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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11364 ***
+
+CLARISSA HARLOWE
+
+or the
+HISTORY OF A YOUNG LADY
+
+By Samuel Richardson
+
+Volume VI. (of Nine Volumes)
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+ DETAILED CONTENTS
+ THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE
+ LETTER I
+ LETTER II
+ LETTER III
+ LETTER IV
+ LETTER V
+ LETTER VI
+ LETTER VII
+ LETTER VIII
+ LETTER IX
+ LETTER X
+ LETTER XI
+ LETTER XII
+ LETTER XIII
+ LETTER XIV
+ LETTER XV
+ LETTER XVI
+ LETTER XVII
+ LETTER XVIII
+ LETTER XIX
+ LETTER XX
+ LETTER XXI
+ LETTER XXII
+ LETTER XXIII
+ LETTER XXIV
+ LETTER XXV
+ LETTER XXVI
+ LETTER XXVII
+ LETTER XXVIII
+ LETTER XXIX
+ LETTER XXX
+ LETTER XXXI
+ LETTER XXXII
+ LETTER XXXIII
+ LETTER XXXIV
+ LETTER XXXV
+ LETTER XXXVI
+ LETTER XXXVII
+ LETTER XXXVIII
+ LETTER XXXIX
+ LETTER XL
+ LETTER XLI
+ LETTER XLII
+ LETTER XLIII
+ LETTER XLIV
+ LETTER XLV
+ LETTER XLVI
+ LETTER XLVII
+ LETTER XLVIII
+ LETTER XLIX
+ LETTER L
+ LETTER LI
+ LETTER LII
+ LETTER LIII
+ LETTER LIV
+ LETTER LV
+ LETTER LVI
+ LETTER LVII
+ LETTER LVIII
+ LETTER LIX
+ LETTER LX
+ LETTER LXI
+ LETTER LXII
+ LETTER LXIII
+ LETTER LXIV
+ LETTER LXV
+ LETTER LXVI
+ LETTER LXVII
+ LETTER LXVIII
+ LETTER LXIX
+ LETTER LXX
+ LETTER LXXI
+ LETTER LXXII
+ LETTER LXXIII
+
+
+
+
+DETAILED CONTENTS
+
+
+LETTER I. II. Lovelace to Belford.—His conditional promise to Tomlinson
+in the lady’s favour. His pleas and arguments on their present
+situation, and on his darling and hitherto-baffled views. His whimsical
+contest with his conscience. His latest adieu to it. His strange
+levity, which he calls gravity, on the death of Belford’s uncle.
+
+LETTER III. IV. From the same.—She favours him with a meeting in the
+garden. Her composure. Her conversation great and noble. But will not
+determine any thing in his favour. It is however evident, he says, that
+she has still some tenderness for him. His reasons. An affecting scene
+between them. Her ingenuousness and openness of heart. She resolves to
+go to church; but will not suffer him to accompany her thither. His
+whimsical debate with the God of Love, whom he introduced as pleading
+for the lady.
+
+LETTER V. VI. VII. From the same.—He has got the wished-for letter from
+Miss Howe.—Informs him of the manner of obtaining it.—His remarks upon
+it. Observations on female friendships. Comparison between Clarissa and
+Miss Howe.
+
+LETTER VIII. From the same.—Another conversation with the lady. His
+plausible arguments to re-obtain her favour ineffectual. His pride
+piqued. His revenge incited. New arguments in favour of his wicked
+prospects. His notice that a license is actually obtained.
+
+LETTER IX. X. From the same.—Copy of the license; with his observations
+upon it. His scheme for annual marriages. He is preparing with Lady
+Betty and Miss Montague to wait upon Clarissa. Who these pretended
+ladies are. How dressed. They give themselves airs of quality.
+Humourously instructs them how to act up their assumed characters.
+
+LETTER XI. XII. Lovelace to Belford.—Once more is the charmer of his
+soul in her old lodgings. Brief account of the horrid imposture. Steels
+his heart by revengeful recollections. Her agonizing apprehensions.
+Temporary distraction. Is ready to fall into fits. But all her
+distress, all her prayers, her innocence, her virtue, cannot save her
+from the most villanous outrage.
+
+LETTER XIII. Belford to Lovelace.—Vehemently inveighs against him.
+Grieves for the lady. Is now convinced that there must be a world after
+this to do justice to injured merit. Beseeches him, if he be a man, and
+not a devil, to do all the poor justice now in his power.
+
+LETTER XIV. Lovelace to Belford.—Regrets that he ever attempted her.
+Aims at extenuation. Does he not see that he has journeyed on to this
+stage, with one determined point in view from the first? She is at
+present stupified, he says.
+
+LETTER XV. From the same.—The lady’s affecting behaviour in her
+delirium. He owns that art has been used to her. Begins to feel
+remorse.
+
+LETTER XVI. From the same.—The lady writes upon scraps of paper, which
+she tears, and throws under the table. Copies of ten of these rambling
+papers; and of a letter to him most affectingly incoherent. He attempts
+farther to extenuate his villany. Tries to resume his usual levity; and
+forms a scheme to decoy the people at Hampstead to the infamous woman’s
+in town. The lady seems to be recovering.
+
+LETTER XVII. From the same.—She attempts to get away in his absence. Is
+prevented by the odious Sinclair. He exults in the hope of looking her
+into confusion when he sees her. Is told by Dorcas that she is coming
+into the dining-room to find him out.
+
+LETTER XVIII. From the same.—A high scene of her exalted, and of his
+depressed, behaviour. Offers to make her amends by matrimony. She
+treats his offer with contempt. Afraid Belford plays him false.
+
+LETTER XIX. From the same.—Wishes he had never seen her. With all the
+women he had known till now, it was once subdued, and always subdued.
+His miserable dejection. His remorse. She attempts to escape. A mob
+raised. His quick invention to pacify it. Out of conceit with himself
+and his contrivances.
+
+LETTER XX. XXI. Lovelace to Belford.—Lord M. very ill. His presence
+necessary at M. Hall. Puts Dorcas upon ingratiating herself with her
+lady.—He re-urges marriage to her. She absolutely, from the most noble
+motives, rejects him.
+
+LETTER XXII. From the same.—Reflects upon himself. It costs, he says,
+more pain to be wicked than to be good. The lady’s solemn expostulation
+with him. Extols her greatness of soul. Dorcas coming into favour with
+her. He is alarmed by another attempt of the lady to get off. She is in
+agonies at being prevented. He tried to intimidate her. Dorcas pleads
+for her. On the point of drawing his sword against himself. The
+occasion.
+
+LETTER XXIII. From the same.—Cannot yet persuade himself but the lady
+will be his. Reasons for his opinion. Opens his heart to Belford, as to
+his intentions by her. Mortified that she refuses his honest vows. Her
+violation but notional. Her triumph greater than her sufferings. Her
+will unviolated. He is a better man, he says, than most rakes; and why.
+
+LETTER XXIV. XXV. From the same.—The lady gives a promissory note to
+Dorcas, to induce her to further her escape.—A fair trial of skill now,
+he says. A conversation between the vile Dorcas and her lady: in which
+she engages her lady’s pity. The bonds of wickedness stronger than the
+ties of virtue. Observations on that subject.
+
+LETTER XXVI. XXVII. XXVIII. From the same.—A new contrivance to
+advantage of the lady’s intended escape.—A letter from Tomlinson.
+Intent of it.—He goes out to give opportunity for the lady to attempt
+an escape. His designs frustrated.
+
+LETTER XXIX. From the same.—An interesting conversation between the
+lady and him. No concession in his favour. By his soul, he swears, this
+dear girl gives the lie to all their rakish maxims. He has laid all the
+sex under obligation to him; and why.
+
+LETTER XXX. Lovelace to Belford.—Lord M. in extreme danger. The family
+desire his presence. He intercepts a severe letter from Miss Howe to
+her friend. Copy of it.
+
+LETTER XXXI. From the same.—The lady, suspecting Dorcas, tries to
+prevail upon him to give her her liberty. She disclaims vengeance, and
+affectingly tells him all her future views. Denied, she once more
+attempts an escape. Prevented, and terrified with apprehensions of
+instant dishonour, she is obliged to make some concession.
+
+LETTER XXXII. From the same.—Accuses her of explaining away her
+concession. Made desperate, he seeks occasion to quarrel with her. She
+exerts a spirit which overawes him. He is ridiculed by the infamous
+copartnership. Calls to Belford to help a gay heart to a little of his
+dismal, on the expected death of Lord M.
+
+LETTER XXXIII. From the same.—Another message from M. Hall, to engage
+him to go down the next morning.
+
+LETTER XXXIV. XXXV. From the same.—The women’s instigations. His
+farther schemes against the lady. What, he asks, is the injury which a
+church-rite will not at any time repair?
+
+LETTER XXXVI. From the same.—Himself, the mother, her nymphs, all
+assembled with intent to execute his detestable purposes. Her glorious
+behaviour on the occasion. He execrates, detests, despises himself; and
+admires her more than ever. Obliged to set out early that morning for
+M. Hall, he will press her with letters to meet him next Thursday, her
+uncle’s birthday, at the altar.
+
+LETTER XXXVII. XXXVIII. XXXIX. Lovelace to Clarissa, from M.
+Hall.—Urging her accordingly, (the license in her hands,) by the most
+engaging pleas and arguments.
+
+LETTER XL. Lovelace to Belford.—Begs he will wait on the lady, and
+induce her to write but four words to him, signifying the church and
+the day. Is now resolved on wedlock. Curses his plots and contrivances;
+which all end, he says, in one grand plot upon himself.
+
+LETTER XLI. Belford to Lovelace. In answer.—Refuses to undertake for
+him, unless he can be sure of his honour. Why he doubts it.
+
+LETTER XLII. Lovelace. In reply.—Curses him for scrupulousness. Is in
+earnest to marry. After one more letter of entreaty to her, if she keep
+sullen silence, she must take the consequence.
+
+LETTER XLIII. Lovelace to Clarissa.—Once more earnestly entreats her to
+meet him at the altar. Not to be forbidden coming, he will take for
+leave to come.
+
+LETTER XLIV. Lovelace to Patrick M’Donald.—Ordering him to visit the
+lady, and instructing him what to say, and how to behave to her.
+
+LETTER XLV. To the same, as Captain Tomlinson.—Calculated to be shown
+to the lady, as in confidence.
+
+LETTER XLVI. M’Donald to Lovelace.—Goes to attend the lady according to
+direction. Finds the house in an uproar; and the lady escaped.
+
+LETTER XLVII. Mowbray to Lovelace.—With the same news.
+
+LETTER XLVIII. Belford to Lovelace.—Ample particulars of the lady’s
+escape. Makes serious reflections on the distress she must be in; and
+on his (Lovelace’s) ungrateful usage of her. What he takes the sum of
+religion.
+
+LETTER XLIX. Lovelace to Belford.—Runs into affected levity and
+ridicule, yet at last owns all his gayety but counterfeit. Regrets his
+baseness to the lady. Inveighs against the women for their
+instigations. Will still marry her, if she can be found out. One
+misfortune seldom comes alone; Lord M. is recovering. He had bespoken
+mourning for him.
+
+LETTER L. Clarissa to Miss Howe.—Writes with incoherence, to inquire
+after her health. Lets her know whither to direct to her. But forgets,
+in her rambling, her private address. By which means her letter falls
+into the hands of Miss Howe’s mother.
+
+LETTER LI. Mrs. Howe to Clarissa.—Reproaches her for making all her
+friends unhappy. Forbids her to write any more to her daughter.
+
+LETTER LII. Clarissa’s meek reply.
+
+LETTER LIII. Clarissa to Hannah Burton.
+
+LETTER LIV. Hannah Burton. In answer.
+
+LETTER LV. Clarissa to Miss Norton.—Excuses her long silence. Asks her
+a question, with a view to detect Lovelace. Hints at his ungrateful
+villany. Self-recrimination.
+
+LETTER LVI. Mrs. Norton to Clarissa.—Answers her question. Inveighs
+against Lovelace. Hopes she has escaped with her honour. Consoles her
+by a brief relation of her own case, and from motives truly pious.
+
+LETTER LVII. Clarissa to Lady Betty Lawrance.—Requests an answer to
+three questions, with a view farther to detect Lovelace.
+
+LETTER LVIII. Lady Betty to Clarissa.—Answers her questions. In the
+kindest manner offers to mediate between her nephew and her.
+
+LETTER LIX. LX. Clarissa to Mrs. Hodges, her uncle Harlowe’s
+housekeeper; with a view of still farther detecting Lovelace.—Mrs.
+Hodges’s answer.
+
+LETTER LXI. Clarissa to Lady Betty Lawrance.—Acquaints her with her
+nephew’s baseness. Charitably wishes his reformation; but utterly, and
+from principle, rejects him.
+
+LETTER LXII. Clarissa to Mrs. Norton.—Is comforted by her kind
+soothings. Wishes she had been her child. Will not allow her to come up
+to her; why. Some account of the people she is with; and of a worthy
+woman, Mrs. Lovick, who lodges in the house. Briefly hints to her the
+vile usage she has received from Lovelace.
+
+LETTER LXIII. Mrs. Norton to Clarissa.—Inveighs against Lovelace.
+Wishes Miss Howe might be induced to refrain from freedoms that do
+hurt, and can do no good. Farther piously consoles her.
+
+LETTER LXIV. Clarissa to Mrs. Norton.—A new trouble. An angry letter
+from Miss Howe. The occasion. Her heart is broken. Shall be uneasy,
+till she can get her father’s curse revoked. Casts about to whom she
+can apply for this purpose. At last resolves to write to her sister to
+beg her mediation.
+
+LETTER LXV. Miss Howe to Clarissa.—Her angry and reproachful letter
+above-mentioned; demands from her the clearing up of her conduct.
+
+LETTER LXVI. Clarissa to Miss Howe.—Gently remonstrates upon her
+severity. To this hour knows not all the methods taken to deceive and
+ruin her. But will briefly, yet circumstantially, enter into the darker
+part of her sad story, though her heart sinks under the thoughts of a
+recollection so painful.
+
+LETTER LXVII. LXVIII. LXIX. LXX. From the same.—She gives the promised
+particulars of her story. Begs that the blackest parts of it may be
+kept secret; and why. Desires one friendly tear, and no more, may be
+dropt from her gentle eye, on the happy day that shall shut up all her
+sorrows.
+
+LETTER LXXI. LXXII. Miss Howe to Clarissa.—Execrates the abandoned
+profligate. She must, she tells her, look to the world beyond this for
+her reward. Unravels some of Lovelace’s plots; and detects his
+forgeries. Is apprehensive for her own as well as Clarissa’s safety.
+Advises her to pursue a legal vengeance. Laudable custom in the Isle of
+Man. Offers personally to attend her in a court of justice.
+
+LETTER LXXIII. Clarissa to Miss Howe.—Cannot consent to a prosecution.
+Discovers who it was that personated her at Hampstead. She is quite
+sick of life, and of an earth in which innocent and benevolent spirits
+are sure to be considered as aliens.
+
+
+
+
+ THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE
+
+VOLUME SIX
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER I
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
+
+
+Sat. Midnight.
+
+
+No rest, says a text that I once heard preached upon, to the wicked—and
+I cannot close my eyes (yet only wanted to compound for half an hour in
+an elbow-chair)—so must scribble on.
+
+I parted with the Captain after another strong debate with him in
+relation to what is to be the fate of this lady. As the fellow has an
+excellent head, and would have made an eminent figure in any station of
+life, had not his early days been tainted with a deep crime, and he
+detected in it; and as he had the right side of the argument; I had a
+good deal of difficulty with him; and at last brought myself to
+promise, that if I could prevail upon her generously to forgive me, and
+to reinstate me in her favour, I would make it my whole endeavour to
+get off of my contrivances, as happily as I could; (only that Lady
+Betty and Charlotte must come;) and then substituting him for her
+uncle’s proxy, take shame to myself, and marry.
+
+But if I should, Jack, (with the strongest antipathy to the state that
+ever man had,) what a figure shall I make in rakish annals? And can I
+have taken all this pains for nothing? Or for a wife only, that,
+however excellent, [and any woman, do I think I could make good,
+because I could make any woman fear as well as love me,] might have
+been obtained without the plague I have been at, and much more
+reputably than with it? And hast thou not seen, that this haughty woman
+[forgive me that I call her haughty! and a woman! Yet is she not
+haughty?] knows not how to forgive with graciousness? Indeed has not at
+all forgiven me? But holds my soul in a suspense which has been so
+grievous to her own.
+
+At this silent moment, I think, that if I were to pursue my former
+scheme, and resolve to try whether I cannot make a greater fault serve
+as a sponge to wipe out the less; and then be forgiven for that; I can
+justify myself to myself; and that, as the fair invincible would say,
+is all in all.
+
+As it is my intention, in all my reflections, to avoid repeating, at
+least dwelling upon, what I have before written to thee, though the
+state of the case may not have varied; so I would have thee to
+re-consider the old reasonings (particularly those contained in my
+answer to thy last* expostulatory nonsense); and add the new as they
+fall from my pen; and then I shall think myself invincible;—at least,
+as arguing rake to rake.
+
+* See Vol. V. Letter XIV.
+
+I take the gaining of this lady to be essential to my happiness: and is
+it not natural for all men to aim at obtaining whatever they think will
+make them happy, be the object more or less considerable in the eyes of
+others?
+
+As to the manner of endeavouring to obtain her, by falsification of
+oaths, vows, and the like—do not the poets of two thousand years and
+upwards tell us, that Jupiter laughs at the perjuries of lovers? And
+let me add, to what I have heretofore mentioned on that head, a
+question or two.
+
+Do not the mothers, the aunts, the grandmothers, the governesses of the
+pretty innocents, always, from their very cradles to riper years,
+preach to them the deceitfulness of men?—That they are not to regard
+their oaths, vows, promises?—What a parcel of fibbers would all these
+reverend matrons be, if there were not now and then a pretty credulous
+rogue taken in for a justification of their preachments, and to serve
+as a beacon lighted up for the benefit of the rest?
+
+Do we not then see, that an honest prowling fellow is a necessary evil
+on many accounts? Do we not see that it is highly requisite that a
+sweet girl should be now-and-then drawn aside by him?—And the more
+eminent the girl, in the graces of person, mind, and fortune, is not
+the example likely to be the more efficacious?
+
+If these postulata be granted me, who, I pray, can equal my charmer in
+all these? Who therefore so fit for an example to the rest of her
+sex?—At worst, I am entirely within my worthy friend Mandeville’s
+assertion, that private vices are public benefits.
+
+Well, then, if this sweet creature must fall, as it is called, for the
+benefit of all the pretty fools of the sex, she must; and there’s an
+end of the matter. And what would there have been in it of uncommon or
+rare, had I not been so long about it?—And so I dismiss all further
+argumentation and debate upon the question: and I impose upon thee,
+when thou writest to me, an eternal silence on this head.
+
+Wafer’d on, as an after-written introduction to the paragraphs which
+follow, marked with turned commas, [thus, “]:
+
+Lord, Jack, what shall I do now! How one evil brings on another!
+Dreadful news to tell thee! While I was meditating a simple robbery,
+here have I (in my own defence indeed) been guilty of murder!—A bl—y
+murder! So I believe it will prove. At her last gasp!—Poor impertinent
+opposer!—Eternally resisting!—Eternally contradicting! There she lies
+weltering in her blood! her death’s wound have I given her!—But she was
+a thief, an impostor, as well as a tormentor. She had stolen my pen.
+While I was sullenly meditating, doubting, as to my future measures,
+she stole it; and thus she wrote with it in a hand exactly like my own;
+and would have faced me down, that it was really my own hand-writing.
+
+“But let me reflect before it is too late. On the manifold perfections
+of this ever-amiable creature let me reflect. The hand yet is only held
+up. The blow is not struck. Miss Howe’s next letter may blow thee up.
+In policy thou shouldest be now at least honest. Thou canst not live
+without her. Thou wouldest rather marry her than lose her absolutely.
+Thou mayest undoubtedly prevail upon her, inflexible as she seems to
+be, for marriage. But if now she finds thee a villain, thou mayest
+never more engage her attention, and she perhaps will refuse and abhor
+thee.
+
+“Yet already have I not gone too far? Like a repentant thief, afraid of
+his gang, and obliged to go on, in fear of hanging till he comes to be
+hanged, I am afraid of the gang of my cursed contrivances.
+
+“As I hope to live, I am sorry, (at the present writing,) that I have
+been such a foolish plotter, as to put it, as I fear I have done, out
+of my own power to be honest. I hate compulsion in all forms; and
+cannot bear, even to be compelled to be the wretch my choice has made
+me! So now, Belford, as thou hast said, I am a machine at last, and no
+free agent.
+
+“Upon my soul, Jack, it is a very foolish thing for a man of spirit to
+have brought himself to such a height of iniquity, that he must
+proceed, and cannot help himself, and yet to be next to certain, that
+this very victory will undo him.
+
+“Why was such a woman as this thrown into my way, whose very fall will
+be her glory, and, perhaps, not only my shame but my destruction?
+
+“What a happiness must that man know, who moves regularly to some
+laudable end, and has nothing to reproach himself with in his progress
+to do it! When, by honest means, he attains his end, how great and
+unmixed must be his enjoyments! What a happy man, in this particular
+case, had I been, had it been given me to be only what I wished to
+appear to be!”
+
+Thus far had my conscience written with my pen; and see what a recreant
+she had made of me!—I seized her by the throat—There!—There, said I,
+thou vile impertinent!—take that, and that!—How often have I gave thee
+warning!—and now, I hope, thou intruding varletess, have I done thy
+business!
+
+Puling and low-voiced, rearing up thy detested head, in vain implorest
+thou my mercy, who, in thy day hast showed me so little!—Take that, for
+a rising blow!—And now will thy pain, and my pain for thee, soon be
+over. Lie there!—Welter on!—Had I not given thee thy death’s wound,
+thou wouldest have robbed me of all my joys. Thou couldest not have
+mended me, ’tis plain. Thou couldest only have thrown me into despair.
+Didst thou not see, that I had gone too far to recede?—Welter on, once
+more I bid thee!—Gasp on!—That thy last gasp, surely!—How hard diest
+thou!
+
+ADIEU!—Unhappy man! ADIEU!
+
+’Tis kind in thee, however, to bid me, Adieu!
+
+Adieu, Adieu, Adieu, to thee, O thou inflexible, and, till now,
+unconquerable bosom intruder!—Adieu to thee for ever!
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER II
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
+
+
+SUNDAY MORN. (JUNE 11). FOUR O’CLOCK.
+
+
+A few words to the verbal information thou sentest me last night
+concerning thy poor old man; and then I rise from my seat, shake
+myself, refresh, new-dress, and so to my charmer, whom, notwithstanding
+her reserves, I hope to prevail upon to walk out with me on the Heath
+this warm and fine morning.
+
+The birds must have awakened her before now. They are in full song. She
+always gloried in accustoming herself to behold the sun rise—one of
+God’s natural wonders, as once she called it.
+
+Her window salutes the east. The valleys must be gilded by his rays, by
+the time I am with her; for already have they made the up-lands smile,
+and the face of nature cheerful.
+
+How unsuitable will thou find this gay preface to a subject so gloomy
+as that I am now turning to!
+
+I am glad to hear thy tedious expectations are at last answered.
+
+Thy servant tells me that thou are plaguily grieved at the old fellow’s
+departure.
+
+I can’t say, but thou mayest look as if thou wert; harassed as thou
+hast been for a number of days and nights with a close attendance upon
+a dying man, beholding his drawing-on hour—pretending, for decency’s
+sake, to whine over his excruciating pangs; to be in the way to answer
+a thousand impertinent inquiries after the health of a man thou
+wishedest to die—to pray by him—for so once thou wrotest to me!—To read
+by him—to be forced to join in consultation with a crew of solemn and
+parading doctors, and their officious zanies, the apothecaries, joined
+with the butcherly tribe of scarficators; all combined to carry on the
+physical farce, and to cut out thongs both from his flesh and his
+estate—to have the superadded apprehension of dividing thy interest in
+what he shall leave with a crew of eager-hoping, never-to-be-satisfied
+relations, legatees, and the devil knows who, of private gratifiers of
+passions laudable and illaudable—in these circumstances, I wonder not
+that thou lookest before servants, (as little grieved as thou after
+heirship,) as if thou indeed wert grieved; and as if the most wry-fac’d
+woe had befallen thee.
+
+Then, as I have often thought, the reflection that must naturally arise
+from such mortifying objects, as the death of one with whom we have
+been familiar, must afford, when we are obliged to attend it in its
+slow approaches, and in its face-twisting pangs, that it will one day
+be our own case, goes a great way to credit the appearance of grief.
+
+And that it is this, seriously reflected upon, may temporally give a
+fine air of sincerity to the wailings of lively widows, heart-exulting
+heirs, and residuary legatees of all denominations; since, by keeping
+down the inward joy, those interesting reflections must sadden the
+aspect, and add an appearance of real concern to the assumed sables.
+
+Well, but, now thou art come to the reward of all thy watchings,
+anxieties, and close attendances, tell me what it is; tell me if it
+compensate thy trouble, and answer thy hope?
+
+As to myself, thou seest, by the gravity of my style, how the subject
+has helped to mortify me. But the necessity I am under of committing
+either speedy matrimony, or a rape, has saddened over my gayer
+prospects, and, more than the case itself, contributed to make me
+sympathize with the present joyful-sorrow.
+
+Adieu, Jack, I must be soon out of my pain; and my Clarissa shall be
+soon out of her’s—for so does the arduousness of the case require.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER III
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
+
+
+SUNDAY MORNING.
+
+
+I have had the honour of my charmer’s company for two complete hours.
+We met before six in Mrs. Moore’s garden. A walk on the Heath refused
+me.
+
+The sedateness of her aspect and her kind compliance in this meeting
+gave me hopes. And all that either the Captain and I had urged
+yesterday to obtain a full and free pardon, that re-urged I; and I told
+her, besides, that Captain Tomlinson was gone down with hopes to
+prevail upon her uncle Harlowe to come up in person, in order to
+present to me the greatest blessing that man ever received.
+
+But the utmost I could obtain was, that she would take no resolution in
+my favour till she received Miss Howe’s next letter.
+
+I will not repeat the arguments I used; but I will give thee the
+substance of what she said in answer to them.
+
+She had considered of every thing, she told me. My whole conduct was
+before her. The house I carried her to must be a vile house. The people
+early showed what they were capable of, in the earnest attempt made to
+fasten Miss Partington upon her; as she doubted not, with my
+approbation. [Surely, thought I, she has not received a duplicate of
+Miss Howe’s letter of detection!] They heard her cries. My insult was
+undoubtedly premeditated. By my whole recollected behaviour to her,
+previous to it, it must be so. I had the vilest of views, no question.
+And my treatment of her put it out of all doubt.
+
+Soul over all, Belford! She seems sensible of liberties that my passion
+made me insensible of having taken, or she could not so deeply resent.
+
+She besought me to give over all thoughts of her. Sometimes, she said,
+she thought herself cruelly treated by her nearest and dearest
+relations; at such times, a spirit of repining and even of resentment
+took place; and the reconciliation, at other times so desirable, was
+not then so much the favourite wish of her heart, as was the scheme she
+had formerly planned—of taking her good Norton for her directress and
+guide, and living upon her own estate in the manner her grandfather had
+intended she should live.
+
+This scheme she doubted not that her cousin Morden, who was one of her
+trustees for that estate, would enable her, (and that, as she hoped,
+without litigation,) to pursue. And if he can, and does, what, Sir, let
+me ask you, said she, have I seen in your conduct, that should make me
+prefer to it an union of interest, where there is such a disunion in
+minds?
+
+So thou seest, Jack, there is reason, as well as resentment, in the
+preference she makes against me!—Thou seest, that she presumes to think
+that she can be happy without me; and that she must be unhappy with me!
+
+I had besought her, in the conclusion of my re-urged arguments, to
+write to Miss Howe before Miss Howe’s answer could come, in order to
+lay before her the present state of things; and if she would pay a
+deference to her judgment, to let her have an opportunity to give it,
+on the full knowledge of the case—
+
+So I would, Mr. Lovelace, was the answer, if I were in doubt myself,
+which I would prefer—marriage, or the scheme I have mentioned. You
+cannot think, Sir, but the latter must be my choice. I wish to part
+with you with temper—don’t put me upon repeating—
+
+Part with me, Madam! interrupted I—I cannot bear those words!—But let
+me beseech you, however, to write to Miss Howe. I hope, if Miss Howe is
+not my enemy—
+
+She is not the enemy of your person, Sir;—as you would be convinced, if
+you saw her last letter* to me. But were she not an enemy to your
+actions, she would not be my friend, nor the friend of virtue. Why will
+you provoke from me, Mr. Lovelace, the harshness of expression, which,
+however, which, however deserved by you, I am unwilling just now to
+use, having suffered enough in the two past days from my own vehemence?
+
+* The lady innocently means Mr. Lovelace’s forged one. See Vol. V.
+Letter XXX.
+
+I bit my lip for vexation. And was silent.
+
+Miss Howe, proceeded she, knows the full state of matters already, Sir.
+The answer I expect from her respects myself, not you. Her heart is too
+warm in the cause of friendship, to leave me in suspense one moment
+longer than is necessary as to what I want to know. Nor does her answer
+absolutely depend upon herself. She must see a person first, and that
+person perhaps see others.
+
+The cursed smuggler-woman, Jack!—Miss Howe’s Townsend, I doubt
+not—Plot, contrivance, intrigue, stratagem!—Underground-moles these
+women—but let the earth cover me!—let me be a mole too, thought I, if
+they carry their point!—and if this lady escape me now!
+
+She frankly owned that she had once thought of embarking out of all our
+ways for some one of our American colonies. But now that she had been
+compelled to see me, (which had been her greatest dread), and which she
+might be happiest in the resumption of her former favourite scheme, if
+Miss Howe could find her a reputable and private asylum, till her
+cousin Morden could come.—But if he came not soon, and if she had a
+difficulty to get to a place of refuge, whether from her brother or
+from any body else, [meaning me, I suppose,] she might yet perhaps go
+abroad; for, to say the truth, she could not think of returning to her
+father’s house, since her brother’s rage, her sister’s upbraidings, her
+father’s anger, her mother’s still-more-affecting sorrowings, and her
+own consciousness under them all, would be unsupportable to her.
+
+O Jack! I am sick to death, I pine, I die, for Miss Howe’s next letter!
+I would bind, gag, strip, rob, and do any thing but murder, to
+intercept it.
+
+But, determined as she seems to be, it was evident to me, nevertheless,
+that she had still some tenderness for me.
+
+She often wept as she talked, and much oftener sighed. She looked at me
+twice with an eye of undoubted gentleness, and three times with an eye
+tending to compassion and softness; but its benign rays were as often
+snatched back, as I may say, and her face averted, as if her sweet eyes
+were not to be trusted, and could not stand against my eager eyes;
+seeking, as they did, for a lost heart in her’s, and endeavouring to
+penetrate to her very soul.
+
+More than once I took her hand. She struggled not much against the
+freedom. I pressed it once with my lips—she was not very angry. A frown
+indeed—but a frown that had more distress in it than indignation.
+
+How came the dear soul, (clothed as it is with such a silken vesture,)
+by all its steadiness?* Was it necessary that the active gloom of such
+a tyrant of a father, should commix with such a passive sweetness of a
+will-less mother, to produce a constancy, an equanimity, a steadiness,
+in the daughter, which never woman before could boast of? If so, she is
+more obliged to that despotic father than I could have imagined a
+creature to be, who gave distinction to every one related to her beyond
+what the crown itself can confer.
+
+* See Vol. I. Letters IX. XIV. and XIX. for what she herself says on
+that steadiness which Mr. Lovelace, though a deserved sufferer by it,
+cannot help admiring.
+
+I hoped, I said, that she would admit of the intended visit, which I
+had so often mentioned, of the two ladies.
+
+She was here. She had seen me. She could not help herself at present.
+She even had the highest regard for the ladies of my family, because of
+their worthy characters. There she turned away her sweet face, and
+vanquished an half-risen sigh.
+
+I kneeled to her then. It was upon a verdant cushion; for we were upon
+the grass walk. I caught her hand. I besought her with an earnestness
+that called up, as I could feel, my heart to my eyes, to make me, by
+her forgiveness and example, more worthy of them, and of her own kind
+and generous wishes. By my soul, Madam, said I, you stab me with your
+goodness—your undeserved goodness! and I cannot bear it!
+
+Why, why, thought I, as I did several times in this conversation, will
+she not generously forgive me? Why will she make it necessary for me to
+bring Lady Betty and my cousin to my assistance? Can the fortress
+expect the same advantageous capitulation, which yields not to the
+summons of a resistless conqueror, as if it gave not the trouble of
+bringing up and raising its heavy artillery against it?
+
+What sensibilities, said the divine creature, withdrawing her hand,
+must thou have suppressed! What a dreadful, what a judicial hardness of
+heart must thine be! who canst be capable of such emotions, as
+sometimes thou hast shown; and of such sentiments, as sometimes have
+flowed from thy lips; yet canst have so far overcome them all as to be
+able to act as thou hast acted, and that from settled purpose and
+premeditation; and this, as it is said, throughout the whole of thy
+life, from infancy to this time!
+
+I told her, that I had hoped, from the generous concern she had
+expressed for me, when I was so suddenly and dangerously taken ill—[the
+ipecacuanha experiment, Jack!]
+
+She interrupted me—Well have you rewarded me for the concern you speak
+of!—However, I will frankly own, now that I am determined to think no
+more of you, that you might, (unsatisfied as I nevertheless was with
+you,) have made an interest—
+
+She paused. I besought her to proceed.
+
+Do you suppose, Sir, and turned away her sweet face as we walked,—Do
+you suppose that I had not thought of laying down a plan to govern
+myself by, when I found myself so unhappily over-reached and cheated,
+as I may say, out of myself—When I found, that I could not be, and do,
+what I wished to be, and to do, do you imagine that I had not cast
+about, what was the next proper course to take?—And do you believe that
+this next course has not caused me some pain to be obliged to—
+
+There again she stopt.
+
+But let us break off discourse, resumed she. The subject grows too—She
+sighed—Let us break off discourse—I will go in—I will prepare for
+church—[The devil! thought I.] Well, as I can appear in those
+every-day-worn clothes—looking upon herself—I will go to church.
+
+She then turned from me to go into the house.
+
+Bless me, my beloved creature, bless me with the continuance of this
+affecting conversation.—Remorse has seized my heart!—I have been
+excessively wrong—give me farther cause to curse my heedless folly, by
+the continuance of this calm but soul-penetrating conversation.
+
+No, no, Mr. Lovelace: I have said too much. Impatience begins to break
+in upon me. If you can excuse me to the ladies, it will be better for
+my mind’s sake, and for your credit’s sake, that I do not see them.
+Call me to them over-nice, petulant, prudish—what you please call me to
+them. Nobody but Miss Howe, to whom, next to the Almighty, and my own
+mother, I wish to stand acquitted of wilful error, shall know the whole
+of what has passed. Be happy, as you may!—Deserve to be happy, and
+happy you will be, in your own reflection at least, were you to be ever
+so unhappy in other respects. For myself, if I ever shall be enabled,
+on due reflection, to look back upon my own conduct, without the great
+reproach of having wilfully, and against the light of my own judgment,
+erred, I shall be more happy than if I had all that the world accounts
+desirable.
+
+The noble creature proceeded; for I could not speak.
+
+This self-acquittal, when spirits are lent me to dispel the darkness
+which at present too often over-clouds my mind, will, I hope, make me
+superior to all the calamities that can befal me.
+
+Her whole person was informed by her sentiments. She seemed to be
+taller than before. How the God within her exalted her, not only above
+me, but above herself!
+
+Divine creature! (as I thought her,) I called her. I acknowledged the
+superiority of her mind; and was proceeding—but she interrupted me—All
+human excellence, said she, is comparative only. My mind, I believe, is
+indeed superior to your’s, debased as your’s is by evil habits: but I
+had not known it to be so, if you had not taken pains to convince me of
+the inferiority of your’s.
+
+How great, how sublimely great, this creature!—By my soul I cannot
+forgive her for her virtues! There is no bearing the consciousness of
+the infinite inferiority she charged me with.—But why will she break
+from me, when good resolutions are taking place? The red-hot iron she
+refuses to strike—O why will she suffer the yielding wax to harden?
+
+We had gone but a few paces towards the house, when we were met by the
+impertinent women, with notice, that breakfast was ready. I could only,
+with uplifted hands, beseech her to give me hope of a renewed
+conversation after breakfast.
+
+No—she would go to church.
+
+And into the house she went, and up stairs directly. Nor would she
+oblige me with her company at the tea-table.
+
+I offered, by Mrs. Moore, to quit both the table and the parlour,
+rather than she should exclude herself, or deprive the two widows of
+the favour of her company.
+
+That was not all the matter, she told Mrs. Moore. She had been
+struggling to keep down her temper. It had cost her some pains to do
+it. She was desirous to compose herself, in hopes to receive benefit by
+the divine worship she was going to join in.
+
+Mrs. Moore hoped for her presence at dinner.
+
+She had rather be excused. Yet, if she could obtain the frame of mind
+she hoped for, she might not be averse to show, that she had got above
+those sensibilities, which gave consideration to a man who deserved not
+to be to her what he had been.
+
+This said, no doubt, to let Mrs. Moore know, that the
+garden-conversation had not been a reconciling one.
+
+Mrs. Moore seemed to wonder that we were not upon a better foot of
+understanding, after so long a conference; and the more, as she
+believed that the lady had given in to the proposal for the repetition
+of the ceremony, which I had told them was insisted upon by her uncle
+Harlowe.—But I accounted for this, by telling both widows that she was
+resolved to keep on the reserve till she heard from Captain Tomlinson,
+whether her uncle would be present in person at the solemnity, or would
+name that worthy gentleman for his proxy.
+
+Again I enjoined strict secresy, as to this particular; which was
+promised by the widows, as well as for themselves, as for Miss Rawlins;
+of whose taciturnity they gave me such an account, as showed me, that
+she was secret-keeper-general to all the women of fashion at Hampstead.
+
+The Lord, Jack! What a world of mischief, at this rate, must Miss
+Rawlins know!—What a Pandora’s box must her bosom be!—Yet, had I
+nothing that was more worthy of my attention to regard, I would engage
+to open it, and make my uses of the discovery.
+
+And now, Belford, thou perceivest, that all my reliance is upon the
+mediation of Lady Betty and Miss Montague, and upon the hope of
+intercepting Miss Howe’s next letter.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER IV
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
+
+
+This fair inexorable is actually gone to church with Mrs. Moore and
+Mrs. Bevis; but Will. closely attends her motions; and I am in the way
+to receive any occasional intelligence from him.
+
+She did not choose, [a mighty word with the sex! as if they were always
+to have their own wills!] that I should wait upon her. I did not much
+press it, that she might not apprehend that I thought I had reason to
+doubt her voluntary return.
+
+I once had it in my head to have found the widow Bevis other
+employment. And I believe she would have been as well pleased with my
+company as to go to church; for she seemed irresolute when I told her
+that two out of a family were enough to go to church for one day. But
+having her things on, (as the women call every thing,) and her aunt
+Moore expecting her company, she thought it best to go—lest it should
+look oddly, you know, whispered she, to one who was above regarding how
+it looked.
+
+So here am I in my dining-room; and have nothing to do but to write
+till they return.
+
+And what will be my subject thinkest thou? Why, the old beaten one to
+be sure; self-debate—through temporary remorse: for the blow being not
+struck, her guardian angel is redoubling his efforts to save her.
+
+If it be not that, [and yet what power should her guardian angel have
+over me?] I don’t know what it is that gives a check to my revenge,
+whenever I meditate treason against so sovereign a virtue. Conscience
+is dead and gone, as I told thee; so it cannot be that. A young
+conscience growing up, like the phoenix, from the ashes of the old one,
+it cannot be, surely. But if it were, it would be hard, if I could not
+overlay a young conscience.
+
+Well, then, it must be LOVE, I fancy. LOVE itself, inspiring love of an
+object so adorable—some little attention possibly paid likewise to thy
+whining arguments in her favour.
+
+Let LOVE then be allowed to be the moving principle; and the rather, as
+LOVE naturally makes the lover loth to disoblige the object of its
+flame; and knowing, that to an offence of the meditated kind will be a
+mortal offence to her, cannot bear that I should think of giving it.
+
+Let LOVE and me talk together a little on this subject—be it a young
+conscience, or love, or thyself, Jack, thou seest that I am for giving
+every whiffler audience. But this must be the last debate on this
+subject; for is not her fate in a manner at its crisis? And must not my
+next step be an irretrievable one, tend it which way it will?
+
+
+And now the debate is over.
+
+A thousand charming things, (for LOVE is gentler than CONSCIENCE,) has
+this little urchin suggested in her favour. He pretended to know both
+our hearts: and he would have it, that though my love was a prodigious
+strong and potent love; and though it has the merit of many months,
+faithful service to plead, and has had infinite difficulties to
+struggle with; yet that it is not THE RIGHT SORT OF LOVE.
+
+Right sort of love!—A puppy!—But, with due regard to your deityship,
+said I, what merits has she with YOU, that you should be of her party?
+Is her’s, I pray you, a right sort of love? Is it love at all? She
+don’t pretend that it is. She owns not your sovereignty. What a d—l
+moves you, to plead thus earnestly for a rebel, who despises your
+power?
+
+And then he came with his If’s and And’s—and it would have been, and
+still, as he believed, would be, love, and a love of the exalted kind,
+if I would encourage it by the right sort of love he talked of: and, in
+justification of his opinion, pleaded her own confessions, as well
+those of yesterday, as of this morning: and even went so far back as to
+my ipecacuanha illness.
+
+I never talked so familiarly with his godship before: thou mayest
+think, therefore, that his dialect sounded oddly in my ears. And then
+he told me, how often I had thrown cold water upon the most charming
+flame that ever warmed a lady’s bosom, while but young and rising.
+
+I required a definition of this right sort of love, he tried at it: but
+made a sorry hand of it: nor could I, for the soul of me, be convinced,
+that what he meant to extol was LOVE.
+
+Upon the whole, we had a noble controversy upon this subject, in which
+he insisted upon the unprecedented merit of the lady. Nevertheless I
+got the better of him; for he was struck absolutely dumb, when (waving
+her present perverseness, which yet was a sufficient answer to all his
+pleas) I asserted, and offered to prove it, by a thousand instances
+impromptu, that love was not governed by merit, nor could be under the
+dominion of prudence, or any other reasoning power: and if the lady
+were capable of love, it was of such a sort as he had nothing to do
+with, and which never before reigned in a female heart.
+
+I asked him, what he thought of her flight from me, at a time when I
+was more than half overcome by the right sort of love he talked of?—And
+then I showed him the letter she wrote, and left behind her for me,
+with an intention, no doubt, absolutely to break my heart, or to
+provoke me to hang, drown, or shoot myself; to say nothing of a
+multitude of declarations from her, defying his power, and imputing all
+that looked like love in her behaviour to me, to the persecution and
+rejection of her friends; which made her think of me but as a last
+resort.
+
+LOVE then gave her up. The letter, he said, deserved neither pardon nor
+excuse. He did not think he had been pleading for such a declared
+rebel. And as to the rest, he should be a betrayer of the rights of his
+own sovereignty, if what I had alleged were true, and he were still to
+plead for her.
+
+I swore to the truth of all. And truly I swore: which perhaps I do not
+always do.
+
+And now what thinkest thou must become of the lady, whom LOVE itself
+gives up, and CONSCIENCE cannot plead for?
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER V
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. SUNDAY AFTERNOON.
+
+O Belford! what a hair’s-breadth escape have I had!—Such a one, that I
+tremble between terror and joy, at the thought of what might have
+happened, and did not.
+
+What a perverse girl is this, to contend with her fate; yet has reason
+to think, that her very stars fight against her! I am the luckiest of
+me!—But my breath almost fails me, when I reflect upon what a slender
+thread my destiny hung.
+
+But not to keep thee in suspense; I have, within this half-hour,
+obtained possession of the expected letter from Miss Howe—and by such
+an accident! But here, with the former, I dispatch this; thy messenger
+waiting.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER VI
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE [IN CONTINUATION.]
+
+Thus it was—My charmer accompanied Mrs. Moore again to church this
+afternoon. I had been in very earnest, in the first place, to obtain
+her company at dinner: but in vain. According to what she had said to
+Mrs. Moore,* I was too considerable to her to be allowed that favour.
+In the next place, I besought her to favour me, after dinner, with
+another garden-walk. But she would again go to church. And what reason
+have I to rejoice that she did!
+
+* See Letter III. of this volume.
+
+My worthy friend, Mrs. Bevis, thought one sermon a day, well observed,
+enough; so staid at home to bear me company.
+
+The lady and Mrs. Moore had not been gone a quarter of an hour, when a
+young country-fellow on horseback came to the door, and inquired for
+Mrs. Harriot Lucas. The widow and I (undetermined how we were to
+entertain each other) were in the parlour next the door; and hearing
+the fellow’s inquiry, O my dear Mrs. Bevis, said I, I am undone, undone
+for ever, if you don’t help me out!—Since here, in all probability, is
+a messenger from that implacable Miss Howe with a letter; which, if
+delivered to Mrs. Lovelace, may undo all we have been doing.
+
+What, said she, would you have me do?
+
+Call the maid in this moment, that I may give her her lesson; and if it
+be as I imagined, I’ll tell you what you shall do.
+
+Wid. Margaret!—Margaret! come in this minute.
+
+Lovel. What answer, Mrs. Margaret, did you give the man, upon his
+asking for Mrs. Harriot Lucas?
+
+Peggy. I only asked, What was his business, and who he came from? (for,
+Sir, your honour’s servant had told me how things stood): and I came at
+your call, Madam, before he answered me.
+
+Lovel. Well, child, if ever you wish to be happy in wedlock yourself,
+and would have people disappointed who want to make mischief between
+you and your husband, get out of him his message, or letter if he has
+one, and bring it to me, and say nothing to Mrs. Lovelace, when she
+comes in; and here is a guinea for you.
+
+Peggy. I will do all I can to serve your honour’s worship for nothing:
+[nevertheless, with a ready hand, taking the guinea:] for Mr. William
+tells me what a good gentleman you be.
+
+Away went Peggy to the fellow at the door.
+
+Peggy. What is your business, friend, with Mrs. Harry Lucas?
+
+Fellow. I must speak to her her own self.
+
+Lovel. My dearest widow, do you personate Mrs. Lovelace—for Heaven’s
+sake do you personate Mrs. Lovelace.
+
+Wid. I personate Mrs. Lovelace, Sir! How can I do that?—She is fair; I
+am brown. She is slender: I am plump—
+
+Lovel. No matter, no matter—The fellow may be a new-come servant: he is
+not in livery, I see. He may not know her person. You can but be
+bloated and in a dropsy.
+
+Wid. Dropsical people look not so fresh and ruddy as I do.
+
+Lovel. True—but the clown may not know that. ’Tis but for a present
+deception. Peggy, Peggy, call’d I, in a female tone, softly at the
+door. Madam, answer’d Peggy; and came up to me to the parlour-door.
+
+Lovel. Tell him the lady is ill; and has lain down upon the couch. And
+get his business from him, whatever you do.
+
+Away went Peggy.
+
+Lovel. Now, my dear widow, lie along the settee, and put your
+handkerchief over your face, that, if he will speak to you himself, he
+may not see your eyes and your hair.—So—that’s right.—I’ll step into
+the closet by you.
+
+I did so.
+
+Peggy. [Returning.] He won’t deliver his business to me. He will speak
+to Mrs. Harriot Lucas her own self.
+
+Lovel. [Holding the door in my hand.] Tell him that this is Mrs.
+Harriot Lucas; and let him come in. Whisper him (if he doubts) that she
+is bloated, dropsical, and not the woman she was.
+
+Away went Margery.
+
+Lovel. And now, my dear widow, let me see what a charming Mrs. Lovelace
+you’ll make!—Ask if he comes from Miss Howe. Ask if he lives with her.
+Ask how she does. Call her, at every word, your dear Miss Howe. Offer
+him money—take this half-guinea for him—complain of your head, to have
+a pretence to hold it down; and cover your forehead and eyes with your
+hand, where your handkerchief hides not your face.—That’s right—and
+dismiss the rascal—[here he comes]—as soon as you can.
+
+In came the fellow, bowing and scraping, his hat poked out before him
+with both his hands.
+
+Fellow. I am sorry, Madam, an’t please you, to find you ben’t well.
+
+Widow. What is your business with me, friend?
+
+Fellow. You are Mrs. Harriot Lucas, I suppose, Madam?
+
+Widow. Yes. Do you come from Miss Howe?
+
+Fellow. I do, Madam.
+
+Widow. Dost thou know my right name, friend?
+
+Fellow. I can give a shrewd guess. But that is none of my business.
+
+Widow. What is thy business? I hope Miss Howe is well?
+
+Fellow. Yes, Madam; pure well, I thank God. I wish you were so too.
+
+Widow. I am too full of grief to be well.
+
+Fellow. So belike I have hard to say.
+
+Widow. My head aches so dreadfully, I cannot hold it up. I must beg of
+you to let me know your business.
+
+Fellow. Nay, and that be all, my business is soon known. It is but to
+give this letter into your own partiklar hands—here it is.
+
+Widow. [Taking it.] From my dear friend Miss Howe?—Ah, my head!
+
+Fellow. Yes, Madam: but I am sorry you are so bad.
+
+Widow. Do you live with Miss Howe?
+
+Fellow. No, Madam: I am one of her tenants’ sons. Her lady-mother must
+not know as how I came of this errand. But the letter, I suppose, will
+tell you all.
+
+Widow. How shall I satisfy you for this kind trouble?
+
+Fellow. No how at all. What I do is for love of Miss Howe. She will
+satisfy me more than enough. But, may-hap, you can send no answer, you
+are so ill.
+
+Widow. Was you ordered to wait for an answer?
+
+Fellow. No, I cannot say as that I was. But I was bidden to observe how
+you looked, and how you was; and if you did write a line or two, to
+take care of it, and give it only to our young landlady in secret.
+
+Widow. You see I look strangely. Not so well as I used to do.
+
+Fellow. Nay, I don’t know that I ever saw you but once before; and that
+was at a stile, where I met you and my young landlady; but knew better
+than to stare a gentlewoman in the face; especially at a stile.
+
+Widow. Will you eat, or drink, friend?
