 
 you to justify yourself by an appeal against them ; 
 and so you'll have the world against you. And 
 should Lovelace continue his wild life, and be- 
 have ungratefully to you, will not his baseness 
 seem to justify their cruel treatment of you, as well 
 as their dislike of him ? 
 
 May heaven direct you for the best! I can only 
 say, that, for my own part, I would do any thing, 
 go any whither, rather than be compelled to marry 
 the man I hate; and (were he such a man as 
 Solmes) must always hate nor could I have borne 
 what you have borne, if from father and uncles, 
 not from brother and sister. 
 
 My mother will have it, that after they have 
 tried their utmost efforts to bring you into their 
 measures, and find them ineffectual, they will re- 
 cede. But I cannot say I am of her mind. She
 
 66 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 does not own she has any other authority for this, 
 but her own conjecture. I should otherwise have 
 hoped, that your uncle Antony and she had been 
 in one secret, and that favourable to you : woe be 
 to one of them at least [to your uncle to be sure I 
 mean] if they should be in any other. 
 
 You must, if possible, avoid being carried to that 
 uncle's. The man, the parson, your brother and 
 sister present ! they'll certainly there marry you 
 to the wretch. Nor will your newly-raised spirit 
 support you in your resistance on such an occasion. 
 Your meekness will return; and you will have 
 nothing for it but tears [tears despised by them 
 all] and ineffectual appeals and lamentations : 
 and these tears, when the ceremony is profaned, 
 you must suddenly dry up ; and endeavour to dis- 
 pose yourself to such an humble frame of mind, as 
 may induce your new-made lord to forgive all 
 your past declarations of aversion. 
 
 In short, my dear, you must then blandish him 
 over with a confession, that all your past behaviour 
 was maidenly reserve only : and it will be your 
 part to convince him of the truth of his impudent 
 sarcasm, that the coyest maids make the fondest wives. 
 Thus will you enter the state with a high sense of 
 obligation to his forgiving goodness : and if you 
 will not be kept to it by that fear, by which he 
 proposes to govern, I am much mistaken. 
 
 Yet, after all, I must leave the point undeter- 
 mined, and only to be determined, as you find they 
 recede from their avowed purpose, or resolve to 
 remove you to your uncle Antony's. But I must 
 repeat my wishes, that something may fall out, 
 that neither of these men may call you his ! And 
 may you live single, my dearest friend, till some 
 man shall offer, that may be as worthy of you, as 
 man can be !
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 67 
 
 But yet, methinks, I would not, that you, who 
 are so admirably qualified to adorn the married 
 state, should be always single. You know, I am 
 incapable of flattery ; and that I always speak and 
 write the sincerest dictates of my heart. Nor can 
 you, from what you must know of your own merit 
 (taken only in a comparative light with others) 
 doubt my sincerity. For why should a person who 
 delights to find out and admire every thing that is 
 
 {>raiseworthy in another, be supposed ignorant of 
 ike perfections in herself, when she could not so 
 much admire them in another, if she had them not 
 herself? And why may not I give her those praises, 
 which she would give to any other, who had but 
 half of her excellencies ? Especially when she is 
 incapable of pride and vainglory; and neither 
 despises others for the want of her fine qualities, 
 nor over-values herself upon them ? Over- values, 
 did I say ! How can that be ? 
 
 Forgive me, my beloved friend. My admiration 
 of you (increased, as it is, by every letter you 
 write) will not always be held down in silence ; 
 although, in order to avoid offending you, I gene- 
 rally endeavour to keep it from flowing to my pen, 
 when I write to you, or to my lips, whenever I 
 have the happiness to be in your company. 
 
 I will add nothing (though I could an hundred 
 things on account of your latest communications) 
 but that I am 
 
 Your ever affectionate and faithful, 
 
 ANNA HOWE. 
 
 I hope I have pleased you with my dispatch. I 
 wish I had been able to please you with my 
 requested advice.
 
 68 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 LETTER XII. 
 
 IdlSS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS IIOWE^ 
 
 Sunday Morning, March 26. 
 How soothing a thing is praise from those we love t 
 Whether conscious or not of deserving it, it can- 
 not but give us great delight, to see ourselves stand 
 high in the opinion of those whose favour we are 
 ambitious to cultivate. An ingenuous mind wilt 
 make this further use of it, that if it. be sensible 
 that it does not already, deserve the charming attri^ 
 butes, it will hasten (before its friend ti mis herself 
 mistaken ) to obtain the graces it is complimented 
 for : and this it will do, as well in honour to itself, 
 as to preserve its friend's opinion, and justify her 
 judgment. May this be always my aim! And 
 then you will not only give the praise but the 
 merit ; and I shall be more worthy of that friend- 
 ship, which is the only pleasure I have to boast of. 
 
 Most heartily I thank you for the kind dispatch 
 of your last favour. How much am I indebted to 
 you! and even to your honest servant! Under 
 what obligations does my unhappy situation lay 
 me! 
 
 But let me' answer the kind contents of it, as 
 well as I may- 
 
 As to getting over my disgusts to Mr. Solmes,.it 
 is impossible to be done ; while he wants genero- 
 sity, frankness of heart, benevolence, manners, and 
 every qualification that distinguishes the worthy 
 man. O, my dear! what a degree of pationcc, 
 what a greatness of soul, is required in the wife, not 
 to despise a husband who is more ignorant* more 
 illiterate, more low-minded than herself! The 
 wretch, vested with prerogatives, who will claim-
 
 
 CLARISSA HAHLQWE. 69 
 
 rule in virtue of them (and not to permit whose 
 claim will be a disgraceful to the prescribing wife 
 as to the governed husband) ; how shall such a hus- 
 band as this be borne, were he, for reasons of con- 
 venience and. interest, even to be our choice? But, 
 to be compelled to have such a one, and that com- 
 pulsion to arise from motives as unworthy of the 
 prescribers as of the prescribed, who can think of 
 getting over an aversion so justly founded? How 
 much easier to bear the temporary persecutions I 
 labour under, because temporary, than to resolve to 
 be such a man's for life? Were I to comply, must I 
 not leave my relations, and go to him ? A month 
 will decide the one perhaps: but what a duration 
 of woe will the other be ! Every day, it is likely, 
 rising to witness some new breach of an altar-vowed 
 duty! 
 
 Then, my dear, the man seems already to be me- 
 ditating vengeance against me for an aversion I 
 cannot help: for yesterday my saucy gaoleress 
 assured me, that all my opposition would not sig- 
 nify that pinch of snuff, holding out her genteel 
 finger and thumb: that I must have Mr. Solmes: 
 that therefore I had not best carry my jest too far; 
 for that Mr. Solmes was a man of spirit, and had 
 told her, that as I should surely be his, I acted very 
 impoliticly; since, if he had not more mercy [that 
 was her word; I know not if it were his~\ than I 
 had, I might have cause to repent the usage I gave 
 him to the last day of my life. 
 
 But enough of this man, who, by what you repeat 
 frem Sir Harry Downeton, has all the insolence of 
 his sex, without any one quality to make that inso- 
 lence tolerable. 
 
 I have received two letters from Mr. Lovelace, 
 since his visit to you, which make three that I have 
 not answered. I doubt not his being very uneasy; 
 
 vol. n, H
 
 70 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 but in his last he complains in high terms of my 
 silence; not in the still small voice, or rather style 
 of an humble lover, but in a style like that which 
 would probably he used by a slighted protector. 
 And his pride is again touched, that like a thief, or 
 eves-dropper, he was forced to dodge about in hopes 
 of a letter, and return five miles (and then to an in- 
 convenient lodging) without any. 
 
 His letters, and the copy of mine to him, shall 
 soon attend you: till when, I will give you the sub- 
 stance of what I wrote him yesterday. 
 
 I take him severely to task for his freedom in 
 threatening me, through you, with a visit to Mr. 
 Solmes, or to my brother. I say, ' That, surely, I 
 must be thought to be a creature fit to bear any 
 thing ; that violence and menaces from some of my 
 won family arc not enough for me to bear, in order 
 to make me avoid him ; but that I must have them 
 from him too, if I oblige those whom it is both my 
 inclination and duty to oblige in every thing that is 
 reasonable, and in my power.' 
 
 ' Very extraordinary, I tell him, that a violent 
 spirit shall threaten to do a rash and unjustifiable 
 thing, which concerns me but a little, and himself a 
 great deal, if I do not something as rash, my cha- 
 racter and sex considered, to divert him from it. 
 
 4 I even hint, that, however it would affect me, 
 were any mischief to happen on my account, yet 
 there are persons, as far as I know, who in my case 
 would not think there would be reason for much re- 
 gret, were such a committed rashness as he threa- 
 tens Mr. Solmes with to rid her of two persons 
 whom had she never known she had never been 
 unhappy.' 
 
 This is plain dealing, my dear: and I suppose 
 he will put it into still plainer English for me. 
 
 I take his pride to task, on his disdaining to watch
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 71 
 
 for my letters ; and for his eves-dropping language : 
 and say, ' That, surely, he has the less reason to 
 think so hardly of his situation, since his faulty 
 morals are the cause of all ; and since faulty mo- 
 rals deservedly level all distinction, and bring down 
 rank and birth to the Canaille, and to the neces- 
 sity which he so much regrets, of appearing (if I 
 must descend to his language) as an eves-dropper 
 and a thief. And then I forbid him ever to expect 
 another letter from me that is to subject him to such 
 disgraceful hardships. 
 
 * As to the solemn vows and protestations he is 
 so ready, upon all occasions, to make, they have 
 the less weight with me, I tell him, as they give a 
 kind of demonstration, that he himself, from his own 
 character, thinks there is reason to make them. 
 Deeds are to me the only evidence of intentions. 
 And I am more and more convinced of the neces- 
 sity of breaking off a correspondence with a person 
 whose addresses I see it is impossible either to ex- 
 pect my friends to encourage, or him to deserve 
 that they should. 
 
 ' What therefore I repeatedly desire is, that 
 since his birth, alliances, and expectations, are 
 such as will at any time, if his immoral character 
 be not an objection, procure him at least equal ad- 
 vantages in a woman whose taste and inclinations 
 moreover might be better adapted to his own : I 
 insist upon it, as well as advise it, that he give up all 
 thoughts of me : and the rather, as he has all along 
 (by his threatening and unpolite behaviour to my 
 friends, and whenever he speaks of them) given me 
 reason to conclude, that there is more malice to 
 them than regard to vie in his perseverance.' 
 
 This is the substance of the letter I have written 
 to him. 
 
 The man, to be sure, must have the penetration 
 h 2
 
 72 THE HISTORY OP 
 
 to observe, that my correspondence with him hi- 
 therto is owing more to the severity I meet with 
 than to a very high value for him. And so I would 
 have him think. What a tcorse than Moloch deity 
 is that, which expects an offering of reason, duty, 
 and discretion, to be made to its shrine ! 
 
 Your mother is of opinion, you say, that at last 
 my friends will relent. Heaven grant that they 
 may. But my brother and sister have such an in- 
 fluence over every body, and are so determined; 
 so pique themselves upon subduing me, and carry- 
 ing their point; that I despair that they will : 
 and yet, if they do not, I frankly own, I would not 
 scruple to throw myself upon any not disreputable 
 protection, by which I might avoid my present per- 
 secutions on one hand, and not give Mr. Lovelace 
 advantage over me on the other that is to say, 
 were there manifestly no other way left me : for if 
 there were, I should think the leaving my father's 
 house, without his consent, one of the most inex- 
 cusable actions I could be guilty of, were the pro- 
 tection to be ever so unexceptionable ; and this 
 notwithstanding the independent fortune willed me 
 by my grandfather. And indeed I have often re- 
 flected with a degree of indignation and disdain 
 upon the thought of what a low, selfish creature 
 that child must be, who is to be reined in only by 
 the hopes of what a parent can or will do for her. 
 
 But, notwithstanding all this, I owe it to the sin- 
 cerity of friendship to confess, that I know not 
 what I should have done, had your advice been 
 conclusive any way. Had you, my dear, been 
 witness to my different emotions as I read your let- 
 ter, when in one place you advise me of my dan- 
 ger if I am carried to my uncle's; in another, when 
 you own you could not bear what I bear, and would 
 do any thing rather than marry the man you hate ;
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 73 
 
 yet, in another, represent to me my reputation suf- 
 fering in the world's eye; and the necessity I 
 should be under to justify my conduct at the ex- 
 pense of my friends, were I to take a rash step : 
 in another, insinuate the dishonest figure I should 
 be forced to make in so compelled a matrimony ; 
 endeavouring to cajole, fawn upon, and play the 
 hypocrite with a man to whom I have an aversion, 
 who would have reason to believe me an hypocrite, 
 as well from my former avowals, as from the sense 
 he must have (if common sense he has) of his own 
 demerits: The necessity you think there would be 
 for me, the more averse I really was, to seem the 
 fonder of him : a fondness (were I capable of so 
 much dissimulation) that would be imputable to 
 disgraceful motives; as it would be visible that 
 love, either of person or mind, could be neither of 
 them then his undoubted, his even constitutional 
 narrowness ; his too probable jealousy and unfor- 
 givingness, bearing in mind my declared aversion, 
 and the unfeigned despights I took all opportunities 
 to do him, in order to discourage his address ; a 
 preference avowed against him from the same mo- 
 tive ; with the pride he professes to take in curbing 
 and sinking the spirits of a woman he had acquired 
 a right to tyrannize over: had you, I say, been wit- 
 ness of my different emotions as I read; now lean- 
 ing this way, now that; now perplexed; now ap- 
 prehensive ; now angry at one, then at another ; 
 now resolving; now doubting: you would have 
 seen the power you have over me ; and would have 
 had reason to believe, that, had you given your 
 advice in any determined or positive manner, I 
 had been ready to have been concluded by it. So, 
 my dear, you will find, from these acknowledg- 
 ments, that you must justify me to those laws of 
 friendship, which require undisguised frankness of 
 h 3
 
 74 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 heart, although your justification of me in that par- 
 ticular will ptrhaps be at the expense of m)' pru- 
 dence. 
 
 But, upon the whole, this I do repeat that no- 
 thing but the last extremity shall make me abandon 
 my father's house, if they will permit me to stay; 
 and if I can, by any means, by any honest pre- 
 tences, but keep oft' my evil destiny in it till my 
 cousin Morden arrives. As one of my trustees, fits 
 is a protection into which I may, without discre- 
 dit, throw myself, if my other friends should re- 
 main determined. And this (although they seem 
 too well aware of it) is all my hope ; for, as to 
 Lovelace, were I to be sure of his tenderness, and 
 even of his reformation, must not the thoughts of 
 embracing the offered protection of his family, be 
 the same thing in the world's eye as accepting of 
 his own? Could I avoid receiving his visits at his 
 own relations? Must I not be his, whatever (on 
 seeing him in a nearer light) I should find him out 
 to be? For you know, it has always been my ob- 
 servation, that very few people in courtship see 
 each other as they are. Oh ! my dear, how wise 
 have I endeavoured to be! how anxious to choose 
 and to avoid every thing, precautiously, as I may 
 say, that might make me happy or unhappy; yet 
 all my wisdom now, by a strange fatality, likely to 
 become foolishness! 
 
 Then you tell me, in your usual kindly-partial 
 manner, what is expected of me more than would 
 be of some others. This should be a lesson to me. 
 Whatever my motives were, the world would not 
 know them: to complain of a brother's unkindness, 
 that, indeed, I might do: differences between bro- 
 thers and sisters, where interests clash, but too 
 commonly arise: but where the severe father can- 
 uot be separated from the faidty brother ; who
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWJG. 75 
 
 could bear to lighten herself by loading a father? 
 Then, in this particular case, must not the hatred 
 Mr. Lovelace expresses to every one of my family 
 (although in return for their hatred of him) shock 
 one extremely? Must it not shew, that there is 
 something implacable, as well as highly unpolite, 
 in his temper? And what creature can think of 
 marrying so as to be out of all hopes ever to be 
 on happy terms with her own nearest and dearest 
 relations? 
 
 But here, having tired myself, and I dare say 
 you, I will lay down my pen. 
 # * # 
 
 Mr. Solmes is almost continually here: so is my 
 aunt Hervey : so are my two uncles. Something 
 is working against me, l doubt. What an uneasy 
 state is suspense ! When a naked sword too, seems 
 hanging over one's head! 
 
 1 hear nothing but what this confident creature 
 Betty throws out in the wantonness of office. Now 
 it is, why, miss, don't you look up your things? 
 You'll be called upon, depend upon it, before you 
 are aware. Another time she intimates darkly, 
 and in broken sentences (as if on purpose to tease 
 me) what one says, what another; with their in- 
 quiries how I dispose of my time ? And my bro- 
 ther's insolent question comes frequently in, whe- 
 ther I am not writing a history of my sufferings? 
 
 But I am now used to her pertness: and as it is 
 only through that that I can hear of any thing in- 
 tended against me, before it is to be put in execu- 
 tion ; and as, when she is most impertinent, she 
 pleads a commission for it, I bear with her : yet, 
 now and then, not without a little of the heart- 
 burn. 
 
 I will deposit thus far. Adieu, my dear, 
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE.
 
 76 THE HISTORY OF s 
 
 Written on the cover, after she went down, with a 
 pencil. 
 
 On coming down, I found your second letter of 
 yesterday's date*. I have read it; and am in hopes 
 that the enclosed will in a great measure answer 
 your mother's expectations of me. 
 
 My most respectful acknowledgments to her for 
 it, and for her very kind admonitions. 
 
 You'll read to her what you please of the en- 
 closed. 
 
 LETTER XIII. 
 
 MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE. 
 
 Sat. March 25. 
 I follow my last of this date by command. I 
 mentioned in my former my mother's opinion of 
 the merit you would have if you could oblige your 
 friends against your own inclination. Our confe- 
 rence upon this subject was introduced by the 
 conversation we had had with Sir Harry Downeton ; 
 and my mother thinks it of so much importance, 
 that she enjoins me to give you the particulars of 
 it. I the rather comply, as I was unable in my 
 last to tell what to advise you to; and as you will 
 in this recital have my mother's opinion at least ; 
 and perhaps in hers what the world's would be, 
 were it only to know what she knows, and not so 
 much as I know. 
 
 My mother argues upon this case in a most dis- 
 couraging manner for all such of our sex as look 
 
 See the next Letter.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 77 
 
 forward for happiness in marriage with the man of 
 their choice. 
 
 Only, that I know she has a side view to her 
 daughter ; who, at the same time that she now pre- 
 fers no one to another, values not the man her mo- 
 ther most regards of one farthing, or I should lay 
 it more to heart. 
 
 What is there in it, says she, that all this bustle 
 is about? Is it such a mighty matter for a young 
 woman to give up her inclinations to oblige her 
 friends ? 
 
 Very well, my mamma, thought I ! Now may 
 you ask this at forty you may but what would 
 you have said at eighteen is the question? 
 
 Either, said she, the lady must be thought to 
 have very violent inclinations [and what nice young 
 creature would have that supposed?] which she 
 could not give up ; or a very stubborn will, which 
 she -would not ; or, thirdly, have parents she was 
 indifferent about obliging. 
 
 You know my mother now-and-then argues very 
 notably; always very warmly at least. I happen 
 often to differ from her; and we both think so 
 well of our own arguments, that we very seldom 
 are so happy as to convince one another. A pretty 
 common case, I believe, in all vehement debatings. 
 She says, lam too witty; Anglice, too pert: I, that 
 she is too wise; that is to say, being likewise put 
 into English, not so young as she has been : in short, 
 is grown so much into mother that she has forgot- 
 ten she ever was a daughter. So, generally, we 
 call another cause by consent yet fall into the 
 old one half a dozen times over, without consent 
 quitting and resuming, with half angry faces, 
 forced into a smile, that there might be some room 
 to piece together again: but go to bed, if bed- 
 time, a little sullen nevertheless: or, if we speak,
 
 78 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 her silence is broken with an ah ! Nancy ! you are 
 so lively ! so quick ! I wish you were less like your 
 papa, child. 
 
 I pay it off with thinking, that ray mother has no 
 reason to disclaim her share in her Nancy : and if 
 the matter go off with greater severity on her side 
 than I wish for, then her favourite Hickman fares 
 the worse for it next day. 
 
 I know I am a saucy creature. I know, if I do 
 not say so you will think so. So no more of this just 
 now. What I mention it for, is to tell you, that on 
 this serious occasion I will omit, if I can, all that 
 passed between us that had an air of flippancy on 
 my part, or quickness on my mother's, to let you 
 into the cool and the cogent of the conversation. 
 
 1 Look through the families,' said she, ' which we 
 both know, where the man and the woman have 
 been said to marry for love; which (at the time it 
 is so called) is perhaps no more than a passion be- 
 gun in folly or thoughtlessness, and carried on 
 from a spirit of perverseness and opposition [here 
 we had a parenthetical debate, which I omit] ; and 
 gee if they appear to be happier than those whose 
 principal inducement to marry has been conveni- 
 ence, or to oblige their friends; or even whether 
 they are generally so happy : for convenience and 
 duty, where observed, will afford a permanent, and 
 even an increasing satisfaction (as well at the time 
 as upon the reflection) which seldom fail to reward 
 themselves: while love, if love be the motive, is an 
 idle passion' [idle in one sense my mother cannot 
 say : for love is as busy as a monkey, and as mis- 
 chievous as a school-boy] ' It is ajervor that, like 
 all other fervors, lasts but a little while after mar- 
 riage; a bow over-strained, that soon returns to its 
 natural bent. 
 
 ' As it is founded generally upon mere notional
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 79 
 
 excellencies, which were unknown to the persons 
 themselves till attributed to either by the other: 
 one, two, or three months, usually sets all right on 
 both sides; and then with opened eyes they think 
 of each other just as every body else thought of 
 them before. 
 
 4 The lover's imaginaries [her own notable word !] 
 are by that time gone off; nature and old habits 
 (painfully dispensed with or concealed) return; 
 disguises thrown aside, all the moles, freckles, and 
 defects in the minds of each discover themselves ; 
 and 'tis well if each do not sink in the opinion of 
 the other as much below the common standard as 
 the blinded imagination of both had set them above 
 it. And now the fond pair, who knew no felicity 
 out of each other's company, are so far from find- 
 ing the never-ending variety each had proposed in 
 an unrestrained conversation with the other (when 
 they seldom were together, and always parted with 
 something to say, or on recollection, when parted, 
 wishing they had said) ; that they are continually 
 on the wing in pursuit of amusements out of them- 
 selves; and those, concluded my sage mamma, 
 [did you think her wisdom so very modern?] will 
 perhaps be the livelier to each in which the other 
 has no share.' 
 
 I told my mother, that if you were to take any 
 rash step, it would be owing to the indiscreet vio- 
 lence of your friends. I was afraid, I said, that 
 these reflections upon the conduct of people in the 
 married state, who might set out with better hopes, 
 Were but too well grounded: but that this must be 
 allowed me, that if children weighed not these 
 matters so thoroughly as they ought, neither did 
 parents make those allowances for youth, inclina- 
 tion, and inexperience, which had been found ne-
 
 80 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 cessary to be made for themselves at their chil- 
 dren's time of life. 
 
 I remembered a letter, I told her, hereupon, 
 which you wrote a few months ago, personating 
 an anonymous elderly lady (in Mr. Wyerley's day 
 of plaguing you) to Miss Drayton's mother, who, 
 by her severity and restraints, had like to have 
 driven the young lady into the very fault against 
 which her mother was most solicitous to guard her. 
 And I dared to say, she would be pleased with it. 
 
 I fetched the first draught of it, with which, at my 
 request, you obliged me at the time; and read the 
 whole letter to my mother. But the following 
 passage she made me read twice. I think you once 
 told me you had not a copy of this letter. 
 
 1 Permit me, madam, [says the personated grave 
 writer] to observe, that if persons of your experi- 
 ence would have young people look forward, in 
 order to be wiser and better by their advice, it 
 would be kind in them to look backward, and allow 
 for their children's youth and natural vivacity; in 
 other words, for their lively hopes, unabated by 
 time, unaccompanied by reflection, and unchecked 
 by disappointment. Things appear to us all in a 
 very different light at our entrance upon a favourite 
 party, or tour; when, with golden prospects, and 
 high expectations, we rise vigorous and fresh like 
 the sun beginning its morning course; from what 
 they do, when we sit down at the end of our views, 
 tired, and preparing for our journey homeward : 
 for then we take into our reflection what we had 
 left out in prospect, the fatigues, the checks, the 
 hazards, we had met with ; and make a true esti- 
 mate of pleasures, which from our raised expecta- 
 tions must necessarily have fallen miserably short 
 of what we had promised ourselves at setting out.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 81 
 
 Nothing but experience can give us a strong and 
 efficacious conviction of this difference : and when 
 we would inculcate tKe fruits of that upon the minds 
 of those we love, who have not lived long enough 
 to find those fruits; and would hope, that our advice 
 should have as much force upon them as experience 
 has upon us; and which, perhaps, our parents' ad- 
 vice had not upon ourselves at our daughters' time 
 of life; should we not proceed by patient reason- 
 ing and gentleness, that we may not harden where 
 we would convince? For, madam, the tenderest and 
 most generous minds, when harshly treated, become 
 generally the most inflexible. If the young lady 
 knows her heart to be right, however defective her 
 head may be for want of age and experience, she 
 will be apt to be very tenacious. And if she be- 
 lieves her friends to be wrong, although perhaps 
 they may be only so in their methods of treating 
 her, how much will every unkind circumstance on 
 the parent's part, or heedless one on the child's, 
 though ever so slight in itself, widen the difference ! 
 The parent's prejudice in disfavour will confirm the 
 daughter's in favour of the same person ; and the 
 best reasonings in the world on either side will be 
 attributed to that prejudice. In short, neither of 
 them will be convinced : a perpetual opposition 
 ensues : the parent grows impatient ; the child 
 desperate : and, as a too natural consequence, that 
 falls out which the mother was most afraid of, and 
 which possibly had not happened, if the child's 
 passions had been only led, not driven' 
 
 My mother was pleased with the whole letter; 
 and said, it deserved to have the success it met with. 
 But asked me what excuse could be offered for a 
 young lady capable of making such reflections 
 (and who at her time of life could so well assume 
 
 VOL. II. I
 
 S2 THfi HISTORY OF 
 
 the character of one of riper years) if she should 
 rush into any fatal mistake herself? 
 
 She then touched upon the moral character of 
 Mr. Lovelace ; and how reasonable the aversion of 
 your relations is to a man who gives himself the 
 liberties he is said to take ; and who indeed himself 
 denies not the accusation ; having been heard to 
 declare, that he will do all the mischief he can to 
 the sex, in revenge for the ill usage and broken 
 vows of his first love, at a time when he was too 
 young [his own expression it seems] to be insin- 
 cere. 
 
 I replied, that I had heard every one say, that 
 the lady meant really used him ill ; that it affected 
 him so much at the time, that he was forced to 
 travel upon it; and to drive her out of his heart 
 ran into courses which he had ingenuousness him- 
 self to condemn : that, however, he had denied 
 that he had thrown out such menaces against the 
 sex when charged with them by me in your pre- 
 sence ; and declared himself incapable of so unjust 
 and ungenerous a resentment against all for the 
 perfidy of one. 
 
 You remember this, my dear; as I do your inno- 
 cent observation upon it, that you could believe 
 his solemn asseveration and denial : ' For surely,' 
 said you, ' the man who would resent, as the high- 
 est indignity that could be offered to a gentleman, 
 the imputation of a tvilful falshood, would not be 
 guilty of one.' 
 
 I insisted upon the extraordinary circumstances 
 in your case, particularizing them. I took notice, 
 that Mr. Lovelace's morals were at one time no ob- 
 jections with your relations for Arabella : that then 
 much was built upon his family, and more upon his 
 parts and learning, which made it out of doubt that
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 89 
 
 he might be reclaimed by a woman of virtue and 
 prudence : [and pray forgive me for mentioning 
 it] I ventured to add, that although your family 
 might be good sort of folks, as the world went, yet 
 nobody imputed to any of them but to you a very 
 punctilious concern for religion or piety there- 
 fore were they the less intitled to object to defects 
 of that kind in others. Then, what an odious man, 
 said I, have they picked out, to supplant in a lady's 
 affections one of the finest figures of a man, and 
 one noted for his brilliant parts, and other accom- 
 plishments, whatever his morals may be! 
 
 Still my mother insisted, that there was the 
 greater merit in your obedience on that account ; 
 and urged, that there hardly ever was a very hand- 
 some and a very sprightly roan who made a tender 
 and affectionate husband: for that they were ge- 
 nerally such Narcissus's, as to imagine every wo- 
 man ought to think as highly of them as they did 
 of themselves. 
 
 There was no danger from that consideration 
 here, I said, because the lady had still greater ad- 
 vantages, both of person and mind, than the man ; 
 graceful and elegant as he must be allowed to be 
 eyond most of his sex. 
 
 She cannot endure to hear me praise any man but 
 her favourite Hickman : upon whom, nevertheless, 
 she generally brings a degree of contempt which 
 he would escape, did she not lessen the little merit 
 he has, by giving him, on all occasions, more than 
 I think he can deserve, and entering him into com- 
 parisons in which it is impossible but he must be a 
 sufferer. And now [preposterous partiality!] she 
 thought, for her part, that Mr. Hickman, bating 
 that hisjace indeed was not so smooth, nor his com- 
 plexion quite so good, and saving that he was not so 
 presuming and so bold (which ought to be no fault 
 i 2
 
 84 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 with a modest woman) equalled Mr. Lovelace at 
 any hour of the day. 
 
 To avoid entering further into such an incompa- 
 rable comparison, I said, I did not believe, had they 
 left you to your own way, and treated you gene- 
 rously, that you would have had the thought of en- 
 couraging any man whom they disliked. 
 
 Then, Nancy, catching me up, the excuse is less 
 for, if so, must there not be more of contradic~ 
 tion than love in the case ? 
 
 Not so, neither, madam: for I know Miss Cla- 
 rissa Harlowe would prefer Mr. Lovelace to all 
 men, if morals 
 
 IF, Nancy ! That if is every thing. Do you 
 really think she loves Mr. Lovelace ? 
 
 What would you have had me to say, my dear? 
 I won't tell you what I did say : but had I not 
 said what I did who would have believed me ? 
 
 Besides, I know you love him ! Excuse me, my 
 dear : yet if you deny it, what do you but reflect 
 upon yourself, as if you thought you ought not to 
 allow yourself in what you cannot help doing ? 
 
 Indeed, madam, said I, the man is worthy of any 
 woman's love [if, again, I could say] but her pa- 
 rents 
 
 Her parents, Nancy [you know, my dear, how 
 my mother, who accuses her daughter of quickness, 
 is evermore interrupting one !] 
 
 May take wrong measures, said I 
 
 Cannot do wrong they have reason I'll warrant. 
 
 By which they may provoke a young woman, 
 said I, to do rash things, which otherwise she would 
 not do. 
 
 But if it be a rash thing [returned she] should 
 she do it ? A prudent daughter will not wilfully err, 
 because her parents err, if they were to err: if she 
 do, the world which blames the parents will not ac-
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 86 
 
 quit the child. AH that can he said in extenuation 
 of a daughter's error in this case, arises from a kind 
 consideration which Miss Clary's letter to Lady 
 Drayton pleads for, to be paid to her daughter's 
 youth and inexperience. And will such an admi- 
 rable young person as Miss Clarissa Harlowe, 
 whose prudence, as we see, qualifies her to be an 
 adviser of persons much older than herself, take 
 shelter under so poor a covert ? 
 
 Let her know, Nancy, what I say : and I charge 
 you to represent further to her, that let her dislike 
 one man and approve of another ever so much, it 
 will be expected of a young lady of her unbounded 
 generosity and greatness of mind, that she should 
 deny herself when she can oblige all her family by 
 so doing no less than ten or a dozen perhaps the 
 nearest and dearest to her of all the persons in the 
 world, an indulgent father and mother at the head 
 of them. It may be fancy only on her side ; but 
 parents look deeper : and will not Miss Clarissa 
 Harlowe give up her fancy to her parents' judg- 
 ment^ 
 
 I said a great deal upon this judgment subject : 
 all that you could wish I should say ; and all that 
 your extraordinary case allowed me to say. And 
 my mother was so sensible of the force of it, that 
 she charged me not to write to you any part of my 
 answer to what Bhe said; but only what she herself 
 had advanced; lest, in so critical a case, it should 
 induce you to take measures which might give us 
 both reason (me for giving it, you for following it) 
 to repent it as long as we lived. 
 
 And thus, my dear, have I set my mother's argu- 
 ments before you. And the rather as I cannot 
 myself tell what to advise you to do you know 
 best your own heart; and what that will let you 
 do. 
 
 t 3
 
 86 THE HISTORY OV 
 
 Robin undertakes to deposit this very early, 
 that you may have an opportunity to receive it by 
 your first morning airing. 
 
 Heaven guide and direct you for the best, is the 
 incessant prayer of 
 
 Your ever-affectionate 
 
 ANNA HOWE. 
 
 LETTER XIV. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 Sunday afternoon. 
 I am in great apprehensions. Yet cannot help 
 repeating my humble thanks to your mother and 
 you, for your last favour. I hope her kind end is 
 answered by the contents of my last. Yet I must 
 not think it enough to acknowledge her goodness 
 to me with a pencil only, on the cover of a letter 
 sealed up. A few lines give me leave to write 
 with regard to my anonymous letter to Lady Dray- 
 ton. If I did not at that time tell you, as I believe 
 I did, that my excellent Mrs. Norton gave me her 
 assistance in that letter, I now acknowledge that 
 she did. 
 
 Pray let your mother know this, for two reasons : 
 one, that I may not be thought to arrogate to my- 
 self a discretion which does not belong to me : the 
 other that I may not suffer by the severe but just 
 inference she was pleased to draw ; doubling my 
 faults upon me, if I myself should act unworthy of 
 the advice I was supposed to give. 
 
 Before I come to what most nearly affects me, I 
 must chide you once more for the severe, the very 
 severe things you mention of our family, to the 
 disparagement of their morals. Indeed, my dear,
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 87 
 
 I wonder at you ! A slighter occasion might have 
 passed me, after I have written to you so often to 
 so little purpose on this topic. But, affecting as 
 my own circumstances are, I cannot pass by with- 
 out animadversion, the reflection I need not repeat 
 in words. 
 
 There is not a worthier woman in England than 
 my mother. Nor is my father that man you some- 
 times make him. Excepting in one point, I know 
 not any family which lives more up to their duty 
 than the principals of ours. A little too uncommu- 
 nicative for their great circumstances that is all. 
 Why, then, have they not reason to insist upon 
 unexceptionable morals in a man whose sought-for 
 relationship to them, by a marriage in their family, 
 they have certainly a right either to allow of or to 
 disallow. 
 
 Another line or two, before I am engrossed by 
 my own concerns upon your treatment of Mr. 
 Hickman. Is it, do you think, generous to re- 
 venge upon an innocent person the displeasure you 
 receive from another quarter, where I doubt you 
 are a trespasser too ? But one thing I could tell 
 him ; and you had not best provoke me to it : it is 
 this, that no woman uses ill the man she does not 
 absolutely reject, but she has it in her heart to 
 make him amends, when her tyranny has had its 
 run, and he has completed the measure of his ser- 
 vices and patience. My mind is not enough at 
 ease to push this matter further. 
 
 I will now give you the occasion of my present 
 apprehensions. 
 
 I had reason to fear, as I mentioned in mine of 
 this morning, that a storm was brewing. Mr. 
 Solmes came home from church this afternoon 
 with my brother. Soon after, Betty brought me 
 up a letter, without saying from whom. It was in
 
 88 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 a cover, and directed by a hand I never saw be- 
 fore; as if it were supposed that I would not receive 
 and open it, had I known from whom it came. 
 These are the contents : 
 
 TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE. 
 
 dearest madam, Sunday, March 26. 
 
 I thiijk: myself a most unhappy man, in that I have 
 never yet been able to pay my respects to you 
 with youre consent, for one halfe-hour. I have 
 something to communicat to you that concernes 
 you much, if you be pleased to admit me to youre 
 speech. Youre honour is concerned in it, and the 
 honour of all youre familly. It relates to the de- 
 signes of one whom you are said to valew more 
 than he desarves ; and to some of his reprobat 
 actions; which I am reddie to give you convincing 
 proofes of the truth of I may appear to be inte- 
 rested in it: but neverthelesse, I am reddie to 
 make oathe, that every tittle is true: and you will 
 see what a man you are sed to favour. But I hope 
 not so, for your owne honour. 
 
 Pray, madam, vouchsafe me a hearing, as you 
 valew your honour and familly : which will oblidge, 
 dearest miss, 
 
 Your most humble and most faithful servant, 
 
 ROGER SOLMES. 
 
 I waite belowybr the hope of admittance. 
 
 I have no manner of doubt, that this is a poor 
 device to get this man into my company. I would 
 have sent down a verbal answer ; but Betty re- 
 fused to carry any message which should prohibit 
 his visiting me. So I was obliged either to see 
 him or to write to him. I wrote therefore au an-
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 89 
 
 swer, of which I shall send you the rough draught. 
 And now my heart aches for what may follow from 
 it : for I hear a great hurry below. 
 
 TO ROGER SOLMES, ESQ. 
 SIR, 
 
 Whatever you have to communicate to me, which 
 concerns my honour, may as well be done by 
 writing as by word of mouth. If Mr. Lovelace is 
 any of my concern, I know not that therefore he 
 ought to be yours ; for the usage I receive on your 
 account [I must think it so?] is so harsh, that were 
 there not such a man in the world as Mr. Lovelace, 
 I would not wish to see Mr. Solmes, no, not for one 
 half-hour, in the way he is pleased to be desirous 
 to see me. I never can be in any danger from 
 Mr. Lovelace (and of consequence cannot be af- 
 fected by any of your discoveries) if the proposal 
 I made be accepted. You have been acquainted 
 with it, no doubt. If not, be pleased to let my 
 friends know, that if they will rid me of my appre- 
 hensions of one gentleman, I will rid them of theirs 
 of another: and then, of what consequence to 
 them or to me will it be, whether Mr. Lovelace be 
 a good man or a bad ? And if not to them, nor to 
 me, I see not how it can be of any to you. But if 
 you do, I have nothing to say to that ; and it will 
 be a Christian part, if you will expostulate with 
 him upon the errors you have discovered, and en- 
 deavour to make him as good a man as, no doubt, 
 you are yourself, or you would not be so ready to 
 detect and expose him. 
 
 Excuse me, sir : but after my former letter to 
 you, and your ungenerous perseverance ; and after 
 this attempt to avail yourself at the expense of ano- 
 ther man's character, rather than by your own
 
 90 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 proper merit, I see not that you can blame any 
 asperity in her whom you have so largely contri- 
 buted to make unhappy. 
 
 CL. HARLOWE. 
 
 Sunday night. 
 My father was for coming up to me in great 
 wrath it seems ; but was persuaded to the contrary. 
 My aunt Hervey was permitted to send me this 
 that follows. Quick work, my dear ! 
 
 TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE. 
 
 Every body is now convinced, that nothing is to 
 be done with you by way of gentleness or persua- 
 sion. Your mother will not permit you to stay in 
 the house : for your father is so incensed by your 
 strange letter to his friend, that she knows not 
 what will be the consequence if you do. So, you 
 are commanded to get ready to go to your uncle 
 Antony's without delay. 
 
 Your uncle thinks he has not deserved of you 
 such an unwillingness as you shew to go to his 
 house. 
 
 You don't know the wickedness of the man for 
 whose sake you think it worth while to quarrel 
 with all your friends. 
 
 You must not answer me. There will be no 
 end of that. 
 
 You know not the affliction you give to every 
 body ; but to none more than to 
 
 Your affectionate aunt, 
 
 DOROTHY HERVEY. 
 
 Forbid to write to my aunt, I took a bolder li- 
 berty. I wrote a few lines to my mother, beseech-
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 91 
 
 ing her to procure me leave to throw myself at my 
 father's feet and her's, if I must go (nobody else 
 present) to beg pardon for the trouble I had given 
 them both, and their blessings; and to receive 
 their commands as to my removal, and the time 
 for it, from their own lips. 
 
 'What new boldness this! Take it back ; and 
 bid her learn to obey,' was my mother's angry an- 
 swer, with my letter returned unopened. 
 
 But that I might omit nothing that had an ap- 
 pearance of duty, I wrote a few lines to my father 
 himself, to the same porpose; begging, that he 
 would not turn me out of his house without his 
 blessing. But this, torn in two pieces, and un- 
 opened, was brought me up again by Betty, with 
 an air, one hand held up, the other extended, the 
 tor i letter in her open palm ; and a see here ! 
 What a sad thing is this ? Nothing will do but 
 duty, miss! Your papa said, let her tell me of 
 deeds! I'll receive no words from her : and so he 
 tore the letter, and flung the pieces at my head. 
 
 So desperate my case, I was resolved not to stop 
 even at this repulse. I took my pen, and addressed 
 myself to my uncle Harlowe, inclosing that which 
 my mother had returned unopened, and the torn 
 unopened one sent to my father - t having first hur- 
 ried off a transcript for you. 
 
 My uncle was going home, and it was delivered 
 to him just as he stepped into his chariot. What 
 may be the fate of it therefore 1 cannot know till 
 to-morrow. 
 
 The following is a copy of it. 
 
 TO JOHN HARLOWE, ESQ. 
 MY DEAR AND EVER-HONOURED UNCLE, 
 
 I have nobody now but you to whom I can apply 
 with hope, so much as to have my humble addresses,
 
 92 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 opened and read. My aunt Hervey has given me 
 commands which I want to have explained ; but 
 she has forbid me writing to her. Hereupon I 
 took the liberty to write to my father and mo- 
 ther : you will see, sir, by the torn one, and by the 
 other (both unopened) what has been the result. 
 This, sir, perhaps you already know : but, as you 
 know not the contents of the disgraced letters, I 
 beseech you to read them both, that you may be a 
 witness for me, that they are not filled either with 
 complaints or expostulations,nor contain any thing 
 undutiful. Give me leave to say, sir, that if deaf- 
 eared anger will neither grant me a hearing, nor 
 what I write a perusal, some time hence the hard- 
 heartedness may be regretted. I beseech you, 
 dear, good sir, to let me know what is meant by 
 sending me to my uncle Antony's house, rather 
 than to your's, or to my aunt Hervey's, or else- 
 where ? If it be for what I apprehend it to be, 
 life will not be supportable upon the terms. I beg 
 also to know when I am to be turned out of 
 doors ! My heart strongly gives me, that if once 
 I am compelled to leave this house, I never shall see 
 it more. 
 
 It becomes me, however, to declare, that I write 
 not this through perverseness, or in resentment. 
 God knows my heart, I do not. 1 But the treat- 
 ment I apprehend I shall meet with, if carried to 
 my other uncle's, will, in all probability, give the 
 finishing stroke to the distresses, the undeserved 
 distresses I will be bold to call them, of 
 Your once highly favoured, 
 
 But now unhappy, 
 
 CL. HARLOWE.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 93 
 
 LETTER XV. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 Monday morning, March 27. 
 This morning early my uncle Harlowe came hither. 
 He sent up the inclosed very tender letter. It has 
 made me wish I could oblige him. You will see how 
 Mr. Solmes's ill qualities are glossed over in it. 
 What blemishes does affection hide! But per- 
 haps they may say to me, what faults does antipathy 
 bring to light ! 
 
 Be pleased to send me back this letter of my 
 uncle by the first return. 
 
 Sunday night, or rather Monday morning. 
 
 I must answer you, though against my own reso- 
 lution. Every body loves you, and you know they 
 do. The very ground you walk upon is dear to 
 most of us. But how can we resolve to see you ? 
 There is no standing against your looks and lan- 
 guage. It is our love makes us decline to see you. 
 How can we, when you are resolved not to do what 
 we are resolved you shall do ? I never, for my part, 
 loved any creature as I loved you from your in- 
 fancy till now. And indeed, as I have often said, 
 never was there a young creature so deserving of 
 our love. But what is come to you now ! Alas ! 
 alas ! my dear kinswoman, how you fail in the 
 trial ! 
 
 I have read the letters you inclosed. At a pro- 
 per time I may shew them to my brother and sis- 
 ter. But they will receive nothing from you at 
 present. 
 
 For my part, I could not read your letter to me 
 without being unmanned. How can you be so un- 
 
 VOL. If. K
 
 94 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 moved yourself, yet be so able to move every body 
 else ? How could you send such a letter to Mr. 
 Solmes? Fie upon you! How strangely are you 
 altered ! 
 
 Then to treat your brother and sister as you did, 
 that they don't care to write to you or to see you ! 
 Don't you know where it is written, that soft an- 
 swers turn away wrath ? But if you will trust to 
 your sharp pointed wit you may wound : yet a club 
 will beat down a sword : and how can you expect 
 that they who are hurt by you will not hurt you 
 again ? Was this the way you used to take to make 
 us all adore you as we did ? No, it was your gen- 
 tleness of heart and manners that made every body, 
 even strangers, at first sight treat you as a lady, and 
 call you a lady, though not born one, while your 
 elder sister had no such distinctions paid her. If 
 you were envied, why should you sharpen envy, 
 and file up its teeth to an edge? You see I write 
 like an impartial man, and as one that loves you 
 still. 
 
 But since you have displayed your talents, and 
 spared nobody, and moved every body, without 
 being moved, you have but made us stand the 
 closer and firmer together. This is what I likened 
 to an embattled phalanx once before. Your aunt 
 Hervey forbids your writing, for the same reason 
 that I must not countenance it. We are all afraid 
 to see you, because we know we shall be made as 
 so many fools. Nay, your mother is so afraid of 
 you, that once or twice, when she thought you was 
 coming to force yourself into her presence, she 
 shut the door, and locked herself in, because she 
 knew she must not see you upon your terms, and 
 you are resolved you will not see her upon hers. 
 
 Resolve but to oblige us all, my dearest Miss 
 Clary, and you shall see how we will clasp you
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 95 
 
 every one by turns to our rejoicing hearts. If the 
 one man has not the wit, and the parts, and the 
 person of the other, no one breathing has a worse 
 heart than that other: and is not the love of all 
 your friends, and a sober man (if hebe not so polish- 
 ed) to be preferred to a debauchee, though ever so 
 fine a man to look at ? You have such talents, that 
 you will be adored by the one: but the other has as 
 much advantage in those respects as you have 
 yourself, and will not set by them one straw : for 
 husbands are sometimes jealous of their authority 
 with witty wives. You will have in one a man of 
 virtue. Had you not been so rudely affronting to 
 him, he would have made your ears tingle with 
 what he could have told you of the other. 
 
 Come, my dear niece, let me have the honour of 
 doing with you what nobody else yet has been 
 able to do. Your father, mother, and I, will divide 
 the pleasure, and the honour I will again call it, be- 
 tween us ; and all past offences shall be forgiven ; 
 and Mr. Solmes, we will engage, shall take nothing 
 amiss hereafter of what has passed. 
 
 He knows, he says, what a jewel that man will 
 have who can obtain your favour ; and he will think 
 light of all he has suffered, or shall suffer, in ob- 
 taining you. 
 
 Dear, sweet creature, oblige us : and oblige us 
 with a grace. It must be done, whether with a grace 
 or not. I do assure you it must. You must not 
 conquer father, mother, uncles, every body : de- 
 pend upon that. 
 
 I have sat up half the night to write this. You do 
 not know how I am touched at reading yours, and 
 writing this. Yet will I be at Harlowe Place early 
 in the morning. So, upon reading this, if you will 
 oblige us all, send me word to come up to your 
 apartment : and I will lead you down, and present 
 k 2
 
 96 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 you to the embraces of every one ; and you will 
 then see, you have more of a brother and sister 
 in them both than of late your prejudices will let 
 you think you have. This from one who used to 
 love to style himself, 
 
 Your paternal uncle, 
 
 JOHN HARLOWE. 
 
 In about an hour after this kind letter was given 
 me, my uncle sent up to know, if he should be a 
 welcome visitor upon the terms mentioned in his 
 letter? He bid Betty bring him down a verbal an- 
 swer: a written one, he said, would be a bad sign : 
 and he bid her therefore not bring a letter. But I 
 had just finished the inclosed transcription of one I 
 had been writing. She made a difficulty to carry 
 it ; but was prevailed upon to oblige me by a token 
 which these Mrs. Betty's cannot withstand. 
 
 DEAR AND HONOURED SIR, 
 
 How you rejoice me by your condescending good- 
 ness ! So kind, so paternal a letter ! so soothing 
 to a wounded heart ! and of late what I have been 
 so little used to! How am I affected with it ! Tell 
 me not, dear sir, of my way of writing: your let- 
 ter has more moved me than I have been able to 
 move any body! It has made me wish, with all my 
 heart, that I could entitle myself to be visited upon 
 your own terms ; and to be led down to my father 
 and mother by so good and so kind an uncle. 
 
 I will tell you, dearest sir, what I will do to make 
 my peace. I have no doubt that Mr. Solmes, upon 
 consideration, would greatly prefer my sister to 
 such a strange averse creature as me. His chief, 
 or one of his chief motives in his address to me, is, 
 as I have reason to believe, the contiguity of my 
 grandfather's estate to his own. I will resign it ;
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 97 
 
 for ever I will resign it : and the resignation must 
 be good, because I will never marry at all. I will 
 make it over to my sister, and her heirs for ever. 
 I shall have no heirs but my brother and her ; and 
 I will receive, as of my father's bounty, such an 
 annuity (not in lieu of the estate, but as of his 
 bounty) as he shall be pleased to grant me, if it be 
 ever so small : and whenever I disoblige him, he 
 to withdraw it, at his pleasure. 
 
 Will not this be accepted ? Surely it must 
 surely it will ! I beg of you, dearest sir, to pro- 
 pose it ; and second it with your interest. This 
 will answer every end. My sister has a high 
 opinion of Mr. Solmes. I never can have any in 
 the light he is proposed to me. But as my sister's 
 husband, he will be always intitled to my respect, 
 and shall have it. 
 
 If this be accepted, grant me, sir, the honour of 
 a visit ; and do me then the inexpressible pleasure 
 of leading me down to the feet of my honoured 
 parents, and they shall find me the most dutiful of 
 children ; and to the arms of my brother and sister, 
 and they shall find me the most obliging and most 
 affectionate of sisters. 
 
 I wait, sir, for your answer to this proposal, made 
 with the whole heart of 
 
 Your dutiful and most obliged niece, 
 
 CL. HARLOWE. 
 
 Monday noon. 
 I hope this will be accepted : for Betty tells me, 
 that my uncle Antony and my aunt Hervey are 
 sent for ; and not Mr. Solmes ; which I look upon 
 as a favourable circumstance. With what cheer- 
 fulness will I assign over this envied estate ! What 
 a much more valuable consideration shall I part 
 with it for ! The love and favour of all my rela- 
 k S
 
 98 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 tions! That love and favour, which I used for 
 eighteen years together to rejoice in, and be dis- 
 tinguished by ! And what a charming pretence 
 will this afford me of breaking with Mr. Lovelace ! 
 And how easy will it possibly make him to part 
 with me.' 
 
 I found this morning in the usual place a letter 
 from him, in answer I suppose to mine of Friday, 
 which I deposited not till Saturday. But I have 
 not opened it ; nor will I, till I see what effect this 
 new offer will have. 
 
 Let me but be permitted to avoid the man I hate : 
 and I will give up with cheerfulness the man I 
 could prefer. To renounce the one, were I really 
 to value him as much as you seem to imagine, can 
 give but a temporary concern, which time and dis- 
 cretion will alleviate. This is a sacrifice which a 
 child owes to parents and friends, if they insist 
 upon its being made. But the other, to marry a 
 man one cannot endure, is not only a dishonest thing 
 as to the man, but it is enough to make a creature 
 who wishes to be a good wife a bad or indifferent 
 one, as I once wrote to the man himself: and then 
 she can hardly be either a good mistress or a good 
 Jriend, or any thing but a discredit to her family, 
 and a bad example to all around her. 
 
 Methinks I am both, in the suspeiise 1 am in at 
 present to deposit this, because it will be leaving 
 you in one as great : but having been prevented 
 by Betty's officiousness twice, I will now go down 
 to my little poultry ; and if I have an opportunity, 
 wiil leave it in the usual place, where I hope to 
 find something from you.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOVVE. 99 
 
 LETTER XVI. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 Monday afternoon, March %7. 
 I have deposited my narrative down to this day 
 noon ; but I hope soon to follow it with another 
 letter, that I may keep you as little a while as pos- 
 sible in that suspense which I am so much affected 
 by at this moment : for my heart is disturbed at 
 every foot I hear stir, and at every door below 
 that I hear open or shut. 
 
 They have been all assembled some time, and 
 are in close debate I believe : but can there be 
 room for long debate upon a proposal, which, if 
 accepted, will so effectually answer all their views? 
 Can they insist a moment longer upon my having 
 Mr. Solmes, when they see what sacrifices I am 
 ready to make to be freed from his addresses ? O 
 but I suppose the struggle is, first, with Bella's 
 nicety, to persuade her to accept of the estate and 
 of the husband ; and next with her pride, to take 
 her sister s refusals, as she once phrased it ! Or, it 
 may be, my brother is insisting upon equivalents 
 for his reversion in the estate : and these sort of 
 things take up but too much the attention of some 
 of our family. To these, no doubt, one or both, it 
 must be owing, that my proposal admits of so much 
 consideration. 
 
 I want, methinks, to see what Mr. Lovelace, in 
 his letter, says. But I will deny myself this piece 
 of curiosity till that which is raised by my present 
 suspense is answered. Excuse me, my dear, that I 
 thus trouble you with my uncertainties : but I have 
 no employment, nor heart, if I had, to pursue any 
 other but what my pen affords me.
 
 100 THE HISTORY OT 
 
 Monday evening. 
 Would you believe it ? Betty, by anticipation, 
 tells me, that I am to be refused. lain 'a vile, 
 artful creature. Every body is too good to me. 
 My uncle Harlowe has been taken-in, that's the 
 phrase. They knew how it would be, if he either 
 wrote to me or saw me. He has, however, been 
 made ashamed to be so wrought upon. A pretty 
 thing truly in the eye of the world would it be, 
 were they to take me at my word ! It would look 
 as if they had treated me thus hardly, as /think it, 
 for this very purpose. My peculiars, particularly 
 Miss Howe, would give it that turn ; and I myself 
 could mean nothing by it, but to see if it would be 
 accepted in order to strengthen my own arguments 
 against Mr. Solmes. It was amazing, that it could 
 admit of a moment's deliberation : that any thing 
 could be supposed to be done in it. It was equally 
 against law and equity : and a fine security Mis6 
 Bella would have, or Mr. Solmes, when I could re- 
 sume it when I would ! My brother and she my 
 heirs ! O the artful creature ! / to resolve to live 
 single, when Lovelace is so sure of me and every- 
 where declares as much ! and can whenever he 
 pleases, if my husband, claim under the will ! 
 Then the insolence the confidence [as Betty 
 mincingly told me, that one said ; you may easily 
 guess who] that she, who was so justly in disgrace 
 for downright rebellion, should pretend to prescribe 
 to the whole family ! should name a husband for 
 her elder sister ! What a triumph would her ob- 
 stinacy go away with, to delegate her commands, 
 not as from a prison, as she called it, but as from 
 her throne, to her elders and betters ; and to her 
 father and mother too! Amazing, perfectly amaz- 
 ing, that any body could argue upon such a propo-
 
 CLA1USSA HARLOWE. 101 
 
 sal as this ! It was a master-stroke of finesse- it was 
 me in perfection surely my uncle Harlowe will 
 never again be so taken in F 
 
 All this was the readier told me, because it was 
 against me, and would teaze and vex me. But as 
 some of this fine recapitulation implied, that some- 
 body spoke up for me, I was curious to know who 
 it was: but Betty would not tell me, for fear I 
 should have the consolation to find that all were 
 not against me. 
 
 But do you not see, my dear, what a sad creature 
 she is whom you honour with your friendship? 
 You could not doubt your influence over me : why 
 did you not let me know myself a little better ? 
 Why did you not take the friendly liberty I have 
 always taken with you, and tell me my faults, and 
 what a specious hypocrite I am ? For if my brother 
 and sister could make such discoveries, how is it 
 possible that faults so enormous [you could see 
 others, you thought, of a more secret nature !] 
 could escape your penetrating eye 'i 
 
 Well, but now, it seems, they are debating how 
 and by whom to answer me : for they know not, 
 nor are they to know, that Mrs. Betty has told me 
 all these fine things. One desires to be excused, it 
 seems : another chooses not to have any thing to 
 say to me : another has enough of me : and of 
 writing to so ready a scribbler there will be no 
 end. 
 
 Thus are those imputed qualifications, which 
 used so lately to gain me applause, now become 
 my crimes : so much do disgust and anger alter the 
 property of things. 
 
 The result of their debate, I suppose, will some- 
 how or other be communicated to me by-and-by. 
 But let me tell you, my dear, that I am made so 
 desperate, that I am afraid to open Mr. Lovelace's 
 letter, lest, in the humour 1 am in, I should do some-
 
 102 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 thing (if I find it not exceptionable) that may gite 
 me repentance a6 long as I live. 
 
 Monday night. 
 This moment the following letter is brought roe. 
 by Betty. 
 
 miss cunning-one, Monday, five o'clock. 
 
 Your fine new proposal is thought unworthy of a 
 particular answer. Your uncle Harlowe is ashamed 
 to be so taken in. Have you no new fetch for your 
 uncle Antony ? Go round with us, child, now your 
 hand's in. But I was bid to write only one line r 
 that you might not complain, as you did of your 
 worthy sister, for the freedoms you provoked : it 
 is this ; prepare yourself. To-morrow you go to> 
 my uncle Antony's. That's all, child. 
 
 JAMES HARLOWE. 
 
 I was vexed to the heart at this : and immediate- 
 ly, in the warmth of resentment, wrote the inclosed 
 to my uncle Harlowe, who it seems stays here this 
 night. 
 
 TO JOHN HARLOWE, ESQ, 
 
 honoured sir, Monday night. 
 
 I find I am a very sad creature, and did not know- 
 it. I wrote not to my brother. To you, sir, I 
 wrote. From you I hope the honour of an answer. 
 No one reveres her uncle more than I do. Never- 
 theless, I will be bold to say, that the distance, 
 great as it is, between uncle and niece, excludes 
 not such a hope : and I think I have not made a 
 proposal that deserves to be treated with scorn. 
 
 Forgive me, sir my heart is full. Perhaps one 
 day you may think you have been prevailed upon 
 "(for that is plainly the case !) to join to treat me
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 105 
 
 as I do not deserve to be treated. If you are 
 ashamed, as my brother hints, of having expressed 
 any returning tenderness to me, God help me! I 
 see I have no mercy to expect from any body ! 
 But, sir, from your pen let me have an answer ; I 
 humbly implore it of you till my brother can re- 
 collect what belongs to a sister, I will take from 
 him no answer to the letter I wrote to you, nor 
 any commands whatever. 
 
 / move every body! This, sir, is what you are 
 pleased to mention: but whom have I moved? 
 One person in the family has more moving ways 
 than I have, or he could never so undeservedly 
 have made every body ashamed to shew tenderness 
 to a poor distressed child of the same family. 
 
 Return me not this with contempt, or torn, or 
 unanswered, I beseech you. My father has a title 
 to do that or any thing by his child: but from no 
 other person in the world of your sex, sir, ought 
 a young creature of mine (while she preserves a 
 supplicating spirit) to be so treated. 
 
 When what I have before written in the hum- 
 blest strain has met with such strange construc- 
 tions, I am afraid that this unguarded scrawl will 
 be very ill received. But I beg, sir, you will 
 oblige me with one line, be it ever so harsh, in an- 
 swer to my proposal. I still think it ought to be 
 attended to. I will enter into the most solemn en- 
 gagements to make it valid by a perpetual single 
 life. In a word, any thing I can do, I voill do, to 
 be restored to all your favours. More I cannot 
 .say, but that I am, very undeservedly, 
 
 A most unhappy creature. 
 
 Betty scrupled again to carry this letter ; and 
 said she should have anger ; and I should but have 
 it returned in scraps and bits.
 
 104 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 I must take that chance, said I : I only desire 
 that you will deliver it as directed. 
 
 Sad doings ! very sad ! she said, that young la- 
 dies should so violently set themselves against their 
 duty. 
 
 I told her, she should have the liberty to say 
 what she pleased, so she would but be my messen- 
 ger that one time And down she went with it. 
 
 I bid her, if she could, slide it into my uncle's 
 hand, unseen; at least unseen by my brother or 
 sister, for fear it should meet, through their good 
 offices, with the fate she had bespoken for it. 
 
 She would not undertake for that, she said. 
 
 I am now in expectation of the result. But hav- 
 ing so little ground to hope for either favour or 
 mercy, I opened Mr. Lovelace's letter. 
 