+
+Fellow. A cup of small ale, I don’t care if I do.
+
+Widow. Margaret, take the young man down, and treat him with what the
+house affords.
+
+Fellow. Your servant, Madam. But I staid to eat as I come along, just
+upon the Heath yonder; or else, to say the truth, I had been here
+sooner. [Thank my stars, thought I, thou didst.] A piece of powdered
+beef was upon the table, at the sign of the Castle, where I stopt to
+inquire for this house: and so, thoff I only intended to wet my
+whistle, I could not help eating. So shall only taste of your ale; for
+the beef was woundily corned.
+
+Prating dog! Pox on thee! thought I.
+
+He withdrew, bowing and scraping.
+
+Margaret, whispered I, in a female voice [whispering out of the closet,
+and holding the parlour-door in my hand] get him out of the house as
+fast as you can, lest they come from church, and catch him here.
+
+Peggy. Never fear, Sir.
+
+The fellow went down, and it seems, drank a large draught of ale; and
+Margaret finding him very talkative, told him, she begged his pardon,
+but she had a sweetheart just come from sea, whom she was forced to
+hide in the pantry; so was sure he would excuse her from staying with
+him.
+
+Ay, ay, to be sure, the clown said: for if he could not make sport, he
+would spoil none. But he whispered her, that one ’Squire Lovelace was a
+damnation rogue, if the truth might be told.
+
+For what? said Margaret. And could have given him, she told the widow
+(who related to me all this) a good dowse of the chaps.
+
+For kissing all the women he came near.
+
+At the same time, the dog wrapped himself round Margery, and gave her a
+smack, that, she told Mrs. Bevis afterwards, she might have heard into
+the parlour.
+
+Such, Jack, is human nature: thus does it operate in all degrees; and
+so does the clown, as well as his practises! Yet this sly dog knew not
+but the wench had a sweetheart locked up in the pantry! If the truth
+were known, some of the ruddy-faced dairy wenches might perhaps call
+him a damnation rogue, as justly as their betters of the same sex might
+’Squire Lovelace.
+
+The fellow told the maid, that, by what he discovered of the young
+lady’s face, it looked very rosy to what he took it to be; and he
+thought her a good deal fatter, as she lay, and not so tall.
+
+All women are born to intrigue, Jack; and practise it more or less, as
+fathers, guardians, governesses, from dear experience, can tell; and in
+love affairs are naturally expert, and quicker in their wits by half
+than men. This ready, though raw wench, gave an instance of this, and
+improved on the dropsical hint I had given her. The lady’s seeming
+plumpness was owing to a dropsical disorder, and to the round posture
+she lay in—very likely, truly. Her appearing to him to be shorter, he
+might have observed, was owing to her drawing her feet up from pain,
+and because the couch was too short, she supposed—Adso, he did not
+think of that. Her rosy colour was owing to her grief and
+head-ache.—Ay, that might very well be—but he was highly pleased that
+he had given the letter into Mrs. Harriot’s own hand, as he should tell
+Miss Howe.
+
+He desired once more to see the lady at his going away, and would not
+be denied. The widow therefore sat up, with her handkerchief over her
+face, leaning her head against the wainscot.
+
+He asked if she had any partiklar message?
+
+No: she was so ill she could not write; which was a great grief to her.
+
+Should he call the next day? for he was going to London, now he was so
+near; and should stay at a cousin’s that night, who lived in a street
+called Fetter-Lane.
+
+No: she would write as soon as able, and send by the post.
+
+Well, then, if she had nothing to send by him, mayhap he might stay in
+town a day or two; for he had never seen the lions in the Tower, nor
+Bedlam, nor the tombs; and he would make a holiday or two, as he had
+leave to do, if she had no business or message that required his
+posting down next day.
+
+She had not.
+
+She offered him the half-guinea I had given her for him; but he refused
+it with great professions of disinterestedness, and love, as he called
+it, to Miss Howe; to serve whom, he would ride to the world’s-end, or
+even to Jericho.
+
+And so the shocking rascal went away: and glad at my heart was I when
+he was gone; for I feared nothing so much as that he would have staid
+till they came from church.
+
+Thus, Jack, got I my heart’s ease, the letter of Miss Howe; and through
+such a train of accidents, as makes me say, that the lady’s stars fight
+against her. But yet I must attribute a good deal to my own precaution,
+in having taken right measures. For had I not secured the widow by my
+stories, and the maid by my servant, all would have signified nothing.
+And so heartily were they secured, the one by a single guinea, the
+other by half a dozen warm kisses, and the aversion they both had to
+such wicked creatures as delighted in making mischief between man and
+wife, that they promised, that neither Mrs. Moore, Miss Rawlins, Mrs.
+Lovelace, nor any body living, should know any thing of the matter.
+
+The widow rejoiced that I had got the mischief-maker’s letter. I
+excused myself to her, and instantly withdrew with it; and, after I had
+read it, fell to my short-hand, to acquaint thee with my good luck: and
+they not returning so soon as church was done, (stepping, as it proved,
+into Miss Rawlins’s, and tarrying there awhile, to bring that busy girl
+with them to drink tea,) I wrote thus far to thee, that thou mightest,
+when thou camest to this place, rejoice with me upon the occasion.
+
+They are all three just come in.
+
+I hasten to them.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER VII
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
+
+
+I have begun another letter to thee, in continuation of my narrative:
+but I believe I shall send thee this before I shall finish that. By the
+enclosed thou wilt see, that neither of the correspondents deserve
+mercy from me: and I am resolved to make the ending with one the
+beginning with the other.
+
+If thou sayest that the provocations I have given to one of them will
+justify her freedoms; I answer, so they will, to any other person but
+myself. But he that is capable of giving those provocations, and has
+the power to punish those who abuse him for giving them, will show his
+resentment; and the more remorselessly, perhaps, as he has deserved the
+freedoms.
+
+If thou sayest, it is, however, wrong to do so; I reply, that it is
+nevertheless human nature:—And wouldst thou not have me to be a man,
+Jack?
+
+Here read the letter, if thou wilt. But thou art not my friend, if thou
+offerest to plead for either of the saucy creatures, after thou hast
+read it.
+
+TO MRS. HARRIOT LUCAS,
+
+AT MRS. MOORE’S, AT HAMPSTEAD. JUNE 10.
+
+After the discoveries I had made of the villanous machinations of the
+most abandoned of men, particularized in my long letter of Wednesday*
+last, you will believe, my dearest friend, that my surprise upon
+perusing your’s of Thursday evening from Hampstead** was not so great
+as my indignation. Had the villain attempted to fire a city instead of
+a house, I should not have wondered at it. All that I am amazed at is,
+that he (whose boast, as I am told, it is, that no woman shall keep him
+out of her bed-chamber, when he has made a resolution to be in it) did
+not discover his foot before. And it is as strange to me, that, having
+got you at such a shocking advantage, and in such a horrid house, you
+could, at the time, escape dishonour, and afterwards get from such a
+set of infernals.
+
+* See Vol. V. Letter XX. ** Ibid. See Letter XXI.
+
+I gave you, in my long letter of Wednesday and Thursday last, reasons
+why you ought to mistrust that specious Tomlinson. That man, my dear,
+must be a solemn villain. May lightning from Heaven blast the wretch,
+who has set him and the rest of his REMORSELESS GANG at work, to
+endeavour to destroy the most consummate virtue!—Heaven be praised! you
+have escaped from all their snares, and now are out of danger.—So I
+will not trouble you at present with the particulars I have further
+collected relating to this abominable imposture.
+
+For the same reason, I forbear to communicate to you some new stories
+of the abhorred wretch himself which have come to my ears. One, in
+particular, of so shocking a nature!—Indeed, my dear, the man’s a
+devil.
+
+The whole story of Mrs. Fretchville, and her house, I have no doubt to
+pronounce, likewise, an absolute fiction.—Fellow!—How my soul spurns
+the villain!
+
+Your thought of going abroad, and your reasons for so doing, most
+sensibly affect me. But be comforted, my dear; I hope you will not be
+under a necessity of quitting your native country. Were I sure that
+that must be the cruel case, I would abandon all my better prospects,
+and soon be with you. And I would accompany you whithersoever you went,
+and share fortunes with you: for it is impossible that I should be
+happy, if I knew that you were exposed not only to the perils of the
+sea, but to the attempts of other vile men; your personal graces
+attracting every eye; and exposing you to those hourly dangers, which
+others, less distinguished by the gifts of nature, might avoid.—All
+that I know that beauty (so greatly coveted, and so greatly admired) is
+good for.
+
+O my dear, were I ever to marry, and to be the mother of a CLARISSA,
+[Clarissa must be the name, if promisingly lovely,] how often would my
+heart ache for the dear creature, as she grew up, when I reflected that
+a prudence and discretion, unexampled in woman, had not, in you, been a
+sufficient protection to that beauty, which had drawn after it as many
+admirers as beholders!—How little should I regret the attacks of that
+cruel distemper, as it is called, which frequently makes the greatest
+ravages in the finest faces!
+
+SAT. AFTERNOON.
+
+I have just parted with Mrs. Townsend.* I thought you had once seen her
+with me; but she says she never had the honour to be personally known
+to you. She has a manlike spirit. She knows the world. And her two
+brothers being in town, she is sure she can engage them in so good a
+cause, and (if there should be occasion) both their ships’ crews, in
+your service.
+
+* For the account of Mrs. Townsend, &c. see Vol. IV. Letter XLII.
+
+Give your consent, my dear; and the horrid villain shall be repaid with
+broken bones, at least, for all his vileness!
+
+The misfortune is, Mrs. Townsend cannot be with you till Thursday next,
+or Wednesday, at soonest: Are you sure you can be safe where you are
+till then? I think you are too near London; and perhaps you had better
+be in it. If you remove, let me, the very moment, know whither.
+
+How my heart is torn, to think of the necessity so dear a creature is
+driven to of hiding herself! Devilish fellow! He must have been
+sportive and wanton in his inventions—yet that cruel, that savage
+sportiveness has saved you from the sudden violence to which he has had
+recourse in the violation of others, of names and families not
+contemptible. For such the villain always gloried to spread his snares.
+
+The vileness of this specious monster has done more, than any other
+consideration could do, to bring Mr. Hickman into credit with me. Mr.
+Hickman alone knows (from me) of your flight, and the reason of it. Had
+I not given him the reason, he might have thought still worse of the
+vile attempt. I communicated it to him by showing him your letter from
+Hampstead. When he had read it, [and he trembled and reddened, as he
+read,] he threw himself at my feet, and besought me to permit him to
+attend you, and to give you the protection of his house. The
+good-natured man had tears in his eyes, and was repeatedly earnest on
+this subject; proposing to take his chariot-and-four, or a set, and in
+person, in the face of all the world, give himself the glory of
+protecting such an oppressed innocent.
+
+I could not but be pleased with him. And I let him know that I was. I
+hardly expected so much spirit from him. But a man’s passiveness to a
+beloved object of our sex may not, perhaps, argue want of courage on
+proper occasions.
+
+I thought I ought, in return, to have some consideration for his
+safety, as such an open step would draw upon him the vengeance of the
+most villanous enterpriser in the world, who has always a gang of
+fellows, such as himself, at his call, ready to support one another in
+the vilest outrages. But yet, as Mr. Hickman might have strengthened
+his hands by legal recourses, I should not have stood upon it, had I
+not known your delicacy, [since such a step must have made a great
+noise, and given occasion for scandal, as if some advantage had been
+gained over you,] and were there not the greatest probability that all
+might be more silently, and more effectually, managed, by Mrs.
+Townsend’s means.
+
+Mrs. Townsend will in person attend you—she hopes, on Wednesday—her
+brothers, and some of their people, will scatteringly, and as if they
+knew nothing of you, [so we have contrived,] see you safe not only to
+London, but to her house at Deptford.
+
+She has a kinswoman, who will take your commands there, if she herself
+be obliged to leave you. And there you may stay, till the wretch’s
+fury, on losing you, and his search, are over.
+
+He will very soon, ’tis likely, enter upon some new villany, which may
+engross him: and it may be given out, that you are gone to lay claim to
+the protection of your cousin Morden at Florence.
+
+Possibly, if he can be made to believe it, he will go over, in hopes to
+find you there.
+
+After a while, I can procure you a lodging in one of our neighbouring
+villages, where I may have the happiness to be your daily visiter. And
+if this Hickman be not silly and apish, and if my mother do not do
+unaccountable things, I may the sooner think of marrying, that I may,
+without controul, receive and entertain the darling of my heart.
+
+Many, very many, happy days do I hope we shall yet see together; and as
+this is my hope, I expect that it will be your consolation.
+
+As to your estate, since you are resolved not to litigate for it, we
+will be patient, either till Colonel Morden arrives, or till shame
+compels some people to be just.
+
+Upon the whole, I cannot but think your prospects now much happier than
+they could have been, had you been actually married to such a man as
+this. I must therefore congratulate you upon your escape, not only from
+a horrid libertine, but from so vile a husband, as he must have made to
+any woman; but more especially to a person of your virtue and delicacy.
+
+You hate him, heartily hate him, I hope, my dear—I am sure you do. It
+would be strange, if so much purity of life and manners were not to
+abhor what is so repugnant to itself.
+
+In your letter before me, you mention one written to me for a feint.* I
+have not received any such. Depend upon it, therefore, that he must
+have it. And if he has, it is a wonder that he did not likewise get my
+long one of the 7th. Heaven be praised that he did not; and that it
+came safe to your hands!
+
+* See Vol. V. Letters XXI. and XXII.
+
+I send this by a young fellow, whose father is one of our tenants, with
+command to deliver it to no other hands but your’s. He is to return
+directly, if you give him any letter. If not, he will proceed to London
+upon his own pleasures. He is a simple fellow; but very honest. So you
+may say anything to him. If you write not by him, I desire a line or
+two, as soon as possible.
+
+My mother knows nothing of his going to you; nor yet of your abandoning
+the fellow. Forgive me! But he is not entitled to good manners.
+
+I shall long to hear how you and Mrs. Townsend order matters. I wish
+she could have been with you sooner. But I have lost no time in
+engaging her, as you will suppose. I refer to her, what I have further
+to say and advise. So shall conclude with my prayers, that Heaven will
+direct and protect my dearest creature, and make your future days
+happy!
+
+ANNA HOWE.
+
+And now, Jack, I will suppose that thou hast read this cursed letter.
+Allow me to make a few observations upon some of its contents.
+
+It is strange to Miss Howe, that having got her friend at such a
+shocking advantage, &c. And it is strange to me, too. If ever I have
+such another opportunity given to me, the cause of both our wonder, I
+believe, will cease.
+
+So thou seest Tomlinson is further detected.—No such person as Mrs.
+Fretchville.—May lightning from Heaven—O Lord, O Lord, O Lord!—What a
+horrid vixen is this!—My gang, my remorseless gang, too, is brought
+in—and thou wilt plead for these girls again; wilt thou? heaven be
+praised, she says, that her friend is out of danger—Miss Howe should be
+sure of that, and that she herself is safe.—But for this termagant, (as
+I often said,) I must surely have made a better hand of it.—
+
+New stories of me, Jack!—What can they be?—I have not found that my
+generosity to my Rose-bud ever did me due credit with this pair of
+friends. Very hard, Belford, that credits cannot be set against debits,
+and a balance struck in a rake’s favour, as well as in that of every
+common man!—But he, from whom no good is expected, is not allowed the
+merit of the good he does.
+
+I ought to have been a little more attentive to character than I have
+been. For, notwithstanding that the measures of right and wrong are
+said to be so manifest, let me tell thee, that character biases and
+runs away with all mankind. Let a man or woman once establish
+themselves in the world’s opinion, and all that either of them do will
+be sanctified. Nay, in the very courts of justice, does not character
+acquit or condemn as often as facts, and sometimes even in spite of
+facts?—Yet, [impolitic that I have been and am!] to be so careless of
+mine!—And now, I doubt, it is irretrievable.—But to leave moralizing.
+
+Thou, Jack, knowest almost all my enterprises worth remembering. Can
+this particular story, which this girl hints at, be that of Lucy
+Villars?—Or can she have heard of my intrigue with the pretty gipsey,
+who met me in Norwood, and of the trap I caught her cruel husband in,
+[a fellow as gloomy and tyrannical as old Harlowe,] when he pursued a
+wife, who would not have deserved ill of him, if he had deserved well
+of her!—But he was not quite drowned. The man is alive at this day, and
+Miss Howe mentions the story as a very shocking one. Besides, both
+these are a twelve-month old, or more.
+
+But evil fame and scandal are always new. When the offender has forgot
+a vile fact, it is often told to one and to another, who, having never
+heard of it before, trumpet it about as a novelty to others. But well
+said the honest corregidor at Madrid, [a saying with which I encroached
+Lord M.’s collection,]—Good actions are remembered but for a day: bad
+ones for many years after the life of the guilty. Such is the relish
+that the world has for scandal. In other words, such is the desire
+which every one has to exculpate himself by blackening his neighbour.
+You and I, Belford, have been very kind to the world, in furnishing it
+with opportunities to gratify its devil.
+
+[Miss Howe will abandon her own better prospects, and share fortunes
+with her, were she to go abroad.]—Charming romancer!—I must set about
+this girl, Jack. I have always had hopes of a woman whose passions
+carry her to such altitudes.—Had I attacked Miss Howe first, her
+passions, (inflamed and guided as I could have managed them,) would
+have brought her into my lure in a fortnight.
+
+But thinkest thou, [and yet I think thou dost,] that there is any thing
+in these high flights among the sex?—Verily, Jack, these vehement
+friendships are nothing but chaff and stubble, liable to be blown away
+by the very wind that raises them. Apes, mere apes of us! they think
+the word friendship has a pretty sound with it; and it is much talked
+of—a fashionable word. And so, truly, a single woman, who thinks she
+has a soul, and knows that she wants something, would be thought to
+have found a fellow-soul for it in her own sex. But I repeat, that the
+word is a mere word, the thing a mere name with them; a cork-bottomed
+shuttle-cock, which they are fond of striking to and fro, to make one
+another glow in the frosty weather of a single-state; but which, when a
+man comes in between the pretended inseparables, is given up, like
+their music and other maidenly amusements; which, nevertheless, may be
+necessary to keep the pretty rogues out of active mischief. They then,
+in short, having caught the fish, lay aside the net.*
+
+* He alludes here to the story of a pope, who, (once a poor fisherman,)
+through every preferment he rose to, even to that of the cardinalate,
+hung up in view of all his guests his net, as a token of humility. But,
+when he arrived at the pontificate, he took it down, saying, that there
+was no need of the net, when he had caught the fish.
+
+Thou hast a mind, perhaps, to make an exception for these two
+ladies.—With all my heart. My Clarissa has, if woman has, a soul
+capable of friendship. Her flame is bright and steady. But Miss Howe’s,
+were it not kept up by her mother’s opposition, is too vehement to
+endure. How often have I known opposition not only cement friendship,
+but create love? I doubt not but poor Hickman would fare the better
+with this vixen, if her mother were as heartily against him, as she is
+for him.
+
+Thus much, indeed, as to these two ladies, I will grant thee, that the
+active spirit of the one, and the meek disposition of the other, may
+make their friendship more durable than it would otherwise be; for this
+is certain, that in every friendship, whether male or female, there
+must be a man and a woman spirit, (that is to say, one of them must be
+a forbearing one,) to make it permanent.
+
+But this I pronounce, as a truth, which all experience confirms, that
+friendship between women never holds to the sacrifice of capital
+gratifications, or to the endangering of life, limb, or estate, as it
+often does in our nobler sex.
+
+Well, but next comes an indictment against poor beauty! What has beauty
+done that Miss Howe should be offended at it?—Miss Howe, Jack, is a
+charming girl. She has no reason to quarrel with beauty!—Didst ever see
+her?—Too much fire and spirit in her eye, indeed, for a girl!—But
+that’s no fault with a man that can lower that fire and spirit at
+pleasure; and I know I am the man that can.
+
+For my own part, when I was first introduced to this lady, which was by
+my goddess when she herself was a visiter at Mrs. Howe’s, I had not
+been half an hour with her, but I even hungered and thirsted after a
+romping ’bout with the lively rogue; and, in the second or third visit,
+was more deterred by the delicacy of her friend, than by what I
+apprehended from her own. This charming creature’s presence, thought I,
+awes us both. And I wished her absence, though any other woman were
+present, that I might try the differences in Miss Howe’s behaviour
+before her friend’s face, or behind her back.
+
+Delicate women make delicate women, as well as decent men. With all
+Miss Howe’s fire and spirit, it was easy to see, by her very eye, that
+she watched for lessons and feared reproof from the penetrating eye of
+her milder dispositioned friend;* and yet it was as easy to observe, in
+the candour and sweet manners of the other, that the fear which Miss
+Howe stood in of her, was more owing to her own generous apprehension
+that she fell short of her excellencies, than to Miss Harlowe’s
+consciousness of excellence over her. I have often since I came at Miss
+Howe’s letters, revolved this just and fine praise contained in one of
+them:** ‘Every one saw that the preference they gave you to themselves
+exalted you not into any visible triumph over them; for you had always
+something to say, on every point you carried, that raised the yielding
+heart, and left every one pleased and satisfied with themselves, though
+they carried not off the palm.’
+
+* Miss Howe, in Vol. III. Letter XIX. says, That she was always more
+afraid of Clarissa than of her mother; and, in Vol. III. Letter XLIV.
+That she fears her almost as much as she loves her; and in many other
+places, in her letters, verifies this observation of Lovelace. ** See
+Vol. IV. Letter XXXI.
+
+As I propose, in a more advanced life, to endeavour to atone for my
+useful freedoms with individuals of the sex, by giving cautions and
+instructions to the whole, I have made a memorandum to enlarge upon
+this doctrine;—to wit, that it is full as necessary to direct daughters
+in the choice of their female companions, as it is to guard them
+against the designs of men.
+
+I say not this, however, to the disparagement of Miss Howe. She has
+from pride, what her friend has from principle. [The Lord help the sex,
+if they had not pride!] But yet I am confident, that Miss Howe is
+indebted to the conversation and correspondence of Miss Harlowe for her
+highest improvements. But, both these ladies out of the question, I
+make no scruple to aver, [and I, Jack, should know something of the
+matter,] that there have been more girls ruined, at least prepared for
+ruin, by their own sex, (taking in servants, as well as companions,)
+than directly by the attempts and delusions of men.
+
+But it is time enough when I am old and joyless, to enlarge upon this
+topic.
+
+As to the comparison between the two ladies, I will expatiate more on
+that subject, (for I like it,) when I have had them both. Which this
+letter of the vixen girl’s, I hope thou wilt allow, warrants me to try
+for.
+
+I return to the consideration of a few more of its contents, to justify
+my vengeances so nearly now in view.
+
+As to Mrs. Townsend,—her manlike spirit—her two brothers—and the ships’
+crews—I say nothing but this to the insolent threatening—Let ’em
+come!—But as to her sordid menace—To repay the horrid villain, as she
+calls me, for all my vileness by BROKEN BONES!—Broken bones,
+Belford!—Who can bear this porterly threatening!—Broken bones,
+Jack!—D—n the little vulgar!—Give me a name for her—but I banish all
+furious resentment. If I get these two girls into my power, Heaven
+forbid that I should be a second Phalaris, who turned his bull upon the
+artist!—No bones of their’s will I break—They shall come off with me
+upon much lighter terms!—
+
+But these fellows are smugglers, it seems. And am not I a smuggler
+too?—I am—and have not the least doubt but I shall have secured my
+goods before Thursday, or Wednesday either.
+
+But did I want a plot, what a charming new one does this letter of Miss
+Howe strike me out! I am almost sorry, that I have fixed upon one.—For
+here, how easy would it be for me to assemble a crew of swabbers, and
+to create a Mrs. Townsend (whose person, thou seest, my beloved knows
+not) to come on Tuesday, at Miss Howe’s repeated solicitations, in
+order to carry my beloved to a warehouse of my own providing?
+
+This, however, is my triumphant hope, that at the very time that these
+ragamuffins will be at Hampstead (looking for us) my dear Miss Harlowe
+and I [so the Fates I imagine have ordained] shall be fast asleep in
+each other’s arms in town.—Lie still, villain, till the time comes.—My
+heart, Jack! my heart!—It is always thumping away on the remotest
+prospects of this nature.
+
+But it seems that the vileness of this specious monster [meaning me,
+Jack!] has brought Hickman into credit with her. So I have done some
+good! But to whom I cannot tell: for this poor fellow, should I permit
+him to have this termagant, will be punished, as many times we all are,
+by the enjoyment of his own wishes—nor can she be happy, as I take it,
+with him, were he to govern himself by her will, and have none of his
+own; since never was there a directing wife who knew where to stop:
+power makes such a one wanton—she despises the man she can govern. Like
+Alexander, who wept, that he had no more worlds to conquer, she will be
+looking out for new exercises for her power, till she grow uneasy to
+herself, a discredit to her husband, and a plague to all about her.
+
+But this honest fellow, it seems, with tears in his eyes, and with
+humble prostration, besought the vixen to permit him to set out in his
+chariot-and-four, in order to give himself the glory of protecting such
+an oppressed innocent, in the face of the whole world. Nay, he
+reddened, it seems: and trembled too! as he read the fair complainant’s
+letter.—How valiant is all this!—Women love brave men; and no wonder
+that his tears, his trembling, and his prostration, gave him high
+reputation with the meek Miss Howe.
+
+But dost think, Jack, that I in the like case (and equally affected
+with the distress) should have acted thus? Dost think, that I should
+not first have rescued the lady, and then, if needful, have asked
+excuse for it, the lady in my hand?—Wouldst not thou have done thus, as
+well as I?
+
+But, ’tis best as it is. Honest Hickman may now sleep in a whole skin.
+And yet that is more perhaps than he would have done (the lady’s
+deliverance unattempted) had I come at this requested permission of his
+any other way than by a letter that it must not be known that I have
+intercepted.
+
+Miss Howe thinks I may be diverted from pursuing my charmer, by some
+new-started villany. Villany is a word that she is extremely fond of.
+But I can tell her, that it is impossible I should, till the end of
+this villany be obtained. Difficulty is a stimulus with such a spirit
+as mine. I thought Miss Howe knew me better. Were she to offer herself,
+person for person, in the romancing zeal of her friendship, to save her
+friend, it should not do, while the dear creature is on this side the
+moon.
+
+She thanks Heaven, that her friend has received her letter of the 7th.
+We are all glad of it. She ought to thank me too. But I will not at
+present claim her thanks.
+
+But when she rejoices that the letter went safe, does she not, in
+effect, call out for vengeance, and expect it!—All in good time, Miss
+Howe. When settest thou out for the Isle of Wight, love?
+
+I will close at this time with desiring thee to make a list of the
+virulent terms with which the enclosed letter abounds: and then, if
+thou supposest that I have made such another, and have added to it all
+the flowers of the same blow, in the former letters of the same saucy
+creature, and those in that of Miss Harlowe, which she left for me on
+her elopement, thou wilt certainly think, that I have provocations
+sufficient to justify me in all that I shall do to either.
+
+Return the enclosed the moment thou hast perused it.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER VIII
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. SUNDAY NIGHT—MONDAY MORNING.
+
+I went down with revenge in my heart, the contents of Miss Howe’s
+letter almost engrossing me, the moment that Miss Harlowe and Mrs.
+Moore (accompanied by Miss Rawlins) came in: but in my countenance all
+the gentle, the placid, the serene, that the glass could teach; and in
+my behaviour all the polite, that such an unpolite creature, as she has
+often told me I am, could put on.
+
+Miss Rawlins was sent for home almost as soon as she came in, to
+entertain an unexpected visiter; to her great regret, as well as to the
+disappointment of my fair-one, as I could perceive from the looks of
+both: for they had agreed, it seems, if I went to town, as I said I
+intended to do, to take a walk upon the Heath, at least in Mrs. Moore’s
+garden; and who knows, what might have been the issue, had the spirit
+of curiosity in the one met with the spirit of communication in the
+other?
+
+Miss Rawlins promised to return, if possible: but sent to excuse
+herself: her visiter intending to stay with her all night.
+
+I rejoiced in my heart at her message; and, after much supplication,
+obtained the favour of my beloved’s company for another walk in the
+garden, having, as I told her, abundance of things to say, to propose,
+and to be informed of, in order ultimately to govern myself in my
+future steps.
+
+She had vouchsafed, I should have told thee, with eyes turned from me,
+and in a half-aside attitude, to sip two dishes of tea in my
+company—Dear soul!—How anger unpolishes the most polite! for I never
+saw Miss Harlowe behave so awkwardly. I imagined she knew not how to be
+awkward.
+
+When we were in the garden, I poured my whole soul into her attentive
+ear; and besought her returning favour.
+
+She told me, that she had formed her scheme for her future life: that,
+vile as the treatment was which she had received from me, that was not
+all the reason she had for rejecting my suit: but that, on the maturest
+deliberation, she was convinced that she could neither be happy with
+me, nor make me happy; and she injoined me, for both our sakes, to
+think no more of her.
+
+The Captain, I told her, was rid down post, in a manner, to forward my
+wishes with her uncle.—Lady Betty and Miss Montague were undoubtedly
+arrived in town by this time. I would set out early in the morning to
+attend them. They adored her. They longed to see her. They would see
+her.—They would not be denied her company in Oxfordshire. Whither could
+she better go, to be free from her brother’s insults?—Whither, to be
+absolutely made unapprehensive of any body else?—Might I have any hopes
+of her returning favour, if Miss Howe could be prevailed upon to
+intercede for me?
+
+Miss Howe prevailed upon to intercede for you! repeated she, with a
+scornful bridle, but a very pretty one.—And there she stopt.
+
+I repeated the concern it would be to me to be under a necessity of
+mentioning the misunderstanding to Lady Betty and my cousin, as a
+misunderstanding still to be made up; and as if I were of very little
+consequence to a dear creature who was of so much to me; urging, that
+these circumstances would extremely lower me not only in my own
+opinion, but in that of my relations.
+
+But still she referred to Miss Howe’s next letter; and all the
+concession I could bring her to in this whole conference, was, that she
+would wait the arrival and visit of the two ladies, if they came in a
+day or two, or before she received the expected letter from Miss Howe.
+
+Thank Heaven for this! thought I. And now may I go to town with hopes
+at my return to find thee, dearest, where I shall leave thee.
+
+But yet, as she may find reasons to change her mind in my absence, I
+shall not entirely trust to this. My fellow, therefore, who is in the
+house, and who, by Mrs. Bevis’s kind intelligence, will know every step
+she can take, shall have Andrew and a horse ready, to give me immediate
+notice of her motions; and moreover, go whither she will, he shall be
+one of her retinue, though unknown to herself, if possible.
+
+This was all I could make of the fair inexorable. Should I be glad of
+it, or sorry for it?—
+
+Glad I believe: and yet my pride is confoundedly abated, to think that
+I had so little hold in the affections of this daughter of the
+Harlowes.
+
+Don’t tell me that virtue and principle are her guides on this
+occasion!—’Tis pride, a greater pride than my own, that governs her.
+Love, she has none, thou seest; nor ever had; at least not in a
+superior degree. Love, that deserves the name, never was under the
+dominion of prudence, or of any reasoning power. She cannot bear to be
+thought a woman, I warrant! And if, in the last attempt, I find her not
+one, what will she be the worse for the trial?—No one is to blame for
+suffering an evil he cannot shun or avoid.
+
+Were a general to be overpowered, and robbed by a highwayman, would he
+be less fit for the command of an army on that account?—If indeed the
+general, pretending great valour, and having boasted that he never
+would be robbed, were to make but faint resistance when he was brought
+to the test, and to yield his purse when he was master of his own
+sword, then indeed will the highwayman who robs him be thought the
+braver man.
+
+But from these last conferences am I furnished with one argument in
+defence of my favourite purpose, which I never yet pleaded.
+
+O Jack! what a difficulty must a man be allowed to have to conquer a
+predominant passion, be it what it will, when the gratifying of it is
+in his power, however wrong he knows it to be to resolve to gratify it!
+Reflect upon this; and then wilt thou be able to account for, if not to
+excuse, a projected crime, which has habit to plead for it, in a breast
+as stormy as uncontroulable!
+
+This that follows is my new argument—
+
+Should she fail in the trial; should I succeed; and should she refuse
+to go on with me; and even resolve not to marry me (of which I can have
+no notion); and should she disdain to be obliged to me for the handsome
+provision I should be proud to make for her, even to the half of my
+estate; yet cannot she be altogether unhappy—Is she not entitled to an
+independent fortune? Will not Col. Morden, as her trustee, put her in
+possession of it? And did she not in our former conference point out
+the way of life, that she always preferred to the married life—to wit,
+‘To take her good Norton for her directress and guide, and to live upon
+her own estate in the manner her grandfather desired she should live?’*
+
+* See Letter III. of this volume.
+
+It is moreover to be considered that she cannot, according to her own
+notions, recover above one half of her fame, were we not to intermarry;
+so much does she think she has suffered by her going off with me. And
+will she not be always repining and mourning for the loss of the other
+half?—And if she must live a life of such uneasiness and regret for
+half, may she not as well repine and mourn for the whole?
+
+Nor, let me tell thee, will her own scheme or penitence, in this case,
+be half so perfect, if she do not fall, as if she does: for what a
+foolish penitent will she make, who has nothing to repent of!—She
+piques herself, thou knowest, and makes it matter of reproach to me,
+that she went not off with me by her own consent; but was tricked out
+of herself.
+
+Nor upbraid thou me upon the meditated breach of vows so repeatedly
+made. She will not, thou seest, permit me to fulfil them. And if she
+would, this I have to say, that, at the time I made the most solemn of
+them, I was fully determined to keep them. But what prince thinks
+himself obliged any longer to observe the articles of treaties, the
+most sacredly sworn to, than suits with his interest or inclination;
+although the consequence of the infraction must be, as he knows, the
+destruction of thousands.
+
+Is not this then the result of all, that Miss Clarissa Harlowe, if it
+be not her own fault, may be as virtuous after she has lost her honour,
+as it is called, as she was before? She may be a more eminent example
+to her sex; and if she yield (a little yield) in the trial, may be a
+completer penitent. Nor can she, but by her own wilfulness, be reduced
+to low fortunes.
+
+And thus may her old nurse and she; an old coachman; and a pair of old
+coach-horses; and two or three old maid-servants, and perhaps a very
+old footman or two, (for every thing will be old and penitential about
+her,) live very comfortably together; reading old sermons, and old
+prayer-books; and relieving old men and old women; and giving old
+lessons, and old warnings, upon new subjects, as well as old ones, to
+the young ladies of her neighbourhood; and so pass on to a good old
+age, doing a great deal of good both by precept and example in her
+generation.
+
+And is a woman who can live thus prettily without controul; who ever
+did prefer, and who still prefers, the single to the married life; and
+who will be enabled to do every thing that the plan she had formed will
+direct her to do; to be said to be ruined, undone, and such sort of
+stuff?—I have no patience with the pretty fools, who use those strong
+words, to describe a transitory evil; an evil which a mere church-form
+makes none?
+
+At this rate of romancing, how many flourishing ruins dost thou, as
+well as I, know? Let us but look about us, and we shall see some of the
+haughtiest and most censorious spirits among our acquaintance of that
+sex now passing for chaste wives, of whom strange stories might be
+told; and others, whose husbands’ hearts have been made to ache for
+their gaieties, both before and after marriage; and yet know not half
+so much of them, as some of us honest fellows could tell them.
+
+But, having thus satisfied myself in relation to the worst that can
+happen to this charming creature; and that it will be her own fault, if
+she be unhappy; I have not at all reflected upon what is likely to be
+my own lot.
+
+This has always been my notion, though Miss Howe grudges us rakes the
+best of the sex, and says, that the worst is too good for us,* that the
+wife of a libertine ought to be pure, spotless, uncontaminated. To what
+purpose has such a one lived a free life, but to know the world, and to
+make his advantages of it!—And, to be very serious, it would be a
+misfortune to the public for two persons, heads of a family, to be both
+bad; since, between two such, a race of varlets might be propagated
+(Lovelaces and Belfords, if thou wilt) who might do great mischief in
+the world.
+
+Thou seest at bottom that I am not an abandoned fellow; and that there
+is a mixture of gravity in me. This, as I grow older, may increase; and
+when my active capacity begins to abate, I may sit down with the
+preacher, and resolve all my past life into vanity and vexation of
+spirit.
+
+This is certain, that I shall never find a woman so well suited to my
+taste as Miss Clarissa Harlowe. I only wish that I may have such a lady
+as her to comfort and adorn my setting sun. I have often thought it
+very unhappy for us both, that so excellent a creature sprang up a
+little too late for my setting out, and a little too early in my
+progress, before I can think of returning. And yet, as I have picked up
+the sweet traveller in my way, I cannot help wishing that she would
+bear me company in the rest of my journey, although she were stepping
+out of her own path to oblige me. And then, perhaps, we could put up in
+the evening at the same inn; and be very happy in each other’s
+conversation; recounting the difficulties and dangers we had passed in
+our way to it.
+
+I imagine that thou wilt be apt to suspect that some passages in this
+letter were written in town. Why, Jack, I cannot but say that the
+Westminster air is a little grosser than that at Hampstead; and the
+conversation of Mrs. Sinclair and the nymphs less innocent than Mrs.
+Moore’s and Miss Rawlins’s. And I think in my heart I can say and write
+those things at one place which I cannot at the other, nor indeed any
+where else.
+
+I came to town about seven this morning—all necessary directions and
+precautions remembered to be given.
+
+I besought the favour of an audience before I set out. I was desirous
+to see which of her lovely faces she was pleased to put on, after
+another night had passed. But she was resolved, I found, to leave our
+quarrel open. She would not give me an opportunity so much as to
+entreat her again to close it, before the arrival of Lady Betty and my
+cousin.
+
+I had notice from my proctor, by a few lines brought by a man and
+horse, just before I set out, that all difficulties had been for two
+days past surmounted; and that I might have the license for fetching.
+
+I sent up the letter to my beloved, by Mrs. Bevis, with a repeated
+request for admittance to her presence upon it; but neither did this
+stand me in stead. I suppose she thought it would be allowing of the
+consequences that were naturally to be expected to follow the obtaining
+of this instrument, if she had consented to see me on the contents of
+this letter, having refused me that honour before I sent it up to
+her.—No surprising her.—No advantage to be taken of her inattention to
+the nicest circumstances.
+
+And now, Belford, I set out upon business.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER IX
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. MONDAY, JUNE 12.
+
+Durst ever see a license, Jack?
+
+‘Edmund, by divine permission, Lord Bishop of London, to our
+well-beloved in Christ, Robert Lovelace, [your servant, my good Lord!
+What have I done to merit so much goodness, who never saw your Lordship
+in my life?] of the parish of St. Martin’s in the Fields, bachelor, and
+Clarissa Harlowe, of the same parish, spinster, sendeth
+greeting.—WHEREAS ye are, as is alleged, determined to enter into the
+holy state of Matrimony [this is only alleged, thou observest] by and
+with the consent of, &c. &c. &c. and are very desirous of obtaining
+your marriage to be solemnized in the face of the church: We are
+willing that your honest desires [honest desires, Jack!] may more
+speedily have their due effect: and therefore, that ye may be able to
+procure such Marriage to be freely and lawfully solemnized in the
+parish church of St. Martin’s in the Fields, or St. Giles’s in the
+Fields, in the county of Middlesex, by the Rector, Vicar, or Curate
+thereof, at any time of the year, [at ANY time of the year, Jack!]
+without publication of bans: Provided, that by reason of any
+pre-contract, [I verily think that I have had three or four
+pre-contracts in my time; but the good girls have not claimed upon them
+of a long while,] consanguinity, affinity, or any other lawful cause
+whatsoever, there be no lawful impediment on this behalf; and that
+there be not at this time any action, suit, plaint, quarrel, or demand,
+moved or depending before any judge ecclesiastical or temporal, for or
+concerning any marriage contracted by or with either of you; and that
+the said marriage be openly solemnized in the church above-mentioned,
+between the hours of eight and twelve in the forenoon; and without
+prejudice to the minister of the place where the said woman is a
+parishioner: We do hereby, for good causes, [it cost me—let me see,
+Jack—what did it cost me?] give and grant our License, as well to you
+as to the parties contracting, as to the Rector, Vicar, or Curate of
+the said church, where the said marriage is intended to be solemnized,
+to solemnize the same, in manner and form above specified, according to
+the rites and ceremonies prescribed in the Book of Common Prayer in
+that behalf published by authority of Parliament. Provided always, that
+if hereafter any fraud shall appear to have been committed, at the time
+of granting this License, either by false suggestions, or concealment
+of the truth, [now this, Belford, is a little hard upon us; for I
+cannot say that every one of our suggestions is literally true:—so, in
+good conscience, I ought not to marry under this License;] the License
+shall be void to all intents and purposes, as if the same had not been
+granted. And in that case we do inhibit all ministers whatsoever, if
+any thing of the premises shall come to their knowledge, from
+proceeding to the celebration of the said Marriage; without first
+consulting Us, or our Vicar-general. Given,’ &c.
+
+Then follow the register’s name, and a large pendent seal, with these
+words round it—SEAL OF THE VICAR-GENERAL AND OFFICIAL PRINCIPAL OF THE
+DIOCESE OF LONDON.
+
+A good whimsical instrument, take it altogether! But what, thinkest
+thou, are the arms to this matrimonial harbinger?—Why, in the first
+place, two crossed swords; to show that marriage is a state of offence
+as well as defence; three lions; to denote that those who enter into
+the state ought to have a triple proportion of courage. And [couldst
+thou have imagined that these priestly fellows, in so solemn a case,
+would cut their jokes upon poor souls who came to have their honest
+desires put in a way to be gratified;] there are three crooked horns,
+smartly top-knotted with ribands; which being the ladies’ wear, seem to
+indicate that they may very probably adorn, as well as bestow, the
+bull’s feather.
+
+To describe it according to heraldry art, if I am not mistaken—gules,
+two swords, saltire-wise, or; second coat, a chevron sable between
+three bugle-horns, OR [so it ought to be]: on a chief of the second,
+three lions rampant of the first—but the devil take them for their
+hieroglyphics, should I say, if I were determined in good earnest to
+marry!
+
+And determined to marry I would be, were it not for this consideration,
+that once married, and I am married for life.
+
+That’s the plague of it!—Could a man do as the birds do, change every
+Valentine’s day, [a natural appointment! for birds have not the sense,
+forsooth, to fetter themselves, as we wiseacre men take great and
+solemn pains to do,] there would be nothing at all in it. And what a
+glorious time would the lawyers have, on the one hand, with their
+_noverini universi’s_, and suits commenceable on restitution of goods
+and chattels; and the parsons, on the other, with their indulgencies
+[renewable annually, as other licenses] to the honest desires of their
+clients?
+
+Then, were a stated mullet, according to rank or fortune, to be paid on
+every change, towards the exigencies of the state [but none on renewals
+with the old lives, for the sake of encouraging constancy, especially
+among the _minores_] the change would be made sufficiently difficult,
+and the whole public would be the better for it; while those children,
+which the parents could not agree about maintaining, might be
+considered as the children of the public, and provided for like the
+children of the antient Spartans; who were (as ours would in this case
+be) a nation of heroes. How, Jack, could I have improved upon
+Lycurgus’s institutions had I been a lawgiver!
+
+Did I never show thee a scheme which I drew up on such a notion as
+this?—In which I demonstrated the conveniencies, and obviated the
+inconveniencies, of changing the present mode to this? I believe I
+never did.
+
+I remember I proved to a demonstration, that such a change would be a
+mean of annihilating, absolutely annihilating, four or five very
+atrocious and capital sins.—Rapes, vulgarly so called; adultery, and
+fornication; nor would polygamy be panted after. Frequently would it
+prevent murders and duelling; hardly any such thing as jealousy (the
+cause of shocking violences) would be heard of: and hypocrisy between
+man and wife be banished the bosoms of each. Nor, probably, would the
+reproach of barrenness rest, as it now too often does, where it is
+least deserved.—Nor would there possibly be such a person as a barren
+woman.
+
+Moreover, what a multitude of domestic quarrels would be avoided, where
+such a scheme carried into execution? Since both sexes would bear with
+each other, in the view that they could help themselves in a few
+months.
+
+And then what a charming subject for conversation would be the gallant
+and generous last partings between man and wife! Each, perhaps, a new
+mate in eye, and rejoicing secretly in the manumission, could afford to
+be complaisantly sorrowful in appearance. ‘He presented her with this
+jewel, it will be said by the reporter, for example sake: she him with
+that. How he wept! How she sobb’d! How they looked after one another!’
+Yet, that’s the jest of it, neither of them wishing to stand another
+twelvemonth’s trial.
+
+And if giddy fellows, or giddy girls, misbehave in a first marriage,
+whether from noviceship, having expected to find more in the matter
+than can be found; or from perverseness on her part, or positiveness on
+his, each being mistaken in the other [a mighty difference, Jack, in
+the same person, an inmate or a visiter]; what a fine opportunity will
+each have, by this scheme, of recovering a lost character, and of
+setting all right in the next adventure?
+
+And, O Jack! with what joy, with what rapture, would the changelings
+(or changeables, if thou like that word better) number the weeks, the
+days, the hours, as the annual obligation approached to its desirable
+period!
+
+As for the spleen or vapours, no such malady would be known or heard
+of. The physical tribe would, indeed, be the sufferers, and the only
+sufferers; since fresh health and fresh spirits, the consequences of
+sweet blood and sweet humours (the mind and body continually pleased
+with each other) would perpetually flow in; and the joys of
+expectation, the highest of all our joys, would invigorate and keep all
+alive.
+
+But, that no body of men might suffer, the physicians, I thought, might
+turn parsons, as there would be a great demand for parsons. Besides, as
+they would be partakers in the general benefit, they must be sorry
+fellows indeed if they preferred themselves to the public.
+
+Every one would be married a dozen times at least. Both men and women
+would be careful of their characters and polite in their behaviour, as
+well as delicate in their persons, and elegant in their dress, [a great
+matter each of these, let me tell thee, to keep passion alive,] either
+to induce a renewal with the old love, or to recommend themselves to a
+new. While the newspapers would be crowded with paragraphs; all the
+world their readers, as all the world would be concerned to see who and
+who’s together—
+
+‘Yesterday, for instance, entered into the holy state of matrimony,’
+[we should all speak reverently of matrimony, then,] ‘the right
+Honourable Robert Earl Lovelace’ [I shall be an earl by that time,]
+‘with her Grace the Duchess Dowager of Fifty-manors; his Lordship’s
+one-and-thirtieth wife.’—I shall then be contented, perhaps, to take
+up, as it is called, with a widow. But she must not have had more than
+one husband neither. Thou knowest that I am nice in these particulars.
+
+I know, Jack, that thou for thy part, wilt approve of my scheme.
+
+As Lord M. and I, between us, have three or four boroughs at command, I
+think I will get into parliament, in order to bring in a bill for this
+good purpose.
+
+Neither will the house of parliament, nor the houses of convocation,
+have reason to object it. And all the courts, whether spiritual or
+sensual, civil or uncivil, will find their account in it when passed
+into a law.
+
+By my soul, Jack, I should be apprehensive of a general insurrection,
+and that incited by the women, were such a bill to be thrown out.—For
+here is the excellency of the scheme: the women will have equal reason
+with the men to be pleased with it.
+
+Dost think, that old prerogative Harlowe, for example, must not, if
+such a law were in being, have pulled in his horns?—So excellent a wife
+as he has, would never else have renewed with such a gloomy tyrant:
+who, as well as all other married tyrants, must have been upon good
+behaviour from year to year.
+
+A termagant wife, if such a law were to pass, would be a phoenix.
+
+The churches would be the only market-place for the fair sex; and
+domestic excellence the capital recommendation.
+
+Nor would there be an old maid in Great Britain, and all its
+territories. For what an odd soul must she be who could not have her
+twelvemonth’s trial?
+
+In short, a total alteration for the better, in the morals and way of
+life in both sexes, must, in a very few years, be the consequence of
+such a salutary law.
+
+Who would have expected such a one from me! I wish the devil owe me not
+a spite for it.
+
+Then would not the distinction be very pretty, Jack? as in
+flowers;—such a gentleman, or such a lady, is an ANNUAL—such a one is a
+PERENNIAL.
+
+One difficulty, however, as I remember, occurred to me, upon the
+probability that a wife might be _enceinte_, as the lawyers call it.
+But thus I obviated it—
+
+That no man should be allowed to marry another woman without his then
+wife’s consent, till she were brought-to-bed, and he had defrayed all
+incident charges; and till it was agreed upon between them whether the
+child should be his, her’s, or the public’s. The women in this case to
+have what I call the coercive option; for I would not have it in the
+man’s power to be a dog neither.
+
+And, indeed, I gave the turn of the scale in every part of my scheme in
+the women’s favour: for dearly do I love the sweet rogues.
+
+How infinitely more preferable this my scheme to the polygamy one of
+the old patriarchs; who had wives and concubines without number!—I
+believe David and Solomon had their hundreds at a time. Had they not,
+Jack?
+
+Let me add, that annual parliaments, and annual marriages, are the
+projects next my heart. How could I expatiate upon the benefits that
+would arise from both!
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER X
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
+
+
+Well, but now my plots thicken; and my employment of writing to thee on
+this subject will soon come to a conclusion. For now, having got the
+license; and Mrs. Townsend with her tars, being to come to Hampstead
+next Wednesday or Thursday; and another letter possibly, or message
+from Miss Howe, to inquire how Miss Harlowe does, upon the rustic’s
+report of her ill health, and to express her wonder that she has not
+heard from her in answer to her’s on her escape; I must soon blow up
+the lady, or be blown up myself. And so I am preparing, with Lady Betty
+and my cousin Montague, to wait upon my beloved with a coach-and-four,
+or a sett; for Lady Betty will not stir out with a pair for the world;
+though but for two or three miles. And this is a well-known part of her
+character.
+
+But as to the arms and crest upon the coach and trappings?
+
+Dost thou not know that a Blunt’s must supply her, while her own is new
+lining and repairing? An opportunity she is willing to take now she is
+in town. Nothing of this kind can be done to her mind in the country.
+Liveries nearly Lady Betty’s.
+
+Thou hast seen Lady Betty Lawrance several times—hast thou not,
+Belford?
+
+No, never in my life.
+
+But thou hast—and lain with her too; or fame does thee more credit than
+thou deservest—Why, Jack, knowest thou not Lady Betty’s other name?
+
+Other name!—Has she two?