 I would send it to you, my dear (as well as those 
 I shall inclose) by this conveyance : but not being 
 able at present to determine in what manner I shall 
 answer it, I will give myself the trouble of abstract- 
 ing it here, while I am waiting for what may offer 
 from the letter just carried down. 
 
 ' He laments, as usual, my ill opinion of him, 
 and readiness to believe every thing to his disad- 
 vantage. He puts into plain English, as I supposed 
 he would, my hint, that I might be happier, if, by 
 any rashness he might be guilty of to Solmes, he 
 should come to an untimely end himself.' 
 
 He is concerned, he says, ' That the violence he 
 had expressed on his extreme apprehensiveness of 
 losing me, should have made him guilty of any- 
 thing I had so much reason to resent.' 
 
 He owns, ' That he is passionate : all good-na- 
 tured men, he says, are so ; and a sincere man 
 cannot hide it.' But appeals to me, Whether, if 
 any occasion in the world could excuse the rash- 
 ness of his expressions, it would not be his present
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 105 
 
 dreadful situation, through my indifference, and the 
 malice of his enemies.' 
 
 He says, ' He has more reason than ever, from 
 the contents of my last, to apprehend, that I shall 
 be prevailed upon by force, if not by fair means, 
 to fall in with my brother's measures ; and sees 
 but too plainly, that I am preparing him to expect 
 it.' 
 
 4 Upon this presumption, he supplicates, with the 
 utmost earnestness, that I will not give way to the 
 malice of his enemies. 
 
 ' Solemn vows of reformation, and everlasting 
 truth and obligingness, he makes ; all in the style 
 of desponding humility : yet calls it a cruel turn 
 upon him, to impute his protestations to a conscious- 
 ness of the necessity there is for making them 
 from his bad character. 
 
 ' He despises himself, he solemnly protests, for 
 his past follies : he thanks God he has seen his 
 error; and nothing, but my more particular in- 
 structions, is wanting to perfect his reformation. 
 
 ' He promises, that he will do every thing that I 
 shall think he can do with honour, to bring about 
 a reconciliation with my father ; and even will, if 
 I insist upon it, make the first overtures to my bro- 
 ther, and treat him as his own brother, because he 
 is mine, if he will not by new affronts revive the 
 remembrance of the past. 
 
 ' He begs, in the most earnest and humble man- 
 ner, for one half-hour's interview ; undertaking by 
 a key, which he owns he has to the garden-door, 
 leading into the coppice, as we call it ( if I will but 
 unbolt the door) to come into the garden at night, 
 and wait till I have an opportunity to come to him, 
 that he may re-assure me of the truth of all he 
 writes, and of the affection, and, if needful, pro- 
 tection, of ail his family. 
 
 VOL. II. L
 
 106 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 ' He presumes not, he says, to write by way of 
 menace to me : but, if I refuse him this favour, 
 he knows not (so desperate have some strokes in 
 my letter made him) what his despair may make 
 him do.' 
 
 He asks me, ' Determined, as my friends are, and 
 far as they have already gone, and declare they 
 will go, what can I propose to do, to avoid having 
 Mr. Solmes, if I am carried to my uncle Antony's ; 
 unless I resolve to accept of the protection he has 
 offered to procure me ; or except I will escape to 
 London, or elsewhere, while I can escape ?' 
 
 He advises me, ' To sue to your mother, for her 
 private reception of me; only till I can obtain 
 possession of my own estate, and procure my friends 
 to be reconciled to me ; which he is sure they 
 will be desirous to be> the moment I am out of their 
 power.' 
 
 He apprises me [it is still my wonder, how he 
 comes by his intelligence !] That my friends 
 have written to my cousin Morden to represent 
 matters to him in their own partial way ; nor 
 doubt they to influence him on their side of the 
 question. 
 
 4 That all this shows I have but one way ; if none 
 of my own friends or intimates will receive me. 
 
 ' If I will transport him with the honour of my 
 choice of this one way, settlements shall be drawn, 
 with proper blanks, which I shall fill up as I please. 
 Let him but have my commands from my own 
 mouth, all my doubts and scruples from my own 
 lips ; and only a repetition, that I will not, on any 
 consideration, be Solmes's wife, and he shall be 
 easy. But, after such a letter as I have written, 
 nothing but an interview can make him so.' He 
 beseeches me, therefore, ' To unbolt the door, as 
 t/i al very night ; or, if I receive not this time enough,
 
 CLARISSA IIAHLOWE. 107 
 
 this night ; and he will in a disguise that shall not 
 give a suspicion who he is, if he should be seen, 
 come to the garden door, in hopes to open it with 
 his key ; nor will he have any other lodging than 
 in the coppice both nights ; watching every wake- 
 ful hour for the propitious unbolting, unless he has 
 a letter with my orders to the contrary, or to make 
 some other appointment.' 
 
 This letter was dated yesterday : so he was there 
 last night, I suppose : and will be there this night ; 
 and I have not written a line to him : and now it 
 is too late, were I determined what to write. 
 
 I hope he will not go to Mr. Solmes : I hope he 
 will not come hither. If he do either, I will break 
 with him for ever. 
 
 What have I to do with such headstrong spirits ? 
 I wish I had never But what signifies wishing ? 
 I am strangely perplexed But I need not have 
 told you this, after such a representation of my si- 
 tuation. 
 
 LETTER XVII. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 Tuesday morning, 7 o'clock. 
 My uncle has vouchsafed to answer me. These 
 that follow are the contents of his letter; but just 
 now brought me, although written last night Late 
 I suppose. 
 
 miss clary, Monday night. 
 
 Since you are grown such a bold challenger, and 
 teach us all our duty, though you will not practise 
 your own, I must answer you. Nobody wants your 
 estate from you. Are you, who refuse every body's 
 advice, to prescribe a husband to your sister ? Your 
 l2
 
 108 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 letter to Mr. Solmes is inexcusable. I blamed you 
 for it before. Your parents trill be obeyed. It is 
 fit they should. Your mother has nevertheless pre- 
 vailed to have your going to your uncle Antony's 
 put off till Thursday : yet owns you deserve not 
 that, or any other favour from her. I will receive 
 no more of your letters. You are too artful for me. 
 You are an ungrateful and unreasonable child : 
 must you have your will paramount to every 
 body's ? How are you altered ! 
 
 Your displeased uncle, 
 
 JOHN HARLOWE. 
 
 To be carried away on Thursday To the moated 
 house To the chapel To Mr. Solmes ! How can 
 I think of this ! They will make me desperate. 
 
 Tuesday morning, 8 o'clock. 
 
 I have another letter from Mr. Lovelace. I 
 opened it with the expectation of its being filled 
 with bold and free complaints, on my not writing 
 to prevent his two nights watching, in weather not 
 extremely agreeable. But, instead of complaints, 
 he is full of tender concern lest I may have been 
 prevented by indisposition, or by the closer con- 
 finement which he has frequently cautioned me 
 that I may expect.' 
 
 He says, ' He had been in different disguises 
 loitering about our garden and park-wall, all the 
 day on Sunday last ; and all Sunday night was 
 wandering about the coppice, and near the back- 
 door. It rained ; and he has got a great cold, at- 
 tended with feverishness, and so hoarse, that he 
 has almost lost his voice.' 
 
 Why did he not flame out in his letter ? Treated 
 as I am treated by my friends, it is dangerous to 
 be laid under the sense of an obligation to an ad-
 
 CLAIUSSA HARLOWE. 109 
 
 dresser's patience; especially when such a one 
 suffers in health for my sake. 
 
 ' He had no shelter, he says, but under the great 
 overgrown ivy, which spreads wildly round the 
 heads of two or three oaklings ; and that was soon 
 wet through.' 
 
 You remember the spot. You and I, my dear, 
 once thought ourselves obliged to the natural shade 
 which those ivy-covered oaklings afforded us, in a 
 sultry day. 
 
 I can't help saying, I am sorry he has suffered 
 for my sake but 'tis his own seeking. 
 
 His letter is dated last night at eight : ' and in- 
 disposed as he is, he tells me, that he will watch 
 till ten, in hopes of my giving him the meeting he 
 so earnestly requests. And after that, he has a 
 mile to walk to his horse and servant ; and four 
 miles then to ride to his inn.' 
 
 He owns, ' That he has an intelligencer in our 
 family ; who has failed him for a day or two past : 
 and not knowing how I do, or how I may be treat- 
 ed, his anxiety is increased.' 
 
 This circumstance gives me to guess who this in- 
 telligencer is : Joseph Leman ; the very creature 
 employed and confided in, more than any other, 
 by my brother. 
 
 This is not an honourable way of proceeding in 
 Mr. Lovelace. Did he learn this infamous practice 
 of corrupting the servants of other families at the 
 French court, where he resided a good while ? 
 
 I have been often jealous of this Leman in my 
 little airings and poultry-visits. Doubly obsequious 
 as he was always to me, I have thought him my 
 brother's spy upon me ; and although he obliged 
 me by his hastening out of the garden and poultry- 
 yard, whenever I came into either, have wondered, 
 that from his reports my liberties of those kinds 
 l3
 
 ilO THE HISTORY OF 
 
 have not been abridged*. So, possibly, this man 
 may be bribed by both, and yet betray both. 
 Worthy views want not such obliquities as these 
 on either side. An honest mind must rise into in- 
 dignation both at the traitor-maker and the traitor. 
 
 ' He presses with the utmost earnestness for an 
 interview. He would not presume, he says, to dis- 
 obey my last personal commands, that he should 
 not endeavour to attend me again in the wood- 
 house. But says, he can give me such reasons for 
 my permitting him to wait upon my father or 
 urlcles, as he hopes will be approved by me : for 
 he cannot help observing, that it is no more suit- 
 able to my own spirit than to his, that he, a man 
 of fortune and family, should be obliged to pursue 
 such a clandestine address, as would only become 
 a vile fortune-hunter. But, if I will give my con- 
 sent for his visiting me like a man, and a gentle- 
 man, no ill-treatment shall provoke him to forfeit 
 his temper. 
 
 ' Lord M. will accompany him, if I please : or, 
 Lady Betty Lawrence will first make the visit to 
 my mother, or to my aunt Hervey, or even to 
 my uncles, if I choose it. And such terms shall 
 be offered, as shall have weight upon them. 
 
 * He begs, that I will not deny him making a 
 visit to Mr. Solmes. By all that's good, he vows, 
 that it shall not be with the least intention either 
 to hurt or affront him ; but only to set before him, 
 calmly, and rationally, the consequences that may 
 possibly flow from so fruitless a perseverance, as 
 well as the ungenerous folly of it, to a mind so 
 noble as mine. He repeats his own resolution to 
 attend my pleasure, and Mr. Morden*s arrival and 
 advice, for the reward of his own patience. 
 
 * Mr. Lovelace accounts for this, vol, I. letter xxxv.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. Ill 
 
 1 It is impossible, he says, but one of these me- 
 thods must do. Presence, he observes, even of a 
 disliked person, takes off the edge of resentments 
 which absence whets, and makes keen. 
 
 ' He therefore most earnestly repeats his im- 
 portunities for the supplicated interview.' He says, 
 ' He has business of consequence in London : but 
 cannot stir from the inconvenient spot where he has 
 for some time resided, in disguises unworthy of 
 himself, until he can be absolutely certain, that I 
 shall not be prevailed upon, either by force or 
 otherwise ; and until he finds me delivered from 
 the insults of my brother. Nor ought this to bean 
 indifferent point to one, for whose sake all the 
 world reports me to be used unworthily. But one 
 remark, he says, he cannot help making ; That 
 did my friends know the little favour I show him, 
 and the very great distance I keep him at, they 
 would have no reason to confine me on his ac- 
 count: and another, that they themselves seem to 
 think him entitled to a different usage, and expect 
 that he receives it ; when, in truth, what he meets 
 with from me is exactly what they wish him to 
 meet with, excepting in the favour of the corre- 
 spondence I honour him with; upon which, he says, 
 he puts the highest value, and for the sake of which 
 he has submitted to a thousand indignities. 
 
 He renews his professions of reformation : he 
 is convinced, he says, that he has already run a 
 long and dangerous course ; and that it is high 
 time to think of returning : it must be from proper 
 convictions, he adds, that a person who has lived 
 too gay a life, resolves to reclaim, before age or 
 sufferings come upon him. 
 
 ' All generous spirits, he observes, hate compul- 
 sion. Upon this observation he dwells ; but re- 
 grets, that he is likely to owe all his hopes to this
 
 112 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 compulsion ; this injudicious compulsion, he justly 
 callsit ; and noneto my esteemforhim. Although he 
 presumes upon some merit In his implicit regard 
 to my will In the bearing the daily indignities 
 offered not only to him, but to his relations, by my 
 brother In the nightly watchings, and risks which 
 he runs, in all weathers ; and which his present in- 
 disposition makes him mention, or he had not de- 
 based the nobleness of his passion for me, by such 
 a selfish instance.' 
 
 I cannot but say, I am sorry the man is not well. 
 
 I am afraid to ask you, my dear, what you would 
 have done, thus situated. But what I have done, I 
 have done. In a word, I wrote, ' That I would, if 
 possible, give him a meeting to-morrow night, 
 between the hours of nine and twelve, by the 
 ivy summer-house, or in it, or near the great 
 cascade, at the bottom of the garden ; and would 
 unbolt the door, that he might come in by his own 
 key. But that, if I found the meeting impractica- 
 ble, or should change my mind, I would signify as 
 much by another line ; which he must wait for 
 until it were dark.' 
 
 Tuesday, 11 o'clock. 
 
 I am just returued from depositing my billet. 
 How diligent is this man ! It is plain he was in 
 waiting: for I had walked but a few paces, after 
 I had deposited it, when, my heart misgiving me, 
 I returned, to have taken it back, in order to re- 
 consider it as I walked, and whether I should, or 
 should not, let it go. But I found it gone. 
 
 In all probability, there was but a brick wall, of 
 a few inches thick, between Mr. Lovelace and me, 
 at the very time I put the letter under the brick ! 
 
 I am come back dissatisfied with myself. But I 
 think, my dear, there can be no harm in meeting
 
 CLARISSA HARI.OWE. US 
 
 him. If I do not, he may take some violent mea- 
 sures. What he knows of the treatment I meet 
 with in malice to him, and with the view to frus- 
 trate all his hopes, may make him desperate. His 
 behaviour last time I saw him, under the disad- 
 vantages of time and place, and surprised as I was, 
 gives me no apprehension of any thing but dis- 
 covery. What he requires is not unreasonable, 
 and cannot affect my future choice and determina- 
 tion : it is only to assure him from my own lips, 
 that I never will be the wife of a man I hate. If I 
 have not an opportunity to meet him without 
 hazard or detection, he must once more bear the 
 disappointment. All his trouble, and mine too, is 
 owing to his faulty character. This, although I 
 bate tyranny and arrogance in all shapes, makes 
 me think less of the risks he runs, and the fatigues 
 he undergoes, than otherwise I should do ; and still 
 less, as my sufferings (derived from the same 
 source) are greater than his. 
 
 Betty confirms the intimation, that I must go to 
 my uncle's on Thursday. She was sent on purpose 
 to direct me to prepare myself for going, and to 
 help me to get every thing up in order for my re- 
 moval. 
 
 LETTER XVIII. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 Tuesday, 3 o'clock, March 28. 
 I HAVEmentioned several times the pertness ofMrs. 
 Betty to me ; and now having a little time upon 
 my hands, I will give you a short dialogue that 
 passed just now between us. It may, perhaps, be a 
 little relief to you from the dull subjects with which 
 I am perpetually teazing you.
 
 114 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 As she attended me at dinner, she took notice* 
 that nature is satisfied with a very little nourish- 
 ment : and thus she complimentally proved it 
 For, miss, said she, you eat nothing ; yet never 
 looked more charmingly in your lite. 
 
 As to the former part of your speech, Betty, 
 said I, you observe well ; and I have often thought, 
 when I have seen how healthy the children of the 
 labouring poor look, and are, with empty stomachs, 
 and hardly a good meal in a week, that God Al- 
 mighty is very kind to his creatures, in this re- 
 spect, as well as in all others, in making much not 
 necessary to the support of life; when three parts 
 in four of His creatures, if it were, would not know 
 how to obtain it. It puts me in mind of two pro- 
 verbial sentences, which are full of admirable 
 meaning. 
 
 What, pray, miss, are they ? I love to hear you 
 talk, when you are so sedate as you seem now to 
 be. 
 
 The one is to the purpose we are speaking of ; 
 Poverty is the mother of health : and let me tell you, 
 Betty, if I had a better appetite, and were to en- 
 courage it, with so little rest, and so much distress 
 and persecution, I don't think I should be able to 
 preserve my reason. 
 
 There's no inconvenience bat has its convenience , 
 said Betty, giving me proverb for proverb. But 
 what is the other, madam ? 
 
 That the pleasures of the mighty are obtained by 
 the tears of the poor : it is but reasonable, there- 
 fore, methinks, that the plenty of the one should 
 be followed by distempers ; and that the indigence 
 of the other should be attended with that health, 
 which makes all its other discomforts light on the 
 comparison. And hence a third proverb, Betty, 
 .since you are an admirer of proverbs : Better a
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 115 
 
 hare foot than none at all ; that is to say, than not 
 to be able to walk. 
 
 She was mightily taken with what I said : See, 
 returned she, what a fine thing scholarship is ! I, 
 said she, had always, from a girl, a taste of reading, 
 though it were but in Mother Goose, and concern- 
 ing the Fairies [and then she took genteely a 
 pinch of snuff] : could but my parents have let go 
 as fast as I pulled, I should have been a very happy 
 creature. 
 
 Very likely, you would have made great im- 
 provements, Betty : but as it is, I cannot say, but 
 since I had the favour of your attendance in this 
 intimate manner, 1 have heard smarter things from 
 you, than I have heard at table from some of my 
 brother's fellow-collegians. 
 
 Your servant, dear miss; dropping me one of 
 her best courtesies : so fine a judge as you are ! 
 It is enough to make one very proud. Then with 
 another pinch I cannot indeed but say, bridling 
 upon it, that I have heard famous scholars^ often 
 and often say very silly things : things I should 
 be ashamed myself to say But I thought they 
 did it out of humility, and in condescension to those 
 who had not their learning. 
 
 That she might not be too proud, I told her, I 
 would observe, that the liveliness or quickness she 
 so happily discovered in herself, was not so much 
 an honour to her, as what she owed to her sex ; 
 which, as I had observed in many instances, had 
 great advantages over the other, in all the powers 
 that related to imagination : and hence, Mrs. Betty, 
 you'll take notice, as I have of late had opportu- 
 nity to do, that your own talent at repartee and 
 smartness, when it has something to ivork upon, dis- 
 plays itself to more advantage, than could well be
 
 116 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 expected from one whose friends, to speak in your 
 own phrase, could not let go so fast as you pulled. 
 
 The wench gave me a proof of the truth of my 
 observation, in a manner still more alert than I had 
 expected : if, said she, our sex have so much ad- 
 vantage in smartness, it is the less to be wondered 
 at, that you, miss, who have had such an education, 
 should outdo all the men, and women too, that come 
 near you. 
 
 Bless me, Betty, said I, what a proof do you give 
 me of your wit and your courage at the same time ! 
 This is outdoing yourself. It would make young 
 ladies less proud, and more apprehensive, were 
 they generally attended by such smart servants, and 
 their mouths permitted to be unlocked upon them 
 as yours has been lately upon me. But, take 
 away, Mrs. Betty. 
 
 Why, Miss, you have eat nothing at all I hope 
 you are not displeased with your dinner for any 
 thing I have said. 
 
 No, Mrs. Betty, I am pretty well used to your 
 freedoms now, you know. I am not displeased in 
 the main, to observe, that, were the succession of 
 modern fine ladies to be extinct, it might be sup- 
 plied from those whom they place in the next rank 
 to themselves, their chambermaids and confidantes. 
 Your young mistress has contributed a great deal 
 to this quickness of yours. She always preferred 
 your company to mine. As you pulled, she let go; 
 and so, Mrs. Betty, you have gained by her con- 
 versation what I have lost. 
 
 Why, Miss, if you come to that, nobody says 
 better things than Miss Harlowe. I could tell you 
 one, if / pleased, upon my observing to her, that 
 you lived of late upon air, and had no stomach to 
 any thing ; yet looked as charmingly as ever.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 117 
 
 I dare say, it was a very good-natured one, Mrs. 
 Betty! Do you then please that I shall hear it? 
 
 Only this, Miss, That your stomachfulness had 
 swallowed up your stomach ; and, That obstinacy was 
 meat, drink, and cloth to you. 
 
 Ay, Mrs. Betty ; and did she say this ? I hope 
 she laughed when she said it, as she does at all her 
 good things, as she calls them. It was very smart, 
 and very witty. I wish my mind were so much 
 at ease, as to aim at being witty too. But if you 
 admire such sententious sayings, I'll help you to 
 another ; and that is, Encouragement and approba- 
 tion make people show talents they were never sus- 
 pected to have; and this will do for both mistress 
 and maid : and another I'll furnish you with, the 
 contrary of the former, that will do only for me ; 
 that Persecution and discouragement depress ingenu- 
 ous minds, and blunt the edge of lively imaginations. 
 And hence may my sister's brilliancy and my 
 stupidity be both accounted for. Ingenuous, you 
 must know, Mrs.. Betty, and ingenious, are two 
 things ; and I would not arrogate the latter to my- 
 self. 
 
 Lord, Miss, said the foolish girl, you know a 
 great deal for your years. You are a very learned 
 young lady ! What pity 
 
 None of your pities, Mrs. Betty. I know what 
 you'd say. But tell me, if you can, is it resolved 
 that I shall be carried to my uncle Antony's on 
 Thursday ? 
 
 I was willing to reward myself for the patience 
 she had made me exercise, by getting at what in- 
 telligence I could from her. 
 
 Why, Miss, seating herself at a little distance 
 ( excuse my sitting down) with the snuff-box tapped 
 very smartly, the lid opened, and a pinch taken 
 with a dainty finger and thumb, the other three 
 
 VOL. II. m
 
 118 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 fingers distendedly bent, and with a fine flourish 
 I cannot but say, that it is my opinion, you will 
 certainly go on Thursday ; and this noless Jbless, as 
 I have heard my young lady say in fresch. 
 
 Whether I am willing, or not willing, you mean, I 
 suppose, Mrs. Betty? 
 
 You have it, Miss. 
 
 Well but, Betty, I have no mind to be turned out 
 of doors so suddenly. Do you think I could not be 
 peririitted to tarry one week longer ? 
 
 How can I tell, Miss ? 
 
 O Mrs. Betty, you can tell a great deal, if you 
 please. But here I am forbid writing to any one 
 of my family ; none of it now will come near me ; 
 nor will any of it permit me to see them : how 
 shall I do to make known my request, to stay here 
 a week or fortnight longer ? 
 
 Why, Miss, I fancy, if you were to show a com- 
 pliable temper, your friends would show a com- 
 pilable one too. But would you expect favours 
 and grant none ? 
 
 Smartly put, Betty ! But who knows what may 
 be the result of my being carried to my uncle An- 
 tony's ? 
 
 Who knows, Miss ! Why any body may guess 
 what will be the result. 
 
 As how, Betty? 
 
 As how ! repeated the pert wench, why, Miss, 
 you will stand in your own light, as you have 
 hitherto done : and your parents, as such good 
 parents ought, will be obeyed. 
 
 If, Mrs. Betty, I had not been used to your 
 oughts, and to have my duty laid down to me by 
 your oraculous wisdom, I should be apt to stare at 
 the liberty of your speech. 
 
 You seem angry, Miss. 1 hope I take no unbe- 
 coming liberty.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 119 
 
 If thou really thinkest thou dost not, thy ignorance 
 is more to be pitied, than thy pertness resented. I 
 wish thou wouldst leave me to myself. 
 
 When young ladies fall out with their own duty, 
 it is not much to be wondered at, that they are an- 
 gry at any body who do theirs. 
 
 That's a very pretty saying, Mrs. Betty ! I see 
 plainly what thy duty is in thy notion, and am 
 obliged to those who taught it thee. 
 
 Every body takes notice, Miss, that you can say 
 very cutting words in a cool manner, and yet not 
 call names, as I have known some gentlefolks as well 
 as others do when in a passion. But I wish you 
 had permitted 'Squire Solmes to see you : he would 
 have told you such stories of .'Squire Lovelace, as 
 would have turned your heart against him for ever. 
 
 And know you any of the particulars of those 
 sad stories ? . 
 
 Indeed I don't ; but you'll hear all at your uncle 
 Antony's, I suppose ; and a great deal more per- 
 haps than you will like to hear. 
 
 Let me hear what I will, I am determined against 
 Mr. Solmes, were it to cost me my life. 
 
 If you are, miss, the Lord have mercy on you ! 
 For what with this letter of your's to 'Squire Solmes, 
 whom they so much value, and what with their an- 
 tipathy to 'Squire Lovelace, whom they hate, they 
 will have no patience with you. 
 
 What will they do, Betty ? They won't kill me? 
 What will they do ? 
 
 Kill you ! No ! but you will not be suffered 
 to stir from thence, till you have complied with 
 your duty. And no pen and ink will be allowed you 
 as here ; where they are of opinion you make no 
 good use of it : nor would it be allowed here, only 
 as they intend so soon to send you away to your 
 uncle's. Nobody will be permitted to see you, or 
 M 2
 
 120 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 to correspond with you. What further will be 
 done, I can't say ; and, if I could, it may not be 
 proper. But you may prevent it all, by one word: 
 and I wish you would, miss. All then would be 
 easy and happy. And, if I may speak my mind, I 
 see not why one man is not as good as another : 
 why, especially, a sober man is not as good as a 
 rake. 
 
 Well, Betty, said I, sighing, all thy impertinence 
 goes for nothing. But I see I am destined to be a 
 very unhappy creature. Yet I will venture upon 
 one request more to them. 
 
 And so, quite sick of the pert creature and of 
 myself, I retired to my closet, and wrote a few 
 lines to my uncle Harlowe, notwithstanding his 
 prohibition ; in order to get a reprieve from being 
 carried away so soon as Thursday next, if I must 
 go. And this, that I might, if complied with, sus- 
 pend the appointment I have made with Mr. Love- 
 lace ; for my heart misgives me as to meeting him ; 
 and that more and more ; I know not why. Under 
 the superscription of the letter, I wrote these words : 
 ' Pray, dear sir, be pleased to give this a reading.' 
 
 This is the copy of what I wrote : 
 
 honoured m, Tuesday afternoon. 
 
 Let me this once be heard with patience, and have 
 my petition granted. It is only, that I may not 
 be hurried away so soon as next Thursday. 
 
 Why should the poor girl be turned out of doors 
 so suddenly, so disgracefully ? Procure for me, sir, 
 one fortnight's respite. In that space of time, I 
 hope you will all relent. My mamma shall not 
 need to shut her door in apprehension of seeing her 
 disgraced child. I will not presume to think of en- 
 tering her presence, or my papa's, withoutj leave. 
 One fortnight's respite is but a small favour for 
 them to grant, except I am to be refused every
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 121 
 
 thing I ask ; but it is of the highest import to my 
 peace of mind. Procure it for me, therefore, dear 
 sir ; and you will exceedingly oblige 
 
 Your dutiful, though greatly afflicted niece, 
 
 CL. HARLOWE. 
 
 I sent this down : my uncle was not gone : and 
 he now stays to know the result of the question put 
 to me in the enclosed answer which he has given 
 to mine. 
 
 Your going to your uncle's was absolutely con- 
 cluded upon for next Thursday. Nevertheless, 
 your mother, seconded by Mr. Solmes, pleaded so 
 strongly to have you indulged, that your request 
 for a delay will be complied with, upon one condi- 
 tion ; and whether for a fortnight, or a shorter time, 
 that will depend upon yourself. If you refuse this 
 condition, your mother declares, she will give over 
 all further intercession for you. Nor do you de- 
 serve this favour, as you put it upon our yielding 
 to you, not you to us. 
 
 This condition is, that you admit of a visit from 
 Mr. Solmes for one hour, in company of your bro- 
 ther, your sister, or your uncle Antony ; choose 
 which you will. 
 
 If you comply not, you go next Thursday to a 
 house which is become strangely odious to you of 
 late, whether you get ready to go or not. Answer 
 therefore directly to the point. No evasion. Name 
 your day and hour. Mr. Solmes will neither eat 
 you, nor drink you. Let us see, whether ive are to 
 be complied with in any thing or not. 
 
 JOHN HARLOWE. 
 
 After a very little deliberation, I resolved to 
 
 comply with this condition. All I fear is, that. 
 
 Mr. Lovelace's intelligencer may inform him of 
 
 it ; and that his apprehensions upon it may make 
 
 m 3
 
 122 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 him take some desperate resolution : especially as 
 now (having more time given me here) I think to 
 write to him to suspend the interview he is pos- 
 sibly so sure of. I sent down the following to 
 my uncle. 
 
 HONOURED SIR, 
 
 Although I see not what end the proposed condi- 
 tion can answer, I comply with it. I wish I could 
 with everything expected of me. If I must name 
 one, in whose company I am to seethe gentleman, 
 and that one not my mamma, whose presence I 
 could wish to be honoured by on the occasion, let 
 my uncle, if he pleases, be the person. If I must 
 name the day (a long day, I doubt, will not be per- 
 mitted me ) let it be next Tuesday. The hour, four 
 in the afternoon. The place, either the ivy sum- 
 mer-house, or in the little parlour I used to be 
 permitted to call mine. 
 
 Be pleased, sir, nevertheless, to prevail upon my 
 mamma, to vouchsafe me her presence on the oc- 
 casion. I am, sir, 
 
 Your ever dutiful 
 
 CL. HARLOWE. 
 
 A reply is just sent me. I thought it became my 
 averseness to this meeting, to name a distant day : 
 but I did not expect they would have complied 
 with it. So here is one week gained ! 
 
 This is the reply : 
 
 You have done well to comply. We are willing 
 to think the best of every slight instance of duty 
 from you. Yet have you seemed to consider the 
 day as an evil day, and so put it far off. This never- 
 theless is granted you, as no time need to be lost, 
 if you are as generous after the day, as we are 
 8
 
 ^CLARISSA HARLOWE. 123 
 
 condescending before it. Let me advise you, not 
 to harden your mind ; nor take up your resolution 
 beforehand. Mr. Solmes has more awe, and even 
 terror, at the thoughts of seeing you, than you can 
 have at the thoughts of seeing him. His motive 
 is love i let not yours be hatred. My brother An- 
 tony will be present, in hopes you will deserve 
 well of him, by behaving well to the friend of the 
 family. See you use him as such- Your mother 
 had permission to be there, if she thought fit: but 
 says, she would not for a thousand pounds, unless 
 you would encourage her before hand as she wishes 
 to be encouraged. One hint I am to give you mean 
 time. It is this : to make a discreel use of your pen 
 and ink. Methinks a young creature of niceness 
 should be less ready to write to one man, when she 
 is designed to be another's. 
 
 This compliance, I hope, will produce greater ; 
 and then the peace of the family will be restored : 
 which is what is heartily wished by 
 Your loving uncle, 
 
 JOHN HARLOWE. 
 
 Unless it be to the purpose our hearts are set 
 upon, you need not write again. 
 
 This man have more terror at seeing me> than lean 
 have at seeing him ! How can that be ? If he had 
 half as much, he would not wish to see me ! his 
 motive love ! Yes indeed ! Love of himself! He 
 knows no other ; for love, that deserves the 
 name, seeks the satisfaction of the beloved object 
 more than its own. Weighed in this scale, what a 
 profanation is this man guilty of! 
 
 Not to take up my resolution beforehand ! That 
 advice comes too late. 
 
 But I must make a discreet use of my pen. That,
 
 124 THE HISTORY Of 
 
 I doubt, as they have managed it, in the sense 
 they mean it, is as much out of my power as the 
 other. 
 
 But to write to one man, "when I am designed for 
 another 1 What a shocking expression is that ! 
 
 Repenting of my appointment with Mr. Lovelace 
 before I had this favour granted me, you may be- 
 lieve I hesitated not a moment to revoke it novo 
 that I had gained such a respite. Accordingly, I 
 wrote, ' that I found it inconvenient to meet him, 
 as I had intended : that the risque I should run 
 of a discovery, and the mischiefs that might flow 
 from it, could not be justified by any end that such 
 a meeting could answer : that I found one certain 
 servant more in my way, when I took my morning 
 and evening airings, than any other : that the per- 
 son who might reveal the secrets of a family to 
 him, might, if opportunity were given him, betray 
 me, or him, to those whom it was his duty to serve : 
 that I had not been used to a conduct so faulty, as 
 to lay myself at the mercy of servants : and was 
 sorry he had measures to pursue that made steps 
 necessary in his own opinion, which, in mine, were 
 very culpable, and which no end could justify : 
 that things drawing towards a crisis between my 
 friends and me, an. interview could avail nothing; 
 especially as the method by which this corres- 
 pondence was carried on, was not suspected, and he 
 could write all that was in his mind to write : that 
 I expected to be at liberty to judge of what was 
 proper and fit upon this occasion : especially as he 
 might be assured, that I would sooner choose death, 
 than Mr. Solmes.' 
 
 Tuesday night. 
 
 I have deposited my letter to Mr. Lovelace.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 125 
 
 Threatening as things look against me, I am much 
 better pleased with myself for declining the inter- 
 view than I was before. I suppose he will be a 
 little out of humour upon it, however : but as I re- 
 served to myself the liberty of changing my mind ; 
 and as it is easy for him to imagine there may be 
 reasons for it within doors, which he cannot judge 
 of 'without ; besides those I have suggested, which 
 of themselves are of sufficient weight to engage his 
 acquiescence ; I should think it strange, if he ac- 
 quiesces not on this occasion, and that with a 
 cheerfulness, which may shew me, that his last 
 letter is written from his heart : for if he be really 
 so much concerned at his past faults, as he pre- 
 tends, and has for some time pretended, must he not, 
 of course, have corrected, in some degree, the im- 
 petuosity of his temper ? The first step to reforma- 
 tion, as I conceive, is to subdue sudden gusts of 
 passion, from which frequently the greatest evils 
 arise, and to learn to bear disappointments. If the 
 irascible passions cannot be overcome, what opi- 
 nion can we have of the person's power over those 
 to which bad habit, joined to greater temptation, 
 gives stronger force ? 
 
 Pray, my dear, be so kind, as to make enquiry 
 by some safe hand, after the disguises Mr. Love- 
 lace assumes at the inn he puts up at in the poor 
 village of Neal, he calls it. If it be the same I take 
 it to be, I never knew it was considerable enough 
 to have a name ; nor that it has an inn in it. 
 
 As he must, to be so constantly near us, be much 
 there, I would be glad to have some account of his 
 behaviour ; and what the people think of him. In 
 such a length of time, he must by his conduct 
 either give scandal, or hope of reformation. Pray, 
 my dear, humour me in this enquiry. I have rea-
 
 !26 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 sons for it, which you shall be acquainted with 
 another time, if the result of the enquiry discover 
 them not. 
 
 LETTER XIX. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 AVednesday morning, nine o'clock. 
 I am just returned from my morning walk, and al- 
 ready have received a letter from Mr Lovelace in 
 answer to mine deposited last night. He must have 
 had pen, ink, and paper with him ; for it was writ- 
 ten in the coppice ; with this circumstance : on 
 one knee, kneeling with the other. Not from re- 
 verence to the written to, however, as you'll 
 find! 
 
 Well are we instructed early to keep these men 
 at. distance. An undesigning open heart, where it 
 is loth to disoblige, is easily drawn in, I see, to 
 oblige more than ever it designed. It is too apt to 
 govern itself by what a bold spirit is encouraged 
 to eaypect of it. It is- very difficult for a good na- 
 tured young person to give a negative where it dis- 
 esteems not. 
 
 Our hearts may harden and contract, as we gain 
 experience, and when we have smarted perhaps 
 for our easy folly : and so they ought, or we should 
 be upon very unequal terms with the world. 
 
 Excuse these grave reflections. This man has 
 vexed me heartily, I see his gentleness was art : 
 fierceness, and a temper like what I have been too 
 much used too at home, are nature in him. Nothing, 
 I think, shall ever make me forgive him ; for sure- 
 ly, there can be no good reason for his impatience
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 127 
 
 on an expectation given with reserve, and revoca- 
 ble. I so much to suffer through him ; yet, to be 
 treated as if I were obliged to bear insults from 
 him ! 
 
 But here you will be pleased to read his letter ; 
 which I shall inclose. 
 
 TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE. 
 
 Good God! 
 What is notv to become of me ! How shall I sup- 
 port this disappointment ! No new cause ! On 
 one knee, kneeling with the other, I write ! My 
 feet benumbed with midnight wanderings through 
 the heaviest dews, that, ever fell : my linen drip- 
 ping with the hoar frost dissolving on it ! Day 
 but just breaking sun not risen to exhale may it 
 never rise again ! Unless it bring healing and 
 comfort to a benighted soul ! In proportion to the 
 joy you had inspired (ever lovely promiser !) in 
 such proportion is my anguish ! 
 
 O my beloved creature! But are not your very 
 excuses confessions of excuses inexcusable ? I 
 know not what I write ! That servant in your 
 way*! By the great God of heaven, that servant was 
 not, dared not, could not be in your way ! Curse 
 upon the cool caution that is pleaded to deprive me 
 of an expectation so transporting ! 
 
 And are things drawing towards a crisis between 
 yourjriends and you ? Is not this a reason for me 
 to expect, the rather to expect, the promised inter- 
 view ? 
 
 Can / write allthat is in my mind, say you ? 
 Impossible ! Not the hundredth part of what is in 
 my mind, and in my apprehension, can I write ! ^ 
 
 * See p. 124.
 
 
 128 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 the wavering, the changeable sex ! But can 
 Miss Clarissa Harlowe 
 
 Forgive me, madam! I know not what I write ! 
 
 Yet, I must, I do insist upon your promise or 
 that you will condescend to find better excuses for 
 the failure or convince me, that stronger reasons 
 are imposed upon you, than those you offer. A 
 promise once given (upon deliberation given) the 
 promised only can dispense with ; except in cases 
 of a very apparent necessity imposed upon the pro- 
 miser ; which leaves no power to perform it. 
 
 The first promise you ever made me ! life and 
 death perhaps depending upon it my heart de- 
 sponding from the barbarous methods resolved to 
 be taken with you in malice to me ! 
 
 You would sooner choose death than Solmes (how 
 my soul spurns the competition ! ) O my belov- 
 ed creature, what are these but words? Whose 
 words ? Sweet and ever adorable what ? Pro- 
 mise breaker must I call you ? How shall I be- 
 lieve the asseveration (your supposed duty in the 
 question ! Persecution so flaming ! Hatred to me 
 so strongly avowed ! ) after this instance of your so 
 lightly dispensing with your promise ? 
 
 If, my dearest life ! you would prevent my dis- 
 traction, or, at least, distracted consequences, re- 
 new the promised hope ! My fate is indeed upon 
 its crisis. 
 
 Forgive me, dearest creature, forgive me! I 
 know I have written in too much anguish of mind! 
 Writing this, in the same moment that the just 
 dawning light has imparted to me the heavy disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 1 dare not re-peruse what I have written. I must 
 deposit it it may serve to show you my distracted 
 apprehension that this disappointment is but a pre-
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 120 
 
 lude to the greatest of all. Nor, having here any 
 other paper, am I able to write again if I would on 
 this gloomy spot (gloomy is my soul ; and all na- 
 ture round me partakes of my gloom!) I trust it 
 therefore to your goodness if its fervor excite 
 your displeasure rather than your pity, you wrong 
 my passion ; and I shall be ready to apprehend, 
 that I am intended to be the sacrifice of more mis- 
 creants than one ! [have patience with me, dearest 
 creature! I mean Solmesand your brother on- 
 ly]. But if, exerting your usual generosity, you will 
 excuse and re-appoint, may that God, whom you 
 profess to serve, and who is the God of truth and 
 of promises, protect and bless you, for both ; and 
 for restoring to himself, and to hope, 
 
 Your ever adoring, 
 Ivy-cavern, in the yet almost desponding 
 
 coppice day but LOVELACE; 
 
 just breaking. 
 
 This is the answer I shall return. 
 
 Wednesday morning. 
 I am amazed, sir, at the freedom of your re- 
 proaches. Pressed and teazed, against convenience 
 and inclination to give you a private meeting, am 
 / to be thus challenged and upbraided, and my sex 
 reflected upon, because I thought it prudent to 
 change my mind? A liberty I had reserved to 
 myself when I made the appointment, as you call 
 it. I wanted not instances of your impatient spirit 
 to other people: yet may it be happy for me, 
 that I have this new one : which shows, that you 
 can as little spare me, when I pursue the dictates 
 of my own reason, as you do others, for acting up to 
 theirs. Two motives you must be governed by in 
 this excess. The one my easiness; the other your 
 own presumption. Since you think you have found 
 
 VOL. II. N
 
 130 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 out the Jirst, and have shown so much of the last 
 upon it, I am too much alarmed, not to wish and 
 desire, that your letter of this day may conclude all 
 the trouble you have had from, or for, 
 Your humble servant, 
 
 CL. HAKLOWE. 
 
 I believe, my dear, I may promise myself your 
 approbation, whenever I write or speak with spirit, 
 be it to whom it will. Indeed, I find but too much 
 reason to exert it, since I have to deal with people 
 who govern themselves in their conduct to me, not 
 by what is fit or decent, right or wrong, but by 
 what they think my temper will bear. I have, till 
 very lately, been praised for mine; but it has al- 
 ways been by those who never gave me opportu- 
 nity to return the compliment to them. Some peo- 
 ple have acted, as if they thought forbearance on 
 one side absolutely necessary for them and me to 
 be upon good terms together; and in this case have 
 ever taken care rather to oive that obligation than 
 to lay it. You have hinted to me, that resentment 
 is not natural to my temper, and that therefore it 
 must soon subside: it may be so with respect to my 
 relations; but not to Mr. Lovelace, I assure you. 
 
 Wednesday noon, March 29. 
 We cannot always answer for what we can do : 
 but to convince you, that I can keep my above re- 
 solution, with regard to Mr. Lovelace, angry as 
 my letter is, and three hours as it is since it was 
 written, I assure you, that I repent it not; nor will 
 soften it, although I find it is not taken away. And 
 yet I hardly ever before did any thing in anger, 
 that I did not repent in half an hour; and question 
 myself in less than that time, whether I were right 
 or wrong.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 131 
 
 In this respite till Tuesday, I have a little time 
 to look about me, as I may say, and to consider of 
 what I have to do, and can do. And Mr. Lovelace's 
 insolence will make me go very home with myself. 
 Not that I think I can conquer my aversion to Mr. 
 Solmes. I am sure I cannot. But, if I absolutely 
 break with Mr. Lovelace, and give my friends con- 
 vincing proofs of it, who knows but they will re- 
 store me to their favour, and let their views in rela- 
 tion to the other man go off by degrees ? Or, at 
 least, that 1 may be safe till my cousin Morden ar- 
 rives : to whom I think I will write ; and the 
 rather, as Mr. Lovelace has assured me, that my 
 friends have written to him to make good their 
 side of the question. 
 
 But, with all my courage, I am exceedingly ap- 
 prehensive about the Tuesday next, and of what 
 may result from my stedfastness ; for stedfast I am 
 sure I shall be. They are resolved,. I am told, to 
 try every means to induce me to comply with what 
 they are determined upon. And I am resolved to 
 do all I can to avoid what they would force me to 
 do. A dreadful contention between parents and 
 child! Each hoping to leave the other without 
 excuse, whatever the consequence may be. 
 
 What can I do? Advise me, my dear. Something 
 is strangely wrong somewhere ! to make parents, 
 the most indulgent till now, seem cruel in a child's 
 eye ; and a daughter, till within these few weeks, 
 thought unexceptionably dutiful, appear, in their 
 judgment, a rebel ! O my ambitious and violent 
 brother! What may he have to answer for to 
 both! 
 
 Be pleased to remember, my dear, that your last 
 favour was dated on Saturday. This is Wednes- 
 day: aad none of mine have been taken away 
 * n2
 
 132 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 since. Don't let me want your advice. My situ- 
 ation is extremely difficult. But I am sure you 
 love me still: and not the less on that account. 
 Adieu, my beloved friend. 
 
 CL. HARLCWE. 
 
 LETTER XX. 
 
 MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE. 
 
 Thursday morning, day-break, March 30. 
 
 An accident, and not remissness, has occasioned 
 my silence. 
 
 My mother was sent for on Sunday night by her 
 cousin Larkin, whom I mentioned in one of my 
 former, and who was extremely earnest to sec 
 her. 
 
 This poor woman was always afraid of death, 
 and was one of those weak persons who imagine 
 that the making of their will must be an undoubted 
 forerunner of it. 
 
 She had always said, when urged to the necessary 
 work, that whenever she made it, she should not 
 live long after; and one would think, imagined she 
 was under an obligation to prove her words : for, 
 though she had been long bed-rid, and was, in a 
 manner, worn out before, yet she thought herself 
 better, till she was persuaded to make it : and from 
 that moment, remembering what she used to prog- 
 nosticate (her fears helping on what shejeared^os, is 
 often the case, particularly in the small-pox) grew 
 worse; and had it in her head once to burn her 
 will, in hopes to grow better upon it. 
 
 She sent my mother word, that the doctors had 
 given her over: but that she could not die till she
 
 CLARISSA rfARLOWE. 133 
 
 saw her. I told my mother, that if she wished her 
 a chance for recovery, she should not, for that 
 reason, go. But go she would; and, what was 
 worse, would make me go with her; and that, at 
 an hour's warning; for she said nothing of it to 
 me, till she was rising in the morning early, re- 
 solving to return at night. Had there been more 
 time for argumentation, to be sure I had not gone ; 
 but as it was, there was a kind of necessity that my 
 preparation to obey her, should, in a manner, ac- 
 company her command. A command so much out 
 of the way, on such a solemn occasion! And this I 
 represented: but to no purpose: there never was 
 such a contradicting girl in the world my wisdom 
 always made her a fool! But she would be obliged 
 this time, proper or improper. 
 
 I have but one way of accounting for this sudden 
 whim of my mother; and that is this She had a 
 mind to accept of Mr. Hickman's offer to escort 
 her! And I verily believe [I wish I were quite 
 sure of it] had a mind to oblige him with my com- 
 pany as far as I know, to keep me out of worse. 
 
 For, would you believe it? As sure as you are 
 alive, she is afraid for her favourite Hickman, be- 
 cause of the long visit your Lovelace, though so 
 much by accident, made me in her absence, last 
 time she was at the same place. I hope, my dear, 
 you are not jealous too. But indeed I now-and- 
 then, when she teazes me with praises which 
 Hickman cannot deserve, in return fall to prais- 
 ing those qualities and personalities in Lovelace, 
 which the other never will have. Indeed I do love 
 to teaze a little bit, that I do. My mamma's girl 
 I had like to have said. 
 
 As you know she is as passionate, as I am pert, 
 you will not wonder to be told, that we generally 
 fall out on these occasions. She flies from me, at 
 n 3
 
 134 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 the long run. It would be undutiful in me to leave 
 her first and then I get an opportunity to pursue 
 our correspondence. 
 
 For now I am rambling, let me tell you, that she 
 does not much favour that; for two reasons, I be- 
 lieve: one that I don't show her all that passes 
 between us; the other, that she thinks I harden 
 your mind against your duiy, as it is called. And 
 with her, for a reason at home, as I have hinted 
 more than once, parents cannot do wrong ; children 
 cannot oppose, and be right. This obliges me 
 now-and-then to steal an hour, as I may say, and 
 not let her know how I am employed. 
 
 You may guess from what I have written, how 
 averse I was to comply with this unreasonable 
 stretch of motherly authority but it came to be 
 a test of duty; so I was obliged to yield, though 
 with a full persuasion of being in the right. 
 
 I have always your reproofs upon these occa- 
 sions : in your late letters stronger than ever. A 
 good reason why, you'll say, because more deserv- 
 ed than ever. I thank you kindly for your cor- 
 rection. I hope to make correction of it but let 
 me tell you, that your stripes, whether deserved or 
 not, have made me sensible deeper than the skin- 
 but of this another time. 
 
 It was Monday afternoon before we reached the 
 old lady's house. That fiddling, parading fellow 
 [you know who I mean] made us wait for him two 
 hours, and I to go a journey I disliked! only for 
 the sake of having a little more tawdry upon his 
 housings ; which he had hurried his sadler to put 
 on, to make him look fine, being to escort his dear 
 Mrs. Howe and her fair daughter. I told him, 
 that I supposed he was afraid, that the double so- 
 lemnity in the case (that of the visit to a dying 
 woman, and that of his own countenance ) would
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 135 
 
 give him the appearance of an undertaker ; to 
 avoid which, he ran into as bad an extreme, and I 
 doubted would be taken for a mountebank. 
 
 The man was confounded. He took it as strong- 
 ly as if his conscience gave assent to the justice of 
 the remark; otherwise he would have borne_it 
 better ; for he is used enough to this sort of treat- 
 ment. I thought he would have cried. I have 
 heretofore observed, that on this side of the con- 
 tract, he seems to be a mighty meek sort of crea- 
 ture. And though I should like it in him hereafter, 
 perhaps, yet I can't help despising him a little in 
 my heart for it novo. I believe, my dear, we all 
 love your blustering fellows best ; could we but di- 
 rect the bluster, and bid it roar when, and at whom 
 we pleased. 
 
 The poor man looked at my mother. She was 
 so angry (my airs upon it, and my opposition to the 
 journey, having all helped) that for half the way 
 she would not speak to me. And when she did, it 
 was, I wish 1 had not brought you ! You know not 
 what it is to condescend. It is my fault, not Mr. 
 Hickman s, that you are here so much against your 
 will. Have you no eyes for this side of the cha- 
 riot ? 
 
 And then he fared the better from her, as he al- 
 ways does, for faring worse from me : for there 
 was, how do you now, sir ? And how do you novo, 
 Mr. Hickman ? as he ambled now on this side of 
 the chariot, now on that, stealing a prim look at 
 me ; her head half out of the chariot, kindly smiling 
 as if married to the man but a fortnight herself: 
 while I always saw something to divert myself on 
 the side of the chariot where the honest man was 
 not, were it but old Robin at a distance, on his 
 Roan KefFel. 
 
 Our courtship-days, they say, are our best days.
 
 136 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 Favour destroys courtship. Distance increases it. 
 Its essence is distance. And to see how familiar 
 these men wretches grow upon a smile ; what an 
 awe they are struck into when we frown ; who 
 would not maie them stand off? Who would not 
 enjoy a power, that is to be so short-lived? 
 *L)on't chide me one bit for this, my dear. It is 
 in nature. I can't help it. Nay, for that matter, I 
 love it, and wish not to help it. So spare your 
 gravity, I beseech you, on this subject. I set not 
 up for a perfect character. The man will bear 
 it. And what need you care? My mother overba- 
 lances all heuffers: and if he thinks himself unhap- 
 py, he ought never to be otherwise. 
 
 Then did he not deserve a fit of the sullens, 
 think you, to make us lose our dinner for his pa- 
 rade, since in so short a journey my mother would 
 not bate, and lose the opportunity of coming back 
 that night, had the old lady's condition permitted 
 it? To say nothing of being the cause, that my 
 mamma was in the glout with her poor daughter 
 all the way. 
 
 At our alighting I gave him another dab; but 
 it was but a little one. Yet the manner and the 
 air, made up (as I intended they should) for that 
 defect. My mother's hand was kindly put into 
 his, with a simpering altogether bridal ; and with 
 another how do you now, sir? All his plump 
 muscles were in motion, and a double charge of 
 care and obsequiousness fidgeted up his whole 
 form, when he offered to me his officious palm. 
 My mother, when I was a girl, always bid me 
 hold up my head. I just then remembered her 
 commands, and was dutiful I never held up my 
 head so high. With an averted supercilious eye, 
 and a rejecting hand, half flourishing I have no 
 nesd of help, sir! You are in my way. 
 3
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 137 
 
 He ran back as if on wheels : with a face ex- 
 cessively mortified : I had thoughts else to have 
 followed the too gentle touch, with a declaration, 
 that I had as many hands and feet as himself. But 
 this would have been telling him a piece of news, 
 as to the latter, that I hope he had not the pre- 
 sumption to guess at. 
 
 
 
 We found the poor woman, as we thought, at 
 the last gasp. Had we come sooner, we could not 
 have got away, as we intended, that night. You 
 see I am for excusing the man all I can ; and yet, 
 I assure you, I have not so much as a conditional 
 liking to him. My mother sat up most part of the 
 night, expecting every hour would have been her 
 poor cousin's last. I bore her company till two. 
 
 I never saw the approaches of death in a grown 
 person before ; and was extremely shocked. Death, 
 to one in health, is a very terrible thing. We pity 
 the person for what she suffers : and we pity our- 
 selves for what toe must some time hence in like 
 sort suffer; and so are doubly affected. 
 
 She held out till Tuesday morning, eleven. As 
 she had told my mother that she had left her an 
 executrix, and her and me rings and mourning; we 
 were employed all that day in matters of the will 
 [by which, by the way, my cousin Jenny Fynnet 
 is handsomely provided for j ; so that it was Wed- 
 nesday morning early, before we could set out on 
 our return. 
 
 It is true, we got home (having no housings to 
 stay for) by noon: but though I sent Robin away 
 before he dismounted (who brought me back a 
 whole packet, down to the same Wednesday noon) 
 yet was I really so fatigued, and shocked, as I 
 must own, at the hard death of the old lady ; my
 
 ]3S THE HISTORY OF 
 
 mother likewise (who has no reason to dislike this 
 world) heing indisposed from the same occasion; 
 that 1 could not set about writing time enough for 
 Robiri's return that night. 
 
 But having recruited my spirits, my mother hav- 
 ing also had a good night, I arose with the dawn, 
 to write this, and get it dispatched time enough 
 for your breakfast airing; that your suspence might 
 be as short as possible. 
 
 * * * 
 
 I will soon follow this with another. I will em- 
 ploy a person directly to find out how Lovelace 
 behaves himself at his inn. Such a busy spirit 
 must be traceable. 
 
 But, perhaps, my dear, you are indifferent' noiv 
 about him or his employments; for this request 
 was made before he mortally offended you. Never- 
 theless, I will have enquiry made. The result, it 
 is very probable, will be of use to confirm you in 
 your present unforgiving temper. And yet, if the 
 poor man [shall 1 pity him for you, my dear?] 
 should be deprived of the greatest blessing any 
 man on earth can receive, and to which he has the 
 presumption, with so little merit, to aspire; lie will 
 have run great risks; caught great colds; hazarded 
 fevers; sustained the highest indignities; braved 
 the inclemencies of skies, and all for nothing! 
 Will not this move your generosity (if nothing else) 
 in his favour! Poor Mr. Lovelace! 
 
 I would occasion no throb; nor half throb; no 
 flash of sensibility, like lightning darting in, and 
 as soon suppressed, by a discretion that no -one of 
 the sex ever before could give such an example of. 
 I would not, I say; and yet, for a trial of you to 
 yourself, rather than as an impertinent overflow of 
 raillery in your friend, as money-takers try a sus-
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 139 
 
 pected guinea by the sound, let me on such a sup- 
 position, sound you by repeating, Poor Mr. Love- 
 lace! 
 
 And now, my dear, how is it with you? How 
 do you now, as my mother says to Mr. Hickman,, 
 when her pert daughter has made him look sor- 
 rowful ? 
 
 LETTER XXI. 
 
 MR. HICKMAN TO MRS. HOWE. 
 
 madam, Wednesday, March 29. 
 
 It is with infinite regret that I think myself obliged, 
 by pen and ink, to repeat my apprehensions, that 
 it is impossible for me ever to obtain a share in the 
 affections of your beloved daughter. O that it were 
 not too evident to every one, as well as to myself, 
 even to our very servants, that my love for her, and 
 my assiduities, expose me rather to her scorn [for- 
 give me, madam, the hard word !] than to the 
 treatment due to a man whose proposals have met 
 with your approbation, and who loves her above 
 all the women in the world. 
 
 Well might the merit of my passion be doubted, 
 if like Mr. Solmes to the truly admirable Miss 
 Clarissa Harlowe, I could continue my addresses 
 to Miss Howe's distaste. Yet what will not the 
 discontinuance cost me ! 
 
 Give me leave, nevertheless, dearest, worthiest 
 lady, to repeat what I told you, on Monday night, 
 at Mrs. Larkin's, with a heart even bursting with 
 grief, that I wanted not the treatment of that day 
 to convince me, that I am not, nor ever can be, 
 the object of Miss Howe's voluntary favour. What 
 hopes can there be, that a lady will ever esteem
 
 140 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 as a husband, the man, whom as a lover, she de- 
 spises? Will not every act of obligingness from 
 such a one, be construed an unmanly tameness of 
 spirit, and entitle him the more to her disdain ? 
 My heart is full : forgive me if I say, that Miss 
 ^Howe's treatment of me does no credit either to 
 her education, or fine sense. 
 
 Since then it is too evident, that she cannot es- 
 teem me; and since, as I have heard it justly obser- 
 ved by the excellent Miss Clarissa Harlowe, that love 
 is not a voluntary passion; would it not be unge- 
 nerous to subject the dear daughter to the dis- 
 pleasure of a mother so justly fond of her ; and 
 you, madam, while you are so good as to interest 
 yourself in my favour, to uneasiness? And why, 
 were I to be even sure, at last, of succeeding by 
 means of your kind partiality to me, should I wish 
 to make the best-beloved of my soul unhappy; 
 since mutual must be our happiness, or misery for 
 life the consequence to both ? 
 
 My best wishes will for ever attend the dear, the 
 ever dear lady ! May her nuptials be happy ! They 
 must be so, if she marry the man she can honour 
 with her love. Yet I will say, that whoever be 
 the happy, the thrice happy man, he never can 
 love her with a passion more ardent and more sin- 
 cere than mine. 
 
 Accept, dear madam, of my most grateful thanks 
 for a distinction that has been the only support of 
 my presumption in an addres I am obliged, as 
 utterly hopeless, to discontinue. A distinction, on 
 which (and not on my own merits) I had entirely 
 relied; but which, I find, can avail me nothing. 
 To the last hour of my life, it will give me pleasure 
 to think, that had your favour, your recommenda- 
 tion, been of sufficient weight to conquer what
 
 CLARISSA HARL0WE. 14-1 
 
 seems to be an invincible aversion, I had been the 
 happiest of men. 
 I am, dear madam, with inviolable respect, 
 Your ever obliged and 
 
 faithful humble servant, 
 
 CHARLES HICKMAN. 
 
 LETTER XXII. 
 
 MRS. HOWE TO CHARLES HICKMAN, ESQi. 
 
 Thursday, March 30. 
 I cannot but say, Mr. Hickman, but you have 
 cause to be dissatisfied to be out of humour to 
 be displeased : with Nancy But, upon my word ; 
 but indeed What shall I say ? Yet this I will 
 say, that you good young gentlemen know nothing 
 at all of our sex. Shall I tell you But why should 
 I ? And yet I will say, that if Nancy did not think 
 well of you'in the main, she is too generous to 
 treat you so freely as she does. Don't you think 
 she has courage enough to tell me, she would not 
 see you, and to refuse at any time seeing you, as 
 she knows on what account you come, if she had 
 not something in her head favourable to you ? 
 Fie! that I am forced to say thus much in writing, 
 when I have hinted it to you twenty and twenty 
 times by word of mouth ? 
 
 But if you are so indifferent, Mr. Hickman it 
 you think you can part with her for her skittish 
 tricks if my interest in your favour why, Mr. 
 Hickman, I must tell you, that my Nancy is worth 
 bearing with. If she be foolish what is that owing 
 to? Is it not to her ivit? Let me tell you, sir, you 
 cannot have the convenience without the incoa- 
 
 VOL. II. O
 
 142 THK HISTORY OF . 
 
 venience. What workman loves not a sharp tool 
 to work with? But is there not more danger from 
 a sharp tool, than from a blunt one ? And what 
 workman will throw away a sharp tool, because it 
 may cut his fingers? Wit may be likened to a 
 sharp tool. And there is something very pretty in 
 wit, let me tell you. Often and often have I been 
 forced to smile at her arch turns upon me, when I 
 could have beat her for them. And pray, don't I 
 bear a great deal from her? And why? Because 
 I love her. And would you not wish me to judge 
 of your love for her by my own? And would not 
 you bear with her ? Don't you love her (what 
 though with another sort of love ?) as well as I do? 
 I do assure you, sir, that if I thought you did not 
 well, but it is plain that you don't and is it 
 plain that you don't? Well, then, you must do 
 as you think best. 
 
 Well might the merit of your passion be doubt- 
 ed, you say, if, like Mr. Solmes Fiddle-faddle ! 
 Why, you are a captious man, I think ! Has Nancy 
 been so plain in her repulses of you as Miss Clary 
 Harlowe has been to Mr. Solmes? Does Nancy 
 love any man better than you, although she may 
 not shew so much love to you as you wish for ? 
 if she did, let me tell you, she would have let us 
 all hear of it. What idle comparisons then ! 
 
 But it may be you are tired out. It may be you 
 have seen somebody else it may be you would 
 wish to change mistresses with that gay wretch 
 Mr. Lovelace. It may be too, that, in that case, 
 Nancy would not be sorry to change lovers. The 
 truly admirable Miss Clarissa Harlowe? And the 
 excellent Miss Clarissa Harlowe! Good lack! 
 But take care, Mr. Hickman, that you do not 
 praise any woman living, let her be as admirable 
 and as excellent as she will, above your own mia-
 
 CLARISSA MARLOWE. 145 
 
 tress. No polite man will do that, surely. And 
 take care, too, that you do not make her or me 
 think you are in earnest in your anger -just 
 though it may be, as anger only I would not for 
 a thousand pounds, that Nancy should know that 
 you can so easily part with her, if you have the 
 love for her which you declare you have. Be 
 sure, if you are not absolutely determined, that 
 you do not so much as whisper the contents of 
 this your letter to your own heart, as I may say. 
 
 Her treatment of you, you say, does no credit 
 either to her education or fine sense. Very home 
 put, truly f Nevertheless, so say I. But is not hers 
 the disgrace more than yours? I can assure you, 
 that every body blames her for it. And why do 
 they blame her ? Why ? Because they think you 
 merit better treatment at her hands: and is not 
 this to your credit? Who but pities you, and 
 blames her ? Do the servants, who, as you ob- 
 serve, see her skittish airs, disrespect you for 
 them ? Do they not, at such times, look concern- 
 ed for you ? Are they not then doubly officious 
 in their respects and services to you? I have ob- 
 served with pleasure, that they are. 
 
 But you are afraid you shall be thought tame, 
 perhaps, when married. That you shall not be 
 thought manly enough, I warrant ! And this was 
 poor Mr. Howe's fear. And many a tug did this 
 lordly fear cost us both, God knows ! Many more 
 than needed, I am sure: and more than ought to 
 have been, had he known how to bear and forbear ; 
 as is the duty of those who pretend to have most 
 sense and, pray, which would you have to have 
 most sense, the woman or the man? 
 
 Well, sir, and now what remains, if you really 
 love Nancy so well as you say you do ? Why, I 
 leave that to you. You may, if you please, come 
 o f
 
 ]44 THE HISTORY OE 
 
 to breakfast with me in the morning. But with no 
 full heart, nor resenting looks, I advise you ; ex- 
 cept you can brave it out. That have I, when 
 provoked, done many a time with my husband, but 
 never did I get any thing by it with my daughter! 
 much less will you. Of which, for your observa- 
 tion, I thought fit to advise you. As from 
 Your friend, 
 
 ANNABELLA HOWE. 
 
 LETTER XXIII. 
 
 MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWI. 
 
 Thursday morning. 
 I will now take some notice of your last favour. 
 But being so far behind-hand with you, must be 
 brief. 
 
 In the first place, as to your reproofs, thus shall 
 I discharge myself of that part of my subject. Is 
 it likely, think you, that I should avoid deserving 
 them now-and-then, occasionally, when I admire 
 the manner in which you give me your rebukes, 
 and love you the better for them ? And when you 
 are so well entitled to give them? For what faults 
 can you possibly have, unless your relations are so 
 kind as to find you a few to keep their many in 
 countenance ? But they are as kind to me in this, 
 as to you ; for I may venture to affirm, that any 
 one who should read your letters, and would say 
 you were right, would not on reading mine con- 
 demn me for being quite wrong. 
 
 Your resolution not to leave your father's house 
 is right if you can stay in it, and avoid being 
 Solmes's wife.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 145 
 
 1 think you answered Solmes's letter, as /should 
 have answered it. Will you not compliment me 
 and yourself at once, by saying, that was right? 
 
 You have, in your letters to your uncle and the 
 rest, done all that you ought to do. You are wholly 
 guiltless of the consequence, be it what it will. 
 To offer to give up your estate ! .That would not 
 I have done ! You see this offer staggered them : 
 they took time to consider of it. They made my 
 heart ache in the time they took. I was afraid 
 they would have taken you at your word : and so, 
 but for shame, and for fear of Lovelace, I dare say 
 they would. You are too noble for them. This, 
 I repeat, is an offer / would not have made. Let 
 me beg of you, my dear, never to repeat the 
 temptation to them. 
 
 I freely own to you, that their usage of you 
 upon it, and Lovelace's different treatment of you* 
 in his letter received at the same time, would have 
 made me his, past redemption. The deuce take 
 the man I was going to say, for not having had so 
 much regard to his character and morals, as would 
 have entirely justified such a step in a Clarissa, 
 persecuted as she is ! 
 
 I wonder not at your appointment with him. I 
 may further touch upon some part of this subject 
 by-and-by. 
 
 Pray pray I pray you now, my dearest friend, 
 contrive to send your Betty Barnes to me ! Does 
 the Coventry Act extend to women, know ye ? 
 The least I will do, shall be, to send her home 
 well soused in and dragged through our deepest 
 horsepond. I'll engage, if I get her hither, that 
 she will keep the anniversary of her deliverance 
 as long as she lives. 
 
 * Sec p. loa it*. 
 oS
 
 146 THE HISTORY 01? 
 
 I wonder not at Lovelace's saucy answer, saucy 
 as it really is*. If he loves you as he ought, he 
 must be vexed at so great a disappointment. The 
 man must have been a detestable hypocrite, I 
 think, had he not shewn his vexation. Your ex- 
 pectations of such a Christian command of temper 
 in him, in a disappointment of this nature espe- 
 cially, are too early by almost half a century in a 
 man of his constitution. But nevertheless I am 
 very far from blaming you for your resentment. 
 
 I shall be all impatience to know how this mat- 
 ter ends between you and him. But a few inches 
 of brick-tvall between you so lately; and now such 
 mountains? And you think to hold it? May be 
 so! 
 
 You see, you say, that the temper he shewed in 
 his preceding letter was not natural to him. And 
 did you before think it -was? Wretched creepers 
 and insinuators! Yet when opportunity serves, as 
 insolent encroachers ! This very Hickman, I make 
 no doubt, would be as saucy as your Lovelace, if 
 he dared. He has not half the arrogant bravery 
 of the other, and can better hide his horns - r that's 
 all. But whenever he has the power, depend upon 
 it, he will butt at one as valiantly as the other. 
 
 If ever I should be persuaded to have him, I 
 shall watch how the obsequious lover goes-ojf; and 
 how the imperative husband comes upon him; in 
 short, how he ascends, and how I descend, in the 
 matrimonial wheel, never to take my turn again, 
 but by fits and starts, like the feeble struggles of 
 a sinking state for its dying liberty. 
 
 All good-natured men arc passionate, says Mr. 
 Lovelace. A pretty plea to a beloved object in 
 the plenitude of her power! As much as to say, 
 
 Sep. 197 129.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 147 
 
 f Greatly as I value you, madam, I will not take 
 pains to curb my passions to oblige you.' Me- 
 thinks I should be glad to hear from Mr. Hickman 
 such a plea for good-nature as this. 
 
 Indeed, we are too apt to make allowances for 
 such tempers as early indulgence has made uncon- 
 trollable; and therefore habitually evil. But if a 
 boisterous temper, when under obligation, is to be 
 thus allowed for, what, when the tables are turned, 
 will it expect? You know a husband, who, I fancy, 
 had some of these early allowances made for him : 
 and you see that neither himself nor any body 
 else is the happier for it. 
 
 The suiting of the tempers of two persons who 
 are to come together, is a great matter : and yet 
 there should be boundaries fixed between them, by 
 consent as it were, beyond which neither should 
 go : and each should hold the other to it ; or there 
 would probably be encroachment in both. To il- 
 lustrate my assertion by a very high, and by a 
 more manly (as some would think it) than womanly 
 instance If the boundaries of the three estates 
 that constitute our political union were not known, 
 and occasionally asserted, what would become of 
 the prerogatives and privileges of each ? The two 
 branches of the legislature would encroach upon 
 each other ; and the executive power would swal- 
 low up both. 
 
 But if two persons of discretion, you'll say, come 
 together 
 
 Ay, my dear, that's true: but, if none but per- 
 sons of discretion were to marry and would it 
 not surprise you if I were to advance, that the 
 persons of discretion are generally single ? Such 
 persons are apt to consider too much, to resolve. 
 Are not you and I complimented as such? And
 
 14-8 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 would either of us marry, if the fellows, and our 
 friends, would let us alone ? 
 
 But to the former point ; had Lovelace made 
 his addresses to me (unless indeed I had been taken 
 with a liking for him more than conditional) I 
 would have forbid him, upon the first passionate 
 instance of his good-nature, as he calls it, ever to 
 see me more ; ' thou must bear with me, honest 
 friend, might I have said [had I condescended to 
 say any thing to him] an hundred times more than 
 this : be gone therefore ! I bear with no pas- 
 sions that are predominant to that thou hast pre- 
 tended for me !' 
 
 But to one of your mild and gentle temper, it 
 would be all one, were you married, whether the 
 man were a Lovelace or a Hickman in his spirit. 
 You are so obediently principled, that perhaps you 
 would have told a mild man that he must not 
 entreat, but command; and that it was beneath him 
 not to exact from you the obedience you had so 
 solemnly vowed to him at the altar. I know of 
 old, my dear, your meek regard to that little pid- 
 dling part of the marriage vow which some prero- 
 gative-monger foisted into the office, to make that 
 a duty, which he knew was not a right. 
 
 Our tvay of training up, you say, makes us need 
 the protection of the brave. Very true : and how 
 extremely brave and gallant is it, that this brave 
 man will free us from all insults but those which 
 will go nearest to our hearts ; that is to say, his 
 own ! 
 
 How artfully has Lovelace, in the abstract you 
 give me of one of his letters, calculated to your 
 meridian ! Generous spirits hate compulsion ! He is 
 certainly a deeper creature by much than once we 
 thought him. He knows, as you intimate, that his
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. H9 
 
 own wild pranks cannot be concealed ; and so owns 
 just enough to palliate (because it teaches you not 
 to be surprised at) any new one that may come to 
 your ears ; and then, truly, he is, however faulty, 
 a mighty ingenuous man: and by no means an 
 hypocrite: a character the most odious of all others, 
 to our sex, in a lover, and the least to be forgiven, 
 were it only because, when detected, it makes us 
 doubt the justice of those praises which we are 
 willing to believe he thought to be our due. 
 
 By means of this supposed ingenuity, Lovelace 
 obtains a praise, instead of a merited dispraise; 
 and, like an absolved confessionaire, wipes off as 
 he goes along one score, to begin another: for an 
 eye favourable to him will not see his faults through 
 a magnifying glass ; nor will a woman, willing to 
 hope the best, forbear to impute to ill-will and pre- 
 judice all that charity can make so imputable. 
 And if she even give credit to such of the unfa- 
 vourable imputations as may be too flagrant to be 
 doubted, she will be very apt to take in the future 
 hope, which he inculcates, and which to question 
 would be to question her own power, and perhaps 
 merit: and thus may a woman be inclined to make 
 a slight, even a. fancied merit, atone for the most 
 glaring vice. 
 
 I have a reason, a new one, for this preachment 
 upon a text you have given me. But, till I am 
 better informed, I will not explain myself. If it 
 come out, as I shrewdly suspect it will, the man, 
 my dear, is a devil ; and you must rather think 
 of I protest I had like to have said Solmes than 
 him. 
 
 But let this be as it will, shall I tell you, how, 
 after all his offences, he may creep in with you 
 again? 
 
 I will. Thus then : it is but to claim for himself
 
 ioO THE HISTORY OP 
 
 the good-natured character? and this, granted, will 
 blot out the fault of passionate insolence: and so 
 he will have nothing to do, but this hour to ac- 
 custom you to insult ; the next, to bring you to 
 forgive him, upon his submission: the consequence 
 must be, that he will by this teazing break your 
 resentment all to pieces: and then, a little more of 
 the insult, and a little less of the submission, on his 
 part, will go down, till nothing else but the Jirst 
 will be seen, and not a bit of the second: you will 
 then be afraid to provoke so offensive a spirit ; and 
 at last will be brought so prettily and so audibly, to 
 pronounce the little reptile word Obey, that it will 
 do one's heart good to hear you. The Muscovite 
 wife then takes place of the managed mistress. 
 And if you doubt the progression, be pleased, my 
 dear, to take your mother's judgment upon it. 
 
 But no more of this just now. Your situation is 
 become too critical to permit me to dwell upon 
 these sort of topics. And yet this is but an affected 
 levity with me. My heart, as I have heretofore 
 said, is a sincere sharer in all your distresses. My 
 sun-shine darts but through a drizzly cloud. My 
 eye, were you to see it, when it seems to you so 
 gladdened, as you mentioned in a former, is more 
 than ready to overflow, even at the very passages 
 perhaps upon which you impute to me the archness 
 of exultation. 
 
 But now the unheard-of cruelty and perverse- 
 ness of some of your friends [^relations, I should 
 6ay I am always blundering thus!] the as strange 
 determinedness of others; your present quarrel 
 with Lovelace; and your approaching interview 
 with Solmes, from which you are right to appre- 
 hend a great deal ; are such considerable circum- 
 stances m your story, that it is fit they should en- 
 gross all my attention.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 151 
 
 You ask me to advise you how to behave upon 
 Solmes's visit. I cannot for my life. I know they 
 expect a great deal from it: you had not else had 
 your long day complied with. All I will say is, 
 that if Solmes cannot be prevailed for, now, that 
 Lovelace has so much offended you, he never will. 
 When the interview is over, I doubt not but that I 
 shall have reason to say, that all you did, that all 
 you said, was right, and could not be better ; yet, 
 if I don't think so, I won't say so ; that I promise 
 you. 
 
 Only let me advise you to pull up a spirit, even 
 to your uncle, if there be o'ccasion. Resent the 
 vile and foolish treatment you meet with, in which 
 he has taken so large a share, and make him 
 ashamed of it, if you can. 
 
 I know not, upon recollection, but this inter- 
 view may be a good thing for you, however de- 
 signed. For when Solmes sees (if that be to be so) 
 that it is impossible he should succeed with you ; 
 and your relations see it too ; the one must, I think, 
 recede, and the other come to terms with you, 
 upon offers, that it is my opinion, will go hard 
 enough with you to comply with ; when the still 
 harder are dispensed with. 
 
 There are several passages in your last letters, as 
 well as in your former, which authorize me to say 
 this. But it would be unseasonable to touch this 
 subject further just now. 
 
 But, upon the whole, I have no patience to see 
 you thus made the sport of your brother's and sis- 
 ter's cruelty : for what, after so much steadiness on 
 your part, in so many trials, can be their hope? Ex- 
 cept indeed it be to drive you to extremity, and to ruin 
 you in the opinion of your uncles, as well as father. 
 
 I urge you by all means to send out of their reach 
 all the letters and papers you would not have them
 
 152 THE HISTORY OP 
 
 see. Methinks, I would wish you to deposit likewise 
 a parcel of clothes, linen, and the like, before your 
 interview with Solmes ; lest you should not have 
 an opportunity for it afterwards. Robin shall fetch 
 it away on the first orders, by day or by night. 
 
 I am in hopes to procure from my mother, if 
 things come to extremity, leave for you to be 
 privately with us. 
 
 I will condition to be good-humoured, and even 
 kind, to her favourite, if she will shew me an in- 
 dulgence that shall make me serviceable to mine. 
 
 This alternative has been a good while in my 
 head. But as your foolish uncle has so strangely 
 attached my mother to their views, I cannot pro- 
 mise that I shall succeed as I wish. 
 
 Do not absolutely despair, however. What though 
 the contention will be between woman and woman? 
 I fancy I shall be able to manage it, by the help 
 of a little female perseverance. Your quarrel with 
 Lovelace, if it continue, will strengthen my hands. 
 And the offers you made in your answer to your 
 uncle Harlowe's letter of Sunday night last, duly 
 dwelt upon, must add force to my pleas. 
 
 I depend upon your forgiveness of all the per- 
 haps unseasonable flippancies of your naturally too 
 lively, yet most sincerely sympathizing, 
 
 ANNA HOWE. 
 
 LETTER XXIV. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 Friday, March 31: 
 You have very kindly accounted for your silence. 
 People in misfortunes are always in doubt. They 
 are too apt to turn even unavoidable accidents into
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 153 
 
 slights and neglects ; especially in those whose 
 favourable opinion they wish to preserve. 
 
 I am sure I ought evermore to exempt my Anna 
 Howe from the supposed possibility of her becom- 
 ing one of those who bask only in the sunshine of 
 a friend: but nevertheless her friendship is too 
 precious to me, not to doubt my own merits on the 
 one hand, and not to be anxious for the preserva- 
 tion of it, on the other. 
 
 You so generously give me liberty to chide you 
 that I am afraid of taking it, because I could sooner 
 mistrust my own judgment, than that of a beloved 
 friend, whose ingenuousness in acknowledging an 
 imputed error seems to set her above the commis- 
 sion of a wilful one. This makes me half afraid to 
 ask you, if you think you are not too cruel, too 
 ungenerous shall I say? In your behaviour to a man 
 who loves you so dearly, and is so worthy and so 
 sincere a man? 
 
 Only it is by You, or I should be ashamed to be 
 outdone in that true magnanimity, which makes 
 one thankful for the wounds given by a true friend. 
 I believe I was guilty of a petulance, which no- 
 thing but my uneasy situation can excuse ; if that 
 can. I am almost afraid to beg of you, and yet I 
 repeatedly do, to give way to that charming spirit, 
 whenever it rises to your pen, which smiles, yet 
 goes to the quick of my fault. What patient shall 
 be afraid of a probe in so delicate a hand ? I say, 
 I am almost afraid to pray you to give way to it, for 
 fear you should, for that very reason, restrain it. 
 For the edge may be taken off, if it does not make 
 the subject of its raillery wince a little. Permitted 
 or desired satire may be apt, in a generous satirist, 
 mending as it raillies, to turn too soon into pane- 
 gyric. Yours is intended to instruct ; and though 
 it bites, it pleases at the same time : no fear of a 
 
 VOL. II. p
 
 154 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 wound's rankling or festering by so delicate a point 
 as you carry; not envenomed by personality, not 
 intending to expose, or ridicule, or exasperate. 
 The most admired of our moderns know nothing of 
 this art : why ? because it must be founded in 
 good-nature, and directed by a right heart. The 
 man, not the fault, is generally the subject of their 
 satire : and were it to be just, how should it be 
 useful; how should it answer any good purpose ; 
 when every gash (for their weapon is a broad 
 sword, not a lancet) lets in the air of public ridi- 
 cule, and exasperates where it should heal? Spare 
 me not therefore because I am your friend. For 
 that very reason spare me not. I may feel your 
 edge, fine as it is. I may be pained: you would 
 lose your end if I were not : but after the first sen- 
 sibility (as I have said more than once before) I 
 will love you the better, and my amended heart 
 shall be all yours ; and it will then be more worthy 
 to be yours. 
 
 You have taught me what to say to, and what 
 to think of, Mr. Lovelace. You have, by agreeable 
 anticipation, let me know how it is probable he 
 will apply to me to be excused. I will lay every 
 thing before you that shall pass on the occasion, if 
 he do apply, that I may take your advice, when it 
 can come in time ; and when it cannot, that I may 
 receive your correction, or approbation, as I may 
 happen to merit either. Only one thing must be 
 allowed for me ; that whatever course I shall be 
 permitted or be forced to steer, I must be consider- 
 ed as a person out of her own direction. Tost to 
 and fro by the high winds of passionate control 
 (and, as I think, unreasonable severity), I behold 
 the desired port, the single state, into which I 
 would fain steer ; but am kept off by the foaming 
 billows of a brother's and sister's envy, and by the
 
 CLARISSA HARLOW. 1.55 
 
 raging winds of a supposed invaded authority ; 
 while I see in Lovelace, the rocks on one hand, 
 and in Solmes, the sands on the other ; and trem- 
 ble, lest I should split upon the former, or strike 
 upon the latter. 
 
 But you, my better pilot, to what a charming 
 hope do you bid me aspire, if things come to ex- 
 tremity! I will not, as you caution me, too much 
 depend upon your success with your mother in my 
 favour ; for well I know her high notions of implicit 
 duty in a child: but yet I will hope too; because 
 her seasonable protection may save me perhaps 
 from a greater rashness : and in this case she shall 
 -direct me in all my ways: I will do nothing but by 
 her orders, and by her advice and yours : not see 
 any body : not write to any body : nor shall any 
 living soul, but by her direction and yours, know 
 where I am. In any cottage place me, I will never 
 stir out, unless disguised as your servant, I am 
 now and then permitted an evening walk with you: 
 and this private protection to be granted for no 
 longer time than till my cousin Morden comes ; 
 which, as I hope, cannot be long. 
 
 I am afraid I must not venture to take the hint 
 you give me, to deposit some of my clothes ; al- 
 though I will some of my linen, as well as papers. 
 
 I will tell you why Betty had for some time 
 been very curious about my wardrobe, whenever 
 I took out any of my things before her. 
 
 Observing this, I once, on taking one of my 
 garden airings, left my keys in the locks; and on 
 my return surprised the creature with her hand 
 upon the keys, as if shutting the door. 
 
 She was confounded at my sudden coming back. 
 I took no notice: but, on her retiring, I found my 
 clothes were not in the usual order. 
 
 I doubted not, upon this, that her curiosity was 
 v 2
 
 156 . TRE HISTORY OP 
 
 owing to the orders she had received; and being 
 afraid they would abridge rhe of my airings, if 
 their suspicions were not obviated, it has ever since 
 been my custom (among other contrivances) not 
 only to leave my keys in the locks; but to employ 
 the wench now and then in taking out my clothes, 
 suit by suit, on pretence of preventing their being 
 rumpled or creased, and to see that the flowered 
 silver suit did not tarnish ; sometimes declaredly to 
 give myself employment, having little else to do: 
 with which employment (superadded to the delight 
 taken by the low as well as by the high of our sex 
 in seeing fine clothes) she seemed always, I thought, 
 as well pleased as if it answered one of the offices 
 she had in charge. 
 
 To this, and to the confidence they have in a 
 spy so diligent, and to their knowing, that I have 
 not one confidante in a family in which neverthe- 
 less I believe every servant loves me ; nor have 
 attempted to make one ; I suppose, I owe the 
 freedom I enjoy of my airings : and perhaps (find- 
 ing I make no movements towards going away) 
 they are the more secure, that I shall at last be 
 prevailed upon to comply with their measures : 
 since they must think, that, otherwise, they give 
 me provocation enough to take some rash step in 
 order to free myself from a treatment so disgrace- 
 ful; and which [God forgive me, if I judge amiss] 
 / am afraid my brother and sister would not be sorry 
 to drive me to take. 
 
 If therefore such a step should become necessary 
 (which I yet hope will not) I must be contented to 
 go away with the clothes I shall have on at the 
 time. My custom to be dressed for the day, as 
 soon as breakfast is over, when I have had no 
 household employments to prevent me, will make 
 such a step (if I am forced to take it) less sus-
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 157 
 
 pected. And the linen I shall deposit, in pursuance 
 of your kind hint, cannot be missed. 
 
 This custom, although a prisoner (as I may too 
 truly say), and neither visited nor visiting, I con- 
 tinue. We owe to ourselves, and to our sex, you 
 know, to be always neat ; and never to be sur- 
 prised in a way we should be pained to be seen in. 
 
 Besides, people in adversity (which is the state 
 of trial of every good quality) should endeavour 
 to preserve laudable customs, that, if sunshine re- 
 turn, they may not be losers by their trial. 
 
 Does it not, moreover, manifest a firmness of 
 mind, in an unhappy person, to keep hope alive ? 
 To hope for better days, is half to deserve them : 
 for could we have just ground for such a hope, if 
 we did not resolve to deserve what that hope bids 
 us aspire to ? Then who shall befriend a person 
 who forsakes herself? 
 
 These are reflections by which I sometimes en- 
 deavour to support myself. 
 
 I know you don't despise my grave airs, al- 
 though (with a view no doubt to irradiate my mind 
 in my misfortunes) you rally me upon them. 
 Every body has not your talent of introducing 
 serious and important lessons, in such a happy 
 manner as at once to delight and instruct. 
 
 What a multitude of contrivances may not young 
 people fall upon, if the mind be not engaged by 
 acts of kindness and condescension! I am not used 
 by my friends of late as I always used their ser- 
 vants. 
 
 When I was entrusted with the family manage- 
 ment, I always found it right, as well in policy as 
 generosity, to repose a trust in them. Not to seem 
 to expect or depend upon justice from them, is in 
 a manner to bid them take opportunities, whenever 
 they offer, to be unjust. 
 
 p3
 
 158 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 Mr. Solmes (to expatiate a little on this low, but 
 not unuseful subject) in his more trifling solicitudes 
 would have had a sorry key-keeper in me. Were 
 I mistress of a family, I would not either take to 
 myself, or give to servants, the pain of keeping 
 those I had reason to suspect. People low in 
 station have often minds not sordid. Nay, I have 
 sometimes thought, that (even take number for 
 number) there are more honest low people, than 
 honest high. In the one, honesty is their chief 
 pride. In the other, the love of power, of gran- 
 deur, of pleasure, mislead; and that and their 
 ambition induce a paramount pride, which too 
 often swallows up the more laudable one. 
 
 Many of the former would scorn to deceive a 
 confidence. But I have seen, among the most ig- 
 norant of their class, a susceptibility of resent- 
 ment, if their honesty has been suspected : and 
 have more than once been forced to put a servant 
 right, whom I have heard say, that, although she 
 valued herself upon her honesty, no master or mis- 
 tress should suspect her for nothing. 
 
 How far has the comparison I had in my head, 
 between my friends' treatment of me, and my 
 treatment of their servants, carried me! But we 
 always allowed ourselves to expatiate on such sub- 
 jects, whether low or high, as might tend to en- 
 large our minds, or mend our management, whe- 
 ther notional or practical, and whether such ex- 
 patiating respected our present, or might respect 
 our probable future situations. 
 
 What I was principally leading to, was to tell 
 you, how ingenious I am in my contrivances and 
 pretences to blind my gaoleress, and to take off the 
 jealousy of her principals on my going down so 
 often into the garden and poultry-yard. People 
 suspiciously treated are never I believe at a loss
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 159 
 
 for invention. Sometimes I want air, and am 
 better the moment I am out of my chamber. 
 Sometimes spirits ; and then my bantams and phea- 
 sants or the cascade divert me ; the former, by 
 their inspiriting liveliness ; the latter, more so- 
 lemnly, by its echoing dashings, and hollow mur- 
 murs. Sometimes solitude is of all things my 
 wish; and the awful silence of the night, the 
 spangled element, and the rising and setting sun, 
 how promotive of contemplation! Sometimes, 
 when I intend nothing, and expect no letters, I 
 am officious to take Betty with me ; and at others, 
 bespeak her attendance when I know she is other- 
 wise employed, and cannot give it me. 
 
 These more capital artifices I branch out into 
 lesser ones, without number. Yet all have not 
 only the face of truth, but are real truth; although 
 not my principal motive. How prompt a thing is 
 will! What impediments does dislike furnish! 
 How swiftly, through every difficulty, do we move 
 with the one ! How tardily with the other ! 
 Every trifling obstruction weighing us down, as if 
 lead were fastened to our feet ! 
 
 Friday morning, eleven o'clock. 
 
 I have already made up my parcel of linen. My 
 heart ached all the time I was employed about it ; 
 and still aches, at the thoughts of its being a ne- 
 cessary precaution. 
 
 When the parcel comes to your hands, as I hope 
 it safely will, you will be pleased to open it. You 
 will find in it two parcels sealed up; one of which 
 contains the letters you have not yet seen ; being 
 those written since I left you : in. the other are all 
 the letters and copies of letters that have passed 
 between you and me since I was last with you; 
 with some other papers on subjects so much above
 
 160 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 me, that I cannot wish them to be seen by any 
 body whose indulgence I am not so sure of, as I 
 am of yours. If my judgment ripen with my 
 years, perhaps I may review them. 
 
 Mrs. Norton used to say, from her reverend fa- 
 ther, that youth was the time of life for imagination 
 and fancy to work in: then, were a writer to lay 
 by his works till riper years and experience should 
 direct the fire rather to glow, than to Jiame out ; 
 something between both might perhaps be pro- 
 duced that would not displease a judicious eye. 
 
 In a third division, folded up separately, are all 
 Mr. Lovelace's letters written to me since he was 
 forbidden this house, and copies of my answers to 
 them. I expect that you will break the seals of 
 this parcel, and when you have perused them all, 
 give me your free opinion of my conduct. 
 
 B) r the way, not a line from that man! Not 
 one line ! Wednesday I deposited mine. It re- 
 mained there on Wednesday night. What time it 
 was taken away yesterday, I cannot tell: for I did 
 not concern myself about it, till towards night ; 
 and then it. was not there. No return at ten this 
 day. I suppose he is as much out of humour, as I. 
 -With all my heart! 
 
 He may be mean enough, perhaps, if ever I 
 should put it into his power, to avenge himself for 
 the trouble he has had with me. But that now, I 
 dare say, I never shall. 
 
 I see what sort of a man the encroacher is. And 
 I hope we are equally sick of one another. My 
 heart is vexedly easy, if I may so describe it. 
 Vexedly because of the apprehended interview 
 with Solmes, and the consequences it may be at- 
 tended with : or else I should be quite easy ; for I 
 have not deserved the usage I receive : and could I 
 be rid of Solmes, as I presume I am of Lovelace,
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 16l 
 
 their influence over my father, mother, and uncles, 
 against me, could not hold. 
 
 The five guineas tied up in one corner of a 
 handkerchief under the linen, I beg you will let 
 pass as an acknowledgment for the trouble I give 
 your trusty servant. You must not chide me for 
 this. You know I cannot be easy unless I have 
 my way in these little matters. 
 
 I was going to put up what little money I have, 
 and some of my ornaments ; but they are portable, 
 and I cannot forget them. Besides, should they 
 (suspecting me) desire to see any of the jewels, 
 and were I not able to produce them, it would 
 amount to a demonstration of an intention which 
 would have a guilty appearance to them. 
 
 Friday, one o'clock, in the wood-house. 
 No letter yet from this man ! I have luckily de- 
 posited my parcel, and have your letter of last 
 night. If Robert take this without the parcel, 
 pray let him return immediately for it. But he 
 cannot miss it, I think; and must conclude that it 
 is put there for him to take away. You may be- 
 lieve, from the contents of yours, that I shall im- 
 mediately write again. 
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 
 
 LETTER XXV. 
 
 MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE. 
 
 Thursday night, March SO. 
 The fruits of my inquiry after your abominable 
 wretch's behaviour and baseness at the paltry ale- 
 house, which he calls an inn, prepare to hear*
 
 162 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 Wrens and sparrows are not too ignoble a quarry 
 for this villanous gos-hawk ! His assiduities ; his 
 watchings; his nightly risks; the inclement weather 
 he journeys in ; must not be all placed to your ac- 
 count- He has opportunities of making every 
 thing light to him of that sort. A sweet pretty 
 girl, I am told Innocent till he went thither 
 Now! (ah! poor girl !) who knows what ? 
 
 But just turned of seventeen! His friend and 
 brother rake (a man of humour and intrigue), as I 
 am told, to share the social bottle with. And some- 
 times another disguised rake or two. No sorrow 
 comes near their hearts. Be not disturbed, my 
 dear, at his hoarseness! His pretty Betsy, his 
 Rosebud, as the vile wretch calls her, can hear all 
 he says. 
 
 He is very fond of her. They say she is in- 
 nocent even yet Her father, her grandmother, 
 believe her to be so. He is to fortune her out to 
 a young lover! Ah ! the poor young lover ! Ah! 
 the poor simple girl ! 
 
 Mr. Hickman tells me, that he heard in town, 
 that he used to be often at plays, and at the Opera, 
 with women; and every time with a different one 
 Ah! my sweet friend! But I hope he is no- 
 thing to you, if all this were truth But this in- 
 telligence, in relation to this poor girl, will do his 
 business, if you had been ever so good friends 
 before. 
 
 A vile wretch! Cannot such purity in pursuit, 
 in view, restrain him? But I leave him to you! 
 There can be no hope of him. More of a fool, 
 thah of such a man. Yet I wish I may be able to 
 snatch the poor young creature out of his villanous 
 paws. I have laid a scheme to do so; if indeed 
 she be hitherto innocent and heart free. 
 
 He appears to the people as a military man, in
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 163 
 
 disguise, secreting himself on account of a duel 
 fought in town ; the adversary's life in suspense. 
 They believe he is a great man. His friend passes 
 for an inferior officer; upon a foot of freedom with 
 him. He, accompanied by a third man, who is 
 a sort of subordinate companion to the second. 
 The wretch himself with but one servant. 
 
 my dear ! how pleasantly can these devils, as 
 1 must call them, pass their time, while our gentle 
 bosoms heave with pity for their supposed suffer- 
 ings for us ! 
 
 * # # 
 
 1 have sent for this girl and her father; and am 
 just now informed that I shall see them. I will sift 
 them thoroughly. I shall soon find out such a 
 simple thing as this, if he has not corrupted her 
 already and if he has, I shall soon find that out 
 too. If more art than nature appears either in her 
 or her father, I shall give them both up but de- 
 pend upon it, the girl's undone. 
 
 He is said to be fond of her. He places her at 
 the upper end of his table. He sets her a-prattling. 
 He keeps his friend at a distance from her. She 
 prates away. He admires for nature all she says. 
 Once was heard to call her charming little crea- 
 ture! An hundred has he called so no doubt. He 
 puts her upon singing. He praises her wild note. 
 O, my dear, the girl's undone! must be un- 
 done! The man you know is Lovelace. 
 
 Let 'em bring Wyerley to you, if they will have 
 you married any body but Solmes and Lovelace 
 be yours! So advises Your 
 
 ANNA HOWE. 
 
 My dearest friend, consider this alehouse as his 
 garrison : him as an enemy: his brother rakes 
 as his assistants and abettors. Would not your
 
 16i THE HISTORY OF 
 
 brother, would not your uncles, tremble, if 
 they knew how near them he is as they pass 
 to and fro? I am told, he is resolved you 
 shall not be carried to your uncle Antony's. 
 What can you do tuith or without such an 
 enterprising Fill up the blank I 
 
 leave. I cannot find a word bad enough. 
 
 LETTER XXVI. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 Friday, three o'clock. 
 You incense, alarm, and terrify me, at the same 
 time hasten, my dearest friend, hasten to me, 
 what further intelligence you can gather about 
 this vilest of men. 
 
 But never talk of innocence, of simplicity and 
 this unhappy girl together. Must she not know, 
 that such a man as that, dignified in his very as- 
 pect ; and no disguise able to conceal his being of 
 condition; must mean too much, when he places 
 her at the upper end of his table, and calls her by 
 such tender names? Would a girl, modest as sim- 
 ple, above seventeen, be set a singing at the plea- 
 sure of such a man as that? A stranger, and pro- 
 fessedly in disguise! Would her father and grand- 
 mother, if honest people, and careful of their sim- 
 ple girl, permit such freedoms ? 
 
 Keep his friend at distance from her! To be 
 sure his designs are villanous, if they have not 
 been already effected. 
 
 Warn, my dear, if not too late, the unthinking 
 father of his child's danger. There cannot be a 
 father in the world who would sell his child's vir- 
 tue. No mother! The poor thing!
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 165 
 
 I long to hear the result of your intelligence. 
 You shall see the simple creature you tell me. Let 
 me know what sort of a girl she is. A sweet pretty 
 girl! you say. A sweet pretty girl, my dear! 
 They are sweet pretty words from your pen. But 
 are they yours or his of her ? If she be so simple, 
 if she have ease and nature in her manner, in her 
 speech, and warbles prettily her wild notes, such a 
 girl as that must engage such a profligate wretch 
 (as now indeed I doubt this man is), accustomed, 
 perhaps, to town women, and their confident ways. 
 Must deeply, and for a long season, engage him : 
 since perhaps when her innocence is departed, she 
 will endeavour by heart to supply the loss of the na- 
 tural charms which now engage him. 
 
 Fine hopes of such a wretch's reformation! I 
 would not, my dear, for the world, have any thing 
 to say but I need not make resolutions. I have 
 not opened, nor will I open, his letter. A syco- 
 phant creature ! with his hoarsenesses got per- 
 haps by a midnight revel, singing to his wild-note 
 singer, and only increased in the coppice! 
 
 To be already on a foot ! In his esteem, I mean : 
 for myself I despise him. I hate myself almost for 
 writing so much about him, and of such a simpleton 
 as this sweet pretty girl, as you call her : but no one 
 can be either sweet or pretty that is not modest, 
 that is not virtuous. 
 
 And now, my dear, I will tell you how I came 
 to put you upon this inquiry. 
 
 This vile Joseph Leman had given a hint to Betty, 
 and she to me, as if Lovelace would be found out to 
 be a very bad man, at a place where he had been 
 lately seen in disguise. But he would see further, he 
 said, before he told her more; and she promised 
 secrecy, in hope to get at further intelligence. I 
 thought it could be no harm, to get you to inform 
 
 VOL. II. Q
 
 166 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 yourself and me of what could be gathered*. And 
 now I see his enemies are but too well warranted 
 in their reports of him : and, if the ruin of this poor 
 young creature be his aim, and if he had not known 
 her but for his visits to Harlowe Place, I shall have 
 reason to be doubly concerned for her ; and doubly 
 incensed against so vile a man. 
 
 I think I hate him worse than I do Solmes him- 
 self. 
 
 But I will not add one more word about him ; af- 
 ter I have told you, that I wish to know as soon as 
 
 * It will be seen in Vol. I. Letter xxxiv. that Mr. Love- 
 lace's motive for sparing his Rosebud was twofold. First, 
 because his pride was gratified by the grandmother's desi- 
 ring him to spare her granddaughter. ' Many a pretty rogue 
 says he, ' had I spared, whom I did not spare, had my 
 power been acknowledged, and my mercy in time implored. 
 But the debellare superbos should be my motto were I to 
 have a new one.' 
 
 His other motive will be explained in the following pas- 
 sage, in the same. 'I never was so honest, for so long toge- 
 ther,' says he, 'since my matriculation. It behoves me so to 
 be. Some lomj or other my recess [at this little innj may be 
 fonnd out, and it then will be thought that my Rosebud 
 h.is attracted me. A report in my favour from simplici- 
 ties so amiable, may establish me,' &c. 
 
 Accordingly, as the reader will hereafter see, Mr. Love- 
 lace finds, by the effects, his expectations from the coutri 
 Vance be set on foot by means of his agent Joseph Leman 
 (who plays, as above, upon Betty Barnes) fully answered, 
 though he could not know what passed on the occasion be- 
 tween the two ladies. 
 
 This explanation is the more, necessary to be given, as 
 several of our readers (through want of due attention) 
 have attributed to Mr. Lovelace, on his behaviour to his 
 Rosebud, a greater merit than was due to him; and more- 
 over imagined, that it was improbable that a man, who was 
 capable of acting so generously (as they supposed) in this 
 instance, should be guilty of any atrocious vileness. Not con- 
 sidering that love, pride, and revenge, as he owns in Vol. I. 
 Letter xxxi. were ingredients of equal force in his com- 
 position, and that resistance was a stimulus to him.
 
 CLARISSA MARLOWE. 167 
 
 possible what further occurs from your inquiry. I 
 have a letter from him ; but shall not open it till 
 I do: and then, if it come out, as I dare say it will, I 
 will directly put the letter unopened into the place 
 I took it from, and never trouble myself more about 
 him. Adieu, my dearest friend. 
 
 CL. HARLOWE. 
 
 LETTER XXVII. 
 
 MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE. 
 
 Friday noon, March 31. 
 Justice obliges me to forward this after my last 
 on the wings of the wind, as I may say. I really 
 believe the man is innocent. Of this one accusa- 
 tion I think he must be acquitted; and I am sorry 
 I was so forward in dispatching away my intelli- 
 gence by halves. 
 
 I have seen the girl. She is really a very pretty, 
 a very neat, and, what is still a greater beauty, a 
 very innocent young creature. He who could 
 have ruined such an undesigning home-bred, must 
 have been indeed infernally wicked. Her father 
 is an honest simple man; entirely satisfied with his 
 child, and with her new acquaintance. 
 
 I am almost afraid for your heart, when I tell 
 you, that I find, now I have got to the bottom of 
 this inquiry, something noble Come out in this 
 Lovelace's favour. 
 
 The girl is to be married next week; and this 
 promoted and brought about by him. He is re- 
 solved, her father says, to make one couple happy, 
 and wishes he could make more soother e sjbr you, 
 my dear!'] And having taken a liking also to the 
 young fellow whom she professes to love, he has 
 Q 2
 
 168 THE HISTORY 0? 
 
 given her an hundred pounds: the grandmother 
 actually has it in her hands, -to answer to the like 
 sum given to the youth by one of his own relations : 
 while Mr. Lovelace's companion, attracted by the 
 example, has given twenty-five guineas to the fa- 
 ther, who is poor, towards clothes to equip the 
 pretty rustic. 
 
 Mr. Lovelace and his friend, the poor man says, 
 when they first came to his house, affected to ap- 
 pear as persons of low degree; but now he knows 
 the one (but mentioned it in confidence) to be 
 Colonel Barrow, the other Captain Sloane. The 
 Colonel, he owns, was at first very siveet upon his 
 girl: but upon her grandmother's begging of him 
 to spare her innocence, he vowed, that he would 
 never offer any thing but good counsel to her. He 
 kept his word ; and the pretty fool acknowledged, 
 that she could never have been better instructed 
 by the minister himself from the Bible book! The 
 girl pleased me so well, that I made her visit to me 
 worth her while. 
 
 But what, my dear, will become of us now? 
 Lovelace not only reformed, but turned preacher; 
 What will become of us now? Why, my sweet 
 friend, your generosity is now engaged in his fa- 
 vour Fie upon this generosity ! I think in my heart 
 that it does as much mischief to the noble-minded 
 as love to the ignobler. What before was only a 
 conditional liking, I am now afraid will turn to li- 
 king unconditional. 
 
 I could not endure to change my invective into 
 panegyric all at once, and so soon. We, or such 
 as I at least, love to keep ourselves in countenance 
 for a rash judgment, even when we know it to be 
 rash. Every body has not your gerterosit) r in con- 
 fessing a mistake. It requires a greatness of soul 
 frankly to do it. So I made still further inquiry
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 169 
 
 after his life and manners, and behaviour there, in 
 hopes to find something bad: but all uniform! 
 
 Upon the whole, Mr. Lovelace comes out with 
 so much advantage from this inquiry, that were 
 there the least room for it, I should suspect the 
 whole to be a plot set on foot to tvash a blackamore 
 white. Adieu, my dear. 
 
 ANNA HOWE. 
 
 LETTER XXVIII. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 Saturday, April I. 
 Hasty censurers do indeed subject themselves to 
 the charge of variableness and inconsistency in 
 judgment: and so they ought: for, if you, even 
 you, my dear, were so loth to own a mistake, as in 
 the instance before us you pretend you were, I be- 
 lieve I should not have loved you so well as I really 
 do love you. Nor could you, in that case, have so 
 frankly thrown the reflection I hint at upon your- 
 self, had not your mind been one of the most in- 
 genuous that ever woman boasted. 
 
 Mr. Lovelace has faults enow to deserve very 
 severe censure, although he be not guilty of this. 
 If I were upon such terms with him as he could 
 wish me to be, I should give him a hint, that this 
 treacherous Joseph Leman cannot be so muck at- 
 tached to him as perhaps he thinks him to be. If 
 he were, he would not have been so ready to re- 
 port to his disadvantage (and to Betty Barnes too) 
 this slight affair of the pretty rustic. Joseph has 
 engaged Betty to secresy; promising to let her, 
 and her young master too, know more when he 
 knows the whole of the matter; and this hinders
 
 170 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 her from mentioning it, as she is nevertheless eager 
 to do, to my sister or brother. And then she does 
 not choose to disoblige Joseph : for although she 
 pretends to look above him, she listens, I believe, 
 to some love stories he tells her. 
 
 Women having it not in their power to begin a 
 courtship, some of them very frequently, I believe, 
 lend an ear where their hearts incline not. 
 
 But to say no more of these low people, neither 
 of whom I think tolerably of; I must needs own, 
 that as I should for ever have despised this man, 
 had he been capable of such a vile intrigue in his 
 way to Harlowe Place, and as I believed he teas 
 capable of it, it has indeed [I own it has] propor- 
 tionably engaged my generosity, as you call it, in 
 his favour: perhaps more than I may have reason to 
 wish it had. And, rally me as you will, pray tell 
 me fairly, my dear, would it not have had such an 
 effect upon you ? 
 
 Then the real generosity of the act. I protest, 
 my beloved friend, if he would be good for the rest 
 of his life from this time, I would forgive him a 
 great many of his past errors, were it only for the 
 demonstration he has given in this that he is capa- 
 ble of so good and bountiful a manner of thinking. 
 
 You may believe I made no scruple to open his 
 letter, after the receipt of your second on this sub- 
 ject ; nor shall I of answering it, as I have no rea- 
 son to find fault with it. An article in his favour 
 procured him, however, so much the easier (I must 
 own) by way of amends for the undue displeasure 
 I took against him, though he knows it not. 
 
 It is lucky enough that this matter was cleared 
 up to me by your friendly diligence so soon : for 
 had I written before it was, it would have been 
 to reinforce my dismission of him; and perhaps I 
 should have mentioned the very motive; for it af-
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 171 
 
 fected me more than I think it ought: and then, 
 what an advantage would that have given him, 
 when he could have cleared up the matter so hap- 
 pily for himself? 
 
 When I send you this letter of his, you will see 
 how very humble he is: what acknowledgments of 
 natural impatience : what confession of faults, as 
 you prognosticated. 
 
 Avery different appearance, I must own, all these 
 make, now the story of the pretty rustic is cleared 
 up, to what they would have made, had it not. 
 
 You will see how he accounts to me, ' that he 
 could not, by reason of indisposition, come for my 
 letter in person :' and the forward creature labours 
 the point, as if he thought I should be uneasy that 
 he did not. I am indeed sorry he should be ill on 
 my account; and I will allow, that the suspense 
 he has been in for some time past must have been 
 vexatious enough to so impatient a spirit. But all 
 is owing originally to himself. 
 
 You will find him in the presumption of being 
 forgiven, ' full of contrivances and expedients for 
 my escaping the threatened compulsion.' 
 
 I have always said, that next to being without 
 fault, is the acknowledgment of a fault; since no 
 amendment can be expected where an error is de- 
 fended : but you will see in this very letter, an 
 haughtiness even in his submissions. 'Tis true, I 
 know not where to find fault as to the expression ; 
 yet cannot I be satisfied, that his humility is humi- 
 lity; or even an humility upon such conviction as 
 one should be pleased with. 
 
 To be sure, he is far from being a polite man : 
 yet is not directly and characteristically, as I may 
 say, impolite. But his is such a sort of politeness, 
 as has by a carelessness founded on very early in- 
 dulgence, and perhaps on too much success in riper
 
 172 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 years, and an arrogance built upon both, grown 
 into assuredness, and, of course, I may say, into 
 indelicacy. 
 
 The distance you recommend at which to keep 
 these men, is certainly right in the main : familia- 
 rity destroys reverence : but with whom ? Not 
 with those, surely, who "are prudent, grateful, and 
 generous. 
 
 But it is very difficult for persons, who would 
 avoid running into one extreme to keep clear of 
 another. Hence Mr. Lovelace perhaps, thinks, it 
 the mark of a great spirit to humour his pride, 
 though at the expense of his politeness: but can 
 the man be a deep man, who knows not how to 
 make such distinctions as a person of but moderate 
 parts cannot miss? 
 
 He complains heavily of my ' readiness to take 
 mortal offence at him, and to dismiss him for ever : 
 it is a high conduct, he says, he must be frank 
 enough to tell me; a conduct that must be very 
 far from contributing to allay his apprehensions of 
 the possibility that I may be persecuted into my 
 relations' measures in behalf of Mr. Solmes.' 
 
 You will see how he puts his present and his 
 future happiness, ' with regard to both worlds, en- 
 tirely upon me.' The ardour with which he vows 
 and promises, I think the heart only can dictate : 
 how else can one guess at a man's heart? 
 
 You will also see, ' that he has already heard of 
 the interview I am to have with Mr. Solmes;' and 
 with what vehemence and anguish he expresses 
 himself on the occasion. I intend to take proper 
 notice of the ignoble means he stoops to, to 
 come at his early intelligence out of our family. 
 If persons pretending to principle bear not their 
 testimony against unprincipled actions, what check 
 can they have?
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 17S 
 
 You will see, ' how passionately he presses me 
 to oblige him with a few lines before the interview 
 between Mr. Solmes and me takes place, if (as he 
 says) it must take place, to confirm his hope, that 
 I have no view, in my present displeasure against 
 him, to give encouragement to Solmes. An appre- 
 hension, he says, that he must be excused for re- 
 peating; especially as the interview is a favour 
 granted to that man which I have refused to him; 
 since, as he infers, were it not with such an expec- 
 tation, why should my friends press it?' 
 * * # 
 
 I have written, and to this effect: That I had 
 never intended to write another line to a man, who 
 could take upon himself to reflect upon my sex and 
 myself, for having thought fit to make use of my 
 own judgment. 
 
 ' I tell him that I have submitted to this interview 
 with Mr. Solmes, purely as an act of duty to shew 
 my friends that I will comply with their commands 
 as far as I can ; and that I hope, when Mr. Solmes 
 himself shall see how determined I am, he will 
 cease to prosecute a suit in which it is impossible 
 he should succeed with my consent. 
 
 'I assure him, that my aversion to Mr. Solmes is 
 too sincere to permit me to doubt myself on this 
 occasion. But, nevertheless, he must not imagine 
 that my rejecting of Mr. Solmes is in favour to 
 him. That I value my freedom and independency 
 too much, if my friends will but leave me to my 
 own judgment, to give them up to a man so uncon- 
 trollable, and who shews me beforehand what I 
 have to expect from him, were I in his power. 
 
 1 1 express my high disapprobation of the methods 
 he takes to come at what passes in a private family : 
 the pretence of corrupting other peoples' servants 
 by way of reprisal for the spies they have set upon
 
 174- THE HISTORY OF 
 
 him I tell him is a very poor excuse; and no more 
 than an attempt to justify one meanness by another. 
 ' There is, I observe to him, a right and a 
 ivrong in every thing, let people put what glosses 
 they please upon their actions. To condemn a de- 
 viation, and to follow it by as great a one, what, I 
 ask him, is this, but propagating a general corrup- 
 tion? A stand must be made by somebody, turn 
 round the evil as many as may, or virtue will be 
 lost: and shall it not be I, a worthy mind would 
 ask, that shall make this stand? 
 
 * I leave him to judge, whether hit be a worthy 
 one, tried by this rule: and whether, knowing 
 the impetuosity of his own disposition, and the im- 
 probability there is that my father and family will 
 ever be reconciled to him, I ought to encourage his 
 hopes? 
 
 These spots and blemishes, I further tell him, 
 give me not earnestness enough for any sake but 
 his oven, to wish him in a juster and nobler train of 
 thinking and acting; for that I truly despise many 
 of the ways he allows himself in ; our minds are 
 therefore infinitely different: and as to his pro- 
 fessions of reformation, I must tell him, that pro- 
 fuse acknowledgments, without amendment, are 
 but to me as so many anticipating concessions, 
 which he may find much easier to make than either 
 to defend himself or amend his errors. 
 
 ' I inform him that I have been lately made ac- 
 quainted' [and so I have by Betty, and she by my 
 brother] ' with the weak and wanton airs he gives 
 himself of declaiming against matrimony. I se- 
 verely reprehend him on this occasion : and ask 
 him with what view he can take so witless, so 
 despicable a liberty, in which only the most aban- 
 doned of men allow themselves, and yet presume 
 to address me?
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWli. 175 
 
 * I tell him, that if I am obliged to go to my 
 uncle Antony's, it is not to be inferred, that I must 
 therefore necessarily be Mr. Solmes's wife: since I 
 may not be so sure perhaps that the same exceptions 
 lie so strongly against my quitting a house to which 
 I shall be forcibly carried, as if I left my father's 
 house; and, at the worst, I may be able to keep 
 them in suspense till my cousin Morden comes, 
 who will have a right to put me in possession of 
 my grandfather's estate if I insist upon it.' 
 
 This, I doubt, is somewhat of an artifice ; which 
 can only be excusable, as it is principally designed 
 to keep him out of mischief. For I have but little 
 hope, if carried thither, whether sensible or sense- 
 less, if I am left to the mercy of my brother and 
 sister, but they will endeavour to force the solemn 
 obligation upon me. Otherwise, were there but 
 any prospect of avoiding this, by delaying (or even 
 by taking things to make me ill, if nothing else 
 would do) till my cousin comes, I hope I should 
 not think of leaving even my uncle's house. For I 
 should not know how to square it to my own prin- 
 ciples, to dispense with the duty I owe to my fa- 
 ther, wherever it should be his will to place me. 
 
 But while you give me the charming hope, that, 
 in order to avoid one man, I shall not be under the 
 necessity of throwing myself upon the friends of 
 the other, I think my case not absolutely despe- 
 rate. 
 
 * # # 
 
 I see not any of my family, nor hear from them 
 in any way of kindness. This looks as if they 
 themselves expected no great matters from that 
 Tuesday's conference which makes my heart flut- 
 ter every time I think of it. 
 
 My uncle Antony's presence on the occasion I 
 do not much like ; but I had rather meet him than 
 8
 
 176 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 my brother or sister: yet my uncle is very impe- 
 tuous. I can't think Mr. Lovelace can be much 
 more so; at least he cannot look anger as my 
 uncle, with his harder features, can. These sea- 
 prospered gentlemen, as my uncle has often made 
 me think, not used to any but elemental control, 
 and even ready to buffet that, bluster often as vio- 
 lently as the winds they are accustomed to be 
 angry at. 
 
 I believe Mr. Solmes will look as much like a 
 fool as I shall do, if it be true, as my uncle Har- 
 lowe writes, and as Betty often tells me, that he is 
 as much afraid of seeing me as I am of seeing him. 
 
 Adieu, my happy, thrice happy Miss Howe, who 
 have no hard terms affixed to your duty ! Who 
 have nothing to do but to fall in with a choice 
 your mother has made for you, to which you have 
 not, nor can have, a just objection : except the for- 
 wardness of our sex, as our free censurers would 
 perhaps take the liberty to say, makes it one, that 
 the choice was your mother's at first hand. Perverse 
 nature, we know, loves not to be prescribed to ; 
 although youth is not so well qualified, either by 
 sedateness or experience, to choose for itself. 
 
 To knoto your own happiness, and that it is notv, 
 nor to leave it to after -reflection to look back upon 
 the preferable past with a heavy and self-accusing 
 heart, that you did not choose it when you might 
 have chosen it, is all that is necessary to complete 
 your felicity! And this power is wished you by 
 
 Your 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 177 
 
 LETTER XXIX. 
 
 MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE. 
 
 Saturday, April 1. 
 I ought yesterday to have acknowledged the re- 
 ceipt of your parcel : Robin tells me, that the 
 Joseph Leman, whom you mention as the traitor, 
 saw him. He was in the poultry-yard, and spoke 
 to Robin over the bank which divides that from 
 the Green-Lane. ' What brings you hither, Mr. 
 Robert ? But I can tell. Hie away as fast as 
 you can.' 
 
 No doubt but their dependence upon this fel- 
 low's vigilance, and upon Betty's, leaves you more 
 at liberty in your airings than you would otherwise 
 be. But you are the only person I ever heard of, 
 who in such circumstances had not some faithful 
 servant to trust little offices to. A poet, my dear, 
 would not have . gone to work for an Angelica, 
 without giving her her Violetta, her Cleanthe, her 
 Clelia, or some such pretty named confidante an 
 old nurse at the least. 
 
 I read to my mother several passages of your 
 letters. But your last paragraph in your yester- 
 day's quite charmed her. You have won her heart 
 by it she told me. And while her fit of gratitude 
 for it lasted, I was thinking to make my proposal, 
 and to press it with all the eai'nestness I could give 
 it, when Hickman came in, making his legs, and 
 stroaking his cravat and ruffles. 
 
 I could most freely have ruffled him for it. As 
 it was Sir, said I, saw you not some of the ser- 
 vants? Could not one of them have come in be- 
 fore you ? 
 
 VOL. II. R
 
 178 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 He begged pardon: looked as if he knew not 
 whether he had best keep his ground or withdraw -. 
 till my mother, his fast friend, interposed 
 Why, Nancy, we are not upon particulars. Pray, 
 Mr. Hickman, sit down. 
 
 By your le ave, good madam, to me. You 
 know his drawl, when his muscles give him the 
 respectful hesitation 
 
 Ay, ay, pray sit down, honest man, if you are 
 weary but by my mamma, if you please. I de- 
 sire my hoop may have its full circumference. All 
 they're good for, that I know, is to clean dirty 
 shoes, and to keep fellows at a distance. 
 
 Strange girl ! cried my mother, displeased ; but 
 with a milder turn, ay, ay, Mr. Hickman, sit down 
 by me; I have no such forbidding folly in my 
 dress. 
 
 I looked serious: and in my heart was glad this 
 speech of hers was not made to your uncle Antony. 
 
 My mother, with the true widow's freedom, 
 would mighty prudently have led into the subject 
 we had been upon ; and would have had read to 
 him, I question not, that very paragraph in your 
 letter which is so much in his favour. He was 
 highly obliged to dear Miss Harlowe, she would as- 
 sure him ; that she did say 
 
 But I asked him, if he had any news by his last 
 letters from London a question which he always 
 understands to be a subject changer; for otherwise 
 I never put it. And so if he be but silent, I am 
 not angry with him that he answers it not. 
 
 I choose not to mention my proposal before him, 
 till I know how it will be relished by my mother. 
 If it be not well received; perhaps I may employ 
 him on the occasion. Yet I don't like to owe him 
 an obligation, if I could help it. For men who have 
 his views in their heads, do bo parade it, so strut
 
 CLARISSA HARL0WE. 179 
 
 about, if a woman condescend to employ them in 
 her affairs, that one has no patience with them. 
 
 However, if \fnd not an opportunity this day, 
 I will make one to-morrow. 
 
 I shall not open either of your sealed up parcels, 
 but in your presence. There is no need. Your 
 conduct is out of all question with me : and by the 
 extracts you have given me from his letters and 
 your own, I know all that relates to the present 
 situation of things between you. 
 
 I was going to give you a little flippant hint or 
 two. But since you wish to be thought superior to 
 all our sex in the command of yourself; and since 
 indeed you deserve to be thought so, I will spare 
 you. You are, however, at times, more than half 
 inclined to speak out. That you do not, is only 
 owing to a little bashful struggle between you and 
 yourself, as I may say. When that is quite got 
 over, I know you will favour me undisguisedly 
 with the result. 
 
 I cannot forgive your taking upon you (at so 
 extravagant a rate too) to pay my mother's ser- 
 vant. Indeed I am, and I mil be, angry with you 
 for it. A year's wages at once well nigh! only as, 
 unknown to my mother, I make it better for the 
 servants according to their merits how it made 
 the man stare ! And it may be his ruin too, as far 
 as I know. If he should buy a ring, and marry a 
 sorry body in the neighbourhood with the money, 
 one would be loth, a twelvemonth hence, that the 
 poor old fellow should think he had reason to wish 
 the bounty never conferred. 
 
 / must give you your way in these things, you 
 say. And I know there is no contradicting you : 
 for you were ever putting too great a value upon 
 little offices done for you, and too little upon the 
 great ones you do for others. The satisfaction you 
 r 2
 
 180 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 have in doing so, I grant it, repays you. But 
 why should you, by the nobleness of your mind, 
 throw reproaches upon the rest of the world? Par- 
 ticularly upon your own family and upon ours 
 too? 
 
 If, as I have heard you say, it is a good rule to 
 give words the hearing, but to form our judgments 
 of men and things by deeds only, what shall we 
 think of one, who seeks to find palliatives in tvords 
 for narrowness of heart in the very persons her 
 deeds so silently, yet so forcibly reflect upon? 
 Why blush you not, my dear friend, to be thus 
 singular? When you meet with another person 
 whose mind is like your own, then display your 
 excellencies as you please: but till then, for pity's 
 sake, let your heart and your spirit suffer a little 
 contraction. 
 