+
+She has. And what thinkest thou of Lady Bab. Wallis?
+
+O the devil!
+
+Now thou hast it. Lady Barbara thou knowest, lifted up in
+circumstances, and by pride, never appears or produces herself, but on
+occasions special—to pass to men of quality or price, for a duchess, or
+countess, at least. She has always been admired for a grandeur in her
+air, that few women of quality can come up to; and never was supposed
+to be other than what she passed for; though often and often a paramour
+for lords.
+
+And who, thinkest thou, is my cousin Montague?
+
+Nay, how should I know?
+
+How indeed! Why, my little Johanetta Golding, a lively, yet
+modest-looking girl, is my cousin Montague.
+
+There, Belford, is an aunt!—There’s a cousin!—Both have wit at will.
+Both are accustomed to ape quality.—Both are genteelly descended.
+Mistresses of themselves, and well educated—yet past pity.—True Spartan
+dames; ashamed of nothing but detection—always, therefore, upon their
+guard against that. And in their own conceit, when assuming top parts,
+the very quality they ape.
+
+And how dost think I dress them out?—I’ll tell thee.
+
+Lady Betty in a rich gold tissue, adorned with jewels of high price.
+
+My cousin Montague in a pale pink, standing on end with silver flowers
+of her own working. Charlotte as well as my beloved is admirable at her
+needle. Not quite so richly jewell’d out as Lady Betty; but ear-rings
+and solitaire very valuable, and infinitely becoming.
+
+Johanetta, thou knowest, has a good complexion, a fine neck, and ears
+remarkably fine—so has Charlotte. She is nearly of Charlotte’s stature
+too.
+
+Laces both, the richest that could be procured.
+
+Thou canst not imagine what a sum the loan of the jewels cost me,
+though but for three days.
+
+This sweet girl will half ruin me. But seest thou not, by this time,
+that her reign is short!—It must be so. And Mrs. Sinclair has already
+prepared every thing for her reception once more.
+
+
+Here come the ladies—attended by Susan Morrison, a tenant-farmer’s
+daughter, as Lady Betty’s woman; with her hands before her, and
+thoroughly instructed.
+
+How dress advantages women!—especially those who have naturally a
+genteel air and turn, and have had education.
+
+Hadst thou seen how they paraded it—Cousin, and Cousin, and Nephew, at
+every word; Lady Betty bridling and looking
+haughtily-condescending.—Charlotte galanting her fan, and swimming over
+the floor without touching it.
+
+How I long to see my niece-elect! cries one—for they are told that we
+are not married; and are pleased that I have not put the slight upon
+them that they had apprehended from me.
+
+How I long to see my dear cousin that is to be, the other!
+
+Your La’ship, and your La’ship, and an awkward courtesy at every
+address—prim Susan Morrison.
+
+Top your parts, ye villains!—You know how nicely I distinguish. There
+will be no passion in this case to blind the judgment, and to help on
+meditated delusion, as when you engage with titled sinners. My charmer
+is as cool and as distinguishing, though not quite so learned in her
+own sex, as I am. Your commonly-assumed dignity won’t do for me now.
+Airs of superiority, as if born to rank.—But no over-do!—Doubting
+nothing. Let not your faces arraign your hearts.
+
+Easy and unaffected!—Your very dresses will give you pride enough.
+
+A little graver, Lady Betty.—More significance, less bridling in your
+dignity.
+
+That’s the air! Charmingly hit——Again——You have it.
+
+Devil take you!—Less arrogance. You are got into airs of young quality.
+Be less sensible of your new condition. People born to dignity command
+respect without needing to require it.
+
+Now for your part, Cousin Charlotte!—
+
+Pretty well. But a little too frolicky that air.—Yet have I prepared my
+beloved to expect in you both great vivacity and quality-freedom.
+
+Curse those eyes!—Those glancings will never do. A down-cast bashful
+turn, if you can command it. Look upon me. Suppose me now to be my
+beloved.
+
+Devil take that leer. Too significantly arch!—Once I knew you the girl
+I would now have you to be.
+
+Sprightly, but not confident, cousin Charlotte!—Be sure forget not to
+look down, or aside, when looked at. When eyes meet eyes, be your’s the
+retreating ones. Your face will bear examination.
+
+O Lord! Lord! that so young a creature can so soon forget the innocent
+appearance she first charmed by; and which I thought born with you
+all!—Five years to ruin what twenty had been building up! How natural
+the latter lesson! How difficult to regain the former!
+
+A stranger, as I hope to be saved, to the principal arts of your
+sex!—Once more, what a devil has your heart to do in your eyes?
+
+Have I not told you, that my beloved is a great observer of the eyes?
+She once quoted upon me a text,* which showed me how she came by her
+knowledge—Dorcas’s were found guilty of treason the first moment she
+saw her.
+
+* Eccles. xxvi. The whoredom of a woman may be known in her haughty
+looks and eye-lids. Watch over an impudent eye, and marvel not if it
+trespass against thee.
+
+Once more, suppose me to be my charmer.—Now you are to encounter my
+examining eye, and my doubting heart—
+
+That’s my dear!
+
+Study that air in the pier-glass!—
+
+Charmingly!—Perfectly right!
+
+Your honours, now, devils!—
+
+Pretty well, Cousin Charlotte, for a young country lady! Till form
+yields to familiarity, you may courtesy low. You must not be supposed
+to have forgot your boarding-school airs.
+
+But too low, too low Lady Betty, for your years and your quality. The
+common fault of your sex will be your danger: aiming to be young too
+long!—The devil’s in you all, when you judge of yourselves by your
+wishes, and by your vanity! Fifty, in that case, is never more than
+fifteen.
+
+Graceful ease, conscious dignity, like that of my charmer, Oh! how hard
+to hit!
+
+Both together now—
+
+Charming!—That’s the air, Lady Betty!—That’s the cue, Cousin Charlotte,
+suited to the character of each!—But, once more, be sure to have a
+guard upon your eyes.
+
+Never fear, Nephew!—
+
+Never fear, Cousin.
+
+A dram of Barbadoes each—
+
+And now we are gone—
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XI
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. AT MRS. SINCLAIR’S, MONDAY
+AFTERNOON.
+
+All’s right, as heart can wish!—In spite of all objection—in spite of a
+reluctance next to faintings—in spite of all foresight, vigilance,
+suspicion—once more is the charmer of my soul in her old lodgings!
+
+Now throbs away every pulse! Now thump, thump, thumps my bounding heart
+for something!
+
+But I have not time for the particulars of our management.
+
+My beloved is now directing some of her clothes to be packed up—never
+more to enter this house! Nor ever more will she, I dare say, when once
+again out of it!
+
+Yet not so much as a condition of forgiveness!—The Harlowe-spirited
+fair-one will not deserve my mercy!—She will wait for Miss Howe’s next
+letter; and then, if she find a difficulty in her new schemes, [Thank
+her for nothing,]—will—will what? Why even then will take time to
+consider, whether I am to be forgiven, or for ever rejected. An
+indifference that revives in my heart the remembrance of a thousand of
+the like nature.—And yet Lady Betty and Miss Montague, [a man would be
+tempted to think, Jack, that they wish her to provoke my vengeance,]
+declare, that I ought to be satisfied with such a proud suspension!
+
+They are entirely attached to her. Whatever she says, is, must be,
+gospel! They are guarantees for her return to Hampstead this night.
+They are to go back with her. A supper bespoken by Lady Betty at Mrs.
+Moore’s. All the vacant apartments there, by my permission, (for I had
+engaged them for a month certain,) to be filled with them and their
+attendants, for a week at least, or till they can prevail upon the dear
+perverse, as they hope they shall, to restore me to her favour, and to
+accompany Lady Betty to Oxfordshire.
+
+The dear creature has thus far condescended—that she will write to Miss
+Howe and acquaint her with the present situation of things.
+
+If she write, I shall see what she writes. But I believe she will have
+other employment soon.
+
+Lady Betty is sure, she tells her, that she shall prevail upon her to
+forgive me; though she dares say, that I deserve not forgiveness. Lady
+Betty is too delicate to inquire strictly into the nature of my
+offence. But it must be an offence against herself, against Miss
+Montague, against the virtuous of the whole sex, or it could not be so
+highly resented. Yet she will not leave her till she forgive me, and
+till she see our nuptials privately celebrated. Mean time, as she
+approves of her uncle’s expedient, she will address her as already my
+wife before strangers.
+
+Stedman, her solicitor, may attend her for orders in relation to her
+chancery affair, at Hampstead. Not one hour they can be favoured with,
+will they lose from the company and conversation of so dear, so
+charming a new relation.
+
+Hard then if she had not obliged them with her company in their
+coach-and-four, to and from their cousin Leeson’s, who longed, (as they
+themselves had done,) to see a lady so justly celebrated.
+
+‘How will Lord M. be raptured when he sees her, and can salute her as
+his niece!
+
+‘How will Lady Sarah bless herself!—She will now think her loss of the
+dear daughter she mourns for happily supplied!’
+
+Miss Montague dwells upon every word that falls from her lips. She
+perfectly adores her new cousin—‘For her cousin she must be. And her
+cousin will she call her! She answers for equal admiration in her
+sister Patty.
+
+‘Ay, cry I, (whispering loud enough for her to hear,) how will my
+cousin Patty’s dove’s eyes glisten and run over, on the very first
+interview!—So gracious, so noble, so unaffected a dear creature!’
+
+‘What a happy family,’ chorus we all, ‘will our’s be!’
+
+These and such like congratulatory admirations every hour repeated. Her
+modesty hurt by the ecstatic praises:—‘Her graces are too natural to
+herself for her to be proud of them: but she must be content to be
+punished for excellencies that cast a shade upon the most excellent!’
+
+In short, we are here, as at Hampstead, all joy and rapture—all of us
+except my beloved; in whose sweet face, [her almost fainting reluctance
+to re-enter these doors not overcome,] reigns a kind of anxious
+serenity!—But how will even that be changed in a few hours!
+
+Methinks I begin to pity the half-apprehensive beauty!—But avaunt, thou
+unseasonably-intruding pity! Thou hast more than once already well nigh
+undone me! And, adieu, reflection! Begone, consideration! and
+commiseration! I dismiss ye all, for at least a week to come!—But
+remembered her broken word! Her flight, when my fond soul was
+meditating mercy to her!—Be remembered her treatment of me in her
+letter on her escape to Hampstead! Her Hampstead virulence! What is it
+she ought not to expect from an unchained Beelzebub, and a plotting
+villain?
+
+Be her preference of the single life to me also remembered!—That she
+despises me!—That she even refuses to be my WIFE!—A proud Lovelace to
+be denied a wife!—To be more proudly rejected by a daughter of the
+Harlowes!—The ladies of my own family, [she thinks them the ladies of
+my family,] supplicating in vain for her returning favour to their
+despised kinsman, and taking laws from her still prouder punctilio!
+
+Be the execrations of her vixen friend likewise remembered, poured out
+upon me from her representations, and thereby made her own execrations!
+
+Be remembered still more particularly the Townsend plot, set on foot
+between them, and now, in a day or two, ready to break out; and the
+sordid threatening thrown out against me by that little fury!
+
+Is not this the crisis for which I have been long waiting? Shall
+Tomlinson, shall these women be engaged; shall so many engines be set
+at work, at an immense expense, with infinite contrivance; and all to
+no purpose?
+
+Is not this the hour of her trial—and in her, of the trial of the
+virtue of her whole sex, so long premeditated, so long
+threatened?—Whether her frost be frost indeed? Whether her virtue be
+principle? Whether, if once subdued, she will not be always subdued?
+And will she not want the crown of her glory, the proof of her till now
+all-surpassing excellence, if I stop short of the ultimate trial?
+
+Now is the end of purposes long over-awed, often suspended, at hand.
+And need I go throw the sins of her cursed family into the too-weighty
+scale?
+
+[Abhorred be force!—be the thoughts of force!—There’s no triumph over
+the will in force!] This I know I have said.* But would I not have
+avoided it, if I could? Have I not tried every other method? And have I
+any other resource left me? Can she resent the last outrage more than
+she has resented a fainter effort?—And if her resentments run ever so
+high, cannot I repair by matrimony?—She will not refuse me, I know,
+Jack: the haughty beauty will not refuse me, when her pride of being
+corporally inviolate is brought down; when she can tell no tales, but
+when, (be her resistance what it will,) even her own sex will suspect a
+yielding in resistance; and when that modesty, which may fill her bosom
+with resentment, will lock up her speech.
+
+* Vol. IV. Letter XLVIII.
+
+But how know I, that I have not made my own difficulties? Is she not a
+woman! What redress lies for a perpetuated evil? Must she not live? Her
+piety will secure her life.—And will not time be my friend! What, in a
+word, will be her behaviour afterwards?—She cannot fly me!—She must
+forgive me—and as I have often said, once forgiven, will be for ever
+forgiven.
+
+Why then should this enervating pity unsteel my foolish heart?
+
+It shall not. All these things will I remember; and think of nothing
+else, in order to keep up a resolution, which the women about me will
+have it I shall be still unable to hold.
+
+I’ll teach the dear, charming creature to emulate me in contrivance;
+I’ll teach her to weave webs and plots against her conqueror! I’ll show
+her, that in her smuggling schemes she is but a spider compared to me,
+and that she has all this time been spinning only a cobweb!
+
+
+What shall we do now! we are immersed in the depth of grief and
+apprehension! How ill do women bear disappointment!—Set upon going to
+Hampstead, and upon quitting for ever a house she re-entered with
+infinite reluctance; what things she intended to take with her ready
+packed up, herself on tiptoe to be gone, and I prepared to attend her
+thither; she begins to be afraid that she shall not go this night; and
+in grief and despair has flung herself into her old apartment; locked
+herself in; and through the key-hole Dorcas sees her on her knees,
+praying, I suppose, for a safe deliverance.
+
+And from what? and wherefore these agonizing apprehensions?
+
+Why, here, this unkind Lady Betty, with the dear creature’s knowledge,
+though to her concern, and this mad-headed cousin Montague without it,
+while she was employed in directing her package, have hurried away in
+the coach to their own lodgings, [only, indeed, to put up some
+night-clothes, and so forth, in order to attend their sweet cousin to
+Hampstead;] and, no less to my surprise than her’s, are not yet
+returned.
+
+I have sent to know the meaning of it.
+
+In a great hurry of spirits, she would have had me to go myself. Hardly
+any pacifying her! The girl, God bless her! is wild with her own idle
+apprehensions! What is she afraid of?
+
+I curse them both for their delay. My tardy villain, how he stays!
+Devil fetch them! let them send their coach, and we’ll go without them.
+In her hearing I bid the fellow tell them so. Perhaps he stays to bring
+the coach, if any thing happens to hinder the ladies from attending my
+beloved this night.
+
+
+Devil take them, again say I! They promised too they would not stay,
+because it was but two nights ago that a chariot was robbed at the foot
+of Hampstead-hill, which alarmed my fair-one when told of it!
+
+Oh! here’s Lady Betty’s servant, with a billet.
+
+TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. MONDAY NIGHT.
+
+Excuse us, my dear Nephew, I beseech you, to my dearest kinswoman. One
+night cannot break squares: for here Miss Montague has been taken
+violently ill with three fainting fits, one after another. The hurry of
+her joy, I believe, to find your dear lady so much surpass all
+expectations, [never did family love, you know, reign so strong as
+among us,] and the too eager desire she had to attend her, have
+occasioned it! For she has but weak spirits, poor girl! well as she
+looks.
+
+If she be better, we will certainly go with you tomorrow morning, after
+we have breakfasted with her, at your lodgings. But whether she be, or
+not, I will do myself the pleasure to attend your lady to Hampstead;
+and will be with you for that purpose about nine in the morning. With
+due compliments to your most worthily beloved, I am
+
+Your’s affectionately, ELIZAB. LAWRANCE.
+
+
+Faith and troth, Jack, I know not what to do with myself; for here,
+just now having sent in the above note by Dorcas, out came my beloved
+with it in her hand, in a fit of phrensy!—true, by my soul!
+
+She had indeed complained of her head all the evening.
+
+Dorcas ran to me, out of breath, to tell me, that her lady was coming
+in some strange way; but she followed her so quick, that the frighted
+wench had not time to say in what way.
+
+It seems, when she read the billet—Now indeed, said she, am I a lost
+creature! O the poor Clarissa Harlowe!
+
+She tore off her head-clothes; inquired where I was; and in she came,
+her shining tresses flowing about her neck; her ruffles torn, and
+hanging in tatters about her snowy hands, with her arms spread out—her
+eyes wildly turned, as if starting from their orbits—down sunk she at
+my feet, as soon as she approached me; her charming bosom heaving to
+her uplifted face; and clasping her arms about my knees, Dear Lovelace,
+said she, if ever—if ever—if ever—and, unable to speak another word,
+quitting her clasping hold—down—prostrate on the floor sunk she,
+neither in a fit nor out of one.
+
+I was quite astonished.—All my purposes suspended for a few moments, I
+knew neither what to say, nor what to do. But, recollecting myself, am
+I again, thought I, in a way to be overcome, and made a fool of!—If I
+now recede, I am gone for ever.
+
+I raised her; but down she sunk, as if quite disjointed—her limbs
+failing her—yet not in a fit neither. I never heard of or saw such a
+dear unaccountable; almost lifeless, and speechless too for a few
+moments; what must her apprehensions be at that moment?—And for
+what?—An high-notioned dear soul!—Pretty ignorance!—thought I.
+
+Never having met with so sincere, so unquestionable a repugnance, I was
+staggered—I was confounded—yet how should I know that it would be so
+till I tried?—And how, having proceeded thus far, could I stop, were I
+not to have had the women to goad me on, and to make light of
+circumstances, which they pretended to be better judges of than I?
+
+I lifted her, however, into a chair, and in words of disordered
+passion, told her, all her fears were needless—wondered at them—begged
+of her to be pacified—besought her reliance on my faith and honour—and
+revowed all my old vows, and poured forth new ones.
+
+At last, with a heart-breaking sob, I see, I see, Mr. Lovelace, in
+broken sentences she spoke—I see, I see—that at last—I am
+ruined!—Ruined, if your pity—let me implore your pity!—and down on her
+bosom, like a half-broken-stalked lily top-heavy with the overcharging
+dews of the morning, sunk her head, with a sigh that went to my heart.
+
+All I could think of to re-assure her, when a little recovered, I said.
+
+Why did I not send for their coach, as I had intimated? It might return
+in the morning for the ladies.
+
+I had actually done so, I told her, on seeing her strange uneasiness.
+But it was then gone to fetch a doctor for Miss Montague, lest his
+chariot should not be so ready.
+
+Ah! Lovelace! said she, with a doubting face; anguish in her imploring
+eye.
+
+Lady Betty would think it very strange, I told her, if she were to know
+it was so disagreeable to her to stay one night for her company in the
+house where she had passed so many.
+
+She called me names upon this—she had called me names before.—I was
+patient.
+
+Let her go to Lady Betty’s lodgings then; directly go; if the person I
+called Lady Betty was really Lady Betty.
+
+If, my dear! Good Heaven! What a villain does that IF show you believe
+me to be!
+
+I cannot help it—I beseech you once more, let me go to Mrs. Leeson’s,
+if that IF ought not to be said.
+
+Then assuming a more resolute spirit—I will go! I will inquire my
+way!—I will go by myself!—and would have rushed by me.
+
+I folded my arms about her to detain her; pleading the bad way I heard
+poor Charlotte was in; and what a farther concern her impatience, if
+she went, would give to poor Charlotte.
+
+She would believe nothing I said, unless I would instantly order a
+coach, (since she was not to have Lady Betty’s, nor was permitted to go
+to Mrs. Leeson’s,) and let her go in it to Hampstead, late as it was,
+and all alone, so much the better; for in the house of people of whom
+Lady Betty, upon inquiry, had heard a bad character, [Dropt foolishly
+this, by my prating new relation, in order to do credit to herself, by
+depreciating others,] every thing, and every face, looking with so much
+meaning vileness, as well as my own, [thou art still too sensible,
+thought I, my charmer!] she was resolved not to stay another night.
+
+Dreading what might happen as to her intellects, and being very
+apprehensive that she might possibly go through a great deal before
+morning, (though more violent she could not well be with the worst she
+dreaded,) I humoured her, and ordered Will. to endeavour to get a coach
+directly, to carry us to Hampstead; I cared not at what price.
+
+Robbers, with whom I would have terrified her, she feared not—I was all
+her fear, I found; and this house her terror: for I saw plainly that
+she now believed that Lady Betty and Miss Montague were both impostors.
+
+But her mistrust is a little of the latest to do her service!
+
+And, O Jack, the rage of love, the rage of revenge is upon me! by turns
+they tear me! The progress already made—the women’s instigations—the
+power I shall have to try her to the utmost, and still to marry her, if
+she be not to be brought to cohabitation—let me perish, Belford, if she
+escape me now!
+
+
+Will. is not yet come back. Near eleven.
+
+
+Will. is this moment returned. No coach to be got, either for love or
+money.
+
+Once more she urges—to Mrs. Leeson’s, let me go, Lovelace! Good
+Lovelace, let me go to Mrs. Leeson’s? What is Miss Montague’s illness
+to my terror?—-For the Almighty’s sake, Mr. Lovelace!—her hands
+clasped.
+
+O my angel! What a wildness is this! Do you know, do you see, my
+dearest life, what appearances your causeless apprehensions have given
+you?—Do you know it is past eleven o’clock?
+
+Twelve, one, two, three, four—any hour, I care not—If you mean me
+honourably, let me go out of this hated house!
+
+Thou’lt observe, Belford, that though this was written afterwards, yet,
+(as in other places,) I write it as it was spoken and happened, as if I
+had retired to put down every sentence spoken. I know thou likest this
+lively present-tense manner, as it is one of my peculiars.
+
+Just as she had repeated the last words, If you mean me honourably, let
+me go out of this hated house, in came Mrs. Sinclair, in a great
+ferment—And what, pray, Madam, has this house done to you? Mr.
+Lovelace, you have known me some time; and, if I have not the niceness
+of this lady, I hope I do not deserve to be treated thus!
+
+She set her huge arms akimbo: Hoh! Madam, let me tell you that I am
+amazed at your freedoms with my character! And, Mr. Lovelace, [holding
+up, and violently shaking her head,] if you are a gentleman, and a man
+of honour——
+
+Having never before seen any thing but obsequiousness in this woman,
+little as she liked her, she was frighted at her masculine air, and
+fierce look—God help me! cried she—what will become of me now! Then,
+turning her head hither and thither, in a wild kind of amaze. Whom have
+I for a protector! What will become of me now!
+
+I will be your protector, my dearest love!—But indeed you are
+uncharitably severe upon poor Mrs. Sinclair! Indeed you are!—She is a
+gentlewoman born, and the relict of a man of honour; and though left in
+such circumstance as to oblige her to let lodgings, yet would she scorn
+to be guilty of a wilful baseness.
+
+I hope so—it may be so—I may be mistaken—but—but there is no crime, I
+presume, no treason, to say I don’t like her house.
+
+The old dragon straddled up to her, with her arms kemboed again—her
+eye-brows erect, like the bristles upon a hog’s back, and, scouling
+over her shortened nose, more than half-hid her ferret eyes. Her mouth
+was distorted. She pouted out her blubber-lips, as if to bellows up
+wind and sputter into her horse-nostrils; and her chin was curdled, and
+more than usually prominent with passion.
+
+With two Hoh-Madams she accosted the frighted fair-one; who, terrified,
+caught hold of my sleeve.
+
+I feared she would fall into fits; and, with a look of indignation,
+told Mrs. Sinclair that these apartments were mine; and I could not
+imagine what she meant, either by listening to what passed between me
+and my spouse, or to come in uninvited; and still more I wondered at
+her giving herself these strange liberties.
+
+I may be to blame, Jack, for suffering this wretch to give herself
+these airs; but her coming in was without my orders.
+
+The old beldam, throwing herself into a chair, fell a blubbering and
+exclaiming. And the pacifying of her, and endeavouring to reconcile the
+lady to her, took up till near one o’clock.
+
+And thus, between terror, and the late hour, and what followed, she was
+diverted from the thoughts of getting out of the house to Mrs.
+Leeson’s, or any where else.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XII
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. TUESDAY MORNING, JUNE 13.
+
+And now, Belford, I can go no farther. The affair is over. Clarissa
+lives. And I am
+
+Your humble servant, R. LOVELACE.
+
+[The whole of this black transaction is given by the injured lady to
+Miss Howe, in her subsequent letters, dated Thursday, July 6. See
+Letters LXVII. LXVIII. LXIX.]
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XIII
+
+
+MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. WATFORD, WEDN. JAN. 14.
+
+O thou savage-hearted monster! What work hast thou made in one guilty
+hour, for a whole age of repentance!
+
+I am inexpressibly concerned at the fate of this matchless lady! She
+could not have fallen into the hands of any other man breathing, and
+suffered as she has done with thee.
+
+I had written a great part of another long letter to try to soften thy
+flinty heart in her favour; for I thought it but too likely that thou
+shouldst succeed in getting her back again to the accursed woman’s. But
+I find it would have been too late, had I finished it, and sent it
+away. Yet cannot I forbear writing, to urge thee to make the only
+amends thou now canst make her, by a proper use of the license thou
+hast obtained.
+
+Poor, poor lady! It is a pain to me that I ever saw her. Such an adorer
+of virtue to be sacrificed to the vilest of her sex; and thou their
+implement in the devil’s hand, for a purpose so base, so ungenerous, so
+inhumane!—Pride thyself, O cruellest of men! in this reflection; and
+that thy triumph over a woman, who for thy sake was abandoned of every
+friend she had in the world, was effected; not by advantages taken of
+her weakness and credulity; but by the blackest artifice; after a long
+course of studied deceits had been tried to no purpose.
+
+I can tell thee, it is well either for thee or for me, that I am not
+the brother of the lady. Had I been her brother, her violation must
+have been followed by the blood of one of us.
+
+Excuse me, Lovelace; and let not the lady fare the worse for my concern
+for her. And yet I have but one other motive to ask thy excuse; and
+that is, because I owe to thy own communicative pen the knowledge I
+have of thy barbarous villany, since thou mightest, if thou wouldst,
+have passed it upon me for a common seduction.
+
+CLARISSA LIVES, thou sayest. That she does is my wonder: and these
+words show that thou thyself (though thou couldst, nevertheless,
+proceed) hardly expectedst she would have survived the outrage. What
+must have been the poor lady’s distress (watchful as she had been over
+her honour) when dreadful certainty took place of cruel
+apprehension!—And yet a man may guess what must have been, by that
+which thou paintest, when she suspected herself tricked, deserted, and
+betrayed, by the pretended ladies.
+
+That thou couldst behold her phrensy on this occasion, and her
+half-speechless, half-fainting prostration at thy feet, and yet retain
+thy evil purposes, will hardly be thought credible, even by those who
+know thee, if they have seen her.
+
+Poor, poor lady! With such noble qualities as would have adorned the
+most exalted married life, to fall into the hands of the only man in
+the world, who could have treated her as thou hast treated her!—And to
+let loose the old dragon, as thou properly callest her, upon the
+before-affrighted innocent, what a barbarity was that! What a poor
+piece of barbarity! in order to obtain by terror, what thou dispairedst
+to gain by love, though supported by stratagems the most insidious!
+
+O LOVELACE! LOVELACE! had I doubted it before, I should now be
+convinced, that there must be a WORLD AFTER THIS, to do justice to
+injured merit, and to punish barbarous perfidy! Could the divine
+SOCRATES, and the divine CLARISSA, otherwise have suffered?
+
+But let me, if possible, for one moment, try to forget this villanous
+outrage on the most excellent of women.
+
+I have business here which will hold me yet a few days; and then
+perhaps I shall quit this house for ever.
+
+I have had a solemn and tedious time of it. I should never have known
+that I had half the respect I really find I had for the old gentleman,
+had I not so closely, at his earnest desire, attended him, and been a
+witness of the tortures he underwent.
+
+This melancholy occasion may possibly have contributed to humanize me:
+but surely I never could have been so remorseless a caitiff as thou
+hast been, to a woman of half this lady’s excellence.
+
+But pr’ythee, dear Lovelace, if thou’rt a man, and not a devil,
+resolve, out of hand, to repair thy sin of ingratitude, by conferring
+upon thyself the highest honour thou canst receive, in making her
+lawfully thine.
+
+But if thou canst not prevail upon thyself to do her this justice, I
+think I should not scruple a tilt with thee, [an everlasting rupture at
+least must follow] if thou sacrificest her to the accursed women.
+
+Thou art desirous to know what advantage I reap by my uncle’s demise. I
+do not certainly know; for I have not been so greedily solicitous on
+this subject as some of the kindred have been, who ought to have shown
+more decency, as I have told them, and suffered the corpse to have been
+cold before they had begun their hungry inquiries. But, by what I
+gathered from the poor man’s talk to me, who oftener than I wished
+touched upon the subject, I deem it will be upwards of 5000£. in cash,
+and in the funds, after all legacies paid, besides the real estate,
+which is a clear 1000£. a-year.
+
+I wish, from my heart, thou wert a money-lover! Were the estate to be
+of double the value, thou shouldst have it every shilling; only upon
+one condition [for my circumstances before were as easy as I wish them
+to be while I am single]—that thou wouldst permit me the honour of
+being this fatherless lady’s father, as it is called, at the altar.
+
+Think of this! my dear Lovelace! be honest: and let me present thee
+with the brightest jewel that man ever possessed; and then, body and
+soul, wilt thou bind to thee for ever thy
+
+BELFORD.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XIV
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. THURSDAY, JUNE 15.
+
+Let me alone, you great dog, you!—let me alone!—have I heard a lesser
+boy, his coward arms held over his head and face, say to a bigger, who
+was pommeling him, for having run away with his apple, his orange, or
+his ginger-bread.
+
+So say I to thee, on occasion of thy severity to thy poor friend, who,
+as thou ownest, has furnished thee (ungenerous as thou art!) with the
+weapons thou brandishest so fearfully against him.—And to what purpose,
+when the mischief is done? when, of consequence, the affair is
+irretrievable? and when a CLARISSA could not move me?
+
+Well, but, after all, I must own, that there is something very singular
+in this lady’s case: and, at times, I cannot help regretting that ever
+I attempted her; since not one power either of body or soul could be
+moved in my favour; and since, to use the expression of the
+philosopher, on a much graver occasion, there is no difference to be
+found between the skull of King Philip and that of another man.
+
+But people’s extravagant notions of things alter not facts, Belford:
+and, when all’s done, Miss Clarissa Harlowe has but run the fate of a
+thousand others of her sex—only that they did not set such a romantic
+value upon what they call their honour; that’s all.
+
+And yet I will allow thee this—that if a person sets a high value upon
+any thing, be it ever such a trifle in itself, or in the eye of others,
+the robbing of that person of it is not a trifle to him. Take the
+matter in this light, I own I have done wrong, great wrong, to this
+admirable creature.
+
+But have I not known twenty and twenty of the sex, who have seemed to
+carry their notions of virtue high; yet, when brought to the test, have
+abated of their severity? And how should we be convinced that any of
+them are proof till they are tried?
+
+A thousand times have I said, that I never yet met with such a woman as
+this. If I had, I hardly ever should have attempted Miss Clarissa
+Harlowe. Hitherto she is all angel: and was not that the point which at
+setting out I proposed to try?* And was not cohabitation ever my
+darling view? And am I not now, at last, in the high road to it?—It is
+true, that I have nothing to boast of as to her will. The very
+contrary. But now are we come to the test, whether she cannot be
+brought to make the best of an irreparable evil. If she exclaim, [she
+has reason to exclaim, and I will sit down with patience by the hour
+together to hear her exclamations, till she is tired of them,] she will
+then descend to expostulation perhaps: expostulation will give me hope:
+expostulation will show that she hates me not. And, if she hate me not,
+she will forgive: and, if she now forgive, then will all be over; and
+she will be mine upon my own terms: and it shall then be the whole
+study of my future life to make her happy.
+
+* See Vol. III. Letter XVIII.
+
+So, Belford, thou seest that I have journeyed on to this stage [indeed,
+through infinite mazes, and as infinite remorses] with one determined
+point in view from the first. To thy urgent supplication then, that I
+will do her grateful justice by marriage, let me answer in Matt.
+Prior’s two lines on his hoped-for auditorship; as put into the mouths
+of his St. John and Harley;
+
+—Let that be done, which Matt. doth say.
+YEA, quoth the Earl—BUT NOT TO-DAY.
+
+
+Thou seest, Jack, that I make no resolutions, however, against doing
+her, one time or other, the wished-for justice, even were I to succeed
+in my principal view, cohabitation. And of this I do assure thee, that,
+if I ever marry, it must, it shall be Miss Clarissa Harlowe.—Nor is her
+honour at all impaired with me, by what she has so far suffered: but
+the contrary. She must only take care that, if she be at last brought
+to forgive me, she show me that her Lovelace is the only man on earth
+whom she could have forgiven on the like occasion.
+
+But ah, Jack! what, in the mean time, shall I do with this admirable
+creature? At present—[I am loth to say it—but, at present] she is quite
+stupified.
+
+I had rather, methinks, she should have retained all her active powers,
+though I had suffered by her nails and her teeth, than that she should
+be sunk into such a state of absolute—insensibility (shall I call it?)
+as she has been in every since Tuesday morning. Yet, as she begins a
+little to revive, and now-and-then to call names, and to exclaim, I
+dread almost to engage with the anguish of a spirit that owes its
+extraordinary agitations to a niceness that has no example either in
+ancient or modern story. For, after all, what is there in her case that
+should stupify such a glowing, such a blooming charmer?—Excess of
+grief, excess of terror, have made a person’s hair stand on end, and
+even (as we have read) changed the colour of it. But that it should so
+stupify, as to make a person, at times, insensible to those imaginary
+wrongs, which would raise others from stupifaction, is very surprising!
+
+But I will leave this subject, least it should make me too grave.
+
+I was yesterday at Hampstead, and discharged all obligations there,
+with no small applause. I told them that the lady was now as happy as
+myself: and that is no great untruth; for I am not altogether so, when
+I allow myself to think.
+
+Mrs. Townsend, with her tars, had not been then there. I told them what
+I would have them say to her, if she came.
+
+Well, but, after all [how many after-all’s have I?] I could be very
+grave, were I to give way to it.—The devil take me for a fool! What’s
+the matter with me, I wonder!—I must breathe a fresher air for a few
+days.
+
+But what shall I do with this admirable creature the while?—Hang me, if
+I know!—For, if I stir, the venomous spider of this habitation will
+want to set upon the charming fly, whose silken wings are already so
+entangled in my enormous web, that she cannot move hand or foot: for so
+much has grief stupified her, that she is at present destitute of will,
+as she always seemed to be of desire. I must not therefore think of
+leaving her yet for two days together.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XV
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
+
+
+I have just now had a specimen of what the resentment of this dear
+creature will be when quite recovered: an affecting one!—For entering
+her apartment after Dorcas; and endeavouring to soothe and pacify her
+disordered mind; in the midst of my blandishments, she held up to
+Heaven, in a speechless agony, the innocent license (which she has in
+her own power); as the poor distressed Catalans held up their English
+treaty, on an occasion that keeps the worst of my actions in
+countenance.
+
+She seemed about to call down vengeance upon me; when, happily the
+leaden god, in pity to her trembling Lovelace, waved over her
+half-drowned eyes his somniferous wand, and laid asleep the fair
+exclaimer, before she could go half through with her intended
+imprecation.
+
+Thou wilt guess, by what I have written, that some little art has been
+made use of: but it was with a generous design (if thou’lt allow me the
+word on such an occasion) in order to lessen the too-quick sense she
+was likely to have of what she was to suffer. A contrivance I never had
+occasion for before, and had not thought of now, if Mrs. Sinclair had
+not proposed it to me: to whom I left the management of it: and I have
+done nothing but curse her ever since, lest the quantity should have
+for ever dampened her charming intellects.
+
+Hence my concern—for I think the poor lady ought not to have been so
+treated. Poor lady, did I say?—What have I to do with thy creeping
+style?—But have not I the worst of it; since her insensibility has made
+me but a thief to my own joys?
+
+I did not intend to tell thee of this little innocent trick; for such I
+designed it to be; but that I hate disingenuousness: to thee,
+especially: and as I cannot help writing in a more serious vein than
+usual, thou wouldst perhaps, had I not hinted the true cause, have
+imagined that I was sorry for the fact itself: and this would have
+given thee a good deal of trouble in scribbling dull persuasives to
+repair by matrimony; and me in reading thy cruel nonsense. Besides, one
+day or other, thou mightest, had I not confessed it, have heard of it
+in an aggravated manner; and I know thou hast such an high opinion of
+this lady’s virtue, that thou wouldst be disappointed, if thou hadst
+reason to think that she was subdued by her own consent, or any the
+least yielding in her will. And so is she beholden to me in some
+measure, that, at the expense of my honour, she may so justly form a
+plea, which will entirely salve her’s.
+
+And now is the whole secret out.
+
+Thou wilt say I am a horrid fellow!—As the lady does, that I am the
+unchained Beelzebub, and a plotting villain: and as this is what you
+both said beforehand, and nothing worse can be said, I desire, if thou
+wouldst not have me quite serious with thee, and that I should think
+thou meanest more by thy tilting hint than I am willing to believe thou
+dost, that thou wilt forbear thy invectives: For is not the thing
+done?—Can it be helped?—And must I not now try to make the best of
+it?—And the rather do I enjoin to make thee this, and inviolable
+secrecy; because I begin to think that my punishment will be greater
+than the fault, were it to be only from my own reflection.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XVI
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. FRIDAY, JUNE 16.
+
+I am sorry to hear of thy misfortune; but hope thou wilt not long lie
+by it. Thy servant tells me what narrow escape thou hadst with thy
+neck, I wish it may not be ominous: but I think thou seemest not to be
+in so enterprising a way as formerly; and yet, merry or sad, thou seest
+a rake’s neck is always in danger, if not from the hangman, from his
+own horse. But, ’tis a vicious toad, it seems; and I think thou
+shouldst never venture upon his back again; for ’tis a plaguy thing for
+rider and horse both to be vicious.
+
+The fellow tells me, thou desirest me to continue to write to thee in
+order to divert thy chagrin on thy forced confinement: but how can I
+think it in my power to divert, when my subject is not pleasing to
+myself?
+
+Caesar never knew what it was to be hipped, I will call it, till he
+came to be what Pompey was; that is to say, till he arrived at the
+height of his ambition: nor did thy Lovelace know what it was to be
+gloomy, till he had completed his wishes upon the most charming
+creature in the world.
+
+And yet why say I completed? when the will, the consent, is wanting—and
+I have still views before me of obtaining that?
+
+Yet I could almost join with thee in the wish, which thou sendest me up
+by thy servant, unfriendly as it is, that I had had thy misfortune
+before Monday night last: for here, the poor lady has run into a
+contrary extreme to that I told thee of in my last: for now is she as
+much too lively, as before she was too stupid; and ’bating that she has
+pretty frequent lucid intervals, would be deemed raving mad, and I
+should be obliged to confine her.
+
+I am most confoundedly disturbed about it: for I begin to fear that her
+intellects are irreparably hurt.
+
+Who the devil could have expected such strange effects from a cause so
+common and so slight?
+
+But these high-souled and high-sensed girls, who had set up for shining
+lights and examples to the rest of the sex, are with such difficulty
+brought down to the common standard, that a wise man, who prefers his
+peace of mind to his glory, in subduing one of that exalted class,
+would have nothing to say to them.
+
+I do all in my power to quiet her spirits, when I force myself into her
+presence.
+
+I go on, begging pardon one minute; and vowing truth and honour
+another.
+
+I would at first have persuaded her, and offered to call witnesses to
+the truth of it, that we were actually married. Though the license was
+in her hands, I thought the assertion might go down in her disorder;
+and charming consequences I hoped would follow. But this would not do.—
+
+I therefore gave up that hope: and now I declare to her, that it is my
+resolution to marry her, the moment her uncle Harlowe informs me that
+he will grace the ceremony with his presence.
+
+But she believes nothing I say; nor, (whether in her senses, or not)
+bears me with patience in her sight.
+
+I pity her with all my soul; and I curse myself, when she is in her
+wailing fits, and when I apprehend that intellects, so charming, are
+for ever damped.
+
+But more I curse these women, who put me upon such an expedient! Lord!
+Lord! what a hand have I made of it!—And all for what?
+
+Last night, for the first time since Monday night, she got to her pen
+and ink; but she pursues her writing with such eagerness and hurry, as
+show too evidently her discomposure.
+
+I hope, however, that this employment will help to calm her spirits.
+
+
+Just now Dorcas tells me, that what she writes she tears, and throws
+the paper in fragments under the table, either as not knowing what she
+does, or disliking it: then gets up, wrings her hands, weeps, and
+shifts her seat all round the room: then returns to her table, sits
+down, and writes again.
+
+
+One odd letter, as I may call it, Dorcas has this moment given me from
+her—Carry this, said she, to the vilest of men. Dorcas, a toad, brought
+it, without any further direction to me. I sat down, intending (though
+’tis pretty long) to give thee a copy of it: but, for my life, I
+cannot; ’tis so extravagant. And the original is too much an original
+to let it go out of my hands.
+
+But some of the scraps and fragments, as either torn through, or flung
+aside, I will copy, for the novelty of the thing, and to show thee how
+her mind works now she is in the whimsical way. Yet I know I am still
+furnishing thee with new weapons against myself. But spare thy
+comments. My own reflections render them needless. Dorcas thinks her
+lady will ask for them: so wishes to have them to lay again under the
+table.
+
+By the first thou’lt guess that I have told her that Miss Howe is very
+ill, and can’t write; that she may account the better for not having
+received the letter designed for her.
+
+PAPER I (Torn in two pieces.)
+
+MY DEAREST MISS HOWE,
+
+O what dreadful, dreadful things have I to tell you! But yet I cannot
+tell you neither. But say, are you really ill, as a vile, vile creature
+informs me you are?
+
+But he never yet told me truth, and I hope has not in this: and yet, if
+it were not true, surely I should have heard from you before now!—But
+what have I to do to upbraid?—You may well be tired of me!—And if you
+are, I can forgive you; for I am tired of myself: and all my own
+relations were tired of me long before you were.
+
+How good you have always been to me, mine own dear Anna Howe!—But how I
+ramble!
+
+I sat down to say a great deal—my heart was full—I did not know what to
+say first—and thought, and grief, and confusion, and (O my poor head) I
+cannot tell what—and thought, and grief and confusion, came crowding so
+thick upon me; one would be first; another would be first; all would be
+first; so I can write nothing at all.—Only that, whatever they have
+done to me, I cannot tell; but I am no longer what I was—in any one
+thing did I say? Yes, but I am; for I am still, and I ever will be,
+
+Your true——
+
+Plague on it! I can write no more of this eloquent nonsense myself;
+which rather shows a raised, than a quenched, imagination: but Dorcas
+shall transcribe the others in separate papers, as written by the
+whimsical charmer: and some time hence when all is over, and I can
+better bear to read them, I may ask thee for a sight of them. Preserve
+them, therefore; for we often look back with pleasure even upon the
+heaviest griefs, when the cause of them is removed.
+
+PAPER II (Scratch’d through, and thrown under the table.)
+
+—And can you, my dear, honoured Papa, resolve for ever to reprobate
+your poor child?—But I am sure you would not, if you knew what she has
+suffered since her unhappy—And will nobody plead for your poor
+suffering girl?—No one good body?—Why then, dearest Sir, let it be an
+act of your own innate goodness, which I have so much experienced, and
+so much abused. I don’t presume to think you should receive me—No,
+indeed!—My name is—I don’t know what my name is!—I never dare to wish
+to come into your family again!—But your heavy curse, my Papa—Yes, I
+will call you Papa, and help yourself as you can—for you are my own
+dear Papa, whether you will or not—and though I am an unworthy
+child—yet I am your child—
+
+PAPER III
+
+A Lady took a great fancy to a young lion, or a bear, I forget
+which—but a bear, or a tiger, I believe it was. It was made her a
+present of when a whelp. She fed it with her own hand: she nursed up
+the wicked cub with great tenderness; and would play with it without
+fear or apprehension of danger: and it was obedient to all her
+commands: and its tameness, as she used to boast, increased with its
+growth; so that, like a lap-dog, it would follow her all over the
+house. But mind what followed: at last, some how, neglecting to satisfy
+its hungry maw, or having otherwise disobliged it on some occasion, it
+resumed its nature; and on a sudden fell upon her, and tore her in
+pieces.—And who was most to blame, I pray? The brute, or the lady? The
+lady, surely!—For what she did was out of nature, out of character, at
+least: what it did was in its own nature.
+
+PAPER IV
+
+How art thou now humbled in the dust, thou proud Clarissa Harlowe! Thou
+that never steppedst out of thy father’s house but to be admired! Who
+wert wont to turn thine eye, sparkling with healthful life, and
+self-assurance, to different objects at once as thou passedst, as if
+(for so thy penetrating sister used to say) to plume thyself upon the
+expected applauses of all that beheld thee! Thou that usedst to go to
+rest satisfied with the adulations paid thee in the past day, and
+couldst put off every thing but thy vanity!—-
+
+PAPER V
+
+Rejoice not now, my Bella, my Sister, my Friend; but pity the humbled
+creature, whose foolish heart you used to say you beheld through the
+thin veil of humility which covered it.
+
+It must have been so! My fall had not else been permitted—
+
+You penetrated my proud heart with the jealousy of an elder sister’s
+searching eye.
+
+You knew me better than I knew myself.
+
+Hence your upbraidings and your chidings, when I began to totter.
+
+But forgive now those vain triumphs of my heart.
+
+I thought, poor, proud wretch that I was, that what you said was owing
+to your envy.
+
+I thought I could acquit my intention of any such vanity.
+
+I was too secure in the knowledge I thought I had of my own heart.
+
+My supposed advantages became a snare to me.
+
+And what now is the end of all?—
+
+PAPER VI
+
+What now is become of the prospects of a happy life, which once I
+thought opening before me?—Who now shall assist in the solemn
+preparations? Who now shall provide the nuptial ornaments, which soften
+and divert the apprehensions of the fearful virgin? No court now to be
+paid to my smiles! No encouraging compliments to inspire thee with hope
+of laying a mind not unworthy of thee under obligation! No elevation
+now for conscious merit, and applauded purity, to look down from on a
+prostrate adorer, and an admiring world, and up to pleased and
+rejoicing parents and relations!
+
+PAPER VII
+
+Thou pernicious caterpillar, that preyest upon the fair leaf of virgin
+fame, and poisonest those leaves which thou canst not devour!
+
+Thou fell blight, thou eastern blast, thou overspreading mildew, that
+destroyest the early promises of the shining year! that mockest the
+laborious toil, and blastest the joyful hopes, of the painful
+husbandman!
+
+Thou fretting moth, that corruptest the fairest garment!
+
+Thou eating canker-worm, that preyest upon the opening bud, and turnest
+the damask-rose into livid yellowness!
+
+If, as religion teaches us, God will judge us, in a great measure, by
+our benevolent or evil actions to one another—O wretch! bethink thee,
+in time bethink thee, how great must be thy condemnation!
+
+PAPER VIIII
+
+At first, I saw something in your air and person that displeased me
+not. Your birth and fortunes were no small advantages to you.—You acted
+not ignobly by my passionate brother. Every body said you were brave:
+every body said you were generous: a brave man, I thought, could not be
+a base man: a generous man, could not, I believed, be ungenerous, where
+he acknowledged obligation. Thus prepossessed, all the rest that my
+soul loved and wished for in your reformation I hoped!—I knew not, but
+by report, any flagrant instances of your vileness. You seemed frank,
+as well as generous: frankness and generosity ever attracted me:
+whoever kept up those appearances, I judged of their hearts by my own;
+and whatever qualities I wished to find in them, I was ready to find;
+and, when found, I believed them to be natives of the soil.
+
+My fortunes, my rank, my character, I thought a further security. I was
+in none of those respects unworthy of being the niece of Lord M. and of
+his two noble sisters.—Your vows, your imprecations—But, Oh! you have
+barbarously and basely conspired against that honour, which you ought
+to have protected: and now you have made me—What is it of vile that you
+have not made me?—
+
+Yet, God knows my heart, I had no culpable inclinations!—I honoured
+virtue!—I hated vice!—But I knew not, that you were vice itself!
+
+PAPER IX
+
+Had the happiness of any of the poorest outcast in the world, whom I
+had never seen, never known, never before heard of, lain as much in my
+power, as my happiness did in your’s, my benevolent heart would have
+made me fly to the succour of such a poor distressed—with what pleasure
+would I have raised the dejected head, and comforted the desponding
+heart!—But who now shall pity the poor wretch, who has increased,
+instead of diminished, the number of the miserable!
+
+PAPER X
+
+Lead me, where my own thoughts themselves may lose me;
+Where I may dose out what I’ve left of life,
+Forget myself, and that day’s guile!——
+Cruel remembrance!——how shall I appease thee?
+
+
+[Death only can be dreadful to the bad;*
+To innocence ’tis like a bugbear dress’d
+To frighten children. Pull but off the mask,
+And he’ll appear a friend.]
+
+
+* Transcriber’s note: Portions set off in square brackets [ ] are
+written at angles to the majority of the text, as if squeezed into
+margins.
+
+
+——Oh! you have done an act
+That blots the face and blush of modesty;
+    Takes off the rose
+From the fair forehead of an innocent love,
+And makes a blister there!
+
+    Then down I laid my head,
+Down on cold earth, and for a while was dead;
+And my freed soul to a strange somewhere fled!
+    Ah! sottish soul! said I,
+When back to its cage again I saw it fly;
+    Fool! to resume her broken chain,
+And row the galley here again!
+    Fool! to that body to return,
+Where it condemn’d and destin’d is to mourn!
+
+
+[I could a tale unfold——
+Would harrow up thy soul——]
+
+
+O my Miss Howe! if thou hast friendship, help me,
+And speak the words of peace to my divided soul,
+    That wars within me,
+And raises ev’ry sense to my confusion.
+    I’m tott’ring on the brink
+Of peace; an thou art all the hold I’ve left!
+Assist me——in the pangs of my affliction!
+
+When honour’s lost, ’tis a relief to die:
+Death’s but a sure retreat from infamy.
+
+
+[By swift misfortunes
+    How I am pursu’d!
+Which on each other
+    Are, like waves, renew’d!]
+
+
+The farewell, youth,
+    And all the joys that dwell
+With youth and life!
+    And life itself, farewell!