 I intended to write but a few lines ; chiefly to let 
 you know your parcels are come safe. And ac- 
 cordingly I began in a large hand ; and I am al- 
 ready come to the end of my second sheet. But I 
 could write a quire without hesitation upon a sub- 
 ject so copious and so beloved as is your praise. 
 Not for this single instance of your generosity; 
 since I am really angry with you for it; but for 
 the benevolence exemplified in the whole tenor of 
 your life and actions ; of which this is but a com- 
 mon instance. Heaven direct you in your own ar- 
 duous trials is all I have room to add ; and make 
 you as happy as you think to be 
 
 Your own 
 
 ANNA HOWE.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 181 
 
 LETTER XXX. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 Sunday night, April 2. 
 I have many new particulars to acquaint you 
 with, that shew a great change in the behaviour of 
 my friends to me. I did not think we had so much 
 art among us as I find we have. I will give these 
 particulars to you as they offered. 
 
 All the family was at church in the morning. 
 They brought good Dr. Lewen with them, in pur- 
 suance of a previous invitation. And the doctor 
 sent up to desire my permission to attend me in 
 my own apartment. 
 
 You may believe it was easily granted. 
 So the doctor came up. i 
 
 We had a conversation of near an hour before 
 dinner : but, to my surprise, he waved every thing 
 that would have led to the subject I supposed he 
 wanted to talk upon. At last, I asked him, if it 
 were not thought strange I should be so long ab- 
 sent from church? He made me some handsome 
 compliments upon it: but said, for his part, he had 
 ever made it a rule, to avoid interfering in the pri- 
 vate concerns of families, unless desired to do so. 
 
 I was prodigiously disappointed : but supposing 
 that he was thought too just a man to be made a 
 judge in this cause, I led no more to it : nor, when 
 he was called down to dinner, did he take the least 
 notice of leaving me behind him there. 
 
 But this was not the first time since my confine- 
 ment that I thought it a hardship not to dine be- 
 low. And when I parted with him on the stairs, a 
 tear would burst its way; and he hurried down: his 
 own good-natured eyes glistening; for he saw it. 
 r3
 
 182 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 Nor trusted he, his voice, lest the accent I suppose 
 should have discovered his concern: departing in 
 silence, though with his usual graceful obliging- 
 ness. 
 
 I hear that he praised me, and my part in the 
 conversation that passed between us. To shew 
 them, I suppose, that it was not upon the interest- 
 ing subjects which I make no doubt he was de- 
 sired not to enter upon. 
 
 He left me so dissatisfied, yet so perplexed with 
 this new way of treatment, that I never found my- 
 self so much disconcerted, and out of my train. 
 
 But I was to be more so. This was to be a day 
 of puzzle to me. Pregnant puzzle, if I may so 
 say:, for there must great meaning lie behind it. 
 
 In the afternoon, all but my brother and sister 
 went to church with the good doctor, who left his 
 compliments for me. I took a walk in the garden : 
 my brother and sister walked in it too, and kept 
 roe in their eye a good while, on purpose, as I 
 thought, that I might see how gay and good-hu- 
 moured they were together. At last they came 
 down the walk that I was coming up, hand-in- 
 hand, lover-like. 
 
 Your servant, miss your servant, sir passed 
 between my brother and me. 
 
 Is it not cold-ish, sister Clary! in a kinder voice 
 than usual, said my sister, and stopped. I stopped 
 and courtesied low to her half-courtesy. I think 
 not sister, said I. 
 
 She went on. I courtesied without return ; and 
 proceeded, turning to my poultry-yard. 
 
 By a shorter turn, arm-in-arm, they were there 
 before me. 
 
 I think, Clary, said my brother, you must pre- 
 sent me with some of this breed for Scotland. 
 If you please, brother.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 183 
 
 I'll choose for you, said my sister. 
 
 And while I fed them, they pointed to half a 
 dozen : yet intending nothing by it, I believe, but 
 to shew a deal of love and good humour to each 
 other before me. 
 
 My uncles next, (at their return from church) 
 were to do me the honour of their notice. They 
 bid Betty tell me, they would drink tea with me in 
 my own apartment. Now, thought I, I shall have 
 the subject of next Tuesday, enforced upon me. 
 
 But they contradicted the order for tea, and 
 only my uncle Harlowe came up to me. 
 
 Half-distant, half-affectionate, at his entering 
 my chamber, was the air he put on to his daughter- 
 niece, as he used to call me; and I threw myself at 
 his feet, and besought his favour. 
 
 None of these discomposures, child. None of 
 these apprehensions. You will now have every 
 body's favour. All is coming about, my dear. I 
 was impatient to see you. I could no longer deny 
 myself this satisfaction. He then raised me, and 
 kissed me, and called me charming creature. 
 
 But he waved entering into any interesting sub- 
 ject. All will be well now. All will be right. 
 No more complainings ! Every body loves you! 
 I only came to make my earliest court to you! 
 [were his condescending words] and to sit and 
 talk of twenty and twenty fond things, as I used to 
 do. And let every past disagreeable thing be for- 
 gotten, as if nothing had happened. 
 
 He understood me as beginning to hint at the 
 disgrace of my confinement no disgrace, my dear, 
 can fall to your lot: your reputation is too well 
 established. I longed to see you, repeated he I 
 have seen nobody half so amiable since I saw you 
 last. 
 
 And again he kissed my cheek, my glowing
 
 184 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 cheek; for I was impatient, I was vexed, to be 
 thus, as I thought, played upon: and how could I 
 be thankful for a visit, that (it now was evident) 
 was only a too humble artifice, to draw me in against 
 the next Tuesday, or to leave me inexcusable to 
 them all? 
 
 O my cunning brother! this is his contrivance. 
 And then my anger made me recollect the triumph 
 in his and my sister's fondness for each other, as 
 practised before me; and the mingled indignation 
 flashing from their eyes, as arm-in-arm they spoke 
 to me, and the forced condescension playing upon 
 their lips when they called me Clary and sister. 
 
 Do you think I could, with these reflections, 
 look upon my uncle Harlowe's visit as the favour 
 he seemed desirous I should think it to be? In- 
 deed I. could not; and seeing him so studiously 
 avoid all recrimination, as I may call it, I gave 
 into the affectation ; and followed him in his talk of 
 indifferent things: while he seemed to admire this 
 thing and that, as if he had never seen them be- 
 fore; and now-and-then condescendingly kissed 
 the hand that wrought some of the things he fixed 
 his eyes upon ; not so much to admire them, as to 
 find subjects to divert what was most in his head 
 and in my heart. 
 
 At his going away how can I leave you here 
 by yourself, my dear? You, whose company used 
 to enliven us all. You are not expected down, in- 
 deed : but I protest I have a good mind to surprise 
 your father and mother! If I thought nothing 
 would arise that would be disagreeable my dear ! 
 my love! [O the dear artful gentleman! How 
 could my uncle Harlowe so dissemble?] What say 
 you? Will you give me your hand? Will you see 
 your father? Can you stand his displeasure, on first 
 seeing the dear creature who has given him and all
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 185 
 
 of us so much disturbance? Can you promise fu- 
 ture 
 
 He saw me rising in my temper nay, my dear, 
 interrupting himself, if you cannot be all resigna- 
 tion, I would not have you think of it. 
 
 My heart, struggling between duty and warmth 
 of temper, was full. You know, my dear, I never 
 could bear to be dealt meanly with! How how 
 can you, sir! You my papa-uncle how can you, 
 sir! The poor girl ! For I could not speak with 
 connexion. 
 
 Nay, my dear, if you cannot be all duty, all re- 
 signation better stay where you are. But after 
 the instance you have given 
 
 Instance I have given! What instance, sir? 
 
 Well, well, child, better stay where you are, if 
 your past confinement hangs so heavy upon you 
 but now there will be a sudden end to it adieu, 
 my dear! Three words only .let your compliance 
 be sincere! And love me as you used to love me 
 your grandfather did not do so much for you as 
 I will do for you. 
 
 Without suffering me to repty, he hurried away, 
 as I thought, like one who had been employed to 
 act a part against his will, and was glad it was over. 
 
 Don't you see, my dear Miss Howe, how they 
 are all determined? Have I not reason to dread 
 next Tuesday. 
 
 Up presently after came my sister : to observe, 
 I suppose, the way I was in. 
 
 She found me in tears. 
 
 Have you not a Thomas a Kempis, sister? with 
 a stiff air. 
 
 I have, madam.
 
 186 THE HISTORY OP 
 
 Madam! How long are weto.be at this dis- 
 tance, Clary? 
 
 No longer, my dear Bella, if you allow me to 
 call you sister. And I took her hand. 
 
 No fawning neither, girl! 
 
 I withdrew my hand as hastily as you may believe 
 I should have done had I, in feeling for one of your 
 parcels under the wood, been bitten by a viper. 
 
 I beg pardon, said I too-too ready to make ad- 
 vances, I am always subjecting myself to contempts. 
 
 People who know not how to keep a middle be- 
 haviour, said she, must evermore do so. 
 
 I will fetch you the Kempis, sister. I did. Here 
 it is. You will find excellent things, Bella, in that 
 little book. 
 
 I wish, retorted she, you had profited by them. 
 
 I wish you may, said I. Example from a sister 
 older than one's self, is a fine thing. 
 
 Older ! Saucy little fool! And away she flung. 
 
 What a captious old woman will my sister make, 
 if she lives to be one! demanding the reverence, 
 perhaps, yet not aiming at the merit ; and ashamed 
 of the years that only can entitle her to the reve- 
 rence. 
 
 It is plain, from what I have related, that they 
 think they have got me at some advantage by ob- 
 taining my consent to this interview : but if it were 
 not, Betty's impertinence just now would make it 
 evident. She has been complimenting me upon it ; 
 and upon the visit of my uncle Harlowe. She says, 
 the difficulty now is more than half over with 
 me. She is sure I would not see Mr. Solmes 
 but to have him. Now shall she be soon better 
 employed than of late she has been. All hands 
 will be at work. She loves dearly to have weddings 
 go forward! Who knows whose turn will be next?
 
 CLARISSA HABLOWE. 187 
 
 I found in the afternoon a reply to my answer to 
 Mr. Lovelace's letter. It is full of promises, full of 
 vows of gratitude, of eternal gratitude is his word, 
 among others still more hyperbolic. Yet Mr. Love- 
 lace, the least of any man whose letters I have 
 seen, runs into those elevated absurdities. I should 
 be apt to despise him for it if he did. Such lan- 
 guage looks always to me, as if the flatterer 
 thought to find a woman a fool, or hoped to make 
 her one. 
 
 ' He regrets my indifference to him; which puts 
 all the hope he has in my favour upon the shocking 
 usage I receive from my friends. 
 
 ' As to my charge upon him of unpoliteness and 
 uncontrolableness what [he asks] can he say ? 
 Since being unable absolutely to vindicate himself, 
 he has too much ingenuousness to attempt to do so : 
 yet is struck dumb by my harsh construction, that 
 his acknowledging temper is owing more to his 
 carelessness to defend himself than to his inclina- 
 tion to amend. He had never before met with the 
 objections against his morals which I had raised, 
 justly raised: and he was resolved to obviate them. 
 What is it, he asks, that he has promised, but re- 
 formation by my example ? And what occasion for 
 the promise, if he had not faults, and those very 
 great ones, to reform? He hopes acknowledg- 
 ment of an error is no bad sign, although my se- 
 vere virtue has interpreted it into me. 
 
 ' He believes I may be right {severely right, he 
 calls it) in my judgment against making reprisals 
 in the case of the intelligence he receives from my 
 family : he cannot charge himself to be of a tem- 
 per that leads him to be inquisitive into any body's 
 private affairs : but hopes that the circumstances 
 of the cose, and the strange conduct of my friends,
 
 188 THE HISTORY OP 
 
 will excuse him ; especially when so much de- 
 pends upon his knowing the movements of a family 
 so violently bent, by measures right or wrong, to 
 carry their point against me in malice to him. 
 People, he says,. who act like angels, ought to have 
 angels to deal with. For his part, he has not yet 
 learned the difficult lesson of returning good for 
 evil: and shall think himself the less encouraged 
 to learn it by the treatment I have met with from 
 the very persons who would trample upon him as 
 they do upon me, were he to lay himself under 
 their feet. 
 
 ' He excuses himself for the liberties he owns he 
 has heretofore taken in ridiculing the marriage 
 state. It is a subject, he says, that he has not of 
 late treated so lightly. He owns it to be so trite, 
 so beaten a topic with all libertines and witlings; 
 so frothy, so empty, so nothing-meaning, so worn- 
 out a theme, that he is heartily ashamed of himself 
 ever to have made it his. He condemns it as a 
 stupid reflection upon the laws and good order of 
 society, and upon a man's own ancestors : and in 
 himself, who has some reason to value himself upon 
 his descent and alliances, more censurable than in 
 those who have not the same advantage to boast of. 
 He promises to be more circumspect than ever, 
 both in his words and actions, that he may be 
 more and more worthy of my approbation; and 
 that he may give an assurance beforehand, that a 
 foundation is laid in his mind for my example to 
 work upon with equal reputation and ^ffect to us 
 both: if he may be so happy to call me his. 
 
 ' He gives me up as absolutely lost if I go to my 
 uncle Antony's; the close confinement; the moated 
 house; the chapel; the implacableness of my bro- 
 ther and sister, and their power over the rest of the
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 189 
 
 family, he sets forth in strong lights; and plainly 
 says, that he must have a struggle to prevent my 
 being carried thither.' 
 
 Your kind, your generous endeavours to interest 
 your mother in my behalf, will, I hope, prevent 
 those harsher extremities to which I might be 
 otherwise driven. And to you I will fly, if per- 
 mitted, and keep all my promises of not corres- 
 ponding with any body, not seeing any body, but 
 by your mother's direction and yours. 
 
 I will close and deposit at this place. It is not 
 necessary to say how much I am 
 
 Your ever affectionate and obliged 
 
 CL. HARLOWE. 
 
 LETTER XXXh 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 I am glad my papers are safe in your hands. I will 
 make it my endeavour to deserve your good opi- 
 nion that I may not at once disgrace your judg- 
 ment and my own heart. 
 
 I have another letter from Mr. Lovelace. He is 
 extremely apprehensive of the meeting I am to 
 have with Mr. Solmes to-morrow. He says, ' that 
 the airs that wretch gives himself on the occasion 
 add to his concern; and it is with infinite difficulty 
 that he prevails upon himself not to make him a 
 visit to let him know what he may expect, if com- 
 pulsion be used towards me in his favour. He as- 
 sures me that Solmes has actually talked with trades- 
 men of new equipages, and names the people in 
 town with whom he has treated: that he has even' 
 [was there ever such a horrid wretch !] ' allotted this 
 
 VOL. II. s
 
 190 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 and that apartment in his house for a nursery and 
 other offices.' 
 
 How shall I bear to hear such a creature talk of 
 love to me? I shall be out of all patience with him. 
 Besides, I thought that he did not dare to make or 
 talk of these impudent preparations. So inconsis- 
 tent as such are with my brother's views but I fly 
 the subject. 
 
 Upon this confidence of Solmes, you will less 
 wonder at that of Lovelace, ' in pressing me in the 
 name of all his family to escape from so determined 
 a violence as is intended to be offered to me at my 
 uncle's: that the forward contriver should propose 
 Lord M.'s chariot and six to be at the stile that 
 leads up to the lonely coppice adjoining to our 
 paddock. You will see how audaciously he men- 
 tions settlements ready drawn ; horsemen ready to 
 mount , and one of his cousins Montague to be in 
 the chariot, or at the George in the neighbouring 
 village waiting to accompany me to Lord M.'s, or 
 to Lady Betty's or Lady Sarah's, or to town, as I 
 please; and upon such orders, or conditions, and 
 under such restrictions as to himself as I shall pre- 
 scribe.' 
 
 You will see how he threatens, ' to watch and 
 way-lay them, and to rescue me, as he calls it, by an 
 armed force of friends and servants, if they attempt 
 to carry me against my will to my uncles; and 
 this whether I give my consent to the enterprise or 
 not: since he shall have no hopes if I am once 
 there.' 
 
 O my dear friend ! who can think of these things, 
 and not be extremely miserable in her apprehen- 
 sions ! 
 
 This mischievous sex! What had I to do with 
 any of them, or they with me? I had deserved 
 this, were it by my own seeking, by my own yid-
 
 CLARISSA MARLOWE. 191 
 
 diness, that I had brought myself'into this situation 
 I wish with all my heart but how foolishly we 
 are apt to wish when we find ourselves unhappy, 
 and know not how to help ourselves! 
 
 On your mother's goodness, however, is my 
 reliance. If I can but avoid being precipitated on 
 either hand till my cousin Morden arrives, a re- 
 conciliation must follow, and all will be happy. 
 
 I have deposited a letter for Mr. Lovelace, in 
 which 'I charge him, as he would not disoblige 
 me for ever, to avoid any rash step, any visit to 
 Mr. Solmes, which may be followed by acts of 
 violence.' I re-assure him, that I will sooner die 
 than be that man's wife. , 
 
 ' Whatever be my usage, whatever shall be the 
 result of the apprehended interview, I insist upon 
 it that he presume not to offer violence to any of 
 my friends; and express myself highly displeased, 
 that he should presume upon such an interest in 
 my esteem, as to think himself entitled to dispute 
 my father's authority in my removal to my uncle's ; 
 although I tell him, that I will omit neither prayers 
 nor contrivance, even to the making of myself ill, 
 to avoid going.' 
 
 To-morrow is Tuesday ! How soon comes upon 
 us the day we dread! O that a deep sleep of 
 twenty -four hours would seize my faculties! But 
 then the next day would be Tuesday, as to all the 
 effects and purposes for which I so much dread it. 
 If this reach you before the event of the so much 
 apprehended interview can be known, pray for 
 
 Your 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE 
 
 s2
 
 192 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 LETTER XXXII. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 Tuesday morning, six o'clock. 
 The day is come! I wish it were happily over. 
 I have had a wretched night. Hardly a wink have 
 I slept, ruminating upon the approaching interview. 
 The very distance of time to which they consented, 
 has added solemnity to the meeting which other- 
 wise it would nob have had. 
 
 A thoughtful mind is not a blessing to be covet- 
 ed unless it had such a happy vivacity with it as 
 yours: a vivacity, which enables a person to enjoy 
 the present, without being over anxious about the 
 future. 
 
 Tuesday, eleven o'clock. 
 
 I have had a visit from my aunt Hervey. Betty, 
 in her alarming wa} r , told me I should have a lady 
 to breakfast with me, whom I little expected; giv- 
 ing me to believe it was my mother. This fluttered 
 me so much, on hearing a lady coming up stairs, 
 supposing it was she (and not knowing how to ac- 
 count for her motives in such a visit, after I had 
 been so long banished from her presence) that my 
 aunt, at her entrance, took notice of my disorder; 
 and after her first salutation, 
 
 Why, miss, said she, you seem surprised. Upon 
 my word, you thoughtful young ladies have strange 
 apprehensions about nothing at all. What, taking 
 my hand, can be the matter with you? Why, my 
 dear, tremble, tremble, tremble at this rate? You'll 
 not be fit to be seen by any body. Come, my 
 love, kissing my cheek, pluck up a courage. By 
 this needless flutter on the approaching interview, 
 when it is over, you will judge of your other an- 
 il
 
 CLARISSA HARIOWE. 193 
 
 tipathies, and laugh at yourself for giving way to 
 so apprehensive an imagination. 
 
 1 said, that whatever we strongly imagined, was 
 in its effects at the time, more than imaginary, al- 
 though to others it might not appear so: that I had 
 not rested one hour all night: that the impertinent 
 set over me, by giving me room to think my mo- 
 ther was coming up, had so much disconcerted me, 
 that I should be very little qualified to see any bo- 
 dy I disliked to see. 
 
 There was no accounting for these things, she 
 said. Mr. Solmes last night supposed he should be 
 under as much agitation as I could be. 
 
 Who is it, then, madam, that so reluctant an 
 interview on both sides, is to please? 
 
 Both of you, my dear, I hope, after the first 
 flurries are over. The most apprehensive begin- 
 nings, I have often known make the happiest con- 
 clusions. 
 
 There can but be one happy conclusion to the 
 intended visit; and that is, that both sides may be 
 satisfied it will be the last. 
 
 She then represented, how unhappy it would be 
 for me, if I did not suffer myself to be prevailed 
 upon: she pressed me to receive Mr. Solmes as 
 became my education: and declared, that his ap- 
 prehensions on the expectation he had of seeing 
 me were owing to his love and his awe; intimat- 
 ing that true love is ever accompanied by fear 
 and reverence; and that no blustering, braving 
 lover could deserve encouragement. 
 
 To this I answered, that constitution was to be 
 considered: that a man of spirit would act like 
 one, and could do nothing meanly: that a creeping 
 mind would creep in every thing, where it had a 
 view to obtain a benefit by it: and insult, where it 
 had power, and nothing to expect: that this was 
 S3
 
 194 THE HISTORY OP 
 
 not a point now to be determined with me: that 1 
 had said as much as I could possibly say on this 
 subject : that this interview was imposed upon me 
 by those, indeed, who had a right to impose it : 
 but that it was sorely against my will complied 
 with; and for this reason, that there was aversion, 
 not wilfulness, in the case ; and so nothing could 
 come of it, but a pretence, as I much apprehended, 
 to use me still more severely than I had been used. 
 She was then pleased to charge me with pre- 
 possession and prejudice. She expatiated upon 
 the duty of a child. She imputed to me abundance 
 of fine qualities ; but told me, that, in this case, that 
 of persuadeableness was wanting to crown all. She 
 insisted upon the merit of obedience, although my 
 will were not in it. From a little hint I gave of my 
 still greater dislike to see Mr. Solmes on account of 
 the freedom I had treated him with, she talked to 
 me of his forgiving disposition; of his infinite re- 
 spect for me; and I cannot tell what of this sort. 
 
 I never found myself so fretful in my life : and 
 so I told my aunt ; and begged her pardon for it. 
 But she said it was well disguised then; for she 
 saw nothing but little tremors, which were usual 
 with young ladies when they were to see their 
 admirers for the Jirst time; and this might be cal- 
 led so with respect to me ; since it was the first time 
 I had consented to see Mr. Solmes in that light 
 But that the next 
 
 How, madam, interrupted I Is it then imagined, 
 that I give this meeting on that foot? 
 
 To be sure it is, child. 
 
 To be sure it is, madam ! Then I do yet desire to 
 decline it. I will not, I cannot, see him, if he ex- 
 pects me to see him upon those terms. 
 
 Niceness, punctilio Mere punctilio, niece! 
 Can you think that your appointment (day, place,
 
 CLARISSA HARX.OWE. 195 
 
 hour) and knowing what the intent of it was, is to 
 be interpreted away as a rhere ceremony, and to 
 mean nothing? Let me tell you, my dear, your 
 father, mother, uncles, every body, respect this 
 appointment as the first act of your compliance 
 with their wills: and therefore recede not, I desire 
 you; but make a merit of what cannot be avoided. 
 
 the hideous wretch ! Pardon me, madam / 
 to be supposed to meet such a man as that, with 
 such a view! and he to be armed with such an ex- 
 pectation ! But it cannot be that he expects it, 
 whatever others may do. It is plain he cannot, by 
 the fear he tells you all, he shall have to see me. 
 If his hope were so audacious, he could not fear so 
 much. 
 
 Indeed, he has this hope; and justly founded 
 too. But his fear arises from his reverence? as I 
 told you before. 
 
 His reverence! his un worthiness ! 'Tis so ap- 
 parent, that even he himself sees it, as well as 
 every body else. Hence his offers to purchase 
 me! Hence it is, that settlements are to make up 
 for acknowledged want of merit! 
 
 His untKorthiness, say you! Not so fast, my 
 dear. Does not this look like setting a high value 
 upon yourself? We all have exalted notions of 
 your merit, niece; but nevertheless, it would not 
 be wrong, if you were to arrogate less to yourself; 
 though more were to be your due than your friends 
 attribute to you. 
 
 1 am sorry, madam, it should be thought arro- 
 gance in me, to suppose I am not worthy of a bet- 
 ter man than Mr. Solmes, both as to person and 
 mind; and as to fortune, I thank God I despise all 
 that can be insisted upon in his favour from so poor 
 a plea.
 
 196 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 She told me, it signified nothing to talk : I knew 
 the expectation of every one. 
 
 Indeed I did not. It was impossible I could think 
 of such a strange expectation, upon a compliance 
 made only to show I would comply in all that was 
 in my power to comply with. 
 
 I might easily, she said, have supposed, that 
 every one thought I was beginning to oblige them 
 all, by the kind behaviour of my brother and sister 
 to me in the garden, last Sunday; by my sisters 
 visit to me afterwards in my chamber (although 
 both more stiffly received by me, than were either 
 wished or expected) ; by my uncle Harlowe's af- 
 fectionate visit to me the same afternoon, not in- 
 deed so very gratefully received as I used to receive 
 his favours: but this he kindly imputed to the 
 displeasure I had conceived at my confinement, 
 and to my intention to come off by degrees, that 
 I might keep myself in countenance for my past 
 opposition. 
 
 See, my dear, the low cunning of that Sunday 
 management, which then so much surprised me! 
 And see the reason why Dr. Lewen was admitted 
 to visit me, yet forbore to enter upon a subject 
 about which I thought he came to talk to me! 
 For it seems there was no occasion to dispute with 
 me on the point I was to be supposed to have con- 
 ceded to. See, also, how unfairly my brother and 
 sister must have represented their pretended kind- 
 ness, when (though they had an end to answer by 
 appearing kind) their antipathy to me seems to 
 have been so strong, that they could not help in- 
 sulting me by their arm-in-arm lover-like behaviour 
 to each other; as my sister afterwards likewise did, 
 when she came to borrow my Kempis. 
 
 I lifted up my hands and eyes ! I cannot, said I,
 
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 197 
 
 give M/s treatment a name! The end so unlikely to 
 be answered by means so low! I know ivhose the 
 whole is ! He that could get my uncle Harlowe to 
 contribute his part, and procure the acquiescence 
 of the rest of my friends to it, must have the power 
 to do any thing with them against me. 
 
 Again my aunt told me, that talking and invec- 
 tive, now I had given the expectation, would signify 
 nothing. She hoped I would not show every one 
 that they had been too forward in their construc- 
 tions of my desire to oblige them. She could as- 
 sure me, that it would be worse for me, if novo I 
 receded, than if I had never advanced. 
 
 Advanced, madam ! How can you say advanced? 
 Why, this is a trick upon me! A poor low trick! 
 Pardon me, madam, 1 don't say you have a hand 
 in it. But, my dearest aunt, tell me, will not my 
 mother be present at this dreaded interview? Will 
 she not so far favour me? Were it but to qualify 
 
 Qualify, my dear, interrupted she your mother, 
 and your uncle Harlowe w r ould not be present on 
 this occasion for the world, 
 
 O then, madam, how can they look upon my 
 consent to this interview as an advance? 
 
 My aunt was displeased at this home push. Miss 
 Clary, said she, there is no dealing with you. It 
 would be happy for you, and for every body else, 
 were your obedience as ready as your wit. I will 
 leave you 
 
 Not in anger, I hope, madam, interrupted I 
 All I meant was, to observe, that let the meeting 
 issue as it may, and as it must issue, it cannot be a 
 disappointment to any body. 
 
 O miss! you seem to be a very determined 
 young creature. Mr. Solmes will be here at your 
 jime; and remember once more, that upon thft
 
 198 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 coming afternoon depends the peace of your whole 
 family, and your own happiness. 
 And so saying, down she hurried. 
 
 Here I will stop. In what way I shall resume, 
 or when, is not left to me to conjecture; much 
 less determine. I am excessively uneasy! No 
 good news from your mother, I douht! I will de- 
 posit thus far, for fear of the worst. 
 
 Adieu, my best, rather, my only friend! 
 
 CL. HARLOWE. 
 
 LETTER XXXIII. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 Tuesday evening ; and continued through the night. 
 
 Well, my dear, I am alive, and here! But how 
 long I shall be either here, or alive, I cannot say. 
 I have a vast deal to write ; and perhaps shall have 
 little time for it. Nevertheless, I must tell you 
 how the saucy Betty again discomposed me, when 
 she came up with this Solmes's message; although, 
 as you will remember from my last, I was in a way 
 before that wanted no additional surprises. 
 
 Miss! Miss! Miss ! cried she, as fast as she could 
 speak, with her arms spread abroad, and all her 
 fingers distended, and held up, will you be pleased 
 to walk down into your own parlour? There is 
 every body, I will assure you, in full congregation ! 
 And there is Mr. Solmes, as fine as a lord, with 
 a charming white peruke, fine laced shirt and 
 mi files, coat trimmed with silver, and a waistcoat 
 standing an end with lace! Quite handsome, be- 
 liive me ! You never saw such an alteration !
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 199 
 
 Ah! Miss, shaking her head, 'tis pity you have 
 said so much against him! But you know how to 
 come off for all that! I hope it will not be too 
 late! 
 
 Impertinence ! said I Wert thou bid to come 
 up in this fluttering way? And Ltook up my fan 
 and fanned myself. 
 
 Bless me ! said she, how soon these fine young 
 ladies will be put into jlusterations ! I meant not 
 either to offend or frighten you, I am sure. 
 
 Every body there, do you say ? Who do you 
 call every body? 
 
 Why, miss, holding out her left palm opened, 
 and with a flourish, and a saucy leer, patting it 
 with the fore finger of the other, at every men- 
 tioned person, there is your papa! There is your 
 mamma! There is your uncle Harlowe! There 
 is your uncle Antony! Your aunt Hervey! My 
 young lady! and my young master! And Mr. 
 Solmes, with the air of a great courtier, standing 
 up, because he named you: Mrs. Betty, said he 
 [then the ape of a wench bowed and scraped, as 
 awkwardly as I suppose the person did whom she 
 endeavoured to imitate] pray give my humble 
 service to miss, and tell her, I wait her commands. 
 
 Was not this a wicked wench? I trembled so, 
 I could hardly stand. I was spiteful enough to 
 say, that her young mistress, I supposed, bid her 
 put on these airs, to frighten me out of a capacity 
 of behaving so calmly as should procure me my 
 uncle's compassion. 
 
 What a way do you put yourself in, miss ! said 
 the insolent. Come, dear madam, taking up my 
 fan, which I had laid down, and approaching me 
 with it, fanning, shall I 
 
 None of thy impertinence! But say you, all
 
 200 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 my friends are below with him? And am 1 to ap- 
 pear before them all? 
 
 I can't tell if they'll stay when you come. I 
 think they seemed to be moving when Mr. Solmes 
 gave me his orders. But what answer shall I carry 
 to the 'squire. 
 
 Say I can't go! But yet when 'tis over 'tis 
 over ! Say, I'll wait upon I'll attend I'll come 
 presently say any thing; I care not what but 
 give me my fan, and fetch me a glass of water 
 
 She went, and I fanned myself all the time; for 
 I was in a flame ; and hemmed, and struggled with 
 myself all I could; and, when she returned, drank 
 the water; and finding no hope presently of a 
 quieter heart, I sent her down, and followed her 
 with precipitation ; trembling so, that, had I not 
 hurried, I question if I could have gone down at 
 all. O my dear, what a poor, passive machine is 
 the body when the mind is disordered! 
 
 There are two doors to my parlour, as I used to 
 Call it. As I entered at one, my friends hurried 
 out at the other. I just saw the gown of my sister, 
 the last who slid away. My uncle Antony went 
 out with them ; but he staid not long, as you shall 
 hear; and they all remained in the next parlour, a 
 wainscot partition only parting the two. I re- 
 member them both in one : but they were separated 
 in favour of us girls for each to receive her visitors 
 in at her pleasure. 
 
 Mr. Solmes approached me as soon as I entered, 
 cringing to the ground, a visible confusion in every 
 feature of his face. After half a dozen choaked 
 up madams, he was very sorry he was very 
 much concerned it was his misfortune and there 
 he stopped being unable presently to complete a 
 sentence.
 
 clArIssa harlovve. 201 
 
 This gave me a little more presence of mind. 
 Cowardice in a foe begets courage in one's self 1 
 see that plainly now yet perhaps, at bottom, the 
 new made bravo is a greater coward than the 
 other. 
 
 I turned from him, and seated myself in one of 
 the fire-side chairs, fanning myself. I have since 
 recollected, that I must have looked very saucily. 
 Could I have had any thoughts of the man, I should 
 have despised myself for it. But what can be said 
 in the case of an aversion so perfectly sincere ? 
 
 He hemmed five or six times, as I had done 
 above ; and these produced a sentence That I 
 could not but see his confusion. This sentence 
 produced two or three or more. I believe my aunt 
 had been his tutoress ; for it was his awe, his re- 
 verence for so superlative a lady [I assure you!] 
 and he hoped he hoped three times he hoped 
 before he told me what at last it came out, that 
 I was too generous (generosity, he said, was my 
 character) to despise him for such for such for 
 such true tokens of his love. 
 
 I do indeed see you under some confusion, sir ; 
 and this gives me hope, that although I have been 
 compelled, as I may call it, to give way to this 
 interview, it may be attended with happier effects 
 than I had apprehended from it. 
 
 He had hemmed himself into more courage. 
 
 You could not, madam, imagine any creature so 
 blind to your merits, and so little attracted by 
 them, as easily to forego the interest and approba- 
 tion he was honoured with by your worthy family, 
 while he had any hope given him, that one day 
 he might, by his perseverance and zeal, expect 
 your favour. 
 
 I am but too much aware, sir, that it is upon the 
 interest and approbation you mention, that you 
 
 vol. n. T
 
 202 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 build such hope. It is impossible otherwise, that 
 a man, who has any regard for his own happiness, 
 would persevere against such declarations as I have 
 made, and think myself obliged to make, in justice 
 to you, as well as to my self. 
 
 He had seen many instances, he told me, and 
 had heard of more, where ladies had seemed as 
 averse, and yet had been induced, some by mo- 
 tives of compassion, others by persuasion of friends, 
 to change their minds ; and had been very happy 
 afterwards : and he hoped this might be the case 
 here. 
 
 I have no notion, sir, of compliment, in an article 
 of such importance as this : yet I am sorry to be 
 obliged to speak my mind so plainly, as I am going 
 to do. Know then, that I have an invincible objec- 
 tions, sir, to your address. I have avowed them 
 with an earnestness that I believe is without ex- 
 ample. Because I believe it is without example, 
 that any young creature, circumstanced as I am, 
 was ever treated as I have been treated on your 
 account. 
 
 It is hoped, madam, that your consent may in 
 time be obtained that is the hope; and I shall be 
 a miserable man if it cannot. 
 
 Better, sir, give me leave to say, you were mi- 
 serable by yourself, than that you should make 
 two so. 
 
 You may have heard, madam, things to my 
 disadvantage. No man is without enemies. Be 
 pleased to let me know what you have heard, and 
 I will either own my faults, and amend ; or I will 
 convince you that I am basely bespattered : and 
 once I understand you overheard something that 
 I should say, that gave you offence: unguardedly, 
 perhaps ; but nothing but what showed my value,
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 203 
 
 and that I would persist so long as I could have 
 hope. 
 
 1 have indeed heard many things to your dis- 
 advantage : and I was far from being pleased with 
 what I overheard fall from your lips : but as you 
 were not any thing to me, and never could be, it 
 was not for me to be concerned about the one or 
 the other. . 
 
 I am sorry, madam, to hear this. I am sure you 
 should not tell me of any fault, that I would be 
 unwilling to correct in myself. 
 
 Then, sir, correct this fault do not wish to have 
 a young creature compelled in the most material 
 article of her life, for the sake of motives she de- 
 spises ; and in behalf of a person she cannot value : 
 one that has, in her own right, sufficient to set her 
 above all your offers, and a spirit that craves no 
 more than what it has, to make itself easy and 
 happy. 
 
 I don't see, madam, how you would be happy, 
 if I were to discontinue my address : for 
 
 That is nothing to you, sir, interrupted I : do 
 you but withdraw your pretensions : and if it be 
 thought fit to start up another man for my punish- 
 ment, the blame will not lie at your door. You 
 will be entitled to my thanks ; and most heartily 
 will I thank you, 
 
 He paused, and seemed a little at a loss : and I 
 was going to give him still stronger and more per- 
 sonal instances of my plain dealing; when in came 
 my uncle Antony. 
 
 So, niece, so ! Sitting in state like a queen, 
 giving audience ! haughty audience ! Mr. Solmes, 
 why stand you thus humbly ? Why this distance, 
 man ? I hope to see you upon a more intimate 
 footing before we part. 
 
 I arose, as soon as he entered and approached 
 t2
 
 204 THE HISTORY Of 
 
 him with a bent knee : Let me, sir, reverence toy 
 uncle, whom I have not for so long time seen ! 
 Let me, sir, bespeak your favour and compassion. 
 
 You will have the favour of every body, niece, 
 when you know how to deserve it. 
 
 If ever I deserved it, I deserve it now. I have 
 been hardly used ! I have made proposals that 
 ought to be accepted, and such as would not have 
 been asked of me. What have I done, that I must 
 be banished and confined thus disgracefully? That 
 I must not be allowed to have any free will in an 
 article that concerns my present and future happi- 
 ness? 
 
 Miss Clary, replied my uncle, you have had 
 your will in every thing till now ; and this makes 
 your parents' wills sit so heavy upon you. 
 
 My will, sir ! Be pleased to allow me to ask, 
 what was my will till now, but my father's will, 
 and yours and my uncle Harlowe's will ? Has it 
 not been my pride to obey and to oblige ? I never 
 asked a favour, that I did not first sit down and 
 ponsider, if it were Jit to be granted. And now, 
 to show my obedience, have I not offered to live 
 single ? Have I not offered to divest myself of 
 my grandfather's bounty, and to cast myself upon 
 my father's ; and that to be withdrawn, whenever 
 I disoblige him ? Why, dear good sir, am I to be 
 made unhappy in a point so concerning to my 
 happiness ? 
 
 Your grandfather's estate is not wished from you. 
 You are not desired to live a single life. You know 
 our motives, and we guess at yours. And, let me 
 tell you, well as we love you, we should much 
 sooner choose to follow you to the grave, than that 
 yours should take place. 
 
 I will engage never to marry any man, without 
 my father's consent, and yours, sir, and ev^ry
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 205 
 
 body's. Did I ever give you any cause to doubt 
 ray word ? And bere I will take the solemnest 
 oath that can be offered me 
 
 That is the matrimonial one, interrupted he, with 
 a big voice And to this gentleman It shall, it 
 shall, cousin Clary ! And the more you oppose it, 
 the worse it shall be for you. 
 
 This, and before the man, who seemed to assume 
 courage upon it, "liighly provoked me. 
 
 Then, sir, you shall sooner follow me to the 
 grave indeed. I will undergo the crudest death 
 I will even consent to enter into the awful vault of 
 my ancestors, and have that bricked up upon me, 
 rather than consent to be miserable for life. And, 
 Mr. Solmes, turning to him, take notice of what I 
 say; this or any death, I will sooner undergo [that 
 will quickly be over] than be yours, and for ever 
 unhappy ! 
 
 My uncle was in a terrible rage upon this. He 
 took Mr. Solmes by the hand, shocked as the man 
 seemed to be, and drew him to the window Don't 
 be surprised Mr. Solmes, don't be concerned at 
 this. We know, and rapt out a sad oath, what 
 women will say in their wrath : the wind is not 
 more boisterous, nor more changeable ; and again 
 he swore to that. If you think it worth your while 
 to wait for such an ungrateful girl as this, I'll en- 
 gage she'll veer about ; I'll engage she shall. And 
 a third time violently swore to it. 
 
 Then coming up to me (who had thrown myself 
 very much disordered by my vehemence, into the 
 most distant window) as if he would have beat me; 
 his face violently working, his hands clenched, and 
 his teeth set Yes, yes, yes, hissed the poor gen- 
 tleman, you shall, you shall, you shall, cousin- 
 Clary, be Mr. Solmes's wife ; we will see that you 
 shall ; and this in one week at furthest. and then 
 t3
 
 206 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 a fourth time he confirmed it ! Poor gentleman ! 
 how he swore ! 
 
 I am sorry, sir, said I, to see you in such a 
 passion. All this, I am but too sensible, is owing 
 to my brother's instigation; who would not himself 
 give the instance of duty that is sought to be 
 exacted from me. It is best for me to withdraw. 
 I shall but provoke you further, I fear; for although 
 I would gladly obey you if 1 could, yet this is a 
 point determined with me ; and I cannot so much 
 as wish to get it over. 
 
 How could I avoid making these strong declara- 
 tions, the man in presence ? 
 
 I was going out at the door I came in at ; the 
 gentlemen looking upon one another, as if referring 
 to each other what to do, or whether to engage my 
 stay, or suffer me to go ; and whom should I meet 
 at the door but my brother, who had heard all that 
 had passed ! 
 
 He bolted upon me so unexpectedly, that I was 
 surprised. He took my hand, and grasped it with 
 violence : Return, pretty miss, said he ; return, if 
 you please. You shall not yet be bricked up. 
 Your instigating brother shall save you from that ! 
 -* O thou fallen angel, said he, peering up to my 
 downcast face such a sweetness here ! and such 
 an obstinacy there! tapping my neck O thou true 
 woman! though so young! But you shall not have 
 your rake : remember that : in a loud whisper, as 
 if he would be decently indecent before the man. 
 You shall be redeemed, and this worthy gentle- 
 man, raising his voice, will be so good as to re- 
 deem you from ruin and hereafter you will bless 
 him, or have reason to bless him, for his condescen- 
 sion ; that was the brutal brother's word ! 
 
 He had led me up to meet Mr. Solmes, whose 
 hand he took, as he held mine. Here, sir, said,
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWK. 207 
 
 he, take the rehel daughter's hand ; I give it you 
 now : she shall confirm the gift in a week's time, 
 or will have neither father, mother, nor uncles, to 
 boast of. 
 
 I snatched my hand away. 
 
 How now, miss ! 
 
 And how now, sir ! What right have you. to 
 dispose of my hand ? If you govern every body 
 else, you shall not govern me ; especially in a 
 point so immediately relative to myself, and in 
 which you neither have, nor ever shall have, any 
 thing to do. 
 
 I would have broken from him ; but he held my 
 hand too fast. 
 
 Let me go, sir ! Why am I thus treated? You- 
 design, I doubt not, with your unmanly gripings, 
 to hurt me, as you do : but again I ask, wherefore 
 is it that I am to be thus treated by you? 
 
 He tossed my hand from him with a whirl, that 
 pained my very shoulder. I wept, and held my 
 other hand to the part. 
 
 Mr. Solmes blamed him. So did my uncle. 
 
 He had no patience, he said, with such a per- 
 verse one ; and to' think of my reflections upon 
 himself, before he entered. He had only given me 
 back the hand I had not deserved he should touch. 
 It was one of my arts to pretend to be pained. 
 
 Mr. Solmes said, he would sooner give up all his 
 hopes of me, than that I should be used unkindly: 
 and he offered to plead in my behalf to them both ; 
 and applied himself with a bow, as if for my appro- 
 bation of his interposition. 
 
 Interpose not, Mr. Solmes, said I, to save me 
 from me brother's violence, I cannot wish to owe 
 an obligation to a man whose ungenerous perse- 
 verance is the occasion of that violence, and of all 
 my disgraceful sufferings.
 
 208 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 How generous in you, Mr. Solmes, said my bro- 
 ther, to interpose so kindly in behalf of such an im- 
 moveable spirit ! I beg of you to persist in your 
 address the unnatural brother called it address! 
 For all our family's sake, and for her sake too, if 
 you love her, persist ! Let us save her, if possible, 
 from ruining herself. Look at her person ! [And 
 he gazed at me, from head to foot, pointing at me, 
 as he referred to Mr. Solmes] think of her fine 
 qualities ! All the world confesses them, and we 
 all gloried in her till now. She is worth saving ; 
 and, after two or three more struggles, she will be 
 yours, and take my word for it, will reward your 
 patience. Talk not, therefore, of giving up your 
 hopes, for a little whining folly. She has entered 
 upon a parade, which she knows not how to quit 
 with & female grace. You have only her pride and 
 her obstinacy to encounter : and, depend upon it. 
 you will be as happy a man in a fortnight, as a 
 married man can be. 
 
 You have heard me say, my dear, that my bro- 
 ther has always taken a liberty to reflect upon our 
 sex, and upon matrimony! He would not, if he 
 did not think it wit to do so ! Just as poor Mr. 
 Wyerley, and others, whom we both know, pro- 
 fane and ridicule scripture; and all to evince their 
 pretensions to the same pernicious talent, and to 
 have it thought they are too wise to be religious. 
 Mr. Solmes, with a silf-satisfied air, presumptu- 
 ously said, he would suffer every thing, to oblige 
 my family, and to save me : and doubted not to be 
 amply rewarded, could he be so happy as to suc- 
 ceed at last. 
 
 Mr. Solmes, said I, if you have any regard for 
 your own happiness (mine is out of the question 
 with you : you have not generosity enough to make 
 that any part of your scheme) prosecute no further
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 209 
 
 your address, as my brother calls it. It is but just 
 to tell you, that I could not bring my heart so much 
 as to think of you, without the utmost disapproba- 
 tion, before I was used as I have been : and can 
 you suppose I am such a slave, such a poor slave, as 
 to be brought to change my mind by the violent 
 usage I have met with ? 
 
 And you, sir, turning to my brother, if you think 
 that meekness always indicates, lameness ; and that 
 there is no magnanimity without bluster; own your- 
 self mistaken for once ; for you shall have reason 
 to judge from henceforth, that a generous mind is 
 not to be forced ; and that 
 
 No more, said the imperious wretch, I charge 
 you, lifting up his hands and eyes. Then turning 
 to my uncle, Do you hear, sir ? This is your once 
 faultless niece ! This is your favourite ! 
 
 Mr. Solmes looked as if he knew not what to 
 think of the matter; and had I been left alone with 
 him, I saw plainly I could have got rid of him easily 
 enough. 
 
 My uncle came to me, looking up also to my 
 &ce, and down to my feet : And is it possible this 
 can be you? All this violence from you, Miss 
 Clary ? _ 
 
 Yes, it is possible, sir and, I will presume to 
 say this vehemence on my side is but the natural 
 consequence of the usage I have met with, and the 
 rudeness 1 am treated with, even in your presence, 
 by a brother, who has no more right to control me, 
 than I have to control him. 
 
 This usage, cousin Clary, was not till all other 
 means were tried with you. 
 
 Tried ! to what end, sir ? Do I contend for any 
 thing more than a mere negative ? You may, sir, 
 turning to Mr. Solmes] possibly you may be in-. 
 4uced the rather to persevere thus ungenerously,
 
 210 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 as the usage I have met with for your sake, and 
 what you have now seen offered to me by my bro- 
 ther will show you what I can bear, were my evil 
 destiny ever to make me yours. 
 
 Lord, madam, cried Solmes [all this time dis- 
 torted into twenty different attitudes, as my bro- 
 ther and my uncle were blessing themselves, and 
 speaking only to each other by their eyes, and by 
 their working features ; Lord, madam] what a con- 
 struction is this ! 
 
 A fair construction, sir, interrupted It for he 
 that can see a person whom he pretends to value, 
 thus treated, and approve of it, must be capable of 
 treating her thus himself. And that you do ap- 
 prove of it, is evident, by your declared persever- 
 ance, when you know I am confined, banished, 
 and insulted, in order to make me consent to be 
 what I never can be. And this, let me tell you, as 
 I have often told others, not from motives of ob- 
 stinacy, but aversion. 
 
 Excuse me, sir, turning to my uncle To you, 
 as to my father's brother, I owe duty. I beg your 
 pardon, that I cannot obey you : but as for my 
 brother ; he is but my brother ; he shall not con- 
 strain me : and [turning to the unnatural wretch 
 I will call him wretch] knit your brows, sir, and 
 frown as you will, I will ask you, Would you, in 
 my case, make the sacrifices I am willing to make, 
 to obtain every one's favour? If not, what right 
 have you to treat me thus ; and to procure me to 
 be treated as I have been for so long a time past ? 
 
 I had put myself by this time into great dis- 
 order : they were silent, and seemed by their looks 
 fo want to talk to one another, (walking about in 
 violent disorders too) between whiles. I sat down 
 fanning myself (as it happened, against the glass) 
 and I could perceive my colour go and come ; and
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 211 
 
 being sick to the very heart, and apprehensive of 
 fainting, I rung. 
 
 Betty came in. I called for a glass of water, and 
 drank it: but nobody minded me. I heard my 
 brother pronoucc the words, Art! female art! to 
 Sohnes ; which, together with the apprehension 
 that he would not be welcome, I suppose kept him 
 back. Else I could see the man was affected. 
 And (still fearing I should faint) I arose, and taking 
 hold of Betty's arm, Let me hold by you, Betty, 
 said I : let me withdraw. And moved with trem- 
 bling feet towards the door, and then turned about, 
 and made a courtsey to my uncle Permit me, sir, 
 said I, to withdraw. 
 
 Whither go you, niece ? said my uncle : we 
 have not done with you yet. I charge you depart 
 not. Mr. Solmes has something to open to you, 
 that will astonish you And you shall hear it. 
 
 Only, sir, by your leave, for a few minutes into 
 the air, I will return, if you command it. I will 
 hear all that I am to hear ; that it may be Over 
 novo andjbr ever You will go with me, Betty ? 
 
 And then without any further prohibition, I re- 
 tired into the garden ; and there, casting myself 
 upon the first seat, and throwing Betty's apron 
 over my face, leaning against her side, my hands 
 between hers, I gave way to a violent burst of 
 grief, or passion, or both ; which, as it seemed, 
 saved my heart from breaking, for I was sensible 
 of an immediate relief. 
 
 I have already given you specimens of Mrs. 
 Betty's impertinence. I shall not, therefore, trou- 
 ble you with more ; for the wench, notwithstand- 
 ing this my distress, took great liberties with me, 
 after she saw me a little recovered, and as I walked 
 further into the garden ; insomuch that I was 
 obliged to silence her by an absolute prohibition 
 7
 
 212 THE HISTOKY OF 
 
 of saying another word to me; and then she drop- 
 ped behind me sullen and gloomy. 
 
 It was near an hour before I was sent for in 
 again. The messenger was my cousin Dolly Her- 
 vey, who, with an eye of compassion and respect 
 (for Miss Hervey always loved me, and calls her- 
 self my scholar, as you know) told me, my com- 
 pany was desired. 
 
 Betty left us. 
 
 Who commands my attendance, Miss Hervey ? 
 said I Have you not been in tears, my dear ? 
 
 Who can forbear tears ? said she. 
 
 Why, what is the matter, cousin Dolly ? Sure, 
 nobody is entitled to weep in this family, but me! 
 
 Yes, / am, madam, because I love you. 
 
 I kissed her : and is it for me, my sweet cousin, 
 that you shed tears ? There never was love lost 
 between us : but tell me, what is designed to be 
 done with me, that I have this kind instance of 
 your compassion for me P 
 
 You must take no notice of what I tell you, said 
 the dear girl : but my mamma has been weep- 
 ing for you, too, wkh me ; but durst not let any 
 body see it : O my Dolly, said my mamma, there 
 never was so set a malice in man as in your cousin 
 James Harlowe. They will ruin the flowei 1 and 
 ornament of their family. 
 
 As how, Miss Dolly ? Did she not explain 
 herself? As how my dear? 
 
 Yes ; she said, Mr. Solmes would have given up 
 his claim to you ; for he said, you hated him, and 
 there were no hopes ; and your mamma was will- 
 ing he should; and to have taken you at your 
 word, to renounce Mr. Lovelace, and to live sin- 
 gle : my mamma was for it too; for they heard all 
 that passed between you and uncle Antony, and 
 cousin James ; saying, it was impossible to think of
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 213 
 
 prevailing upon you to have Mr. Solmcs. Uncle 
 Harlowe seemed in the same way of thinking ; at 
 least, my mamma says he did not say any thing to 
 the contrary. But your papa was immoveable, 
 and was angry at your mamma and mine upon it : 
 and hereupon your brother, your sister, and my 
 uncle Antony, joined in, and changed the scene 
 entirely. In short, she says, that Mr. Solmes had 
 great matters engaged to him. He owned, that 
 you were the finest young lady in England, and 
 he would be content to be but little beloved, if he 
 could not, after marriage, engage your heart, for 
 the sake of having the honour to call you his but 
 for one twelvemonth I suppose he would break 
 your heart in the next for he is a cruel hearted 
 man, I am sure. 
 
 My friends may break my heart, cousin Dolly ; 
 but Mr. Solmes will never have it in his power to 
 break it, 
 
 I do not know that, madam: you will have good 
 luck to avoid having him, by what I can find ; lor 
 my mamma says, they are all now of one mind, 
 herself excepted : and she is forced to be silent, 
 your papa and brother are both so outrageous. 
 
 I am got above minding my brother, cousin 
 Dolly : he is but my brpther. But to my father I 
 owe duty and obedience, if I could comply. 
 
 We are apt to be fond of any body that will side 
 with us, when oppressed or provoked. I always 
 loved my cousin Dolly ; but now she endeared her- 
 self to me ten times more, by her soothing concern 
 for me. I asked what she would do, were she in my 
 case? 
 
 Without hesitation she replied, have Mr. Love- 
 lace without doubt, and take up her own estate, if 
 she were me ; and there would be an end to it 
 
 vol. ii. u
 
 214- THE HISTORY OF 
 
 And Mr. Lovelace, she said, was a fine gentleman j 
 Mr. Solmes was not worthy to buckle his shoes. 
 
 Miss Hervey told me further, that her mother 
 was desired to come to me, to fetch me in ; but she 
 excused herself. I should have all my friends, she 
 said, she believed, sit in judgment upon me. 
 
 I wish it had been so. But, as I have been told 
 since, neither my father nor my mother would 
 trust themselves with seeing me : the one it seems 
 for passsion-sake ; my mother for tender considera- 
 tions. 
 
 By this time we entered the house. Miss Her- 
 vey accompanied me into the parlour, and left me, 
 as a person devoted, I then thought. 
 
 Nobody was there. I sat down, and had leisure 
 to weep ; reflecting upon what my cousin Dolly 
 had told me. 
 
 They were all in my sister's parlour adjoining : 
 for I heard a confused mixture of voices, some 
 louder than others, which drowned the more com- 
 passionating accents. 
 
 Female accents I could distinguish the drowned 
 ones to be. O my dear ! what a hard-hearted sex 
 is the other ! Children of the same parents, how 
 came they by their cruelty ? Do they get it by 
 travel ? Do they get it by conversation with one 
 another ? Or how do they get it ? Yet my sister, 
 too, is as hard-hearted as any of them. But this 
 may be no exception neither: for she has been 
 thought to be masculine in her air and her spirit. 
 She has then, perhaps, a soul of the other sex in a 
 body of ours. And so, for the honour of our oion, 
 will I judge of every woman for the future, who, 
 imitating the rougher manners of men, acts unbe- 
 seeming the gentleness of her own sex. 
 
 Forgive me, my dear friend, for breaking into
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 215 
 
 ny story by these reflections. Were I rapidly to 
 pursue my narration, without thinking, without 
 reflecting, I believe I should hardly be able to 
 keep in my right mind : since vehemence and 
 passion would then be always uppermost; but 
 while I think as I write, I cool, and my hurry of 
 spirits is allayed. 
 
 I believe I was above a quarter of an hour en- 
 joying my own comfortless contemplations, before 
 any body came in to me ; for they seemed to be in 
 full debate. My aunt looked in first ; O my dear, 
 said she, are you there ? and withdrew hastily to 
 apprise them of it. 
 
 And then (as agreed upon I suppose) in came my 
 uncle Antony, crediting Mr. Solmes with the words, 
 Let me lead you in, my dear friend, having hold of 
 his hand ; while the new-made beau awkwardly 
 followed, but more edgingly, as I may say, setting 
 his feet mincingly, to avoid treading upon his lead- 
 er's heels. Excuse me, my dear, this seeming 
 levity ; but those we do not love, appear in every 
 thing ungraceful to us. 
 
 I stood up. My uncle looked very surly. Sit 
 down ! sit down, girl, said he and drawing a chair 
 near me, he placed his dear friend in it, whether he 
 would or not, I having taken my seat. And my 
 uncle sat on the other side of me. 
 
 Well, niece, taking my hand, we shall have very 
 little more to say to you than we have already 
 said, as to the subject that is so distasteful to you 
 unless, indeed, you have better considered of the 
 matter and first, let me know if you have ? 
 
 The matter wants no consideration, sir. 
 
 Very well, very well, madam I said my uncle, 
 withdrawing his hands from mine : could I ever 
 have thought of this from you ? 
 v2
 
 216 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 For God's sake, dearest madam, said Mr. Solmes, 
 folding his hands and there he stopped. 
 
 For God's sake, ivhat, sir ? How came God's 
 sake, and your sake, I pray you, to be the same ? 
 
 This silenced him. My uncle could only be 
 angry ; and that he was before. 
 
 Well, well, well, Mr. Solmes, said my uncle, no 
 more of supplication. You have not confidence 
 enough to expect a woman's favour. 
 
 He then was pleased to hint what great things 
 he had designed to do for me ; and that it was more 
 for my sake, after he returned from the Indies, than 
 for the sake of any other of the family, that he had 
 resolved to live a single life. But now, concluded 
 he, that the perverse girl despises all the great 
 things it was once as much in my will, as it is in 
 my power, to do for her, I will change my mea- 
 sures. 
 
 I told him, that I most sincerely thanked him for 
 all his kind intentions to me : but that I was will- 
 ing to resign all claim to any other of his favours 
 than kind looks, and kind words. 
 
 He looked about him this way and that. 
 
 Mr. Solmes looked pitifully down. 
 
 But both being silent, I was sorry, I added, that 
 { had too much reason to say a very harsh thing, 
 as it might be thought ; which was, that if he 
 would but be pleased to convince my brother 
 and sister, that he was absolutely determined to 
 alter his generous purposes towards me, it might 
 possibly procure me better treatment from both, 
 than I was otherwise likely to have. 
 
 My uncle was very much displeased. But he 
 had not the opportunity to express his displeasure, 
 ns he seemed preparing to do ; for in came my 
 brother in exceeding great wrath ; and called me
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 217 
 
 several vile names. His success hitherto, in his 
 devices against me, had set him above keeping 
 even decent measures. 
 
 Was this my spiteful construction ? he asked 
 Was this the interpretation I put upon his bro- 
 therly care of me, and concern for me, in orde.r to 
 prevent my ruining myself? 
 
 It is, indeed, it is, said I : I know no other way 
 to account for your late behaviour to me : and be- 
 fore your face, I repeat my request to my uncle, 
 and I will make it to my other uncle whenever I 
 am permitted to see him, that they will confer all 
 their favours upon you and upon my sister ; and 
 only make me happy (it is all I wish for ! ) in 
 their kind looks, and kind words. 
 
 How they all gazed upon one another ! But 
 could I be less peremptory before the man ? 
 
 And, as to your care and concern for me, sir, 
 turning to my brother ; once more I desire it not. 
 You are but my brother. My father and mother, 
 I bless God, are both living ; and were they not, 
 you have given me abundant reason to say, that you 
 are the very last person I would wish to have any 
 concern for me. 
 
 How, niece ! And is a brother, an only brother, 
 of so little consideration with you, as this comes to? 
 And ought he to have no concern for his sister's 
 honour, and the family's honour ? 
 
 My honour, sir ! I desire none of his concern 
 for that ! It never was endangered till it had his 
 undesired concern ! Forgive me, sir but when 
 my brother knows how to act like a brother, or 
 behave like a gentleman, he may deserve more 
 consideration from me than it is possible for me now 
 to think he does. 
 
 I thought my brother would have beat me upon 
 this : but my uncle stood between us. 
 uS
 
 218 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 Violent girl, however, he called me Who, said 
 he, who would have thought it of her ? 
 
 Then was Mr. Solmes told that I was unworthy 
 of his pursuit. 
 
 But Mr. Solmes warmly took my part : he could 
 not bear, he said, that I should be treated so roughly. 
 
 And so very much did he exert himself on this 
 occasion, and so patiently was his warmth received 
 by my brother, that I began to suspect, that it was 
 a contrivance to make me think myself obliged to 
 him ; and that this might perhaps be one end of the 
 pressed-for interview. 
 
 The very suspicion of this low artifice, violent as 
 I was thought to be before, put me still more out of 
 patience ; and my uncle and my brother again 
 praising his wonderful generosity, and his noble 
 return of good for evil, You are a happy man, Mr. 
 Solmes, said I, that you can so easily confer obli- 
 gations upon a whole family, except upon one un- 
 grateful person of it, whom you seem to intend 
 most to oblige ; but who, being made unhappy by 
 your favour, desires not to owe to you any protec- 
 tion from the violence of a brother. 
 
 Then was I a rude, an ungrateful, and unworthy 
 creature. 
 
 I own it all all, all you can call me, or think 
 me, brother, do I own. I own my unworthiness 
 with regard to this gentleman. I take your word 
 for his abundant merit, which I hate neither leisure 
 nor inclination to examine into it may perhaps 
 be as great as your own but yet I cannot thank 
 him for his mediation : for who sees not, looking 
 at my uncle, that this is giving himself a merit with 
 every body at my expense ? 
 
 Then turning to my brother, who seemed sur- 
 prised into silence by my warmth, I must also ac- 
 knowledge, sir, the favour of your superabundant
 
 CLARISSA HARIOWE. 219 
 
 care for me. But I discharge you of. it ; at least, 
 while I have the happiness of nearer and dearer 
 relations. You have given me no reason to think 
 better of your prudence, than of my own. I am 
 independant of you, sir, though I never desire to be 
 so of my father : and although I wish for the good 
 opinion of my uncles, it is all I wish for from them : 
 and this, sir, I repeat to make you and my sister 
 easy. 
 
 instantly almost came in Betty, in a great hurry, 
 looking at me as spitefully, as if she were my sister: 
 Sir, said she to my brother, my master desires to 
 speak with you this moment at the door. 
 
 He went to that which led into my sister's par- 
 lour; and this sentence I heard thundered from the 
 mouth of one who had a right to all my reverence : 
 Son James, let the rebel be this moment carried 
 away to my brother's this very moment she 
 shall not stay one hour more under my roof! 
 
 I trembled ; I was ready to sink. Yet, not 
 knowing what I did, or said, I flew to the door, and 
 would have opened it : but my brother pulled it 
 to, and held it close by the key O my papa ! 
 my dear papa ! said I, falling upon my knees, at 
 the door admit your child to your presence ! 
 Let me but plead my cause at your feet ! O re- 
 probate not thus your distressed daughter ! 
 
 My uncle put his handkerchief to his eyes : Mr. 
 Solmes made a still more grievous face than he 
 had before. But my brother's marble heart was un- 
 touched. 
 
 I will not stir from my knees, continued I, with- 
 out admission. At this door I beg it ! O let it be 
 the door of mercy ! and open it to me, honoured 
 sir, I beseech you ! But this once, this once ! al- 
 though you were afterwards to shut it against me 
 for ever !
 
 220 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 The door was endeavoured to be opened on the 
 inside, which made my brother let go the key on 
 a sudden; and I pressing against it (all the time 
 remaining on my knees) fell flat on my face into 
 the other parlour ; however without hurting my- 
 self. But every body was gone, except Betty, 
 who I suppose was the person that endeavoured to 
 open the door. She helped to raise me up ; and 
 when I was on my feet, I looked round that apart- 
 ment, and seeing nobody there, re-entered the 
 other, leaning upon her ; and then threw myself 
 into the chair which I had sat in before ; and my 
 eyes overflowed, to my great relief: while my 
 uncle Antony, my brother, and Mr. Solmes, left 
 me, and went to my other relations. 
 
 What passed among them, I know not : but my 
 brother came in by the time I had tolerably re- 
 covered myself, with a settled and haughty gloom 
 upon his brow Your father and mother command 
 you instantly to prepare for your uncle Antony's. 
 You need not be solicitous about what you shall 
 take with you. You may give Betty your keys 
 take them, Betty, if the perverse one has them 
 about her, and carry them to her mother. She will 
 take care to send every thing after you that you 
 shall want but another night you will not be per- 
 mitted to stay in this house. 
 
 I don't choose to give my keys to any body, ex- 
 cept to my mother, and into her own hands. 
 You see how much I am disordered. It may cost 
 me my life, to be hurried away so suddenly. I 
 beg to be indulged till next Monday at least. 
 
 That will not be granted you. So prepare for 
 this very night. And give up your keys. Give 
 them to me, miss. I'll carry them to your mo- 
 ther ! 
 
 Excuse me, brother. Indeed I won't. 
 
 a
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 221 
 
 Indeed you must. Have you any thing you are 
 afraid should be seen by your mother ? 
 
 Not if I am permitted to attend her. 
 
 I'll make a report accordingly. 
 
 He went out. 
 
 In came Miss Dolly Hervey : I am sorry, ma- 
 dam, to be the messenger but your mamma insists 
 upon your sending up all the keys of your cabinet, 
 library, and drawers. 
 
 Tell my mother, that I yield them up to her 
 commands : tell her, I make no conditions with my 
 mother : but if she find nothing she shall disap- 
 prove of, I beg that she will permit me to tarry here 
 a few days longer. Try, my Dolly [the dear girl 
 sobbing with grief 3 ; try, if your gentleness can- 
 not prevail for me. 
 
 She wept still more, and said, It is sad, very sad, 
 to see matters thus carried ! 
 
 She took the keys^ and wrapped her arms about 
 me ; and begged me to excuse her for her message ; 
 and would have said more ; but Betty's presence 
 awed her, as I saw. 
 
 Don't pity me, my, dear, said I. It will be im- 
 puted to you as a fault. You see who is by. 
 
 The insolent wench scornfully smiled: One young 
 lady pitying another in things of this nature, looks 
 promising in the youngest, I must needs say. 
 
 I bid her be gone from my presence. 
 
 She would most gladly go, she said, were she not 
 to stay about me by my mother's order. 
 
 It soon appeared for what she staid ; for I offer- 
 ing to go up stairs to my apartment when my 
 cousin went from me with the keys, she told me 
 she was commanded (to her very great regret, she 
 must own) to desire me not to go up at present. 
 
 Such a bold face, as she, I told her, should not 
 hinder me.
 
 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 She instantly rang the bell, and in came my bro- 
 ther, meeting me at the door. 
 
 Return, return, miss no going up yet. 
 
 I went in again, and throwing myself upon the 
 window seat, wept bitterly. 
 
 Shall I give you the particulars of a ridiculously 
 spiteful conversation that passed between my bro- 
 ther and me, in the time that he (with Betty) was 
 in office to keep me in the parlour while my 
 closet was searching ? But I think I will not. It 
 can answer no good end. 
 
 I desired several times, while he staid, to have 
 leave to retire to my apartment ; but was denied. 
 The search, I suppose, was not over. 
 
 Bella was one of those employed in it. They 
 could not have a more diligent searcher. How 
 happy it was they were disappointed ! 
 
 But when my sister could not find the cunning 
 creature's, papers, I was to stand another visit from 
 Mr. Solmes preceded now by my aunt Hervey, 
 sorely against her will, I could see that ; accom- 
 panied by my uncle Antony, in order to keep her 
 steady, I suppose. 
 
 But being a little heavy (for it is now past two 
 in the morning) I will lie down in my clothes, to 
 indulge the kind summons, if it will be indulged. 
 
 3 o'clock, Wednesday Morning. 
 
 I could not sleep only dozed away one half- 
 hour. 
 
 My aunt Hervey accosted me thus O my dear 
 child, what troubles do you give to your parents, 
 and to every body ! I wonder at you ! 
 
 I am sorry for it, madam. 
 
 Sorry for it, child ! Why then so very obstinate? 
 Come, sit down, my dear. I will sit next you ; 
 taking my hand.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 223 
 
 My uncle placed Mr. Solmes on the other side 
 of me : himself over-against me, almost close to me. 
 Was I not finely beset, my dear ? 
 
 Your brother, child, said my aunt, is too pas- 
 sionate his zeal for your welfare pushes him on a 
 little too vehemently. 
 
 Very true, said my uncle : but no more of this. 
 We would now be glad to see if milder means 
 will do with you though, indeed, they were tried 
 before. 
 
 I asked my aunt, if it were necessary, that that 
 gentleman should be present ? 
 
 There is a reason that he should, said my aunt, as 
 you will hear by-and-by. But I must tell you, first, 
 that, thinking you was a little too angrily treated 
 by your brother, your mother desired me to try 
 what gentler means would do upon a spirit so gene- 
 rous as we used to think yours. 
 
 Nothing can be done, madam, I must presume to 
 say, if this gentleman's address be the end. 
 
 She looked upon my uncle, who bit his lip ; and 
 looked upon Mr. Solmes, who rubbed his cheek ; 
 and shaking her head, Good, dear creature, said 
 she, be calm. Let me ask you, if something would 
 have been done, had you been more gently used, 
 than you seem to think you have been ? 
 
 No, madam, I cannot say it would, in this gen- 
 tleman's favour. You know, madam, you know, 
 sir, to my uncle, I ever valued myself upon my 
 sincerity : and once indeed had the happiness to 
 be valued for it. 
 
 My uncle took Mr. Solmes aside. I heard him 
 say, whisperingly, She must, she shall, still be 
 
 yours We'll see who'll conquer, parents or child, 
 
 uncles or niece. I doubt not to be witness to all 
 this being got over, and many a good-humoured 
 jest made of this high phrenzy !
 
 224 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 I was heartily vexed. 
 
 Though we cannot find out, continued he, yet 
 we guess, who puts her upon this ohstinate beha- 
 viour. It is not natural to her, man. Nor would I 
 concern myself so much about her, but that I 
 know what I say to be true, and intend to do great 
 things for her. 
 
 I will hourly pray for that happy time, whis- 
 pered as audibly Mr. Solmes. I never will revive 
 the remembrance of what is now so painful to 
 me. 
 
 Well, but niece, I am to tell you, said my aunt, 
 that the sending up your keys, without making any 
 conditions,Jhas wrought for you what nothing else 
 could have done. That, and the not finding any 
 thing that could give them umbrage, together with 
 Mr. Solmes's interposition 
 
 O, madam, let me not owe an obligation to Mr. 
 Solmes. I cannot repay it, except by my thanks ; 
 and those only on condition that he will decline 
 his suit. To my thanks, sir [turning to him] if you 
 have a heart capable of humanity, if you have 
 any esteem for me for my otun sake, I beseech you 
 to entitle yourself! I beseech you, do ! 
 
 madam, cried he, believe, believe, believe me, 
 it is impossible. While you are single, I ivill hope. 
 While that hope is encouraged by so many worthy 
 friends, I must persevere. I must not slight them, 
 madam, because you slight me. 
 
 1 answered him only with a look ; but it was of 
 high disdain : and turning from him But what 
 favour, dear madam [to my aunt] has the instance 
 of duty you mention procured me ? 
 
 Your mother and Mr. Solmes, replied my aunt, 
 have prevailed, that your request to stay here till 
 Monday next shall be granted, if you will promise 
 to go cheerfully then.
 
 CLARISSA HAULOWE. 225 
 
 Let me but choose my own visitors, and I will go 
 to my uncle's house with pleasure. 
 
 Well, niece, said my aunt, we must wave this 
 subject, I find. We will now proceed to another, 
 which will require your utmost attention. It will 
 give you the reason why Mr. Solmes's presence is 
 requisite 
 
 Ay, said my uncle, and shew you what sort of a 
 man somebody is. Mr. Solmes, pray favour us, in 
 the first place, with the letter you received from 
 your anonymous friend. 
 
 I will, sir. And out he pulled a letter-case, and, 
 taking out a letter, It is written in answer to one, 
 sent to the person. It is superscribed, To Roger 
 Solmes, Esq. It begins thus : Honoured Sir 
 
 I beg your pardon, sir, said I : but what, pray, 
 is the intent of reading this letter to me ? 
 
 To let you know what a vile man you are 
 thought to have set your heart upon, said my un- 
 cle in an audible whisper. 
 
 If, sir, it be suspected, that I have set my heart 
 upon any other, why is Mr. Solmes to give him- 
 self any further trouble about me? 
 
 Only hear, niece, said my aunt; only hear what 
 Mr. Soimes has to read and to say to you on this 
 head. 
 
 If, madam, Mr. Solmes will be pleased to de- 
 clare, that he has no view to serve, no end to pro- 
 mote, for himself, I will hear any thing he shall 
 read. But if the contrary, you must allow me to 
 say, that it will abate with me a great deal of the 
 weight of whatever he shall produce. 
 
 Hear it but read, niece, said my aunt 
 
 Hear it read, said my uncle. You are so ready 
 to take part with 
 
 With any body, sir, that is accused anonymously, 
 and from interested motives. 
 
 VOL. II. x
 
 226 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 He began to read ; and there seemed to be a 
 heavy load of charges in this letter against the 
 poor criminal : but I stopped the reading of it, and 
 said, It will not be my fault, if this vilified man be 
 not as indifferent to me, as one whom I never saw. 
 If he be otherwise at present, which I neither own 
 nor deny, it proceeds from the strange methods 
 taken to prevent it. Do not let one cause unite 
 him and me, and we shall not be united. If my 
 offer to live single be accepted, he shall be no more 
 to me than this gentleman. 
 
 Still Proceed, Mr. Solmes hear it out, niece, 
 was my uncle's cry. 
 
 But to what purpose, sir ! said I Has not Mr. 
 Solmes a view in this? And, besides, can any 
 thing worse be said of Mr. Lovelace, than I have 
 heard said for several months past? 
 
 But this, said my uncle, and what Mr. Solmes 
 can tell you besides, amounts to the fullest proof 
 
 Was the unhappy man, then, so freely treated 
 in his character before, without full proof? I be- 
 seech you, sir, give me not too good an opinion of 
 Mr. Lovelace ; as I may have, if such pains be 
 taken to make him guilty, by one who means not 
 his reformation by it ; nor to do good, if I may 
 presume to say so in this case, to any body but 
 himself. 
 
 I see very plainly, girl, said my uncle, your 
 prepossession, your fond prepossession, for the per- 
 son of a man without morals. 
 
 Indeed, my dear, said my aunt, you too much 
 justify all our apprehensions. Surprising ! that a 
 young creature of virtue and honour should thus 
 esteem a man of a quite opposite character ! 
 
 Dear madam, do not conclude against me too 
 hastily. I believe Mr. Lovelace is far from being 
 so good as he ought to be : but if every man'**
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 227 
 
 private life were searched into by prejudiced people, 
 set on for that purpose, I know not whose repu- 
 tation would be safe. I love a virtuous character, 
 as much in man, as in woman. I think it as requi- 
 site and as meritorious in the one as in the other. 
 And, if left to myself, I would prefer a person of 
 such a character to royalty without it. 
 
 Why then, said my uncle 
 
 Give me leave, sir but I may venture to say, 
 that many of those who have escaped censure, 
 have not merited applause. 
 
 Permit me to observe, further, that Mr. Solmes 
 himself may not be absolutely faultless. I never 
 heard of his virtues. Some vices I have heard of, 
 Excuse me, Mr. Solmes, I speak to your face 
 the text about casting the first stone affords an ex- 
 cellent lesson. 
 
 He looked down ; but was silent. 
 
 Mr. Lovelace may have vices you have not. You 
 may have others, which he has not. I speak not 
 this to defend him, or to excuse you. No man is 
 bad, no one is good, in every thing. Mr, Love- 
 lace, for example, is said to be implacable, and to 
 hate my friends: that does not make me value 
 him the more : but give me leave to say, that they 
 hate him as much. Mr. Solmes has his antipa- 
 thies, likewise ; very strong ones, and those to his 
 own relations ; which I don't find to be the other s 
 fault ; for he lives well with his yet he may have 
 as bad : worse, pardon me, he cannot have, in my 
 poor opinion : for what must be the man who hates, 
 his ownjlesh? 
 
 You know not, madam ; ") 
 
 You know not, niece; >all in one breath. 
 
 You know not, Clary; J 
 
 I may not, nor do I desire to know, Mr. Solmes's 
 reasons. It concerns not me to know them : but 
 x 2
 
 228 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 the world, even the impartial part of it, accuses 
 him. If the world is unjust or rash, in one man's 
 case, why may it not be so in another's? That's 
 all I mean by it. Nor can there be a greater sign 
 of want of merit, than where a man seeks to pull 
 down another's character, in order to build up his 
 own. 
 
 The poor man's face was all this time overspread 
 with confusion, twisted, as it were, and all awry, 
 neither mouth nor nose standing in the middle of 
 it. He looked, as if he were ready to cry : and 
 had he been capable of pitying me, I had certainly 
 tried to pity him. 
 
 They all three gazed upon one another in si- 
 lence. 
 
 My aunt, I saw (at least I thought so) looked as 
 if she would have been glad she might have ap- 
 peared to approve of what I said. She but feebly 
 blamed me, when she spoke, for not hearing what 
 Mr. Solmes had to say. He himself seemed not 
 now very earnest to be heard. My uncle said, 
 there was no talking to me. And I should have 
 absolutely silenced both gentlemen, had not my 
 brother come in again to their assistance. 
 
 This was the strange speech he made at his en- 
 trance, his eyes flaming with anger : This prating 
 girl has struck you all dumb, I perceive. Perse- 
 vere, however, Mr. Solmes. I have heard every 
 word she has said: and I know no other method of 
 being even with her, than after she is yours, to 
 make her as sensible of your power, as she now 
 makes you of her insolence. 
 
 Fie, cousin Harlowe! said my aunt could I 
 have thought a brother would have said this to a 
 gentleman, of a sister? 
 
 I must tell you, madam, said he, that you give 
 the rebel courage. You yourself seem to favour
 
 CLARISSA tfARLOWE. 229 
 
 too much the arrogance of her sex in her ; other- 
 wise she durst not have thus stopped her uncle's 
 mouth by reflections upon him ; as well as denied 
 to hear a gentleman tell her the danger she is in 
 from a libertine, whose protection, as she has 
 plainly hinted, she intends to claim against her fa- 
 mily. 
 
 Stopped my uncles mouth by reflections upon him, 
 Sir! said I, how can that be! How dare you to 
 make such an application as this ! 
 
 My aunt wept at his reflection upon her. 
 Cousin, said she to him, if this be the thanks I have 
 for my trouble, I have done : your father would not 
 treat me thus and I will say, that the hint you 
 gave was an unbrotherly one. 
 
 Not more unbrotherly than all the rest of his 
 conduct to me, of late, madam, said I. I see by 
 this specimen of his violence, how every body has 
 been brought into his measures. Had I any the 
 least apprehension of ever being in Mr. Solmes's 
 power, this might have affected me. But you see, 
 sir, to Mr. Solmes, what a conduct is thought ne- 
 cessary to enable you to arrive at your ungene- 
 rous end. You see how my brother courts for 
 you! 
 
 I disclaim Mr. Harlowe's violence, madam, with 
 all my soul. I will never remind you 
 
 Silence, worthy sir, said I; I will take care you 
 never shall have the opportunity. 
 
 Less violence, Clary, said my uncle. Cousin 
 James, you are as much to blame as your sister. 
 
 In then came my sister. Brother, said she, you 
 kept not your promise. You are thought to be to 
 blame within, as well as here. Were not Mr. 
 Solmes's generosity and affection to the girl well 
 known, what you have said would be inexcusable. 
 My father desires to speak with you; and with 
 x3
 
 230 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 you, aunt ; and with you, uncle ; and with you, 
 Mr. Solmes, if you please. 
 
 They all four withdrew into the next apartment. 
 
 I stood silent, as not knowing presently how to 
 take this intervention of my sister's. But she left 
 me not long at a loss O thou perverse thing, said 
 she [poking out her angry face at me, when they 
 were all gone, but speaking spitefully low] what 
 trouble do you give to us all! 
 
 You and my brother, Bella, said I, give trouble 
 to yourselves; yet neither you nor he have any 
 business to concern yourselves about me. 
 
 She threw out some spiteful expressions, still in 
 a low voice, as if she chose not to be heard with- 
 out ; and I thought it best to oblige her to raise 
 her tone a little, if I could. If I could, did I say ? 
 It is easy to make a passionate spirit answer all 
 one's views upon it. 
 
 She accordingly flamed out in a raised tone : and 
 this brought my cousin Dolly in to us. Miss Har- 
 lowe your company is desired. 
 
 I will come presently, cousin Dolly. 
 
 But again provoking a severity from me which 
 she could not bear, and calling me names; in once 
 more came Dolly, with another message that her 
 company was desired. 
 
 Not mine, I doubt, Miss Dolly, said I. 
 
 The sweet-tempered girl burst out into tears, 
 and shook her head. 
 
 Go in before me, child, said Bella [vexed to see 
 her concern for me], with thy sharp face like a new 
 moon : what dost thou cry for ? Is it to make thy 
 keen face look still keener ? 
 
 I believe Bella was blamed, too, when she went 
 in; for I heard her say, The creature was so pro- 
 voking, there was no keeping a resolution. 
 
 Mr. Solmes, after a little while, came in again by
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 231 
 
 himself, to take leave of me : full of scrapes and 
 compliments ; but too well tutored and encouraged, 
 to give me hope of his declining his suit. He beg- 
 ged me not to impute to him any of the severe 
 things to which he had been a sorrowful witness. 
 He besought my compassion, as he called it. 
 
 He said, the result was, that he had still hopes 
 given him ; and although discouraged by me, he 
 was resolved to persevere, while I remained single. 
 And such long and such painful services he 
 talked of, as never before were heard of. 
 
 I told him, in the strongest manner, what he had 
 to trust to. 
 
 Yet still he determined to persist. While I was 
 no man's else, he must hope. 
 
 What! said I, will you still persist, when I de- 
 clare, as I now do, that my affections are engaged? 
 And let my brother make the most of it. 
 
 He knew my principles, and adored me for them. 
 He doubted not, that it was in his power to make 
 me happy : and he was sure I would not want the 
 will to be so. 
 
 I assured him, that were I to be carried to my 
 uncle's, it should answer no end; for I would never 
 see him ; nor receive a line from him ; nor hear a 
 word in his favour, whoever were the person who 
 should mention him to me. 
 
 He was sorry for it. He must be miserable, were 
 I to hold in that mind. But he doubted not, that I 
 might be induced by my father and uncles to 
 change it 
 
 Never, never, he might depend upon it. 
 
 It was richly worth his patience, and the trial. 
 
 At my expense? At the price of all my happi- 
 ness, sir ? 
 
 He hoped I should be induced to think other- 
 wise,
 
 232 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 And then would he have run into his fortune, 
 his settlements, his affection vowing that never 
 man loved a woman with so sincere a passion, as 
 he loved me. 
 
 I stopped him as to the first part of his speech : 
 and to the second, of the sincerity of his passion. 
 What then, sir, said I, is your love to one, who 
 must assure you, that never young creature looked 
 upon man with a more sincere disapprobation, 
 than I look upon you? and tell me, what argument 
 can you urge, that this true declaration answers 
 not beforehand? 
 
 Dearest madam, what can I say? On my knees 
 I beg 
 
 And down the ungraceful wretch dropped on 
 his knees. 
 
 Let me not kneel in vain, madam : let me not 
 be thus despised. And he looked most odiously 
 sorrowful. 
 
 I have kneeled too, Mr. Solmes: often have I 
 kneeled : and I will kneel again even to you, sir, 
 will I kneel, if there be so much merit in kneel- 
 ing; provided you will not be the implement of 
 my cruel brother's undeserved persecution. 
 
 If all the services, even to worship you, during 
 my whole life you, madam, invoke and expect 
 mercy ; yet shew none 
 
 Am I to be cruel to myself, to shew mercy to 
 you; take my estate, sir, with all my heart, since 
 you are such a favourite in this house ! Only 
 leave me myself the mercy you ask for, do you 
 shew to others. 
 
 If you mean to my relations, madam unworthy 
 as they are, all shall be done that you shall pre- 
 scribe. 
 
 Who, I, sir, to find you bowels you naturally 
 have not? I to purchase their happiness by the for-
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWEk 233 
 
 feiture of my own? What I ask you for, is mercy 
 to myself: that, since you seem to have some power 
 over my relations, you will use it in my behalf. 
 Tell them that you see I cannot conquer my aver- 
 sion to you; tell them, if you are a wise man, that 
 you too much value your own happiness, to risk it 
 against such a determined antipathy: tell them, 
 that I am unworthy your offers : and that in mercy 
 to yourself, as well as to me, you will not prose- 
 cute a suit so impossible to be granted. 
 
 I will risk all consequences, said the fell wretch, 
 rising with a countenance whitened over, as if 
 with malice, his hollow eyes flashing fire, and 
 biting his under lip, to shew he could be manly. 
 Your hatred, madam, shall be no objection with 
 me: and I doubt not in a few days to have it in 
 my power to shew you 
 
 You have it in your power, sir 
 
 He came well off to shew you more generosity, 
 than, noble as you are said to be to others, you 
 shew to me. 
 
 The man's face became his anger: ft seems 
 formed to express the passion. 
 
 At that instant, again came in my brother 
 Sister, sister, sister, said he, with his teeth set, act 
 on the termagant part you have so newly assumed 
 most wonderfully well does it become you. It 
 is but a short one, however. Tyranness in your 
 turn, accuse others of your own guilt but leave 
 her, leave her, Mr. Solmes: her time is short. 
 You'll find her humble and mortified enough very 
 quickly then, how like a little tame fool will she 
 look, with her conscience upbraiding her, and beg- 
 ging of you [with a whining voice, the barbarous 
 brother spoke] to forgive and forget ! 
 
 More he said, as he flew out, with a glowing
 
 234 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 face, upon Shorey's coming in to recal him on his 
 violence. 
 
 I removed from chair to chair, excessively fright- 
 ed and disturbed at this brutal treatment. 
 
 The man attempted to excuse himself, as being 
 sorry for my brother's passion. 
 
 Leave me, leave me, sir, fanning or I shall 
 faint. And indeed I thought I should. 
 
 He recommended himself to my favour with an 
 air of assurance; augmented, as I thought, by a dis- 
 tress so visible in me ; for he even snatched my 
 trembling, my struggling hand; and ravished it to 
 his odious mouth. 
 
 I flung from him with high disdain : and he with- 
 drew, bowing and cringing ; self-gratified, and en- 
 joying, as I thought, the confusion he saw me in. 
 
 The wretch is now, methinks, before me; and 
 now I see him awkwardly striding backward, as he 
 retired, till the edge of the opened door, which he 
 ran against, remembered him to turn his welcome 
 back upon me. 
 
 Upon his withdrawing, Betty brought me word, 
 that I was permitted to go up to my own chamber : 
 and was bid to consider of every thing : for my 
 time was short. Nevertheless, she believed I 
 might be permitted to stay till Saturday. 
 
 She tells me, that although my brother and sis- 
 ter were blamed for being so hasty with me, yet 
 when they made their report, and my uncle Antony 
 his, of my provocations, they were all more deter- 
 mined than ever in Mr. Solmes's favour. 
 
 The wretch himself, she tells me, pretends to be 
 more in love with me than before; and to be ra- 
 ther delighted than discouraged with the conversa- 
 tion that passed between us. He ran on, she says, 
 iu raptures, about the grace wherewith I should
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 235 
 
 dignify his board; and the like sort of* stuff, either 
 of his saying, or of her making. 
 
 She closed all with a Now is your time, miss, to 
 submit with a grace, and to make your own term 
 with him : else, I can tell you, were I Mr. Solmes, 
 it should be worse for you : and who, miss, of our 
 sex, proceeded the saucy creature, would admire 
 a rakish gentleman, when she might be admired by 
 a sober one to the end of the chapter ? 
 
 She made this further speech to me on quitting 
 my chamber You have had amazing good luck, 
 miss, I must tell you, to keep your writings con- 
 cealed so cunningly,, you must needs think I 
 know that you are always at your pen: and as you 
 endeavour to hide that knowledge from me, I do 
 not think myself obliged to keep your secret. But 
 I love not to aggravate. I had rather reconcile by 
 much. Peace-making is my talent, and ever was. 
 And had I been as much your foe, as you imagine, 
 you had not perhaps been here now. But this, 
 however, I do not say to make a merit with you, 
 miss : for, truly, it will be the better for you the 
 sooner every thing is over with you. And better 
 for me, and for every one else ; that's certain. Yet 
 one hint I must conclude with; that your pen and 
 ink (soon as you are to go away) will not be long 
 in your power, I do assure you, miss. And then, 
 having lost that amusement, it will be seen, how 
 a mind so active as yours will be able to employ 
 itself. 
 
 This hint alarms me so much, that I shall in- 
 stantly begin to conceal, in different places, pens, 
 ink, and paper; and to deposit some in the ivy 
 summer-house, if I can find a safe place there ; and, 
 at the worst, I have got a pencil of black, and ano- 
 ther of red lead, which I use in my drawings ; and
 
 236 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 my patterns shall serve for paper, if I have no 
 other. 
 
 How lucky it was, that I had got away my pa- 
 pers ! They made a strict search for them ; that I 
 can see, by the disorderly manner they have left- 
 all things in : for you know that I am such an ob- 
 server of method, that I can go to a bit of ribband, 
 or lace, or edging, blindfold. The same in my 
 books : which they have strangely disordered and 
 mismatched ; to look behind them, and in some of 
 them, I suppose. My clothes too are rumpled not 
 a little. No place has escaped them. To your 
 hint, I thank you, are they indebted for their dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 The pen, through heaviness and fatigue, dropt 
 out of my fingers, at the word indebted. I resume 
 it to finish the sentence ; and to tell you, that I 
 am, 
 
 Your for ever obliged and affectionate 
 
 CL. HAULOWE. 
 
 LETTER XXXIV. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 Wednesday, 11 o'clock, April b. 
 I must write as I have opportunity; making use 
 of my concealed stores: for my pens and ink (all 
 of each that they could find) are taken from me ; 
 as I shall tell you more particularly by-and-by. 
 
 About an hour ago I deposited my long letter 
 to you ; as also, in the usual place, a billet to Mr. 
 Lovelace, lest his impatience should put him upon 
 some rashness ; signifying, in lour lines, ' that 
 the interview was over ; and that I hoped my
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 237 
 
 .steady refusal of Mr. Solmes would discourage any 
 further applications to me in his favour.' 
 
 Although I was unable (through the fatigue I 
 had undergone, and by reason of sitting up all 
 night, to write to you ; which made me lie longer 
 than ordinary this morning) to deposit my letter 
 to you sooner ; yet I hope you will have it in such 
 good time, as that you will be able to send me an 
 answer to it this night, or in the morning early ; 
 which, if ever so short, will inform me, whether I 
 may depend upon your mother's indulgence or not. 
 This it behoves me to know as soon as possible ; 
 for they are resolved to hurry me away on Satur- 
 day next at furthest ; perhaps to-morrow. - 
 
 1 will now inform you of all that happened pre- 
 vious to their taking away my pen and ink, as well 
 as of the manner in which that act of violence was 
 committed ; and this as briefly as I can.* 
 
 My aunt, who (as well as Mr. Solmes, and my 
 two uncles) lives here, I think, came .up to me, 
 and said, she would fain have me hear what Mr. 
 Solmes had to say of Mr. Lovelace only that I 
 might be apprised of some things, that would con- 
 vince me what a vile man he is, and what a wretch- 
 ed husband he must make. I might give them what 
 degree of credit I pleased ; and take them with 
 abatement for Mr. Solmes's interestedness, if I 
 thought fit. But it might be of use to me, were it 
 but to question Mr. Lovelace indirectly upon some 
 of them that related to myself. 
 
 I was indifferent, I said, about what he could say 
 of me ; as I was sure it could not be to my disad- 
 vantage : and as he had no reason to impute to me 
 the forwardness which my unkind friends had so 
 causelessly taxed me with. 
 
 She said, that he gave himself high airs on ac- 
 
 VOL. II. Y
 
 238 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 count of his family ; and spoke as despicably of 
 ours as if an alliance with us were beneath him. 
 
 I replied, that he was a very unworthy man, if 
 it were true, to speak slightingly of a family, which 
 was as good as his own, 'bating that it was not 
 allied to the peerage : that the dignity itself, 1 
 thought, conveyed more shame than honour to de- 
 scendants, who had not merit to adorn, as well as 
 to be adorned by it: that my brother's absurd pride, 
 indeed, which made him every where declare, he 
 would never marry but to quality, gave a disgrace- 
 ful preference against ours : but that were 1 to be 
 assured, that Mr. Lovelace was capable of so mean 
 a pride as to insult us, or value himself on such an 
 accidental advantage, I should think as despicably 
 of his sense, as every body else did of his morals. 
 
 She insisted upon it, that he had taken such li- 
 berties ; and offered to give some instances, which, 
 she said, would surprise me. 
 
 I answered, that were it ever so certain that 
 Mr. Lovelace had taken such liberties, it would be 
 but common justice (so much hated as he, was by 
 all our family, and so much inveighed against in 
 all companies by them) to inquire into the pro- 
 vocation he had to say what was imputed to him ; 
 and whether the value some of my friends put upon 
 the riches they possess (throwing perhaps con- 
 tempt upon every other advantage, and even dis- 
 crediting their oxtm pretensions to family, in order to 
 depreciate his) might not provoke him to like con- 
 tempts. Upon the whole, madam, said I, can you 
 say, that the inveteracy lies not as much on our 
 side, as on his ? Can he .say any thing of us more 
 disrespectful than roe say of him ? And as to the 
 suggestion, so often repeated, that he will make a 
 bad husband, is it possible for him to use a wife
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 239 
 
 worse than I am used ; particularly by my brother 
 and sister ? 
 
 Ah, niece ! ah, my dear ! how firmly has this 
 wicked man attached you ! 
 
 Perhaps not, madam. But really great care 
 should be taken by fathers and mothers, when they 
 would have their daughters of their minds in these 
 particulars, not to say things that shall necessitate 
 the child, in honour and generosity, to take part 
 with the man her friends are averse to. But, wav- 
 ing all this, as I have offered to renounce him for 
 ever, I see not why he should be mentioned to me, 
 nor why I should be wished to hear any thing about 
 him. 
 
 Well, but still, my dear, there can be no harm to 
 let Mr. Solmes tell you what Mr. Lovelace has said 
 of you. Severely as you have treated Mr. Solmes, 
 he is fond of attending you once more : he begs to 
 be heard on this head. 
 
 If it be proper for me to hear it, madam 
 
 It is, eagerly interrupted she, very proper. 
 
 Has what he has said of me, madam, convinced 
 you of Mr. Lovelace's baseness ? 
 
 It has, my dear : and that you ought to abhor 
 him for it. 
 
 Then, dear madam, be pleased to let me hear it 
 from your mouth : there is no need that I should 
 see Mr. Solmes, when it will have double the weight 
 from you. What, madam, has the man dared to 
 say of me ? 
 
 My aunt was quite at a loss. 
 
 At last, Well, said she, I see how you are attach- 
 ed. I am sorry for it, miss. For I do assure you 
 it will signify nothing. You must be Mrs. Solmes, 
 and that in a very few days. 
 
 If consent of heart, and assent of voice, be neces- 
 sary to a marriage, I am sure I never can, nor ever 
 y2
 
 24-0 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 will, be married to Mr. Solmes. And what will 
 any of my relations be answerable for, if they 
 force my hand into his, and hold it there till the 
 service be read ; I perhaps insensible, and in fits, 
 all the time ! 
 
 What a romantic picture of a forced marriage 
 have you drawn, niece ! Some people would say, 
 you have given a fine description of your own ob- 
 stinacy, child. 
 
 My brother and sister would : but you, madam, 
 distinguish, I am sure, between obstinacy and aver- 
 sion. 
 
 Supposed aversion may owe its rise to real obsti- 
 nacy, my dear. 
 
 I know my own heart, madam. I wish you did. 
 
 Well, but see Mr. Solmes once more, niece. It 
 will oblige, and make for you, more than you 
 imagine. 
 
 What should I see him for, madam Is the 
 man fond of hearing me declare my aversion to 
 him ? Is he desirous of having me more and more 
 incense my friends against myself? O my cunning, 
 my ambitious brother 1 
 
 Ah, my dear ! with a look of pity, as if she un- 
 derstood the meaning of my exclamation but must 
 that necessarily be the case ? 
 
 It must, madam, if they will take offence at me 
 for declaring my steadfast detestation of Mr. Solmes 
 as a husband. 
 
 Mr. Solmes is to be pitied, said she. He adores 
 you. He longs to see you once more. He loves 
 you the better for your cruel usage of him yester- 
 day. He is in raptures about you. 
 
 Ugly creature, thought I ! He in raptures ! 
 
 What a cruel wretch must he be, said I, who 
 can enjoy the distress to which he so largely con- 
 tributes ! But I see, I see, madam, that I am con-
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 241 
 
 sidered as an animal to be baited, to make sport 
 for my brother and sister, and Mr. Solmes. They 
 are all, all of them, wanton in their cruelty. /, 
 madam, see the man ! the man so incapable of 
 pity ! Indeed I will not see him if I can help it. 
 -Indeed I will not. 
 
 What a construction does your lively wit put 
 upon the admiration Mr. Solmes expresses of you! 
 Passionate as you were yesterday, and contemp- 
 tuously as you treated him, he dotes upon you for 
 the very severity by which he suffers. He is not 
 so ungenerous a man as you think him : nor has he 
 an unfeeling heart. Let me prevail upon you, my 
 dear (as your father and mother expect it of you) 
 to see him once more, and hear what he has to say 
 to you. 
 
 How can I consent to see him again, when yes- 
 terday's interview was interpreted by you, madam, 
 as well as by every other, as an encouragement to 
 him ? When I myself declared, that if I saw him a 
 second time by my own consent, it might be so 
 taken ? And when I am determined never to en- 
 courage him ? 
 
 You might spare your reflections upon me, miss. 
 I have no thanks either from one side or the other. 
 
 And away she flung. 
 
 Dearest madam ! said I, following her to the 
 door . 
 
 But she would not hear me further ; and her 
 sudden breaking from me occasioned a hurry to 
 some mean listener ; as the slipping of a foot 
 from the landing-place on the stairs discovered to 
 me. 
 
 I had scarcely recovered myself from this attack, 
 when up came Betty Miss, said she, your com- 
 pany is desired below stairs in your own parlour. 
 
 By whom, Betty ? 
 
 t3
 
 24-2 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 How can I tell, miss ? Perhaps by your sister, 
 perhaps by your brother I know they won't come 
 up stairs to your apartment again. 
 
 Is Mr. Solmes gone, Betty ? 
 
 I believe he is, miss would you have him sent 
 for back ? said the bold creature ? 
 
 Down I went : and to whdm should I be sent for 
 but to my brother and Mr. Solmes ! The latter 
 standing sneaking behind the door, so that I saw 
 him not till I was mockingly led by the hand into 
 the room by my brother. And then I started as if 
 I had beheld a ghost. 
 
 You are to sit down, Clary. 
 
 And what then brother ? 
 
 Why then, you are to put off that scornful look, 
 and hear what Mr* Solmes has to say to you. 
 
 Sent for down to be baited again ! thought I. 
 
 Madam, said Mr. Solmes, as if in haste to speak, 
 lest he should not have an opportunity given him, 
 [and indeed he judged right] Mr. Lovelace is a de- 
 clared marriage hater, and has a design upon your 
 honour, if ever 
 
 Base accuser ! said I, in a passion, snatching my 
 hand from my brother, who was insolently motion- 
 ing to give it to Mr. Solmes ; he has not ! he dares 
 not ! But^o have, if endeavouring to force a free 
 mind be to dishonour it ! 
 
 O thou violent creature ! said my brother but 
 not gone yet for I was rushing away. 
 
 What mean you, sir [struggling vehemently to 
 get away] to detain me thus against my will ? 
 
 You shall not go, violence ! clasping his unbro- 
 therly arms about me. 
 
 Then let not Mr. Solmes stay. Why hold you 
 me thus ? He shall not for your oivn sake, if I can 
 help it, see how barbarously a brother can treat a 
 sister who deserves not evil treatment.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 243 
 
 And I struggled so vehemently to get from him, 
 that he was forced to quit my hand ! which he did 
 with these words Begone then, fury! How strong 
 is will ! There is no holding her. 
 
 And up I flew to my chamber, and locked my- 
 self in, trembling and out of breath. 
 
 In less than a quarter of an hour up came Betty. 
 I let her in upon her tapping, and asking (half out 
 of breath too) for admittance. 
 
 The Lord have mercy upon us ; said she. What 
 a confusion of a house is this ; [hurrying up and 
 down, fanning herself with her handkerchief] Such 
 angry masters and mistresses ! Such an obstinate 
 young lady ! Such an humble lover ! Such en- 
 raged uncles! Such O dear! dear! what a 
 topsy-turvy house is this ! And all for what, trow ? 
 Only because a young lady may be happy, and 
 will not ? Only because a young lady mil have a 
 husband, and will not have a husband ? What 
 hurly-burlies are here, where all used to be peace 
 and quietness ! 
 
 Thus she ran on to herself, while I sat as patiently 
 as I could (being assured that her errand was not 
 designed to be a welcome one to me) to observe 
 when her soliloquy would end. * 
 
 At last, turning to me I must do as I am bid. 
 I can't help it don't be angry with me, miss. But 
 I must carry down your pen and ink : and that this 
 moment. 
 
 By whose order ? 
 
 By your papa's and mamma's. 
 
 How shall I know that ? 
 
 She offered to go to my closet : I stept in before 
 her: Touch it if you dare. 
 
 Up came my cousin Dolly Madam ! madam ! 
 said the poor weeping good-natured creature, in
 
 244 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 broken sentences you must indeed you must 
 deliver to Betty or to me your pen and ink. 
 
 Must I, my sweet cousin ? Then I will to you ; 
 but not to this bold body. And I gave my standish 
 tofcer. 
 
 Ji am sorry, very sorry, said she, to be the mes- 
 senger: but your papa will not have you in the 
 same house with him : he is resolved you shall be 
 carried away to-morrow, or Saturday at furthest. 
 And therefore your pen and ink are taken away, 
 that you may give nobody notice of it. 
 
 And away went the dear girl, very sorrowful, 
 carrying down with her my standish, and all its 
 furniture, and a little parcel of pens beside, which 
 having been seen when the great search was made, 
 she was bid to ask for. As it happened, I had not 
 diminished it, having hid half a dozen crow quills 
 in as many different places. It was lucky ; for I 
 doubt not they had numbered how many were in 
 the parcel. 
 
 Betty ran on, telling me, that my mother was 
 now as much incensed against me as any body 
 that my doom was fixed that my violent beha- 
 viour had not left one to plead for me that Mr. 
 Solmes bit his lip, and muttered, and seemed to have 
 more in his head than could come out at his mouth ; 
 that was her phrase. 
 
 And yet she also hinted to me, that the cruel 
 wretch took pleasure in seeing me : although so 
 much to my disgust and so wanted to see me 
 again. Must he not be a savage, my dear ? 
 
 The wench went on that my uncle Harlowe 
 said, that now he gave me up that he pitied Mr. 
 Solmes yet hoped he would not think of this to 
 my detriment hereafter ; that my uncle Antony 
 was of opinion, that I ought to smart for it ; and.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 245 
 
 for her part and then, as one of the family, she 
 gave her opinion of the same side. 
 
 As I have no other way of hearing any thing 
 that is said or intended below, I bear sometimes 
 more patiently than I otherwise should do with her 
 impertinence. And indeed she seems to be in all 
 my brother's and sister's councils. 
 
 Miss Hervey came up again, and demanded an 
 half-pint ink-bottle which they had seen in my 
 closet. 
 
 I gave it her without hesitation. 
 
 If they have no suspicion of my being able to 
 write, they will perhaps let me stay longer than 
 otherwise they would. 
 
 This, my dear, is now my situation. 
 
 All my dependence, all my hopes, are in your 
 mother's favour. But for that, I know not 'what 
 I might do : for who can tell what will come next? 
 
 LETTER XXXV. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 Wednesday, four o'clock in the afternoon. 
 I am just returned from depositing the letter I so 
 lately finished, and such of Mr. Lovelace's letters 
 as I had not sent you. My long letter I found re- 
 maining there. So you will have both together. 
 
 I am concerned, methinks, it is not with you. 
 But your servant cannot always be at leisure. 
 However, I will deposit as fast as I write. I must 
 keep nothing by me now : and when I write, lock 
 myself in, that I may not be surprised now they 
 think I have no pen and ink. 
 
 I found in the usual place another letter from 
 this diligent man : and by its contents a confirma-
 
 246 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 tion that nothing passes in this house but he knows 
 it ; and that almost as soon as it passes. For this 
 letter must have been written before he could have 
 received my billet ; and deposited, I suppose, when 
 that was taken away ; yet he compliments me in it 
 upon asserting myself (as he calls it) on that occa- 
 sion to my uncle and to Mr. Solmes. 
 
 * He assures me, however, that they are more 
 and more determined to subdue me. 
 
 He sends me the compliments of his family ; 
 and acquaints me with their earnest desire to see 
 me amongst them. Most vehemently does he 
 press for my quitting this house while it is in my 
 power to get away : and again begs leave to order 
 his uncle's chariot and six to attend my commands 
 at the stile leading to the coppice adjoining to the 
 paddock. 
 
 1 Settlements to my own will he again offers. 
 Lord M. and Lady Sarah, and Lady Betty to be 
 guarantees of his honour and justice. But if I 
 choose not to go to either of those ladies, nor yet 
 to make him the happiest of men so soon as it is 
 nevertheless his hope that I will, he urges me to 
 withdraw to my own house, and to accept of my 
 Lord M. for my guardian and protector till my 
 cousin Morden arrives. He can contrive to give 
 me easy possession of it, and will fill it with his fe- 
 male relations on the first invitation from me ; and 
 Mrs. Norton or Miss Howe may be undoubtedly 
 prevailed upon to be with me for a time. There 
 can be no pretence for litigation, he says, when I 
 am once in it. Nor, if I choose to have it so, will 
 he appear to visit me, nor presume to mention 
 marriage to me till all is quiet and easy ; till every 
 method I shall prescribe for a reconciliation with 
 my friends is tried ; till my cousin comes ; till such 
 settlements are drawn as he shall approve of for
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 247 
 
 me ; and that I have unexceptionable proofs of his 
 own good behaviour.' 
 
 As to the disgrace a person of my character may 
 be apprehensive of upon quitting my father's house, 
 he observes (too truly I doubt), 'that the treat- 
 ment I meet with is in every one's mouth : yet that 
 the public voice is in my favour : my friends them- 
 selves, he says, expect that I will do myself what 
 he calls this justice : why else do they confine me ? 
 He urges, that, thus treated, the independence I 
 have a right to will be my sufficient excuse, going 
 but from their house to my own, if I choose that 
 measure ; or in order to take possession of my own, 
 if I do not : that all the disgrace I can receive they 
 have already given me : that his concern and his 
 family's concern in my honour will be equal to my 
 own, if he may be so happy ever to call me his : 
 and he presumes, he says, to aver, that no family 
 can better supply the loss of my own friends to me 
 than his, in whatever way I shall do them the ho- 
 nour to accept of his and their protection. 
 
 ' But he repeats, that, in all events, he will op- 
 pose my being carried to my uncle's ; being well 
 assured that I shall be lost to him for ever if once 
 I enter into that house.' He tells me, ' that my 
 brother and sister, and Mr. Solmes, design to be 
 there to receive me : that my father and mother 
 will not come near me till the ceremony is actually 
 over ; and that then they will appear, in order to try 
 to reconcile me to my odious husband, by urging 
 upon me the obligations I shall be supposed to be 
 under from a double duty.' 
 
 How, my dear, am I driven on one side, and in- 
 vited on the other! This last intimation is but a 
 too probable one. All the steps they take seem to 
 tend to this ! and, indeed, they have declared al- 
 most as much.
 
 248 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 He owns, ' that he has already taken his mea- 
 sures upon this intelligence. But that he is so de- 
 sirous for my sake (I must suppose, he says, that he 
 owes them no forbearance^/or their otvnj to avoid 
 coming to extremities, that he has suffered a per- 
 son, whom they do not suspect, to acquaint them 
 with his resolutions, as if come at by accident, if 
 they persist in their design to carry me by violence 
 to my uncle's, in hopes that they may be induced 
 from the fear of mischief which may ensue to 
 change their measures : and yet he is aware that he 
 has exposed himself to the greatest risks by having 
 caused this intimation to be given them ; since, if 
 he cannot benefit himself by their fears, there is no 
 doubt but they will doubly guard themselves 
 against him upon it.' 
 
 What a dangerous enterpriser, however, is this 
 man! 
 
 ' He begs a few lines frorn me by way of answer 
 to this letter, either this evening or to-morrow 
 morning. If he be not so favoured, he shall con- 
 clude, from what he knows of the fixed determina- 
 tion of my relations, that I shall be under a closer 
 restraint than before : and he shall be obliged to 
 take his measures according to that presumption.' 
 
 You will see by this abstract, as well as by his 
 letter pi*eceding this (for both run in the same 
 strain), how strangely forward the difficulty of my 
 situation has brought him in his declarations and 
 proposals, and in his threatenings too : which, but 
 for that, I would not take from him. 
 
 Something, however, I must speedily resolve 
 upon, or it will be out of my power to help my- 
 self. 
 
 Now I think of it, I will inclose his letter (so 
 might have spared the abstract of it) that you may 
 the better judge of all his proposals and intelli-
 
 CLARISSA HARDOWE. 24>9 
 
 gence, and lest it should fall into other hands. I 
 cannot forget the contents, although I am at a loss 
 what answer to return*. 
 
 I cannot bear the thoughts of throwing myself 
 upon the protection of his friends : but I will not 
 examine his proposals closely till I hear from you. 
 Indeed I have no eligible hope but in your mother's 
 goodness. Her 's is a protection I could more repu- 
 tably fly to than to that of any other person : and 
 from her's should be ready to return to my father's 
 (for the breach then would not be irreparable, as 
 it would be if I fled to his family ) : to return, I 
 repeat, on such terms as shall secure but my nega- 
 tive, not my independence : I do not aim at that (so 
 shall lay your mother under the less difficulty ) : 
 although I have a right to be put into possession of 
 my grandfather's estate, if I were to insist upon it: 
 such a right, I mean, as my brother exerts in 
 the estate left him ; and which nobody disputes. 
 God forbid that I should ever think myself freed 
 from my father's reasonable control, whatever right 
 my grandfather's will has given me ! He, good 
 gentleman, left me that estate as a reward of my 
 duty, and not to*set me above it, as has been justly 
 hinted to me : and this reflection makes me more 
 fearful of not answering the intention of so valuable 
 a bequest. O that my friends knew but my heart ! 
 Would but think of it as they used to do ! For 
 once more I say, if it deceive me not, it is not 
 altered, although theirs are ! 
 
 Would but your mother permit you to send her 
 chariot, or chaise, to the by-place where Mr. 
 Lovelace proposes Lord M.'s shall come (provoked, 
 intimidated, and apprehensive as I am), I would 
 
 * She accordingly incloses Mr. Lovelace's letter. 15 u t a* 
 the most material contents of it are given in her abstract 
 it is omitted. 
 
 VOL. II. Z
 
 250 THE HISTORY OP 
 
 not hesitate a moment what to do. Place me any 
 where, as I have said before in a cot, in a garret; 
 any where disguised as a servant or let me pass 
 as a servant's sister so that I may but escape Mr. 
 Solmes on one hand, and the disgrace of refuging 
 with the family of a man at enmity with my own 
 on the other, and I shall be in some measure hap- 
 py! Should your good mother refuse me, what 
 refuge, or whose, can I fly to? Dearest creature, 
 advise your distressed friend. 
 * # * 
 
 I broke off here I was so excessively uneasy, 
 that I durst not trust myself with my own reflec- 
 tions : I therefore went down to the garden, to try 
 to calm my mind, by shifting the scene. I took 
 but one turn upon the filberd-walk, when Betty 
 came to me. Here, miss, is your papa here is 
 your uncle Antony ! here is my young master 
 and my young mistress coming to take a walk in 
 the garden ; and your papa sends me to see where 
 you are, for fear he should meet you. 
 
 I struck into an oblique path, and got behind the 
 yew hedge, seeing my sister appear; and there con- 
 cealed myself till they were gone past me. 
 
 My mother, it seems, is not well. My poor 
 mother keeps her chamber should she be worse, I 
 should have an additional unhappiness, in appre- 
 hension that my reputed undutifulness had touched 
 her heart. 
 
 You cannot imagine what my emotions were be- 
 hind the yew hedge, on seeing my father so near 
 me. I was glad to look at him through the hedge 
 as he passed by : but I trembled in every joint, 
 when I heard him utter these words : Son James, to 
 you, and to Bella, and to you, brother, do I wholly 
 commit this matter. That I was meant I cannot 
 doubt. And yet why was I so affected ; since I
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 251 
 
 may be said to have been given up to the cruelty 
 of my brother and sister for many days past ? 
 
 * # * 
 
 While my father remained in the garden, I sent 
 my dutiful compliments to my mother, with in- 
 quiry after her health, by Shorey, whom I met 
 accidentally upon the stairs ; for none of the ser- 
 vants, except my gaoleress, dare to throw them- 
 selves in my way. I had the mortification of such 
 a return, as made me repent my message, though 
 not my concern for her health. ' Let her not in- 
 quire after the disorders she occasions,' was her 
 harsh answer. ' I will not receive any compli- 
 ments from her.* 
 
 Very, very hard, my dear ! Indeed it is very 
 hard. 
 
 # # * 
 
 I have the pleasure to hear that my mother is 
 already better. A colicky disorder, to which she 
 is too subject. It is hoped it is gone off God 
 send it may ! Every evil that happens in this house 
 is owing to me ! 
 
 This good news was told me, with a circumstance 
 very unacceptable ; for Betty said, she had orders 
 to let me know, that my garden walks and poultry 
 visits were suspected : and that both will be pro- 
 hibited, if I stay here till Saturday or Monday. 
 
 Possibly this is said by order, to make me go 
 with less reluctance to my uncle's. 
 
 My mother bid her say, if I expostulated about 
 these orders, and about my pen and ink, that 
 reading was more to the purpose at present than 
 writing : that by the one I might be taught my 
 duty ; that the other, considering whom I was be- 
 lieved to write to, only stiffened my will : that ray 
 needle-works had better be pursued than my air- 
 z 2
 
 252 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 ings, which were observed to be taken in all wea- 
 thers.' 
 
 So, my dear, if I do not resolve upon something 
 soon, I shall neither be able to avoid the intended 
 evil, nor have it in my power to correspond with 
 you. 
 
 Wednesday night. 
 
 All is in a hurry below stairs. Betty is in and 
 out like a spy. Something is working, 1 know not 
 what. I am really a good deal disordered in body 
 as well as mind. Indeed 1 am quite heart-sick. 
 
 I will go down, though 'tis almost dark, on pre- 
 tence of getting a little air and composure. Robert 
 has my two former, I hope, before now : and I will 
 deposit this, with Lovelace's inclosed, if I can, for 
 fear of another search. 
 
 I know not what I shall do ! All is so strangely 
 busy ! Doors clapt to going out of one apart- 
 ment, hurryingly, as I may say, into another. Betty, 
 in her alarming way, staring, as if of frighted im- 
 portance ; twice with me in half an hour ; called 
 down in haste by Shorey the last time; leaving 
 me with still more meaning in her looks and ges- 
 tures yet possibly nothing in all this worthy of 
 my apprehensions 
 
 Here again comes the creature, with her deep- 
 drawn affected sighs, and her O dears ! O dears ! 
 * * * 
 
 More dark hints thrown out by the saucy crea- 
 ture. But she will not explain herself. ' Suppose 
 this pretty business ends in murder!' she says, ' I 
 may rue my opposition as long as I live, for aught 
 she knows. Parents will not be bajjied out of their 
 children by impudent gentlemen ; nor is it fit they 
 should. It may come home to me when I least 
 expect it.'
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 253 
 
 These are the gloomy and perplexing hints this 
 impertinent throws out. Probably they arise from 
 the information Mr. Lovelace says he has secretly 
 permitted them to have (from his vile double-faced' 
 agent, I suppose ! ) of his resolution to prevent my 
 being carried to my uncle's. 
 
 How justly, if so, may this exasperate them ! 
 How am I driven to and fro, like a feather in the 
 wind, at the pleasure of the rash, the selfish, and 
 the headstrong ! and when I am as averse to the 
 proceedings of the one as I am to those of the 
 other ! For although I was induced to carry on this 
 unhappy correspondence, as I think I ought to call 
 itj in hopes to prevent mischief; yet indiscreet 
 measures are fallen upon by the rash man, before 
 I, who am so much concerned in the event of the 
 present contentions, can be consulted: and be- 
 tween his violence on one hand, and that of my 
 relations on the other, I find myself in danger from 
 both. 
 
 O my dear! what is worldly wisdom but the 
 height of folly ? I, the meanest, at least the 
 youngest, of my father's family, to thrust myself 
 in the gap between such uncontrollable spirits ! 
 To the interception perhaps of the designs of Pro- 
 vidence, which may intend to make these hostile 
 spirits their own punishers. If so, what presump- 
 tion ! Indeed, my dear friend, I am afraid I have 
 thought myself of too much consequence. But, 
 however this be, it is good, when calamities befalus, 
 that tve should look into ourselves, and fear. 
 
 If I am prevented depositing this and the in- 
 closed (as I intend to try to do, late as it is) I 
 will add to it as occasion shall offer. Mean 
 time, believe me to be 
 
 Your ever affectionate and grateful 
 
 CL. HARLOWE. 
 
 z3
 
 l 254> THE HISTORY OF 
 
 Under the superscription, written with a pencil 
 after she went down. 
 
 ' My two former are not yet taken away T am 
 surprised I hope you are well I hope all is 
 right betwixt your mother and you. 
 
 LETTER XXXVI. 
 
 MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE. 
 
 Thursday morning, April 6. 
 
 I have your three letters. Never was there a 
 creature more impatient on the most interesting 
 uncertainty than I was, to know the event of the 
 interview between you and Solmes. 
 
 It behoves me to account to my dear friend, in 
 her present unhappy situation, for every thing that 
 may have the least appearance of negligence or 
 remissness on my part. I sent Robin in the morn- 
 ing early, in hopes of a deposit. He loitered 
 about the place till near ten to no purpose ; and 
 then came away ; my mother having given him a 
 letter to carry to Mr. Hunt's, which he was to de- 
 liver before three, when only, in the day-time, that 
 gentleman is at home ; and to bring her back an 
 answer to it. Mr. Hunt's house, you know, lies 
 wide from Harlowe Place. Robin but just saved 
 his time : and returned not till it was too late to 
 send him again. I could only direct him to set 
 out before day this morning ; and if he got any let- 
 ter, to ride as for his life to bring it to me. 
 
 I lay by myself: a most uneasy night I had 
 
 through impatience ; and being discomposed with 
 
 it, lay longer than usual. Just as I was risen, in 
 
 came Kitty from Robin with your three letters. I 
 
 8
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 255 
 
 was not a quarter dressed and only slipt on my 
 morning gown ; proceeding no further till I had 
 read them all through, long as they are : and yet I 
 often stopped to rave aloud (though by myself) at 
 the devilish people you have to deal with. 
 
 How my heart rises at them all ! How poorly did 
 they design to trick you into an encouragement of 
 Solmes, from the extorted interview ! I am very, 
 very angry at your aunt Hervey to give up her 
 own judgment so tamely ! And, not content to do 
 so, to become such an active instrument in their 
 hands ! But it is so like the world ! So like my 
 mother too ! Next to her own child, there is not 
 any body living she values so much as she does 
 you : yet it is Why should we embroil ourselves, 
 Nancy, with the affairs of other people ? 
 
 Other people ! Howl hate the poor words, where 
 friendship is concerned, and where the protection 
 to be given may be of so much consequence to a 
 friend, and of so little detriment to one's self ? 
 
 I am delighted with your spirit, however. I 
 expected it not from you. Nor did they, I am 
 sure. Nor would you, perhaps, have^xerted it, if 
 Lovelace's intelligence of Solmes's nursery offices 
 had not set you up. I wonder not that the wretch 
 is said to love you the better for it. What an ho- 
 nour would it be to him to have such a wife ? And 
 he can be even with you when you are so. He 
 must indeed be a savage, as you say. Yet he is 
 less to blame for his perseverance than those of 
 your own family whom most you reverence for 
 theirs. 
 
 It is well, as I have often said, that I have not 
 such provocations and trials ; I should perhaps long 
 ago have taken your cousin Dolly's advice yet 
 dare I not to touch that key. I shall always love 
 the good girl for her tenderness to you. 
 
 I know not what to say to Lovelace ; nor what
 
 256 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 to think of his promises, nor of his proposals to 
 you. 'Tis certain that you are highly esteemed 
 by all his family. The ladies are persons of un- 
 blemished honour. My Lord M. is also (as men 
 and peers go) a man of honour. I could tell what 
 to advise any other person in the world to do but 
 you. So much expected from you ! Such a shin- 
 ing light ! Your quitting your father's house, and 
 throwing yourself into the protection of a family, 
 however honourable, that has a man in it, whose 
 person, parts, declarations, and pretensions, will be 
 thought to have engaged your warmest esteem ; 
 methinks I am rather for advising that you should 
 get privately to London ; and not to let either him, 
 or any body else but me, know where you are, till 
 your cousin Morden comes. 
 
 As to going to your uncle's, that you must not 
 do, if you can help it. Nor must you have Solmes, 
 that's certain : not only because of his unworthiness 
 in every respect, but because of the aversion you 
 have so openly avowed to him, which every body 
 knows and talks of, as they do of your approbation 
 of the other. - For your reputation-sake, therefore, 
 as well as to prevent mischief, you must either 
 live single, or have Lovelace. 
 
 If you think of. going to London, let me know ; 
 and I hope you will have time to allow me a further 
 concert as to the manner of your getting away, 
 and thither, and how to procure proper lodgings 
 for you. 
 