+
+For life can never be sincerely blest.
+Heav’n punishes the bad, and proves the best.
+
+
+After all, Belford, I have just skimmed over these transcriptions of
+Dorcas: and I see there are method and good sense in some of them, wild
+as others of them are; and that her memory, which serves her so well
+for these poetical flights, is far from being impaired. And this gives
+me hope, that she will soon recover her charming intellects—though I
+shall be the sufferer by their restoration, I make no doubt.
+
+But, in the letter she wrote to me, there are yet greater
+extravagancies; and though I said it was too affecting to give thee a
+copy of it, yet, after I have let thee see the loose papers enclosed, I
+think I may throw in a transcript of that. Dorcas therefore shall here
+transcribe it. I cannot. The reading of it affected me ten times more
+than the severest reproaches of a regular mind could do.
+
+TO MR. LOVELACE
+
+I never intended to write another line to you. I would not see you, if
+I could help it—O that I never had!
+
+But tell me, of a truth, is Miss Howe really and truly ill?—Very
+ill?—And is not her illness poison? And don’t you know who gave it to
+her?
+
+What you, or Mrs. Sinclair, or somebody (I cannot tell who) have done
+to my poor head, you best know: but I shall never be what I was. My
+head is gone. I have wept away all my brain, I believe; for I can weep
+no more. Indeed I have had my full share; so it is no matter.
+
+But, good now, Lovelace, don’t set Mrs. Sinclair upon me again.—I never
+did her any harm. She so affrights me, when I see her!—Ever since—when
+was it? I cannot tell. You can, I suppose. She may be a good woman, as
+far as I know. She was the wife of a man of honour—very likely—though
+forced to let lodgings for a livelihood. Poor gentlewoman! Let her know
+I pity her: but don’t let her come near me again—pray don’t!
+
+Yet she may be a very good woman—
+
+What would I say!—I forget what I was going to say.
+
+O Lovelace, you are Satan himself; or he helps you out in every thing;
+and that’s as bad!
+
+But have you really and truly sold yourself to him? And for how long?
+What duration is your reign to have?
+
+Poor man! The contract will be out: and then what will be your fate!
+
+O Lovelace! if you could be sorry for yourself, I would be sorry
+too—but when all my doors are fast, and nothing but the key-hole open,
+and the key of late put into that, to be where you are, in a manner
+without opening any of them—O wretched, wretched Clarissa Harlowe!
+
+For I never will be Lovelace—let my uncle take it as he pleases.
+
+Well, but now I remember what I was going to say—it is for your
+good—not mine—for nothing can do me good now!—O thou villanous man!
+thou hated Lovelace!
+
+But Mrs. Sinclair may be a good woman—if you love me—but that you
+don’t—but don’t let her bluster up with her worse than mannish airs to
+me again! O she is a frightful woman! If she be a woman! She needed not
+to put on that fearful mask to scare me out of my poor wits. But don’t
+tell her what I say—I have no hatred to her—it is only fright, and
+foolish fear, that’s all.—She may not be a bad woman—but neither are
+all men, any more than all women alike—God forbid they should be like
+you!
+
+Alas! you have killed my head among you—I don’t say who did it!—God
+forgive you all!—But had it not been better to have put me out of all
+your ways at once? You might safely have done it! For nobody would
+require me at your hands—no, not a soul—except, indeed, Miss Howe would
+have said, when she should see you, What, Lovelace, have you done with
+Clarissa Harlowe?—And then you could have given any slight, gay
+answer—sent her beyond sea; or, she has run away from me, as she did
+from her parents. And this would have been easily credited; for you
+know, Lovelace, she that could run away from them, might very well run
+away from you.
+
+But this is nothing to what I wanted to say. Now I have it.
+
+I have lost it again—This foolish wench comes teasing me—for what
+purpose should I eat? For what end should I wish to live?—I tell thee,
+Dorcas, I will neither eat nor drink. I cannot be worse than I am.
+
+I will do as you’d have me—good Dorcas, look not upon me so
+fiercely—but thou canst not look so bad as I have seen somebody look.
+
+Mr. Lovelace, now that I remember what I took pen in hand to say, let
+me hurry off my thoughts, lest I lose them again—here I am sensible—and
+yet I am hardly sensible neither—but I know my head is not as it should
+be, for all that—therefore let me propose one thing to you: it is for
+your good—not mine; and this is it:
+
+I must needs be both a trouble and an expense to you. And here my uncle
+Harlowe, when he knows how I am, will never wish any man to have me:
+no, not even you, who have been the occasion of it—barbarous and
+ungrateful!—A less complicated villany cost a Tarquin—but I forget what
+I would say again—
+
+Then this is it—I never shall be myself again: I have been a very
+wicked creature—a vain, proud, poor creature, full of secret
+pride—which I carried off under an humble guise, and deceived every
+body—my sister says so—and now I am punished—so let me be carried out
+of this house, and out of your sight; and let me be put into that
+Bedlam privately, which once I saw: but it was a sad sight to me then!
+Little as I thought what I should come to myself!—That is all I would
+say: this is all I have to wish for—then I shall be out of all your
+ways; and I shall be taken care of; and bread and water without your
+tormentings, will be dainties: and my straw-bed the easiest I have lain
+in—for—I cannot tell how long!
+
+My clothes will sell for what will keep me there, perhaps as long as I
+shall live. But, Lovelace, dear Lovelace, I will call you; for you have
+cost me enough, I’m sure!—don’t let me be made a show of, for my
+family’s sake; nay, for your own sake, don’t do that—for when I know
+all I have suffered, which yet I do not, and no matter if I never do—I
+may be apt to rave against you by name, and tell of all your baseness
+to a poor humbled creature, that once was as proud as any body—but of
+what I can’t tell—except of my own folly and vanity—but let that
+pass—since I am punished enough for it—
+
+So, suppose, instead of Bedlam, it were a private mad-house, where
+nobody comes!—That will be better a great deal.
+
+But, another thing, Lovelace: don’t let them use me cruelly when I am
+there—you have used me cruelly enough, you know!—Don’t let them use me
+cruelly; for I will be very tractable; and do as any body would have me
+to do—except what you would have me do—for that I never will.—Another
+thing, Lovelace: don’t let this good woman, I was going to say vile
+woman; but don’t tell her that—because she won’t let you send me to
+this happy refuge, perhaps, if she were to know it—
+
+Another thing, Lovelace: and let me have pen, and ink, and paper,
+allowed me—it will be all my amusement—but they need not send to any
+body I shall write to, what I write, because it will but trouble them:
+and somebody may do you a mischief, may be—I wish not that any body do
+any body a mischief upon my account.
+
+You tell me, that Lady Betty Lawrance, and your cousin Montague, were
+here to take leave of me; but that I was asleep, and could not be
+waked. So you told me at first I was married, you know, and that you
+were my husband—Ah! Lovelace! look to what you say.—But let not them,
+(for they will sport with my misery,) let not that Lady Betty, let not
+that Miss Montague, whatever the real ones may do; nor Mrs. Sinclair
+neither, nor any of her lodgers, nor her nieces, come to see me in my
+place—real ones, I say; for, Lovelace, I shall find out all your
+villanies in time—indeed I shall—so put me there as soon as you can—it
+is for your good—then all will pass for ravings that I can say, as, I
+doubt no many poor creatures’ exclamations do pass, though there may be
+too much truth in them for all that—and you know I began to be mad at
+Hampstead—so you said.—Ah! villanous man! what have you not to answer
+for!
+
+
+A little interval seems to be lent me. I had begun to look over what I
+have written. It is not fit for any one to see, so far as I have been
+able to re-peruse it: but my head will not hold, I doubt, to go through
+it all. If therefore I have not already mentioned my earnest desire,
+let me tell you it is this: that I be sent out of this abominable house
+without delay, and locked up in some private mad-house about this town;
+for such, it seems, there are; never more to be seen, or to be produced
+to any body, except in your own vindication, if you should be charged
+with the murder of my person; a much lighter crime than that of honour,
+which the greatest villain on earth has robbed me of. And deny me not
+this my last request, I beseech you; and one other, and that is, never
+to let me see you more! This surely may be granted to
+
+The miserably abused CLARISSA HARLOWE.
+
+
+I will not bear thy heavy preachments, Belford, upon this affecting
+letter. So, not a word of that sort! The paper, thou’lt see, is
+blistered with the tears even of the hardened transcriber; which has
+made her ink run here and there.
+
+Mrs. Sinclair is a true heroine, and, I think, shames us all. And she
+is a woman too! Thou’lt say, the beset things corrupted become the
+worst. But this is certain, that whatever the sex set their hearts
+upon, they make thorough work of it. And hence it is, that a mischief
+which would end in simple robbery among men rogues, becomes murder, if
+a woman be in it.
+
+I know thou wilt blame me for having had recourse to art. But do not
+physicians prescribe opiates in acute cases, where the violence of the
+disorder would be apt to throw the patient into a fever or delirium? I
+aver, that my motive for this expedient was mercy; nor could it be any
+thing else. For a rape, thou knowest, to us rakes, is far from being an
+undesirable thing. Nothing but the law stands in our way, upon that
+account; and the opinion of what a modest woman will suffer rather than
+become a _viva voce_ accuser, lessens much an honest fellow’s
+apprehensions on that score. Then, if these somnivolencies [I hate the
+word opiates on this occasion,] have turned her head, that is an effect
+they frequently have upon some constitutions; and in this case was
+rather the fault of the dose than the design of the giver.
+
+But is not wine itself an opiate in degree?—How many women have been
+taken advantage of by wine, and other still more intoxicating
+viands?—Let me tell thee, Jack, that the experience of many of the
+passive sex, and the consciences of many more of the active, appealed
+to, will testify that thy Lovelace is not the worst of villains. Nor
+would I have thee put me upon clearing myself by comparisons.
+
+If she escape a settled delirium when my plots unravel, I think it is
+all I ought to be concerned about. What therefore I desire of thee, is,
+that, if two constructions may be made of my actions, thou wilt afford
+me the most favourable. For this, not only friendship, but my own
+ingenuousness, which has furnished thee with the knowledge of the facts
+against which thou art so ready to inveigh, require of thee.
+
+
+Will. is just returned from an errand to Hampstead; and acquaints me,
+that Mrs. Townsend was yesterday at Mrs. Moore’s, accompanied by three
+or four rough fellows; a greater number (as supposed) at a distance.
+She was strangely surprised at the news that my spouse and I are
+entirely reconciled; and that two fine ladies, my relations, came to
+visit her, and went to town with her: where she is very happy with me.
+She was sure we were not married, she said, unless it was while we were
+at Hampstead: and they were sure the ceremony was not performed there.
+But that the lady is happy and easy, is unquestionable: and a fling was
+thrown out by Mrs. Moore and Mrs. Bevis at mischief-makers, as they
+knew Mrs. Townsend to be acquainted with Miss Howe.
+
+Now, since my fair-one can neither receive, nor send away letters, I am
+pretty easy as to this Mrs. Townsend and her employer. And I fancy Miss
+Howe will be puzzled to know what to think of the matter, and afraid of
+sending by Wilson’s conveyance; and perhaps suppose that her friend
+slights her; or has changed her mind in my favour, and is ashamed to
+own it; as she has not had an answer to what she wrote; and will
+believe that the rustic delivered her last letter into her own hand.
+
+Mean time I have a little project come into my head, of a new kind;
+just for amusement-sake, that’s all: variety has irresistible charms. I
+cannot live without intrigue. My charmer has no passions; that is to
+say, none of the passions that I want her to have. She engages all my
+reverence. I am at present more inclined to regret what I have done,
+than to proceed to new offences: and shall regret it till I see how she
+takes it when recovered.
+
+Shall I tell thee my project? ’Tis not a high one.—’Tis this—to get
+hither to Mrs. Moore, Miss Rawlins, and my widow Bevis; for they are
+desirous to make a visit to my spouse, now we are so happy together.
+And, if I can order it right, Belton, Mowbray, Tourville, and I, will
+show them a little more of the ways of this wicked town, than they at
+present know. Why should they be acquainted with a man of my character,
+and not be the better and wiser for it?—I would have every body rail
+against rakes with judgment and knowledge, if they will rail. Two of
+these women gave me a great deal of trouble: and the third, I am
+confident, will forgive a merry evening.
+
+Thou wilt be curious to know what the persons of these women are, to
+whom I intend so much distinction. I think I have not heretofore
+mentioned any thing characteristic of their persons.
+
+Mrs. Moore is a widow of about thirty-eight; a little mortified by
+misfortunes; but those are often the merriest folks, when warmed. She
+has good features still; and is what they call much of a gentlewoman,
+and very neat in her person and dress. She has given over, I believe,
+all thoughts of our sex: but when the dying embers are raked up about
+the half-consumed stump, there will be fuel enough left, I dare say, to
+blaze out, and give a comfortable warmth to a half-starved by-stander.
+
+Mrs. Bevis is comely; that is to say, plump; a lover of mirth, and one
+whom no grief ever dwelt with, I dare say, for a week together; about
+twenty-five years of age: Mowbray will have very little difficulty with
+her, I believe; for one cannot do every thing one’s self. And yet
+sometimes women of this free cast, when it comes to the point, answer
+not the promises their cheerful forwardness gives a man who has a view
+upon them.
+
+Miss Rawlins is an agreeable young lady enough; but not beautiful. She
+has sense, and would be thought to know the world, as it is called;
+but, for her knowledge, is more indebted to theory than experience. A
+mere whipt-syllabub knowledge this, Jack, that always fails the person
+who trusts to it, when it should hold to do her service. For such young
+ladies have so much dependence upon their own understanding and
+wariness, are so much above the cautions that the less opinionative may
+be benefited by, that their presumption is generally their overthrow,
+when attempted by a man of experience, who knows how to flatter their
+vanity, and to magnify their wisdom, in order to take advantage of
+their folly. But, for Miss Rawlins, if I can add experience to her
+theory, what an accomplished person will she be!—And how much will she
+be obliged to me; and not only she, but all those who may be the better
+for the precepts she thinks herself already so well qualified to give!
+Dearly, Jack, do I love to engage with these precept-givers, and
+example-setters.
+
+Now, Belford, although there is nothing striking in any of these
+characters; yet may we, at a pinch, make a good frolicky half-day with
+them, if, after we have softened their wax at table by encouraging
+viands, we can set our women and them into dancing: dancing, which all
+women love, and all men should therefore promote, for both their sakes.
+
+And thus, when Tourville sings, Belton fiddles, Mowbray makes rough
+love, and I smooth; and thou, Jack, wilt be by that time well enough to
+join in the chorus; the devil’s in’t if we don’t mould them into what
+shape we please—our own women, by their laughing freedoms, encouraging
+them to break through all their customary reserves. For women to women,
+thou knowest, are great darers and incentives: not one of them loving
+to be outdone or outdared, when their hearts are thoroughly warmed.
+
+I know, at first, the difficulty will be the accidental absence of my
+dear Mrs. Lovelace, to whom principally they will design their visit:
+but if we can exhilarate them, they won’t then wish to see her; and I
+can form twenty accidents and excuses, from one hour to another, for
+her absence, till each shall have a subject to take up all her
+thoughts.
+
+I am really sick at heart for a frolic, and have no doubt but this will
+be an agreeable one. These women already think me a wild fellow; nor do
+they like me the less for it, as I can perceive; and I shall take care,
+that they shall be treated with so much freedom before one another’s
+faces, that in policy they shall keep each other’s counsel. And won’t
+this be doing a kind thing by them? since it will knit an indissoluble
+band of union and friendship between three women who are neighbours,
+and at present have only common obligations to one another: for thou
+wantest not to be told, that secrets of love, and secrets of this
+nature, are generally the strongest cement of female friendships.
+
+But, after all, if my beloved should be happily restored to her
+intellects, we may have scenes arise between us that will be
+sufficiently busy to employ all the faculties of thy friend, without
+looking out for new occasions. Already, as I have often observed, has
+she been the means of saving scores of her sex, yet without her own
+knowledge.
+
+SATURDAY NIGHT.
+
+By Dorcas’s account of her lady’s behaviour, the dear creature seems to
+be recovering. I shall give the earliest notice of this to the worthy
+Capt. Tomlinson, that he may apprize uncle John of it. I must be
+properly enabled, from that quarter, to pacify her, or, at least, to
+rebate her first violence.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XVII
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. SUNDAY AFTERNOON, SIX O’CLOCK,
+(JUNE 18.)
+
+I went out early this morning, and returned not till just now; when I
+was informed that my beloved, in my absence, had taken it into her head
+to attempt to get away.
+
+She tripped down, with a parcel tied up in a handkerchief, her hood on;
+and was actually in the entry, when Mrs. Sinclair saw her.
+
+Pray, Madam, whipping between her and the street-door, be pleased to
+let me know where you are going?
+
+Who has a right to controul me? was the word.
+
+I have, Madam, by order of your spouse: and, kemboing her arms, as she
+owned, I desire you will be pleased to walk up again.
+
+She would have spoken; but could not: and, bursting into tears, turned
+back, and went up to her chamber: and Dorcas was taken to task for
+suffering her to be in the passage before she was seen.
+
+This shows, as we hoped last night, that she is recovering her charming
+intellects.
+
+Dorcas says, she was visible to her but once before the whole day; and
+then she seemed very solemn and sedate.
+
+I will endeavour to see her. It must be in her own chamber, I suppose;
+for she will hardly meet me in the dining-room. What advantage will the
+confidence of our sex give me over the modesty of her’s, if she be
+recovered!—I, the most confident of men: she, the most delicate of
+women. Sweet soul! methinks I have her before me: her face averted:
+speech lost in sighs—abashed—conscious—what a triumphant aspect will
+this give me, when I gaze on her downcast countenance!
+
+
+This moment Dorcas tells me she believes she is coming to find me out.
+She asked her after me: and Dorcas left her, drying her red-swoln eyes
+at her glass; [no design of moving me by tears!] sighing too sensibly
+for my courage. But to what purpose have I gone thus far, if I pursue
+not my principal end? Niceness must be a little abated. She knows the
+worst. That she cannot fly me; that she must see me; and that I can
+look her into a sweet confusion; are circumstances greatly in my
+favour. What can she do but rave and exclaim? I am used to raving and
+exclaiming—but, if recovered, I shall see how she behaves upon this our
+first sensible interview after what she has suffered.
+
+Here she comes.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XVIII
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. SUNDAY NIGHT.
+
+Never blame me for giving way to have art used with this admirable
+creature. All the princes of the air, or beneath it, joining with me,
+could never have subdued her while she had her senses.
+
+I will not anticipate—only to tell thee, that I am too much awakened by
+her to think of sleep, were I to go to bed; and so shall have nothing
+to do but to write an account of our odd conversation, while it is so
+strong upon my mind that I can think of nothing else.
+
+She was dressed in a white damask night-gown, with less negligence than
+for some days past. I was sitting with my pen in my fingers; and stood
+up when I first saw her, with great complaisance, as if the day were
+still her own. And so indeed it is.
+
+She entered with such dignity in her manner as struck me with great
+awe, and prepared me for the poor figure I made in the subsequent
+conversation. A poor figure indeed!—But I will do her justice.
+
+She came up with quick steps, pretty close to me; a white handkerchief
+in her hand; her eyes neither fierce nor mild, but very earnest; and a
+fixed sedateness in her whole aspect, which seemed to be the effect of
+deep contemplation: and thus she accosted me, with an air and action
+that I never saw equalled.
+
+You see before you, Sir, the wretch, whose preference of you to all
+your sex you have rewarded—as it indeed deserved to be rewarded. My
+father’s dreadful curse has already operated upon me in the very letter
+of it, as to this life; and it seems to me too evident that it will not
+be your fault that it is not entirely completed in the loss of my soul,
+as well as of my honour—which you, villanous man! have robbed me of,
+with a baseness so unnatural, so inhuman, that it seems you, even you,
+had not the heart to attempt it, till my senses were made the previous
+sacrifice.
+
+Here I made an hesitating effort to speak, laying down my pen: but she
+proceeded!—Hear me out, guilty wretch!—abandoned man!—Man, did I
+say?—Yet what name else can I? since the mortal worryings of the
+fiercest beast would have been more natural, and infinitely more
+welcome, that what you have acted by me; and that with a premeditation
+and contrivance worthy only of that single heart which now, base as
+well as ungrateful as thou art, seems to quake within thee.—And well
+may’st thou quake; well may’st thou tremble, and falter, and hesitate,
+as thou dost, when thou reflectest upon what I have suffered for thy
+sake, and upon the returns thou hast made me!
+
+By my soul, Belford, my whole frame was shaken: for not only her looks
+and her action, but her voice, so solemn, was inexpressibly affecting:
+and then my cursed guilt, and her innocence, and merit, and rank, and
+superiority of talents, all stared me at that instant in the face so
+formidably, that my present account, to which she unexpectedly called
+me, seemed, as I then thought, to resemble that general one, to which
+we are told we shall be summoned, when our conscience shall be our
+accuser.
+
+But she had had time to collect all the powers of her eloquence. The
+whole day probably in her intellects. And then I was the more
+disappointed, as I had thought I could have gazed the dear creature
+into confusion—but it is plain, that the sense she has of her wrongs
+sets this matchless woman above all lesser, all weaker considerations.
+
+My dear—my love—I—I—I never—no never—lips trembling, limbs quaking,
+voice inward, hesitating, broken—never surely did miscreant look so
+like a miscreant! while thus she proceeded, waving her snowy hand, with
+all the graces of moving oratory.
+
+I have no pride in the confusion visible in thy whole person. I have
+been all the day praying for a composure, if I could not escape from
+this vile house, that should once more enable me to look up to my
+destroyer with the consciousness of an innocent sufferer. Thou seest
+me, since my wrongs are beyond the power of words to express, thou
+seest me, calm enough to wish, that thou may’st continue harassed by
+the workings of thy own conscience, till effectual repentance take hold
+of thee, that so thou may’st not forfeit all title to that mercy which
+thou hast not shown to the poor creature now before thee, who had so
+well deserved to meet with a faithful friend where she met with the
+worst of enemies.
+
+But tell me, (for no doubt thou hast some scheme to pursue,) tell me,
+since I am a prisoner, as I find, in the vilest of houses, and have not
+a friend to protect or save me, what thou intendest shall become of the
+remnant of a life not worth the keeping!—Tell me, if yet there are more
+evils reserved for me; and whether thou hast entered into a compact
+with the grand deceiver, in the person of his horrid agent in this
+house; and if the ruin of my soul, that my father’s curse may be
+fulfilled, is to complete the triumphs of so vile a confederacy?—Answer
+me!—Say, if thou hast courage to speak out to her whom thou hast
+ruined, tell me what farther I am to suffer from thy barbarity?
+
+She stopped here, and, sighing, turned her sweet face from me, drying
+up with her handkerchief those tears which she endeavoured to restrain;
+and, when she could not, to conceal from my sight.
+
+As I told thee, I had prepared myself for high passions, raving,
+flying, tearing execration; these transient violences, the workings of
+sudden grief, and shame, and vengeance, would have set us upon a par
+with each other, and quitted scores. These have I been accustomed to;
+and as nothing violent is lasting, with these I could have wished to
+encounter. But such a majestic composure—seeking me—whom, yet it is
+plain, by her attempt to get away, she would have avoided seeking—no
+Lucretia-like vengeance upon herself in her thought—yet swallowed up,
+her whole mind swallowed up, as I may say, by a grief so heavy, as, in
+her own words, to be beyond the power of speech to express—and to be
+able, discomposed as she was, to the very morning, to put such a
+home-question to me, as if she had penetrated my future view—how could
+I avoid looking like a fool, and answering, as before, in broken
+sentences and confusion?
+
+What—what-a—what has been done—I, I, I—cannot but say—must own—must
+confess—hem—hem——is not right—is not what should have
+been—but-a—but—but—I am truly—truly—sorry for it—upon my soul I
+am—and—and—will do all—do every thing—do what—whatever is incumbent
+upon me—all that you—that you—that you shall require, to make you
+amends!——
+
+O Belford! Belford! whose the triumph now! HER’S, or MINE?
+
+Amends! O thou truly despicable wretch! Then lifting up her eyes—Good
+Heaven! who shall pity the creature who could fall by so base a
+mind!—Yet—[and then she looked indignantly upon me!] yet, I hate thee
+not (base and low-souled as thou art!) half so much as I hate myself,
+that I saw thee not sooner in thy proper colours! That I hoped either
+morality, gratitude, or humanity, from a libertine, who, to be a
+libertine, must have got over and defied all moral sanctions.*
+
+* Her cousin Morden’s words to her in his letter from Florence. See
+Vol. IV. Letter XIX.
+
+She then called upon her cousin Morden’s name, as if he had warned her
+against a man of free principles; and walked towards the window; her
+handkerchief at her eyes. But, turning short towards me, with an air of
+mingled scorn and majesty, [what, at the moment, would I have given
+never to have injured her!] What amends hast thou to propose! What
+amends can such a one as thou make to a person of spirit, or common
+sense, for the evils thou hast so inhumanely made me suffer?
+
+As soon, Madam—as soon—as—as soon as your uncle—or—not waiting——
+
+Thou wouldest tell me, I suppose—I know what thou wouldest tell me—But
+thinkest thou, that marriage will satisfy for a guilt like thine?
+Destitute as thou hast made me both of friends and fortune, I too much
+despise the wretch, who could rob himself of his wife’s virtue, to
+endure the thoughts of thee in the light thou seemest to hope I will
+accept thee in!—
+
+I hesitated an interruption; but my meaning died away upon my trembling
+lips. I could only pronounce the word marriage—and thus she proceeded:
+
+Let me, therefore, know whether I am to be controuled in the future
+disposal of myself? Whether, in a country of liberty, as this, where
+the sovereign of it must not be guilty of your wickedness, and where
+you neither durst have attempted it, had I one friend or relation to
+look upon me, I am to be kept here a prisoner, to sustain fresh
+injuries? Whether, in a word, you intend to hinder me from going where
+my destiny shall lead me?
+
+After a pause—for I was still silent:
+
+Can you not answer me this plain question?—I quit all claim, all
+expectation, upon you—what right have you to detain me here?
+
+I could not speak. What could I say to such a question?
+
+O wretch! wringing her uplifted hands, had I not been robbed of my
+senses, and that in the basest manner—you best know how—had I been able
+to account for myself, and your proceedings, or to have known but how
+the days passed—a whole week should not have gone over my head, as I
+find it has done, before I had told you, what I now tell you—That the
+man who has been the villain to me you have been, shall never make me
+his wife.—I will write to my uncle, to lay aside his kind intentions in
+my favour—all my prospects are shut in—I give myself up for a lost
+creature as to this world—hinder me not from entering upon a life of
+severe penitence, for corresponding, after prohibition, with a wretch
+who has too well justified all their warnings and inveteracy; and for
+throwing myself into the power of your vile artifices. Let me try to
+secure the only hope I have left. This is all the amends I ask of you.
+I repeat, therefore, Am I now at liberty to dispose of myself as I
+please?
+
+Now comes the fool, the miscreant again, hesitating his broken answer:
+My dearest love, I am confounded, quite confounded, at the thought of
+what—of what has been done; and at the thought of—to whom. I see, I
+see, there is no withstanding your eloquence!—Such irresistible proofs
+of the love of virtue, for its own sake, did I never hear of, nor meet
+with, in all my reading. And if you can forgive a repentant villain,
+who thus on his knees implores your forgiveness, [then down I dropt,
+absolutely in earnest in all I said,] I vow by all that’s sacred and
+just, (and may a thunderbolt strike me dead at your feet, if I am not
+sincere!) that I will by marriage before to-morrow noon, without
+waiting for your uncle, or any body, do you all the justice I now can
+do you. And you shall ever after controul and direct me as you please,
+till you have made me more worthy of your angelic purity than now I am:
+nor will I presume so much as to touch your garment, till I have the
+honour to call so great a blessing lawfully mine.
+
+O thou guileful betrayer! there is a just God, whom thou invokest: yet
+the thunderbolt descends not; and thou livest to imprecate and deceive!
+
+My dearest life! rising; for I hoped she was relenting——
+
+Hadst thou not sinned beyond the possibility of forgiveness,
+interrupted she; and this had been the first time that thus thou
+solemnly promisest and invokest the vengeance thou hast as often
+defied; the desperateness of my condition might have induced me to
+think of taking a wretched chance with a man so profligate. But, after
+what I have suffered by thee, it would be criminal in me to wish to
+bind my soul in covenant to a man so nearly allied to perdition.
+
+Good God!—how uncharitable!—I offer not to defend—would to Heaven that
+I could recall—so nearly allied to perdition, Madam!—So profligate a
+man, Madam!——
+
+O how short is expression of thy crimes, and of my sufferings! Such
+premeditation is thy baseness! To prostitute the characters of persons
+of honour of thy own family—and all to delude a poor creature, whom
+thou oughtest—But why talk I to thee? Be thy crimes upon thy head! Once
+more I ask thee, Am I, or am I not, at my own liberty now?
+
+I offered to speak in defence of the women, declaring that they really
+were the very persons——
+
+Presume not, interrupted she, base as thou art, to say one word in
+thine own vindication. I have been contemplating their behaviour, their
+conversation, their over-ready acquiescences, to my declarations in thy
+disfavour; their free, yet affectedly-reserved light manners: and now
+that the sad event has opened my eyes, and I have compared facts and
+passages together, in the little interval that has been lent me, I
+wonder I could not distinguish the behaviour of the unmatron-like jilt,
+whom thou broughtest to betray me, from the worthy lady whom thou hast
+the honour to call thy aunt: and that I could not detect the
+superficial creature whom thou passedst upon me for the virtuous Miss
+Montague.
+
+Amazing uncharitableness in a lady so good herself!—That the high
+spirits those ladies were in to see you, should subject them to such
+censures!—I do must solemnly vow, Madam——
+
+That they were, interrupting me, verily and indeed Lady Betty Lawrance
+and thy cousin Montague!—O wretch! I see by thy solemn averment [I had
+not yet averred it,] what credit ought to be given to all the rest. Had
+I no other proof——
+
+Interrupting her, I besought her patient ear. ‘I had found myself, I
+told her, almost avowedly despised and hated. I had no hope of gaining
+her love, or her confidence. The letter she had left behind her, on her
+removal to Hampstead, sufficiently convinced me that she was entirely
+under Miss Howe’s influence, and waited but the return of a letter from
+her to enter upon measures that would deprive me of her for ever: Miss
+Howe had ever been my enemy: more so then, no doubt, from the contents
+of the letter she had written to her on her first coming to Hampstead;
+that I dared not to stand the event of such a letter; and was glad of
+an opportunity, by Lady Betty’s and my cousin’s means (though they knew
+not my motive) to get her back to town; far, at the time, from
+intending the outrage which my despair, and her want of confidence in
+me, put me so vilely upon’—
+
+I would have proceeded; and particularly would have said something of
+Captain Tomlinson and her uncle; but she would not hear me further. And
+indeed it was with visible indignation, and not without several angry
+interruptions, that she heard me say so much.
+
+Would I dare, she asked me, to offer at a palliation of my baseness?
+The two women, she was convinced, were impostors. She knew not but
+Captain Tomlinson and Mr. Mennell were so too. But whether they were so
+or not, I was. And she insisted upon being at her own disposal for the
+remainder of her short life—for indeed she abhorred me in every light;
+and more particularly in that in which I offered myself to her
+acceptance.
+
+And, saying this, she flung from me; leaving me absolutely shocked and
+confounded at her part of a conversation which she began with such
+uncommon, however severe, composure, and concluded with so much sincere
+and unaffected indignation.
+
+And now, Jack, I must address one serious paragraph particularly to
+thee.
+
+I have not yet touched upon cohabitation—her uncle’s mediation she does
+not absolutely discredit, as I had the pleasure to find by one hint in
+this conversation—yet she suspects my future views, and has doubt about
+Mennell and Tomlinson.
+
+I do say, if she come fairly at her lights, at her clues, or what shall
+I call them? her penetration is wonderful.
+
+But if she do not come at them fairly, then is her incredulity, then is
+her antipathy to me evidently accounted for.
+
+I will speak out—thou couldst not, surely, play me booty, Jack?—Surely
+thou couldst not let thy weak pity for her lead thee to an unpardonable
+breach of trust to thy friend, who has been so unreserved in his
+communications to thee?
+
+I cannot believe thee capable of such a baseness. Satisfy me, however,
+upon this head. I must make a cursed figure in her eye, vowing and
+protesting, as I shall not scruple occasionally to vow and protest, if
+all the time she has had unquestionable informations of my perfidy. I
+know thou as little fearest me, as I do thee, if any point of manhood;
+and wilt scorn to deny it, if thou hast done it, when thus
+home-pressed.
+
+And here I have a good mind to stop, and write no farther, till I have
+thy answer.
+
+And so I will.
+
+MONDAY MORN. PAST THREE.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XIX
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. MONDAY MORN. FIVE O’CLOCK (JUNE
+19.)
+
+I must write on. Nothing else can divert me: and I think thou canst not
+have been a dog to me.
+
+I would fain have closed my eyes: but sleep flies me. Well says Horace,
+as translated by Cowley:
+
+The halcyon sleep will never build his nest
+In any stormy breast.
+’Tis not enough that he does find
+Clouds and darkness in the mind:
+Darkness but half his work will do.
+’Tis not enough: he must find quiet too.
+
+
+Now indeed do I from my heart wish that I had never known this lady.
+But who would have thought there had been such a woman in the world? Of
+all the sex I have hitherto known, or heard, or read of, it was once
+subdued, and always subdued. The first struggle was generally the last;
+or, at least, the subsequent struggles were so much fainter and
+fainter, that a man would rather have them than be without them. But
+how know I yet——
+
+
+It is now near six—the sun for two hours past has been illuminating
+every thing about me: for that impartial orb shines upon Mother
+Sinclair’s house as well as upon any other: but nothing within me can
+it illuminate.
+
+At day-dawn I looked through the key-hole of my beloved’s door. She had
+declared she would not put off her clothes any more in this house.
+There I beheld her in a sweet slumber, which I hope will prove
+refreshing to her disturbed senses; sitting in her elbow-chair, her
+apron over her head; her head supported by one sweet hand, the other
+hand hanging down upon her side, in a sleepy lifelessness; half of one
+pretty foot only visible.
+
+See the difference in our cases! thought I: she, the charming injured,
+can sweetly sleep, while the varlet injurer cannot close his eyes; and
+has been trying, to no purpose, the whole night to divert his
+melancholy, and to fly from himself!
+
+As every vice generally brings on its own punishment, even in this
+life; if any thing were to tempt me to doubt of future punishment, it
+would be, that there can hardly be a greater than that in which I at
+this instant experience in my own remorse.
+
+I hope it will go off. If not, well will the dear creature be avenged;
+for I shall be the most miserable of men.
+
+*** SIX O’CLOCK.
+
+Just now Dorcas tells me, that her lady is preparing openly, and
+without disguise, to be gone. Very probable. The humour she flew away
+from me in last night has given me expectation of such an enterprize.
+
+Now, Jack, to be thus hated and despised!—And if I have sinned beyond
+forgiveness——
+
+But she has sent me a message by Dorcas, that she will meet me in the
+dining-room; and desires [odd enough] that the wretch may be present at
+the conversation that shall pass between us. This message gives me
+hope.
+
+NINE O’CLOCK.
+
+Confounded art, cunning villany!—By my soul, she had like to have
+slipped through my fingers! She meant nothing by her message but to get
+Dorcas out of the way, and a clear coast. Is a fancied distress,
+sufficient to justify this lady for dispensing with her principles?
+Does she not show me that she can wilfully deceive, as well as I?
+
+Had she been in the fore-house, and no passage to go through to get at
+the street-door, she had certainly been gone. But her haste betrayed
+her: for Sally Martin happening to be in the fore-parlour, and hearing
+a swifter motion than usual, and a rustling of silks, as if from
+somebody in a hurry, looked out; and seeing who it was, stept between
+her and the door, and set her back against it.
+
+You must not go, Madam. Indeed you must not.
+
+By what right?—And how dare you?—And such-like imperious airs the dear
+creature gave herself.—While Sally called out for her aunt; and half a
+dozen voiced joined instantly in the cry, for me to hasten down, to
+hasten down in a moment.
+
+I was gravely instructing Dorcas above stairs, and wondering what would
+be the subject of the conversation to which the wench was to be a
+witness, when these outcries reached my ears. And down I flew.—And
+there was the charming creature, the sweet deceiver, panting for
+breath, her back against the partition, a parcel in her hand, [women
+make no excursions without their parcels,] Sally, Polly, (but Polly
+obligingly pleaded for her,) the mother, Mabell, and Peter, (the
+footman of the house,) about her; all, however, keeping their distance;
+the mother and Sally between her and the door—in her soft rage the dear
+soul repeating, I will go—nobody has a right—I will go—if you kill me,
+women, I won’t go up again!
+
+As soon as she saw me, she stept a pace or two towards me; Mr.
+Lovelace, I will go! said she—do you authorize these women—what right
+have they, or you either, to stop me?
+
+Is this, my dear, preparative to the conversation you led me to expect
+in the dining-room? And do you think I can part with you thus?—Do you
+think I will.
+
+And am I, Sir, to be thus beset?—Surrounded thus?—What have these women
+to do with me?
+
+I desired them to leave us, all but Dorcas, who was down as soon as I.
+I then thought it right to assume an air of resolution, having found my
+tameness so greatly triumphed over. And now, my dear, said I, (urging
+her reluctant feet,) be pleased to walk into the fore-parlour. Here,
+since you will not go up stairs, here we may hold our parley; and
+Dorcas will be witness to it. And now, Madam, seating her, and sticking
+my hands in my sides, your pleasure!
+
+Insolent villain! said the furious lady. And rising, ran to the window,
+and threw up the sash, [she knew not, I suppose, that there were iron
+rails before the windows.] And, when she found she could not get out
+into the street, clasping her uplifted hands together, having dropt her
+parcel—For the love of God, good honest man!—For the love of God,
+mistress—[to two passers by,] a poor, a poor creature, said she,
+ruined!——
+
+I clasped her in my arms, people beginning to gather about the window:
+and then she cried out Murder! help! help! and carried her up to the
+dining-room, in spite of her little plotting heart, (as I may now call
+it,) although she violently struggled, catching hold of the banisters
+here and there, as she could. I would have seated her there; but she
+sunk down half-motionless, pale as ashes. And a violent burst of tears
+happily relieved her.
+
+Dorcas wept over her. The wench was actually moved for her!
+
+Violent hysterics succeeded. I left her to Mabell, Dorcas, and Polly;
+the latter the most supportable to her of the sisterhood.
+
+This attempt, so resolutely made, alarmed me not a little.
+
+Mrs. Sinclair and her nymphs, are much more concerned; because of the
+reputation of their house as they call it, having received some insults
+(broken windows threatened) to make them produce the young creature who
+cried out.
+
+While the mobbish inquisitors were in the height of their office, the
+women came running up to me, to know what they should do; a constable
+being actually fetched.
+
+Get the constable into the parlour, said I, with three or four of the
+forwardest of the mob, and produce one of the nymphs, onion-eyed, in a
+moment, with disordered head-dress and handkerchief, and let her own
+herself the person: the occasion, a female skirmish: but satisfied with
+the justice done her. Then give a dram or two to each fellow, and all
+will be well.
+
+ELEVEN O’CLOCK.
+
+All done as I advised; and all is well.
+
+Mrs. Sinclair wishes she had never seen the face of so skittish a lady;
+and she and Sally are extremely pressing with me, to leave the perverse
+beauty to their breaking, as they call it, for four or five days. But I
+cursed them into silence; only ordering double precaution for the
+future.
+
+Polly, though she consoled the dear perverse one all she could, when
+with her, insists upon it to me, that nothing but terror will procure
+me tolerable usage.
+
+Dorcas was challenged by the women upon her tears. She owned them real.
+Said she was ashamed of herself: but could not help it. So sincere, so
+unyielding a grief, in so sweet a lady!—
+
+The women laughed at her; but I bid her make no apologies for her
+tears, nor mind their laughing. I was glad to see them so ready. Good
+use might be made of such strangers. In short, I would not have her
+indulge them often, and try if it were not possible to gain her lady’s
+confidence by her concern for her.
+
+She said that her lady did take kind notice of them to her; and was
+glad to see such tokens of humanity in her.
+
+Well then, said I, your part, whether any thing come of it or not, is
+to be tender-hearted. It can do no harm, if no good. But take care you
+are not too suddenly, or too officiously compassionate.
+
+So Dorcas will be a humane, good sort of creature, I believe, very
+quickly with her lady. And as it becomes women to be so, and as my
+beloved is willing to think highly of her own sex; it will the more
+readily pass with her.
+
+I thought to have had one trial (having gone so far) for cohabitation.
+But what hope can there be of succeeding?—She is invincible!—Against
+all my motions, against all my conceptions, (thinking of her as a
+woman, and in the very bloom of her charms,) she is absolutely
+invincible. My whole view, at the present, is to do her legal justice,
+if I can but once more get her out of her altitudes.
+
+The consent of such a woman must make her ever new, ever charming. But
+astonishing! Can the want of a church-ceremony make such a difference!
+
+She owes me her consent; for hitherto I have had nothing to boast of.
+All of my side, has been deep remorse, anguish of mind, and love
+increased rather than abated.
+
+How her proud rejection stings me!—And yet I hope still to get her to
+listen to my stories of the family-reconciliation, and of her uncle and
+Capt. Tomlinson—and as she has given me a pretence to detain her
+against her will, she must see me, whether in temper or not.—She cannot
+help it. And if love will not do, terror, as the women advise, must be
+tried.
+
+A nice part, after all, has my beloved to act. If she forgive me
+easily, I resume perhaps my projects:—if she carry her rejection into
+violence, that violence may make me desperate, and occasion fresh
+violence. She ought, since she thinks she has found the women out, to
+consider where she is.
+
+I am confoundedly out of conceit with myself. If I give up my
+contrivances, my joy in stratagem, and plot, and invention, I shall be
+but a common man; such another dull heavy creature as thyself. Yet what
+does even my success in my machinations bring me but regret, disgrace,
+repentance? But I am overmatched, egregiously overmatched, by this
+woman. What to do with her, or without her, I know not.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XX
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
+
+
+I have this moment intelligence from Simon Parsons, one of Lord M.’s
+stewards, that his Lordship is very ill. Simon, who is my obsequious
+servant, in virtue of my presumptive heirship, gives me a hint in his
+letter, that my presence at M. Hall will not be amiss. So I must
+accelerate, whatever be the course I shall be allowed or compelled to
+take.
+
+No bad prospects for this charming creature, if the old peer would be
+so kind as to surrender; and many a summons has this gout given him. A
+good 8000£. a-year, and perhaps the title reversionary, or a still
+higher, would help me up with her.
+
+Proudly as this lady pretends to be above all pride, grandeur will have
+its charms with her; for grandeur always makes a man’s face shine in a
+woman’s eye. I have a pretty good, because a clear, estate, as it is.
+But what a noble variety of mischief will 8000£. a-year, enable a man
+to do?
+
+Perhaps thou’lt say, I do already all that comes into my head; but
+that’s a mistake—not one half I will assure thee. And even good folks,
+as I have heard, love to have the power of doing mischief, whether they
+make use of it or not. The late Queen Anne, who was a very good woman,
+was always fond of prerogative. And her ministers, in her name, in more
+instances than one, made a ministerial use of this her foible.
+
+
+But now, at last, am I to be admitted to the presence of my angry
+fair-one; after three denials, nevertheless; and a peremptory from me,
+by Dorcas, that I must see her in her chamber, if I cannot see her in
+the dining-room.
+
+Dorcas, however, tells me that she says, if she were at her own
+liberty, she would never see me more; and that she had been asking
+after the characters and conditions of the neighbours. I suppose, now
+she has found her voice, to call out for help from them, if there were
+any to hear her.
+
+She will have it now, it seems, that I had the wickedness from the very
+beginning, to contrive, for her ruin, a house so convenient for
+dreadful mischief.
+
+Dorcas begs of her to be pacified—entreats her to see me with
+patience—tells her that I am one of the most determined of men, as she
+has heard say. That gentleness may do with me; but that nothing else
+will, she believes. And what, as her ladyship (as she always styles
+her,) is married, if I had broken my oath, or intended to break it!—
+
+She hinted plain enough to the honest wench, that she was not married.
+But Dorcas would not understand her.
+
+This shows she is resolved to keep no measures. And now is to be a
+trial of skill, whether she shall or not.
+
+Dorcas has hinted to her my Lord’s illness, as a piece of intelligence
+that dropt in conversation from me.
+
+But here I stop. My beloved, pursuant to my peremptory message, is just
+gone up into the dining-room.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XXI
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. MONDAY AFTERNOON.
+
+Pity me, Jack, for pity’s sake; since, if thou dost not, nobody else
+will: and yet never was there a man of my genius and lively temper that
+wanted it more. We are apt to attribute to the devil every thing
+happens to us, which we would not have happen: but here, being, (as
+perhaps thou’lt say,) the devil myself, my plagues arise from an angel.
+I suppose all mankind is to be plagued by its contrary.
+
+She began with me like a true woman, [she in the fault, I to be
+blamed,] the moment I entered the dining-room: not the least apology,
+not the least excuse, for the uproar she had made, and the trouble she
+had given me.
+
+I come, said she, into thy detested presence, because I cannot help it.
+But why am I to be imprisoned here?—Although to no purpose, I cannot
+help——
+
+Dearest Madam, interrupted I, give not way to so much violence. You
+must know, that your detention is entirely owing to the desire I have
+to make you all the amends that is in my power to make you. And this,
+as well for your sake as my own. Surely there is still one way left to
+repair the wrongs you have suffered——
+
+Canst thou blot out the past week! Several weeks past, I should say;
+ever since I have been with thee? Canst thou call back time?—If thou
+canst——
+
+Surely, Madam, again interrupting her, if I may be permitted to call
+you legally mine, I might have but anticip——
+
+Wretch, that thou art! Say not another word upon this subject. When
+thou vowedst, when thou promisedst at Hampstead, I had begun to think
+that I must be thine. If I had consented, at the request of those I
+thought thy relations, this would have been a principal inducement,
+that I could then have brought thee, what was most wanted, an unsullied
+honour in dowry, to a wretch destitute of all honour; and could have
+met the gratulations of a family to which thy life has been one
+continued disgrace, with a consciousness of deserving their
+gratulations. But thinkest thou, that I will give a harlot niece to thy
+honourable uncle, and to thy real aunts; and a cousin to thy cousins
+from a brothel? for such, in my opinion, is this detested house!—Then,
+lifting up her clasped hands, ‘Great and good God of Heaven,’ said she,
+‘give me patience to support myself under the weight of those
+afflictions, which thou, for wise and good ends, though at present
+impenetrable by me, hast permitted!’
+
+Then, turning towards me, who knew neither what to say to her, nor for
+myself, I renounce thee for ever, Lovelace!—Abhorred of my soul! for
+ever I renounce thee!—Seek thy fortunes wheresoever thou wilt!—only
+now, that thou hast already ruined me!—
+
+Ruined you, Madam—the world need not—I knew not what to say.
+
+Ruined me in my own eyes; and that is the same to me as if all the
+world knew it—hinder me not from going whither my mysterious destiny
+shall lead me.
+
+Why hesitate you, Sir? What right have you to stop me, as you lately
+did; and to bring me up by force, my hands and arms bruised by your
+violence? What right have you to detain me here?
+
+I am cut to the heart, Madam, with invectives so violent. I am but too
+sensible of the wrong I have done you, or I could not bear your
+reproaches. The man who perpetrates a villany, and resolves to go on
+with it, shows not the compunction I show. Yet, if you think yourself
+in my power, I would caution you, Madam, not to make me desperate. For
+you shall be mine, or my life shall be the forfeit! Nor is life worth
+having without you!—
+
+Be thine!—I be thine!—said the passionate beauty. O how lovely in her
+violence!
+
+Yes, Madam, be mine! I repeat you shall be mine! My very crime is your
+glory. My love, my admiration of you is increased by what has
+passed—and so it ought. I am willing, Madam, to court your returning
+favour; but let me tell you, were the house beset by a thousand armed
+men, resolved to take you from me, they should not effect their
+purpose, while I had life.
+
+I never, never will be your’s, said she, clasping her hands together,
+and lifting up her eyes!—I never will be your’s!
+
+We may yet see many happy years, Madam. All your friends may be
+reconciled to you. The treaty for that purpose is in greater
+forwardness than you imagine. You know better than to think the worse
+of yourself for suffering what you could not help. Enjoin but the terms
+I can make my peace with you upon, and I will instantly comply.
+
+Never, never, repeated she, will I be your’s!
+
+Only forgive me, my dearest life, this one time!—A virtue so
+invincible! what further view can I have against you?—Have I attempted
+any further outrage?—If you will be mine, your injuries will be
+injuries done to myself. You have too well guessed at the unnatural
+arts that have been used. But can a greater testimony be given of your
+virtue?—And now I have only to hope, that although I cannot make you
+complete amends, yet you will permit me to make you all the amends that
+can possibly be made.
+
+Hear me out, I beseech you, Madam; for she was going to speak with an
+aspect unpacifiedly angry: the God, whom you serve, requires but
+repentance and amendment. Imitate him, my dearest love, and bless me
+with the means of reforming a course of life that begins to be hateful
+to me. That was once your favourite point. Resume it, dearest creature,
+in charity to a soul, as well as body, which once, as I flattered
+myself, was more than indifferent to you, resume it. And let
+to-morrow’s sun witness to our espousals.
+
+I cannot judge thee, said she; but the GOD to whom thou so boldly
+referrest can, and, assure thyself, He will. But, if compunction has
+really taken hold of thee—if, indeed, thou art touched for thy
+ungrateful baseness, and meanest any thing by this pleading the holy
+example thou recommendest to my imitation; in this thy pretended
+repentant moment, let me sift thee thoroughly, and by thy answer I
+shall judge of the sincerity of thy pretended declarations.
+
+Tell me, then, is there any reality in the treaty thou has pretended to
+be on foot between my uncle and Capt. Tomlinson, and thyself?—Say, and
+hesitate not, is there any truth in that story?—But, remember, if there
+be not, and thou avowest that there is, what further condemnation
+attends to thy averment, if it be as solemn as I require it to be!
+
+This was a cursed thrust! What could I say!—Surely this merciless lady
+is resolved to d—n me, thought I, and yet accuses me of a design
+against her soul!—But was I not obliged to proceed as I had begun?