 To obtain this time, you must palliate a little, and 
 come into some seeming compromise, if you can- 
 not do otherwise. Driven as you are driven, it will 
 be strange if you are not obliged to part with a 
 few of your admirable punctilios. 
 
 You will observe, from what I have written, that 
 I have not succeeded with my mother. 
 I am extremely mortified and disappointed. We
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 257 
 
 have had very strong debates upon it. But, be- 
 sides the narrow argument of embroiling ourselves 
 with other people's affairs, as above mentioned, she 
 will have it, that it is your duty to comply. She 
 says, she was always of opinion that daughters 
 should implicitly submit to the will of their parents 
 in the great article of marriage ; and that she go- 
 verned herself accordingly in marrying my father, 
 who at first was more the choice of her parents 
 than her own. 
 
 This is what she argues in behalf of her favourite 
 Hickman, as well as for Solmes in your case. 
 
 I must not doubt but my mother always governed 
 herself by this principle because she says she did. 
 I have likewise another reason to believe it ; which 
 you shall have, though it may not become me to 
 give it that they did not live so very happily to- 
 gether as one would hope people might do who 
 married preferring each other at the time to the 
 rest of the world. 
 
 Somebody shall fare never the better for this 
 double-meant policy of my mother, I do assure 
 you. Such retrospection in her arguments to 
 him, and to his address, it is but fit that he should 
 suffer for my mortification in failing to carry a 
 point upon which I had set my whole heart. 
 
 Think, my dear, if in any way I can serve you. 
 If you allow of it, I protest I will go off privately 
 with you, and we will live and die together. Think 
 of it : improve upon my hint, and command me. 
 
 A little interruption. What is breakfast to the 
 
 subject I am upon ? 
 
 # # * 
 
 London, I am told, is the best hiding-place in the 
 world. I have written nothing but what I will 
 stand to at the word of command. Women love 
 to engage in knight-errantry now and then, as well
 
 258 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 as to encourage it in the men. But in your case, 
 what I propose will not seem to have any thing of 
 that nature in it. It will enable me to perform 
 what is no more than a duty in serving and com- 
 forting a dear and worthy friend, who labours under 
 undeserved oppression : and you will ennoble, as I 
 may say, your Anna Howe, if you allow her to be 
 your companion in affliction. 
 
 I will engage, my dear, we shall not be in town 
 together one month, before we surmount all diffi- 
 culties : and this without being beholden to any 
 men-fellows for their protection. 
 
 I must repeat what I have often said, that the 
 authors of your persecutions would not have pre- 
 sumed to set on foot their selfish schemes against 
 you, had they not depended upon the gentleness 
 of your spirit: though now, having gone so far, 
 and having engaged old authority in it [chide 
 me if you will !] neither he nor they know how to 
 recede. 
 
 When they find you out of their reach, and 
 know that I am with you, you'll see how they'll 
 pull in their odious horns. 
 
 I think, however, that you should have written 
 to your cousin Morden the moment they had be- 
 gun to treat you disgracefully. 
 
 I shall be impatient to hear whether they will 
 attempt to carry you to your uncle's. I remem- 
 ber that Lord M.'s dismissed bailiff reported of 
 Lovelace, that he had six or seven companions as 
 bad as himself; and that the country was always 
 glad when they left it*. He actually has, as I 
 hear, such u knot of them about him now. And, 
 depend upon it, he wjll not suffer them quietly to 
 carry you to your uncle's : and whose must you 
 be, if he succeeds in taking you from them ? 
 
 Vol. i. p. 85. 

 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 259 
 
 I tremble for you, but upon supposing what may 
 be the consequence of a conflict upon this occasion. 
 Lovelace owes some of them vengeance. This 
 gives me a double concern, that my mother should 
 refuse her consent to the protection I had set my 
 heart upon procuring for you. 
 
 My mother will not breakfast without me. A 
 quarrel has its conveniencies sometimes. Yet too 
 
 much love, I think, is as bad as too little. 
 
 # # * 
 
 We have just now had another pull. Upon my 
 word, she is excessively what shall I say ? unper- 
 suadeablc I must let her off with that soft word, 
 
 Who was the old Greek that said, he governed 
 Athens ; his "wife, him ; and his son, her ? 
 
 It was not my mother's fault [I am writing to 
 you, you know] that she did not govern my father. 
 But I am but a daughter I Yet I thought I was not 
 quite so powerless when I was set upon carrying a 
 point as I find myself to be. 
 
 Adieu, my dear ! Happier times must come 
 and that quickly too. The strings cannot long con- 
 tinue thus overstrained. They must break or be 
 relaxed. In either way, the certainty must be 
 preferable to the suspense. 
 
 One word more ! 
 
 I think in my conscience you must take one of 
 these two alternatives ; either to consent to let us go 
 to London together privately [in which case, I will 
 procure a vehicle, and meet you at your appointment 
 at the stile to which Lovelace proposes to bring his 
 uncle's chariot], or to put yourself into the pro- 
 tection of Lord M. and the ladies of his family. 
 
 You have another, indeed ; and that is, if you 
 are absolutely resolved against Solmes, to meet and 
 marry Lovelace directly. 
 
 Whichsoever of these you make choice of, you
 
 260 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 will have this plea, both to yourself and to the 
 world, that you are concluded by the same uniform 
 principle that has governed your whole conduct 
 ever since the contention between Lovelace and 
 your brother has been on foot : that is to say, that 
 you have chosen a lesser evil in hope to prevent a 
 greater. 
 
 Adieu ! and Heaven direct for the best my be- 
 loved creature, prays 
 
 Her 
 
 ANNA HOWE. 
 
 LETTER XXXVII. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 Thursday, April 6. 
 I thank you, my dearest friend, for the pains you 
 have taken in accounting so affectionately for my 
 papers not being taken away yesterday ; and for 
 the kind protection you would have procured for 
 me, if you could. 
 
 This kind protection was what I wished for : but 
 my wishes, raised at first by your love, were rather 
 governed by my despair of other refuge [having 
 before cast about, and not being able to determine, 
 what I ought to do, and what I could do, in a situa- 
 tion so unhapp)'] than by a reasonable hope : for 
 why indeed should any body embroil themselves 
 for others, when they can avoid it ? 
 
 All my consolation is, as I have frequently said, 
 that I have not, by my own inadvertence or folly, 
 brought myself into this sad situation. If I had, I 
 should not have dared to look up to any body with 
 the expectation of protection or assistance, nor to 
 you for excuse of the trouble I give you. But ne-
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 26J 
 
 vertheless we should not be angry at a person's not 
 doing that for ourselves, or for our friend, which she 
 thinks she ought not to do ; and which she has it 
 in her option either to do, or to let it alone. Much 
 less have you a right to be displeased with so pru- 
 dent a mother for not engaging herself so warmly 
 in my favour as you wished she would. If my 
 own aunt can give me up, and that against her 
 judgment, as I may presume to say; and if my fa- 
 ther and mother, and uncles, who once loved me so 
 well, can join so strenuously against me ; can J 
 expect, or ought you, the protection of your mo- 
 ther, in opposition to them ? 
 
 Indeed, my dear love, [permit me to be very 
 serious] I am afraid I am singled out (either for my 
 own faults, or for the faults of my family, or per- 
 haps for the faults of both) to be a very unhappy 
 creature ! signally unhappy ! For see you not how 
 irresistibly the waves of affliction come tumbling 
 down upon me ? 
 
 We have been till within these few weeks, every 
 one of us, too happy. No crosses, no vexations, 
 but what we gave ourselves from the pamperedness, 
 as I may call it, of our own wills. Surrounded by 
 our heaps and stores, hoarded up as fast as acquired, 
 we have seemed to think ourselves out of the reach 
 of the bolts of adverse fate. I was the pride of all 
 my friends, proud myself of their pride, and glory- 
 ing in my standing. Who knows what the justice 
 of Heaven may inflict, in order to convince us that 
 we are not out of the reach of misfortune ; and to 
 reduce us to a better reliance than what we have 
 hitherto presumptuously made ? 
 
 I should have been very little the better for the 
 conversation-visits which the good Dr. Lewen used 
 to honour me with, and for the principles torought 
 (as I may say ) into my earliest mind by my piou* 
 
 VOL. II. A A
 
 262 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 Mrs. Norton, founded on her reverend father's ex- 
 perience, as well as on her own, if I could not thus 
 retrospect and argue, in such a strange situation as 
 we are in. Strange I may well call it ; for don't 
 you see, my dear, that we seem all to be impelled, 
 as it were, by a perverse fate, which none of us are 
 able to resist ? And yet all arising (with a strong 
 appearance of self-punishment) from ourselves? 
 Do not my parents see the hopeful children, from 
 whom they expected a perpetuity of worldly hap- 
 piness to their branching family, now grown up to 
 answer the till now distant hope, setting their an- 
 gry faces against each other, pulling up by the 
 roots, as I may say, that hope which was ready to 
 be carried into a probable certainty ? 
 
 Your partial love will be ready to acquit me of 
 capital and intentional faults : but oh, my dear ! 
 my calamities have humbled me enough to make 
 me turn my gaudy eye inward ; to make me look 
 into myself. And what have I discovered there ? 
 Why, my dear friend, more secret pride and 
 vanity than I could have thought had lain in my 
 unexamined heart. 
 
 If / am to be singled out to be the punisher of 
 myself and family, who so lately was the pride of 
 it, pray for me, my dear, that I may not be left 
 wholly to myself; and that I may be enabled to 
 support my character, so as to be justly acquitted 
 of wilful and premeditated faults. The will of 
 Providence be resigned to in the rest : as that leads, 
 let me patiently and unrepiningly follow ! I shall 
 not live always ! May but my closing scene be 
 happy ! 
 
 But I will not oppress you, my dearest friend, 
 with further reflections of this 6ort. I will take 
 them all into myself. Surely I have a mind that 
 has room for them. My afflictions are too sharp
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 2(13 
 
 to last long. The crisis is at hand. Happier times- 
 you bid me hope for. I tvi/l hope. 
 
 But yet I cannot but be impatient at times, to- 
 find myself thus driven, and my character so de- 
 preciated and sunk, that were all the future to be 
 happy, I should be ashamed to shew my face in 
 public, or to look up. And all by the instigation 
 of a selfish brother and envious sister. 
 
 But let me stop : let me reflect! Are not these 
 suggestions the suggestions of the secret pride I have 
 been censuring ? Then, already so impatient ! But 
 this moment so resigned, so much better disposed 
 for reflection! Yet 'tis hard, 'tis very hard, to sub- 
 due an embittered spirit ! in the instant of its trial 
 too ! O my cruel brother ! But now it rises 
 again. I will lay down a pen I am so little able 
 to govern. And I will try to subdue an impatience, 
 which (if my afHictions are sent me for corrective 
 ends) may otherwise lead me into still more punish- 
 able errors. 
 
 # * # . 
 
 I will return to a subject which I cannot fly from 
 for ten minutes together called upon especially 
 as I am, by your three alternatives stated in the 
 conclusion of your last. 
 
 As to the first ; to wit, your advice for me to es- 
 cape to London let me tell you, that the other hint 
 or proposal which accompanies it perfectly frigh- 
 tens me surely, my dear (happy as you are, and 
 indulgently treated as your mother treats you) you 
 cannot mean what you propose ! What a wretch 
 must I be, if, for one moment only, I could lend an 
 ear to such a proposal as this ! /, to be the occa- 
 sion of making such a mother's (perhaps shortened} 
 life unhappy to the last hour of it! Ennoble you 
 a a2
 
 264 THE HISTORY OP 
 
 my dear creature ! how must such an enterprise 
 {the rashness public, the motives, were they excu- 
 sable, private) debase you ! But I will not dwell* 
 upon the subject for your oiun sake I will not. 
 
 As to your second alternative, to put myself into 
 the protection of Lord M. and of the ladies of that 
 family, I own to you (as I believe I have owned be- 
 fore) that although to do this would be the same 
 thing in the eye of the world as putting myself in- 
 to Mr. Lovelace's protection, yet I think I would 
 do it rather than be Mr. Solmes's wife, if there were 
 evidently no other way to avoid being so. 
 
 Mr. Lovelace, you have seen, proposes to con- 
 trive a way to put me into possession of my own 
 house ; and he tells me, that he will soon fill it 
 with the ladies of his family, as my visitors; upon 
 my invitation, however, to them. A very Incon- 
 siderate proposal I think it to be, and upon which 
 I cannot explain myself to him. What an exer- 
 tion of independency does it chalk out for me ! 
 How, were I to attend to him (and not to the natu- 
 ral consequences to which the following of his ad- 
 vice would lead me) might I be drawn by gentle 
 words into the perpetration of the most violent 
 acts ! For how could I gain possession, but either 
 by legal litigation, which, were I inclined to have 
 recourse to it, (as I never can be) must take up 
 time; or by forcibly turning out the persons whom 
 my father has placed there, to look after the gar- 
 dens, the house, and the furniture persons entirely 
 attached to himself, and who, as I know, have been 
 lately instructed by my brother ? 
 
 Your third alternative, to meet and marry Mr. 
 Isovelacc directly ; a man with whose morals I am 
 far from being satisfied a step that could not be 
 taken with the least hope of ever obtaining pardon
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 265 
 
 from or reconciliation with any of my friends; and 
 against which a thousand objections rise in my 
 mind that is not to be thought of. 
 
 What appears to me upon the fullest delibera- 
 tion the most eligible, if I must be thus driven, i9 
 the escaping to London. But I would forfeit all 
 my hopes of happiness in this life, rather than you 
 should go away with me, as you rashly, though 
 with the kindest intention, propose. If I could get 
 safely thither, and be private, methinks I might 
 remain absolutely independent of Mr. Lovelace, 
 and at liberty either to make proposals to my 
 friends, or, should they renounce me, (and I had no 
 other or better way) to make terms with him ; 
 supposing my cousin Morden, on his arrival, were 
 to join with my other relations. But they would 
 then perhaps indulge me in my choice of a single 
 life, on giving him up : the renewing to them this 
 offer, when at my own liberty, will at least con- 
 vince them that I was in earnest when I made it 
 first: and, upon my word, I would stand to it, dear 
 as you seem to think, when you are disposed to 
 rally me, it would cost me, to stand to it. 
 
 If, my dear, you can ' procure a vehicle for us 
 both, you can perhaps procure one for me singly: 
 but can it be done without embroiling yourself 
 with your mother, or her with our family ? Be it 
 coach, chariot, chaise, waggon, or horse, I matter 
 not, provided you appear not to have a hand in my 
 withdrawing. Only, in case it be one of the two 
 latter, I believe I must desire you to get me an 
 ordinary gown and coat, or habit, of some servant; 
 having no conceit with any of our own : the more 
 ordinary the better. They may be thrust into the 
 wood-house : where I can put them on ; and then 
 slide down from the bank that separates the wood- 
 yard from the green lane. 
 aa3
 
 266 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 But, alas! my dear, this, even this alternative, is 
 not without difficulties, which to a spirit so little 
 enterprising as mine, seem in a manner insuperable. 
 These are my reflections upon it. 
 
 I am afraid, in the first place, that I shall not have 
 time for the requisite preparations for an escape. 
 
 Should I be either detected in those preparations, 
 or pursued and overtaken in my flight, and so 
 brought back, then would they think themselves 
 doubly warranted to compel me to have their 
 Solmes : and, conscious of an intended fault, per- 
 haps, 1 should be the less able to contend with 
 them. 
 
 But were I even to get safely to London, I know 
 nobody there but by name, and those the trades- 
 men to our family, who no doubt would be the first 
 written to, and engaged to find me out. And should 
 Mr. Lovelace discover where I was, and he and my 
 brother meet, what mischiefs might ensue between 
 them, whether I were willing or not to return to 
 Harlowe Place? 
 
 But supposing I could remain there concealed, 
 to what might not my 3'outh, my sex, and unac- 
 quaintedness with the ways of that great, wicked 
 town, expose me ! I should hardly dare to go 
 to church for fear of being discovered. People 
 would wonder how I lived. Who knows but 1 
 might pass for a kept mistress; and that, although 
 nobody came to me, yet, that every time I went 
 out, it might be imagined to be in pursuance of 
 some assignation ? 
 
 You, my dear, who alone would know where to 
 direct to me, would be watched in all your steps, 
 and in all your messages ; and your mother, at 
 present not highly pleased with our correspon- 
 dence, would then have reason to be more dis- 
 pleased; and might not differences follow between
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 267 
 
 her and you, that would make me very unhappy 
 
 were I to know them ? And this the more likely, 
 as you take it so unaccountably (and, give me 
 leave to say, so ungenerously) into your head, to 
 revenge yourself upon the innocent Mr. Hickman, 
 for all the displeasure your mother gives you ? 
 
 Were Lovelace to find out my place of abode, 
 that would be the same thing in the eye of the 
 world as if I had actually gone off with him : for 
 would he, do you think, be prevailed upon to for- 
 bear visiting me? And then his unhappy character 
 (a foolish man!) would be no credit to any young 
 creature desirous of concealment. Indeed the 
 world, let me escape whither and to whomsoever 
 I could, would conclude him to be the contriver 
 of it. 
 
 These are the difficulties which arise to me on 
 revolving this scheme; which, nevertheless, might 
 appear surmountable to a more enterprising spirit 
 in my circumstances. If you, my dear, think them 
 surmountable in any one of the cases put [and to 
 be sure I can take no course but what must have 
 some difficulty in it] be pleased to let me know 
 your free and full thoughts upon it. 
 
 Had you, my dear friend, been married, then 
 should I have had no doubt but that you and Mr. 
 Hickman would have afforded an asylum to a poor 
 creature more than half lost in her own apprehen- 
 sion for want of one kind protecting friend ! 
 
 You say I should have written to my cousin Mor- 
 den the moment I was treated disgracefully : but 
 could I have believed that my friends would not 
 have softened by degrees when they saw my an- 
 tipathy to their Solmes ? 
 
 I had thoughts indeed several times of writing to 
 my cousin: but by the time an answer could have 
 come, I imagined all would have been over, as if it
 
 268 THE HISTORY OP 
 
 had never been: so from day to day, from week 
 to week, 1 hoped on : and, after all, 1 might as rea- 
 sonably fear (as I have heretofore said) that my 
 cousin would be brought to side against me, as that 
 some of those I have named would. 
 
 And then to appeal to a cousin [I must have 
 written with "warmth to engage him] against ^fa- 
 ther ; this was not a desirable thing to set about. 
 Then I had not, you know, one soul on my side ; 
 my mother herself against me. To be sure my 
 cousin would havd suspended his judgment till he 
 could have arrived. He might not have been in 
 haste to come, hoping the malady would cure it- 
 self: but had he written, his letters probably would 
 have run in the qualifying style ; to persuade me 
 to submit, or them only to relax. 
 
 Had his letters been more on my side than on 
 theirs, they would not have regarded them : nor 
 perhaps himself, had he come and been an advocate 
 for me : for you see how strangely determined 
 they are ; how they have over-awed or got in every 
 body ; so that no one dare open their lips in my 
 behalf. And you have heard that my brother 
 pushes his measures with the more violence, that 
 all may be over with me before my cousin's ex- 
 pected arrival. 
 
 But you tell me, that in order to gain time, I 
 must palliate ; that I must seem to compromise with 
 my friends : but how palliate ? how seem to com- 
 promise ? You would not have me endeavour to 
 make them believe that I will consent to what I 
 never intend to consent to ! You would not have 
 me try to gain time with a view to deceive ! 
 
 To do evil that good may come of it is forbidden : 
 and shall I do evil, yet know not whether good 
 may come of it or not ? 
 
 Forbid it, Heaven ! that Clarissa Harlowe should
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 269 
 
 have it in her thought to serve, or even to save her- 
 self at the expense of her sincerity, and by a 
 studied deceit ! 
 
 And is there, after all, no way to escape one 
 great evil, but by plunging myself into another ? 
 What an ill-fated creature am I ! Pray for me, my 
 dearest friend ! My mind is at present so much 
 disturbed, that I can hardly pray for myself. 
 
 LETTER XXXVIII. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 Thursday night. 
 The alarming hurry I mentioned under my date of 
 last night, and Betty's saucy dark hints, come out 
 to be owing to what I guessed they were ; that is 
 to say, to the private intimation Mr. Lovelace con- 
 trived our family should have of his insolent resolu- 
 tion, [insolent 1 must call it J to prevent my being 
 carried to my uncle's. 
 
 I saw at the time that it was as tvrong with respect 
 to answering his own view as it was insolent : for 
 could he think, as Betty (I suppose from her bet- 
 ters) justly observed, that parents would be in- 
 sulted out of their right to dispose of their own 
 child by a violent man whom they hate ; and who 
 could have no pretension to dispute that right with 
 them, unless what he had from her who had none 
 over herself? And how must this insolence of his, 
 aggravated as my brother is able to aggravate it, 
 exasperate them against me ? 
 
 The rash man has indeed so far gained his point, 
 as to intimidate them from attempting to carry me 
 away: but he has put them upon a surer and a more 
 desperate measure : and this has driven me also
 
 270 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 into one as desperate ; the consequence of which, 
 although he could not foresee it% may perhaps 
 too well answer his great end, little as he deserves 
 to have it answered. 
 
 In short, I have done, as far as I know, the most 
 rash thing that ever I did in my life. 
 
 But let me give you the motive, and then the 
 action will follow of course. 
 
 About six o'clock this evening, my aunt (who 
 stays here all night ; on my account, no doubt) 
 came up, and tapped at my door, for I was writing; 
 and had locked myself in. I opened it ; and she 
 entering, thus delivered herself: 
 
 I come once more to visit you, my dear ; but 
 sorely against my will, because it is to impart to 
 you matters of the utmost concern to you and to 
 the whole family. 
 
 What, madam, is now to be done with me? said 
 I, wholly attentive. 
 
 You will not be hurried away to your uncle's, 
 child ; let that comfort you. They see your aver- 
 sion to go. You will not be obliged to go to your 
 uncle Antony's. 
 
 How. you revive me, madam ! This is a cordial 
 to my heart ! 
 
 I little thought, my dear, what was to follow 
 this supposed condescension. 
 
 And then I ran over with blessings for this good 
 news (and she permitted me so to do by her si- 
 lence) ; congratulating myself, that I thought my 
 father could not resolve to carry things to the last 
 extremity. 
 
 Hold, niece, said she, at last you must not give 
 
 * SJie was mistaken in this. Mr. Lovelace did foresee tins 
 ronse/menee. All his contrivances led to it, and the whole 
 family, as he boasts, unknown to themselves, were but so 
 many puppets danced by his wires. See Vol. I. p. 216. 

 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 271 
 
 yourself too much joy upon the occasion neither. 
 Don't he surprised, my dear. Why look you 
 upon me, child, with so affecting an earnestness? 
 But you must be Mrs. Solmes for all that. 
 
 I was dumb. 
 
 She then told me, that they had had undoubted 
 information, that a certain desperate ruffian (I must 
 excuse her that word, she said) had prepared 
 armed men to way-lay my brother and uncles, 
 and seize me, and carry me off surely, she said, 
 I was not consenting to a violence that might be 
 followed by murder on one side or the other; per- 
 haps on both. 
 
 I was still silent. 
 
 That therefore my father (still more exasperated 
 than before) had changed his resolution as to my 
 going to my uncle's ; and was determined next 
 Tuesday to set out thither himself with my mother; 
 and that (for it was to no purpose to conceal a re- 
 solution so soon to be put in execution) I must not 
 dispute it any longer on Wednesday I must give 
 my hand as they would have me. 
 
 She proceeded ; that orders were already given 
 for a licence : that the ceremony was to be per- 
 formed in my own chamber, in presence of all my 
 friends, except of my father and mother, who 
 would not return, nor see me, till all was over, and 
 till they had a good account of my behaviour. 
 
 The very intelligence, my dear! the very intelli- 
 gence this which Lovelace gave me ! 
 
 I was still dumb only sighing as if my heart 
 would break. 
 
 She went on, comforting me as she thought. She 
 laid before me the merit of obedience : and told 
 me, that if it were my desire that my Norton 
 should be present at the ceremony, it would be 
 complied with ; that the pleasure I should receive 

 
 272 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 from reconciling all my friends to me, and in their 
 congratulations upon it, >must needs overbalance 
 with such a one as me the difference of persons, 
 however preferable I might think the one. man to 
 the other : that love was a fleeting thing, little bet- 
 ter than a name, where morality and virtue did not 
 distinguish the object of it: that a choice made by 
 its dictates was seldom happy ; at least not durably 
 so : nor was it to be wondered at, when it naturally 
 exalted the object above its merits, and made the 
 lover blind to faults that were visible to every 
 body else : so that when a nearer intimacy stript 
 it of its imaginary perfections, it left frequently 
 both parties surprised that they could be so grossly 
 cheated ; and that then the indifference became 
 stronger than the love ever was. That a woman 
 gave a man great advantages, and inspired him 
 with great vanity, when she avowed her love for 
 him, and preference of him : and was generally 
 requited with insolence and contempt: whereas the 
 confessedly obliged man, it was probable, would 
 be all reverence and gratitude' and I cannot tell 
 what. 
 
 1 You, my dear,' said she, believe you shall be 
 unhappy if you have Mr. Solmes : your parents 
 think the contrary ; and that you will be undoubt- 
 edly so were you to have Mr. Lovelace, whose mo- 
 rals are unquestionably bad: suppose it were your 
 sad lot to be unhappy with either, let me beseech 
 you to consider, what great consolation you will 
 nave on one hand, if you pursue your parent's ad- 
 vice, that you did so ; what mortification on the 
 other, that, by following your own, you have no- 
 body to blame but yourself.' 
 
 This, you remember, my dear, was an argument 
 enforced upon me by Mrs. Norton. 
 
 These, and other observations which she made, 

 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 275 
 
 were worthy of my aunt Hervey's good sense and 
 experience, and, applied to almost any young 
 creature who stood in opposition to her parent's 
 will, but one who had offered to make the sacrifices 
 I have offered to make, ought to have had their 
 due weight. But although it was easy to answer 
 some of them in my own particular case; yet hav- 
 ing over and over, to my mother, before my con- 
 finement, and to my brother and sister, and even to 
 my aunt Hervey, since, said what I must now have 
 repeated, I was so much mortified and afflicted 
 at the cruel tidings she brought me, that however 
 attentive I was to what she said, I had neither 
 power nor will to answer one word; and, had she 
 not stopped of herself, she might have gone on an 
 hour longer without interruption from me. 
 
 Observing this, and that I only sat weeping, my 
 handkerchief covering my face, and my bosom 
 heaving ready to burst; What! no answer, my 
 dear? Why so much silent grief? You know / 
 always loved you. You know that I have no in- 
 terest in the affair. You would not permit Mr. 
 Solmes to acquaint you with some things which 
 would have set your heart against Mr. Lovelace. 
 Shall I tell you some of the matters charged against 
 him? Shall I, my dear? 
 
 Still I answered only by my tears and sighs. 
 
 Well, child, you shall be told these things after- 
 wards, when you will be in a better state of mind 
 to hear them ; and then you will rejoice in the es- 
 cape you will have had. It will be some excuse, 
 then, for you to plead for your behaviour to Mr. 
 Solmes, that you could not have believed Mr. Love- 
 lace had been so very vile a man. 
 
 My heart fluttered with impatience and anger at 
 being so plainly talked to as the wife of this man; 
 
 VOL. II. B B
 
 274 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 but yet I then chose to be silent. If I had spoken, 
 it would have been with vehemence. 
 
 Strange, ray dear, such silence! Your concern 
 is infinitely more on this side the day than it will 
 be on the other. But let me ask you, and do not 
 be displeased, will you choose to see what generous 
 stipulations for you there are in the settlements? 
 You have knowledge beyond your years give the 
 writings a perusal: do, my dear: they are engross- 
 ed, and ready for signing, and have been for some 
 time. Excuse me, my love I mean not to dis- 
 order you: your father would oblige me to bring 
 them up, and to leave them with you. He com- 
 mands you to read them. But to read them, niece 
 since they are engrossed, and were before you 
 made them absolutely hopeless. 
 
 And then, to my great terror, out she drew some 
 parchments from her handkerchief, which she had 
 kept (unobserved by me) under her apron; and, 
 rising, put them in the opposite window. Had she 
 produced a serpent, I could not have been more 
 frighted. 
 
 Oh ! my dearest aunt, turning away my face, 
 and holding out my hands: hide from my eyes 
 those horrid parchments! Let me conjure you to 
 tell me by all the tenderness of near relationship, 
 and upon your honour, and by your love for me, 
 say, are they absolutely resolved, that come what 
 will, I must be that man's? 
 
 My dear, you must have Mr. Solmes : indeed 
 you must. 
 
 Indeed I never will! This, as I have said over 
 and over, is not originally my father's will. Indeed 
 I never will and that is all I will say! 
 
 It is your father's will note, replied my aunt; 
 and, considering how all the family is threatened 

 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 275 
 
 by Mr. Lovelace, and the resolution he has certain- 
 ly taken, to force you out of their hands, I cannot 
 but say they are in the right not to be bullied out 
 oi' their child. 
 
 Well, madam, then nothing remains for me to 
 say. I am made desperate. I care not what be- 
 comes of me. 
 
 Your piety and your prudence, my dear, and 
 Mr. Lovelace's immoral character, together with 
 his daring insults and threatenings, which ought 
 to incense you as much as any body, are every 
 one's dependence. We are sure the time will 
 come, when you'll think very differently of the 
 steps your friends take to disappoint a man who 
 has made himself so justly obnoxious to them all. 
 
 She withdrew ; leaving me full of grief and in- 
 dignation : and as much out of humour with Mr. 
 Lovelace as with any body; who by his conceited 
 contrivances has made things worse for me than be- 
 fore; depriving me of the hopes I had of gaining 
 time to receive your advice, and private assistance 
 to get to town ; and leaving me no other choice, in 
 all appearance, than either to throw myself upon 
 his family, or to be made miserable for ever with 
 Mr. Solmes. But I was still resolved to avoid both 
 these evils, if possible. 
 
 I sounded Betty in the first place (whom my 
 aunt sent up, not thinking it proper, as Betty told 
 me, that I should be left by myself, and who, I found, 
 knew their designs) whether it were not probable 
 that they would forbear, at my earnest entreaty, to 
 push matters to the threatened extremity. 
 
 But she confirmed all my aunt said: rejoicing 
 (as she said they all did) that Mr. Lovelace had 
 given them so good a pretence to save me from 
 him now, and for ever. 
 
 She ran on about equipages bespoken; talked of 
 b b 2
 
 276 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 my brother's and sister's exultations that now the 
 whole family would soon be reconciled to each 
 other: of the servants' joy upon it: of the ex- 
 pected licence: of a visit to be paid me by Dr. 
 Lewen, or another clergyman, whom they named 
 not to her; which was to crown the work: and of 
 other preparations, so particular, as made me dread 
 that they designed to surprise me into a still near- 
 er day than next Wednesday. 
 
 These things made me excessively uneasy. I 
 knew not what to resolve upon. 
 
 At one time, what have I to do, thought I, but to 
 throw myself at once into the protection of Lady 
 Betty Lawrance? But then, in resentment of his 
 Jine contrivances, which had so abominably discon- 
 certed me, I soon resolved to the contrary : and at 
 last concluded to ask the favour of another half 
 hour's conversation with my aunt. 
 
 I sent Betty to her with my request. 
 
 She came. 
 
 I put it to her, in the most earnest manner, to 
 tell me, whether I might not obtain the favour of a 
 fortnight's respite? 
 
 She assured me it would not be granted. 
 
 Would a week? Surely a week would. 
 
 She believed a week might, if I would promise 
 two things: the first, upon my honour, not to write 
 a line out of the house in that week: for it was still 
 suspected, she said, that I found means to write to 
 somebody. And, secondly, to marry Mr. Solmes at 
 the expiration of it. 
 
 Impossible! Impossible! I said with passion-^ 
 what! might not I be obliged with one week, with- 
 out such a horrid condition as the last? 
 
 She would go down, she said, that she might not 
 seem of her own head to put upon me what I 
 thought a hardship so great.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 277 
 
 She went down, and came up again. 
 Did 1 want, was the answer, to give the vilest of 
 men an opportunity to put his murderous schemes 
 into execution? It was time for them to put an 
 end to my ohstinacy (they were tired out with me) 
 and to his hopes at once. And an end should be 
 put on Tuesday, or Wednesday next at furthest : 
 unless I would give my honour to comply with the 
 condition upon which my aunt had been so good 
 as to allow me a longer time. 
 
 I even stamped with impatience ! I called upon 
 her to witness that I was guiltless of the conse- 
 quence of this compulsion ; this barbarous compul- 
 sion I called it; let that consequence be what it 
 would. 
 
 My aunt chid me in a higher strain than ever 
 she did before. 
 
 While I, in a half phrensy, insisted upon seeing 
 my father: such usage, I said, set me above fear. 
 I would rejoice to owe my death to him, as I did 
 my life. 
 
 I did go down halfway of the stairs, resolved to 
 throw myself at his feet wherever he was. My 
 aunt was frighted : she owned that she feared for 
 my head. Indeed I was in a perfect phrensy for 
 a few minutes but hearing my brother's voice, as 
 talking to somebody in my sister's apartment just 
 by, I stopt ; and heard the barbarous designer say, 
 speaking to my sister, This works charmingly, my 
 dear Arabella. 
 
 It does! it does! said she, in an exulting accent. 
 
 Let us keep it up, said my brother. The villain 
 is caught in his own trap! Now must she be 
 what we would have her be. 
 
 Do you keep my father to it; I'll take care of 
 my mother, said Bella. 
 
 Never fear ! said he. And a laugh of congratu- 
 BB3
 
 278 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 lation to each other, and derision of me (as I made 
 it out) quite turned my frantic humour into a vin- 
 dictive one. 
 
 My aunt just then coming down to me, and tak- 
 ing my hand, led me up ; and tried to soothe me. 
 
 My raving was turned into sullenness. 
 
 She preached patience and obedience to me. 
 
 I was silent. 
 
 At last she desired me to assure her that I would 
 offer no violence to myself. 
 
 God, I said, had given me more grace, I hoped, 
 than to permit me to be guilty of so horrid a rash- 
 ness. 1 was his creature, and not my own. 
 
 She then took leave of me, and I insisted upon 
 her taking down with her the odious parchments. 
 
 Seeing me in so ill a humour, and very earnest 
 that she should take them with her, she took them; 
 but said, that my father should not know that she 
 did: and hoped I would better consider of the 
 matter, and be calmer next time they were offered 
 to my perusal. 
 
 I revolved after she was gone all that my bro- 
 ther and sister had said. I dwelt upon their tri- 
 umphings over me, and found rise in my mind a 
 rancour that was new to me, and which I could not 
 withstand. And putting every thing together, 
 dreading the near day, what could I do? Am I in 
 any manner excusable for what I did do? If I 
 shall be condemned by the world who know not my 
 provocations, may I be acquitted by you? If not, 
 I am unhappy indeed! For this I did. 
 
 Having shaken off the impertinent Betty, I wrote 
 to Mr. Lovelace, to let him know, ' that all that 
 was threatened at my uncle Antony's was intended 
 to be executed here. That I had come to a reso- 
 lution to throw myself upon the protection of cither 
 of his two aunts, who would afford it me in short,
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 279 
 
 that by endeavouring to obtain leave on Monday to 
 dine in the ivy summer-house, I would, if possible, 
 meet him without the garden door, at two, three, 
 four, or five o'clock on Monday afternoon, as I 
 should be able. That in the meantime he should 
 acquaint me, whether I might hopejbr either of those 
 ladies protection: and if I might, I absolutely in- 
 sisted that he should leave me with either, and go to 
 Lonckn himself, or remain at Lord M.'s : nor offer 
 to visit me till I were satisfied that nothing could be 
 done with my friends in an amicable way ; and that 
 I could not obtain possession of my own estate, and 
 leave to live upon it: and particularly, that he 
 should not hint marriage to me till I consented to 
 hear him upon that subject. I added, that if he 
 could prevail upon one of the Miss Montagues to 
 favour me with her company on the road, it would 
 make me abundantly more easy in the thoughts of 
 carrying into effect a resolution which I had not 
 come to, although so driven, but with the utmost 
 reluctance and concern : and which would throw 
 such a slur upon my reputation in the eye of the 
 world, as perhaps I should never be able to wipe off.' 
 
 This was the purport of what I wrote: and down 
 into the garden I slid with it in the dark, which at 
 another time I should not have had the courage to 
 do ; and deposited it, and came up again unknown 
 to any body. 
 
 My mind so dreadfully misgave me when I re- 
 turned, that to divert in some measure my increas- 
 ing uneasiness I had recourse to my private pen, 
 and in a very short time ran this length. 
 
 And now, that I am come to this part, my uneasy 
 reflections begin again to pour in upon me. Yet 
 what can I do? I believe I shall take it back a- 
 gain the first thing I do in the morning yet what 
 can I do?
 
 280 THE HISTORY OE 
 
 And who knows but they may have a still earlier 
 day in their intention, than that which will too soon 
 come ? 
 
 I hope to deposit this early in the morning for 
 you, as I shall return from resuming my letter, if I 
 do resume it as my invoardest mind bids me. 
 
 Although it is now near two o'clock, I have a 
 good mind to slide down once more, in order to 
 take back my letter. Our doors are always locked 
 and barred up at eleven; but the seats of the les- 
 ser hall window's being almost even with the ground 
 without, and the shutters not difficult to open, i 
 could easily get out. 
 
 Yet why should I be thus uneasy, since, should 
 the letter go, I can but hear what Mr. Lovelace 
 says to it? His aunts live at too great a distance 
 for him to have an immediate answer from them; 
 so I can scruple going to them till I have invitation. 
 I can insist upon one of his cousins meeting me, as 
 I have hinted, and accompanying me in the cha- 
 riot: and he may not be able to obtain that favour 
 from either of them. Twenty things may happen 
 to afford me a suspension at least: why should I 
 be so very uneasy? When likewise I can take 
 back my letter early, before it is probable he will 
 have the thought of finding it there. Yet he owns 
 he spends three parts of his days, and has done for 
 this fortnight past, in loitering about, sometimes in 
 one disguise, sometimes in another, besides the at- 
 tendance given by his trusty servant, when he him- 
 self is not in tvaiting, as he calls it. 
 
 But, these strange forebodings! Yet I can, if 
 you advise, cause the chariot he shall bring with 
 him to carry me directly for town, whither in my 
 London scheme, if you were to approve it, I had 
 proposed to go: and this will save you the trouble 
 of procuring for me a vehicle; as well' as prevent
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE, 281 
 
 any suspicion from your mother of your contribut- 
 ing to my escape. 
 
 But, solicitous for your advice and approbation 
 too, if I can have it, I will put an end to this letter. 
 Adieu, my dearest friend, adieu ! 
 
 LETTER XXXIX. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARL0WE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 Friday morning, 7 o'clock (April 7). 
 My aunt Hervey, who is a very early riser, was 
 walking in the garden (Betty attending her, as I 
 saw from my window this morning) when I arose; 
 for after such a train of fatigue and restless nights, 
 I had unhappily overslept myself: so all I durst 
 venture upon was, to step down. to my poultry -yard 
 and deposit mine of yesterday and last night. And 
 I am just come up: for she is still in the garden. 
 This prevents me from going to resume my letter 
 as I think still to do; and hope it will not be too 
 late. 
 
 I said I had unhappily overslept myself: I went 
 to bed at about half an hour after two. I told the 
 quarters till five; after which I dropt asleep, and 
 awaked not till past six, and then in great terror, 
 from a dream, which has made such an impression 
 upon me, that slightly as I think of dreams, I can- 
 not help taking this opportunity to relate it to you. 
 
 'Methought my brother, my uncle Antony, and 
 Mr. Solmes, had formed a plot to destroy Mr. Love- 
 lace; who discovering it, and believing I had a 
 hand in it, turned.all his rage against me. I thought 
 he made them all fly to foreign parts upon it; and 
 afterwards seizing upon me, carried me into a 
 church-yard; and there, notwithstanding all my
 
 282 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 prayers and tears, and protestations of innocence, 
 stabbed me to tbc heart, and then tumbled me into 
 a deep grave ready dug, among two or three halt* 
 dissolved carcases; throwing in the dirt and earth 
 upon me with his hands, and trampling it down 
 with his feet.' 
 
 I awoke in a cold sweat, trembling, and in ago- 
 nies; and still the frightful images raised by it re- 
 main upon my memory. 
 
 But why should I, who have such real evils to 
 contend with, regard imaginary ones? This, no 
 doubt, was owing to my disturbed imagination ; 
 huddling together wildly all the frightful ideas 
 which my aunt's communications and discourse, 
 my letter to Mr. Lovelace, my own uneasiness 
 upon it, and the apprehensions of the dreaded 
 Wednesday, furnished me with. 
 
 Eight o'clock. 
 
 The man, my dear, as got the letter! What a 
 strange diligence! ' I wish he mean me well, that 
 lie takes so much pains ! Yet, to be ingenuous, ,1 
 must own, that 1 should be displeased if he took 
 less I wish, however, he had been an hundred 
 miles off! What an advantage have I given him 
 over me! 
 
 Now the letter is out of my power, I have more 
 uneasiness and regret than I had before. For, till 
 now, I had a doubt whether it should or should not 
 go: and now I think it ought not to have gone. 
 And yet is there any other way than to do as 1 have 
 done, if I would avoid Solmes? But what a giddy 
 creature shall I be thought, if I pursue the course 
 to which this letter must lead me! 
 
 My dearest friend, tell me, have I done wrong? 
 Yet do not say I have if you think it; for should 
 all the world besides condemn me, 1 shall have
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 283 
 
 some comfort, if you do not. The first time I ever 
 besought you to flatter me. That, of itself, is an 
 indication that I have done wrong, and am afraid 
 of hearing the truth O tell me (but yet do not 
 tell me) if I have done wrong. 
 
 Friday, 11 o'clock. 
 
 My aunt has made me another visit. She began 
 what she had to say with letting me know, that my 
 friends are all persuaded that I still correspond 
 with Mr. Lovelace; as is plain, she said, by hints 
 and menaces he throws out, which shews that he is 
 apprised of several things that have passed between 
 my relations and me, sometimes within a very little 
 while after they have happened. 
 
 Although I approve not of the method he stoops 
 to take to come at his intelligence, yet it is not pru-' 
 dent in me to clear myself by the ruin of the cor- 
 rupted servant (although his vileness has neither 
 my connivance nor approbation), since my doing 
 so might occasion the detection of my own corres- 
 pondence, and so frustrate all the hopes I have to 
 avoid Mr. Solmes. Yet it is not at all unlikely, 
 that this very agent of Mr. Lovelace acts a double 
 part between my brother and him: how else can 
 our family know (so soon too) his menaces upon the 
 passages they hint at? 
 
 I assured my aunt, that I was too much ashamed 
 of the treatment I met with (and that for every 
 one's sake as well as for my own) to acquaint Mr. 
 Lovelace with the particulars of that treatment, 
 even were the means of corresponding with him 
 afforded me: that I had reason to think, that if he 
 were to know of it from me, we must be upon such 
 terms that he would not scruple making some vi- 
 sits which would give me great apprehensions. They 
 all knew, I said, that I had no communication with
 
 284 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 any of my father's servants, except my sister'* 
 Betty Barnes: for although I had a good opinion 
 of them all, and believed, if left to their own incli- 
 nations, that they would be glad to serve me; yet, 
 finding by their shy behaviour, that they were un- 
 der particular direction, I had forborne, ever since 
 my Hannah had been so disgracefully dismissed, 
 so much as to speak to any of them, for fear I 
 should be the occasion of their losing their places 
 too. They must therefore account among themselves 
 for the intelligence Mr. Lovelace met with, since 
 neither my brother nor sister (as Betty had frequent- 
 ly, in praise of their open hearts, informed me), 
 nor perhaps their favourite Mr. Solmes, were at all 
 careful before whom they spoke, when they had 
 any thing to throw out against him, or even against 
 one, whom they took great pride to join with him 
 on this occasion. 
 
 It was but too natural, my aunt said, for my 
 friends to suppose, that he had his intelligence 
 (part of it at least) from me; who, thinking myself 
 hardly treated, might complain of it, if not to him, 
 to Miss Howe; which, perhaps, might be the same 
 thing; for they knew Miss Howe spoke as freely 
 of them as they could do of Mr. Lovelace; and 
 must have the particulars she spoke of from some- 
 body who knew what was done here. That this 
 determined my father to bring the whole matter to 
 a speedy issue, lest fatal consequences should en- 
 sue. 
 
 I perceive you are going to speak with warmth, 
 proceeded she \_and so I toas']. For my own part, I 
 am sure you would not write any thing, if you do 
 write, to inflame so violent a spirit. But this is 
 not the end of my present visit. 
 
 You cannot, my dear, but be convinced, that 
 your father will be obeyed. The more you contend
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 285 
 
 against his will, the more he thinks himself obliged 
 to assert his authority. Your mother desires me 
 to tell you, that if you will give her the least hopes 
 of a dutiful compliance, she will be willing to see 
 you in her closet just now, while your father is gone 
 to take a walk in the garden. 
 
 Astonishing perseverance ! ' said I. I am tired 
 with making declarations and with pleadings on 
 this subject; and had hoped, that my resolution 
 being so well known, I should not have been fur- 
 ther urged upon it. 
 
 You mistake the purport of my present visit, 
 miss, [looking gravely] Heretofore you have 
 been desired and prayed to obey and oblige your 
 friends. Entreaty is at an end : they give it up. 
 Now it is resolved upon that your father's will is to 
 be obeyed; as it is fit it should. Some things are laid 
 at your door, as if you concurred with Lovelace's 
 threatened violence to carry you off, which your 
 mother will not believe. She will tell you her 
 own good opinion of you. She will tell you how 
 much she still loves you ; and what she expects of 
 you on the approaching occasion. But yet, that 
 she may not be exposed to an opposition, which 
 would the more provoke her, she desires that you 
 will first assure her that you go down with a reso- 
 lution to do that with a grace which must be done 
 with or without a grace. And besides, she wants 
 to give you some advice how to proceed in order 
 to reconcile yourself to your father, and to every 
 body else. Will you go down, Miss Clary, or will 
 you not ? 
 
 I said, I should think myself happy, could I be 
 admitted to my mother's presence, after so long a 
 banishment from it ; but that I could not wish it 
 upon those terms. 
 
 And this is your answer, niece ? 
 VOL. II. c c
 
 286 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 It must be my answer, madam. Come what may, 
 I never will have Mr. Solmes. It is cruel to press 
 this matter so often upon me. I never will have 
 that man. 
 
 Down she went with displeasure. I could not 
 help it. I was quite tired with so many attempts, 
 all to the same purpose. I am amazed that they 
 are not ! So little variation 1 And no concession 
 on either side ! 
 
 I will go down and deposit this ; for Betty has 
 seen I have been writing. The saucy creature took 
 a napkin, and dipped it in water, and with a fleering 
 air, Here, miss ; holding the wet corner to me. 
 
 What's that for ? said I. 
 
 Only, miss, one of the fingers of your right-hand, 
 if you please to look at it. 
 
 It was inky. 
 
 I gave her a look ; but said nothing. 
 
 But lest I should have another search, I will close 
 here. 
 
 CL. HARLOWE. 
 
 LETTER XL. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 Friday, 1 o'clock. 
 I have a letter from Mr. Lovelace, full of trans- 
 ports, vows, and promises. I will send it to you 
 inclosed. You'll see how ' he engages in it for 
 Lady Betty's protection, and for Miss Charlotte 
 Montague's accompanying me. I have nothing to 
 do, but to persevere, he says, and prepare to re- 
 ceive the personal congratulations of his whole 
 family.*
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 287 
 
 But you'll sec how he presumes upon my being 
 his, as the consequence of throwing myself into 
 that lady's protection. 
 
 ' The chariot-and-six is to be ready at the place 
 he mentions.' You'll see as to the slur upon my 
 reputation about which I am so apprehensive, how 
 boldly he argues. Generously enough, indeed, 
 were I to be his ; and had given him reason to be- 
 lieve that I would. But that I have not done. 
 
 How one step brings on another with this en- 
 croaching sex ! How soon may a young creature, 
 who gives a man the least encouragement, be car- 
 ried beyond her intentions, and out of her own 
 power ! You would imagine, by what he writes, 
 that I have given him reason to think that my 
 aversion to Mr. Solmes is all owing to my favour 
 for him. 
 
 The dreadful thing is, that, comparing what he 
 writes from his intelligencer of what is designed 
 against me (though he seems not to know the 
 threatened day) with what my aunt and Betty as- 
 sure me of, there can be no hope for me, but that 
 I must be Solmes's wife, if I stay here. 
 
 I had better have gone to my uncle Antony's at 
 this rate. I should have gained time, at least, by 
 it. This is the fruit of his fine contrivances ! 
 
 ' What we are to do, and how good he is to be : 
 how I am to direct all his future steps.' All this 
 shews, as I said before, that he is sure of me. 
 
 However, I have replied to the following effect : 
 ' That although I had given him room to expect, 
 that I wouid put myself into the protection oj one of 
 the ladies of his family ; yet as I have three days 
 to come, between this and Monday, and as I still 
 hope that my friends will relent, or that Mr. Solmes 
 will give up a point they will find it impossible to 
 carry ; I shall not look upon myself as absolutely 
 c c 2
 
 288 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 bound by the appointment : and expect therefore, if 
 I recede, that I shall not again be called to account 
 for it by him. That I think it necessary to ac- 
 quaint him, that if by throwing myself upon Lady 
 Betty Lawrence's protection, as he proposed, he un- 
 derstands, that I mean directly to put myself into his 
 power, he is very much mistaken ; for that there are 
 many points in which I must be satisfied; several mat- 
 ters to be adjusted, even after I have left this house 
 (if I do leave it) before I can think of giving him any 
 particular encouragement : that in the first place he 
 must expect that 1 will do my utmost to procure my 
 father's reconciliation and approbation of my future 
 steps ; and that / mil govern myself entirely by his 
 commands, in every reasonable point, as much as if 
 I had not left his house : that if he imagines, I shall 
 not reserve to myself this liberty, but that my 
 withdrawing is to give him any advantages which 
 he would not otherwise have had ; I am determined 
 to stay where I am, and abide the event, in hopes 
 that my friends will still accept of my reiterated 
 promise never to marry him or any body else, without 
 their consent.' 
 
 This I will deposit as soon as I can. And as he 
 thinks things are near their crisis, I dare say it will 
 not be long before I have an answer to it. 
 
 Friday, 4 o'clock. 
 
 I am really ill. I was used to make the best of 
 any little accidents that befel me, for fear of mak- 
 ing my then affectionate friends uneasy : but now 
 I shall make the worst of my indisposition, in hopes 
 to obtain a suspension of the threatened evil of 
 Wednesday next. And if I do obtain it, will post- 
 pone my appointment with Mr. Lovelace. 
 
 Betty has told them that I am very much indis- 
 posed. But I have no pity from any body.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 289 
 
 T believe, I am become the object of every one's 
 aversion, and that they would all be glad I were 
 dead. Indeed, I believe it. ' What ails the per- 
 verse creature ?' cries one. ' Is she love-sick ?' 
 another. 
 
 I was in the ivy summer-house, and came out 
 shivering with cold, as if aguishly affected. Betty 
 observed this, and reported it. ' O, no matter ! 
 Let her shiver on ! Cold cannot hurt her. Obsti- 
 nacy will defend her from harm. Perverseness is 
 a bracer to a love-sick girl, and more effectual than 
 the cold bath to make hardy, although the consti- 
 tution be ever so tender.' 
 
 This said by a cruel brother, and heard said by 
 the dearer friends of one, for whom, but a few 
 months ago, every body was apprehensive at the 
 least blast of wind to which she exposed herself! 
 
 Betty, it must be owned, has an admirable me- 
 mory on these occasions. Nothing of this nature 
 is lost by her repetition : even the very air with 
 which she repeats what she hears said, renders it 
 unnecessary to ask, who spoke this or that severe 
 thing. 
 
 Friday, 6 o'clock. 
 
 My aunt, who again stays all night, has just left 
 me- She came to tell me the result of my friends' 
 deliberations about me. It is this : 
 
 Next Wednesday morning they are all to be as- 
 sembled : to wit, my father, mother, my uncles, 
 herself, and my uncle Hervey ; my brother and 
 sister of course : My good Mrs. Norton is likewise 
 to be admitted : and Dr. Lewen is to be at hand, to 
 exhort me, it seems, if there be occasion : but my 
 aunt is not certain whether he is to be among them, 
 or to tarry till called in. 
 
 When this awful court is assembled, the poor 
 ccS
 
 290 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 prisoner is to be brought in, supported by Mrs. 
 Norton ; who is to be first tutored to instruct me 
 in the duty of a child ; which it seems I have for- 
 gotten. 
 
 Nor is the success at all doubted, my aunt says : 
 since it is not believed that I can be hardened 
 enough to withstand the expostulations of so vene- 
 rable a judicature, although I have withstood those 
 of several of them separately. And still the less, 
 as she hints at extraordinary condescensions from my 
 father. But what condescensions, from even my 
 father, can induce me to make such a sacrifice as is 
 expected from me ? 
 
 Yet my spirits will never bear up, I doubt, at 
 such a tribunal my father presiding in it. 
 
 Indeed I expected, that my trials would not be 
 at an end till he had admitted me into his awful 
 presence. 
 
 What is hoped from me, she says, is, That I will 
 cheerfully, on Tuesday night, if not before, sign 
 the articles : and so turn the succeeding day's 
 solemn convention into a day of festivity. I am to 
 have the licence sent me up, however, and once 
 more the settlements, that I may see how much in 
 earnest they are. 
 
 She further hinted, that my father himself would 
 bring up the settlements for me to sign. 
 
 O my dear! what a trial will this be! How 
 shall I be able to refuse to my father the writing 
 of my name ? To my father, from whose presence 
 I have been so long banished ! He commanding 
 and entreating, perhaps, in a breath ! How shall 
 I be able to refuse this to my father ! 
 
 They are sure, she says, something is working on 
 Mr. Lovelace's part, and perhaps on mine : and 
 my father would sooner follow me to the grave, 
 than see me his wife.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 291 
 
 I said, I was not well : that the very apprehen- 
 sions of these trials were already insupportable to 
 me ; and would increase upon me, as the time ap- 
 proached ; and I was afraid I should be extremely 
 ill. 
 
 They had prepared themselves for such an arti- 
 Jice as that, was my aunt's unkind word ; and she 
 could assure me, it would stand me in no stead. 
 
 Artifice ! repeated I : and this from my aunt 
 Hervey ? 
 
 Why, my dear, said she, do you think people are 
 fools? Can they not see, how dismally you en- 
 deavour to sigh yourself down within doors ? 
 How you hang down your sweet face [those were 
 the words she was pleased to usej upon your 
 bosom : how you totter, as it were, and hold by 
 this chair, and by that doorpost, when you know 
 that anybody sees you [This, my dear Miss Howe, 
 is an aspersion to fasten hypocrisy and contempt 
 upon me : my brother's or sister's aspersion ! I 
 am not capable of arts so low]. But the moment 
 you are down with your poultry, or advancing 
 upon your garden walk, and, as you imagine, out 
 of every body's sight, it is seen how nimbly you 
 trip along, and what an alertness governs all your 
 motions. 
 
 I should hate myself, said I, were I capable of 
 such poor artifices as these. I must be a fool to 
 use them, as well as a mean creature ; for have I 
 not had experience enough, that my friends are in- 
 capable of being moved in much more affecting 
 instances ? But you'll see how I shall be by Tues- 
 day. 
 
 My dear, you will not offer any violence to your 
 health ? I hope, God has given you more grace 
 than to do that. 
 
 I hope he has, madam. But there is violence
 
 292 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 enough offered, and threatened, to affect my health : 
 and so it will be found, without my needing to have 
 recourse to any other, or to artifice either. 
 
 I'll only tell you one thing, my dear: and that 
 is ; ill or well, the ceremony will probably be per- 
 formed before Wednesday night : but this, also, 
 I will tell you, although beyond my present com- 
 mission, that Mr. Solmes will be under an engage- 
 ment (if you should require it of him as a favour) 
 after the ceremony is passed, and Lovelace's hopes 
 thereby utterly extinguished, to leave you at your 
 father's, and return to his own house every even- 
 ing, until you are brought to a full sense of your 
 duty, and consent to acknowledge your change of 
 name. 
 
 There was no opening of my lips to such a speech 
 as this. I was dumb. 
 
 And these, my dear Miss Howe, are they, who, 
 some of them at least, have called me a romantic 
 girl ! This is my chimerical brother, and wise 
 sister ; both joining their heads together, I dare 
 say. And yet, my aunt told me, that the last part 
 was what took in my mother ! who had, till that 
 expedient was found out, insisted, that her child 
 should not be married, if, through grief or opposi- 
 tion, she should be ill, or fall into fits. 
 
 This intended violence my aunt often excused, 
 by the certain information they pretended to have, 
 of some plots or machinations, that were ready to 
 break out from Mr. Lovelace*: the effects of 
 which were thus cunningly to be frustrated. 
 
 * It may not be amiss to observe in this place, that Mr. 
 Lovelace artfully contrived to drive the family on, permit- 
 ting his and their agent Leman to report machhiations,which 
 he had neither inteution nor power to execute.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 293 
 
 Friday, 9 o'clock. 
 
 And now, my dear, what shall I conclude upon ? 
 You see how determined but how can I expect 
 your advice will come time enough to stand me 
 in any stead ? For here I have been down, and 
 already have another letter from Mr. Lovelace 
 \The man lives upon the spot, I think .-] and I must 
 write to him, either that I will or will not stand 
 to my first resolution of escaping hence on Mon- 
 day next. If I let him know, that I will not (ap- 
 pearances so strong against him, and for Solmes, 
 even stronger than when I made the appointment) 
 will it not be justly deemed my own fault, if I 
 am compelled to marry their odious man ? And if 
 any mischief ensue from Mr. Lovelace's rage and 
 disappointment, will it not lie at my door ? Yet, 
 he otters so fair ! Yet, on the other hand, to incur 
 the censure of the world, as a giddy creature 
 but that, as he hints, I have already incurred 
 what can I do ? O that my cousin Morden -but 
 what signifies wishing ? 
 
 I will here give you the substance of Mr. Love- 
 lace's letter. The letter itself I will send, when I 
 have answered it ; but that I will defer doing as 
 long as I can, in hopes of finding reason to retract 
 an appointment on which so much depends. And 
 yet it is necessary you should have all before you 
 as I go along, that you may be the better able to 
 advise me in this dreadful crisis. 
 
 ' He begs my pardon for writing with so much 
 assurance ; attributing it to his unbounded trans- 
 port ; and entirely acquiesces in my will. He is 
 full of alternatives and proposals. He offers to 
 attend me directly to Lady Bettys ; or, if I had ra- 
 ther, to my own estate; and that my Lord M. shall 
 protect me there' [he knows not, my dear, my 
 reasons for objecting to this inconsiderate advice].
 
 294 THE HISTOllY OF 
 
 In either case, as soon as lie sees me safe, he 
 will go up to London, or whither I please ; and 
 not come near tne, but by my own permission; 
 and till I am satisfied in every thing 1 am doubt- 
 ful of, as well with regard to his reformation, as to 
 settlements, &c. 
 
 ' To conduct me to you, my dear, is another of 
 his proposals, not doubting, he says, but your 
 mother will receive me*: or, if that be not agree- 
 able to you, or to your mother, or to me, he will 
 put me into Mr. Hickman's protection : whom, no 
 doubt, he says, you can influence ; and that it may 
 be given out, that I am gone to Bath, or Bristol, or 
 abroad ; wherever I please. 
 
 1 Again, if it be more agreeable, he proposes to 
 attend me privately to London, where he will procure 
 handsome lodgings for me, and both his cousins 
 Montague to receive me in them, and to accompany 
 me till all shall be adjusted to my mind ; and till a 
 reconciliation shall be effected; which he assures me 
 nothing shall be wanting in him to facilitate; 
 greatly as he has been insulted by all my family. 
 
 ' These several measures he proposes to my 
 choice ; as it was unlikely, he says, that he could 
 procure,//? the time, a letter from Lady Betty, under 
 her own hand, to invite me in form to her house, 
 unless he had been himself to go to that lady for 
 it ; which, at this critical juncture, while he is at- 
 tending my commands, is impossible. 
 
 1 He conjures me in the most solemn manner, if 
 I would not throw him into utter despair, to keep to 
 my appointment. 
 
 ' However, instead of threatening my relations, 
 or Solmes, if I recede, he respectfully says, that he 
 doubts not, but that, if I do, it will be upon such 
 
 See the note on p. 23, of this volume.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 295 
 
 reasons as he ought to be satisfied with ; upon no 
 slighter, he hopes, than their leaving me at full 
 liberty to pursue my own inclinations : in which 
 (whatever they shall be) he will entirely acqui- 
 esce ; only endeavouring to make his future good 
 behaviour the sole ground for his expectation of my 
 favour. 
 
 1 In short, he solemnly vows, that his whole view 
 at present is, To free me from my imprisonment ; 
 and to restore me to my own free will, in a point 
 so absolutely necessary to my future happiness. 
 He declares, that neither the hopes he has of my 
 future favour, nor the consideration of his own and 
 family's honour, will permit him to propose any 
 thing that shall be inconsistent with my own most 
 scrupulous notions : and, for my mind's sake, should 
 choose to have the proposed end obtained by my 
 friends declining to compel me. But that never- 
 theless, as to the world's opinion, it is impossible 
 to imagine, that the behaviour of my relations to 
 me has not already brought upon my family those 
 free censures which they deserve, and caused the 
 step which I am so scrupulous about taking, to be 
 no other than the natural and expected consequence 
 of their treatment of me.' 
 
 Indeed, I am afraid all this is true : and it is 
 owing to some little degree of politeness, that Mr. 
 Lovelace does not say all he might say on this 
 subject: for I have no doubt that I am the talk, and 
 perhaps the by-word of half the county. If so, I 
 am afraid I can now do nothing that will give me 
 more disgrace than I have already so causelessly 
 received by their indiscreet persecutions : and let 
 me be whose I will, and do what I will, I shall ne- 
 ver wipe off the stain which my confinement, and 
 the rigorous usage I have received, have fixed up- 
 on me ; at least in my own opinion.
 
 296 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 I wish, if ever I am to be considered as one of 
 the eminent family this man is allied to, some of 
 them do not think the worse of me, for the disgrace 
 I. have received. In that case, perhaps, I shall be 
 obliged to him, if he do not. You see how much 
 this harsh, this cruel treatment from my own fa- 
 mily has humbled me ! But perhaps I was too much 
 exalted before. 
 
 Mr. Lovelace concludes, ' with repeatedly beg- 
 ging an interview with me ; and that, this night, if 
 possible : an honour, he says, he is the more en- 
 couraged to solicit for, as I had twice before made 
 him hope for it. But whether he obtain it or not, 
 he beseeches me to choose one of tbe alternatives 
 he offers to my acceptance ; and not to depart 
 from my resolution of escaping on Monday, unless 
 the reason ceases on which I had taken it up ; and 
 that I have a prospect of being restored to the fa- 
 vour of my friends ; at least to my own liberty, and 
 freedom of choice.' 
 
 He renews all his vows and promises on this 
 head in so earnest and so solemn a manner, that 
 (his own interest, and his family's honour, and their 
 favour for me, co-operating) I can have no room to 
 doubt of his sincerity. 
 
 LETTER XLI. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 Sat. morn. 8 o'clock, (April 8.) 
 Whether you will blame me or not, I cannot tell, 
 but I have deposited a letter confirming my reso- 
 lution to leave this house on Monday next, within 
 the hour mentioned in my former, if possible. J
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 297 
 
 have not kept a copy of it. But this is the sub- 
 stance : 
 
 I tell him, ' That I have no way to avoid the de- 
 termined resolution of my friends in behalf of Mr. 
 Solmes, but by abandoning this house by his as- 
 sistance.' 
 
 I have not pretended to make a merit with him 
 on this score; for I plainly tell him, ' That could 
 I, without an unpardonable sin, die when I would, I 
 would sooner make death my choice, than take a 
 step, which all the world, if not my own heart, will 
 condemn me for taking.' 
 
 I tell him, * That I shall not try to bring any 
 other clothes with me, than those I shall have on ; 
 and those but my common wearing-apparel ; lest 
 I should be suspected. That I must expect to be 
 denied the possession of my estate: but that I am 
 determined never to consent to a litigation with 
 my father, were I to be reduced to ever so low a 
 state: so that the protection I am to be obliged for 
 to any one, must be alone for the distress' sake. 
 That, therefore, he will have nothing to hope for 
 from this step, that he had not before : and that in 
 every light I reserve to myself to accept or refuse 
 his address, as his behaviour and circumspection 
 shall appear to me to deserve.' 
 
 I tell him, ' That I think it best to go into a pri- 
 vate lodging, in the neighbourhood of Lady Betty 
 Lawrence ; and not to her ladyship's house ; that 
 it may not appear to the world, that I have refuged 
 myself in his family ; and that a reconciliation with 
 my friends may not, on that account, be made im- 
 practicable: that I will send for thither my faith- 
 ful Hannah ; and apprise only Miss Howe where I 
 am : that he shall instantly leave me, and go to Lon- 
 don, or to one of Lord M.'s seats ; and (as he had 
 promised) not come near me, but by my leave; 
 
 VOL. II. D D
 
 298 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 contenting himself with a correspondence by letter 
 only. 
 
 That if I find myself in danger of being dis- 
 covered, and carried back by violence, I will then 
 throw myself directly into the protection either of 
 Lady Betty or Lady Sarah : but this only in case 
 qf absolute necessity; for that it will be more to my 
 reputation, for me, by the best means I can, (taking 
 advantage of my privacy) to enter by a second or 
 third hand into a treaty of reconciliation with my 
 Jriends. 
 
 ' That I must, however, plainly tell him, that if 
 in this treaty my friends insist upon my resolving 
 against marrying him, I will engage to comply with 
 them ; provided they will allow me to promise him, 
 that I will never be the wife of any other man while 
 he remains single, or is living : that this is a com- 
 pliment I am willing to pay him in return for the 
 trouble and pains he has taken, and the usage he 
 has met with, on my account: although I inti- 
 mate, that he may, in a great measure, thank him- 
 self (by reason of the little regard he has paid to 
 his reputation) for the slights he has met with.' 
 
 I tell him, ' That I may, in this privacy, write to 
 my cousin Morden, and, if possible, interest him 
 in my cause. 
 
 ' I take some brief notice then of his alterna- 
 tives.' 
 
 You must think, my dear, that this unhappy 
 force upon me, and this projected flight, make it 
 necessary for me to account to him much sooner 
 than I should otherwise choose to do, for every 
 part of my conduct. 
 
 ' It is not to be expected, I tell him, that your 
 
 mother will embroil herself, or suffer you or Mr. 
 
 Hickman to be embroiled, on my account: and as 
 
 to his proposal of my going to London, I am such 
 
 6
 
 CLARISSA HAItLOWE. 299 
 
 an absolute stranger to every body there, and have 
 such a bad opinion of the place, that I cannot by 
 any means think of going thither : except I should 
 be induced, some time hence, by the ladies of his 
 family to attend them. 
 
 * As to the meeting he is desirous of, I think it 
 by no means proper ; especially as it is so likely 
 that I may soon see him. But that if any thing 
 occurs to induce me to change my mind, as to 
 withdrawing, I will then take thejirst opportunity to 
 see him, and give him my reasons for that change.' 
 
 This, my dear, I the less scrupled to write, as it 
 might qualify him to bear such a disappointment, 
 should I give it him ; he having, besides, behaved 
 so very unexceptionably when he surprised me 
 some time ago in the lonely woodhouse. 
 
 Finally, ' I commend myself, as a person in dis- 
 tress, and merely as such, to his honour, and to the 
 protection of the ladies of his family. I repeat 
 [most cordially, I am sure!] my deep concern for 
 being forced to take a step so disagreeable, and so 
 derogatory to my honour. And having told him, 
 that I will endeavour to obtain leave to dine in the 
 ivy summer-house*, and to send Betty of some 
 errand, when there, I leave the rest to him ; but 
 imagine, that about four o'clock will be a proper 
 
 * The ivy summer-house (or ivy bower, as it was some- 
 times called in the family) was a place that from a girl this 
 young lady delighted in. She used in the summer months 
 frequently to sit and work, and read and write, and draw, 
 and (when permitted) to breakfast, and dine, and some- 
 times to sup in it, especially when Miss Howe, who had 
 an equal liking to it, was her visitor and guest. 
 
 She describes it, in another letter, (%hich appears not) 
 as pointing ' to a pretty variegated landscape of wood, 
 water, and hilly country ; which had pleased her so much, 
 that she had drawn it, the piece hanging up, in her par- 
 lour, among some of" her other drawings.' 
 D D2
 
 300 THE HISTORY OP 
 
 time for lam to contrive some signal to let me 
 know he is at hand, and for me to unbolt the gar- 
 den-door.' 
 
 I added, by way of postscript, * That their sus- 
 picions seeming to increase, I advise him to con- 
 trive to send or come to the usual place, as fre- 
 quently as possible, in the interval of time till 
 Monday morning ten or eleven o'clock ; as some- 
 thing may possibly happen to make me alter my 
 mind.' 
 
 my dear miss Howe! what a sad, sad thing 
 is the necessity, forced upon me, for all this pre- 
 paration and contrivance! But it is now too late! 
 But how? Too late, did I say? What a word 
 is that t what a dreadful thing, tvere I to repent, 
 to find it to be too late to remedy the apprehended 
 evili 
 
 Saturday, 10 o'clock. 
 
 Mr. Solmes is here. He is to dine with his new 
 relations, as Betty tells me he already calls them. 
 
 He would have thrown himself in my way once 
 more : but I hurried up to my prison, in my return 
 from my garden-walk, to avoid him. 
 
 1 had when in the garden the curiosity to see 
 if my letter was gone : I cannot say with an inten- 
 tion to take it back again if it were not, because 
 I see not how I could do otherwise than I have 
 done; yet, what a caprice! when I found it gone, 
 I began (as yesterday morning) to wish it had not: 
 for no other reason, I believe, than because it was 
 out of my power. 
 
 A strange dili^nce in this man! He says, he 
 almost lives upon the place ; and I think so too. 
 
 He mentions, as you will see in his letter, four 
 several disguises, which he put on in one day. It 
 is a wonder, nevertheless, that he has not been seen
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 301 
 
 by some of our tenants: for it is impossible tbat 
 any disguise can bide tbe gracefulness of bis figure. 
 But tins is to be said, that the adjoining grounds 
 .being all in our own hands, and no common foot- 
 paths near that part of the garden, and through the 
 park and coppice, nothing can be more bye and 
 unfrequented. 
 
 Then they are less watchful, I believe, over my 
 garden-walks, and my poultry-visits, depending, as 
 my aunt hinted, upon the bad character they have 
 taken so much pains to fasten upon Mr. Lovelace. 
 This, they think (and justly think) must fill me 
 with doubts. And then the regard I have hitherto 
 had for my reputation, is another of their securi- 
 ties. Were it not for these two, they would not 
 surely have used me as they have done, and at the 
 same time left me the opportunities which I have 
 several times had, to get away, had I been disposed 
 to do so* : and indeed their dependence on both 
 these motives would have been well founded, had 
 they kept but tolerable measures with me. 
 
 Then, perhaps, they have no notion of the back- 
 door; as it is seldom opened, and leads to a place 
 so pathless and lonesomef . If not, there can be 
 no other way to escape (if one would) unless by the 
 plashy lane, so full of springs, by which your ser- 
 
 * They might, no doubt, make a dependence upon the 
 reasons she gives : but their chief reliance was upon the vi- 
 gilance of their Joseph Leman; little imagining what an 
 implement he was ot Mr. Lovelace. 
 
 t This, in another of her letters (which neither is in- 
 serted), is thus described : 'A piece of ruins upon it, the 
 remains of an old chapel, now standing in the midst of the 
 coppice; here and there an overgrown oak, surrounded 
 with ivy and misletoe, starting up, to sanctify, as it were, 
 the awful solemness of the place : i. spot, too, where a man 
 having been found hanging some years ago, it was nsed to 
 be thought of by us when children, and by the maid ser- 
 vants, with a degree of terror (it being actually the habi- 
 DD3
 
 302 THE HISTORY Of 
 
 vant reaches the solitary woodhouse; to which lane 
 one must descend from a high bank, that bounds 
 the poultry-yard. For, as to the front-way, you 
 know, one must pass through the house to that, 
 and in sight of the parlours, and the servants' hall; 
 and then have the open court-yard to go through, 
 and, by means of the iron-gate, be full in view, as 
 one passes over the lawn, for a quarter of a mile 
 together ; the young plantations of elms and limes 
 affording yet but little shade or covert. 
 
 The ivy summer-house is the most convenient 
 for this heart-affecting purpose, of any spot in the 
 garden, as it is not far from the back-door, and yet 
 in another alley, as you may remember. Then it 
 is seldom resorted to by any body ejse, except in 
 the summer-months, because it is cool. When 
 they loved me, they would often, for this reason, 
 object to my long continuance in it : but now, it is 
 no matter what becomes of me. Besides, cold is a 
 bracer, as my brother said yesterday. 
 
 Here I will deposit what I have written. Let me 
 have your prayers, my dear; and your approbation, 
 or your censure, of the steps I have taken : for yet 
 it may not be quite too late to revoke the appoint- 
 ment. I am 
 
 Your most affectionate and faithful, 
 
 CL. HARLOWE. 
 
 Why will you send your servant empty-handed ? 
 
 tation of owls, ravens, and other ominous birds) as haunted 
 by ghosts, goblins, spectres : the genuine result of country 
 loneliness and ignorance: notions which, early propagated, 
 are apt to leave impressions even upon minds grown strong 
 enough at the same time to despise the like credulous fol- 
 lies in others.'
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 303 
 
 LETTER XLII. 
 
 MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE. 
 
 Sat. afternoon. 
 By your last date of ten o'clock in your letter of 
 this day, you could not long have deposited it be- 
 fore Robin took it. He rode hard, and brought it 
 to me just as I had risen from table. 
 
 You may justly blame me for sending my mes- 
 senger empty-handed, your situation considered ; 
 and yet that very situation (so critical!) is partly 
 the reason for it: for indeed I knew not what to 
 write, fit to send you. 
 
 I have been inquiring privately, how to procure 
 you a conveyance from Harlowe Place, and yet not 
 appear in it; knowing, that to oblige in the fact, 
 and to disoblige in the manner, is but obliging by 
 halves: my mother being moreover very suspi- 
 cious, and very uneasy; made more so by daily 
 visits from your uncle Antony ; who tells her, that 
 every thing is now upon the point of being deter- 
 mined; and hopes, that her daughter will not so 
 interfere, as to discourage your compliance with 
 their wills. This I came at by a way that I can- 
 not take notice of, or both should hear of it in a 
 manner neither would like: and, "without that, my 
 mother and I have had almost hourly bickerings. 
 
 I found more difficulty than I expected (as the 
 time was confined, and secresy required, and as 
 you so earnestly forbid me to accompany you in 
 your enterprise) in procuring you a vehicle. Had 
 you not obliged me to keep measures with my 
 mother, I could have managed it with ease. I 
 could even have taken our own chariot, on one pre-
 
 304f THE HISTORY OF 
 
 tence or other, and put two horses extraordinary 
 to it ; if I had thought fit ; and I could when we 
 had got to London, have sent it back, and nobody 
 the wiser as to the lodgings we might have taken. 
 
 I wish to the Lord, you had permitted this- In- 
 deed I think you are too punctilious a great deal 
 for your situation. Would you expect to enjoy 
 yourself with your usual placidness, and not be 
 ruffled, in an hurricane which every moment 
 threatens to blow your house down ? 
 
 Had your distress sprung from yourself, that 
 would have been another thing. ( But when all the 
 world knows where to lay the fault, this alters the 
 case, i 
 
 How can you say I am happy, when my mother, 
 to her power, is as much an abettor of their wick- 
 edness to my dearest friend, as your aunt, or any 
 body else? And this through the instigation of 
 that odd-headed and foolish uncle of yours, who 
 [sorry creature that he is!] keeps her up to reso- 
 lutions which are unworthy of her, for an example 
 to me, if it please you. Is not this cause enough 
 for me to ground a resentment upon, sufficient to 
 justify me for. accompanying you; the friendship 
 between us so well known? 
 
 Indeed, my dear, the importance of the case 
 considered, I must repeat that you are too nice. 
 Don't they already think, that your non-compli- 
 ance with their odious measures is owing a good 
 deal to my advice? Have they not prohibited our 
 correspondence upon that very surmise ? And have 
 I, but on your account, reason to value ivkat they 
 think? 
 
 Besides, what discredit have I to fear by such a 
 step? What detriment? Would Hickman, do you 
 believe, refuse me upon it ? If he did, should I be 
 sprry for that? Who is it, that has a soul, who
 
 CLARISSA fJARLOWE. 505 
 
 would not be affected by such an instance of 
 female friendship ? 
 
 But I should vex and disorder my mother \ 
 Well, that is something: but not more than she 
 vexes and disorders me, on her being made an im- 
 plement by such a sorry creature, who ambles 
 hither every day in spite to my dearest friend 
 woe be to both, if it be for a double end I Chide 
 me, if you will : I don't care. 
 
 I say, and I insist upon it, such a step would en- 
 noble your friend : and if still you will permit it, I 
 will take the office out of Lovelace's hands ; and, 
 to-morrow evening, or on Monday before his time 
 of appointment takes place, will come in a chariot, 
 or chaise : and then, my dear, if we get off as I 
 wish, will we make terms (and what terms we 
 please) with them all. My mother will be glad to 
 receive her daughter again I warrant : and Hick- 
 man will cry for joy on my return ; or he shall for 
 sorrow. . . 
 
 But you are so very earnestly angry with me for 
 proposing such a step, and have always so much to 
 say for your side of any question, that I am afraid 
 to urge it further. Only be so good (let me add) as 
 to encourage me to resume it, if, upon further con- 
 sideration, and upon weighing matters well (and in 
 this light, whether best to go off with me, or with 
 Lovelace, j'ou can get over your punctilious regard 
 for my reputation. A woman going away M'ith a 
 woman is not so discreditable a thing, surely ! and 
 with no view, but to avoid the fellows ! I say, only 
 be so good as to consider this point ; and if you 
 can get over your scruples on my account, do. And 
 so I will have done with this argument for the 
 present ; and apply myself to some of the passages 
 in yours.
 
 306 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 A time, I hope, will come, that I shall be able 
 to read your affecting narratives without that im- 
 patient bitterness, which now boils over in my 
 heart, and would flow to my pen, were I to enter 
 into the particulars of what you write. And indeed 
 I am afraid of giving you my advice at all, or of 
 telling you what I should do in your case (suppos- 
 ing you will still refuse my offer ; finding too, 
 what you have been brought or rather driven to, 
 without it) ; lest any evil should follow it : in 
 which case, I should never forgive myself. And 
 this consideration has added to my difficulties in 
 writing to you now you are upon such a crisis, and 
 yet refuse the only method but I said, I would 
 not for the present touch any more that string. 
 Yet, one word more, chide me if you please : if 
 any harm betide you I shall for ever blame my 
 mother indeed I shall and perhaps yourself, if 
 you do not accept of my offer. 
 
 But one thing, in your present situation and 
 prospects, let me advise : it is this, that if you do 
 go off with Mr. Lovelace, you take the first oppor i 
 tunity to marry. Why should you not? when every 
 body will know by vchose assistance, and in whose 
 company, you leave your father's house, go whi- 
 thersoever you will ? You may indeed keep him 
 at a distance, until settlements are drawn, and such- 
 like matters are adjusted to your mind : but even 
 these are matters of less consideration in your 
 particular case, than they would be in that of most 
 others : and first, because, be his other faults what 
 they will, nobody thinks Jiim an ungenerous man : 
 next, because the possession of your estate must be 
 given up to you as soon as your cousin Morden 
 comes ; who, as your trustee, will see it done ; 
 and done upon proper terms : 3dly, because there
 
 CLARISSA HAKLOWE. 307 
 
 is no want of fortune on his side : 4thly, because, all 
 his family value you, and are extremely desirous 
 that you should be their relation : 5thly, because 
 he makes no scruple of accepting you without con- 
 ditions. You see how he has always defied your 
 relations [I, for my own part, can forgive him for 
 the fault: nor know I, if it be not a noble one] : 
 and I dare say, he would ratffer call you his, without 
 a shilling, than be under Obligation to those whom 
 he has full as little reason to love, as they have to 
 love him. You have heard, that his own relations 
 cannot make his proud spirit submit to owe any fa- 
 vour to them. 
 
 For all these reasons, I think, you may the less 
 stand upon previous settlements. It is therefore 
 my absolute opinion, that, if you do withdraw with 
 him (and in that case you must let him be judge, 
 when he can leave you with safety, you'll ob- 
 serve that) you should not postpone the cere- 
 mony. 
 
 Give this matter your most serious consideration, 
 Punctilio is out of doors the moment you are out of 
 your father's house. I know how justly severe 
 you have been upon those inexcusable creatures 
 whose giddiness, and even want of decency, have 
 made them, in the same hour as I may suy, leap 
 from a parent's window to a husband's bed but 
 considering Lovelace's character, I repeat my opi- 
 nion, that your reputation in the eye of the world 
 requires that no delay be made in this .point when 
 once you are in his power. 
 
 I need not, I am sure, make a stronger plea to 
 you. 
 
 You say, in excuse for my mother, (what my 
 fervent love for my friend very ill brooks) that we 
 ought not to blame any one for not doing what she 
 has an option to do, or to lot alone. This, in cases
 
 S08 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 of friendship, would admit of very strict discus- 
 sion. If the thing requested be of greater conse- 
 quence, or even of equal, to the person sought to, 
 and it were, as the old phrase has it, to take a thorn 
 out of one friend 's foot to "put it into one's own., 
 something might be said. Nay, it would be, I 
 will venture to say, a selfish thing in us to ask a 
 favour of a friend which would subject that friend 
 to the same or equal inconvenience as that from 
 which we wanted to be relieved. The requester 
 would, in this case, teach his friend, by his own 
 selfish example, with much better reason, to deny 
 him, and despise a friendship so merely nominal. 
 But if, by a less inconvenience to ourselves, we 
 could relieve our friend from a greater, the refusal 
 of such a favour makes the refuser unworthy of the 
 name of friend : nor would I admit such a one, not 
 even into the outermost fold of my heart. 
 
 I am well aware that this is your opinion of 
 friendship, as well as mine : for I owe the distinc- 
 tion to you, upon a certain occasion ; and it saved 
 me from a very great inconvenience, as you must 
 needs remember. But you were always for making 
 excuses for other people, in cases wherein you 
 would not have allowed of one for yourself. 
 
 I must own, that were these excuses for a 
 friend's indifference, or denial, made by any body 
 but you, in a case of such vast importance to her- 
 self, and of so comparative a small one to those for 
 whose protection she would be thought to wish ; I, 
 who am for ever, as you have often remarked, en- 
 deavouring to trace effects to their causes, should 
 be ready to suspect, that there was a latent, unown- 
 ed inclination, which balancing, or preponderating 
 rather, made the issue of the alternative (however 
 important) sit more lightly upon the excuser's mind 
 than she cared to own.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 309 
 
 You will understand me, my dear. But if you 
 do not, it may be as well for me ; for I am afraid I 
 shall have it from you, for but starting such a no- 
 tion, or giving a hint, which perhaps, as you did 
 once in another case, you will reprifnandingly call, 
 ' Not being able to forego the ostentation of saga- 
 city, though at the expense of that tenderness 
 which is due to friendship and charity.' 
 
 What signifies owning a fault without mending 
 it, you'll say? Very true, my dear. But you 
 know I ever was a saucy creature ever stood in 
 need of great allowances. And I remember like- 
 wise that I ever had them from my dear Clarissa. 
 Nor do I doubt them now : for you know how much 
 I love you if it be possible, more than myself 1 
 love you ! Believe me, my dear : and, in conse- 
 quence of that belief, you will be able to judge, 
 how much I am affected by your present distressful 
 and critical situation ; which will not suffer me to 
 pass by without a censure even that philosophy of 
 temper in your own cause, which you have not 
 in another's, and which all that know you ever ad- 
 mired you for. 
 
 From this critical and distressful situation, it 
 shall be my hourly prayers, that you may be de- 
 livered without blemish to that fair fame, which has 
 hitherto, like your heart, been unspotted. 
 
 With this prayer, twenty times repeated, con- 
 cludes 
 
 Your ever affectionate 
 
 ANNA HOWE. 
 
 I hurried myself in writing this ; and I hurry 
 Robin away with it, that in a situation so very 
 critical, you may have all the time possible to 
 consider what I have written, upon two points so 
 
 VOL. II. E E
 
 310 THE. HISTORY QF 
 
 very important. I will repeat them in a very 
 
 few words : 
 ' Whether you choose not rather to go off with one 
 
 of your own sex ; with your Anna Howe than 
 
 with one of the other ; with Mr. Lovelace ?' 
 And if not, 
 * Whether you should not marry him as soon as 
 
 possible ?' 
 
 LETTER XLIII. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 [The preceding letter not recked.] 
 
 Saturday afternoon. 
 Already have I an ecstatic answer, as I may call 
 it, to my letter. 
 
 ' He promises compliance with my will in every 
 article ; approves of all I propose ; particularly of 
 the private lodging : and thinks it a happy expe- 
 dient to obviate the censures of the busy and the 
 unreflecting : and yet he hopes, that the putting 
 myself into the protection of either of his aunts 
 (treated as I am treated) would be far from being 
 looked upon by any body in a disreputable light. 
 But every thing I enjoin or resolve upon must, he 
 says, be right, not only with respect to my present 
 but future reputation : with regard to which he 
 hopes so to behave himself, as to be allowed to be, 
 next to myself, more properly solicitous than any 
 body. He will only assure me, that his whole fa- 
 mily are extremely desirous to take advantage of 
 the persecutions I labour under, to make their 
 court and endear themselves to me, by their best 
 and most cheerful services : happy, if they can in
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 311 
 
 any measure contribute to my present freedom and 
 future happiness. 
 
 He will this afternoon, he says, write to Lord 
 M. and to Lady Betty and Lady Sarah, that he is 
 now within view of being the happiest man in the 
 world, if it be not his own fault ; since the only 
 woman upon earth that can make him so, will be 
 soon out of danger of being another man's ; and 
 cannot possibly prescribe any terms to him that he 
 shall not think it his duty to comply with. 
 
 ' He flatters himself now (my last letter confirm- 
 ing ray resolution) that he can be in no apprehen- 
 sion of my changing my mind, unless my friends 
 change their manner of acting by rae ; which he 
 is too sure they will not*. And now will all his 
 relations who take such a kind and generous share 
 in his interests, glory and pride themselves in the 
 prospects he has before him.' 
 
 Thus artfully does he hold me to it. 
 
 ' As to fortune, he begs of me not to be solicitous 
 on that score : that his own estate is sufficient for 
 us both : not a nominal, but a real, two thousand 
 pounds per annum, equivalent to some estates re- 
 puted a third more : that it never was encumbered : 
 that he is clear of the world, both as to book and 
 bond debts ; thanks, perhaps, to his pride, more 
 than to his virtue : that Lord M. moreover resolves 
 to settle upon him a thousand pounds per annum on 
 his nuptials. And to this, he will have it, his Lord- 
 ship is instigated more by motives of justice than 
 of generosity ; as he must consider it was but an 
 equivalent for an estate which he had got possession 
 of, to which his (Mr. Lovelace's) mother had bet- 
 
 * Well he might be so sure, when he had the art to play 
 them off, by his corrupted agent, and to make them all join 
 to promote his views unknown to themselves; as is shewn 
 in some of his preceding letters. 
 
 k e2
 
 312 THE HISTORY OP 
 
 ter pretensions. That h'is Lordship also proposed 
 to give him up either his seat in Hertfordshire, or 
 that in Lancashire, at his own or at his wife's 
 option, especially if I am the person. All which 
 it will be in my power to see done, and proper set- 
 tlements drawn, before I enter into any further en- 
 gagements with him ; if I will have it so.' 
 
 He says, That I need not be under any solici- 
 tude as to apparel : all immediate occasions of that 
 sort will be most cheerfully supplied by the ladies 
 of his family : as my others shall, with the greatest 
 pride and pleasure (if I will allow him that honour) 
 by himself. 
 
 He assures me, [ That I shall govern him as I 
 please with regard to any thing in his power to- 
 wards effecting a reconciliation with my friends :' 
 A point he knows my heart is set upon. 
 
 He is afraid, ' That the time will hardly allow of 
 his procuring Miss Charlotte Montague's atten- 
 dance upon me, at St. Alban's, as he had proposed 
 she should ; because, he understands, she keeps 
 her chamber with a violent cold and sore throat. 
 But both she and her sister, the first moment she is 
 able to go abroad, shall visit me at my private 
 lodgings; and introduce me to Lady Sarah and 
 Lady Betty, or those ladies to me, as I shall choose ; 
 and accompany me to town, if I please ; and 
 stay as long in it with me, as I shall think fit to stay 
 there. 
 
 ' Lord M. will also, at my own time, and in my 
 own manner, (that is to say, either publicly or pri- 
 vately) make me a visit. And, for his own part, 
 when he has seen me in safety, either in their pro- 
 tection, or in the privacy I prefer, he will leave 
 me, and not attempt to visit me but by my own per- 
 mission. 
 
 ' He had thoughts once, he says, on hearing of
 
 CLARISSA HARI.OWE. 313 
 
 his cousin Charlotte's indisposition, to have en- 
 gaged his cousin Patty's attendance upon me, 
 either in or about the neighbouring village, or 
 at St. Alban's : but that she is a low-spirited, ti- 
 morous girl, and would but the more have per- 
 plexed us.' 
 
 So, my dear, the enterprise requires courage 
 and high spirits, you see ! And indeed it does ! 
 What am I about to do ! 
 
 He himself, it is plain, thinks it necessary that I 
 should be accompanied by one of my own sex. 
 He mjght, at least, have proposed the woman of 
 one of the ladies of his family. Lord bless me! 
 What am I about to do! 
 
 # * # 
 
 After all, as far as I have gone, I know not but 
 I may still recede : and if I do, a mortal quar- 
 rel I suppose will ensue. And what if it does? 
 Could there be any way to escape this Solmes, a 
 breach with Lovelace might make way for the sin- 
 gle life to take place, which I so much prefer : and 
 then I would defy the sex. For I see nothing but 
 trouble and vexation that they bring upon ours: 
 and when once entered, one is obliged to go on 
 with them, treading, with tender feet, upon thorns, 
 and sharper thorns, to the end of a painful journey. 
 
 What to do I know not. The more I think, the 
 more I am embarrassed ! And the stronger will be 
 my doubts as the appointed time draws near. 
 
 But I will go down, and take a little turn in the 
 garden ; and deposit this, and his letters, all but 
 the two last, which I will inclose in my next, if I 
 have opportunity to write another. 
 
 Meantime, my dear friend But what can I 
 
 desire you to pray for ? Adieu then ! Let me 
 only say adieu ! 
 
 E e 3
 
 314 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 LETTER XLIV. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 [In answer to letter xlii.] 
 
 Sunday morning, April 9. 
 Do not think, my beloved friend, although you 
 have given me in yours of yesterday a severer in- 
 stance of what, nevertheless, I must call your im- 
 partial love, than ever yet I received from you, 
 that I will be displeased with you for it. That 
 would be to put myself into the inconvenient situ- 
 ation of royalty : that is to say, out of the way of 
 ever being told of my faults ; of ever mending 
 them ; and in the may of making the sincerest and 
 warmest friendship useless to me. 
 
 And then how brightly, how nobly glows in 
 your bosom the sacred flame of friendship ; since 
 it can make you ready to impute to the unhappy 
 sufferer a less degree of warmth in her own cause, 
 than you have for her, because she endeavours to 
 divest herself of self so far as to leave to others the 
 option which they have a right to make ! Ought 
 I, my dear, to blame, ought I not rather to admire 
 you for this ardour ? 
 
 But nevertheless, lest you should think that 
 there is any foundation for a surmise which (al- 
 though it owe its rise to your friendship) would, if 
 there were, leave me utterly inexcusable ; I must, 
 in justice to myself, declare, that I know not my 
 own heart if I have any of that latent or unowned 
 inclination, which you would impute to any other but 
 me. Nor does the important alternative sit lightly 
 on my mind. And yet I must excuse your mother,
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 315 
 
 were it but on this single consideration, that I 
 could not presume to reckon upon her favour, as I 
 could upon her daughter's, so as to make the claim 
 ,of friendship upon her, to whom, as the mother of 
 my dearest friend, a veneration is owing, which 
 can hardly be compatible with that sweet famili- 
 arity which is one of the indispensable requisites of 
 the sacred tie by which your heart and mine are 
 bound in one. 
 
 What therefore I might expect from my Anna 
 Howe, I ought not from her mother; for would it 
 not be very strange, that a person of her experi- 
 ence should be reflected upon because she gave 
 not up her own judgment, where the consequence 
 of her doing so would be to embroil herself, as 
 she apprehends, with a family she has lived well 
 with, and in behalf of a child against her pa- 
 rents? As she has moreover a daughter of her 
 own : a daughter too, give me leave to say, of 
 whose vivacity and charming spirits she is more 
 apprehensive than she need to be, because her 
 truly maternal cares make her fear more from her 
 youth, than she hopes from her prudence ; which 
 nevertheless she and all the world know to be be- 
 yond her years. 
 
 And here let me add, that whatever you may 
 generously, and as the result of an ardent affection 
 for your unhappy friend, urge on this head, in my 
 behalf, or harshly against any one who may refuse 
 me protection in the extraordinary circumstances 
 I find myself in ; I have some pleasure, in being 
 able to curb undue expectations upon my indulgent 
 friends, whatever were to befal myself from those 
 circumstances ; for I should be extremely morti- 
 fied, were I by my selfish forwardness to give oc- 
 casion for such a check, as to be told that I had 
 encouraged an unreasonable hope ; or, according
 
 316 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 to the phrase you mention, wished to take a thorn 
 out of my own foot, and to put it into that of my 
 friend. Nor should I be better pleased with my- 
 self, if, having been taught by my good Mrs. 
 Norton, that the best of schools is that of affliction, 
 I should rather learn impatience than the contrary, 
 by the lessons I am obliged to get by heart in it ; 
 and if I should judge of the merits of others, as 
 they were kind to me; and that at the expense of 
 their own convenience or peace of mind. For is 
 not this to suppose myself ever in the right ; and 
 all who do not act as I would have them act, per- 
 petually in the wrong ? In short, to make my sake, 
 God's sake, in the sense of Mr. Solmes's pitiful plea 
 to me? 
 
 How often, my dear, have you and I endeavour- 
 ed to detect and censure this partial spirit in 
 others ? 
 
 But I know you do not always content yourself 
 with saying what you think may justly be said ; 
 but, in order to shew the extent of a penetration 
 which can go to the bottom of any subject, delight 
 to say or to write all that can be said or written, or 
 even thought, on the particular occasion ; and this 
 partly perhaps from being desirous [pardon me, 
 my dear !] to be thought mistress of a sagacity 
 that is aforehand with events. But who would 
 wish to drain off or dry up a refreshing current, 
 because it now and then puts us to some little in- 
 convenience by its overflowings ? In other words, 
 who would not allow for the liveliness of a spirit 
 which for one painful sensibility gives an hundred 
 pleasurable ones ? And the one in consequence of 
 the other ? 
 
 But now I come to the two points in your letter, 
 which most sensibly concern me : thus you put 
 them :
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 317 
 
 * Whether I choose not rather to go off [shock- 
 
 ing words !] with one of my own sex; with 
 my Anna Howe than with one of the other; 
 with Mr. Lovelace ?' 
 And if not, 
 
 * Whether I should not marry him as soon as 
 
 possible ?' 
 
 You know, my dear, my reasons for rejecting 
 your proposal, and even for being earnest that you 
 should not be known to be assisting to me in an en- 
 terprise in which a cruel necessity induced me to 
 think of engaging ; and for which you have not 
 the same plea. At this rate, well might your 
 mother be uneasy at our correspondence, not 
 knowing to what inconveniences it might subject 
 her and you ! If / am hardly excusable to think 
 of withdrawing from my unkind friends, what 
 could you have to say for yourself, were you to 
 abandon a mother so indulgent? Does she suspect 
 that your fervent friendship may lead you to a small 
 indiscretion ? and does this suspicion offend you ? 
 And would you in resentment, shew her and the 
 world, that you can voluntarily rush into the 
 highest error that any of our sex can be guilty 
 of? 
 
 And is it worthy of your generosity [I ask you, 
 my dear, is it ?] to think of taking so undutiful a 
 step, because you believe your mother would be 
 glad to receive you again ? 
 
 I do assure you, that were I to take this step my- 
 self, I would run all risks rather than you should 
 accompany me in it. Have I, do you think, a de- 
 sire to double and treble my own fault in the eye of 
 the world ? In the eye of that world, which, cruelly 
 as I am used (not knowing all), would not acquit 
 met
 
 318 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 But, my dearest, kindest friend, let me tell you, 
 that we will neither of us take such a step. The 
 manner of putting your questions abundantly con- 
 vinces me, that I ought not, in your opinion, to at- 
 tempt it. You no doubt intend that 1 shall so take 
 it ; and I thank you for the equally polite and for- 
 cible conviction. 
 
 It is some satisfaction to me (taking the matter in 
 this light) that I had begun to waver before I re- 
 ceived your last. And now I tell you, that it has 
 absolutely determined me not to go off ; at least not 
 to-morrow. 
 
 If you, my dear, think, the issue of the alternative 
 (to use your own words) sits so lightly upon my 
 mind; in shcrt, that my inclination is Jaulty ; the 
 tvorld would treat me much less scrupulous^. 
 When therefore, you represent, that all punctilio 
 must be at an end the moment 'I am out of my father's 
 house ; and hint, that I must submit it to Mr. Love- 
 lace to judge when he can leave me with safety ; 
 that is to say, give him the option whether he will 
 leave me or not ; who can bear these reflections, 
 who can resolve to incur these inconveniences, 
 that has the question still in her own power to de- 
 cide upon ? 
 
 While I thought only of an escape from this house 
 as an escape from Mr. Solmes; that already my re- 
 putation suffered by my confinement ; and that it 
 would be still in my own option, either to marry 
 Mr. Lovelace or wholly to renounce him ; bold as 
 the step was, I thought, treated as I am treated, 
 something was to be said in excuse of it if not to 
 the world, to myself: and to be self-acquitted is a 
 blessing to be preferred to the opinion of all the 
 world, But, after I have censured most severely, 
 as I have ever done, those giddy girls, who have in
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. S19 
 
 the same hour, as I may say, that they have tied 
 from their chamber, presented themselves at the 
 altar that is to witness to their undutiful rashness ; 
 after I have stipulated with Mr. Lovelace_/or time, 
 and for an ultimate option whether to accept or refuse 
 him ; and for his leaving me as soon as I am in a 
 place of safety (which, as you observe, he must be 
 the judge of; ; and after he has signified to me his 
 compliance with these terms ; so that I cannot, if I 
 would, recall them, and suddenly marry ; you see, 
 my dear, that I have nothing left me but to resolve 
 not to go away with him. 
 
 But how, on this revocation of my appointment, 
 shall I be able to pacify him ? 
 
 How! Why, assert the privilege of my sex ! 
 Surely, on this side of the solemnity he has no right 
 to be displeased. Besides, did I not reserve a power 
 of receding, as I saw fit ? To what purpose, as I 
 asked in the case between your mother and you, 
 has any body an option, if the making use of it 
 shall give the refused a right to be disgusted ? 
 
 Far, very far, would those, who, according to the 
 old Law, have a right of absolving, or confirming a 
 child's promise, be from ratifying mine, had it been 
 ever so so solemn a one*. But this was rather an ap- 
 pointment than a promise : and suppose it had been 
 the latter ! and that I had not reserved to myself 
 
 * See Numb. xxx. where it is declared, whose vows shall 
 be binding, and whose not. The vows of a man, or of a 
 widow, are there pronounced to be indispensable : because 
 they are sole, and subject to no other domestic authority. 
 But the vows of a single woman, and of a wife, if the father 
 of the one, or the husband of the other, disallow of them as 
 soon as they know them, are to be of no force. 
 
 A matter highly necessary to be known ; by all young la- 
 dies especially, whose designing addressers too often endea- 
 vour to engage them by vows ; and then plead conscience 
 and honour to them to hold them down to the performance. 
 
 It
 
 320 THE HISTORY OV 
 
 a liberty of revoking it ; was it to preclude belter 
 or maturer consideration ? If so, how unfit to be 
 given ! How ungenerous to be insisted upon ! 
 And how unfitter still to be kept ! Is there a man 
 living who ought to be angry that a woman whom 
 he hopes one day to call his shall refuse to keep a 
 rash promise, when, on the maturest deliberation, 
 she is convinced that it was a rash one ? 
 
 I resolve then, upon the whole, to stand this one 
 trial of Wednesday next or, perhaps, I should ra- 
 ther say, of Tuesday evening, if my father hold 
 his purpose, of endeavouring, in person, to make me 
 read, or hear read, and then sign, the settlements. 
 That, that must be the greatest trial of all. 
 
 If I am compelled to sign them over-night then 
 (the lord bless me !) must all I dread follow, as of 
 course, on Wednesday. If I can prevail upon them 
 by my prayers [perhaps I shall fall into fits ; for 
 the very first appearance of my father, after having 
 been so long banished his presence, will greatly 
 affect me if, I say, I can prevail upon them by 
 my prayers] to lay aside their views ; or to suspend 
 
 It cannot be amiss to recite the very words. 
 Ver. 3. If a woman vow a toiv unto tlie Lord, and bind her- 
 self by a bond, being in her father' a house in tier youth ; 
 
 4. And her fattier hear tier vow, and her bond wheiewith she 
 hath bound her soul, and her father shall hold his peace at her ; 
 then all her vows shall stand, and every bond wherewith she 
 hath bound her soul shall stand. 
 
 5. But if her father disallow her in the day that lie heareth ; 
 not any of her vows, or of her bonds wherewith she hath bound 
 her soul shall stand: and the Lord shall forgive her, because 
 her father disallowed her. 
 
 The same in the case of a wife, as said above. See ver. 6, 
 7, 8, &c. And all is thus solemnly closed. 
 
 Ver. 16. These are the statutes which the Lord commanded 
 Moses between a man and his wife, between the father and his 
 daughter, being yet in her youth in her father s house.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 321 
 
 the day, if but for one week ; if not, but for two 
 or three days ; still Wednesday will be a lighter 
 day of trial. They will surely give me time to 
 consider, to argue with myself. This will not be 
 promising. As I have made no effort to get away, 
 they have no reason to suspect me ; so I may have 
 an opportunity, in the last resort, to withdraw. 
 Mrs. Norton is to be with me: she, although she 
 should be chidden for it, will in my extremity 
 plead for me. My aunt Hervey may, in such an 
 extremity, join with her. Perhaps my mother may 
 be brought over. I will kneel to each, one by 
 one, to make a friend. Some of them have been 
 afraid to see me, lest they should be moved in my 
 favour : does not this give me a reasonable hope 
 that I may move them? My brother's counsel, here- 
 tofore given, to turn me out of doors to my evil 
 destiny, may again be repeated, and may prevail. 
 Then shall I be in no worse case than now, as to the 
 displeasure of my friends ; and thus far better, that 
 it will not be my fault that I seek another protec- 
 tion : which even then ought to be my cousin Mor- 
 den's rather than Mr. Lovelace's, or any other 
 person's. 
 
 My heart, in short, misgives me less, when I 
 resolve this way, than when I think of the other ; 
 and in so strong and involuntary a bias, the heart 
 is, as I may say, conscience. And well cautions the 
 wise man : ' Let the counsel of thine own heart 
 stand; for there is no man more faithful to thee 
 than it: for a man's mind is sometimes wont to tell 
 him more than seven watchmen, that sit above in a 
 high tower*.' 
 
 Forgive these indigested self-reasonings. I will 
 close here : and instantly set about a letter of re- 
 
 * Ecclus. xxxvii. 13, 14. 
 VOL. II. F F
 
 322 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 vocation to Mr. Lovelace ; take it as he will. It 
 will only be another trial of temper to him. To me 
 of infinite importance. And has he not promised 
 temper and acquiescence, on the supposition of a 
 change in my mind? 
 
 LETTER XLV. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 Sunday morning, (April 9.") 
 Nobody it seems will go to church this day. No 
 blessing to be expected perhaps upon views so 
 worldly, and in some so cruel. 
 
 They have a mistrust that I have some device in 
 my head. Betty has been looking among my 
 clothes. I found her, on coming up from deposit- 
 ing my letter to Lovelace (for I have written !) 
 peering among them ; for I had left the key in the 
 lock. She coloured, and was confounded to be 
 caught. But I only said, I should be accustomed 
 to any sort of treatment in time. If she had her 
 orders those were enough for her. 
 
 She owned, in her confusion, that a motion had 
 been made to abridge me of my airings ; and the 
 report she should make would be of no disadvantage 
 to me. One of my friends, she told me, urged in 
 my behalf, that there was no need of laying me 
 under greater restraint, since Mr. Lovelace's threat- 
 ening to rescue me by violence, were I to have 
 been carried to my uncle's, was a conviction that I 
 had no design to go to him voluntarily: and that 
 if I had, I should have made preparations of that 
 kind before noiv; and, most probably, been de- 
 tected in them. Hence it was also inferred, that
 
 CLARISSA flARLOWE. 323 
 
 there was no room to doubt but I would at last 
 comply. And, added the bold creature, If you 
 don't intend to do so, your conduct, miss, seems 
 strange to me. Only thus she reconciled it : that 
 I had gone so far I knew not how to come off ge- 
 teely : and she fancied I should, in full congrega- 
 tion, on Wednesday, give Mr. Solmes my hand. 
 And, then, said the confident wench, as the learned 
 Dr. Brand took his text last Sunday, there ivill be 
 joy in heaven 
 
 This is the substance of my letter to Mr. Love- 
 lace : 
 
 ' That I have reasons of the greatest consequence 
 to myself (and which, when known, must satisfy 
 him) to suspend, for the present, my intention of 
 leaving my father's house : that I have hopes that 
 matters may be brought to a happy conclusion, 
 without taking a step which nothing but the last 
 necessity could justify : and that he may depend 
 upon my promise, that I will die rather than con- 
 sent to marry Mr. Solmes.' 
 
 And so I am preparing myself to stand the shock 
 of his exclamatory reply. But be that what it will, 
 it cannot affect me so much as the apprehensions 
 of what may happen to me next Tuesday or Wed- 
 nesday ; for now those apprehensions engage my 
 whole attention, and make me sick at the very 
 heart. 
 
 Sunday, four in the afternoon. 
 
 My letter is not yet taken away if he should 
 not send for it, or take it, and come hither on my 
 not meeting him to-morrow, in doubt of what may 
 have befallen me, what shall I do ! Why had I 
 any concerns with this sex ! I, that was so hap- 
 py till I knew this man ! 
 
 I dined in the ivy summer-house. My request 
 to do so was complied with at the first word. To 
 ff2
 
 324 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 shew I meant nothing, I went again into the house 
 with Betty, as soon as I had dined. I thought it 
 was not amiss to ask this liberty, the weather seem- 
 ing to be set in fine. Who knows what Tuesday or 
 Wednesday may produce? 
 
 Sunday evening, seven o'clock. 
 There remains my letter still ! He is busied, I 
 suppose, in his preparations for to-morrow. But 
 then he has servants. Does the man think he is so 
 secure of me, that having appointed, he need not 
 give himself any further concern about me till the 
 very moment ? He knows how I am beset. He 
 knows not what may happen. I might be ill, or 
 still more closely watched or confined than before. 
 The correspondence might be discovered. It might 
 be necessary to vary the scheme. I might be forced 
 into measures which might entirely frustrate my 
 purpose. I might have new doubts. I might sug- 
 gest something more convenient, for any thing he 
 knew. What can the man mean, I wonder ! Yet 
 it shall lie ; for if he has it any time before the ap- 
 pointed hour, it will save me declaring to him per- 
 sonally my changed purpose, and the trouble of 
 contending with him on that score. If he send for 
 it at all, he will see by the date that he might have 
 had it in time; and if he be put to any inconveni- 
 ence from shortness of notice, let him take it for 
 his pains. 
 
 Sunday night, nine o'clock. 
 
 It is determined, it seems, to send for Mrs. Nor- 
 ton to be here on Tuesday to dinner ; and she is to 
 stay with me for a whole week. 
 
 So she is first to endeavour to persuade me to 
 comply ; and, when the violence is done, she is to 
 comfort me, and try to reconcile me to my fate. 
 They expect Jits and fetches, Betty insolently tells
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 325 
 
 me, and expostulations and exclamations without 
 number ; but every body will be prepared for them : 
 and when it's over it's over; and I shall be easy 
 and pacified when I find I can't help it. 
 
 Monday morn. (April 10,) seven o'clock. 
 
 O my dear ! there yet lies the letter, just as I 
 left it ! 
 
 Does he think he is so sure of me ? Perhaps he 
 imagines that I dare not alter my purpose. I wish 
 I had never known him ! I begin now to see this 
 rashness in the light every one else would have 
 seen it in, had I been guilty of it. But what can I 
 do, if he come to-day at the appointed time! If he 
 receive not the letter, I must see him, or he will 
 think something has befallen me ; and certainly 
 will come to the house. As certainly he will be 
 insulted. And what in that case may be the con- 
 sequence ! Then I as good as promised that I would 
 take the first opportunity to see him, if I changed 
 my mind, and to give him my reasons for it. I 
 have no doubt but he will be out of humour upon 
 it : but better, if we meet, that he go away dis- 
 satisfied with me, than that / should go away dis- 
 satisfied with myself. 
 
 Yet, short as the time is, he may still perhaps 
 send and get the letter. Something may have 
 happened to prevent him, which, when known, 
 will excuse him. 
 
 After I have disappointed him more than once 
 before, on a requested interview only, it is impos- 
 sible he should not have curiosity at least to know 
 if something has not happened ; and whether my 
 mind hold or not in this more important- case. And 
 yet, as I rashly confirmed my resolution by a se 
 cond letter, I begin now to doubt it. 
 if3
 
 326 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 Nine o'clock. 
 My cousin Dolly Hervey slid the inclosed let- 
 ter into my hand, as I passed by her coming out of 
 the garden. 
 
 DEAREST MADAM, 
 
 I have got intelligence from one who pretends to 
 know every thing, that you must be married on 
 Wednesday morning to Mr. Solmes. Perhaps, 
 however, she says this only to vex me ; for it is 
 that saucy creature Betty Barnes. A licence is 
 got, as she says: and so far she went as to tell me 
 (bidding me say nothing ; but she knew I would) 
 that Mr. Brand is to marry you ; for Dr. Lewen, I 
 hear, refuses, unless your consent can be obtained; 
 and they have heard that he does not approve of 
 their proceedings against you. Mr. Brand, I am 
 told, is to have his fortune made by uncle Harlowe 
 and among them. 
 
 You will know better than I what to make of all 
 these matters ; for sometimes I think Betty tells me 
 things as if I should nottell you, and yetexpects that 
 I will*. For there is great whispering between 
 Miss Harlowe and her ; and I have observed that 
 when their whispering is over, Betty comes and 
 tells me something by way of secret. She and all 
 the world know how much I love you : and so I 
 would have them. It is an honour to me to love a 
 
 * It is easy for such of the readers as have been atten- 
 tive to Mr. Lovelace's manner of working, to suppose, from 
 this hint of Miss Hervey's, that he had instructed his dou- 
 ble-faced agent to pnt his sweetheart Betty upon alarming 
 Bliss Hervey, in hopes she would alarm her beloved cousin 
 (as we see she does,) in order to keep her steady to her 
 ?ppou>t*nejut with liim
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 327 
 
 young lady who is, and ever was, an honour to all 
 her family, let them say what they will. 
 
 But from a more certain authority than Betty's I 
 can assure you (but I must beg of you to burn this 
 letter) that you are to be searched once more for 
 letters, and for pen and ink ; for they know you 
 write. Something they pretend to have come at 
 from one of Mr. Lovelace's servants, which they 
 hope to make something of. I know not for cer- 
 tain what it is. He must be a very vile and wicked 
 man, who would boast of a lady's favour to him, 
 and reveal secrets. But Mr. Lovelace, I dare say, 
 is too much of a gentleman to be guilty of such 
 ingratitude. 
 
 Then they have a notion, from that false Betty I 
 believe, that you intend to take something to make 
 yourself sick ; and so they will search for phials 
 and powders, and such like. 
 
 If nothing shall be found that will increase their 
 suspicions, you are to be used more kindly by your 
 papa when you appear before them all than he of 
 late has used you. 
 
 Yet, sick or well, alas ! my dear cousin ! you 
 must be married. But your husband is to go home 
 every night without you till you are reconciled to 
 him. And so illness can be no pretence to save 
 you. 
 
 They are sure you will make a good wife. So 
 would not I, unless I liked my husband. And Mr. 
 Solmes is always telling them how he will purchase 
 your love by rich presents. A sycophant man ! I 
 wish he and Betty Barnes were to come together, 
 and he would beat her every day. 
 
 After what I have told you, I need not advise 
 you to secure every thing you would not have 
 seen. 
 
 Once more let me beg that you will burn this
 
 328 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 letter: and pray, dearest madam, do not take any 
 thing that may prejudice your health : for that will 
 not do. I am 
 
 Your truly loving cousin, 
 
 D. H. 
 
 When I first read my cousin's letter, I was half 
 inclined to resume my former intention ; especially 
 as my countermanding letter was not taken away, 
 and as my heart ached at the thoughts of the con- 
 flict I must expect to have with him on my refusal. 
 For, see him for a few moments I doubt I must, lest 
 he should take some rash resolutions ; especially 
 as he has reason to expect I will see him'. But here 
 your words, That all punctilio is at an end the mo- 
 ment I am out of my [fathers house, added to the 
 still more cogent considerations of duty and repu- 
 tation, determined me once more against taking 
 the rash step. And it will be very hard (although 
 no seasonable fainting or wished-for fit should 
 stand my friend) if I cannot gain one month, or 
 fortnight, or week. And I have still more hopes 
 that I shall prevail for some delay, from my cousin's 
 intimation that the good Dr. Lewen refuses to give 
 his assistance to their projects, if they have not my 
 consent, and thinks me cruelly used : since, with- 
 out taking notice that I am apprised of this, I can 
 plead a scruple of conscience, and insist upon hav- 
 ing that worthy divine's opinion upon it: in which, 
 enforced as I shall enforce it, my mother will 
 surely second me: my aunt Hervey and Mrs. Nor- 
 ton will support her : the suspension must follow : 
 and I can but get away afterwards. 
 
 But, if they will compel me : if they will give 
 me no time: if nobody will be moved: if it be re- 
 solved that the ceremony shall be read over my 
 constrained hand why then alas ! what then!
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 329 
 
 I can but but what ? O my dear ! this Solmes 
 shall never have my vows, I am resolved ! And I 
 will say nothing but No as long as I shall be able 
 to speak. And who will presume to look upon 
 such an act of violence as a marriage ? It is im- 
 possible, surely, that a father and mother can see 
 such a dreadful compulsion offered to their child 
 but if mine should withdraw, and leave the task 
 to my brother and sister, they will have no mercy. 
 
 I am grieved to be driven to have recourse to 
 the following artifices. 
 
 I have given them a clue, by the feather of a 
 pen sticking out, where they will find such of my 
 hidden stores as I intend they shall find. 
 
 Two or three little essays I have left easy to be 
 seen, of my own writing. 
 
 About a dozen lines also of a letter begun to you, 
 in which I express my hopes (although I say that 
 appearances are against me) that my friends will 
 relent. They know from your mother, by my 
 uncle Antony, that, somehow or other, I now and 
 then get a letter to you. In this piece of a letter 
 I declare renewedly my firm resolution to give up 
 the man so obnoxious to my family, on their releas- 
 ing me from the address of the other. 
 
 Near the essays I have left the copy of my letter 
 to Lady Drayton * ; which affording arguments 
 suitable to my case, may chance (thus accidentally 
 to be fallen upon) to incline them to favour me. 
 
 I have reserves of pens and ink, you may be- 
 lieve ; and one or two in the ivy summer-house ; 
 with which I shall amuse myself, in order to light- 
 en, if possible, those apprehensions which more 
 and more affect me, as Wednesday, the day of 
 .trial, approaches. 
 
 * Spe p. 80, 81.
 
 330 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 LETTER XL VI. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 Ivy summer-house, two o'clock. 
 He has not yet got my letter : and while I was 
 contriving here how to send my officious gaoleress 
 from me, that I might have time for the intended 
 interview, and had hit upon an expedient, which I 
 believe would have done, came my aunt, and fur- 
 nished me with a much better. She saw my little 
 table covered preparative to my solitary dinner ; 
 and hoped, she told me, that this would be the 
 last day that my friends would be deprived of my 
 company at table. 
 
 You may believe, my dear, that the thoughts of 
 meeting Mr. Lovelace, for fear of being discovered, 
 together with the contents of my cousin Dolly's 
 letter, gave me great and visible emotions. She 
 took notice of them Why these sighs, why these 
 heavings here? said she, patting my neck O my 
 dear niece, who would have thought so much natu- 
 ral sweetness could be so very unpersuadable? 
 
 I could not answer her, and she proceeded I 
 am come, I doubt, upon a very unwelcome errand. 
 Some things that have been told us yesterday, 
 which came from the mouth of one of the most 
 desperate and insolent men in the world, convince 
 your father and all of us, that you still find means 
 to write out of the house. Mr. Lovelace knows 
 every thing that is done here; and that as soon as 
 done ; and great mischief is apprehended from 
 him, which you are as much concerned as any 
 body to prevent. Your mother has also some ap- 
 prehensions concerning yourself, which yet she 
 hopes are groundless ; but, however, cannot be
 
 CLARISSA HARLOVVE. 331 
 
 easy, nor will be permitted to be easy, if sbe would, 
 unless (while you remain here in the garden or in 
 this summer-house) you give her the opportunity 
 once more of looking into your closet, your cabinet, 
 and drawers. It will be the better taken, if you 
 give me cheerfully your ke) r s. I hope, my dear, 
 you won't dispute it. Your desire of dining in this 
 place was the more readily complied with for the 
 sake of such an opportunity. 
 
 I thought myself very lucky to be so well pre- 
 pared by my cousin Dolly's means for this search: 
 but yet I artfully made some scruples, and not a 
 few complaints of this treatment : after which, I 
 not only gave her the keys of all, but even offici- 
 ously emptied my pockets before her, and invited 
 her to put her fingers in my stays, that she might 
 be sure I had no papers there. 
 
 This highly obliged her; and she said she would 
 represent my cheerful compliance as it deserved, 
 let my brother and sister say what they would. My 
 mother, in particular, she was sure, would rejoice 
 at the opportunity given her to obviate, as she 
 doubted not would be the case, some suspicions 
 that were raised against me. 
 
 She then hinted, that there were methods taken 
 to come at all Mr. Lovelace's secrets, and even, 
 from his careless communicativeness, at some of 
 mine ; it being, she said, his custom boastingly to 
 prate to his very servants of his intentions, in parti- 
 cular cases. She added, that deep as he was thought 
 to be, my brother was as deep as he, and fairly 
 too hard for him at his own weapons as one day 
 it would be found. 
 
 I knew not, I said, the meaning of these dark 
 hints. I thought the cunning she hinted at, on 
 both sides, called rather for contempt than applause. 
 I myself might have been put upon artifices which
 
 332 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 my heart disdained to practise, had I given way to 
 the resentment which, I was bold to say, was much 
 more justifiable than the actions that occasioned it : 
 that it was evident to me, from what she had said, 
 that their present suspicions of me were partly ow- 
 ing to this supposed superior cunning of my bro- 
 ther, and partly to the consciousness that the usage 
 I met with might naturally produce a reason for 
 such suspicions : that it was very unhappy for mc 
 to be made the butt of my brother's wit : that it 
 would have been more to his praise to have aimed 
 at shewing a kind heart than a cunning head : that, 
 nevertheless, I wished he knew himself as well as I 
 imagined /knew him, and he would then have less 
 conceit of his abilities ; which abilities would, in 
 my opinion, be less thought of, if his power to do 
 ill offices were not much greater than they. 
 
 I was vexed. I could not help making this re- 
 flection. The dupe the other too probably makes 
 of him, through his own spy, deserved it. But I 
 so little approve of this low art in either, that were 
 I but tolerably used, the vileness of that man, that 
 Joseph Leman, should be inquired into. 
 
 She was sorry, she said, to find that I thought so 
 disparagingly of my brother. He was a young 
 man both of learning and parts. 
 
 Learning enough, I said, to make him vain of it 
 among us women : but not of parts sufficient to 
 make his learning valuable either to himself or to 
 any body else. 
 
 She wished, indeed, that he had more good na- 
 ture: but she feared that I had too great an opinion 
 of somebody else, to think so well of my brother 
 as a sister ought: since between the two there was 
 a sort of rivalry as to abilities that made them hate 
 one another. 
 
 Rivalry, madam ! said I. If that be the case, or
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 353 
 
 whether it be or not, I wish they both understood 
 better than either of them seems to do, what it be- 
 comes gentlemen, and men of liberal education, to 
 be and to do. Neither of them, then, would glory 
 in what they ought to be ashamed of. 
 