+
+In short, I solemnly averred that there was!—How one crime, as the good
+folks say, brings on another!
+
+I added, that the Captain had been in town, and would have waited on
+her, had she not been indisposed; that he went down much afflicted, as
+well on her account, as on that of her uncle; though I had not
+acquainted him either with the nature of her disorder, or the
+ever-to-be-regretted occasion of it, having told him that it was a
+violent fever; That he had twice since, by her uncle’s desire, sent up
+to inquire after her health; and that I had already dispatched a man
+and horse with a letter, to acquaint him, (and her uncle through him,)
+with her recovery; making it my earnest request, that he would renew
+his application to her uncle for the favour of his presence at the
+private celebrations of our nuptials; and that I expected an answer, if
+not this night, as to-morrow.
+
+Let me ask thee next, said she, (thou knowest the opinion I have of the
+women thou broughtest to me at Hampstead; and who have seduced me
+hither to my ruin; let me ask thee,) If, really and truly, they were
+Lady Betty Lawrance and thy cousin Montague?—What sayest thou—hesitate
+not—what sayest thou to this question?
+
+Astonishing, my dear, that you should suspect them!—But, knowing your
+strange opinion of them, what can I say to be believed?
+
+And is this the answer thou returnest me? Dost thou thus evade my
+question? But let me know, for I am trying thy sincerity now, and all
+shall judge of thy new professions by thy answer to this question; let
+me know, I repeat, whether those women be really Lady Betty Lawrance
+and thy cousin Montague?
+
+Let me, my dearest love, be enabled to-morrow to call you lawfully
+mine, and we will set out the next day, if you please, to Berkshire to
+my Lord M.’s, where they both are at this time; and you shall convince
+yourself by your own eyes, and by your own ears; which you will believe
+sooner than all I can say or swear.
+
+Now, Belford, I had really some apprehension of treachery from thee;
+which made me so miserably evade; for else, I could as safely have
+sworn to the truth of this, as to that of the former: but she pressing
+me still for a categorical answer, I ventured plumb; and swore to it,
+[lover’s oaths, Jack!] that they were really and truly Lady Betty
+Lawrance and my cousin Montague.
+
+She lifted up her hands and eyes—What can I think!—what can I think!
+
+You think me a devil, Madam; a very devil! or you could not after you
+have put these questions to me, seem to doubt the truth of answers so
+solemnly sworn to.
+
+And if I do think thee so, have I not cause? Is there another man in
+the world, (I hope for the sake of human nature, there is not,) who
+could act by any poor friendless creature as thou hast acted by me,
+whom thou hast made friendless—and who, before I knew thee, had for a
+friend every one who knew me?
+
+I told you, Madam, before that Lady Betty and my cousin were actually
+here, in order to take leave of you, before they set out for Berkshire:
+but the effects of my ungrateful crime, (such, with shame and remorse,
+I own it to be,) were the reason you could not see them. Nor could I be
+fond that they should see you; since they never would have forgiven me,
+had they known what had passed—and what reason had I to expect your
+silence on the subject, had you been recovered?
+
+It signifies nothing now, that the cause of their appearance has been
+answered in my ruin, who or what they are: but if thou hast averred
+thus solemnly to two falsehoods, what a wretch do I see before me!
+
+I thought she had now reason to be satisfied; and I begged her to allow
+me to talk to her of to-morrow, as of the happiest day of my life. We
+have the license, Madam—and you must excuse me, that I cannot let you
+go hence till I have tried every way I can to obtain your forgiveness.
+
+And am I then, [with a kind of frantic wildness,] to be detained a
+prisoner in this horrid house—am I, Sir?—Take care! take care! holding
+up her hand, menacing, how you make me desperate! If I fall, though by
+my own hand, inquisition will be made for my blood; and be not out in
+thy plot, Lovelace, if it should be so—make sure work, I charge
+thee—dig a hole deep enough to cram in and conceal this unhappy body;
+for, depend upon it, that some of those who will not stir to protect me
+living, will move heaven and earth to avenge me dead!
+
+A horrid dear creature!—By my soul she made me shudder! She had need
+indeed to talk of her unhappiness in falling into the hands of the only
+man in the world, who could have used her as I have used her—she is the
+only woman in the world, who could have shocked and disturbed me as she
+has done. So we are upon a foot in that respect. And I think I have the
+worst of it by much: since very little has been my joy—very much my
+trouble. And her punishment, as she calls it, is over: but when mine
+will, or what it may be, who can tell?
+
+Here, only recapitulating, (think, then, how I must be affected at the
+time,) I was forced to leave off, and sing a song to myself. I aimed at
+a lively air; but I croaked rather than sung. And fell into the old
+dismal thirtieth of January strain; I hemmed up for a sprightlier note;
+but it would not do; and at last I ended, like a malefactor, in a dead
+psalm melody.
+
+Heigh-ho!—I gape like an unfledged kite in its nest, wanting to swallow
+a chicken, bobbed at its mouth by its marauding dam!—
+
+What a-devil ails me?—I can neither think nor write!
+
+Lie down, pen, for a moment!
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XXII
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
+
+
+There is certainly a good deal in the observation, that it costs a man
+ten times more pains to be wicked, than it would cost him to be good.
+What a confounded number of contrivances have I had recourse to, in
+order to carry my point with this charming creature; and yet after all,
+how have I puzzled myself by it; and yet am near tumbling into the pit
+which it was the end of all my plots to shun! What a happy man had I
+been with such an excellence, could I have brought my mind to marry
+when I first prevailed upon her to quit her father’s house! But then,
+as I have often reflected, how had I known, that a but blossoming
+beauty, who could carry on a private correspondence, and run such
+risques with a notorious wild fellow, was not prompted by inclination,
+which one day might give such a free-liver as myself as much pain to
+reflect upon, as, at the time it gave me pleasure? Thou rememberest the
+host’s tale in Ariosto. And thy experience, as well as mine, can
+furnish out twenty Fiametta’s in proof of the imbecility of the sex.
+
+But to proceed with my narrative.
+
+The dear creature resumed the topic her heart was so firmly fixed upon;
+and insisted upon quitting the odious house, and that in very high
+terms.
+
+I urged her to meet me the next day at the altar in either of the two
+churches mentioned in the license. And I besought her, whatever was her
+resolution, to let me debate this matter calmly with her.
+
+If, she said, I would have her give what I desired the least moment’s
+consideration, I must not hinder her from being her own mistress. To
+what purpose did I ask her consent, if she had not a power over either
+her own person or actions?
+
+Will you give me your honour, Madam, if I consent to your quitting a
+house so disagreeable to you?—
+
+My honour, Sir! said the dear creature—Alas!—And turned weeping from me
+with inimitable grace—as if she had said—Alas!—you have robbed me of my
+honour!
+
+I hoped then, that her angry passions were subsiding; but I was
+mistaken; for, urging her warmly for the day; and that for the sake of
+our mutual honour, and the honour of both our families; in this
+high-flown and high-souled strain she answered me:
+
+And canst thou, Lovelace, be so mean—as to wish to make a wife of the
+creature thou hast insulted, dishonoured, and abused, as thou hast me?
+Was it necessary to humble me down to the low level of thy baseness,
+before I could be a wife meet for thee? Thou hadst a father, who was a
+man of honour: a mother, who deserved a better son. Thou hast an uncle,
+who is no dishonour to the Peerage of a kingdom, whose peers are more
+respectable than the nobility of any other country. Thou hast other
+relations also, who may be thy boast, though thou canst not be
+theirs—and canst thou not imagine, that thou hearest them calling upon
+thee; the dead from their monuments; the living from their laudable
+pride; not to dishonour thy ancient and splendid house, by entering
+into wedlock with a creature whom thou hast levelled with the dirt of
+the street, and classed with the vilest of her sex?
+
+I extolled her greatness of soul, and her virtue. I execrated myself
+for my guilt: and told her, how grateful to the manes of my ancestors,
+as well as to the wishes of the living, the honour I supplicated for
+would be.
+
+But still she insisted upon being a free agent; of seeing herself in
+other lodgings before she would give what I urged the least
+consideration. Nor would she promise me favour even then, or to permit
+my visits. How then, as I asked her, could I comply, without resolving
+to lose her for ever?
+
+She put her hand to her forehead often as she talked; and at last,
+pleading disorder in her head, retired; neither of us satisfied with
+the other. But she ten times more dissatisfied with me, than I with
+her.
+
+Dorcas seems to be coming into favour with her—
+
+What now!—What now!
+
+MONDAY NIGHT.
+
+How determined is this lady!—Again had she like to have escaped
+us!—What a fixed resentment!—She only, I find, assumed a little calm,
+in order to quiet suspicion. She was got down, and actually had
+unbolted the street-door, before I could get to her; alarmed as I was
+by Mrs. Sinclair’s cookmaid, who was the only one that saw her fly
+through the passage: yet lightning was not quicker than I.
+
+Again I brought her back to the dining-room, with infinite reluctance
+on her part. And, before her face, ordered a servant to be placed
+constantly at the bottom of the stairs for the future.
+
+She seemed even choked with grief and disappointment.
+
+Dorcas was exceedingly assiduous about her; and confidently gave it as
+her own opinion, that her dear lady should be permitted to go to
+another lodging, since this was so disagreeable to her: were she to be
+killed for saying so, she would say it. And was good Dorcas for this
+afterwards.
+
+But for some time the dear creature was all passion and violence—
+
+I see, I see, said she, when I had brought her up, what I am to expect
+from your new professions, O vilest of men!—
+
+Have I offered to you, my beloved creature, any thing that can justify
+this impatience after a more hopeful calm?
+
+She wrung her hands. She disordered her head-dress. She tore her
+ruffles. She was in a perfect phrensy.
+
+I dreaded her returning malady: but, entreaty rather exasperating, I
+affected an angry air.—I bid her expect the worst she had to fear—and
+was menacing on, in hopes to intimidate her; when, dropping to my feet,
+
+’Twill be a mercy, said she, the highest act of mercy you can do, to
+kill me outright upon this spot—this happy spot, as I will, in my last
+moments, call it!—Then, baring, with a still more frantic violence,
+part of her enchanting neck—Here, here, said the soul-harrowing beauty,
+let thy pointed mercy enter! and I will thank thee, and forgive thee
+for all the dreadful past!—With my latest gasp will I forgive and thank
+thee!—Or help me to the means, and I will myself put out of the way so
+miserable a wretch! And bless thee for those means!
+
+Why all this extravagant passion? Why all these exclamations? Have I
+offered any new injury to you, my dearest life? What a phrensy is this!
+Am I not ready to make you all the reparation that I can make you? Had
+I not reason to hope—
+
+No, no, no, no, as before, shaking her head with wild impatience, as
+resolved not to attend to what I said.
+
+My resolutions are so honourable, if you will permit them to take
+effect, that I need not be solicitous where you go, if you will but
+permit my visits, and receive my vows.—And God is my witness, that I
+bring you not back from the door with any view to your dishonour, but
+the contrary: and this moment I will send for a minister to put an end
+to all your doubts and fears.
+
+Say this, and say a thousand times more, and bind every word with a
+solemn appeal to that God whom thou art accustomed to invoke to the
+truth of the vilest falsehoods, and all will still be short of what
+thou has vowed and promised to me. And, were not my heart to abhor
+thee, and to rise against thee, for thy perjuries, as it does, I would
+not, I tell thee once more, I would not, bind my soul in covenant with
+such a man, for a thousand worlds!
+
+Compose yourself, however, Madam; for your own sake, compose yourself.
+Permit me to raise you up; abhorred as I am of your soul!
+
+Nay, if I must not touch you; for she wildly slapt my hands; but with
+such a sweet passionate air, her bosom heaving and throbbing as she
+looked up to me, that although I was most sincerely enraged, I could
+with transport have pressed her to mine.
+
+If I must not touch you, I will not.—But depend upon it, [and I assumed
+the sternest air I could assume, to try what it would do,] depend upon
+it, Madam, that this is not the way to avoid the evils you dread. Let
+me do what I will, I cannot be used worse—Dorcas, begone!
+
+She arose, Dorcas being about to withdraw; and wildly caught hold of
+her arm: O Dorcas! If thou art of mine own sex, leave me not, I charge
+thee!—Then quitting Dorcas, down she threw herself upon her knees, in
+the furthermost corner of the room, clasping a chair with her face laid
+upon the bottom of it!—O where can I be safe?—Where, where can I be
+safe, from this man of violence?—
+
+This gave Dorcas an opportunity to confirm herself in her lady’s
+confidence: the wench threw herself at my feet, while I seemed in
+violent wrath; and embracing my knees, Kill me, Sir, kill me, Sir, if
+you please!—I must throw myself in your way, to save my lady. I beg
+your pardon, Sir—but you must be set on!—God forgive the
+mischief-makers!—But your own heart, if left to itself, would not
+permit these things—spare, however, Sir! spare my lady, I beseech
+you!—bustling on her knees about me, as if I were intending to approach
+her lady, had I not been restrained by her.
+
+This, humoured by me, Begone, devil!—Officious devil, begone!—startled
+the dear creature: who, snatching up hastily her head from the chair,
+and as hastily popping it down again in terror, hit her nose, I
+suppose, against the edge of the chair; and it gushed out with blood,
+running in a stream down her bosom; she herself was too much frighted
+to heed it!
+
+Never was mortal man in such terror and agitation as I; for I instantly
+concluded, that she had stabbed herself with some concealed instrument.
+
+I ran to her in a wild agony—for Dorcas was frighted out of all her
+mock interposition——
+
+What have you done!—O what have you done!—Look up to me, my dearest
+life!—Sweet injured innocence, look up to me! What have you done!—Long
+will I not survive you!—And I was upon the point of drawing my sword to
+dispatch myself, when I discovered—[What an unmanly blockhead does this
+charming creature make me at her pleasure!] that all I apprehended was
+but a bloody nose, which, as far as I know (for it could not be stopped
+in a quarter of an hour) may have saved her head and her intellects.
+
+But I see by this scene, that the sweet creature is but a pretty coward
+at bottom; and that I can terrify her out of her virulence against me,
+whenever I put on sternness and anger. But then, as a qualifier to the
+advantage this gives me over her, I find myself to be a coward too,
+which I had not before suspected, since I was capable of being so
+easily terrified by the apprehensions of her offering violence to
+herself.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XXIII
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
+
+
+But with all this dear creature’s resentment against me, I cannot, for
+my heart, think but she will get all over, and consent to enter the
+pale with me. Were she even to die to-morrow, and to know she should,
+would not a woman of her sense, of her punctilio, and in her situation,
+and of so proud a family, rather die married, than otherwise?—No doubt
+but she would; although she were to hate the man ever so heartily. If
+so, there is now but one man in the world whom she can have—and that is
+me.
+
+Now I talk [familiar writing is but talking, Jack] thus glibly of
+entering the pale, thou wilt be ready to question me, I know, as to my
+intentions on this head.
+
+As much of my heart, as I know of it myself, will I tell thee.—When I
+am from her, I cannot still help hesitating about marriage; and I even
+frequently resolve against it, and determine to press my favourite
+scheme for cohabitation. But when I am with her, I am ready to say, to
+swear, and to do, whatever I think will be the most acceptable to her,
+and were a parson at hand, I should plunge at once, no doubt of it,
+into the state.
+
+I have frequently thought, in common cases, that it is happy for many
+giddy fellows [there are giddy fellows, as well as giddy girls, Jack;
+and perhaps those are as often drawn in, as these] that ceremony and
+parade are necessary to the irrevocable solemnity; and that there is
+generally time for a man to recollect himself in the space between the
+heated over-night, and the cooler next morning; or I know not who could
+escape the sweet gypsies, whose fascinating powers are so much aided by
+our own raised imaginations.
+
+A wife at any time, I used to say. I had ever confidence and vanity
+enough to think that no woman breathing could deny her hand when I held
+out mine. I am confoundedly mortified to find that this lady is able to
+hold me at bay, and to refuse all my honest vows.
+
+What force [allow me a serious reflection, Jack: it will be put down!
+What force] have evil habits upon the human mind! When we enter upon a
+devious course, we think we shall have it in our power when we will
+return to the right path. But it is not so, I plainly see: For, who can
+acknowledge with more justice this dear creature’s merits, and his own
+errors, than I? Whose regret, at times, can be deeper than mine, for
+the injuries I have done her? Whose resolutions to repair those
+injuries stronger?—Yet how transitory is my penitence!—How am I hurried
+away—Canst thou tell by what?—O devil of youth, and devil of intrigue,
+how do you mislead me!—How often do we end in occasions for the deepest
+remorse, what we begin in wantonness!—
+
+At the present writing, however, the turn of the scale is in behalf of
+matrimony—for I despair of carrying with her my favourite point.
+
+The lady tells Dorcas, that her heart is broken: and that she shall
+live but a little while. I think nothing of that, if we marry. In the
+first place, she knows not what a mind unapprehensive will do for her,
+in a state to which all the sex look forwards with high satisfaction.
+How often have the whole of the sacred conclave been thus deceived in
+their choice of a pope; not considering that the new dignity is of
+itself sufficient to give new life! A few months’ heart’s ease will
+give my charmer a quite different notion of things: and I dare say, as
+I have heretofore said,* once married, and I am married for life.
+
+* See Letter IX. of this volume.
+
+I will allow that her pride, in one sense, has suffered abasement: but
+her triumph is the greater in every other. And while I can think that
+all her trials are but additions to her honour, and that I have laid
+the foundations of her glory in my own shame, can I be called cruel, if
+I am not affected with her grief as some men would be?
+
+And for what should her heart be broken? Her will is unviolated;—at
+present, however, her will is unviolated. The destroying of good
+habits, and the introducing of bad, to the corrupting of the whole
+heart, is the violation. That her will is not to be corrupted, that her
+mind is not to be debased, she has hitherto unquestionably proved. And
+if she give cause for farther trials, and hold fast her integrity, what
+ideas will she have to dwell upon, that will be able to corrupt her
+morals? What vestigia, what remembrances, but such as will inspire
+abhorrence of the attempter?
+
+What nonsense then to suppose that such a mere notional violation as
+she has suffered should be able to cut asunder the strings of life?
+
+Her religion, married, or not married, will set her above making such a
+trifling accident, such an involuntary suffering fatal to her.
+
+Such considerations as these they are that support me against all
+apprehensions of bugbear consequences; and I would have them have
+weight with thee; who are such a doughty advocate for her. And yet I
+allow thee this; that she really makes too much of it; takes it too
+much to heart. To be sure she ought to have forgot it by this time,
+except the charming, charming consequence happen, that still I am in
+hopes will happen, were I to proceed no farther. And, if she
+apprehended this herself, then has the dear over-nice soul some reason
+for taking it so much to heart; and yet would not, I think, refuse to
+legitimate.
+
+O Jack! had I am imperial diadem, I swear to thee, that I would give it
+up, even to my enemy, to have one charming boy by this lady. And should
+she escape me, and no such effect follow, my revenge on her family,
+and, in such a case, on herself, would be incomplete, and I should
+reproach myself as long as I lived.
+
+Were I to be sure that this foundation is laid [And why may I not hope
+it is?] I should not doubt to have her still (should she withstand her
+day of grace) on my own conditions; nor should I, if it were so,
+question that revived affection in her, which a woman seldom fails to
+have for the father of her first child, whether born in wedlock, or out
+of it.
+
+And pr’ythee, Jack, see in this my ardent hope, a distinction in my
+favour from other rakes; who, almost to a man, follow their
+inclinations without troubling themselves about consequences. In
+imitation, as one would think, of the strutting villain of a bird,
+which from feathered lady to feathered lady pursues his imperial
+pleasures, leaving it to his sleek paramours to hatch the genial
+product in holes and corners of their own finding out.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XXIV
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. TUESDAY MORN. JUNE 20.
+
+Well, Jack, now are we upon another footing together. This dear
+creature will not let me be good. She is now authorizing all my plots
+by her own example.
+
+Thou must be partial in the highest degree, if now thou blamest me for
+resuming my former schemes, since in that case I shall but follow her
+cue. No forced construction of her actions do I make on this occasion,
+in order to justify a bad cause or a worse intention. A slight
+pretence, indeed, served the wolf when he had a mind to quarrel with
+the lamb; but this is not now my case.
+
+For here (wouldst thou have thought it?) taking advantage of Dorcas’s
+compassionate temper, and of some warm expressions which the
+tender-hearted wench let fall against the cruelty of men, and wishing
+to have it in her power to serve her, has she given her the following
+note, signed by her maiden name: for she has thought fit, in positive
+and plain words, to own to the pitying Dorcas that she is not married.
+
+MONDAY, JUNE 19.
+
+I then underwritten do hereby promise, that, on my coming into
+possession of my own estate, I will provide for Dorcas Martindale in a
+gentlewoman-like manner, in my own house: or, if I do not soon obtain
+that possession, or should first die, I do hereby bind myself, my
+executors, and administrators, to pay to her, or her order, during the
+term of her natural life, the sum of five pounds on each of the four
+usual quarterly days in the year; on condition that she faithfully
+assist me in my escape from an illegal confinement under which I now
+labour. The first quarterly payment to commence and be payable at the
+end of three months immediately following the day of my deliverance.
+And I do also promise to give her, as a testimony of my honour in the
+rest, a diamond ring, which I have showed her. Witness my hand this
+nineteenth day of June, in the year above written.
+
+CLARISSA HARLOWE.
+
+Now, Jack, what terms wouldst thou have me to keep with such a sweet
+corruptress? Seest thou not how she hates me? Seest thou not that she
+is resolved never to forgive me? Seest thou not, however, that she must
+disgrace herself in the eye of the world, if she actually should
+escape? That she must be subjected to infinite distress and hazard! For
+whom has she to receive and protect her? Yet to determine to risque all
+these evils! and furthermore to stoop to artifice, to be guilty of the
+reigning vice of the times, of bribery and corruption! O Jack, Jack!
+say not, write not another word in her favour!
+
+Thou hast blamed me for bringing her to this house: but had I carried
+her to any other in England, where there would have been one servant or
+inmate capable either of compassion or corruption, what must have been
+the consequence?
+
+But seest thou not, however, that in this flimsy contrivance, the dear
+implacable, like a drowning man, catches at a straw to save herself!—A
+straw shall she find to be the refuge she has resorted to.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XXV
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. TUES. MORN. TEN O’CLOCK
+
+Very ill—exceedingly ill—as Dorcas tells me, in order to avoid seeing
+me—and yet the dear soul may be so in her mind. But is not that
+equivocation? Some one passion predominating in every human breast,
+breaks through principle, and controuls us all. Mine is love and
+revenge taking turns. Her’s is hatred.—But this is my consolation, that
+hatred appeased is love begun; or love renewed, I may rather say, if
+love ever had footing here.
+
+But reflectioning apart, thou seest, Jack, that her plot is beginning
+to work. To-morrow is to break out.
+
+I have been abroad, to set on foot a plot of circumvention. All fair
+now, Belford!
+
+I insisted upon visiting my indisposed fair-one. Dorcas made officious
+excuses for her. I cursed the wench in her hearing for her
+impertinence; and stamped and made a clutter; which was improved into
+an apprehension to the lady that I would have flung her faithful
+confidante from the top of the stairs to the bottom.
+
+He is a violent wretch!—But, Dorcas, [dear Dorcas, now it is,] thou
+shalt have a friend in me to the last day of my life.
+
+And what now, Jack, dost think the name of her good angel is!—Why
+Dorcas Martindale, christian and super (no more Wykes) as in the
+promissory note in my former—and the dear creature has bound her to her
+by the most solemn obligations, besides the tie of interest.
+
+Whither, Madam, do you design to go when you get out of this house?
+
+I will throw myself into the first open house I can find; and beg
+protection till I can get a coach, or a lodging in some honest family.
+
+What will you do for clothes, Madam? I doubt you’ll be able to take any
+away with you, but what you’ll have on.
+
+O, no matter for clothes, if I can but get out of this house.
+
+What will you do for money, Madam? I have heard his honour express his
+concern, that he could not prevail upon you to be obliged to him,
+though he apprehended that you must be short of money.
+
+O, I have rings and other valuables. Indeed I have but four guineas,
+and two of them I found lately wrapt up in a bit of lace, designed for
+a charitable use. But now, alas! charity begins at home!—But I have one
+dear friend left, if she be living, as I hope in God she is! to whom I
+can be obliged, if I want. O Dorcas! I must ere now have heard from
+her, if I had had fair play.
+
+Well, Madam, your’s is a hard lot. I pity you at my heart!
+
+Thank you, Dorcas!—I am unhappy, that I did not think before, that I
+might have confided in thy pity, and in thy sex!
+
+I pitied you, Madam, often and often: but you were always, as I
+thought, diffident of me. And then I doubted not but you were married;
+and I thought his honour was unkindly used by you. So that I thought it
+my duty to wish well to his honour, rather than to what I thought to be
+your humours, Madam. Would to Heaven that I had known before that you
+were not married!—Such a lady! such a fortune! to be so sadly
+betrayed;——
+
+Ah, Dorcas! I was basely drawn in! My youth—my ignorance of the
+world—and I have some things to reproach myself with when I look back.
+
+Lord, Madam, what deceitful creatures are these men!—Neither oaths, nor
+vows—I am sure! I am sure! [and then with her apron she gave her eyes
+half a dozen hearty rubs] I may curse the time that I came into this
+house!
+
+Here was accounting for her bold eyes! And was it not better for Dorcas
+to give up a house which her lady could not think worse of than she
+did, in order to gain the reputation of sincerity, than by offering to
+vindicate it, to make her proffered services suspected.
+
+Poor Dorcas!—Bless me! how little do we, who have lived all our time in
+the country, know of this wicked town!
+
+Had I been able to write, cried the veteran wench, I should certainly
+have given some other near relations I have in Wales a little inkling
+of matters; and they would have saved me from——from——from——
+
+Her sobs were enough. The apprehensions of women on such subjects are
+ever aforehand with speech.
+
+And then, sobbing on, she lifted her apron to her face again. She
+showed me how.
+
+Poor Dorcas!—Again wiping her own charming eyes.
+
+All love, all compassion, is this dear creature to every one in
+affliction but me.
+
+And would not an aunt protect her kinswoman?—Abominable wretch!
+
+I can’t—I can’t—I can’t—say, my aunt was privy to it. She gave me good
+advice. She knew not for a great while that I was—that I was—that I
+was—ugh!—ugh!—ugh!—
+
+No more, no more, good Dorcas—What a world do we live in!—What a house
+am I in!—But come, don’t weep, (though she herself could not forbear:)
+my being betrayed into it, though to my own ruin, may be a happy event
+for thee: and, if I live, it shall.
+
+I thank you, my good lady, blubbering. I am sorry, very sorry, you have
+had so hard a lot. But it may be the saving of my soul, if I can get to
+your ladyship’s house. Had I but known that your ladyship was not
+married, I would have eat my own flesh, before——before——before——
+
+Dorcas sobbed and wept. The lady sighed and wept also.
+
+But now, Jack, for a serious reflection upon the premises.
+
+How will the good folks account for it, that Satan has such faithful
+instruments, and that the bond of wickedness is a stronger bond than
+the ties of virtue; as if it were the nature of the human mind to be
+villanous? For here, had Dorcas been good, and been tempted as she was
+tempted to any thing evil, I make no doubt but she would have yielded
+to the temptation.
+
+And cannot our fraternity in an hundred instances give proof of the
+like predominance of vice over virtue? And that we have risked more to
+serve and promote the interests of the former, than ever a good man did
+to serve a good man or a good cause? For have we not been prodigal of
+life and fortune? have we not defied the civil magistrate upon
+occasion? and have we not attempted rescues, and dared all things, only
+to extricate a pounded profligate?
+
+Whence, Jack, can this be?
+
+O! I have it, I believe. The vicious are as bad as they can be; and do
+the Devil’s work without looking after; while he is continually
+spreading snares for the others; and, like a skilful angler, suiting
+his baits to the fish he angles for.
+
+Nor let even honest people, so called, blame poor Dorcas for her
+fidelity in a bad cause. For does not the general, who implicitly
+serves an ambitious prince in his unjust designs upon his neighbours,
+or upon his own oppressed subjects; and even the lawyer, who, for the
+sake of a paltry fee, undertakes to whiten a black cause, and to defend
+it against one he knows to be good, do the very same thing as Dorcas?
+And are they not both every whit as culpable? Yet the one shall be
+dubbed a hero, the other called an admirable fellow, and be contended
+for by every client, and his double-tongued abilities shall carry him
+through all the high preferments of the law with reputation and
+applause.
+
+Well, but what shall be done, since the lady is so much determined on
+removing!—Is there no way to oblige her, and yet to make the very act
+subservient to my other views? I fancy such a way may be found out.
+
+I will study for it——
+
+Suppose I suffer her to make an escape? Her heart is in it. If she
+effect it, the triumph she will have over me upon it will be a
+counterbalance for all she has suffered.
+
+I will oblige her if I can.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XXVI
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
+
+
+Tired with a succession of fatiguing days and sleepless nights, and
+with contemplating the precarious situation I stand in with my beloved,
+I fell into a profound reverie; which brought on sleep; and that
+produced a dream; a fortunate dream; which, as I imagine, will afford
+my working mind the means to effect the obliging double purpose my
+heart is now once more set upon.
+
+What, as I have often contemplated, is the enjoyment of the finest
+woman in the world, to the contrivance, the bustle, the surprises, and
+at last the happy conclusion of a well-laid plot!—The charming
+round-abouts, to come to the nearest way home;—the doubts; the
+apprehensions; the heart-achings; the meditated triumphs—these are the
+joys that make the blessing dear.—For all the rest, what is it?—What
+but to find an angel in imagination dwindled down to a woman in
+fact?——But to my dream——
+
+Methought it was about nine on Wednesday morning that a chariot, with a
+dowager’s arms upon the doors, and in it a grave matronly lady [not
+unlike mother H. in the face; but, in her heart, Oh! how unlike!]
+stopped at a grocer’s shop, about ten doors on the other side of the
+way, in order to buy some groceries: and methought Dorcas, having been
+out to see if the coast were clear for her lady’s flight, and if a
+coach were to be got near the place, espied the chariot with the
+dowager’s arms, and this matronly lady: and what, methought, did
+Dorcas, that subtle traitress, do, but whip up to the old matronly
+lady, and lifting up her voice, say, Good my Lady, permit me one word
+with your Ladyship!
+
+What thou hast to say to me, say on, quoth the old lady; the grocer
+retiring, and standing aloof, to give Dorcas leave to speak; who,
+methought, in words like these accosted the lady:
+
+‘You seem, Madam, to be a very good lady; and here, in this
+neighbourhood, at a house of no high repute, is an innocent lady of
+rank and fortune, beautiful as a May morning, and youthful as a
+rose-bud, and full as sweet and lovely, who has been tricked thither by
+a wicked gentleman, practised in the ways of the town, and this very
+night will she be ruined if she get not out of his hands. Now, O Lady!
+if you will extend your compassionate goodness to this fair young lady,
+in whom, the moment you behold her, you will see cause to believe all I
+say, and let her but have a place in your chariot, and remain in your
+protection for one day only, till she can send a man and horse to her
+rich and powerful friends, you may save from ruin a lady who has no
+equal for virtue as well as beauty.’
+
+Methought the old lady, moved with Dorcas’s story, answered and said,
+‘Hasten, O damsel, who in a happy moment art come to put it in my power
+to serve the innocent and virtuous, which it has always been my delight
+to do: hasten to this young lady, and bid her hie hither to me with all
+speed; and tell her, that my chariot shall be her asylum: and if I find
+all that thou sayest true, my house shall be her sanctuary, and I will
+protect her from all her oppressors.’
+
+Hereupon, methought, this traitress Dorcas hied back to the lady, and
+made report of what she had done. And, methought, the lady highly
+approved of Dorcas’s proceeding and blessed her for her good thought.
+
+And I lifted up mine eyes, and behold the lady issued out of the house,
+and without looking back, ran to the chariot with the dowager’s coat
+upon it; and was received by the matronly lady with open arms, and
+‘Welcome, welcome, welcome, fair young lady, who so well answer the
+description of the faithful damsel: and I will carry you instantly to
+my house, where you shall meet with all the good usage your heart can
+wish for, till you can apprize your rich and powerful friends of your
+past dangers, and present escape.’
+
+‘Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, worthy, thrice worthy
+lady, who afford so kindly your protection to a most unhappy young
+creature, who has been basely seduced and betrayed, and brought to the
+very brink of destruction.’
+
+Methought, then, the matronly lady, who had, by the time the young lady
+came to her, bought and paid for the goods she wanted, ordered her
+coachman to drive home with all speed; who stopped not till he had
+arrived in a certain street not far from Lincoln’s-inn-fields, where
+the matronly lady lived in a sumptuous dwelling, replete with damsels
+who wrought curiously in muslins, cambrics, and fine linen, and in
+every good work that industrious damsels love to be employed about,
+except the loom and the spinning-wheel.
+
+And, methought, all the way the young lady and the old lady rode, and
+after they came in, till dinner was ready, the young lady filled up the
+time with the dismal account of her wrongs and her sufferings, the like
+of which was never heard by mortal ear; and this in so moving a manner,
+that the good old lady did nothing but weep, and sigh, and sob, and
+inveigh against the arts of wicked men, and against that abominable
+’Squire Lovelace, who was a plotting villain, methought she said; and
+more than that, an unchained Beelzebub.
+
+Methought I was in a dreadful agony, when I found the lady had escaped,
+and in my wrath had like to have slain Dorcas, and our mother, and
+every one I met. But, by some quick transition, and strange
+metamorphosis, which dreams do not usually account for, methought, all
+of a sudden, this matronly lady turned into the famous mother H.
+herself; and, being an old acquaintance of mother Sinclair, was
+prevailed upon to assist in my plot upon the young lady.
+
+Then, methought, followed a strange scene; for mother H. longing to
+hear more of the young lady’s story, and night being come, besought her
+to accept of a place in her own bed, in order to have all the talk to
+themselves. For, methought, two young nieces of her’s had broken in
+upon them, in the middle of the dismal tale.
+
+Accordingly, going early to bed, and the sad story being resumed, with
+as great earnestness on one side as attention on the other, before the
+young lady had gone far in it, mother H. methought was taken with a fit
+of the colic; and her tortures increasing, was obliged to rise to get a
+cordial she used to find specific in this disorder, to which she was
+unhappily subject.
+
+Having thus risen, and stept to her closet, methought she let fall the
+wax taper in her return; and then [O metamorphosis still stranger than
+the former! what unaccountable things are dreams!] coming to bed again
+in the dark, the young lady, to her infinite astonishment, grief, and
+surprise, found mother H. turned into a young person of the other sex;
+and although Lovelace was the abhorred of her soul, yet, fearing it was
+some other person, it was matter of consolation to her, when she found
+it was no other than himself, and that she had been still the
+bed-fellow of but one and the same man.
+
+A strange promiscuous huddle of adventures followed, scenes perpetually
+shifting; now nothing heard from the lady, but sighs, groans,
+exclamations, faintings, dyings—From the gentleman, but vows, promises,
+protestations, disclaimers of purposes pursued, and all the gentle and
+ungentle pressures of the lover’s warfare.
+
+Then, as quick as thought (for dreams, thou knowest confine not
+themselves to the rules of the drama) ensued recoveries, lyings-in,
+christenings, the smiling boy, amply, even in her own opinion,
+rewarding the suffering mother.
+
+Then the grandfather’s estate yielded up, possession taken of it:
+living very happily upon it: her beloved Norton her companion; Miss
+Howe her visiter; and (admirable! thrice admirable!) enabled to compare
+notes with her; a charming girl, by the same father, to her friend’s
+charming boy; who, as they grow up, in order to consolidate their
+mamma’s friendships, (for neither have dreams regard to consanguinity,)
+intermarry; change names by act of parliament, to enjoy my estate—and I
+know not what of the like incongruous stuff.
+
+I awoke, as thou mayest believe, in great disorder, and rejoiced to
+find my charmer in the next room, and Dorcas honest.
+
+Now thou wilt say this was a very odd dream. And yet, (for I am a
+strange dreamer,) it is not altogether improbable that something like
+it may happen; as the pretty simpleton has the weakness to confide in
+Dorcas, whom till now she disliked.
+
+But I forgot to tell thee one part of my dream; and that was, that, the
+next morning, the lady gave way to such transports of grief and
+resentment, that she was with difficulty diverted from making an
+attempt upon her own life. But, however, at last was prevailed upon to
+resolve to live, and make the best of the matter: a letter, methought,
+from Captain Tomlinson helping to pacify her, written to apprize me,
+that her uncle Harlowe would certainly be at Kentish-town on Wednesday
+night, June 28, the following day (the 29th) being his birth-day; and
+be doubly desirous, on that account, that our nuptials should be then
+privately solemnized in his presence.
+
+But is Thursday, the 29th, her uncle’s anniversary, methinks thou
+askest?—It is; or else the day of celebration should have been earlier
+still. Three weeks ago I heard her say it was: and I have down the
+birthday of every one in the family, and the wedding-day of her father
+and mother. The minutest circumstances are often of great service in
+matters of the last importance.
+
+And what sayest thou now to my dream?
+
+Who says that, sleeping and waking, I have not fine helps from
+somebody, some spirit rather, as thou’lt be apt to say? But no wonder
+that a Beelzebub has his devilkins to attend his call.
+
+I can have no manner of doubt of succeeding in mother H.’s part of the
+scheme; for will the lady (who resolves to throw herself into the first
+house she can enter, or to bespeak the protection of the first person
+she meets, and who thinks there can be no danger out of this house,
+equal to what she apprehends from me in it) scruple to accept of the
+chariot of a dowager, accidentally offered? and the lady’s protection
+engaged by her faithful Dorcas, so highly bribed to promote her
+escape?—And then Mrs. H. has the air and appearance of a venerable
+matron, and is not such a forbidding devil as Mrs. Sinclair.
+
+The pretty simpleton knows nothing in the world; nor that people who
+have money never want assistants in their views, be they what they
+will. How else could the princes of the earth be so implicitly served
+as they are, change they hands every so often, and be their purposes
+ever so wicked.
+
+If I can but get her to go on with me till Wednesday next week, we
+shall be settled together pretty quietly by that time. And indeed if
+she has any gratitude, and has in her the least of her sex’s foibles,
+she must think I deserve her favour, by the pains she has cost me. For
+dearly do they all love that men should take pains about them and for
+them.
+
+And here, for the present, I will lay down my pen, and congratulate
+myself upon my happy invention (since her obstinacy puts me once more
+upon exercising it.)—But with this resolution, I think, that, if the
+present contrivance fail me, I will exert all the faculties of my mind,
+all my talents, to procure for myself a regal right to her favour and
+that in defiance of all my antipathies to the married state; and of the
+suggestions of the great devil out of the house, and of his secret
+agents in it.—Since, if now she is not to be prevailed upon, or drawn
+in, it will be in vain to attempt her further.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XXVII
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. TUESDAY NIGHT, JUNE 20.
+
+No admittance yet to my charmer! she is very ill—in a violent fever,
+Dorcas thinks. Yet will have no advice.
+
+Dorcas tells her how much I am concerned at it.
+
+But again let me ask, Does this lady do right to make herself ill, when
+she is not ill? For my own part, libertine as people think me, when I
+had occasion to be sick, I took a dose of ipecacuanha, that I might not
+be guilty of a falsehood; and most heartily sick was I; as she, who
+then pitied me, full well knew. But here to pretend to be very ill,
+only to get an opportunity to run away, in order to avoid forgiving a
+man who has offended her, how unchristian!—If good folks allow
+themselves in these breaches of a known duty, and in these presumptuous
+contrivances to deceive, who, Belford, shall blame us?
+
+I have a strange notion that the matronly lady will be certainly at the
+grocer’s shop at the hour of nine tomorrow morning: for Dorcas heard me
+tell Mrs. Sinclair, that I should go out at eight precisely; and then
+she is to try for a coach: and if the dowager’s chariot should happen
+to be there, how lucky will it be for my charmer! how strangely will my
+dream be made out!
+
+
+I have just received a letter from Captain Tomlinson. Is it not
+wonderful? for that was part of my dream.
+
+I shall always have a prodigious regard to dreams henceforward. I know
+not but I may write a book upon that subject; for my own experience
+will furnish out a great part of it. ‘Glanville of Witches,’ ‘Baxter’s
+History of Spirits and Apparitions,’ and the ‘Royal Pedant’s
+Demonology,’ will be nothing at all to Lovelace’s Reveries.
+
+The letter is just what I dreamed it to be. I am only concerned that
+uncle John’s anniversary did not happen three or four days sooner; for
+should any new misfortune befal my charmer, she may not be able to
+support her spirits so long as till Thursday in the next week. Yet it
+will give me the more time for new expedients, should my present
+contrivance fail; which I cannot however suppose.
+
+TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. MONDAY, JUNE 19.
+
+Dear Sir,
+
+I can now return your joy, for the joy you have given me, as well as my
+dear friend Mr. Harlowe, in the news of his beloved niece’s happy
+recovery; for he is determined to comply with her wishes and your’s,
+and to give her to you with his own hand.
+
+As the ceremony has been necessarily delayed by reason of her illness,
+and as Mr. Harlowe’s birth-day is on Thursday the 29th of this instant
+June, when he enters into the seventy-fourth year of his age; and as
+time may be wanted to complete the dear lady’s recovery; he is very
+desirous that the marriage shall be solemnized upon it; that he may
+afterwards have double joy on that day to the end of his life.
+
+For this purpose he intends to set out privately, so as to be at
+Kentish-town on Wednesday se’nnight in the evening.
+
+All the family used, he says, to meet to celebrate it with him; but as
+they are at present in too unhappy a situation for that, he will give
+out, that, not being able to bear the day at home, he has resolved to
+be absent for two or three days.
+
+He will set out on horseback, attended only with one trusty servant,
+for the greater privacy. He will be at the most creditable-looking
+public house there, expecting you both next morning, if he hear nothing
+from me to prevent him. And he will go to town with you after the
+ceremony is performed, in the coach he supposes you will come in.
+
+He is very desirous that I should be present on the occasion. But this
+I have promised him, at his request, that I will be up before the day,
+in order to see the settlements executed, and every thing properly
+prepared.
+
+He is very glad you have the license ready.
+
+He speaks very kindly of you, Mr. Lovelace; and says, that, if any of
+the family stand out after he has seen the ceremony performed, he will
+separate from them, and unite himself to his dear niece and her
+interests.
+
+I owned to you, when in town last, that I took slight notice to my dear
+friend of the misunderstanding between you and his niece; and that I
+did this, for fear the lady should have shown any little discontent in
+his presence, had I been able to prevail upon him to go up in person,
+as then was doubtful. But I hope nothing of that discontent remains
+now.
+
+My absence, when your messenger came, must excuse me for not writing by
+him.
+
+Be pleased to make my most respectful compliments acceptable to the
+admirable lady, and believe me to be
+
+Your most faithful and obedient servant, ANTONY TOMLINSON.
+
+
+This letter I sealed, and broke open. It was brought, thou mayest
+suppose, by a particular messenger; the seal such a one as the writer
+need be ashamed of. I took care to inquire after the Captain’s health,
+in my beloved’s hearing; and it is now ready to be produced as a
+pacifier, according as she shall take on or resent, if the two
+metamorphoses happen pursuant to my wonderful dream; as, having great
+faith in dreams, I dare say they will.—I think it will not be amiss, in
+changing my clothes, to have this letter of the worthy Captain lie in
+my beloved’s way.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XXVIII
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. WEDN. NOON, JUNE 21.
+
+What shall I say now!—I, who but a few hours ago had such faith in
+dreams, and had proposed out of hand to begin my treatise of dreams
+sleeping and dreams waking, and was pleasing myself with the dialogues
+between the old matronal lady and the young lady, and with the
+metamorphoses, (absolutely assured that every thing would happen as my
+dream chalked it out,) shall never more depend upon those flying
+follies, those illusions of a fancy depraved, and run mad.
+
+Thus confoundedly have matters happened.
+
+I went out at eight o’clock in high good humour with myself, in order
+to give the sought-for opportunity to the plotting mistress and
+corrupted maid; only ordering Will. to keep a good look-out for fear
+his lady should mistrust my plot, or mistake a hackney-coach for the
+dowager-lady’s chariot. But first I sent to know how she did; and
+receiving for answer, Very ill: had a very bad night: which latter was
+but too probable; since this I know, that people who have plots in
+their heads as seldom have as deserve good ones.
+
+I desired a physician might be called in; but was refused.
+
+I took a walk in St. James’s Park, congratulating myself all the way on
+my rare inventions: then, impatient, I took coach, with one of the
+windows quite up, the other almost up, playing at bo-peep in every
+chariot I saw pass in my way to Lincoln’s-inn-fields: and when arrived
+there I sent the coachman to desire any one of Mother H.’s family to
+come to me to the coach-side, not doubting but I should have
+intelligence of my fair fugitive there; it being then half an hour
+after ten.
+
+A servant came, who gave me to understand that the matronly lady was
+just returned by herself in the chariot.
+
+Frighted out of my wits, I alighted, and heard from the mother’s own
+mouth, that Dorcas had engaged her to protect the lady; but came to
+tell her afterwards, that she had changed her mind, and would not quit
+the house.
+
+Quite astonished, not knowing what might have happened, I ordered the
+coachman to lash away to our mother’s.
+
+Arriving here in an instant, the first word I asked, was, If the lady
+was safe?
+
+[Mr. Lovelace here gives a very circumstantial relation of all that
+passed between the Lady and Dorcas. But as he could only guess at her
+motives for refusing to go off, when Dorcas told her that she had
+engaged for her the protection of the dowager-lady, it is thought
+proper to omit this relation, and to supply it by some memoranda of the
+Lady’s. But it is first necessary to account for the occasion on which
+those memoranda were made.
+
+The reader may remember, that in the letter written to Miss Howe, on
+her escape to Hampstead,* she promises to give her the particulars of
+her flight at leisure. She had indeed thoughts of continuing her
+account of every thing that had passed between her and Mr. Lovelace
+since her last narrative letter. But the uncertainty she was in from
+that time, with the execrable treatment she met with on her being
+deluded back again, followed by a week’s delirium, had hitherto
+hindered her from prosecuting her intention. But, nevertheless, having
+it still in her view to perform her promise as soon as she had
+opportunity, she made minutes of every thing as it passed, in order to
+help her memory:—‘Which,’ as she observes in one place, ‘she could less
+trust to since her late disorders than before.’ In these minutes, or
+book of memoranda, she observes, ‘That having apprehensions that Dorcas
+might be a traitress, she would have got away while she was gone out to
+see for a coach; and actually slid down stairs with that intent. But
+that, seeing Mrs. Sinclair in the entry, (whom Dorcas had planted there
+while she went out,) she speeded up again unseen.’
+
+* See Vol. V. Letter XXI.
+
+She then went up to the dining-room, and saw the letter of Captain
+Tomlinson: on which she observes in her memorandum-book as follows:]
+
+‘How am I puzzled now!—He might leave this letter on purpose: none of
+the other papers left with it being of any consequence: What is the
+alternative?—To stay, and be the wife of the vilest of men—how my heart
+resists that!—To attempt to get off, and fail, ruin inevitable!—Dorcas
+may betray me!—I doubt she is still his implement!—At his going out, he
+whispered her, as I saw, unobserved—in a very familiar manner too—Never
+fear, Sir, with a courtesy.
+
+‘In her agreeing to connive at my escape, she provided not for her own
+safety, if I got away: yet had reason, in that case, to expect his
+vengeance. And wants not forethought.—To have taken her with me, was to
+be in the power of her intelligence, if a faithless creature.—Let me,
+however, though I part not with my caution, keep my charity!—Can there
+be any woman so vile to a woman?—O yes!—Mrs. Sinclair: her aunt.—The
+Lord deliver me!—But, alas!—I have put myself out of the course of his
+protection by the natural means—and am already ruined! A father’s curse
+likewise against me! Having made vain all my friends’ cautions and
+solicitudes, I must not hope for miracles in my favour!
+
+‘If I do escape, what may become of me, a poor, helpless, deserted
+creature!—Helpless from sex!—from circumstances!—Exposed to every
+danger!—Lord protect me!
+
+‘His vile man not gone with him!—Lurking hereabouts, no doubt, to watch
+my steps!—I will not go away by the chariot, however.——
+
+‘That the chariot should come so opportunely! So like his many
+opportunities!—That Dorcas should have the sudden thought!—Should have
+the courage with the thought, to address a lady in behalf of an
+absolute stranger to that lady! That the lady should so readily
+consent! Yet the transaction between them to take up so much time,
+their distance in degree considered: for, arduous as the case was, and
+precious as the time, Dorcas was gone above half an hour! Yet the
+chariot was said to be ready at a grocer’s not many doors off!
+
+‘Indeed some elderly ladies are talkative: and there are, no doubt,
+some good people in the world.——
+
+‘But that it should chance to be a widow lady, who could do what she
+pleased! That Dorcas should know her to be so by the lozenge! Persons
+in her station are not usually so knowing, I believe, in heraldry.
+
+‘Yet some may! for servants are fond of deriving collateral honours and
+distinctions, as I may call them, from the quality, or people of rank,
+whom they serve. But this sly servant not gone with him! Then this
+letter of Tomlinson!——
+
+‘Although I am resolved never to have this wretch, yet, may I not throw
+myself into my uncle’s protection at Kentish-town, or Highgate, if I
+cannot escape before: and so get clear of him? May not the evil I know
+be less than what I may fall into, if I can avoid farther villany?
+Farther villany he has not yet threatened; freely and justly as I have
+treated him!—I will not go, I think. At least, unless I can send this
+fellow away.*——
+
+* She tried to do this; but was prevented by the fellow’s pretending to
+put his ankle out, by a slip down stairs—A trick, says his contriving
+master, in his omitted relation, I had taught him, on a like occasion,
+at Amiens.
+
+‘The fellow a villain! The wench, I doubt, a vile wench. At last
+concerned for her own safety. Plays off and on about a coach.
+
+‘All my hopes of getting off at present over!—Unhappy creature! to what
+farther evils art thou reserved! Oh! how my heart rises at the
+necessity I must still be under to see and converse with so very vile a
+man!’
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XXIX
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON.
+
+Disappointed in her meditated escape; obliged, against her will, to
+meet me in the dining-room; and perhaps apprehensive of being upbraided
+for her art in feigning herself ill; I expected that the dear perverse
+would begin with me with spirit and indignation. But I was in hopes,
+from the gentleness of her natural disposition; from the consideration
+which I expected from her on her situation; from the contents of the
+letter of Captain Tomlinson, which Dorcas told me she had seen; and
+from the time she had had to cool and reflect since she last admitted
+me to her presence, that she would not have carried it so strongly
+through as she did.