 But waving this subject, it was not impossible, I 
 said, that they might find a little of my writing, 
 and a pen or two, with a little ink [hated art ! or 
 rather hateful the necessity for it !] as I was not 
 permitted to go up to put them out of the way : but 
 if they did, I must be contented. And I assured 
 her, that, take what time they pleased, I would 
 not go in to disturb them, but would be either in or 
 near the garden, in this summer-house, or in the 
 cedar one, or about my poultry-yard, or near the 
 great cascade, till I was ordered to return to my 
 prison. With like cunning I said, that I supposed 
 the unkind search would not be made till the ser- 
 vants had dined ; because I doubted not that the 
 pert Betty Barnes, who knew all the corners of my 
 apartment and closet, would be employed in it. 
 
 She hoped, she said, that nothing could be found 
 that would give a handle against me : for, she 
 would assure me, the motives to the search, on my 
 mother's part especially, were, that she hoped to 
 find reason rather to acquit than to blame me ; and 
 that my father might be induced to see me to-mor- 
 row night, or Wednesday morning, with temper ; 
 with tenderness, I should rather say, said she ; for 
 he is resolved so to do, if no new offence be given. 
 
 Ah ! madam, said I 
 
 Why that Ah ! madam, and shaking your head so 
 significantl}'. 
 
 I wish, madam, that I may not have more reason 
 to dread my father's continued displeasure than to 
 hope for his returning tenderness. 
 
 VOL. II. GG
 
 33* THE HISTORY OF 
 
 You don't knmo, my dear ! Things may take a 
 turn things may not be so bad as you fear 
 
 Dearest madam, have you any consolation to give 
 me? 
 
 Why, my dear, it is possible that you may be 
 more compliable than you have been. 
 
 Why raised you my hopes, madam ! Don't let 
 me think my dear aunt Hervey cruel to a niece 
 who truly honours her. 
 
 I may tell you more, perhaps, said she, (but in 
 confidence, in absolute confidence) if the inquiry 
 within come out in your favour. Do you know of 
 any thing above that can be found to your disad- 
 vantage ? 
 
 Some papers they will find, I doubt : but I must 
 take consequences. My brother and sister will be 
 at hand with their good-natured constructions. I 
 am made desperate, and care not what is found. 
 
 I hope, I earnestly hope, said she, that nothing 
 can be found that will impeach your discretion ; 
 and then but I may say too much 
 
 And away she went, having added to my per- 
 plexity. 
 
 But I now can think of nothing but this inter- 
 view. Would to Heaven it were over ! To meet 
 to quarrel but, let him take what measures he will, 
 I will not stay a moment with him, if he be not quite 
 calm and resigned. 
 
 Don't you see how crooked some of my lines 
 are ? Don't you see how some of the letters stagger 
 more than others ? That is when this interview is 
 more in my head than my subject. 
 
 But, after all, should I, ought I to meet him ? 
 How have I taken it for granted that I should ! I 
 wish there were time to take your advice. Yet you 
 are so loth to speak quite out but thatl owe, as you 
 own, to the difficulty of my situation.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 383 
 
 I should have mentioned, that in the course of 
 this conversation I besought my aunt to stand my 
 friend, and to put in a word for me, on my approach- 
 ing trial ; and to endeavour to procure me time for 
 consideration, if I could obtain nothing else. 
 
 She told me, that, after the ceremony was per- 
 formed [odious confirmation of a hint in my cousin 
 Dolly's letter /] I should have what time I pleased 
 to reconcile myself to my lot, before cohabitation. 
 
 This put me out of all patience. 
 
 She requested of me in her turn, she said, that I 
 would resolve to meet them all with cheerful duty, 
 and with a spirit of absolute acquiescence. It was 
 in my power to make them all happy. And how 
 joyful would it be to her, she said, to see my father, 
 my mother, my uncles, my brother, my sister, all 
 embracing me with raptures, and folding me in 
 turns to their fond hearts, and congratulating each 
 other on their restored happiness ! Her own joy, 
 she said, would probably make her motionless and 
 speechless for a time : and for her Dolly the poor 
 girl, who had suffered in the esteem of some for her 
 grateful attachment to me, would have every body 
 love her again. 
 
 Will you doubt, my dear, that my next trial wifl 
 be the most affecting that I have yet had ? 
 
 My aunt set forth all this in so strong a light, 
 and I was so particularly touched on my cousin 
 Dolly's account, that, impatient as I was just be- 
 fore, I was greatly moved : yet could only shew 
 by my sighs and my tear3, how desirable such an 
 event would be to me, could it be brought about 
 upon conditions with- which it was possible for me 
 to comply. 
 
 Here comes Betty Barnes with- my dinner 
 # * # 
 
 The wench is gone. The time of meeting is at 
 g g 2
 
 S36 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 hand. O that he may not come ! But should I, or 
 should I not, meet him ? How I question, without 
 possibility of a timely answer! 
 
 Betty, according to my leading hint to my aunt, 
 boasted to me, that she was to be employed, as she 
 called it, after she had eat her own dinner. 
 
 She should be sorry, she told me, to have me 
 found out. Yet 'twould be all for my good. I 
 should have it in my power to be forgiven for all at 
 once before Wednesday night. The confident 
 creature, then, to stifle a laugh, put a corner of her 
 apron in her mouth, and went to the door : and on 
 her return to take away, as I angrily bid her, she 
 begged my excuse. But but and then the saucy 
 creature laughed again, she could not help it, to 
 think how I had drawn myself in by my summer- 
 house dinnering ; since it had given so fine an op- 
 portunity, by way of surprise, to look into all my 
 private hoards. She thought something ivas in the 
 wind, when my brother came into my dining here 
 so readily. Her young master was too hard for 
 every body. Squire Lovelace himself was nothing 
 at all at a quick thought to her young master. 
 
 My aunt mentioned Mr. Lovelace's boasting be- 
 haviour to his servants : perhaps he may be so mean. 
 But as to my brother, he always took a pride in 
 making himself appear to be a man of parts and 
 learning to our servants. Pride and meanness, I 
 have often thought, are as nearly allied, and as 
 close borderers upon each other, as the poet tells us 
 wit and madness are. 
 
 But why do I trouble you (and myself, at such a 
 crisis) with these impertinencies ? Yet I would 
 forget, if I could, the nearest evil, the interview ; 
 because my apprehensions increasing as the hour 
 is at hand, I should, were my attention to be en- 
 grossed by them, be unfit to see him, if he docs
 
 CLARISSA HAHLOWE. 337 
 
 come : and then he will have too much advantage 
 over me, as he will have seeming reason to re- 
 proach me with change of resolution. 
 
 The upbraider, you know, my dear, is in some 
 sense a superior; while the upbraided, if with rea- 
 son upbraided, must make a figure as spiritless as 
 conscious. 
 
 I know that this wretch will, if he can, be his 
 own judge, and mine too. But the latter he shall 
 not be. 
 
 I dare say we shall be all to pieces. But I don't 
 care for that. It would be hard, if I, who have 
 held it out so sturdily to my father and uncles, 
 should not but lie is at the garden door 
 
 # # * 
 
 I was mistaken ! How may noises un-like, be 
 made like to what one fears! Why flutters the 
 fool so! 
 
 # # # 
 
 I will hasten to deposit this. Then I will, for 
 the last time, go to the usual place, in hopes to find 
 that he has got my letter. If he has, I will not 
 meet him. Ifhehaswof, I will take it back, and 
 shew him what I have written. That will break 
 the ice, as I may say, and save me much circum- 
 locution and reasoning : and a steady adherence to 
 that my written mind is all that will be necessary. 
 The interview must be as short as possible; for 
 should it be discovered, it would furnish a new and 
 strong pretence for the intended evil of Wednesday 
 next. 
 
 Perhaps I shall not be able to write again one 
 while. Perhaps not, till I am the miserable pro- 
 perty of that Solmes! But that shall never, never 
 be, while I have my senses. 
 
 If your servant find nothing from me by Wed- 
 
 G G 3
 
 338 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 nesday morning, you may conclude that I can 
 neither write to you nor receive your favours. 
 
 In that case, pity and pray for me, my heloved 
 friend, and continue to me that place in your af- 
 fection which is the pride of my life, and the only 
 comfort left to 
 
 Your 
 
 CL. HARLOWE. 
 
 LETTER XL VII. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 St. A loan's, Tuesday morn, past one. 
 
 O MY DEAREST FRIEND! 
 
 After what I had resolved upon, as by my former, 
 what shall I write? What can I ? With what con- 
 sciousness, even by letter, do I approach you ? 
 You will soon hear (if already you have not heard 
 from the mouth of common fame) that your Cla- 
 rissa Harlowe is gone off with a man ! 
 
 I am busying myself to give you the particulars 
 at large. The whole twenty-four hours of each 
 day (to begin the moment I can fix) shall be em- 
 ployed in it till it is finished ! every one of the 
 hours, I mean, that will be spared me by this inter- 
 rupting man, to whom I have made myself so fool- 
 ishly accountable for too many of them. Rest is 
 departed from me. I have no call for that : and 
 that has no balm for the wounds of my mind. So 
 you'll have all those hours without interruption till 
 the account is ended. 
 
 But will you receive, shall you be permitted to 
 receive my letters, after what I have done? 
 
 O my dearest friend! But I must make the best 
 of it. I hope that will not be very bad ! Yet am I
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 339 
 
 convinced, that I did a rash and inexcusable thing 
 in meeting him ; and all his tenderness, all his 
 vows, cannot pacify my inward reproaches on that 
 account. 
 
 The bearer comes to you, my dear, for the little 
 parcel of linen which I sent you with far better and 
 more agreeable hopes. 
 
 Send not my letters. Send the linen only : ex- 
 cept you will favour me with one line, to tell me 
 you love me still ; and that you will suspend your 
 censures till you have the whole before you. I am 
 the readier to send thus early, because if you have 
 deposited any thing for me, you may cause it to be 
 taken back, or withhold any thing you had but in- 
 tended to send. 
 
 Adieu, my dearest friend ! I beseech you to 
 love me still but alas! what will your mother 
 say? What will mine? What my other rela- 
 tions? and what my dear Mrs. Norton? And 
 how will my brother and sister triumph ! 
 
 I cannot at present tell you how, or where, you 
 can direct to me. For very early shall I leave this 
 place ; harassed and fatigued to death. But, when 
 I can do nothing else, constant use has made me 
 able to write. Long, very long, has that been all 
 my amusement and pleasure : yet could not that 
 have been such to me, had I not had you, my best 
 beloved friend, to write to. Once more adieu. 
 Pity and pray for 
 
 Your 
 
 CL. HARLOWE.
 
 340 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 LETTER XL VIII. 
 
 MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE. 
 
 Tuesday, 9 o'clock. 
 
 I write, because you enjoin me to do so. Love 
 you still! How can I help it, if I would? You 
 may believe how I stand aghast, your letter com- 
 municating the first news good God of heaven 
 and earth ! But what shall I say? I am all impa- 
 tience for particulars. 
 
 Lord have mercy upon me! But can it be ? 
 
 My mother will indeedbe astonished! How can 
 I tell it her ! It was but last night (upon some jea- 
 lousies put into her head by your foolish uncle) 
 that I assured her, and this upon the strength of 
 your otvn assurances, that neither man nor devil 
 would be able to induce you to take a step that 
 was in the least derogatory to the most punctilious 
 honour. 
 
 But, once more, can it be ? What woman at 
 this rate ! But, God preserve you ! 
 
 Let nothing escape you in your letters. Direct 
 them for me however to Mrs. Knollys's, till further 
 notice. 
 
 # # 
 
 Observe, my dear, that I don't blame^ow by all 
 this your relations only are in fault ! Yet how 
 you came to change your mind is the surprising 
 thing. 
 
 How to break it to my mother, I know not. Yet 
 if she hear it first from any other, and find I knew 
 it before, she will believe it to be by my conni- 
 vance! Yet, as I hope to live, I know not how to 
 break it to her.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 341 
 
 But this is teasing you. I am sure, without in- 
 tention. 
 
 Let me now repeat my former advice if you 
 are not married by this time, be sure delay not the 
 ceremony. Since things are as they are, I wish it 
 were thought that you were privately married be- 
 fore you went away. If these men plead autho- 
 rity to our pain, when we are theirs why should 
 we not, in such a case as this, make some good out 
 of the hated word, for our reputation, when we are 
 induced to violate a more natural one ? 
 
 Your brother and sister [that vexes me almost as 
 much as any thing!] have now their ends. Now, 
 I suppose, will go forward alterations of wills, and 
 
 such-like spiteful doings. 
 
 # * # 
 
 MissLloyd and Miss Biddulph this moment send 
 up their names. They are out of breath, Kitty 
 says, to speak to me easy to guess their errand ! 
 I must see my mother, before I see them. I have 
 no way but to shew her your letter to clear myself. 
 I shall not be able to say a word, till she has run 
 herself out of her first breath. Forgive me, my 
 dear surprise makes me write thus. If your mes- 
 senger did not wait, and were not those young 
 ladies below, I would write it over again, for fear of 
 afflicting you. 
 
 I send what you write for. If there be any thing 
 else you want that is in my power, command with- 
 out reserve 
 
 Your ever affectionate 
 
 ANNA HOWE.
 
 34-2 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 LETTER XLIX. 
 
 MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE. 
 
 Tuesday night. 
 I think myself obliged to thank you, my dear Miss 
 Howe, for your condescension, in taking notice of 
 a creature who has occasioned you so much scan- 
 dal. 
 
 I am grieved on this account, as much, I verily 
 think, as for the evil itself. 
 
 Tell me but yet I am afraid to know what 
 your mother said. 
 
 I long, and yet I dread, to be told, what the 
 young ladies, my companions, now never more per- 
 haps to be so, say of me. 
 
 They cannot, however, say worse of me than I 
 will of myself. Self-accusation shall flow in every 
 line of my narrative where I think I am justly cen- 
 surable. If any thing can arise from the account 
 I am going to give you, for extenuation of my 
 fault (for that is all a person can hope for, who 
 cannot excuse herself), I know I may expect it from 
 your friendship, though not from the charity of any 
 other : since by this time I doubt not every mouth 
 is opened against me ; and all that know Clarissa 
 Harlowe condemn the fugitive daughter. 
 
 After I had deposited my letter to you, written 
 down to the last hour, as I may say, I returned to 
 the ivy summer-house ; first taking back my letter 
 from the loose bricks : and there I endeavoured, as 
 coolly as my situation would permit, to recollect 
 and lay together several incidents that had passed 
 between my aunt and me ; and, comparing them
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 343 
 
 with some of the contents of my cousin Dolly's 
 letter, I began to hope, that I needed not to be so 
 very apprehensive as I have been of next Wednes- 
 day. And thus I argued with myself. 
 
 Wednesday cannot possibly be the day they 
 intend, although to intimidate me they may wish 
 me to think it is : for the settlements are unsigned : 
 nor have they been offered me to sign. I can 
 choose whether I will or will not put my hand to 
 them ; hard as it will be to refuse if my father 
 tender them to me besides, did not my father and 
 mother propose, if I made compulsion necessary, to 
 go to my uncle's themselves in order to be out of 
 the way of my appeals ? Whereas they intend to 
 be present on Wednesday. And however affecting 
 to me the thought of meeting them and all my 
 friends in full assembly is, perhaps it is the very 
 thing I ought to wish for: since my brother and 
 sister had 6uch an opinion of my interest in them, 
 that they got me excluded from their presence, as 
 a measure which they thought previously necessary 
 to carry on their designs. 
 
 ' Nor have I reason to doubt, but that (as I had 
 before argued with myself) I shall be able to bring 
 over some of my relations to my party ; and, being 
 brought face to face with my brother, that I shall 
 expose his malevolence, and of consequence weak- 
 en his power. 
 
 ' Then supposing the very worst, challenging 
 the minister as I shall challenge him, he will not 
 presume to proceed : nor surely will Mr. Solmes 
 dare to accept my refusing and struggling hand. 
 And finally, if nothing else will do, nor procure 
 me delay, I can plead scruples of conscience, and 
 even pretend prior obligation ; for, my dear, I have 
 given Mr. Lovelace room to hope (as you will see 
 in one of my letters in your hands) that I will be
 
 344 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 no other man's while he is single, and gives me not 
 wilful and premeditated cause of offence against 
 him ; and this in order to rein-in his resentment 
 on the declared animosity of my brother and uncles 
 to him. And as I shall appeal, or refer my scru- 
 ples on this head, to the good Dr. Lewen, it is im- 
 possible but that my mother and aunt (if nobody 
 else) must be affected with this plea.' 
 
 Revolving cursorily these things, I congratulated 
 myself, that I had resolved against going away 
 with Mr. Lovelace. 
 
 I told you, my dear, that I would not spare my- 
 self; and I enumerate these particulars as so many 
 arguments to condemn the actions I have been so 
 unhappily betrayed into. An argument that con- 
 cludes against me with the greater force, as I must 
 acknowledge, that I was apprehensive, that what 
 my cousin Dolly mentions as from Betty, and from 
 my sister was told her, that she should tell me, in 
 order to make me desperate, and perhaps to push 
 me upon some such step as I have been driven to take, 
 as the most effectual means to ruin me with my father 
 and uncles. 
 
 God forgive me if I judge too hardly of their 
 views ! But if I do not, it follows, that they laid a 
 wicked snare for me ; and that I have been caught 
 in it. And now may they triumph, if they can 
 triumph, in the'ruin of a sister, who never wished 
 or intended hurt to them ! 
 
 As the above kind of reasoning had lessened my 
 apprehensions as to the Wednesday, it added to 
 those I had of meeting Mr. Lovelace now, as it 
 seemed, not only the nearest, but the heaviest evil ; 
 principally indeed because nearest ; for little did I 
 dream (foolish creature that I was, and every way 
 beset) ! of the event proving what it has proved. 
 I expected a contention with him, 'tis true, as he
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 345 
 
 had not my letter: but I thought it would be very 
 strange, as I mentioned in one of my former*, if I, 
 who had so steadily held out against characters so 
 venerable, against authorities so sacred, as I may 
 say, when I thought them unreasonably exerted, 
 should not find myself more equal to such a trial 
 as this ; especially as I had so much reason to be 
 displeased with him for not having taken away my 
 letter. 
 
 On what a point of time may one's worldly hap- 
 piness depend! Had I had but two hours more to 
 consider of the matter, and to attend to and improve 
 upon these new lights, as I may call them but 
 even then, perhaps, I might have given him a 
 meeting. Fool that I was ! what had I to do to 
 give him hope that I would personally acquaint him 
 with the reason for my change of mind, if I did 
 change it ? 
 
 my dear ! an obliging temper is a very dan- 
 gerous temper! By endeavouring to gratify others, 
 it is evermore disobliging itself! 
 
 When the bell rang to call the servants to dinner, 
 Betty came to me and asked, if I had any com- 
 mands before she went to hers; repeating her hint, 
 that she should be employed ; adding, that she be- 
 lieved it was expected, that I should not come up 
 till she came down, or till I saw my aunt or Miss 
 Hervey. 
 
 1 asked her some questions about the cascade, 
 which had been out of order, and lately mended ; 
 and expressed a curiosity to see how it played, in 
 order to induce her [how cunning to cheat myself, 
 as it proved!] to go thither, if she found me not 
 where she left me ; it being at a part of the garden 
 most distant from the ivy summer-house. 
 
 * See p. 337. 
 VOL. II. h u
 
 346 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 She could hardly have got into the house when I 
 heard the first signal O how my heart fluttered ! 
 But no time was to he lost. I stept to the garden- 
 door ! and seeing a clear coast, unbolted the al- 
 ready unlocked door and there was he, all im- 
 patience, waiting for me. 
 
 A panic next to fainting seized me when I saw 
 him. My heart seemed convulsed; and I trembled 
 so, that I should hardly have kept my feet, had he 
 not supported me. 
 
 Fear nothing, dearest creature, said he let us 
 hasten away the chariot is at hand and by this 
 sweet condescension, you have obliged me beyond 
 expression or return. 
 
 Recovering my spirits a little, as he kept draw- 
 ing me after him, O Mr. Lovelace, said I, I cannot 
 go with you, indeed I cannot I wrote you word 
 so let go my hand, and you shall see my letter. 
 It has lain there from yesterday morning, till with- 
 in this half-hour. I bid you watch to the last for a 
 letter from me, lest I should be obliged to revoke 
 the appointment; and had you followed the direc- 
 tion, you would have found it. 
 
 I have been watched, my dearest life, said he, 
 half out of breath I have been watched in every 
 step I took : and my trusty servant has been 
 watched too, ever since Saturday ; and dared not 
 to come near your wall. And here we shall be 
 discovered in a moment. Speed away, my char- 
 mer. This is the moment of your deliverance if 
 you neglect this opportunity, you never can have 
 such another. 
 
 What is it you mean, sir? Let go my hand : 
 for I tell you [struggling vehemently] that I will 
 sooner die than go with you. 
 
 Good God ! said he, with a look of wildness and 
 surprise, what is it I hear ! But [still drawing me 
 
 8
 
 CLARISSA MARLOWE. 347 
 
 after him, as he retreated further from the door] it 
 is no time to argue by all that's good you must 
 go surely you cannot doubt my honour, nor give 
 me cause to question your own. 
 
 As you value me, Mr. Lovelace, urge me no fur- 
 ther. I come fixed and resolved. Let me give 
 you the letter I had written. My further reasons 
 shall follow ; and they will convince you that I 
 ought not to go. 
 
 Nothing, madam, can convince me by all that's 
 sacred, I will not leave you. To leave you now, 
 would be to lose you for ever 
 
 Am I to be thus compelled? interrupted I, with 
 equal indignation and vehemence let go my hand*;. 
 I am resolved not to go with you and I will 
 convince you that I ought not. 
 
 All my friends expect you, madam all your 
 own are determined against you Wednesday next 
 is the day, the important, perhaps the fatal day ! 
 Would you stay to be Solmes's wife? Can this be 
 your determination at last ? 
 
 No, never, never, will I be that man's but I 
 will not go with you ! [Draw me not thus how 
 dare you, sir ? I would not have seen you, but to 
 tell you so.] I had not met you, but for fear you 
 would have been guilty of some rashness and, 
 once more, I will not go what mean you? 
 Striving with all my force to get from him. 
 
 What can have possessed my angel, said he, 
 [quitting my hands, and with a gentler voice] that 
 after so much ill-usage from your relations ; vows 
 so solemn on my part; and affection so ardent; you 
 stab me with a refusal to stand by your own ap- 
 pointment ? 
 
 We have no time to talk, Mr. Lovelace. I will 
 give you my reasons at a better opportunity. I 
 h h2
 
 3*8 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 cannot go with you now and once more, urge me 
 no further surely, I am not to be compelled by 
 every body ! 
 
 I see how it is, said he, with a dejected but pas- 
 sionate air what a severe fate is mine at length 
 your spirit is subdued ! Your brother and sister 
 have prevailed ; and I must give up all my hopes 
 to a wretch so truly despicable 
 
 Once more I tell you, interrupted I, I never will 
 be his all may end on Wednesday differently from 
 what you expect 
 
 And it may not ! And then, good heavens ! 
 
 It is to be their last effort, as I have reason to 
 believe 
 
 And I have reason to believe so too since if you 
 stay, you will inevitably be Solmes's wife. 
 
 Not so, interrupted I I have obliged them in 
 one point. They will be in good humour with me. 
 I shall gain time at least. I am sure I shall. I 
 have several ways to gain time. 
 
 And what, madam, will gaining time do ? It is 
 plain you have not a hope beyond that it is 
 plain you have not, by putting all upon that pre- 
 carious issue. O my dearest, dearest life, let me 
 beseech you not to run a risk of this consequence. 
 I can convince you, that it will be more than a risk 
 if you go back, that you will on Wednesday next 
 be Solmes's wife. Prevent, therefore, now that it is 
 in your power to prevent, the fatal mischiefs that 
 will follow such a dreadful certainty. 
 
 While I have any room for hope, it concerns 
 your honour, Mr. Lovelace, as well as mine (if you 
 have the value for me you pretend, and wish me 
 to believe you) that my conduct in this great point 
 should justify my prudence. 
 
 Your prudence, madam ! when has that been
 
 CLARISSA IIA11LOWE. S49 
 
 questionable? Yet what stead has either your pru- 
 dence or your duty stood you in, with people so 
 strangely determined ? 
 
 And then he pathetically enumerated the dif- 
 ferent instances of the harsh treatment I had met 
 with ; imputing all to the malice and caprice of a 
 brother, who set every body against him : and in- 
 sisting, that I had no other way to bring about a 
 reconciliation with my father and uncles, than by 
 putting myself out of the power of my brother's 
 inveterate malice. 
 
 Your brother's whole reliance, proceeded he, 
 has been upon your easiness to bear his insults. 
 Your whole family will seek to you, when you have 
 freed yourself from this disgraceful oppression. 
 When they know you are with those who can and 
 mil right you, they will give up to you your own 
 estate. Why then, putting his arms around me, 
 and again drawing me with a gentle force after him, 
 do you hesitate a moment? Now is the time 
 fly with me then, I beseech you, my dearest crea- 
 ture ! Trust your persecuted adorer. Have we not 
 suffered in the same cause? If any imputations are 
 cast upon you, give me the honour (as I shall be 
 found to deserve it) to call you mine ; and, when 
 you are so, shall I not be able to protect both 
 your person and character ? 
 
 Urge me no more, Mr. Lovelace, I conjure you. 
 You yourself have given me a hint, which I will 
 speak plainer to, than prudence, perhaps, on any 
 other occasion, would allow. I am convinced, that 
 Wednesday next (if I had time I would give you 
 my reasons) is not intended to be the day we had 
 both so much dreaded: and if after that day shall 
 be over, I find my friends determined in Mr. 
 Solmes's favour, I will then contrive some way to 
 hh3
 
 350 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 meet you with Miss Howe, who is not your enemy: 
 and when the solemnity has passed, I shall think 
 that step a duty, which till then will be criminal to 
 take : since now my father's authority is unim- 
 peached by any greater. 
 
 Dearest madam 
 
 Nay, Mr. Lovelace, if you now dispute if, after 
 this more favourable declaration, than I had the 
 thought of making, you are not satisfied, I shall 
 know what to think both of your gratitude and 
 generosity. 
 
 The case, madam, admits not of this alternative. 
 I am all gratitude upon it. I cannot express how 
 much I should be delighted with the charming hope 
 you have given me, were you not next Wednes- 
 day, if you stay, to be another man's. Think, 
 dearest creature ! what an heightening of my an- 
 guish the distant hope you bid me look up to, is, 
 taken in this light ! 
 
 Depend, depend upon it, I will sooner die than 
 be Mr. Solmes's. If you would have me rely upon 
 your honour, why should you doubt of mine? 
 
 I doubt not your honour, madam; your potver is 
 all I doubt. You never, never can have such ano- 
 ther opportunity. Dearest creature, permit me 
 and he was again drawing me after him. 
 
 Whither, sir, do you draw me? Leave me this 
 moment do you seek to keep me till my return 
 shall grow dangerous or impracticable ? This mo- 
 ment let me go, if you would have me think tole- 
 rably of you. 
 
 My happiness, madam, both here and hereafter, 
 and the safety of all your implacable family, de- 
 pend upon this moment. 
 
 To Providence, Mr. Lovelace, and to the law, 
 will I leave the safety of my friends. You shall
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 351 
 
 not threaten me into a rashness that my heart con- 
 demns ! Shall I, to promote your happiness, as 
 you call it, destroy all my future peace of mind ? 
 
 You trifle with me, my dear life, just as our bet- 
 ter prospects begin to open. The way is clear ; 
 just now it is clear; but you may be prevented in 
 a moment. What is it you doubt ? May I perish 
 eternally, if your will shall not be a law to me in 
 every thing! All my relations expect you. Your 
 own appointment calls upon you. Next Wednes- 
 day! Dearest creature ! think of next Wednes- 
 day ! And to what is it I urge you, but to take a 
 step that sooner than any other will reconcile you 
 to all whom you have most reason to value in your 
 family f 
 
 Let me judge for myself, sir. Do not you, who 
 blame my friends for endeavouring to compel me, 
 yourself seek to compel me. I won't bear it. Your 
 earnestness gives me greater apprehensions, and 
 greater reluctance. Let me go back, then let 
 me, before it is too late, go back, that it may not 
 be worse for both. What mean you by this forci- 
 ble treatment? Is it thus that I am to judge of the 
 entire submission to my will which you have so 
 often vowed! Unhand me this moment, or I. will 
 cry out for help. 
 
 I will obey you, my dearest creature ! And 
 quitted my hand with a look full of tender despon- 
 dency, that, knowing the violence of his temper, 
 half-concerned me for him. Yet I was hastening 
 from him, when, with a solemn air, looking upon 
 his sword, but catching, as it were, his hand from 
 it, he folded both his arms, as if a sudden thought 
 had recovered him from an intended rashness. 
 
 Stay, one moment but one moment stay, O best 
 beloved of my soul ; Your retreat is secure, if yeu 
 will go ; the key lies down at the door. But, O
 
 352 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 madam ; next Wednesday, and you are Mr. Solmes's \ 
 Fly me not so eagerly hear me but a few words. 
 
 When near the garden door I stopped; and was 
 the more satisfied, as I saw the key there, by which 
 I could let myself in again at pleasure. But, being 
 uneasy lest I should be missed, told him, I could 
 stay no longer. I had already staid too long. I 
 would write to him all my reasons. And depend 
 upon it, Mr. Lovelace, said, I [just upon the point 
 of stooping for the key, in order to return] I will 
 die, rather than have that man. You know what I 
 have promised, if I find myself in danger. 
 
 One word, madam, however ; one word more 
 approaching me, his arms still folded, as if, as I 
 thought, he would not be tempted to mischief.] 
 Remember only, that I come at your appointment, 
 to redeem you, at the hazard of my life, from your 
 gaolers and persecutors, with a resolution, God is 
 my witness, or may he for ever blast me ! [that 
 was his shocking imprecation] to be a father, 
 uncle, brother, and, as I humbly hoped, in your 
 own good time, a husband to you, all in one. But 
 since I find you are so ready to cry out for help 
 against me, which must bring down upon me the 
 vengeance of all your family, I am contented to 
 run all risks. I will not ask you to retreat with 
 me; I will attend you into the garden, and into the 
 house, if I am not intercepted. 
 
 Nay, be not surprised, madam. The help you 
 would have called for, I will attend you to ; for I 
 will face them all : but not as a revenger, if they 
 provoke me not too much. You shall see what I 
 can further bear for your sake and let us both see, 
 if expostulation and the behaviour of a gentleman 
 to them will not procure me the treatment due to 
 a gentleman from them. 
 
 Had he offered to draw his sword upon himself;
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 353 
 
 I was prepared to have despised him for supposing 
 me such a poor novice, as to be intimidated by an 
 artifice so common. But this resolution, uttered 
 with so serious an air, of accompanying me in to 
 my friends, made me gasp with terror. 
 
 What mean you, Mr. Lovelace ? said I. I be- 
 seech you, leave me leave me, sir, I beseech you. 
 
 Excuse me, madam ! *I beg you to excuse me. 
 I have long enough sculked like a thief about 
 these lonely walls long, too long, have I borne 
 the insults of your brother, and other of your re- 
 lations. Absence but heightens malice. I am des- 
 perate. I have but this one chance for it ; for is 
 not the day after to-morrow Wednesday? I have en- 
 couraged virulence by my tameness Yet tame I 
 will still be. You shall sde, madam, what I will 
 bear for your sake. My sword shall be put sheath- 
 ed into your hands [and he offered it to me in the 
 scabbard] my heart, if you please, clapping one 
 hand upon his breast, shall afford a sheath for your 
 brother's sword. Life is nothing, if I lose you 
 Be pleased, madam, to shew me the way into the 
 garden [moving towards the door.] I will attend 
 you, though to my fate ! But too happy, be it 
 what it will, if I receive it in your presence. Lead 
 on dear creature! [putting his sword into his belt] 
 you shall see what I can bear for you. And he 
 stooped and took up the key ; and offift^d it to the 
 lock; but dropped it again, without opening the 
 door, upon my earnest expostulations. 
 
 What can you mean, Mr. Lovelace ? said I 
 would you thus expose yourself? Would you thus 
 expose me ?- Is this your generosity ? Is every 
 body to take advantage thus of the weakness of 
 my temper ? 
 
 And I wept. I could not help it. 
 
 He threw himself upon his knees at my feet
 
 354> THE HISTORY OF 
 
 Who can bear, said he [with an ardour that could 
 not be feigned, his own eyes glistening] who can 
 bear to behold such sweet emotion ? O charmer 
 of my heart ! [and, respectfully still kneeling, he 
 took my hand with both his, pressing it to his lips] 
 command me with you, command me from you; in 
 every way I am all implicit obedience but I ap- 
 peal to all you know of *our relations' cruelty to 
 you, their determined malice against me, and as 
 determined favour to the man you tell me you hate 
 (and, oh ! madam, if you did not hate him, I should 
 hardly think there would be a merit in your ap- 
 probation, place it where you would) I appeal to 
 every thing you know, to all you have suffered, 
 whether you have not reason to be apprehensive 
 gfthat Wednesday which is my terror ! Whether 
 y^>u can possibly have such another opportunity 
 the chariot ready : my friends with impatience ex- 
 pecting the result of your own appointment: a man 
 whose will shall be entirely your will, imploring 
 you, thus, on his knees, imploring you to be your 
 own mistress ; that is all : nor will I ask for your 
 favour but as upon full proof I shall appear to de- 
 serve it. Fortune, alliance, unobjectible ! O my 
 beloved creature ! pressing my hand once more to 
 his lips, let not such an opportunity slip. You 
 never, never, will have such another. 
 
 I bid hiq#rise. He arose; and I told him, that 
 were I not thus unaccountably hurried by his im- 
 patience, I doubted not to convince him, that both 
 he and I had looked upon next Wednesday with 
 greater apprehension than was necessary. I was 
 proceeding to give him my reasons ; %ut he broke 
 in upon me 
 
 Had I, madam, but the shadow of a probability 
 to hope what^ow hope, I would be all obedience 
 and resignation. But the licence is actually got :
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 355 
 
 the parson is provided : the pedant Brand is the 
 man. O my deafest creature, do these prepara- 
 tions mean only a trial ? 
 
 You know not, sir, were the worst to be in- 
 tended, and weak as you think me, what a spirit I 
 have : you know not what I can do, and how I can 
 resist, when I think myself meanly or unreasonably 
 dealt with : nor do you (mow what I have already 
 suffered, what I have already borne, knowing to 
 whose unbrotherly instigations all is to be ascribed. 
 
 I may expect all things, madam, interrupted he, 
 from the nobleness of your mind. But your spirits 
 may fail you what may not be apprehended from 
 the invincible temper of a father so positive, to a 
 daughter so dutiful ? Fainting will not save you : 
 they will not, perhaps, be sorry for such an effect 
 of their barbarity. What will signify expostula- 
 tions against a ceremony performed ? Must not 
 all, the dreadful all follow, this is torture to my 
 heart but to think of? Nobody to appeal to, of 
 what avail will your resistance be against the con- 
 sequences of a rite witnessed to by the imposers of 
 it ; and those your nearest relations ? 
 
 I was sure, I said, of procuring a delay at least ; 
 many ways I had to procure delay. Nothing could 
 be so fatal to us both, as for me now to be found 
 with hinj. My apprehensions on this score, I told 
 him, grew too strong for my heart. I sft>uld think 
 very hardly of him, if he sought to detain me 
 longer. But his acquiescence should engage my 
 gratitude. 
 
 And then stooping to take up the key to let my- 
 self into the garden, he started, and looked as if he 
 had heard somebody near the door, on the inside ; 
 clapping his hand on his sword. 
 
 This frighted me so, that I thought I should have 
 sunk down at his feet. But he instantly re-assured
 
 356 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 me : he thought, he said, he had heard a rustling 
 against the door: but had it been so, the noise 
 would have been stronger. It was only the effect 
 of his apprehension for me. 
 
 And then taking up the key, he presented it to 
 me, If you will go, madam, yet I cannot, cannot 
 leave you ! I must enter the garden with you 
 forgive me, but I must erUer the garden with you. 
 
 And will you, will you thus ungenerously, Mr. 
 Lovelace, take advantage of my fears ? of my 
 wishes to prevent mischief? I, vain fool, to be con- 
 cerned for every one ; nobody for me ! 
 
 Dearest creature ! interrupted he, holding my 
 hand, as I tremblingly offered to put the key to the 
 lock let me, if you will go, open the door. But 
 once more consider, %ould you possibly obtain 
 that delay which seems to be your only depen- 
 dance, whether you may not be closer confined ? I 
 know they have already had that in consideration. 
 Will you not, in this case, be prevented from cor- 
 responding either with Miss Howe, or with me? 
 Who then shall assist you in your escape, if escape 
 you would? From your chamber-window only 
 permitted to view the garden you must not enter 
 into, how will you wish for the opportunity you 
 now have, if your hatred to Solmes continue! 
 But, alas ! that cannot continue. If you go back, 
 it must be^fcm the impulses of a yielding (which 
 you'll call, a dutiful) heart, tired and teazed out of 
 your own will. 
 
 I have no patience, sir, to be thus constrained. 
 Must I never be at liberty to follow my own judg- 
 ment? Be the consequence what it may, I will not 
 be thus constrained. 
 
 And then, freeing my hand, I again offered the 
 key to the door. 
 
 Down the ready kneeler dropt between me and
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 357 
 
 that : and can you, can you, madam, once more on 
 my knees let meask you, look with an indifferent 
 eye upon the evils that may follow? Provoked as 
 I have been, and triumphed over as I shall be, if 
 your brother succeeds, my own heart shudders, at 
 times, at the thoughts of what must happen; and 
 can yours be unconcerned ? Let me beseech you, 
 dearest creature, to comider all these things; and 
 lose not this only opportunity. My intelligence 
 
 Never, Mr. Lovelace, interrupted I, give so much 
 credit to the words of a traitor. Your base intel- 
 ligencer is but a servant. He may pretend to know 
 more than he has grounds for, in order to earn the 
 wages of corruption. . You know not what contri- 
 vances I can find out. 
 
 I was once more offering the key to the lock, 
 when, starting from his knees, with a voice of af- 
 frightment, loudly whispering, and as if out of 
 breath, They are at the door, my beloved creature I 
 And taking the key from me, he fluttered with it, 
 as if he would double-lock it. And instantly a 
 voice from within cried out, bursting against the 
 door, as if to break it open, the person repeating 
 his violent pushes, Are you there? Come up this 
 moment! This moment J Here they are Here 
 they are both together ! Your pistol this moment ! 
 Your gun ! Then another push, and another. He 
 at the same moment drew his sword, and clapping 
 it naked under his arm, took both my trembling 
 hands in his; and drawing me swiftly after him, 
 Fly, fly, my charmer ; this moment is all you have 
 for it, said he. Your brother 1 Your uncles ! 
 Or this Solmes! They will instantly burst the door 
 fly, my dearest life, if you would not be more 
 cruelly used than ever if you would not see two 
 or three murders committed at your feet, fly, fly, 
 I beseech you. Lord! help, help ! cried the 
 
 VL. II. II
 
 358 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 fool, all in amaze and confusion, frighted beyond 
 the power of controlling. 
 
 Now behind me, now before me, now on this 
 side, now on that, turned I my affrighted face, in 
 the same moment ; expecting a furious brother 
 here, armed servants there, an enraged sister 
 screaming, and a father armed with terror in his 
 countenance more dreadftil than even the drawn 
 sword which I saw, or those I apprehended. I ran 
 as fast as he ; yet knew not that I ran ; my fears 
 adding wings to my feet, at the same time that they 
 took all power of thinking from me my fears, 
 which probably would not have suffered me to 
 know what course to take, had I not had him to 
 urge and draw me after him : especially as I beheld 
 a man, who must have come out of the door, keep- 
 ing us in his eye, running now towards us ; then 
 back to the garden, beckoning and calling to 
 others, whom I supposed he saw, although the turn- 
 ing of the wall hindered me from seeing them ; 
 and whom, I imagined to be my brother, my father, 
 and their servants. 
 
 Thus terrified, I was got out of sight of the 
 door in a very few minutes : and then, although 
 quite breathless between running and apprehen- 
 sion, he put my arm under his, his drawn sword in 
 the other hand, and hurried me on still faster : my 
 voice, however, contradicting my action ; crying, 
 No, no, no, all the while ; straining my neck to 
 look back, as long as the walls of the garden and 
 park were within sight, and till he brought me to 
 the chariot : where, attending, were two armed 
 servants of his own, and two of Lord M.'s on horse- 
 back. 
 
 Here I must suspend my relation for a while : 
 for now I am come to this sad period of it, my in- 
 discretion stares me in the face ; and my shame 
 7
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 359 
 
 and my grief give me a compunction that is more 
 poignant methinks than if I had a dagger in my 
 heart. To have it to reflect, that I should so in- 
 considerately give in to an interview, which, had I 
 known either myself or him, or in the least con- 
 sidered the circumstances of the case, I might 
 have supposed, would put me into the power 
 of his resolution, and out of that of my own 
 reason. 
 
 For, might I not have believed, that he, who 
 thought he had cause to apprehend that he was on 
 the point of losing a person who had cost him so 
 much pains and trouble, would not hinder her, if 
 possible, from returning ? That he, who knew I 
 had promised to give him up for ever, if insisted 
 on as a condition of reconciliation, would not en- 
 deavour to put it out of my power to do so ? In 
 short, that he, who had artfully forborne to send 
 for my letter (for he could not be watched, my dear) 
 lest he should find in it a countermand to my ap- 
 pointment, (as I myself could apprehend, although 
 I profited not by the apprehension ) would want a 
 device to keep me with him till the danger of 
 having our meeting discovered might throw me ab- 
 solutely into his power, to avoid my own worse 
 usage, and the mischiefs which might have ensued 
 ( perhaps in my very sight ) had my friends and he 
 met? 
 
 But if it shall come out, that the person within 
 the garden was his corrupted implement, employ- 
 ed to frighten me away with him, do you think, 
 my dear, that I shall not have reason to hate him, 
 and myself still more ? I hope his heart cannot be 
 so deep and so vile a one : I hope it cannot ! But 
 how came it to pass that one man could get out at 
 the garden door, and no more ? How that that man 
 kept aloof, as it were, and pursued us not ; nor ran 
 i i 2
 
 360 THE HTSTORY OF 
 
 back to alarm the house ? My fright, and my dis- 
 tance, would not let me be certain ; but really, 
 this man, as I now recollect, had the air of that vile 
 Joseph Leman. 
 
 O why, why, my dear friends ! But wherefore 
 blame I them, when I had argued myself into a 
 hope, not improbable, that even the dreadful trial 
 I was to undergo so soon might turn out better 
 than if I had been directly carried away from the 
 presence of my once indulgent parents, who might 
 possibly intend that trial to be the last I should have 
 had? 
 
 Would to heaven, that I had stood it however ! 
 Then if I had afterwards done, what now I have 
 been prevailed upon, or perhaps foolishly frighten- 
 ed to do, I should not have been stung so much by 
 inward reproach as now I am : and this would have 
 been a great evil avoided. 
 
 You know, my dear, that your Clarissa's mind 
 was ever above justifying her own failings by those 
 of others. God forgive those of my friends who 
 have acted cruelly by me! But their faults are their 
 own, and not excuses for mine. And mine began 
 early : for I ought not to have corresponded with 
 him. 
 
 O the vile encroacher ! how my indignation, at 
 times, rises at him ! Thus to lead a young crea- 
 ture (too much indeed relying upon her own 
 strength) from evil to evil! This last evil, al- 
 though the remote, yet sure consequence of my 
 first my prohibited correspondence ! By a father 
 early prohibited. 
 
 How much more properly had I acted, with re- 
 gard to that correspondence, had I, once for all, 
 when he was forbidden to visit me, and I to receive 
 his visits, pleaded the authority by which I ought 
 to have been bound, and denied to write to him!
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 361 
 
 But I thought I could proceed or stop, as I pleased. 
 I supposed it concerned me more than any other, 
 to be the arbitress of the quarrels of unruly spirits. 
 And now I find my presumption punished punish- 
 ed, as other sins frequently are, by itself. 
 
 As to this last rashness ; now, that it is too late, 
 I plainly see how I ought to have conducted my- 
 self. As he knew I had but one way of transmit- 
 ting to him the knowledge of what befel me ; as he 
 knew, that my fate was upon a crisis with my 
 friends ; and that I had in my letter to him, re- 
 served the liberty of revocation ; I should not have 
 been solicitous whether he had got my letter or 
 not : when he had come, and found I did not an- 
 swer his signal, he would presently have resorted 
 to the loose bricks, and there been satisfied by the 
 date of my letter, that it was his own fault, that 
 he had it not before. But, governed by the same 
 pragmatical motives which induced me to corres- 
 pond with him at first, I was again afraid, truly, 
 with my foolish and busy prescience, that the dis- 
 appointment would have thrown him into the way 
 of receiving fresh insults from the same persons, 
 which might have made him guilty of some violence 
 to them. And so to save him an apprehended rash- 
 ness, I have rushed into a real one myself. And 
 what vexes me more, is, that it is plain to me now, 
 by all his behaviour, that he had as great a confi- 
 dence in my weakness, as I had in my own strength. 
 And so, in a point, entirely relative to my honour, 
 he has triumphed ; for he has not been mistaken in 
 me, while I have in myself! 
 
 Tell me, my dear Miss Howe, tell me truly if 
 
 your unbiassed heart does not despise me? It 
 
 must ! for your mind and mine were ever one ; and 
 
 I despise myself! And well I may: for could the 
 
 n3 .
 
 362 THE HISTORY OP 
 
 fiddicst and most inconsiderate girl in England 
 ave done worse than I shall appear to have done 
 in the eye of the world ? Since my crime will be 
 known without the provocations, and without the 
 artifices of the betrayer too; while it will be a high 
 aggravation, that better things were expected from 
 me, than from many others. 
 
 You charge me to marry the first opportunity 
 Ah! my dear! another of the blessed effects of my 
 folly That's as much in my power now as as I 
 am myself! And can I besides give a sanction 
 immediately to his deluding arts? Can I avoid 
 being angry with him for tricking me thus, as I 
 may say (and as I have called it to him) out of 
 myself? For compelling me to take a step so con- 
 trary to all my resolutions and assurances given to 
 you; a step so dreadfully inconvenient to myself; 
 so disgraceful and so grievous (as it must be) to 
 my dear mother, were I to be less regardful of any 
 other of my family or friends you don't know, 
 nor can you imagine, my dear, how I am morti- 
 fied ! How much I am sunk in my own opinion 
 I, that was proposed for an example, truly, to 
 others ! O that I were again in my father's house, 
 stealing down with a letter to you ; my heart 
 beating with expectation of finding one from 
 
 you. 
 
 # # # 
 
 This is the Wednesday morning I dreaded so 
 much, that I once thought of it as the day of my 
 doom : but of the Monday, it is plain I ought to 
 have been most apprehensive. Had I stayed, and 
 had the worst I dreaded happened, my friends 
 would then have been answerable for the conse- 
 quences, if any bad ones had followed : but now, 
 I have this only consolation left me (a very poor
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 363 
 
 one, you'll say !) that I have cleared them of 
 blame, and taken it all upon myself! 
 
 You will not wonder to see this narrative so dis- 
 mally scrawled. It is owing to different pens and 
 ink, all bad, and written by snatches of time ; my 
 hand trembling too with fatigue and grief. 
 
 I will not add to the length of it, by the parti- 
 culars of his behaviour to me, and of our conver- 
 sation at St. Alban's, and since; because those will 
 come in course in the continuation of my story ; 
 which no doubt you will expect from me. 
 
 Only thus much I will say, that he is extremely 
 respectful (even obsequiously so) at present, though 
 I am so much dissatisfied with him and myself, that 
 he has hitherto had no great cause to praise my 
 complaisance to him. Indeed, I can hardly, at 
 times, bear the seducer in my sight. 
 
 The lodgings I am in are inconvenient. I shall 
 not stay in them : so it signifies nothing to tell you 
 how to direct to me hither. And where my next 
 may be, as yet I know not. 
 
 He knows that T am writing to you ; and has 
 offered to send my letter, when finished, by a ser- 
 vant of his. But I thought I could not be too cau- 
 tious, as I am now situated, in having a letter of 
 this importance conveyed to you. Who knows 
 what such a man may do ? So very wicked a con- 
 triver. The contrivance, if a contrivance, to get 
 me away, so insolently mean ! But I hope it is 
 not a contrivance neither ! Yet, be that as it will, 
 I must say, that the best of him, and of my pros- 
 pects with him, are bad : and yet, having enrolled 
 myself among the too-late repenters, who sh#ll pity 
 me? 
 
 Nevertheless, I will dare to hope for a continued 
 interest in your affections, [I shall be miserable in-
 
 364- THE HISTORY OF 
 
 deed if I may not !] and to be remembered in your 
 daily prayers. For neither time nor accident shall 
 ever make me cease to be 
 
 Your faithful and affectionate 
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 
 
 LETTER L. 
 
 MR. LOVELACE TO JOSEPH LEMAN. 
 
 honest Joseph, Sat. April 8. 
 
 At length your beloved young lady has consented 
 to free herself from the cruel treatment she has so 
 long borne. She is to meet me without the garden- 
 door, at about four o'clock on Monday afternoon. 
 I told you she had promised to do so. She has con- 
 firmed her promise. Thank heaven, she has con- 
 firmed her promise. 
 
 I shall have a chariot-and-six ready in the by- 
 road fronting the private path to Harlowe Pad- 
 dock ; and several of my friends and servants not 
 far off, armed to protect her, if there be occasion : 
 but every one charged to avoid mischief. That, 
 you know, has always been my principal care. 
 
 All my fear is, that when she comes to the point, 
 the over niceness of her principles will make her 
 waver, and want to go back : although her honour 
 is my honour you know, and mine is hers. If she 
 should, and should I be unable to prevail upon her, 
 all your past services will avail nothing, and she 
 will be lost to me for ever : the prey then to that 
 cursed Solmes, whose vile stinginess will never 
 permit him to do good to any of the servants of 
 the family.
 
 CLARISSA HAULOWE. 365 
 
 I have no doubt of your fidelity, honest Joseph ; 
 nor of your zeal to serve an injured gentleman, and 
 an oppressed young lady. You see by the confi- 
 dence I repose in you, that I have not; more par- 
 ticularly, on this very important occasion, in which 
 your assistance may crown the work : for, if she 
 waver, a little innocent contrivance will be neces- 
 sary. 
 
 Be very mindful therefore of the following di- 
 rections : take them into your heart. This will 
 probably be your last trouble, until my beloved 
 and I are joined in holy wedlock : and then we 
 will be sure to take care of you. You know what 
 I have promised. No man ever reproached me for 
 breach of word. 
 
 These, then, honest Joseph, are they : 
 
 Contrive to be in the garden, in disguise, if pos- 
 sible, and unseen by your young lady. If you find 
 the garden door unbolted, you will know that she 
 and I are together, although you should, not see 
 her go out at it. It will be locked, but my key 
 shall be on the ground just without the door, that 
 you may open it with yours, as it may be need- 
 ful. 
 
 If you hear cur voices parleying, keep at the 
 door till I cry hem, hem, twice : but be watchful 
 for this signal ; for I must not hem very loud, lest 
 she should take it for a signal. Perhaps, in strug- 
 gling to prevail upon the dear creature, I may have 
 an opportunity to strike the door hard with my 
 elbow, or heel, to confirm you then you are to 
 make a violent burst against the door, as if you 
 would break it open, drawing backward and for- 
 ward the bolt in a hurry : then, with another push, 
 but with more noise than strength, lest the lock 
 give way, cry out (as if you saw some of the fa- 
 mily), come up, come up, instantly! Here they 
 
 6
 
 366 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 are ! Here they are ! Hasten ! This instant ! 
 Hasten ! And mention swords, pistols, guns, with 
 as terrible a voice as you can cry out with. Then 
 shall I prevail upon her, no doubt, if loth before, 
 to fly. If I cannot, I will enter the garden with 
 her, and the house too, be the consequence what 
 k will. But so affrighted, there is no question but 
 she will fly. 
 
 When you think us at a sufficient distance [and 
 I shall raise my voice urging her swifter flight, 
 that you may guess at that] then open the door 
 with your key : but you must be sure to open it 
 very cautiously, lest we should not be far enough 
 off. I would not have her know you have a hand 
 in this matter, out of my great regard to you. 
 
 When you have opened the door, take your key 
 out of the lock, and put it in your pocket : then, 
 stooping for mine, put it in the lock on the inside, 
 that it may appear as if the door was opened by 
 herself with a key, which they will suppose of my 
 procuring (it being new) and left open by us. 
 
 They should conclude she is gone off by her 
 own consent, that they may not pursue us : that 
 they may see no hopes of tempting her back 
 again. In either case, mischief might happen, you 
 know. 
 
 But you must take notice, that you are only to 
 open the door with j^our key, in case none of the 
 family come up to interrupt us, and before we are 
 quite gone : for, if they do, you'll find by what 
 follows, that you must not open the door at all. Let 
 them, on breaking it open, or by getting over 
 the wall, find my key on the ground, if they 
 will. 
 
 If they do not come to interrupt us, and if you, 
 by help of your key, come out, follow us at a dis- 
 tance ; and, with uplifted hands, and wild and im-
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 367 
 
 patient gestures (running backward and forward, 
 for fear you should come too near us ; and as if 
 you saw somebody coming to your assistance) cry 
 out for help, help, and to hasten. Then shall we 
 be soon at the chariot. 
 
 Tell the family, that you saw me enter a chariot 
 with her : a dozen, or more, men on horseback, 
 attending us ; all armed ; some with blunderbus- 
 ses, as you believe ; and that we took the quite 
 contrary way to that we shall take. 
 
 You see, honest Joseph, how careful I am, as 
 well as you, to avoid mischief. 
 
 Observe to keep at such a distance that she 
 may not discover who you are. Take long strides, 
 to alter your gait ; and hold up your head, honest 
 Joseph ; and she'll not know it to be you. Men's 
 airs and gaits are as various and as peculiar as 
 their faces. Pluck a stake out of one of the hedges; 
 and tug at it, though it may come easy : this, if* she 
 turn back, will look terrible, and account for your 
 not following us faster. Then, returning with it, 
 shouldered, brag to the family what you would 
 have done, could you have overtaken us, rather 
 than your young lady should have been carried off 
 by such a and you may call me names, and 
 curse me. And these airs will make you look va- 
 liant, and in earnest. You see, honest Joseph, I 
 am always contriving to give you reputation. No 
 man suffers by serving me. 
 
 But, if our parley should last longer than I wish ; 
 and if any of her friends miss her before I cry, 
 hem, hem, twice ; then, in order to save yourself 
 (which is a very great point with me, I assure you) 
 make the same noise as above : but as I directed 
 before, open not the door with your key. On the 
 contrary, wish for a key with all your heart ; but 
 for fear any of them should by accident have a key 
 about them, keep in readiness half a dozen little
 
 S68 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 gravel-stones, no bigger than peas, and thrust two 
 or three slily into the key-hole ; which will hinder 
 their key from turning round. It is good, you 
 know, Joseph, to provide against every accident in 
 such an important case as this. And let this be 
 your cry instead of the other, if any of my 
 enemies come in your sight, as you seem to be try- 
 ing to burst the door open, Sir ! sir ! or Madam ! 
 madam ! O Lord, hasten ! O Lord, hasten ! Mr. 
 Lovelace ! Mr. Lovelace ! And very loud and 
 that shall quicken me more than it shall those you 
 call to. If it be Betty, and only Betty, I shall 
 think worse of your art of making love *, than 
 of your fidelity, if you can't find a way to amuse 
 her, and put her upon a false scent. 
 
 You must tell them, that your young lady seem- 
 ed to run as fast off with me, as I with her. This 
 will also confirm to them that all pursuit is in vain. 
 An end will hereby be put to Solmes's hopes : and 
 her friends, after a while, will be more studious to 
 be reconciled to her, than to get her back. So you 
 will be an happy instrument of great good to all 
 round. And this will one day be acknowledged by 
 both families. You will then be every one's fa- 
 vourite ; and every good servant, for the future, 
 will be proud to be likened to honest Joseph 
 Leman. 
 
 If she should guess at you, or find you out, I have 
 it already in my head to write a letter for you to 
 copy f ; which occasionally produced, will set 
 you right with her. 
 
 This one time be diligent, be careful : this will 
 be the crown of all : and once more, depend for a 
 recompense upon the honour of 
 
 Your assured friend, 
 
 R.LOVELACE. 
 See p. 170. fSee YoL 1IL letter xvii.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 369 
 
 You need not be so much afraid of going too far 
 with Betty. If you should make a match with 
 her, she is a very likely creature, though a vixen, 
 as you say. I have an admirable receipt to cure 
 a termagant wife. Never fear, Joseph, but thou 
 shalt be master of thine house. If she be very 
 troublesome, I can teach thee how to break her 
 heart in a twelvemonth ; and honestly too ; or 
 the precept would not be mine. 
 
 I inclose a new earnest of my future favour. 
 
 LETTER LI. 
 
 TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQUIER, HIS HONNER. 
 
 iroNNEREJ) sir, Sunday morning, April 9. 
 
 I must confesse I am infinnitely oblidged to your 
 Honner's bounty. But this last command! It 
 seems so intricket ! Lord be merciful to me, how 
 have I been led from littel stepps to grate stepps ! 
 And if I should be found out ! But your honner 
 says, you will take me into your honner's sarvise, 
 and proteckt me, if as I should at any time be 
 found out ; and raise my wages besides ; or set me 
 upp in a good inne ; which is my ambishion. 
 And you will be honerable and kind to my dearest 
 young lady, God love her But who can be un- 
 kind to she ? 
 
 I will do the best I am able, since your honner 
 will be apt to lose her, as your honner says, if I 
 do not ; and a man so stingie will be apt to gain her. 
 But mayhap my deareste young lady will not make 
 all this trubble needful. If she has promissed, she 
 will stand to it, I dare to say. 
 
 I love your honner for contriveing to save mis- 
 chiff so well. I thought till I know'd your honner, 
 
 VOL. II. K K
 
 370 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 that you was verry mischevous, and plese your 
 honner : but find it to be clene contrary. Your 
 honner, it is plane, means mighty well by every- 
 body, as far as I see. As I am sure I do myself; 
 for I am, althofF a very plane man, and all that, a 
 verry honnest one, I thank my God. And have 
 good principels, and have kept my young lady's 
 pressepts always in mind : for she goes no-where, 
 but saves a soul or two, more or less. 
 
 So commending myself to your honner's fur- 
 ther favour, not forgetting the inne, when your 
 honner shall so please, and a good one offers ; for 
 plases are no inherritanses now-a-days. And, I 
 hope, your honner will not think me a dishonest 
 man for sarvinge your honner agenst my duty, as 
 it may look ; but only as my conshence clears 
 me. 
 
 Be pleased, howsomever, if it like your honner, 
 not to call me, honnest Joseph, and honnest Joseph, 
 so often. For, althofF I think myself verry honnest, 
 and all that; yet I am touched a littel, for fear 
 I should not do the quite right thing : and too- 
 besides, your honner has such a fesseshious way 
 with you, as that I hardly know whether you are 
 in jest or earnest, when your honner calls me hon- 
 nest so often. 
 
 I am a verry plane man, and seldom have writ 
 to such honnerable gentlemen ; so you will be 
 good enuff to pass by every-thing, as I have often 
 said, and need not now say over again. 
 
 As to Mrs. Betty ; I tho'te, indeed, she looked 
 above me. But she comes on verry well, nathelesse. 
 I could like her better, iff she was better to my 
 young lady. But she has too much wit for so plane 
 a man. Natheless, if she was to angre me, althoff 
 it is a shame to bete a woman ; yet I colde make a 
 shift to throe my hat at her, or so, your honner.
 
 CLARISSA HARLOWE. 371 
 
 But that same reseit, iff your honner so please, 
 to cure a shrowish wife. It would more encurrege 
 to wed, iff so be one know'd it before-hand, as one 
 may say. So likewise, if one knoed one could hon- 
 nestly, as your honner says, and as of the handy- 
 work of God, in one twelvemonth 
 
 But I shall grow impartinent to such a grate 
 man : and hereafter may do for that, as she turns 
 out : for one mought be loth to part with her, 
 mayhap, so verry soon too ; espessially if she was 
 to make the notable lanlady your honner put 
 into my head. 
 
 Buttwonce moer, begging your honner's parden, 
 and promissing all dilligence and exsacknesse, I 
 reste, 
 
 Your honner's dewtiful sarvant to command, 
 
 JOSEPH LEMAN. 
 
 END OF VOL. II. 
 
 G. WOODFALL, PRINTER, 
 ANGEL COURT, SKINNER STREET, LONDON.
 
 SOUTHERN BRANCH 
 
 UNIVERSITY of CALIFORNIA 
 LIBRARY 
 
 LOS ANGELES. CALIF.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
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