+
+As I entered the dining-room, I congratulated her and myself upon her
+sudden recovery. And would have taken her hand, with an air of
+respectful tenderness; but she was resolved to begin where she left
+off.
+
+She turned from me, drawing in her hand, with a repulsing and indignant
+aspect—I meet you once more, said she, because I cannot help it. What
+have you to say to me? Why am I to be thus detained against my will?
+
+With the utmost solemnity of speech and behaviour, I urged the
+ceremony. I saw I had nothing else for it. I had a letter in my pocket
+I said, [feeling for it, although I had not taken it from the table
+where I left it in the same room,] the contents of which, if attended
+to, would make us both happy. I had been loth to show it to her before,
+because I hoped to prevail upon her to be mine sooner than the day
+mentioned in it.
+
+I felt for it in all my pockets, watching her eye mean time, which I
+saw glance towards the table where it lay.
+
+I was uneasy that I could not find it—at last, directed again by her
+sly eye, I spied it on the table at the farther end of the room.
+
+With joy I fetched it. Be pleased to read that letter, Madam; with an
+air of satisfied assurance.
+
+She took it, and cast her eye over it, in such a careless way, as made
+it evident, that she had read it before: and then unthankfully tossed
+it into the window-seat before her.
+
+I urged her to bless me to-morrow, or Friday morning; at least, that
+she would not render vain her uncle’s journey, and kind endeavours to
+bring about a reconciliation among us all.
+
+Among us all! repeated she, with an air equally disdainful and
+incredulous. O Lovelace, thou art surely nearly allied to the grand
+deceiver, in thy endeavour to suit temptations to inclinations?—But
+what honour, what faith, what veracity, were it possible that I could
+enter into parley with thee on this subject, (which it is not,) may I
+expect from such a man as thou hast shown thyself to be?
+
+I was touched to the quick. A lady of your perfect character, Madam,
+who has feigned herself sick, on purpose to avoid seeing the man who
+adored her, should not—
+
+I know what thou wouldst say, interrupted she—Twenty and twenty low
+things, that my soul would have been above being guilty of, and which I
+have despised myself for, have I been brought into by the infection of
+thy company, and by the necessity thou hadst laid me under, of
+appearing mean. But, I thank God, destitute as I am, that I am not,
+however, sunk so low, as to wish to be thine.
+
+I, Madam, as the injurer, ought to have patience. It is for the injured
+to reproach. But your uncle is not in a plot against you, it is to be
+hoped. There are circumstances in the letter you cast your eyes over——
+
+Again she interrupted me, Why, once more I ask you, am I detained in
+this house?—Do I not see myself surrounded by wretches, who, though
+they wear the habit of my sex, may yet, as far as I know, lie in wait
+for my perdition?
+
+She would be very loth, I said, that Mrs. Sinclair and her nieces
+should be called up to vindicate themselves and their house.
+
+Would but they kill me, let them come, and welcome, I will bless the
+hand that will strike the blow! Indeed I will.
+
+’Tis idle, very idle, to talk of dying. Mere young-lady talk, when
+controuled by those they hate. But let me beseech you, dearest
+creature——
+
+Beseech me nothing. Let me not be detained thus against my
+will!—Unhappy creature that I am, said she, in a kind of phrensy,
+wringing her hands at the same time, and turning from me, her eyes
+lifted up! ‘Thy curse, O my cruel father, seems to be now in the height
+of its operation!—My weakened mind is full of forebodings, that I am in
+the way of being a lost creature as to both worlds! Blessed, blessed
+God, said she, falling on her knees, save me, O save me, from myself
+and from this man!’
+
+I sunk down on my knees by her, excessively affecting—O that I could
+recall yesterday!—Forgive me, my dearest creature, forgive what is
+past, as it cannot now, but by one way, be retrieved. Forgive me only
+on this condition—That my future faith and honour—
+
+She interrupted me, rising—If you mean to beg of me never to seek to
+avenge myself by law, or by an appeal to my relations, to my cousin
+Morden in particular, when he comes to England——
+
+D—n the law, rising also, [she started,] and all those to whom you talk
+of appealing!—I defy both the one and the other—All I beg is YOUR
+forgiveness; and that you will, on my unfeigned contrition,
+re-establish me in your favour——
+
+O no, no, no! lifting up her clasped hands, I never never will, never,
+never can forgive you!—and it is a punishment worse than death to me,
+that I am obliged to meet you, or to see you.
+
+This is the last time, my dearest life, that you will ever see me in
+this posture, on this occasion: and again I kneeled to her. Let me
+hope, that you will be mine next Thursday, your uncle’s birth-day, if
+not before. Would to Heaven I had never been a villain! Your
+indignation is not, cannot be greater, than my remorse—and I took hold
+of her gown for she was going from me.
+
+Be remorse thy portion!—For thine own sake, be remorse thy portion!—I
+never, never will forgive thee!—I never, never will be thine!—Let me
+retire!—Why kneelest thou to the wretch whom thou hast so vilely
+humbled?
+
+Say but, dearest creature, you will consider—say but you will take time
+to reflect upon what the honour of both our families requires of you. I
+will not rise. I will not permit you to withdraw [still holding her
+gown] till you tell me you will consider.—Take this letter. Weigh well
+your situation, and mine. Say you will withdraw to consider; and then I
+will not presume to withhold you.
+
+Compulsion shall do nothing with me. Though a slave, a prisoner, in
+circumstance, I am no slave in my will!—Nothing will I promise
+thee!—Withheld, compelled—nothing will I promise thee!
+
+Noble creature! but not implacable, I hope!—Promise me but to return in
+an hour!
+
+Nothing will I promise thee!
+
+Say but that you will see me again this evening!
+
+O that I could say—that it were in my power to say—I never will see
+thee more!—Would to Heaven I never were to see thee more!
+
+Passionate beauty!—still holding her—
+
+I speak, though with vehemence, the deliberate wish of my heart.—O that
+I could avoid looking down upon thee, mean groveler, and abject as
+insulting—Let me withdraw! My soul is in tumults! Let me withdraw!
+
+I quitted my hold to clasp my hands together—Withdraw, O sovereign of
+my fate!—Withdraw, if you will withdraw! My destiny is in your
+power!—It depends upon your breath!—Your scorn but augments my love!
+Your resentment is but too well founded!—But, dearest creature, return,
+return, return, with a resolution to bless with pardon and peace your
+faithful adorer!
+
+She flew from me. The angel, as soon as she found her wings, flew from
+me. I, the reptile kneeler, the despicable slave, no more the proud
+victor, arose; and, retiring, tried to comfort myself, that,
+circumstanced as she is, destitute of friends and fortune; her uncle
+moreover, who is to reconcile all so soon, (as I thank my stars she
+still believes,) expected.
+
+O that she would forgive me!—Would she but generously forgive me, and
+receive my vows at the altar, at the instant of her forgiving me, that
+I might not have time to relapse into my old prejudices! By my soul,
+Belford, this dear girl gives the lie to all our rakish maxims. There
+must be something more than a name in virtue!—I now see that there
+is!—Once subdued, always subdued—’Tis an egregious falsehood!—But, O
+Jack, she never was subdued. What have I obtained but an increase of
+shame and confusion!—While her glory has been established by her
+sufferings!
+
+This one merit is, however, left me, that I have laid all her sex under
+obligation to me, by putting this noble creature to trials, which, so
+gloriously supported, have done honour to them all.
+
+However—But no more will I add—What a force have evil habits!—I will
+take an airing, and try to fly from myself!—Do not thou upbraid me on
+my weak fits—on my contradictory purposes—on my irresolution—and all
+will be well.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XXX
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. WEDNESDAY NIGHT.
+
+A man is just now arrived from M. Hall, who tells me, that my Lord is
+in a very dangerous way. The gout in his stomach to an extreme degree,
+occasioned by drinking a great quantity of lemonade.
+
+A man of 8000£. a year to prefer his appetite to his health!—He
+deserves to die!—But we have all of us our inordinate passions to
+gratify: and they generally bring their punishment along with them—so
+witnesses the nephew, as well as the uncle.
+
+The fellow was sent upon other business; but stretched his orders a
+little, to make his court to a successor.
+
+I am glad I was not at M. Hall, at the time my Lord took the grateful
+dose: [it was certainly grateful to him at the time:] there are people
+in the world, who would have had the wickedness to say, that I had
+persuaded him to drink.
+
+The man says, that his Lordship was so bad when he came away, that the
+family began to talk of sending for me in post haste. As I know the old
+peer has a good deal of cash by him, of which he seldom keeps account,
+it behoves me to go down as soon as I can. But what shall I do with
+this dear creature the while?—To-morrow over, I shall, perhaps, be able
+to answer my own question. I am afraid she will make me desperate.
+
+For here have I sent to implore her company, and am denied with scorn.
+
+
+I have been so happy as to receive, this moment, a third letter from
+the dear correspondent Miss Howe. A little severe devil!—It would have
+broken the heart of my beloved, had it fallen into her hands. I will
+enclose a copy of it. Read it here.
+
+TUESDAY, JUNE 20. MY DEAREST MISS HARLOWE,
+
+Again I venture to you, (almost against inclination;) and that by your
+former conveyance, little as I like it.
+
+I know not how it is with you. It may be bad; and then it would be hard
+to upbraid you, for a silence you may not be able to help. But if not,
+what shall I say severe enough, that you have not answered either of my
+last letters? the first* of which [and I think it imported you too much
+to be silent upon it] you owned the receipt of. The other which was
+delivered into your own hands,** was so pressing for the favour of a
+line from you, that I am amazed I could not be obliged; and still more,
+that I have not heard from you since.
+
+* See Vol. V. Letter XX. ** See Vol. VI. Letter VII.
+
+The fellow made so strange a story of the condition he saw you in, and
+of your speech to him, that I know not what to conclude from it: only,
+that he is a simple, blundering, and yet conceited fellow, who, aiming
+at description, and the rustic wonderful, gives an air of bumkinly
+romance to all he tells. That this is his character, you will believe,
+when you are informed that he described you in grief excessive,* yet so
+improved in your person and features, and so rosy, that was his word,
+in your face, and so flush-coloured, and so plump in your arms, that
+one would conclude you were labouring under the operation of some
+malignant poison; and so much the rather, as he was introduced to you,
+when you were upon a couch, from which you offered not to rise, or sit
+up.
+
+* See Vol. VI. Letter VI.
+
+Upon my word, Miss Harlowe, I am greatly distressed upon your account;
+for I must be so free as to say, that in your ready return with your
+deceiver, you have not at all answered my expectations, nor acted up to
+your own character; for Mrs. Townsend tells me, from the women at
+Hampstead, how cheerfully you put yourself into his hands again: yet,
+at the time, it was impossible you should be married!—
+
+Lord, my dear, what pity it is, that you took much pains to get from
+the man!—But you know best!—Sometimes I think it could not be you to
+whom the rustic delivered my letter. But it must too: yet, it is
+strange I could not have one line by him:—not one:—and you so soon well
+enough to go with the wretch back again!
+
+I am not sure that the letter I am now writing will come to your hands:
+so shall not say half that I have upon my mind to say. But, if you
+think it worth your while to write to me, pray let me know what fine
+ladies his relations those were who visited you at Hampstead, and
+carried you back again so joyfully to a place that I had so fully
+warned you.—But I will say no more: at least till I know more: for I
+can do nothing but wonder and stand amazed.
+
+Notwithstanding all the man’s baseness, ’tis plain there was more than
+a lurking love—Good Heaven!—But I have done!—Yet I know not how to have
+done neither!—Yet I must—I will.
+
+Only account to me, my dear, for what I cannot at all account for: and
+inform me, whether you are really married, or not.—And then I shall
+know whether there must or must not, be a period shorter than that of
+one of our lives, to a friendship which has hitherto been the pride and
+boast of
+
+Your ANNA HOWE.
+
+
+Dorcas tells me, that she has just now had a searching conversation, as
+she calls it, with her lady. She is willing, she tells the wench, still
+to place her confidence in her. Dorcas hopes she has re-assured her:
+but wishes me not to depend upon it. Yet Captain Tomlinson’s letter
+must assuredly weigh with her.
+
+I sent it in just now by Dorcas, desiring her to re-peruse it. And it
+was not returned me, as I feared it would be. And that’s a good sign, I
+think.
+
+I say I think, and I think; for this charming creature, entangled as I
+am in my own inventions, puzzles me ten thousand times more than I her.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XXXI
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. THURSDAY NOON, JUNE 22.
+
+Let me perish if I know what to make either of myself or of this
+surprising creature—now calm, now tempestuous.—But I know thou lovest
+not anticipation any more than I.
+
+At my repeated requests, she met me at six this morning.
+
+She was ready dressed; for she had not her clothes off every since she
+declared, that they never more should be off in this house. And
+charmingly she looked, with all the disadvantages of a three-hours
+violent stomach-ache—(for Dorcas told me that she had been really
+ill)—no rest, and eyes red and swelled with weeping. Strange to me that
+those charming fountains have not been so long ago exhausted! But she
+is a woman. And I believe anatomists allow, that women have more watry
+heads than men.
+
+Well, my dearest creature, I hope you have now thoroughly considered of
+the contents of Captain Tomlinson’s letter. But as we are thus early
+met, let me beseech you to make this my happy day.
+
+She looked not favourably upon me. A cloud hung upon her brow at her
+entrance: but as she was going to answer me, a still greater solemnity
+took possession of her charming features.
+
+Your air, and your countenance, my beloved creature, are not propitious
+to me. Let me beg of you, before you speak, to forbear all further
+recriminations: for already I have such a sense of my vileness to you,
+that I know not how to bear the reproaches of my own mind.
+
+I have been endeavouring, said she, since I am not permitted to avoid
+you, to obtain a composure which I never more expected to see you in.
+How long I may enjoy it, I cannot tell. But I hope I shall be enabled
+to speak to you without that vehemence which I expressed yesterday, and
+could not help it.*
+
+* The Lady, in her minutes, says, ‘I fear Dorcas is a false one. May I
+not be able to prevail upon him to leave me at my liberty? Better to
+try than to trust to her. If I cannot prevail, but must meet him and my
+uncle, I hope I shall have fortitude enough to renounce him then. But I
+would fain avoid qualifying with the wretch, or to give him an
+expectation which I intend not to answer. If I am mistress of my own
+resolutions, my uncle himself shall not prevail with me to bind my soul
+in covenant with so vile a man.’
+
+After a pause (for I was all attention) thus she proceeded:
+
+It is easy for me, Mr. Lovelace, to see that further violences are
+intended me, if I comply not with your purposes, whatever they are, I
+will suppose them to be what you solemnly profess they are. But I have
+told you as solemnly my mind, that I never will, that I never can be
+your’s; nor, if so, any man’s upon earth. All vengeance, nevertheless,
+for the wrongs you have done me, I disclaim. I want but to slide into
+some obscure corner, to hide myself from you and from every one who
+once loved me. The desire lately so near my heart, of a reconciliation
+with my friends, is much abated. They shall not receive me now, if they
+would. Sunk in mine own eyes, I now think myself unworthy of their
+favour. In the anguish of my soul, therefore, I conjure you, Lovelace,
+[tears in her eyes,] to leave me to my fate. In doing so, you will give
+me a pleasure the highest I now can know.
+
+Where, my dearest life——
+
+No matter where. I will leave to Providence, when I am out of this
+house, the direction of my future steps. I am sensible enough of my
+destitute condition. I know that I have not now a friend in the world.
+Even Miss Howe has given me up—or you are—But I would fain keep my
+temper!—By your means I have lost them all—and you have been a
+barbarous enemy to me. You know you have.
+
+She paused.
+
+I could not speak.
+
+The evils I have suffered, proceeded she, [turning from me,] however
+irreparable, are but temporarily evils. Leave me to my hopes of being
+enabled to obtain the Divine forgiveness for the offence I have been
+drawn in to give to my parents and to virtue; that so I may avoid the
+evils that are more than temporary. This is now all I have to wish for.
+And what is it that I demand, that I have not a right to, and from
+which it is an illegal violence to withhold me?
+
+It was impossible for me, I told her plainly, to comply.
+
+I besought her to give me her hand as this very day. I could not live
+without her. I communicated to her my Lord’s illness, as a reason why I
+wished not to stay for her uncle’s anniversary. I besought her to bless
+me with her consent; and, after the ceremony was passed, to accompany
+me down to Berks. And thus, my dearest life, said I, will you be freed
+from a house, to which you have conceived so great an antipathy.
+
+This, thou wilt own, was a princely offer. And I was resolved to be as
+good as my word. I thought I had killed my conscience, as I told thee,
+Belford, some time ago. But conscience, I find, though it may be
+temporarily stifled, cannot die, and, when it dare not speak aloud,
+will whisper. And at this instant I thought I felt the revived
+varletess (on but a slight retrograde motion) writhing round my
+pericardium like a serpent; and in the action of a dying one,
+(collecting all its force into its head,) fix its plaguy fangs into my
+heart.
+
+She hesitated, and looked down, as if irresolute. And this set my heart
+up at my mouth. And, believe me, I had instantly popt in upon me, in
+imagination, an old spectacled parson, with a white surplice thrown
+over a black habit, [a fit emblem of the halcyon office, which, under a
+benign appearance, often introduced a life of storms and tempests,]
+whining and snuffling through his nose the irrevocable ceremony.
+
+I hope now, my dearest life, said I, snatching her hand, and pressing
+it to my lips, that your silence bodes me good. Let me, my beloved
+creature, have but your tacit consent; and this moment I will step out
+and engage a minister. And then I promised how much my whole future
+life should be devoted to her commands, and that I would make her the
+best and tenderest of husbands.
+
+At last, turning to me, I have told you my mind, Mr. Lovelace, said
+she. Think you, that I could thus solemnly—There she stopt—I am too
+much in your power, proceeded she; your prisoner, rather than a person
+free to choose for myself, or to say what I will do or be. But as a
+testimony that you mean me well, let me instantly quit this house; and
+I will then give you such an answer in writing, as best befits my
+unhappy circumstances.
+
+And imaginest thou, fairest, thought I, that this will go down with a
+Lovelace? Thou oughtest to have known that free-livers, like ministers
+of state, never part with a power put into their hands, without an
+equivalent of twice the value.
+
+I pleaded, that if we joined hands this morning, (if not, to-morrow; if
+not, on Thursday, her uncle’s birth-day, and in his presence); and
+afterwards, as I had proposed, set out for Berks; we should, of course,
+quit this house; and, on our return to town, should have in readiness
+the house I was in treaty for.
+
+She answered me not, but with tears and sighs; fond of believing what I
+hoped I imputed her silence to the modesty of her sex. The dear
+creature, (thought I,) solemnly as she began with me, is ruminating, in
+a sweet suspence, how to put into fit words the gentle purposes of her
+condescending heart. But, looking in her averted face with a soothing
+gentleness, I plainly perceived, that it was resentment, and not
+bashfulness, that was struggling in her bosom.*
+
+* The Lady, in her minutes, owns the difficulty she lay under to keep
+her temper in this conference. ‘But when I found,’ says she, ‘that all
+my entreaties were ineffectual, and that he was resolved to detain me,
+I could no longer withhold my impatience.’
+
+At last she broke silence—I have no patience, said she, to find myself
+a slave, a prisoner, in a vile house—Tell me, Sir, in so many words
+tell me, whether it be, or be not, your intention to permit me to quit
+it?—To permit me the freedom which is my birthright as an English
+subject?
+
+Will not the consequence of your departure hence be that I shall lose
+you for ever, Madam?—And can I bear the thoughts of that?
+
+She flung from me—My soul disdains to hold parley with thee! were her
+violent words.—But I threw myself at her feet, and took hold of her
+reluctant hand, and began to imprecate, avow, to promise—But thus the
+passionate beauty, interrupting me, went on:
+
+I am sick of thee, MAN!—One continued string of vows, oaths, and
+protestations, varied only by time and place, fills thy mouth!—Why
+detainest thou me? My heart rises against thee, O thou cruel implement
+of my brother’s causeless vengeance.—All I beg of thee is, that thou
+wilt remit me the future part of my father’s dreadful curse! the
+temporary part, base and ungrateful as thou art! thou hast completed!
+
+I was speechless!—Well I might!—Her brother’s implement!—James
+Harlowe’s implement!—Zounds, Jack! what words were these!
+
+I let go her struggling hand. She took two or three turns cross the
+room, her whole haughty soul in her air. Then approaching me, but in
+silence, turning from me, and again to me, in a milder voice—I see thy
+confusion, Lovelace. Or is it thy remorse?—I have but one request to
+make thee—the request so often repeated—That thou wilt this moment
+permit me to quit this house. Adieu, then, let me say, for ever adieu!
+And mayest thou enjoy that happiness in this world, which thou hast
+robbed me of; as thou hast of every friend I have in it!
+
+And saying this, away she flung, leaving me in a confusion so great,
+that I knew not what to think, say, or do!
+
+But Dorcas soon roused me—Do you know, Sir, running in hastily, that my
+lady is gone down stairs!
+
+No, sure!—And down I flew, and found her once more at the street-door,
+contending with Polly Horton to get out.
+
+She rushed by me into the fore parlour, and flew to the window, and
+attempted once more to throw up the sash—Good people! good people!
+cried she.
+
+I caught her in my arms, and lifted her from the window. But being
+afraid of hurting the charming creature, (charming in her very rage,)
+she slid through my arms on the floor.—Let me die here! let me die
+here! were her words; remaining jointless and immovable, till Sally and
+Mrs. Sinclair hurried in.
+
+She was visibly terrified at the sight of the old wretch; while I
+(sincerely affected) appealed, Bear witness, Mrs. Sinclair!—bear
+witness, Miss Martin!—Miss Horton!—Every one bear witness, that I offer
+not violence to this beloved creature!
+
+She then found her feet—O house [look towards the windows, and all
+round her, O house,] contrived on purpose for my ruin! said she—but let
+not that woman come into my presence—not that Miss Horton neither, who
+would not have dared to controul me, had she not been a base one!—
+
+Hoh, Sir! Hoh, Madam! vociferated the old dragon, her armed kemboed,
+and flourishing with one foot to the extent of her petticoats—What’s
+ado here about nothing! I never knew such work in my life, between a
+chicken of a gentleman and a tiger of a lady!—
+
+She was visibly affrighted: and up stairs she hastened. A bad woman is
+certainly, Jack, more terrible to her own sex than even a bad man.
+
+I followed her up. She rushed by her own apartment into the
+dining-room: no terror can make her forget her punctilio.
+
+To recite what passed there of invective, exclamations, threatenings,
+even of her own life, on one side; of expostulations, supplications,
+and sometimes menaces, on the other; would be too affecting; and, after
+my particularity in like scenes, these things may as well be imagined
+as expressed.
+
+I will therefore only mention, that, at length, I extorted a concession
+from her. She had reason* to think it would have been worse for her on
+the spot, if she had not made it. It was, That she would endeavour to
+make herself easy till she saw what next Thursday, her uncle’s
+birth-day, would produce. But Oh! that it were not a sin, she
+passionately exclaimed on making this poor concession, to put and end
+to her own life, rather than yield to give me but that assurance!
+
+* The Lady mentions, in her memorandum-book, that she had no other way,
+as is apprehended, to save herself from instant dishonour, but by
+making this concession. Her only hope, now, she says, if she cannot
+escape by Dorcas’s connivance, (whom, nevertheless she suspects,) is to
+find a way to engage the protection of her uncle, and even of the civil
+magistrate, on Thursday next, if necessary. ‘He shall see,’ says she,
+‘tame and timid as he thought me, what I dare to do, to avoid so hated
+a compulsion, and a man capable of a baseness so premeditatedly vile
+and inhuman.’
+
+This, however, shows me, that she is aware that the reluctantly-given
+assurance may be fairly construed into a matrimonial expectation on my
+side. And if she will now, even now, look forward, I think, from my
+heart, that I will put on her livery, and wear it for life.
+
+What a situation am I in, with all my cursed inventions! I am puzzled,
+confounded, and ashamed of myself, upon the whole. To take such pains
+to be a villain!—But (for the fiftieth time) let me ask thee, Who would
+have thought that there had been such a woman in the
+world?—Nevertheless, she had best take care that she carries not her
+obstinacy much farther. She knows not what revenge for slighted love
+will make me do.
+
+The busy scenes I have just passed through have given emotions to my
+heart, which will not be quieted one while. My heart, I see, (on
+re-perusing what I have written,) has communicated its tremors to my
+fingers; and in some places the characters are so indistinct and
+unformed, that thou’lt hardly be able to make them out. But if one half
+of them is only intelligible, that will be enough to expose me to thy
+contempt, for the wretched hand I have made of my plots and
+contrivances.—But surely, Jack, I have gained some ground by this
+promise.
+
+And now, one word to the assurances thou sendest me, that thou hast not
+betrayed my secrets in relation to this charming creature. Thou
+mightest have spared them, Belford. My suspicions held no longer than
+while I wrote about them.* For well I knew, when I allowed myself time
+to think, that thou hadst no principles, no virtue, to be misled by. A
+great deal of strong envy, and a little of weak pity, I knew to be thy
+motives. Thou couldst not provoke my anger, and my compassion thou ever
+hadst; and art now more especially entitled to it; because thou art a
+pityful fellow.
+
+All thy new expostulations in my beloved’s behalf I will answer when I
+see thee.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XXXII
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. THURSDAY NIGHT.
+
+Confoundedly out of humour with this perverse woman!—Nor wilt thou
+blame me, if thou art my friend. She regards the concession she made,
+as a concession extorted from her: and we are but just where we were
+before she made it.
+
+With great difficulty I prevailed upon her to favour me with her
+company for one half hour this evening. The necessity I was under to go
+down to M. Hall was the subject I wanted to talk upon.
+
+I told her, that as she had been so good as to promise that she would
+endeavour to make herself easy till she saw the Thursday in next week
+over, I hoped that she would not scruple to oblige me with her word,
+that I should find her here at my return from M. Hall.
+
+Indeed she would make no such promise. Nothing of this house was
+mentioned to me, said she: you know it was not. And do you think that I
+would have given my consent to my imprisonment in it?
+
+I was plaguily nettled, and disappointed too. If I go not down to Mr.
+Hall, Madam, you’ll have no scruple to stay here, I suppose, till
+Thursday is over?
+
+If I cannot help myself I must—but I insist upon being permitted to go
+out of this house, whether you leave it or not.
+
+Well, Madam, then I will comply with your commands. And I will go out
+this very evening in quest of lodgings that you shall have no
+objections to.
+
+I will have no lodgings of your providing, Sir—I will go to Mrs.
+Moore’s, at Hampstead.
+
+Mrs. Moore’s, Madam!—I have no objection to Mrs. Moore’s—but will you
+give me your promise, to admit me there to your presence?
+
+As I do here—when I cannot help it.
+
+Very well, Madam—Will you be so good as to let me know what you intend
+by your promise to make yourself easy.
+
+To endeavour, Sir, to make myself easy—were the words——
+
+Till you saw what next Thursday would produce?
+
+Ask me no questions that may ensnare me. I am too sincere for the
+company I am in.
+
+Let me ask you, Madam, What meant you, when you said, ‘that, were it
+not a sin, you would die before you gave me that assurance?’
+
+She was indignantly silent.
+
+You thought, Madam, you had given me room to hope your pardon by it?
+
+When I think I ought to answer you with patience I will speak.
+
+Do you think yourself in my power, Madam?
+
+If I were not—And there she stopt——
+
+Dearest creature, speak out—I beseech you, dearest creature, speak
+out——
+
+She was silent; her charming face all in a glow.
+
+Have you, Madam, any reliance upon my honour?
+
+Still silent.
+
+You hate me, Madam! You despise me more than you do the most odious of
+God’s creatures!
+
+You ought to despise me, if I did not.
+
+You say, Madam, you are in a bad house. You have no reliance upon my
+honour—you believe you cannot avoid me——
+
+She arose. I beseech you, let me withdraw.
+
+I snatched her hand, rising, and pressed it first to my lips, and then
+to my heart, in wild disorder. She might have felt the bounding
+mischief ready to burst its bars—You shall go—to your own apartment, if
+you please—But, by the great God of Heaven, I will accompany you
+thither!
+
+She trembled—Pray, pray, Mr. Lovelace, don’t terrify me so!
+
+Be seated, Madam! I beseech you, be seated!——
+
+I will sit down——
+
+Do then—All my soul is in my eyes, and my heart’s blood throbbing at my
+fingers’ ends.
+
+I will—I will—You hurt me—Pray, Mr. Lovelace, don’t—don’t frighten me
+so—And down she sat, trembling; my hand still grasping her’s.
+
+I hung over her throbbing bosom, and putting my other arm round her
+waist—And you say, you hate me, Madam—and you say, you despise me—and
+you say, you promise me nothing——
+
+Yes, yes, I did promise you—let me not be held down thus—you see I sat
+down when you bid me—Why [struggling] need you hold me down thus?—I did
+promise to endeavour to be easy till Thursday was over! But you won’t
+let me!—How can I be easy?—Pray, let me not be thus terrified.
+
+And what, Madam, meant you by your promise? Did you mean any thing in
+my favour?—You designed that I should, at that time, think you did. Did
+you mean any thing in my favour, Madam?—Did you intend that I should
+think you did?
+
+Let go my hand, Sir—Take away your arm from about me, [struggling, yet
+trembling,]—Why do you gaze upon me so?
+
+Answer me, Madam—Did you mean any thing in my favour by your promise?
+
+Let me be not thus constrained to answer.
+
+Then pausing, and gaining more spirit, Let me go, said she: I am but a
+woman—but a weak woman.
+
+But my life is in my own power, though my person is not—I will not be
+thus constrained.
+
+You shall not, Madam, quitting her hand, bowing; but my heart is at my
+mouth, and hoping farther provocation.
+
+She arose, and was hurrying away.
+
+I pursue you not, Madam—I will try your generosity. Stop—return—this
+moment stop, return, if, Madam, you would not make me desperate.
+
+She stopt at the door; burst into tears—O Lovelace!—How, how, have I
+deserved——
+
+Be pleased, dearest angel, to return.
+
+She came back—but with declared reluctance; and imputing her compliance
+to terror.
+
+Terror, Jack, as I have heretofore found out, though I have so little
+benefited by the discovery, must be my resort, if she make it
+necessary—nothing else will do with the inflexible charmer.
+
+She seated herself over-against me; extremely discomposed—but
+indignation had a visible predominance in her features.
+
+I was going towards her, with a countenance intendedly changed to love
+and softness: Sweetest, dearest angel, were my words, in the tenderest
+accent:—But, rising up, she insisted upon my being seated at a distance
+from her.
+
+I obeyed, and begged her hand over the table, to my extended hand; to
+see, if in any thing she would oblige me. But nothing gentle, soft, or
+affectionate, would do. She refused me her hand!—Was she wise, Jack, to
+confirm to me, that nothing but terror would do?
+
+Let me only know, Madam, if your promise to endeavour to wait with
+patience the event of next Thursday meant me favour?
+
+Do you expect any voluntary favour from one to whom you give not a free
+choice?
+
+Do you intend, Madam, to honour me with your hand, in your uncle’s
+presence, or do you not?
+
+My heart and my hand shall never be separated. Why, think you, did I
+stand in opposition to the will of my best, my natural friends.
+
+I know what you mean, Madam—Am I then as hateful to you as the vile
+Solmes?
+
+Ask me not such a question, Mr. Lovelace.
+
+I must be answered. Am I as hateful to you as the vile Solmes?
+
+Why do you call Mr. Solmes vile?
+
+Don’t you think him so, Madam?
+
+Why should I? Did Mr. Solmes ever do vilely by me?
+
+Dearest creature! don’t distract me by hateful comparisons! and perhaps
+by a more hateful preference.
+
+Don’t you, Sir, put questions to me that you know I will answer truly,
+though my answer were ever so much to enrage you.
+
+My heart, Madam, my soul is all your’s at present. But you must give me
+hope, that your promise, in your own construction, binds you, no new
+cause to the contrary, to be mine on Thursday. How else can I leave
+you?
+
+Let me go to Hampstead; and trust to my favour.
+
+May I trust to it?—Say only may I trust to it?
+
+How will you trust to it, if you extort an answer to this question?
+
+Say only, dearest creature, say only, may I trust to your favour, if
+you go to Hampstead?
+
+How dare you, Sir, if I must speak out, expect a promise of favour from
+me?—What a mean creature must you think me, after the ungrateful
+baseness to me, were I to give you such a promise?
+
+Then standing up, Thou hast made me, O vilest of men! [her hands
+clasped, and a face crimsoned with indignation,] an inmate of the
+vilest of houses—nevertheless, while I am in it, I shall have a heart
+incapable of any thing but abhorrence of that and of thee!
+
+And round her looked the angel, and upon me, with fear in her sweet
+aspect of the consequence of her free declaration—But what a devil must
+I have been, I who love bravery in a man, had I not been more struck
+with admiration of her fortitude at the instant, than stimulated by
+revenge?
+
+Noblest of creatures!—And do you think I can leave you, and my interest
+in such an excellence, precarious? No promise!—no hope!—If you make me
+not desperate, may lightning blast me, if I do you not all the justice
+’tis in my power to do you!
+
+If you have any intention to oblige me, leave me at my own liberty, and
+let me not be detained in this abominable house. To be constrained as I
+have been constrained! to be stopt by your vile agents! to be brought
+up by force, and be bruised in my own defence against such illegal
+violence!—I dare to die, Lovelace—and she who fears not death, is not
+to be intimidated into a meanness unworthy of her heart and principles!
+
+Wonderful creature! But why, Madam, did you lead me to hope for
+something favourable for next Thursday?—Once more, make me not
+desperate—With all your magnanimity, glorious creature! [I was more
+than half frantic, Belford,] you may, you may—but do not, do not make
+me brutally threaten you—do not, do not make me desperate!
+
+My aspect, I believe, threatened still more than my words. I was
+rising—She rose—Mr. Lovelace, be pacified—you are even more dreadful
+than the Lovelace I have long dreaded—let me retire—I ask your leave to
+retire—you really frighten me—yet I give you no hope—from my heart I
+ab——
+
+Say not, Madam, you abhor me. You must, for your own sake, conceal your
+hatred—at least not avow it. I seized her hand.
+
+Let me retire—let me, retire, said she, in a manner out of breath.
+
+I will only say, Madam, that I refer myself to your generosity. My
+heart is not to be trusted at this instant. As a mark of my submission
+to your will, you shall, if you please, withdraw—but I will not go to
+M. Hall—live or die my Lord M. I will not go to M. Hall—but will attend
+the effect of your promise. Remember, Madam, you have promised to
+endeavour to make yourself easy till you see the event of next
+Thursday—next Thursday, remember, your uncle comes up, to see us
+married—that’s the event.—You think ill of your Lovelace—do not, Madam,
+suffer your own morals to be degraded by the infection, as you called
+it, of his example.
+
+Away flew the charmer with this half permission—and no doubt thought
+that she had an escape—nor without reason.
+
+I knew not for half an hour what to do with myself. Vexed at the heart,
+nevertheless, (now she was from me, and when I reflected upon her
+hatred of me, and her defiances,) that I suffered myself to be so
+overawed, checked, restrained——
+
+And now I have written thus far, (have of course recollected the whole
+of our conversation,) I am more and more incensed against myself.
+
+But I will go down to these women—and perhaps suffer myself to be
+laughed at by them.
+
+Devil fetch them, they pretend to know their own sex. Sally was a woman
+well educated—Polly also—both have read—both have sense—of parentage
+not mean—once modest both—still, they say, had been modest, but for
+me—not entirely indelicate now; though too little nice for my personal
+intimacy, loth as they both are to have me think so—the old one, too, a
+woman of family, though thus (from bad inclination as well as at first
+from low circumstances) miserably sunk:—and hence they all pretend to
+remember what once they were; and vouch for the inclinations and
+hypocrisy of the whole sex, and wish for nothing so ardently, as that I
+will leave the perverse lady to their management while I am gone to
+Berkshire; undertaking absolutely for her humility and passiveness on
+my return; and continually boasting of the many perverse creatures whom
+they have obliged to draw in their traces.
+
+
+I am just come from the sorceresses.
+
+I was forced to take the mother down; for she began with her Hoh, Sir!
+with me; and to catechize and upbraid me, with as much insolence as if
+I owed her money.
+
+I made her fly the pit at last. Strange wishes wished we against each
+other at her quitting it——What were they?—I’ll tell thee——She wished me
+married, and to be jealous of my wife; and my heir-apparent the child
+of another man. I was even with her with a vengeance. And yet thou wilt
+think that could not well be.—As how?—As how, Jack!—Why, I wished for
+her conscience come to life! And I know, by the gripes mine gives me
+every half-hour, that she would then have a cursed time of it.
+
+Sally and Polly gave themselves high airs too. Their first favours were
+thrown at me, [women to boast of those favours which they were as
+willing to impart, first forms all the difficulty with them! as I to
+receive!] I was upbraided with ingratitude, dastardice and all my
+difficulties with my angel charged upon myself, for want of following
+my blows; and for leaving the proud lady mistress of her own will, and
+nothing to reproach herself with. And all agreed, that the arts used
+against her on a certain occasion, had too high an operation for them
+or me to judge what her will would have been in the arduous trial. And
+then they blamed one another; as I cursed them all.
+
+They concluded, that I should certainly marry, and be a lost man. And
+Sally, on this occasion, with an affected and malicious laugh, snapt
+her fingers at me, and pointing two of each hand forkedly at me, bid me
+remember the lines I once showed her of my favourite Jack Dryden, as
+she always familiarly calls that celebrated poet:
+
+We women to new joys unseen may move:
+There are no prints left in the paths of love.
+All goods besides by public marks are known:
+But those men most desire to keep, have none.
+
+
+This infernal implement had the confidence further to hint, that when a
+wife, some other man would not find half the difficulty with my angel
+that I had found. Confidence indeed! But yet, I must say, if a man
+gives himself up to the company of these devils, they never let him
+rest till he either suspects or hate his wife.
+
+But a word or two of other matters, if possible.
+
+Methinks I long to know how causes go at M. Hall. I have another
+private intimation, that the old peer is in the greatest danger.
+
+I must go down. Yet what to do with this lady the mean while! These
+cursed women are full of cruelty and enterprise. She will never be easy
+with them in my absence. They will have provocation and pretence
+therefore. But woe be to them, if——
+
+Yet what will vengeance do, after an insult committed? The two nymphs
+will have jealous rage to goad them on. And what will withhold a
+jealous and already-ruined woman?
+
+To let her go elsewhere; that cannot be done. I am still too resolved
+to be honest, if she’ll give me hope: if yet she’ll let me be honest.
+But I’ll see how she’ll be after the contention she will certainly have
+between her resentment and the terror she has reason for from our last
+conversation. So let this subject rest till the morning. And to the old
+peer once more.
+
+I shall have a good deal of trouble, I reckon, though no sordid man, to
+be decent on the expected occasion. Then how to act (I who am no
+hypocrite) in the days of condolement! What farces have I to go
+through; and to be the principal actor in them! I’ll try to think of my
+own latter end; a gray beard, and a graceless heir; in order to make me
+serious.
+
+Thou, Belford, knowest a good deal of this sort of grimace; and canst
+help a gay heart to a little of the dismal. But then every feature of
+thy face is cut out for it. My heart may be touched, perhaps, sooner
+than thine; for, believe me or not, I have a very tender one. But then,
+no man looking into my face, be the occasion for grief ever so great,
+will believe that heart to be deeply distressed.
+
+All is placid, easy, serene, in my countenance. Sorrow cannot sit half
+an hour together upon it. Nay, I believe, that Lord M.’s recovery,
+should it happen, would not affect me above a quarter of an hour. Only
+the new scenery, (and the pleasure of aping an Heraclitus to the
+family, while I am a Democritus among my private friends,) or I want
+nothing that the old peer can leave me. Wherefore then should grief
+sadden and distort such blythe, such jocund, features as mine?
+
+But as for thine, were there murder committed in the street, and thou
+wert but passing by, the murderer even in sight, the pursuers would
+quit him, and lay hold of thee: and thy very looks would hang, as well
+as apprehend thee.
+
+But one word to business, Jack. Whom dealest thou with for thy
+blacks?—Wert thou well used?—I shall want a plaguy parcel of them. For
+I intend to make every soul of the family mourn—outside, if not in.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XXXIII
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. JUNE 23, FRIDAY MORNING.
+
+I went out early this morning, on a design that I know not yet whether
+I shall or shall not pursue; and on my return found Simon Parsons, my
+Lord’s Berkshire bailiff, (just before arrived,) waiting for me with a
+message in form, sent by all the family, to press me to go down, and
+that at my Lord’s particular desire, who wants to see me before he
+dies.
+
+Simon has brought my Lord’s chariot-and-six [perhaps my own by this
+time,] to carry me down. I have ordered it to be in readiness by four
+to-morrow morning. The cattle shall smoke for the delay; and by the
+rest they’ll have in the interim, will be better able to bear it.
+
+I am still resolved upon matrimony, if my fair perverse will accept of
+me. But, if she will not——why then I must give an uninterrupted
+hearing, not to my conscience, but to these women below.
+
+Dorcas had acquainted her lady with Simon’s arrival and errand. My
+beloved had desired to see him. But my coming in prevented his
+attendance on her, just as Dorcas was instructing him what questions he
+should not answer to, that might be asked of him.
+
+I am to be admitted to her presence immediately, at my repeated
+request. Surely the acquisition in view will help me to make up all
+with her. She is just gone up to the dining-room.
+
+
+Nothing will do, Jack!—I can procure no favour from her, though she has
+obtained from me the point which she had set her heart upon.
+
+I will give thee a brief account of what passed between us.
+
+I first proposed instant marriage; and this in the most fervent manner:
+but was denied as fervently.
+
+Would she be pleased to assure me that she would stay here only till
+Tuesday morning? I would but just go down to see how my Lord was—to
+know whether he had any thing particular to say, or enjoin me, while
+yet he was sensible, as he was very earnest to see me: perhaps I might
+be up on Sunday.—Concede in something!—I beseech you, Madam, show me
+some little consideration.
+
+Why, Mr. Lovelace, must I be determined by your motions?—Think you that
+I will voluntarily give a sanction to the imprisonment of my person? Of
+what importance to me ought to be your stay or your return.
+
+Give a sanction to the imprisonment of your person! Do you think,
+Madam, that I fear the law?
+
+I might have spared this foolish question of defiance: but my pride
+would not let me. I thought she threatened me, Jack.
+
+I don’t think you fear the law, Sir.—You are too brave to have any
+regard either to moral or divine sanctions.
+
+’Tis well, Madam! But ask me any thing I can do to oblige you; and I
+will oblige you, though in nothing will you oblige me.
+
+Then I ask you, then I request of you, to let me go to Hampstead.
+
+I paused—And at last—By my soul you shall—this very moment I will wait
+upon you, and see you fixed there, if you’ll promise me your hand on
+Thursday, in presence of your uncle.
+
+I want not you to see me fixed. I will promise nothing.
+
+Take care, Madam, that you don’t let me see that I can have no reliance
+upon your future favour.
+
+I have been used to be threatened by you, Sir—but I will accept of your
+company to Hampstead—I will be ready to go in a quarter of an hour—my
+clothes may be sent after me.
+
+You know the condition, Madam—Next Thursday.
+
+You dare not trust——
+
+My infinite demerits tell me, that I ought not—nevertheless I will
+confide in your generosity.—To-morrow morning (no new cause arising to
+give reason to the contrary) as early as you please you may go to
+Hampstead.
+
+This seemed to oblige her. But yet she looked with a face of doubt.
+
+I will go down to the women, Belford. And having no better judges at
+hand, will hear what they say upon my critical situation with this
+proud beauty, who has so insolently rejected a Lovelace kneeling at her
+feet, though making an earnest tender of himself for a husband, in
+spite of all his prejudices to the state of shackles.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XXXIV
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
+
+
+Just come from the women.
+
+‘Have I gone so far, and am I afraid to go farther?—Have I not already,
+as it is evident by her behaviour, sinned beyond forgiveness?—A woman’s
+tears used to be to me but as water sprinkled on a glowing fire, which
+gives it a fiercer and brighter blaze: What defence has this lady but
+her tears and her eloquence? She was before taken at no weak advantage.
+She was insensible in her moments of trial. Had she been sensible, she
+must have been sensible. So they say. The methods taken with her have
+augmented her glory and her pride. She has now a tale to tell, that she
+may tell with honour to herself. No accomplice-inclination. She can
+look me into confusion, without being conscious of so much as a thought
+which she need to be ashamed of.’
+
+This, Jack, is the substance of the women’s reasonings with me.
+
+To which let me add, that the dear creature now sees the necessity I am
+in to leave her. Detecting me is in her head. My contrivances are of
+such a nature, that I must appear to be the most odious of men if I am
+detected on this side matrimony. And yet I have promised, as thou
+seest, that she shall set out to Hampstead as soon as she pleases in
+the morning, and that without condition on her side.
+
+Dost thou ask, What I meant by this promise?
+
+No new cause arising, was the proviso on my side, thou’lt remember. But
+there will be a new cause.
+
+Suppose Dorcas should drop the promissory note given her by her lady?
+Servants, especially those who cannot read or write, are the most
+careless people in the world of written papers. Suppose I take it
+up?—at a time, too, that I was determined that the dear creature should
+be her own mistress?—Will not this detection be a new cause?—A cause
+that will carry with it against her the appearance of ingratitude!
+
+That she designed it a secret to me, argues a fear of detection, and
+indirectly a sense of guilt. I wanted a pretence. Can I have a
+better?—If I am in a violent passion upon the detection, is not passion
+an universally-allowed extenuator of violence? Is not every man and
+woman obliged to excuse that fault in another, which at times they find
+attended with such ungovernable effects in themselves?
+
+The mother and sisterhood, suppose, brought to sit in judgment upon the
+vile corrupted—the least benefit that must accrue from the accidental
+discovery, if not a pretence for perpetration, [which, however, may be
+the case,] an excuse for renewing my orders for her detention till my
+return from M. Hall, [the fault her own,] and for keeping a stricter
+watch over her than before; with direction to send me any letters that
+may be written by her or to her.—And when I return, the devil’s in it
+if I find not a way to make her choose lodgings for herself, (since
+these are so hateful to her,) that shall answer all my purposes; and
+yet I no more appear to direct her choice, than I did before in these.
+
+Thou wilt curse me when thou comest to this place. I know thou wilt.
+But thinkest thou that, after such a series of contrivance, I will lose
+this inimitable woman for want of a little more? A rake’s a rake,
+Jack!—And what rake is withheld by principle from the perpetration of
+any evil his heart is set upon, and in which he thinks he can
+succeed?—Besides, am I not in earnest as to marriage?—Will not the
+generality of the world acquit me, if I do marry? And what is that
+injury which a church-rite will not at any time repair? Is not the
+catastrophe of every story that ends in wedlock accounted happy, be the
+difficulties in the progress of it ever so great.
+
+But here, how am I engrossed by this lady, while poor Lord M. as Simon
+tells me, lies groaning in the most dreadful agonies!—What must he
+suffer!—Heaven relieve him!—I have a too compassionate heart. And so
+would the dear creature have found, could I have thought that the worst
+of her sufferings is equal to the lightest of his. I mean as to fact;
+for as to that part of her’s, which arises from extreme sensibility, I
+know nothing of that; and cannot therefore be answerable for it.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XXXV
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
+
+
+Just come from my charmer. She will not suffer me to say half the
+obliging, the tender things, which my honest heart is ready to overflow
+with. A confounded situation that, when a man finds himself in humour
+to be eloquent, and pathetic at the same time, yet cannot engage the
+mistress of his fate to lend an ear to his fine speeches.
+
+I can account now how it comes about that lovers, when their mistresses
+are cruel, run into solitude, and disburthen their minds to stocks and
+stones: For am I not forced to make my complaints to thee?
+
+She claimed the performance of my promise, the moment she saw me, of
+permitting her [haughtily she spoke the word] to go to Hampstead as
+soon as I was gone to Berks.
+
+Most cheerfully I renewed it.
+
+She desired me to give orders in her hearing.
+
+I sent for Dorcas and Will. They came.—Do you both take notice, (but,
+perhaps, Sir, I may take you with me,) that your lady is to be obeyed
+in all her commands. She purposes to return to Hampstead as soon as I
+am gone—My dear, will you not have a servant to attend you?
+
+I shall want no servant there.
+
+Will you take Dorcas?
+
+If I should want Dorcas, I can send for her.
+
+Dorcas could not but say, She should be very proud—
+
+Well, well, that may be at my return, if your lady permit.—Shall I, my
+dear, call up Mrs. Sinclair, and give her orders, to the same effect,
+in your hearing?
+
+I desire not to see Mrs. Sinclair; nor any that belong to her.
+
+As you please, Madam.
+
+And then (the servants being withdrawn) I urged her again for the
+assurance, that she would meet me at the altar on Thursday next. But to
+no purpose.—May she not thank herself for all that may follow?
+
+One favour, however, I would not be denied, to be admitted to pass the
+evening with her.
+
+All sweetness and obsequiousness will I be on this occasion. My whole
+soul shall be poured out to move her to forgive me. If she will not,
+and if the promissory note should fall in my way, my revenge will
+doubtless take total possession of me.
+
+All the house in my interest, and every one in it not only engaging to
+intimidate and assist, as occasion shall offer, but staking all their
+experience upon my success, if it be not my own fault, what must be the
+consequence?
+
+This, Jack, however, shall be her last trial; and if she behave as
+nobly in and after this second attempt (all her senses about her) as
+she has done after the first, she will come out an angel upon full
+proof, in spite of man, woman, and devil: then shall there be an end of
+all her sufferings. I will then renounce that vanquished devil, and
+reform. And if any vile machination start up, presuming to mislead me,
+I will sooner stab it in my heart, as it rises, than give way to it.
+
+A few hours will now decide all. But whatever be the event, I shall be
+too busy to write again, till I get to M. Hall.
+
+Mean time, I am in strange agitations. I must suppress them, if
+possible, before I venture into her presence.—My heart bounces my bosom
+from the table. I will lay down my pen, and wholly resign to its
+impulses.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XXXVI
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. FRIDAY NIGHT, OR RATHER SAT. MORN.
+ONE O’CLOCK.
+
+I thought I should not have had either time or inclination to write
+another line before I got to M. Hall. But, having the first, must find
+the last; since I can neither sleep, nor do any thing but write, if I
+can do that. I am most confoundedly out of humour. The reason let it
+follow; if it will follow—nor preparation for it from me.
+
+I tried by gentleness and love to soften—What?—Marble. A heart
+incapable either of love or gentleness. Her past injuries for ever in
+her head. Ready to receive a favour; the permission to go to Hampstead:
+but neither to deserve it, nor return any. So my scheme of the gentle
+kind was soon given over.
+
+I then wanted to provoke her: like a coward boy, who waits for the
+first blow before he can persuade himself to fight, I half challenged
+her to challenge or defy me. She seemed aware of her danger; and would
+not directly brave my resentment: but kept such a middle course, that I
+neither could find a pretence to offend, nor reason to hope: yet she
+believed my tale, that her uncle would come to Kentish-town, and seemed
+not to apprehend that Tomlinson was an impostor.
+
+She was very uneasy, upon the whole, in my company: wanted often to
+break from me: yet so held me to my purpose of permitting her to go to
+Hampstead, that I knew not how to get off it; although it was
+impossible, in my precarious situation with her, to think of performing
+it.
+
+In this situation; the women ready to assist; and, if I proceeded not,
+as ready to ridicule me; what had I left me, but to pursue the
+concerted scheme, and to seek a pretence to quarrel with her, in order
+to revoke my promised permission, and to convince her that I would not
+be upbraided as the most brutal of ravishers for nothing?
+
+I had agreed with the women, that if I could not find a pretence in her
+presence to begin my operations, the note should lie in my way, and I
+was to pick it up, soon after her retiring from me. But I began to
+doubt at near ten o’clock, (so earnest was she to leave me, suspecting
+my over-warm behaviour to her, and eager grasping of her hand two or
+three times, with eye-strings, as I felt, on the strain, while her eyes
+showed uneasiness and apprehension,) that if she actually retired for
+the night, it might be a chance whether it would be easy to come at her
+again. Loth, therefore, to run such a risk, I stept out a little after
+ten, with intent to alter the preconcerted disposition a little; saying
+I would attend her again instantly. But as I returned I met her at the
+door, intending to withdraw for the night. I could not persuade her to
+go back: nor had I presence of mind (so full of complaisance as I was
+to her just before) to stay her by force: so she slid through my hands
+into her own apartment. I had nothing to do, therefore, but to let my
+former concert take place.
+
+I should have promised (but care not for order of time, connection, or
+any thing else) that, between eight and nine in the evening, another
+servant of Lord M. on horseback came, to desire me to carry down with
+me Dr. S., the old peer having been once (in extremis, as they judge he
+is now) relieved and reprieved by him. I sent and engaged the doctor to
+accompany me down: and am to call upon him by four this morning: or the
+devil should have both my Lord and the Doctor, if I’d stir till I got
+all made up.
+
+Poke thy damn’d nose forward into the event, if thou wilt—Curse me if
+thou shalt have it till its proper time and place. And too soon then.
+
+She had hardly got into her chamber, but I found a little paper, as I
+was going into mine, which I took up; and opening it, (for it was
+carefully pinned in another paper,) what should it be but a promissory
+note, given as a bribe, with a further promise of a diamond ring, to
+induce Dorcas to favour her mistress’s escape?
+
+How my temper changed in a moment!—Ring, ring, ring, ring, I my bell,
+with a violence enough to break the string, and as if the house were on
+fire.
+
+Every devil frighted into active life: the whole house in an uproar. Up
+runs Will.—Sir—Sir—Sir!—Eyes goggling, mouth distended—Bid the damn’d
+toad Dorcas come hither, (as I stood at the stair-head,) in a horrible
+rage, and out of breath, cried I.
+
+In sight came the trembling devil—but standing aloof, from the report
+made her by Will. of the passion I was in, as well as from what she had
+heard.
+
+Flash came out my sword immediately; for I had it ready on—Cursed,
+confounded, villanous bribery and corruption——
+
+Up runs she to her lady’s door, screaming out for safety and
+protection.
+
+Good your honour, interposed Will., for God’s sake!—O Lord, O
+Lord!—receiving a good cuff.—
+
+Take that, varlet, for saving the ungrateful wretch from my vengeance.
+
+Wretch! I intended to say; but if it were some other word of like
+ending, passion must be my excuse.
+
+Up ran two or three of the sisterhood, What’s the matter! What’s the
+matter!
+
+The matter! (for still my beloved opened not the door; on the contrary,
+drew another bolt,) This abominable Dorcas!—(call her aunt up!—let her
+see what a traitress she has placed about me!—and let her bring the
+toad to answer for herself)—has taken a bribe, a provision for life, to
+betray her trust; by that means to perpetuate a quarrel between a man
+and his wife, and frustrate for ever all hopes of reconciliation
+between us!
+
+Let me perish, Belford, if I have patience to proceed with the farce!
+
+
+If I must resume, I must——
+
+Up came the aunt, puffing and blowing—As she hoped for mercy, she was
+not privy to it! She never knew such a plotting, perverse lady in her
+life!—Well might servants be at the pass they were, when such ladies as
+Mrs. Lovelace made no conscience of corrupting them. For her part she
+desired no mercy for the wretch; no niece of her’s, if she were not
+faithful to her trust!—But what was the proof?——
+
+She was shown the paper——
+
+But too evident!—Cursed, cursed toad, devil, jade, passed from each
+mouth:—and the vileness of the corrupted, and the unworthiness of the
+corruptress, were inveighed against.
+
+Up we all went, passing the lady’s door into the dining-room, to
+proceed to trial.——
+
+Stamp, stamp, stamp up, each on her heels; rave, rave, rave, every
+tongue——
+
+Bring up the creature before us all this instant!——
+
+And would she have got out of the house, say you?—
+
+These the noises and the speeches as we clattered by the door of the
+fair bribress.
+
+Up was brought Dorcas (whimpering) between two, both bawling out—You
+must go—You shall go—’Tis fit you should answer for yourself—You are a
+discredit to all worthy servants—as they pulled and pushed her up
+stairs.—She whining, I cannot see his honour—I cannot look so good and
+so generous a gentleman in the face—O how shall I bear my aunt’s
+ravings?——
+
+Come up, and be d—n’d—Bring her forward, her imperial judge—What a
+plague, it is the detection, not the crime, that confounds you. You
+could be quiet enough for days together, as I see by the date, under
+the villany. Tell me, ungrateful devil, tell me who made the first
+advances?
+
+Ay, disgrace to my family and blood, cried the old one—tell his
+honour—tell the truth!—Who made the first advances?——
+
+Ay, cursed creature, cried Sally, who made the first advances?
+
+I have betrayed one trust already!—O let me not betray another!—My lady
+is a good lady!—O let not her suffer!—
+
+Tell all you know. Tell the whole truth, Dorcas, cried Polly
+Horton.—His honour loves his lady too well to make her suffer much:
+little as she requites his love!——
+
+Every body sees that, cried Sally—too well, indeed, for his honour, I
+was going to say.
+
+Till now, I thought she deserved my love—But to bribe a servant thus,
+who she supposed had orders to watch her steps, for fear of another
+elopement; and to impute that precaution to me as a crime!—Yet I must
+love her—Ladies, forgive my weakness!——
+
+Curse upon my grimaces!—if I have patience to repeat them!—But thou
+shalt have it all—thou canst not despise me more than I despise myself!
+
+
+But suppose, Sir, said Sally, you have my lady and the wench face to
+face! You see she cares not to confess.
+
+O my carelessness! cried Dorcas—Don’t let my poor lady suffer!—Indeed,
+if you all knew what I know, you would say her ladyship has been
+cruelly treated—
+
+See, see, see, see!—repeatedly, every one at once—Only sorry for the
+detection, as your honour said—not for the fault.
+
+Cursed creature, and devilish creature, from every mouth.
+
+Your lady won’t, she dare not come out to save you, cried Sally; though
+it is more his honour’s mercy, than your desert, if he does not cut
+your vile throat this instant.
+
+Say, repeated Polly, was it your lady that made the first advances, or
+was it you, you creature——
+
+If the lady had so much honour, bawled the mother, excuse me, so—Excuse
+me, Sir, [confound the old wretch! she had like to have said son!]—If
+the lady has so much honour, as we have supposed, she will appear to
+vindicate a poor servant, misled, as she has been, by such large
+promises!—But I hope, Sir, you will do them both justice: I hope you
+will!—Good lack!—Good lack! clapping her hands together, to grant her
+every thing she could ask—to indulge her in her unworthy hatred to my
+poor innocent house!—to let her go to Hampstead, though your honour
+told us, you could get no condescension from her; no, not the least—O
+Sir, O Sir—I hope—I hope—if your lady will not come out—I hope you will
+find a way to hear this cause in her presence. I value not my doors on
+such an occasion as this. Justice I ever loved. I desire you will come
+to the bottom of it in clearance to me. I’ll be sworn I had no privity
+in this black corruption.
+
+Just then we heard the lady’s door, unbar, unlock, unbolt——
+
+Now, Sir!
+
+Now, Mr. Lovelace!
+
+Now, Sir! from every encouraging mouth!——
+
+But, O Jack! Jack! Jack! I can write no more!
+
+
+If you must have it all, you must!
+
+Now, Belford, see us all sitting in judgment, resolved to punish the
+fair bribress—I, and the mother, the hitherto dreaded mother, the
+nieces Sally, Polly, the traitress Dorcas, and Mabell, a guard, as it
+were, over Dorcas, that she might not run away, and hide herself:—all
+pre-determined, and of necessity pre-determined, from the journey I was
+going to take, and my precarious situation with her—and hear her
+unbolt, unlock, unbar, the door; then, as it proved afterwards, put the
+key into the lock on the outside, lock the door, and put it in her
+pocket—Will. I knew, below, who would give me notice, if, while we were
+all above, she should mistake her way, and go down stairs, instead of
+coming into the dining-room: the street-door also doubly secured, and
+every shutter to the windows round the house fastened, that no noise or
+screaming should be heard—[such was the brutal preparation]—and then
+hear her step towards us, and instantly see her enter among us,
+confiding in her own innocence; and with a majesty in her person and
+manner, that is natural to her; but which then shone out in all its
+glory!—Every tongue silent, every eye awed, every heart quaking, mine,
+in a particular manner sunk, throbless, and twice below its usual
+region, to once at my throat:—a shameful recreant:—She silent too,
+looking round her, first on me; then on the mother, no longer fearing
+her; then on Sally, Polly, and the culprit Dorcas!—such the glorious
+power of innocence exerted at that awful moment!
+
+She would have spoken, but could not, looking down my guilt into
+confusion. A mouse might have been heard passing over the floor: her
+own light feet and rustling silks could not have prevented it; for she
+seemed to tread air, and to be all soul. She passed backwards and
+forwards, now towards me, now towards the door several times, before
+speech could get the better of indignation; and at last, after twice or
+thrice hemming to recover her articulate voice—‘O thou contemptible and
+abandoned Lovelace, thinkest thou that I see not through this poor
+villanous plot of thine, and of these thy wicked accomplices?
+
+‘Thou, woman, [looking at the mother] once my terror! always my
+dislike! but now my detestation! shouldst once more (for thine perhaps
+was the preparation) have provided for me intoxicating potions, to rob
+me of my senses——
+
+‘And then, thus, wretch, [turning to me,] mightest thou more securely
+have depended upon such a low contrivance as this!
+
+‘And ye, vile women, who perhaps have been the ruin, body and soul, of
+hundreds of innocents, (you show me how, in full assembly,) know, that
+I am not married—ruined as I am, by your help, I bless God, I am not
+married to this miscreant—and I have friends that will demand my honour
+at your hands!—and to whose authority I will apply; for none has this
+man over me. Look to it then, what farther insults you offer me, or
+incite him to offer me. I am a person, though thus vilely betrayed, of
+rank and fortune. I never will be his; and, to your utter ruin, will
+find friends to pursue you: and now I have this full proof of your
+detestable wickedness, and have heard your base incitements, will have
+no mercy upon you!’
+
+They could not laugh at the poor figure I made.—Lord! how every devil,
+conscience-shaken, trembled!—
+
+What a dejection must ever fall to the lot of guilt, were it given to
+innocence always thus to exert itself!
+
+‘And as for thee, thou vile Dorcas! Thou double deceiver!—whining out
+thy pretended love for me!—Begone, wretch!—Nobody will hurt
+thee!—Begone, I say!—thou has too well acted thy part to be blamed by
+any here but myself—thou art safe: thy guilt is thy security in such a
+house as this!—thy shameful, thy poor part, thou hast as well acted as
+the low farce could give thee to act!—as well as they each of them (thy
+superiors, though not thy betters), thou seest, can act theirs.—Steal
+away into darkness! No inquiry after this will be made, whose the first
+advances, thine or mine.’
+
+And, as I hope to live, the wench, confoundedly frightened, slunk away;
+so did her sentinel Mabell; though I, endeavouring to rally, cried out
+for Dorcas to stay—but I believe the devil could not have stopt her,
+when an angel bid her begone.
+
+Madam, said I, let me tell you; and was advancing towards her with a
+fierce aspect, most cursedly vexed, and ashamed too——
+
+But she turned to me: ‘Stop where thou art, O vilest and most abandoned
+of men!—Stop where thou art!—nor, with that determined face, offer to
+touch me, if thou wouldst not that I should be a corps at thy feet!’
+
+To my astonishment, she held forth a penknife in her hand, the point to
+her own bosom, grasping resolutely the whole handle, so that there was
+no offering to take it from her.
+
+‘I offer not mischief to any body but myself. You, Sir, and ye women,
+are safe from every violence of mine. The LAW shall be all my resource:
+the LAW,’ and she spoke the word with emphasis, the LAW! that to such
+people carries natural terror with it, and now struck a panic into
+them.
+
+No wonder, since those who will damn themselves to procure ease and
+plenty in this world, will tremble at every thing that seems to
+threaten their methods of obtaining that ease and plenty.——
+
+‘The LAW only shall be my refuge!’——
+
+The infamous mother whispered me, that it were better to make terms
+with this strange lady, and let her go.
+
+Sally, notwithstanding all her impudent bravery at other times, said,
+If Mr. Lovelace had told them what was not true, of her being his
+wife——
+
+And Polly Horton, That she must needs say, the lady, if she were not my
+wife, had been very much injured; that was all.
+
+That is not now a matter to be disputed, cried I: you and I know,
+Madam——
+
+‘We do, said she; and I thank God, I am not thine—once more I thank God
+for it—I have no doubt of the farther baseness that thou hast intended
+me, by this vile and low trick: but I have my SENSES, Lovelace: and
+from my heart I despise thee, thou very poor Lovelace!—How canst thou
+stand in my presence!—Thou, that’——
+
+Madam, Madam, Madam—these are insults not to be borne—and was
+approaching her.
+
+She withdrew to the door, and set her back against it, holding the
+pointed knife to her heaving bosom; while the women held me, beseeching
+me not to provoke the violent lady—for their house sake, and be curs’d
+to them, they besought me—and all three hung upon me—while the truly
+heroic lady braved me at that distance:
+
+‘Approach me, Lovelace, with resentment, if thou wilt. I dare die. It
+is in defence of my honour. God will be merciful to my poor soul! I
+expect no more mercy from thee! I have gained this distance, and two
+steps nearer me, and thou shalt see what I dare do!’——
+
+Leave me, women, to myself, and to my angel!—[They retired at a
+distance.]—O my beloved creature, how you terrify me! Holding out my
+arms, and kneeling on one knee—not a step, not a step farther, except
+to receive my death at that injured hand which is thus held up against
+a life far dearer to me than my own! I am a villain! the blackest of
+villains!—Say you will sheath your knife in the injurer’s, not the
+injured’s heart, and then will I indeed approach you, but not else.
+
+The mother twanged her d—n’d nose; and Sally and Polly pulled out their
+handkerchiefs, and turned from us. They never in their lives, they told
+me afterwards, beheld such a scene——
+
+Innocence so triumphant: villany so debased, they must mean!
+
+Unawares to myself, I had moved onward to my angel—‘And dost thou, dost
+thou, still disclaiming, still advancing—dost thou, dost thou, still
+insidiously move towards me?’—[And her hand was extended] ‘I dare—I
+dare—not rashly neither—my heart from principle abhors the act, which
+thou makest necessary!—God, in thy mercy! [lifting up her eyes and
+hands] God, in thy mercy!’
+
+I threw myself to the farther end of the room. An ejaculation, a silent
+ejaculation, employing her thoughts that moment; Polly says the whites
+of her lovely eyes were only visible: and, in the instant that she
+extended her hand, assuredly to strike the fatal blow, [how the very
+recital terrifies me!] she cast her eye towards me, and saw me at the
+utmost distance the room would allow, and heard my broken voice—my
+voice was utterly broken; nor knew I what I said, or whether to the
+purpose or not—and her charming cheeks, that were all in a glow before,
+turned pale, as if terrified at her own purpose; and lifting up her
+eyes—‘Thank God!—thank God! said the angel—delivered for the present;
+for the present delivered—from myself—keep, Sir, that distance;’
+[looking down towards me, who was prostrate on the floor, my heart
+pierced, as with an hundred daggers;] ‘that distance has saved a life;
+to what reserved, the Almighty only knows!’—
+
+To be happy, Madam; and to make happy!—And, O let me hope for your
+favour for to-morrow—I will put off my journey till then—and may God—
+
+Swear not, Sir!—with an awful and piercing aspect—you have too often
+sworn!—God’s eye is upon us!—His more immediate eye; and looked
+wildly.—But the women looked up to the ceiling, as if afraid of God’s
+eye, and trembled. And well they might, and I too, who so very lately
+had each of us the devil in our hearts.
+
+If not to-morrow, Madam, say but next Thursday, your uncle’s birth-day;
+say but next Thursday!
+
+‘This I say, of this you may assure yourself, I never, never will be
+your’s.—And let me hope, that I may be entitled to the performance of
+your promise, to be permitted to leave this innocent house, as one
+called it, (but long have my ears been accustomed to such inversions of
+words), as soon as the day breaks.’
+
+Did my perdition depend upon it, that you cannot, Madam, but upon
+terms. And I hope you will not terrify me—still dreading the accursed
+knife.
+
+‘Nothing less than an attempt upon my honour shall make me desperate. I
+have no view but to defend my honour: with such a view only I entered
+into treaty with your infamous agent below. The resolution you have
+seen, I trust, God will give me again, upon the same occasion. But for
+a less, I wish not for it.—Only take notice, women, that I am no wife
+of this man: basely as he has used me, I am not his wife. He has no
+authority over me. If he go away by-and-by, and you act by his
+authority to detain me, look to it.’
+
+Then, taking one of the lights, she turned from us; and away she went,
+unmolested.—Not a soul was able to molest her.
+
+Mabell saw her, tremblingly, and in a hurry, take the key of her
+chamber-door out of her pocket, and unlock it; and, as soon as she
+entered, heard her double-lock, bar, and bolt it.
+
+By her taking out her key, when she came out of her chamber to us, she
+no doubt suspected my design: which was, to have carried her in my arms
+thither, if she made such force necessary, after I had intimidated her;
+and to have been her companion for that night.
+
+She was to have had several bedchamber-women to assist to undress her
+upon occasion: but from the moment she entered the dining-room with so
+much intrepidity, it was absolutely impossible to think of prosecuting
+my villanous designs against her.
+
+
+This, this, Belford, was the hand I made of a contrivance from which I
+expected so much!—And now I am ten times worse off than before.
+
+Thou never sawest people in thy life look so like fools upon one
+another, as the mother, her partners, and I, did, for a few minutes.
+And at last, the two devilish nymphs broke out into insulting ridicule
+upon me; while the old wretch was concerned for her house, the
+reputation of her house. I cursed them all together; and, retiring to
+my chamber, locked myself in.
+
+And now it is time to set out: all I have gained, detection, disgrace,
+fresh guilt by repeated perjuries, and to be despised by her I doat
+upon; and, what is still worse to a proud heart, by myself.
+
+Success, success in projects, is every thing. What an admirable
+contriver did I think myself till now! Even for this scheme among the
+rest! But how pitifully foolish does it now appear to me!—Scratch out,
+erase, never to be read, every part of my preceding letters, where I
+have boastingly mentioned it. And never presume to rally me upon the
+cursed subject: for I cannot bear it.
+
+But for the lady, by my soul, I love her. I admire her more than ever!
+I must have her. I will have her still—with honour or without, as I
+have often vowed. My cursed fright at her accidental bloody nose, so
+lately, put her upon improving upon me thus. Had she threatened ME, I
+should have soon been master of one arm, and in both! But for so
+sincere a virtue to threaten herself, and not to offer to intimidate
+any other, and with so much presence of mind, as to distinguish, in the
+very passionate intention, the necessity of the act, defence of her
+honour, and so fairly to disavow lesser occasions: showed such a
+deliberation, such a choice, such a principle; and then keeping me so
+watchfully at a distance that I could not seize her hand, so soon as
+she could have given the fatal blow; how impossible not to be subdued
+by so true and so discreet a magnanimity!
+
+But she is not gone. She shall not go. I will press her with letters
+for the Thursday. She shall yet be mine, legally mine. For, as to
+cohabitation, there is no such thing to be thought of.
+
+The Captain shall give her away, as proxy for her uncle. My Lord will
+die. My fortune will help my will, and set me above every thing and
+every body.
+
+But here is the curse—she despises me, Jack!—What man, as I have
+heretofore said, can bear to be despised—especially by his wife!—O
+Lord!—O Lord! What a hand, what a cursed hand, have I made of this
+plot!—And here ends
+
+The history of the lady and the penknife!—The devil take the
+penknife!—It goes against me to say,
+
+God bless the lady!
+
+NEAR 5, SAT. MORN.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XXXVII
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE [SUPERSCRIBED TO MRS. LOVELACE.]
+M. HALL, SAT. NIGHT, JUNE 24.
+
+MY DEAREST LIFE,
+
+If you do not impute to live, and to terror raised by love, the poor
+figure I made before you last night, you will not do me justice. I
+thought I would try to the very last moment, if, by complying with you
+in every thing, I could prevail upon you to promise to be mine on
+Thursday next, since you refused me an earlier day. Could I have been
+so happy, you had not been hindered going to Hampstead, or wherever
+else you pleased. But when I could not prevail upon you to give me this
+assurance, what room had I, (my demerit so great,) to suppose, that
+your going thither would not be to lose you for ever?
+
+I will own to you, Madam, that yesterday afternoon I picked up the
+paper dropt by Dorcas; who has confessed that she would have assisted
+you in getting away, if she had had opportunity so to do; and
+undoubtedly dropped it by accident. And could I have prevailed upon you
+as to Thursday next, I would have made no use of it; secure as I should
+have been in your word given, to be mine. But when I found you
+inflexible, I was resolved to try, if, by resenting Dorcas’s treachery,
+I could not make your pardon of me the condition of mine to her: and if
+not, to make a handle of it to revoke my consent to your going away
+from Mrs. Sinclair’s; since the consequence of that must have been so
+fatal to me.
+
+So far, indeed, was my proceeding low and artful: and when I was
+challenged with it, as such, in so high and noble a manner, I could not
+avoid taking shame to myself upon it.
+
+But you must permit me, Madam, to hope, that you will not punish me too
+heavily for so poor a contrivance, since no dishonour was meant you:
+and since, in the moment of its execution, you had as great an instance
+of my incapacity to defend a wrong, a low measure, and, at the same
+time, in your power over me, as mortal man could give—in a word, since
+you must have seen, that I was absolutely under the controul both of
+conscience and of love.
+
+I will not offer to defend myself, for wishing you to remain where you
+are, till either you give me your word to meet me at the altar on
+Thursday; or till I have the honour of attending you, preparative to
+the solemnity which will make that day the happiest of my life.
+
+I am but too sensible, that this kind of treatment may appear to you
+with the face of an arbitrary and illegal imposition: but as the
+consequences, not only to ourselves, but to both our families, may be
+fatal, if you cannot be moved in my favour; let me beseech you to
+forgive this act of compulsion, on the score of the necessity you your
+dear self have laid me under to be guilty of it; and to permit the
+solemnity of next Thursday to include an act of oblivion for all past
+offences.
+
+The orders I have given to the people of the house are: ‘That you shall
+be obeyed in every particular that is consistent with my expectations
+of finding you there on my return on Wednesday next: that Mrs. Sinclair
+and her nieces, having incurred your just displeasure, shall not,
+without your orders, come into your presence: that neither shall
+Dorcas, till she has fully cleared her conduct to your satisfaction, be
+permitted to attend you: but Mabell, in her place; of whom you seemed
+some time ago to express some liking. Will. I have left behind me to
+attend your commands. If he be either negligent or impertinent, your
+dismission shall be a dismission of him from my service for ever. But,
+as to letters which may be sent you, or any which you may have to send,
+I must humbly entreat, that none such pass from or to you, for the few
+days that I shall be absent.’ But I do assure you, madam, that the
+seals of both sorts shall be sacred: and the letters, if such be sent,
+shall be given into your own hands the moment the ceremony is
+performed, or before, if you require it.
+
+Mean time I will inquire, and send you word, how Miss Howe does; and to
+what, if I can be informed, her long silence is owing.
+
+Dr. Perkins I found here, attending my Lord, when I arrived with Dr. S.
+He acquaints me that your father, mother, uncles, and the still less
+worthy persons of your family, are well; and intend to be all at your
+uncle Harlowe’s next week; I presume, with intent to keep his
+anniversary. This can make no alteration, but a happy one, as to
+persons, on Thursday; because Mr. Tomlinson assured me, that if any
+thing fell out to hinder your uncle’s coming up in person, (which,
+however, he did not then expect,) he would be satisfied if his friend
+the Captain were proxy for him. I shall send a man and horse to-morrow
+to the Captain, to be at greater certainty.
+
+I send this by a special messenger, who will wait your pleasure in
+relation to the impatiently-wished-for Thursday: which I humbly hope
+will be signified by a line.
+
+My Lord, though hardly sensible, and unmindful of every thing but of
+your felicity, desires his most affectionate compliments to you. He has
+in readiness to present to you a very valuable set of jewels, which he
+hopes will be acceptable, whether he lives to see you adorn them or
+not.
+
+Lady Sarah and Lady Betty have also their tokens of respect ready to
+court your acceptance: but may Heaven incline you to give the
+opportunity of receiving their personal compliments, and those of my
+cousins Montague, before the next week be out!
+
+His Lordship is exceeding ill. Dr. S. has no hopes of him. The only
+consolation I can have for the death of a relation who loves me so
+well, if he do die, must arise from the additional power it will put
+into my hands of showing how much I am,
+
+My dearest life, Your ever-affectionate, faithful, LOVELACE.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XXXVIII
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE [SUPERSCRIBED TO MRS. LOVELACE.]
+M. HALL, SUNDAY NIGHT, JUNE 25.
+
+MY DEAREST LOVE,
+
+I cannot find words to express how much I am mortified at the return of
+my messenger without a line from you.
+
+Thursday is so near, that I will send messenger after messenger every
+four hours, till I have a favourable answer; the one to meet the other,
+till its eve arrives, to know if I may venture to appear in your
+presence with the hope of having my wishes answered on that day.
+
+Your love, Madam, I neither expect, nor ask for; nor will, till my
+future behaviour gives you cause to think I deserve it. All I at
+present presume to wish is, to have it in my power to do you all the
+justice I can now do you: and to your generosity will I leave it, to
+reward me, as I shall merit, with your affection.
+
+At present, revolving my poor behaviour of Friday night before you, I
+think I should sooner choose to go to my last audit, unprepared for it
+as I am, than to appear in your presence, unless you give me some hope,
+that I shall be received as your elected husband, rather than, (however
+deserved,) as a detested criminal.
+
+Let me, therefore, propose an expedient, in order to spare my own
+confusion; and to spare you the necessity for that soul-harrowing
+recrimination, which I cannot stand, and which must be disagreeable to
+yourself—to name the church, and I will have every thing in readiness;
+so that our next interview will be, in a manner, at the very altar; and
+then you will have the kind husband to forgive for the faults of the
+ungrateful lover. If your resentment be still too high to write more,
+let it only be in your own dear hand, these words, St. Martin’s church,
+Thursday—or these, St. Giles’s church, Thursday; nor will I insist upon
+any inscription or subscription, or so much as the initials of your
+name. This shall be all the favour I will expect, till the dear hand
+itself is given to mine, in presence of that Being whom I invoke as a
+witness of the inviolable faith and honour of
+
+Your adoring LOVELACE.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XXXIX
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE [SUPERSCRIBED TO MRS. LOVELACE.]
+M. HALL, MONDAY, JUNE 26.
+
+Once more, my dearest love, do I conjure you to send me the four
+requested words. There is no time to be lost. And I would not have next
+Thursday go over, without being entitled to call you mine, for the
+world; and that as well for your sake as for my own. Hitherto all that
+has passed is between you and me only; but, after Thursday, if my
+wishes are unanswered, the whole will be before the world.
+
+My Lord is extremely ill, and endures not to have me out of his sight
+for one half hour. But this shall not have the least weight with me, if
+you be pleased to hold out the olive-branch to me in the four requested
+words.
+
+I have the following intelligence from Captain Tomlinson.
+
+‘All your family are at your uncle Harlowe’s. Your uncle finds he
+cannot go up; and names Captain Tomlinson for his proxy. He proposes to
+keep all your family with him till the Captain assures him that the
+ceremony is over.
+
+‘Already he has begun, with hope of success, to try to reconcile your
+mother to you.’
+
+My Lord M. but just now has told me how happy he should think himself
+to have an opportunity, before he dies, to salute you as his niece. I
+have put him in hopes that he shall see you; and have told him that I
+will go to town on Wednesday, in order to prevail upon you to accompany
+me down on Thursday or Friday. I have ordered a set to be in readiness
+to carry me up; and, were not my Lord so very ill, my cousin Montague
+tells me that she would offer her attendance on you. If you please,
+therefore, we can set out for this place the moment the solemnity is
+performed.
+
+Do not, dearest creature, dissipate all those promising appearances,
+and by refusing to save your own and your family’s reputation in the
+eye of the world, use yourself worse than the ungratefullest wretch on
+earth has used you. For if we were married, all the disgrace you
+imagine you have suffered while a single lady, will be my own, and only
+known to ourselves.
+
+Once more, then, consider well the situation we are both in; and
+remember, my dearest life, that Thursday will be soon here; and that
+you have no time to lose.
+
+In a letter sent by the messenger whom I dispatch with this, I have
+desired that my friend, Mr. Belford, who is your very great admirer,
+and who knows all the secrets of my heart, will wait upon you, to know
+what I am to depend upon as to the chosen day.
+
+Surely, my dear, you never could, at any time, suffer half so much from
+cruel suspense, as I do.
+
+If I have not an answer to this, either from your own goodness, or
+through Mr. Belford’s intercession, it will be too late for me to set
+out: and Captain Tomlinson will be disappointed, who goes to town on
+purpose to attend your pleasure.
+
+One motive for the gentle resistance I have presumed to lay you under
+is, to prevent the mischiefs that might ensue (as probably to the more
+innocent, as to the less) were you to write to any body while your
+passions were so much raised and inflamed against me. Having apprized
+you of my direction to the women in town on this head, I wonder you
+should have endeavoured to send a letter to Miss Howe, although in a
+cover directed to that young lady’s* servant; as you must think it
+would be likely to fall into my hands.
+
+* The lady had made an attempt to send away a letter.
+
+The just sense of what I have deserved the contents should be, leaves
+me no room to doubt what they are. Nevertheless, I return it you
+enclosed, with the seal, as you will see, unbroken.
+
+Relieve, I beseech you, dearest Madam, by the four requested words, or
+by Mr. Belford, the anxiety of
+
+Your ever-affectionate and obliged LOVELACE.
+
+Remember, there will not, there cannot be time for further writing, and
+for coming up by Thursday, your uncle’s birth-day.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XL
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. MONDAY, JUNE 26.
+
+Thou wilt see the situation I am in with Miss Harlowe by the enclosed
+copies of three letters; to two of which I am so much scorned as not to
+have one word given me in answer; and of the third (now sent by the
+messenger who brings thee this) I am afraid as little notice will be
+taken—and if so, her day of grace is absolutely over.
+
+One would imagine (so long used to constraint too as she has been) that
+she might have been satisfied with the triumph she had over us all on
+Friday night! a triumph that to this hour has sunk my pride and my
+vanity so much, that I almost hate the words, plot, contrivance,
+scheme; and shall mistrust myself in future for every one that rises to
+my inventive head.
+
+But seest thou not that I am under a necessity to continue her at
+Sinclair’s and to prohibit all her correspondencies?
+
+Now, Belford, as I really, in my present mood, think of nothing less
+than marrying her, if she let not Thursday slip, I would have thee
+attend her, in pursuance of the intimation I have given her in my
+letter of this date; and vow for me, swear for me, bind thy soul to her
+for my honour, and use what arguments thy friendly heart can suggest,
+in order to procure me an answer from her; which, as thou wilt see, she
+may give in four words only. And then I purpose to leave Lord M.
+(dangerously ill as he is,) and meet her at her appointed church, in
+order to solemnize. If she will but sign Cl. H. to thy writing the four
+words, that shall do: for I would not come up to be made a fool of in
+the face of all my family and friends.
+
+If she should let the day go off, I shall be desperate. I am entangled
+in my own devices, and cannot bear that she should detect me.
+
+O that I had been honest!—What a devil are all my plots come to! What
+do they end in, but one grand plot upon myself, and a title to eternal
+infamy and disgrace! But, depending on thy friendly offices, I will say
+no more of this.—Let her send me but one line!—But one line!—To treat
+me as unworthy of her notice;—yet be altogether in my power—I cannot—I
+will not bear that.
+
+My Lord, as I said, is extremely ill. The doctors give him over. He
+gives himself over. Those who would not have him die, are afraid he
+will die. But as to myself, I am doubtful: for these long and violent
+struggles between the constitution and the disease (though the latter
+has three physicians and an apothecary to help it forward, and all
+three, as to their prescriptions, of different opinions too) indicate a
+plaguy habit, and savour more of recovery than death: and the more so,
+as he has no sharp or acute mental organs to whet out his bodily ones,
+and to raise his fever above the sympathetic helpful one.
+
+Thou wilt see in the enclosed what pains I am at to dispatch
+messengers; who are constantly on the road to meet each other, and one
+of them to link in the chain with the fourth, whose station is in
+London, and five miles onwards, or till met. But in truth I have some
+other matters for them to perform at the same time, with my Lord’s
+banker and his lawyer; which will enable me, if his Lordship is so good
+as to die this bout, to be an over match for some of my other
+relations. I don’t mean Charlotte and Patty; for they are noble girls:
+but others, who have been scratching and clawing under-ground like so
+many moles in my absence; and whose workings I have discovered since I
+have been down, by the little heaps of dirt they have thrown up.
+
+A speedy account of thy commission, dear Jack! The letter travels all
+night.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XLI
+
+
+MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. LONDON, JUNE 27. TUESDAY.
+
+You must excuse me, Lovelace, from engaging in the office you would
+have me undertake, till I can be better assured you really intend
+honourably at last by this much-injured lady.
+
+I believe you know your friend Belford too well to think he would be
+easy with you, or with any man alive, who should seek to make him
+promise for him what he never intended to perform. And let me tell
+thee, that I have not much confidence in the honour of a man, who by
+imitation of hands (I will only call it) has shown so little regard to
+the honour of his own relations.
+
+Only that thou hast such jesuitical qualifyings, or I should think thee
+at last touched with remorse, and brought within view of being ashamed
+of thy cursed inventions by the ill success of thy last: which I
+heartily congratulate thee upon.
+
+O the divine lady!—But I will not aggravate!
+
+Nevertheless, when thou writest that, in thy present mood, thou
+thinkest of marrying, and yet canst so easily change thy mood; when I
+know thy heart is against the state: that the four words thou courtest
+from the lady are as much to thy purpose, as if she wrote forty; since
+it will show she can forgive the highest injury that can be offered to
+woman; and when I recollect how easily thou canst find excuses to
+postpone; thou must be more explicit a good deal, as to thy real
+intentions, and future honour, than thou art: for I cannot trust to
+temporary remorse; which brought on by disappointment too, and not by
+principle, and the like of which thou hast so often got over.
+
+If thou canst convince me time enough for the day, that thou meanest to
+do honourably by her, in her own sense of the word; or, if not time
+enough, wilt fix some other day, (which thou oughtest to leave to her
+option, and not bind her down for the Thursday; and the rather, as thy
+pretence for so doing is founded on an absolute fiction;) I will then
+most cheerfully undertake thy cause; by person, if she will admit me to
+her presence; if she will not, by pen. But, in this case, thou must
+allow me to be guarantee for thy family. And, if so, so much as I value
+thee, and respect thy skill in all the qualifications of a gentleman,
+thou mayest depend upon it, that I will act up to the character of a
+guarantee, with more honour than the princes of our day usually do——to
+their shame be it spoken.
+
+Mean time let me tell thee, that my heart bleeds for the wrong this
+angelic lady has received: and if thou dost not marry her, if she will
+have thee, and, when married, make her the best and tenderest of
+husbands, I would rather be a dog, a monkey, a bear, a viper, or a
+toad, than thee.
+
+Command me with honour, and thou shalt find none readier to oblige thee
+than
+
+Thy sincere friend, JOHN BELFORD.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XLII
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. M. HALL, JUNE 27. TUESDAY NIGHT,
+NEAR 12.
+
+Your’s reached me this moment, by an extraordinary push in the
+messengers.
+
+What a man of honour thou of a sudden!——
+
+And so, in the imaginary shape of a guarantee, thou threatenest me!
+
+Had I not been in earnest as to the lady, I should not have offered to
+employ thee in the affair. But, let me say, that hadst thou undertaken
+the task, and I hadst afterwards thought fit to change my mind, I
+should have contented myself to tell thee, that that was my mind when
+thou engagedst for me, and to have given thee the reasons for the
+change, and then left thee to thy own discretion: for never knew I what
+fear of man was—nor fear of woman neither, till I became acquainted
+with Miss Clarissa Harlowe, nay, what is most surprising, till I came
+to have her in my power.
+
+And so thou wilt not wait upon the charmer of my heart, but upon terms
+and conditions!—Let it alone and be curs’d; I care not.—But so much
+credit did I give to the value thou expressedst for her, that I thought
+the office would have been acceptable to thee, as serviceable to me;
+for what was it, but to endeavour to persuade her to consent to the
+reparation of her own honour? For what have I done but disgraced
+myself, and been a thief to my own joys?—And if there be a union of
+hearts, and an intention to solemnize, what is there wanting but the
+foolish ceremony?—and that I still offer. But, if she will keep back
+her hand, if she will make me hold out mine in vain, how can I help it?
+
+I write her one more letter; and if, after she has received that, she
+keeps sullen silence, she must thank herself for what is to follow.
+
+But, after all, my heart is not wholly her’s. I love her beyond
+expression; and cannot help it. I hope therefore she will receive this
+last tender as I wish. I hope she intends not, like a true woman, to
+plague, and vex, and tease me, now she has found her power. If she will
+take me to mercy now these remorses are upon me, (though I scorn to
+condition with thee for my sincerity,) all her trials, as I have
+heretofore declared, shall be over, and she shall be as happy as I can
+make her: for, ruminating upon all that has passed between us, from the
+first hour of our acquaintance till the present, I must pronounce, That
+she is virtue itself and once more I say, has no equal.
+
+As to what you hint, of leaving to her choice another day, do you
+consider, that it will be impossible that my contrivances and
+stratagems should be much longer concealed?—This makes me press that
+day, though so near; and the more, as I have made so much ado about her
+uncle’s anniversary. If she send me the four words, I will spare no
+fatigue to be in time, if not for the canonical hour at church, for
+some other hour of the day in her own apartment, or any other: for
+money will do every thing: and that I have never spared in this affair.
+
+To show thee, that I am not at enmity with thee, I enclose the copies
+of two letters—one to her: it is the fourth, and must be the last on
+the subject——The other to Captain Tomlinson; calculated, as thou wilt
+see, for him to show her.
+
+And now, Jack, interfere; in this case or not, thou knowest the mind of
+
+R. LOVELACE.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XLIII
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE [SUPERSCRIBED TO MRS. LOVELACE.]
+M. HALL, WED. MORNING, ONE O’CLOCK, JUNE 28.
+
+Not one line, my dearest life, not one word, in answer to three letters
+I have written! The time is now so short, that this must be the last
+letter that can reach you on this side the important hour that might
+make us legally one.
+
+My friend, Mr. Belford, is apprehensive, that he cannot wait upon you
+in time, by reason of some urgent affairs of his own.
+
+I the less regret the disappointment, because I have procured a more
+acceptable person, as I hope, to attend you; Captain Tomlinson I mean:
+to whom I had applied for this purpose, before I had Mr. Belford’s
+answer.
+
+I was the more solicitous to obtain his favour form him, because of the
+office he is to take upon him, as I humbly presume to hope, to-morrow.
+That office obliged him to be in town as this day: and I acquainted him
+with my unhappy situation with you; and desired that he would show me,
+on this occasion, that I had as much of his favour and friendship as
+your uncle had; since the whole treaty must be broken off, if he could
+not prevail upon you in my behalf.
+
+He will dispatch the messenger directly; whom I propose to meet in
+person at Slough; either to proceed onward to London with a joyful
+heart, or to return back to M. Hall with a broken one.
+
+I ought not (but cannot help it) to anticipate the pleasure Mr.
+Tomlinson proposes to himself, in acquainting you with the likelihood
+there is of your mother’s seconding your uncle’s views. For, it seems,
+he has privately communicated to her his laudable intentions: and her
+resolution depends, as well as his, upon what to-morrow will produce.
+
+Disappoint not then, I beseech you, for an hundred persons’ sakes, as
+well as for mine, that uncle and that mother, whose displeasure I have
+heard you so often deplore.
+
+You may think it impossible for me to reach London by the canonical
+hour. If it should, the ceremony may be performed in your own
+apartments, at any time in the day, or at night: so that Captain
+Tomlinson may have it to aver to your uncle, that it was performed on
+his anniversary.
+
+Tell but the Captain, that you forbid me not to attend you: and that
+shall be sufficient for bringing to you, on the wings of love,
+
+Your ever-grateful and affectionate LOVELACE.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XLIV
+
+
+TO MR. PATRICK M’DONALD,
+AT HIS LODGINGS, AT MR. BROWN’S, PERUKE-MAKER, IN ST. MARTIN’S LANE,
+WESTMINSTER
+
+
+M. Hall, Wedn. Morning, Two o’clock.
+
+DEAR M’DONALD,
+
+The bearer of this has a letter to carry to the lady.* I have been at
+the trouble of writing a copy of it: which I enclose, that you may not
+mistake your cue.
+
+* See the preceding Letter.
+
+You will judge of my reasons for ante-dating the enclosed sealed one,*
+directed to you by the name of Tomlinson; which you are to show to the
+lady, as in confidence. You will open it of course.
+
+* See the next Letter.
+
+I doubt not your dexterity and management, dear M’Donald; nor your
+zeal; especially as the hope of cohabitation must now be given up.
+Impossible to be carried is that scheme. I might break her heart, but
+not incline her will—am in earnest therefore to marry her, if she let
+not the day slip.
+
+Improve upon the hint of her mother. That may touch her. But John
+Harlowe, remember, has privately engaged that lady—privately, I say;
+else, (not to mention the reason for her uncle Harlowe’s former
+expedient,) you know, she might find means to get a letter away to the
+one or to the other, to know the truth; or to Miss Howe, to engage her
+to inquire into it: and, if she should, the word privately will account
+for the uncle’s and mother’s denying it.
+
+However, fail not, as from me, to charge our mother and her nymphs to
+redouble their vigilance both as to her person and letters. All’s upon
+a crisis now. But she must not be treated ill neither.
+
+Thursday over, I shall know what to resolve upon.
+
+If necessary, you must assume authority. The devil’s in’t, if such a
+girl as this shall awe a man of your years and experience. You are not
+in love with her as I am. Fly out, if she doubt your honour. Spirits
+naturally soft may be beat out of their play and borne down (though
+ever so much raised) by higher anger. All women are cowards at bottom;
+only violent where they may. I have often stormed a girl out of her
+mistrust, and made her yield (before she knew where she was) to the
+point indignantly mistrusted; and that to make up with me, though I was
+the aggressor.
+
+If this matter succeed as I’d have it, (or if not, and do not fail by
+your fault,) I will take you off the necessity of pursuing your cursed
+smuggling; which otherwise may one day end fatally for you.
+
+We are none of us perfect, M’Donald. This sweet lady makes me serious
+sometimes in spite of my heart. But as private vices are less blamable
+than public; and as I think smuggling (as it is called) a national
+evil; I have no doubt to pronounce you a much worse man than myself,
+and as such shall take pleasure in reforming you.
+
+I send you enclosed ten guineas, as a small earnest of further favours.
+Hitherto you have been a very clever fellow.
+
+As to clothes for Thursday, Monmouth-street will afford a ready supply.
+Clothes quite new would make your condition suspected. But you may
+defer that care, till you see if she can be prevailed upon. Your
+riding-dress will do for the first visit. Nor let your boots be over
+clean. I have always told you the consequence of attending to the
+minutiae, where art (or imposture, as the ill-mannered would call it)
+is designed—your linen rumpled and soily, when you wait upon her—easy
+terms these—just come to town—remember (as formerly) to loll, to throw
+out your legs, to stroke and grasp down your ruffles, as if of
+significance enough to be careless. What though the presence of a fine
+lady would require a different behaviour, are you not of years to
+dispense with politeness? You can have no design upon her, you know.
+You are a father yourself of daughters as old as she. Evermore is
+parade and obsequiousness suspectable: it must show either a foolish
+head, or a knavish heart. Assume airs of consequence therefore; and you
+will be treated as a man of consequence. I have often more than half
+ruined myself by my complaisance; and, being afraid of controul, have
+brought controul upon myself.
+
+I think I have no more to say at present. I intend to be at Slough, or
+on the way to it, as by mine to the lady. Adieu, honest M’Donald.
+
+R.L.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XLV
+
+
+TO CAPTAIN TOMLINSON [ENCLOSED IN THE PRECEDING; TO BE SHOWN TO THE
+LADY AS IN CONFIDENCE.] M. HALL, TUESDAY MORN., JUNE 27.
+
+DEAR CAPTAIN TOMLINSON,
+
+An unhappy misunderstanding has arisen between the dearest lady in the
+world and me (the particulars of which she perhaps may give you, but I
+will not, because I might be thought partial to myself;) and she
+refusing to answer my most pressing and respectful letters; I am at a
+most perplexing uncertainty whether she will meet us or not next
+Thursday to solemnize.
+
+My Lord is so extremely ill, that if I thought she would not oblige me,
+I would defer going up to town for two or three days. He cares not to
+have me out of his sight: yet is impatient to salute my beloved as his
+niece before he dies. This I have promised to give him an opportunity
+to do: intending, if the dear creature will make me happy, to set out
+with her for this place directly from church.
+
+With regret I speak it of the charmer of my soul, that
+irreconcilableness is her family-fault—the less excusable indeed for
+her, as she herself suffers by it in so high a degree from her own
+relations.
+
+Now, Sir, as you intended to be in town some time before Thursday, if
+it be not too great an inconvenience to you, I could be glad you would
+go up as soon as possible, for my sake: and this I the more boldly
+request, as I presume that a man who has so many great affairs of his
+own in hand as you have, would be glad to be at a certainty as to the
+day.
+
+You, Sir, can so pathetically and justly set before her the unhappy
+consequences that will follow if the day be postponed, as well with
+regard to her uncle’s disappointment, as to the part you have assured
+me her mother is willing to take in the wished-for reconciliation, that
+I have great hopes she will suffer herself to be prevailed upon. And a
+man and horse shall be in waiting to take your dispatches and bring
+them to me.
+
+But if you cannot prevail in my favour, you will be pleased to satisfy
+your friend, Mr. John Harlowe, that it is not my fault that he is not
+obliged. I am, dear Sir,
+
+Your extremely obliged and faithful servant, R. LOVELACE.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XLVI
+
+
+TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. WEDN. JUNE 28, NEAR TWELVE O’CLOCK.
+
+HONOURED SIR,
+
+I received your’s, as your servant desired me to acquaint you, by ten
+this morning. Horse and man were in a foam.
+
+I instantly equipped myself, as if come off from a journey, and posted
+away to the lady, intending to plead great affairs that I came not
+before, in order to favour your antedate; and likewise to be in a
+hurry, to have a pretence to hurry her ladyship, and to take no denial
+for her giving a satisfactory return to your messenger. But, upon my
+entering Mrs. Sinclair’s house, I found all in the greatest
+consternation.
+
+You must not, Sir, be surprised. It is a trouble to me to be the
+relater of the bad news; but so it is—The lady is gone off! She was
+missed but half an hour before I came.
+
+Her waiting-maid is run away, or hitherto is not to be found: so that
+they conclude it was by her connivance.
+
+They had sent, before I came, to my honoured masters Mr. Belton, Mr.
+Mowbray, and Mr. Belford. Mr. Tourville is out of town.
+
+High words are passing between Madam Sinclair, and Madam Horton, and
+Madam Martin; as also with Dorcas. And your servant William threatens
+to hang or drown himself.
+
+They have sent to know if they can hear of Mabell, the waiting-maid, at
+her mother’s, who it seems lives in Chick-lane, West-Smithfield; and to
+an uncle of her’s also, who keeps an alehouse at Cow-cross, had by, and
+with whom she lived last.
+
+Your messenger having just changed his horse, is come back: so I will
+not detain him longer than to add, that I am, with great concern for
+this misfortune, and thanks for your seasonable favour and kind
+intentions towards me—I am sure this was not my fault—
+
+Honoured Sir, Your most obliged, humble servant, PATRICK M’DONALD.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XLVII
+
+
+MR. MOWBRAY, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. WEDNESDAY, TWELVE O’CLOCK.
+
+DEAR LOVELACE,
+
+I have plaguy news to acquaint thee with. Miss Harlowe is gone
+off!—Quite gone, by soul!—I have no time for particulars, your servant
+being gone off. But if I had, we are not yet come to the bottom of the
+matter. The ladies here are all blubbering like devills, accusing one
+another most confoundedly: whilst Belton and I damn them all together
+in thy name.
+
+If thou shouldst hear that thy fellow Will. is taken dead out of some
+horse-pond, and Dorcas cut down from her bed’s teaster, from dangling
+in her own garters, be not surprised. Here’s the devil to pay. Nobody
+serene but Jack Belford, who is taking minutes of examinations,
+accusations, and confessions, with the significant air of a Middlesex
+Justice; and intends to write at large all particulars, I suppose.
+
+I heartily condole with thee: so does Belton. But it may turn out for
+the best: for she is gone away with thy marks, I understand. A foolish
+little devill! Where will she mend herself? for nobody will look upon
+her. And they tell me that thou wouldst certainly have married her, had
+she staid. But I know thee better.
+
+Dear Bobby, adieu. If Lord M. will die now, to comfort thee for this
+loss, what a seasonable exit would he make! Let’s have a letter from
+thee. Pr’ythee do. Thou can’st write devill-like to Belford, who shews
+us nothing at all. Thine heartily,
+
+RD. MOWBRAY.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XLVIII
+
+
+MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. THURSDAY, JUNE 29.
+
+Thou hast heard from M’Donald and Mowbray the news. Bad or good, I know
+not which thou’lt deem it. I only wish I could have given thee joy upon
+the same account, before the unhappy lady was seduced from Hampstead;
+for then of what an ungrateful villany hadst thou been spared the
+perpetration, which now thou hast to answer for!
+
+I came to town purely to serve thee with her, expecting that thy next
+would satisfy me that I might endeavour it without dishonour. And at
+first when I found her gone, I half pitied thee; for now wilt thou be
+inevitably blown up: and in what an execrable light wilt thou appear to
+all the world!—Poor Lovelace! caught in thy own snares! thy punishment
+is but beginning.
+
+But to my narrative: for I suppose thou expectest all particulars from
+me, since Mowbray has informed thee that I have been collecting them.
+
+‘The noble exertion of spirit she has made on Friday night, had, it
+seems, greatly disordered her; insomuch that she was not visible till
+Saturday evening; when Mabell saw her; and she seemed to be very ill:
+but on Sunday morning, having dressed herself, as if designing to go to
+church, she ordered Mabell to get her a coach to the door.
+
+‘The wench told her, She was to obey her in every thing but the calling
+of a coach or chair, or in relation to letters.
+
+‘She sent for Will. and gave him the same command.
+
+‘He pleaded his master’s orders to the contrary, and desired to be
+excused.
+
+‘Upon this, down she went, herself, and would have gone out without
+observation; but finding the street-door double-locked, and the key not
+in the lock, she stept into the street-parlour, and would have thrown
+up the sash to call out to the people passing by, as they doubted not:
+but that, since her last attempt of the same nature, had been fastened
+down.
+
+‘Hereupon she resolutely stept into Mrs. Sinclair’s parlour in the
+back-house; where were the old devil and her two partners; and demanded
+the key of the street-door, or to have it opened for her.
+
+‘They were all surprised; but desired to be excused, and pleaded your
+orders.
+
+‘She asserted, that you had no authority over her; and never should
+have any: that their present refusal was their own act and deed: she
+saw the intent of their back house, and the reason of putting her
+there: she pleaded her condition and fortune; and said, they had no way
+to avoid utter ruin, but by opening their doors to her, or by murdering
+her, and burying her in their garden or cellar, too deep for detection:
+that already what had been done to her was punishable by death: and bid
+them at their peril detain her.’
+
+What a noble, what a right spirit has this charming creature, in cases
+that will justify an exertion of spirit!—
+
+‘They answered that Mr. Lovelace could prove his marriage, and would
+indemnify them. And they all would have vindicated their behaviour on
+Friday night, and the reputation of their house. But refusing to hear
+them on that topic, she flung from them threatening.
+
+‘She then went up half a dozen stairs in her way to her own apartment:
+but, as if she had bethought herself, down she stept again, and
+proceeded towards the street-parlour; saying, as she passed by the
+infamous Dorcas, I’ll make myself protectors, though the windows
+suffer. But that wench, of her own head, on the lady’s going out of
+that parlour to Mrs. Sinclair’s, had locked the door, and taken out the
+key: so that finding herself disappointed, she burst into tears, and
+went sobbing and menacing up stairs again.
+
+‘She made no other attempt till the effectual one. Your letters and
+messages, they suppose, coming so fast upon one another (though she
+would not answer one of them) gave her some amusement, and an assurance
+to them, that she would at last forgive you; and that then all would
+end as you wished.
+
+‘The women, in pursuance of your orders, offered not to obtrude
+themselves upon her; and Dorcas also kept out of her sight all the rest
+of Sunday; also on Monday and Tuesday. But by the lady’s condescension,
+(even to familiarity) to Mabell, they imagined, that she must be
+working in her mind all that time to get away. They therefore redoubled
+their cautions to the wench; who told them so faithfully all that
+passed between her lady and her, that they had no doubt of her fidelity
+to her wicked trust.
+
+‘’Tis probable she might have been contriving something all this time;
+but saw no room for perfecting any scheme. The contrivance by which she
+effected her escape seems to me not to have been fallen upon till the
+very day; since it depended partly upon the weather, as it proved. But
+it is evident she hoped something from Mabell’s simplicity, or
+gratitude, or compassion, by cultivating all the time her civility to
+her.
+
+‘Polly waited on her early on Wednesday morning; and met with a better
+reception than she had reason to expect. She complained however, with
+warmth, of her confinement. Polly said there would be an happy end to
+it (if it were a confinement,) next day, she presumed. She absolutely
+declared to the contrary, in the way Polly meant it; and said, That Mr.
+Lovelace, on his return [which looked as if she intended to wait for
+it] should have reason to repent the orders he had given, as they all
+should their observance of them: let him send twenty letters, she would
+not answer one, be the consequence what it would; nor give him hope of
+the least favour, while she was in that house. She had given Mrs.
+Sinclair and themselves fair warning, she said: no orders of another
+ought to make them detain a free person: but having made an open
+attempt to go, and been detained by them, she was the calmer, she told
+Polly; let them look to the consequence.
+
+‘But yet she spoke this with temper; and Polly gave it as her opinion,
+(with apprehension for their own safety,) that having so good a handle
+to punish them all, she would not go away if she might. And what,
+inferred Polly, is the indemnity of a man who has committed the vilest
+of rapes on a person of condition; and must himself, if prosecuted for
+it, either fly, or be hanged?
+
+‘Sinclair, [so I will still call her,] upon this representation of
+Polly, foresaw, she said, the ruin of her poor house in the issue of
+this strange business; and the infamous Sally and Dorcas bore their
+parts in the apprehension: and this put them upon thinking it advisable
+for the future, that the street-door should generally in the day-time
+be only left upon a bolt-latch, as they called it, which any body might
+open on the inside; and that the key should be kept in the door; that
+their numerous comers and goers, as they called their guests, should be
+able to give evidence, that she might have gone out if she would: not
+forgetting, however, to renew their orders to Will. to Dorcas, to
+Mabell, and the rest, to redouble their vigilance on this occasion, to
+prevent her escape: none of them doubting, at the same time, that her
+love of a man so considerable in their eyes, and the prospect of what
+was to happen, as she had reason to believe, on Thursday, her uncle’s
+birth-day, would (though perhaps not till the last hour, for her pride
+sake, was their word) engage her to change her temper.
+
+‘They believe, that she discovered the key to be left in the door; for
+she was down more than once to walk in the little garden, and seemed to
+cast her eye each time to the street-door.
+
+‘About eight yesterday morning, an hour after Polly had left her, she
+told Mabell, she was sure she should not live long; and having a good
+many suits of apparel, which after her death would be of no use to any
+body she valued, she would give her a brown lustring gown, which, with
+some alterations to make it more suitable to her degree, would a great
+while serve her for a Sunday wear; for that she (Mabell) was the only
+person in that house of whom she could think without terror or
+antipathy.
+
+‘Mabell expressing her gratitude upon the occasion, the lady said, she
+had nothing to employ herself about, and if she could get a workwoman
+directly, she would look over her things then, and give her what she
+intended for her.
+
+‘Her mistress’s mantua-maker, the maid replied, lived but a little way
+off: and she doubted not that she could procure her, or one of the
+journey-women to alter the gown out of hand.
+
+‘I will give you also, said she, a quilted coat, which will require but
+little alteration, if any; for you are much about my stature: but the
+gown I will give directions about, because the sleeves and the robings
+and facings must be altered for your wear, being, I believe, above your
+station: and try, said she, if you can get the workwoman, and we’ll
+advise about it. If she cannot come now, let her come in the afternoon;
+but I had rather now, because it will amuse me to give you a lift.
+
+‘Then stepping to the window, it rains, said she, [and so it had done
+all the morning:] slip on the hood and short cloak I have seen you
+wear, and come to me when you are ready to go out, because you shall
+bring me in something that I want.
+
+‘Mabell equipped herself accordingly, and received her commands to buy
+her some trifles, and then left her; but in her way out, stept into the
+back parlour, where Dorcas was with Mrs. Sinclair, telling her where
+she was going, and on what account, bidding Dorcas look out till she
+came back. So faithful as the wench to the trust reposed in her, and so
+little had the lady’s generosity wrought upon her.
+
+‘Mrs. Sinclair commended her; Dorcas envied her, and took her cue: and
+Mabell soon returned with the mantua-maker’s journey-woman; (she
+resolved, she said, but she would not come without her); and then
+Dorcas went off guard.
+
+‘The lady looked out the gown and petticoat, and before the workwoman
+caused Mabell to try it on; and, that it might fit the better, made the
+willing wench pull off her upper-petticoat, and put on that she gave
+her. Then she bid them go into Mr. Lovelace’s apartment, and contrive
+about it before the pier-glass there, and stay till she came to them,
+to give them her opinion.
+
+‘Mabell would have taken her own clothes, and hood, and short cloak
+with her: but her lady said, No matter; you may put them on again here,
+when we have considered about the alterations: there’s no occasion to
+litter the other room.
+
+‘They went; and instantly, as it is supposed, she slipt on Mabell’s
+gown and petticoat over her own, which was white damask, and put on the
+wench’s hood, short cloak, and ordinary apron, and down she went.
+
+‘Hearing somebody tripping along the passage, both Will. and Dorcas
+whipt to the inner-hall door, and saw her; but, taking her for Mabell,
+Are you going far, Mabell? cried Will.
+
+‘Without turning her face, or answering, she held out her hand,
+pointing to the stairs; which they construed as a caution for them to
+look out in her absence; and supposing she would not be long gone, as
+she had not in form, repeated her caution to them, up went Will,
+tarrying at the stairs-head in expectation of the supposed Mabell’s
+return.
+
+‘Mabell and the workwoman waited a good while, amusing themselves not
+disagreeably, the one with contriving in the way of her business, the
+other delighting herself with her fine gown and coat. But at last,
+wondering the lady did not come in to them, Mabell tiptoed it to her
+door, and tapping, and not being answered, stept into the chamber.
+
+‘Will. at that instant, from his station at the stairs-head, seeing
+Mabell in her lady’s clothes; for he had been told of the present,
+[gifts to servants fly from servant to servant in a minute,] was very
+much surprised, having, as he thought, just seen her go out in her own;
+and stepping up, met her at the door. How the devil can this be? said
+he: just now you went out in your own dress! How came you here in this?
+and how could you pass me unseen? but nevertheless, kissing her, said,
+he would now brag he had kissed his lady, or one in her clothes.
+
+‘I am glad, Mr. William, cried Mabell, to see you here so diligently.
+But know you where my lady is?
+
+‘In my master’s apartment, answered Will. Is she not? Was she not
+talking with you this moment?
+
+‘No, that’s Mrs. Dolins’s journey-woman.
+
+‘They both stood aghast, as they said; Will, again recollecting he had
+seen Mabell, as he thought, go out in her own clothes. And while they
+were debating and wondering, up comes Dorcas with your fourth letter,
+just then brought for the lady, and seeing Mabell dressed out, (whom
+she had likewise beheld a little before), as she supposed, in her
+common clothes; she joined in the wonder; till Mabell, re-entering the
+lady’s apartment, missed her own clothes; and then suspecting what had
+happened, and letting the others into the ground of the suspicion, they
+all agreed that she had certainly escaped. And then followed such an
+uproar of mutual accusation, and you should have done this, and you
+have done that, as alarmed the whole house; every apartment in both
+houses giving up its devil, to the number of fourteen or fifteen,
+including the mother and her partners.
+
+‘Will. told them his story; and then ran out, as on the like occasion
+formerly, to make inquiry whether the lady was seen by any of the
+coachmen, chairmen, or porters, plying in that neighbourhood: while
+Dorcas cleared herself immediately, and that at the poor Mabell’s
+expense, who made a figure as guilty as awkward, having on the
+suspected price of her treachery; which Dorcas, out of envy, was ready
+to tear from her back.
+
+‘Hereupon all the pack opened at the poor wench, while the mother
+foamed at the mouth, bellowed out her orders for seizing the suspected
+offender; who could neither be heard in her own defence, nor had she
+been heard, would have been believed.
+
+‘That such a perfidious wretch should ever disgrace her house, was the
+mother’s cry; good people might be corrupted; but it was a fine thing
+if such a house as her’s could not be faithfully served by cursed
+creatures who were hired knowing the business they were to be employed
+in, and who had no pretence to principle!—D—n her, the wretch
+proceeded!—She had no patience with her! call the cook, and call the
+scullion!
+
+‘They were at hand.
+
+‘See, that guilty pyeball devil, was her word—(her lady’s gown upon her
+back)—but I’ll punish her for a warning to all betrayers of their
+trust. Put on the great gridiron this moment, [an oath or a curse at
+every word:] make up a roaring fire—the cleaver bring me this
+instant—I’ll cut her into quarters with my own hands; and carbonade and
+broil the traitress for a feast to all the dogs and cats in the
+neighbourhood, and eat the first slice of the toad myself, without salt
+or pepper.
+
+‘The poor Mabell, frighted out of her wits, expected every moment to be
+torn in pieces, having half a score open-clawed paws upon her all at
+once. She promised to confess all. But that all, when she had obtained
+a hearing, was nothing: for nothing had she to confess.
+
+‘Sally, hereupon with a curse of mercy, ordered her to retire;
+undertaking that she and Polly would examine her themselves, that they
+might be able to write all particulars to his honour; and then, if she
+could not clear herself, or, if guilty, give some account of the lady,
+(who had been so wicked as to give them all this trouble,) so as they
+might get her again, then the cleaver and gridiron might go to work
+with all their heart.
+
+‘The wench, glad of this reprieve, went up stairs; and while Sally was
+laying out the law, and prating away in her usual dictorial manner,
+whipt on another gown, and sliding down the stairs, escaped to her
+relations. And this flight, which was certainly more owing to terror
+than guilt, was, in the true Old Bailey construction, made a
+confirmation of the latter.’
+
+
+These are the particulars of Miss Harlowe’s flight. Thou’lt hardly
+think me too minute.—How I long to triumph over thy impatience and fury
+on the occasion!
+
+Let me beseech thee, my dear Lovelace, in thy next letter, to rave most
+gloriously!—I shall be grievously disappointed if thou dost not.
+
+
+Where, Lovelace, can the poor lady be gone? And who can describe the
+distress she must be in?
+
+By thy former letters, it may be supposed, that she can have very
+little money: nor, by the suddenness of her flight, more clothes than
+those she has on. And thou knowest who once said,* ‘Her parents will
+not receive her. Her uncles will not entertain her. Her Norton is in
+their direction, and cannot. Miss Howe dare not. She has not one friend
+or intimate in town—entirely a stranger to it.’ And, let me add, has
+been despoiled of her honour by the man for whom she had made all these
+sacrifices; and who stood bound to her by a thousand oaths and vows, to
+be her husband, her protector, and friend!
+
+* See Vol. IV. Letter XXI.
+
+How strong must be her resentment of the barbarous treatment she has
+received! how worthy of herself, that it has made her hate the man she
+once loved! and, rather than marry him, choose to expose her disgrace
+to the whole world: to forego the reconciliation with her friends which
+her heart was so set upon: and to hazard a thousand evils to which her
+youth and her sex may too probably expose an indigent and friendly
+beauty!
+
+Rememberest thou not that home push upon thee, in one of the papers
+written in her delirium; of which, however it savours not?——
+
+I will assure thee, that I have very often since most seriously
+reflected upon it: and as thy intended second outrage convinces me that
+it made no impression upon thee then, and perhaps thou hast never
+thought of it since, I will transcribe the sentence.
+
+‘If, as religion teaches us, God will judge us, in a great measure! by
+our benevolent or evil actions to one another—O wretch! bethink thee,
+in time bethink thee, how great must be thy condemnation.’*
+
+* See Vol. VI. Letter XVI.
+
+And is this amiable doctrine the sum of religion? Upon my faith,
+believe it is. For, to indulge a serious thought, since we are not
+atheists, except in practice, does God, the BEING of Beings, want any
+thing of us for HIMSELF! And does he not enjoin us works of mercy to
+one another, as the means to obtain his mercy? A sublime principle, and
+worthy of the SUPREME SUPERINTENDENT and FATHER of all things!—But if
+we are to be judged by this noble principle, what, indeed, must be thy
+condemnation on the score of this lady only? and what mine, and what
+all our confraternity’s, on the score of other women: though we are
+none of us half so bad as thou art, as well for want of inclination, I
+hope, as of opportunity!
+
+I must add, that, as well for thy own sake, as for the lady’s, I wish
+ye were yet to be married to each other. It is the only medium that can
+be hit upon to salve the honour of both. All that’s past may yet be
+concealed from the world, and from all her sufferings, if thou
+resolvest to be a tender and kind husband to her.
+
+And if this really be thy intention, I will accept with pleasure of a
+commission from thee that shall tend to promote so good an end,
+whenever she can be found; that is to say, if she will admit to her
+presence a man who professes friendship to thee. Nor can I give a
+greater demonstration, that I am
+
+Thy sincere friend, J. BELFORD.
+
+P.S. Mabell’s clothes were thrown into the passage this morning: nobody
+knows by whom.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER XLIX
+
+
+MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. FRIDAY, JUNE 30.
+
+I am ruined, undone, blown up, destroyed, and worse than annihilated,
+that’s certain!—But was not the news shocking enough, dost thou think,
+without thy throwing into the too-weighty scale reproaches, which thou
+couldst have had no opportunity to make but for my own voluntary
+communications? at a time too, when, as it falls out, I have another
+very sensible disappointment to struggle with?
+
+I imagine, if there be such a thing as future punishment, it must be
+none of the smallest mortifications, that a new devil shall be punished
+by a worse old one. And, take that! And, take that! to have the old
+satyr cry to the screaming sufferer, laying on with a
+cat-o’-nine-tails, with a star of burning brass at the end of each:
+and, for what! for what!—-Why, if the truth may be fairly told, for not
+being so bad a devil as myself.
+
+Thou art, surely, casuist good enough to know, (what I have insisted
+upon* heretofore,) that the sin of seducing a credulous and easy girl,
+is as great as that of bringing to your lure an incredulous and
+watchful one.
+
+* See Vol. IV. Letter XVII.
+
+However ungenerous an appearance what I am going to say may have from
+my pen, let me tell thee, that if such a woman as Miss Harlowe chose to
+enter into the matrimonial state, [I am resolved to disappoint thee in
+thy meditated triumph over my rage and despair!] and, according to the
+old patriarchal system, to go on contributing to get sons and
+daughters, with no other view than to bring them up piously, and to be
+good and useful members of the commonwealth, what a devil had she to
+do, to let her fancy run a gadding after a rake? one whom she knew to
+be a rake?
+
+Oh! but truly she hoped to have the merit of reclaiming him. She had
+formed pretty notions how charming it would look to have a penitent of
+her own making dangling at her side at church, through an applauding
+neighbourhood: and, as their family increased, marching with her
+thither, at the head of their boys and girls, processionally, as it
+were, boasting of the fruits of their honest desires, as my good lord
+bishop has it in his license. And then, what a comely sight, all
+kneeling down together in one pew, according to eldership as we have
+seen in effigy, a whole family upon some old monument, where the honest
+chevalier in armour is presented kneeling, with up-lifted hands, and
+half a dozen jolter-headed crop-eared boys behind him, ranged gradatim,
+or step-fashion according to age and size, all in the same
+posture—facing his pious dame, with a ruff about her neck, and as many
+whey-faced girls all kneeling behind her: an altar between them, and an
+open book upon it: over their heads semiluminary rays darting from
+gilded clouds, surrounding an achievement-motto, IN COELO SALUS—or
+QUIES—perhaps, if they have happened to live the usual married life of
+brawl and contradiction.
+
+It is certainly as much my misfortune to have fallen in with Miss
+Clarissa Harlowe, were I to have valued my reputation or ease, as it is
+that of Miss Harlowe to have been acquainted with me. And, after all,
+what have I done more than prosecute the maxim, by which thou and I and
+every rake are governed, and which, before I knew this lady, we have
+pursued from pretty girl to pretty girl, as fast as we have set one
+down, taking another up;—just as the fellows do with their flying
+coaches and flying horses at a country fair——with a Who rides next! Who
+rides next!
+
+But here in the present case, to carry on the volant metaphor, (for I
+must either be merry, or mad,) is a pretty little miss just come out of
+her hanging-sleeve-coat, brought to buy a pretty little fairing; for
+the world, Jack, is but a great fair, thou knowest; and, to give thee
+serious reflection for serious, all its joys but tinselled
+hobby-horses, gilt gingerbread, squeaking trumpets, painted drums, and
+so forth.
+
+Now behold this pretty little miss skimming from booth to booth, in a
+very pretty manner. One pretty little fellow called Wyerley, perhaps;
+another jiggeting rascal called Biron, a third simpering varlet of the
+name of Symmes, and a more hideous villain than any of the reset, with
+a long bag under his arm, and parchment settlements tagged to his
+heels, yelped Solmes: pursue her from raree-show to raree-show,
+shouldering upon one another at every turn, stopping when she stops,
+and set a spinning again when she moves. And thus dangled after, but
+still in the eye of her watchful guardians, traverses the pretty little
+miss through the whole fair, equally delighted and delighting: till at
+last, taken with the invitation of the laced-hat orator, and seeing
+several pretty little bib-wearers stuck together in the flying-coaches,
+cutting safely the yielding air, in the one-go-up the other go-down
+picture-of-the-world vehicle, and all with as little fear as wit, is
+tempted to ride next.
+
+In then suppose she slily pops, when none of her friends are near her:
+And if, after two or three ups and downs, her pretty head turns giddy,
+and she throws herself out of the coach when at its elevation, and so
+dashes out her pretty little brains, who can help it?—And would you
+hang the poor fellow, whose professed trade it was to set the pretty
+little creature a flying?
+
+’Tis true, this pretty little miss, being a very pretty little miss,
+being a very much-admired little miss, being a very good little miss,
+who always minded her book, and had passed through her sampler-doctrine
+with high applause; had even stitched out, in gaudy propriety of
+colors, an Abraham offering up Isaac, a Sampson and the Philistines;
+and flowers, and knots, and trees, and the sun and the moon, and the
+seven stars, all hung up in frames with glasses before them, for the
+admiration of her future grand children: who likewise was entitled to a
+very pretty little estate: who was descended from a pretty little
+family upwards of one hundred years gentility; which lived in a very
+pretty little manner, respected a very little on their own accounts, a
+great deal on her’s:——
+
+For such a pretty little miss as this to come to so great a misfortune,
+must be a very sad thing: But, tell me, would not the losing of any
+ordinary child, of any other less considerable family, or less shining
+or amiable qualities, have been as great and heavy a loss to that
+family, as the losing this pretty little miss could be to her’s?
+
+To descend to a very low instance, and that only as to personality;
+hast thou any doubt, that thy strong-muscled bony-faced was as much
+admired by thy mother, as if it had been the face of a Lovelace, or any
+other handsome fellow? And had thy picture been drawn, would she have
+forgiven the painter, had he not expressed so exactly thy lineaments,
+as that every one should have discerned the likeness? The handsome
+likeness is all that is wished for. Ugliness made familiar to us, with
+the partiality natural to fond parents, will be beauty all the world
+over.—Do thou apply.
+
+But, alas! Jack, all this is but a copy of my countenance, drawn to
+evade thy malice!—Though it answer thy unfriendly purpose to own it, I
+cannot forbear to own it, that I am stung to the very soul with this
+unhappy—accident, must I call it!—Have I nobody, whose throat, either
+for carelessness or treachery, I ought to cut, in order to pacify my
+vengeance?
+
+When I reflect upon my last iniquitous intention, the first outrage so
+nobly resented, as well as, so far as she was able, so nobly resisted,
+I cannot but conclude, that I was under the power of fascination from
+these accursed Circes; who, pretending to know their own sex, would
+have it, that there is in every woman a yielding, or a weak-resisting
+moment to be met with: and that yet, and yet, and yet, I had not tried
+enough; but that, if neither love nor terror should enable me to hit
+that lucky moment, when, by help of their cursed arts, she was once
+overcome, she would be for ever overcome:—appealing to all my
+experience, to all my knowledge of the sex, for justification of their
+assertion.
+
+My appeal to experience, I own, was but too favourable to their
+argument: For dost thou think I could have held my purpose against such
+an angel as this, had I ever before met with a woman so much in earnest
+to defend her honour against the unwearied artifices and perseverance
+of the man she loved? Why then were there not more examples of a virtue
+so immovable? Or, why was this singular one to fall to my lot? except
+indeed to double my guilt; and at the same time to convince all that
+should hear her story, that there are angels as well as devils in the
+flesh?
+
+So much for confession; and for the sake of humouring my conscience;
+with a view likewise to disarm thy malice by acknowledgement: since no
+one shall say worse of me, than I will of myself on this occasion.
+
+One thing I will nevertheless add, to show the sincerity of my
+contrition—’Tis this, that if thou canst by any means find her out
+within these three days, or any time before she has discovered the
+stories relating to Captain Tomlinson and her uncle to be what they
+are; and if thou canst prevail upon her to consent, I will actually, in
+thy presence and his, (he to represent her uncle,) marry her.
+
+I am still in hopes it may be so—she cannot be long concealed—I have
+already set all engines at work to find her out! and if I do, what
+indifferent persons, [and no one of her friends, as thou observest,
+will look upon her,] will care to embroil themselves with a man of my
+figure, fortune, and resolution? Show her this part, then, or any other
+part of this letter, at thy own discretion, if thou canst find her:
+for, after all, methinks, I would be glad that this affair, which is
+bad enough in itself, should go off without worse personal consequences
+to any body else: and yet it runs in my mind, I know not why, that,
+sooner or later it will draw a few drops of blood after it; except she
+and I can make it up between ourselves. And this may be another reason
+why she should not carry her resentment too far—not that such an affair
+would give me much concern neither, were I to choose any man of men,
+for I heartily hate all her family, but herself; and ever shall.
+
+
+Let me add, that the lady’s plot to escape appears to me no
+extraordinary one. There was much more luck than probability that it
+should do: since, to make it succeed, it was necessary that Dorcas and
+Will., and Sinclair and her nymphs, should be all deceived, or off
+their guard. It belongs to me, when I see them, to give them my hearty
+thanks that they were; and that their selfish care to provide for their
+own future security, should induce them to leave their outward door
+upon their bolt-latch, and be curs’d to them.
+
+Mabell deserves a pitch suit and a bonfire, rather than the lustring;
+and as her clothes are returned, let the lady’s be put to her others,
+to be sent to her when it can be told whither—but not till I give the
+word neither; for we must get the dear fugitive back again if possible.
+
+I suppose that my stupid villain, who knew not such a goddess-shaped
+lady with a mien so noble, from the awkward and bent-shouldered Mabell,
+has been at Hampstead to see after her. And yet I hardly think she
+would go thither. He ought to go through every street where bills for
+lodgings are up, to inquire after a new-comer. The houses of such as
+deal in women’s matters, and tea, coffee, and such-like, are those to
+be inquired at for her. If some tidings be not quickly heard of her, I
+would not have either Dorcas, Will., or Mabell, appear in my sight,
+whatever their superiors think fit to do.
+
+This, though written in character, is a very long letter, considering
+it is not a narrative one, or a journal of proceedings, like most of my
+former; for such will unavoidably and naturally, as I may say, run into
+length. But I have so used myself to write a great deal of late, that I
+know not how to help it. Yet I must add to its length, in order to
+explain myself on a hint I gave at the beginning of it; which was, that
+I have another disappointment, besides this of Miss Harlowe’s escape,
+to bemoan.
+
+And what dost thou think it is? Why, the old Peer, pox of his tough
+constitution, (for that malady would have helped him on,) has made
+shift by fire and brimstone, and the devil knows what, to force the
+gout to quit the counterscarp of his stomach, just as it had collected
+all its strength, in order to storm the citadel of his heart. In short,
+they have, by the mere force of stink-pots, hand-granades, and
+pop-guns, driven the slow-working pioneer quite out of the trunk into
+the extremities; and there it lies nibbling and gnawing upon his great
+toe; when I had a fair end of the distemper and the distempered.
+
+But I, who could write to thee of laudanum, and the wet cloth,
+formerly, yet let 8000£. a year slip through my fingers, when I had
+entered upon it more than in imagination, [for I had begun to ask the
+stewards questions, and to hear them talk of fines and renewals, and
+such sort of stuff,] deserve to be mortified.
+
+Thou canst not imagine how differently the servants, and even my
+cousins, look upon me, since yesterday, to what they did before.
+Neither the one nor the other bow or courtesy half so low—nor am I a
+quarter so often his honour and your honour, as I was within these few
+hours, with the former: and as to the latter—it is cousin Bobby again,
+with the usual familiarity, instead of Sir, and Sir, and If you please,
+Mr. Lovelace. And now they have the insolence to congratulate me on the
+recovery of the best of uncles; while I am forced to seem as much
+delighted as they, when, would it do me good, I could sit down and cry
+my eyes out.
+
+I had bespoke my mourning in imagination, after the example of a
+certain foreign minister, who, before the death, or even last illness
+of Charles II., as honest White Kennet tells us, had half exhausted
+Blackwell-hall of its sables—an indication, as the historian would
+insinuate, that the monarch was to be poisoned, and the ambassador in
+the secret.—And yet, fool that I was, I could not take the hint—What
+the devil does a man read history for, if he cannot profit by the
+examples he find in it?
+
+But thus, Jack, is an observation of the old Peer’s verified, that one
+misfortune seldom comes alone: and so concludes
+
+Thy doubly mortified LOVELACE.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER L
+
+
+MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE WEDNESDAY NIGHT, JUNE 28.
+
+O MY DEAREST MISS HOWE!
+
+Once more have I escaped—But, alas! I, my best self, have not
+escaped!—Oh! your poor Clarissa Harlowe! you also will hate me, I
+fear!——
+
+Yet you won’t, when you know all!
+
+But no more of my self! my lost self. You that can rise in a morning to
+be blest, and to bless; and go to rest delighted with your own
+reflections, and in your unbroken, unstarting slumbers, conversing with
+saints and angels, the former only more pure than yourself, as they
+have shaken off the incumbrance of body; you shall be my subject, as
+you have long, long, been my only pleasure. And let me, at awful
+distance, revere my beloved Anna Howe, and in her reflect upon what her
+Clarissa Harlowe once was!
+
+
+Forgive, O forgive my rambling. My peace is destroyed. My intellects
+are touched. And what flighty nonsense must you read, if you now will
+vouchsafe to correspond with me, as formerly!
+
+O my best, my dearest, my only friend! what a tale have I to
+unfold!—But still upon self, this vile, this hated self!—I will shake
+it off, if possible; and why should I not, since I think, except one
+wretch, I hate nothing so much? Self, then, be banished from self one
+moment (for I doubt it will be for no longer) to inquire after a dearer
+object, my beloved Anna Howe!—whose mind, all robed in spotless white,
+charms and irradiates—But what would I say?——
+
+
+And how, my dearest friend, after this rhapsody, which on re-perusal, I
+would not let go, but to show you what a distracted mind dictates to my
+trembling pen! How do you? You have been very ill, it seems. That you
+are recovered, my dear, let me hear. That your mother is well, pray let
+me hear, and hear quickly. This comfort surely is owing to me; for if
+life is no worse than chequer-work, I must now have a little white to
+come, having seen nothing but black, all unchequered dismal black, for
+a great, great while.
+
+
+And what is all this wild incoherence for? It is only to beg to know
+how you have been, and how you do now, by a line directed for Mrs.
+Rachel Clark, at Mr. Smith’s, a glove-shop, in King-street,
+Covent-garden; which (although my abode is secret to every body else)
+will reach the hands of—your unhappy—but that’s not enough——
+
+Your miserable CLARISSA HARLOWE.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER LI
+
+
+MRS. HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE [SUPERSCRIBED AS DIRECTED IN THE
+PRECEDING.] FRIDAY, JUNE 30.
+
+MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE,
+
+You will wonder to receive a letter from me. I am sorry for the great
+distress you seem to be in. Such a hopeful young lady as you were! But
+see what comes of disobedience to parents!
+
+For my part; although I pity you, yet I much more pity your poor father
+and mother. Such education as they gave you! such improvement as you
+made! and such delight as they took in you!—And all come to this!—
+
+But pray, Miss, don’t make my Nancy guilt of your fault; which is that
+of disobedience. I have charged her over and over not to correspond
+with one who had made such a giddy step. It is not to her reputation, I
+am sure. You know that I so charged her; yet you go on corresponding
+together, to my very great vexation; for she has been very perverse
+upon it more than once. Evil communication, Miss—you know the rest.
+
+Here, people cannot be unhappy by themselves, but they must invoke
+their friends and acquaintance whose discretion has kept them clear of
+their errors, into near as much unhappiness as if they had run into the
+like of their own heads! Thus my poor daughter is always in tears and
+grief. And she has postponed her own felicity, truly, because you are
+unhappy.
+
+If people, who seek their own ruin, could be the only sufferers by
+their headstrong doings, it were something: But, O Miss, Miss! what
+have you to answer for, who have made as many grieved hearts as have
+known you! The whole sex is indeed wounded by you: For, who but Miss
+Clarissa Harlowe was proposed by every father and mother for a pattern
+for their daughters?
+
+I write a long letter, where I proposed to say but a few words; and
+those to forbid your writing to my Nancy: and this as well because of
+the false step you have made, as because it will grieve her poor heart,
+and do you no good. If you love her, therefore, write not to her. Your
+sad letter came into my hands, Nancy being abroad: and I shall not show
+it her: for there would be no comfort for her, if she saw it, nor for
+me, whose delight she is—as you once was to your parents.—
+
+But you seem to be sensible enough of your errors now.—So are all giddy
+girls, when it is too late: and what a crest-fallen figure then do the
+consequences of their self-willed obstinacy and headstrongness compel
+them to make!
+
+I may say too much: only as I think it proper to bear that testimony
+against your rashness which it behoves every careful parent to bear:
+and none more than
+
+Your compassionating, well-wishing ANNABELLA HOWE.
+
+I send this by a special messenger, who has business only so far as
+Barnet, because you shall have no need to write again; knowing how you
+love writing: and knowing, likewise, that misfortune makes people
+plaintive.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER LII
+
+
+MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MRS. HOWE. SATURDAY, JULY 1.
+
+Permit me, Madam, to trouble you with a few lines, were it only to
+thank you for your reproofs; which have nevertheless drawn fresh
+streams of blood from a bleeding heart.
+
+My story is a dismal story. It has circumstances in it that would
+engage pity, and possibly a judgment not altogether unfavourable, were
+those circumstances known. But it is my business, and shall be all my
+business, to repent of my failings, and not endeavour to extenuate
+them.
+
+Nor will I seek to distress your worthy mind. If I cannot suffer alone,
+I will make as few parties as I can in my sufferings. And, indeed, I
+took up my pen with this resolution when I wrote the letter which has
+fallen into your hands. It was only to know, and that for a very
+particular reason, as well as for affection unbounded, if my dear Miss
+Howe, from whom I had not heard of a long time, were ill; as I had been
+told she was; and if so, how she now does. But my injuries being
+recent, and my distresses having been exceeding great, self would crowd
+into my letter. When distressed, the human mind is apt to turn itself
+to every one, in whom it imagined or wished an interest, for pity and
+consolation.—Or, to express myself better, and more concisely, in your
+own words, misfortune makes people plaintive: And to whom, if not to a
+friend, can the afflicted complain?
+
+Miss Howe being abroad when my letter came, I flatter myself that she
+is recovered. But it would be some satisfaction to me to be informed if
+she has been ill. Another line from your hand would be too great a
+favour: but if you will be pleased to direct any servant to answer yes,
+or no, to that question, I will not be farther troublesome.
+
+Nevertheless, I must declare, that my Miss Howe’s friendship was all
+the comfort I had, or expected to have in this world; and a line from
+her would have been a cordial to my fainting heart. Judge then, dearest
+Madam, how reluctantly I must obey your prohibition—but yet I will
+endeavour to obey it; although I should have hoped, as well from the
+tenor of all that has passed between Miss Howe and me, as from her
+established virtue, that she could not be tainted by evil
+communication, had one or two letters been permitted. This, however, I
+ask not for, since I think I have nothing to do but to beg of God (who,
+I hope, has not yet withdrawn his grace from me, although he has
+pleaded to let loose his justice upon my faults) to give me a truly
+broken spirit, if it be not already broken enough, and then to take to
+his mercy
+
+The unhappy
+
+CLARISSA HARLOWE.
+
+Two favours, good Madam, I have to beg of you.—The first,—that you will
+not let any of my relations know that you have heard from me. The
+other,—that no living creature be apprized where I am to be heard of,
+or directed to. This is a point that concerns me more than I can
+express.—In short, my preservation from further evils may depend upon
+it.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER LIII
+
+
+MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO HANNAH BURTON THURSDAY, JUNE 29.
+
+MY GOOD HANNAH,
+
+Strange things have happened to me, since you were dismissed my service
+(so sorely against my will) and your pert fellow servant set over me.
+But that must all be forgotten now—
+
+How do you, my Hannah? Are you recovered of your illness? If you are,
+do you choose to come and be with me? Or can you conveniently?
+
+I am a very unhappy creature, and, being among all strangers, should be
+very glad to have you with me, of whose fidelity and love I have had so
+many acceptable instances.
+
+Living or dying, I will endeavour to make it worth your while, my
+Hannah.
+
+If you are recovered, as I hope, and if you have a good place, it may
+be they would bear with your absence, and suffer somebody in your room
+for a month or so: and, by that time, I hope to be provided for, and
+you may then return to your place.
+
+Don’t let any of my friends know of this my desire: whether you can
+come or not.
+
+I am at Mr. Smith’s, a hosier’s and glove shop, in King-street,
+Covent-garden.
+
+You must direct to me by the name of Rachel Clark.
+
+Do, my good Hannah, come if you can to your poor young mistress, who
+always valued you, and always will whether you come or not.
+
+I send this to your mother at St. Alban’s, not knowing where to direct
+to you. Return me a line, that I may know what to depend upon: and I
+shall see you have not forgotten the pretty hand you were taught, in
+happy days, by
+
+Your true friend, CLARISSA HARLOWE.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER LIV
+
+
+HANNAH BURTON [IN ANSWER.] MONDAY, JULY 3.
+
+HONORED MADDAM,
+
+I have not forgot to write, and never will forget any thing you, my
+dear young lady, was so good as to larn me. I am very sorrowful for
+your misfortens, my dearest young lady; so sorrowfull, I do not know
+what to do. Gladd at harte would I be to be able to come to you. But
+indeed I have not been able to stir out of my rome here at my mother’s
+ever since I was forsed to leave my plase with a roomatise, which has
+made me quite and clene helpless. I will pray for you night and day, my
+dearest, my kindest, my goodest young lady, who have been so badly
+used; and I am very sorry I cannot come to do you love and sarvice;
+which will ever be in the harte of mee to do, if it was in my power:
+who am
+
+Your most dutiful servant to command, HANNAH BURTON.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER LV
+
+
+MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MRS. JUDITH NORTON THURSDAY, JUNE 29.
+
+MY DEAR MRS. NORTON,
+
+I address myself to you, after a very long silence, (which, however,
+was not owing either to want of love or duty,) principally to desire
+you to satisfy me in two or three points, which it behoves me to know.
+
+My father, and all the family, I am informed, are to be at my uncle
+Harlowe’s this day, as usual. Pray acquaint me, if they have been
+there? And if they were cheerful on the anniversary occasion? And also,
+if you have heard of any journey, or intended journey, of my brother,
+in company with Captain Singleton and Mr. Solmes?
+
+Strange things have happened to me, my dear, worthy and maternal
+friend—very strange things!—Mr. Lovelace has proved a very barbarous
+and ungrateful man to me. But, God be praised, I have escaped from him.
+Being among absolute strangers (though I think worthy folks) I have
+written to Hannah Burton to come and be with me. If the good creature
+fall in your way, pray encourage her to come to me. I always intended
+to have her, she knows: but hoped to be in happier circumstances.
+
+Say nothing to any of my friends that you have heard from me.
+
+Pray, do you think my father would be prevailed upon, if I were to
+supplicate him by letter, to take off the heavy curse he laid upon me
+at my going from Harlowe-place? I can expect no other favour from him.
+But that being literally fulfilled as to my prospects in this life, I
+hope it will be thought to have operated far enough; and my heart is so
+weak!—it is very weak!—But for my father’s own sake—what should I
+say!—Indeed I hardly know how I ought to express myself on this sad
+subject!—but it will give ease to my mind to be released from it.
+
+I am afraid my Poor, as I used to call the good creatures to whose
+necessities I was wont to administer by your faithful hands, have
+missed me of late. But now, alas! I am poor myself. It is not the least
+aggravation of my fault, nor of my regrets, that with such inclinations
+as God has given me, I have put it out of my power to do the good I
+once pleased myself to think I was born to do. It is a sad thing, my
+dearest Mrs. Nortin, to render useless to ourselves and the world, by
+our own rashness, the talents which Providence has intrusted to us, for
+the service of both.
+
+But these reflections are now too late; and perhaps I ought to have
+kept them to myself. Let me, however, hope that you love me still. Pray
+let me hope that you do. And then, notwithstanding my misfortunes,
+which have made me seem ungrateful to the kind and truly maternal pains
+you have taken with me from my cradle, I shall have the happiness to
+think that there is one worthy person, who hates not
+
+The unfortunate CLARISSA HARLOWE.
+
+Pray remember me to my foster-brother. I hope he continues dutiful and
+good to you.
+
+Be pleased to direct for Rachel Clark, at Mr. Smith’s, in King-street,
+Covent-garden. But keep the direction an absolute secret.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER LVI
+
+
+MRS. NORTON [IN ANSWER.] SATURDAY, JULY 1.
+
+Your letter, my dearest young lady, cuts me to the heart! Why will you
+not let me know all your distresses?—Yet you have said enough!
+
+My son is very good to me. A few hours ago he was taken with a feverish
+disorder. But I hope it will go off happily, if his ardour for business
+will give him the recess from it which his good master is willing to
+allow him. He presents his duty to you, and shed tears at hearing your
+sad letter read.
+
+You have been misinformed as to your family’s being at your uncle
+Harlowe’s. They did not intend to be there. Nor was the day kept at
+all. Indeed, they have not stirred out, but to church (and that but
+three times) ever since the day you went away.—Unhappy day for them,
+and for all who know you!—To me, I am sure, most particularly so!—My
+heart now bleeds more and more for you.
+
+I have not heard a syllable of such a journey as you mentioned of your
+brother, Captain Singleton, and Mr. Solmes. There has been some talk
+indeed of your brother’s setting out for his northern estates: but I
+have not heard of it lately.
+
+I am afraid no letter will be received from you. It grieves me to tell
+you so, my dearest young lady. No evil can have happened to you, which
+they do not expect to hear of; so great is their antipathy to the
+wicked man, and so bad is his character.
+
+I cannot but think hardly of their unforgiveness: but there is no
+judging for others by one’s self. Nevertheless I will add, that, if you
+had had as gentle spirits as mine, these evils had never happened
+either to them or to you. I knew your virtue, and your love of virtue,
+from your very cradle; and I doubted not but that, with God’s grace,
+would always be your guard. But you could never be driven; nor was
+there occasion to drive you—so generous, so noble, so discreet.—But how
+does my love of your amiable qualities increase my affliction; as these
+recollections must do your’s!
+
+You are escaped, my dearest Miss—happily, I hope—that is to say, with
+your honour—else, how great must be your distress!—Yet, from your
+letter, I dread the worst.
+
+I am very seldom at Harlowe-place. The house is not the house it used
+to be, since you went from it. Then they are so relentless! And, as I
+cannot say harsh things of the beloved child of my heart, as well as
+bosom, they do not take it amiss that I stay away.
+
+Your Hannah left her place ill some time ago! and, as she is still at
+her mother’s at St. Alban’s, I am afraid she continues ill. If so, as
+you are among strangers, and I cannot encourage you at present to come
+into these parts, I shall think it my duty to attend you (let it be
+taken as it will) as soon as my Tommy’s indisposition will permit;
+which I hope will be soon.
+
+I have a little money by me. You say you are poor yourself.—How
+grievous are those words from one entitled and accustomed to
+affluence!—Will you be so good to command it, my beloved young lady?—It
+is most of it your own bounty to me. And I should take a pride to
+restore it to its original owner.
+
+Your Poor bless you, and pray for you continually. I have so managed
+your last benevolence, and they have been so healthy, and have had such
+constant employ, that it has held out; and will hold out till the
+happier times return, which I continually pray for.
+
+Let me beg of you, my dearest young lady, to take to yourself all those
+aids which good persons, like you, draw from RELIGION, in support of
+their calamities. Let your sufferings be what they will, I am sure you
+have been innocent in your intention. So do not despond. None are made
+to suffer above what they can, and therefore ought to bear.
+
+We know not the methods of Providence, nor what wise ends it may have
+to serve in its seemingly-severe dispensations to its poor creatures.
+
+Few persons have greater reason to say this than myself. And since we
+are apt in calamities to draw more comfort from example than precept,
+you will permit me to remind you of my own lot: For who has had a
+greater share of afflictions than myself?
+
+To say nothing of the loss of an excellent mother, at a time of life
+when motherly care is most wanted; the death of a dear father, who was
+an ornament to his cloth, (and who had qualified me to be his scribe
+and amanuensis,) just as he came within view of a preferment which
+would have made his family easy, threw me friendless into the wide
+world; threw me upon a very careless, and, which was much worse, a very
+unkind husband. Poor man!—but he was spared long enough, thank God, in
+a tedious illness, to repent of his neglected opportunities, and his
+light principles; which I have always thought of with pleasure,
+although I was left the more destitute for his chargeable illness, and
+ready to be brought to bed, when he died, of my Tommy.
+
+But this very circumstance, which I thought the unhappiest that I could
+have been left in, (so short-sighted is human prudence!) became the
+happy means of recommending me to your mother, who, in regard to my
+character, and in compassion to my very destitute circumstances,
+permitted me, as I made a conscience of not parting with my poor boy,
+to nurse both you and him, born within a few days of each other. And I
+have never since wanted any of the humble blessings which God has made
+me contented with.
+
+Nor have I known what a very great grief was, from the day of my poor
+husband’s death till the day that your parents told me how much they
+were determined that you should have Mr. Solmes; when I was apprized
+not only of your aversion to him, but how unworthy he was of you: for
+then I began to dread the consequences of forcing so generous a spirit;
+and, till then, I never feared Mr. Lovelace, attracting as was his
+person, and specious his manners and address. For I was sure you would
+never have him, if he gave you not good reason to be convinced of his
+reformation: nor till your friends were as well satisfied in it as
+yourself. But that unhappy misunderstanding between your brother and
+Mr. Lovelace, and their joining so violently to force you upon Mr.
+Solmes, did all that mischief, which has cost you and them so dear, and
+poor me all my peace! Oh! what has not this ungrateful, this
+double-guilty man to answer for!
+
+Nevertheless, you know not what God has in store for you yet!—But if
+you are to be punished all your days here, for example sake, in a case
+of such importance, for your one false step, be pleased to consider,
+that this life is but a state of probation; and if you have your
+purification in it, you will be the more happy. Nor doubt I, that you
+will have the higher reward hereafter for submitting to the will of
+Providence here with patience and resignation.
+
+You see, my dearest Miss Clary, that I make no scruple to call the step
+you took a false one. In you it was less excusable than it would have
+been in any other young lady; not only because of your superior
+talents, but because of the opposition between your character and his:
+so that, if you had been provoked to quit your father’s house, it need
+not to have been with him. Nor needed I, indeed, but as an instance of
+my impartial love, to have written this to you.*
+
+* Mrs. Norton, having only the family representation and invectives to
+form her judgment upon, knew not that Clarissa had determined against
+going off with Mr. Lovelace; nor how solicitous she had been to procure
+for herself any other protection than his, when she apprehended that,
+if she staid, she had no way to avoid being married to Mr. Solmes.
+
+After this, it will have an unkind, and perhaps at this time an
+unseasonable appearance, to express my concern that you have not before
+favoured me with a line. Yet if you can account to yourself for your
+silence, I dare say I ought to be satisfied; for I am sure you love me:
+as I both love and honour you, and ever will, and the more for your
+misfortunes.
+
+One consolation, methinks, I have, even when I am sorrowing for your
+calamities; and that is, that I know not any young person so qualified
+to shine the brighter for the trials she may be exercised with: and yet
+it is a consolation that ends in adding to my regrets for your
+afflictions, because you are blessed with a mind so well able to bear
+prosperity, and to make every body round you the better for it!—But I
+will forbear till I know more.
+
+Ruminating on every thing your melancholy letter suggests, and
+apprehending, from the gentleness of your mind, the amiableness of your
+person, and your youth, the farther misfortunes and inconveniencies to
+which you may possibly be subjected, I cannot conclude without asking
+for your leave to attend you, and that in a very earnest manner—and I
+beg of you not to deny me, on any consideration relating to myself, or
+even to the indisposition of my other beloved child, if I can be either
+of use or of comfort to you. Were it, my dearest young lady, but for
+two or three days, permit me to attend you, although my son’s illness
+should increase, and compel me to come down again at the end of those
+two or three days.—I repeat my request, likewise, that you will command
+from me the little sum remaining in the hands of your bounty to your
+Poor, as well as that dispensed to
+
+Your ever-affectionate and faithful servant, JUDITH NORTON.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER LVII
+
+
+MISS CL. HARLOWE, TO LADY BETTY LAWRANCE THURSDAY, JUNE 29.
+
+MADAM,
+
+I hope you’ll excuse the freedom of this address, from one who has not
+the honour to be personally known to you, although you must have heard
+much of Clarissa Harlowe. It is only to beg the favour of a line from
+your Ladyship’s hand, (by the next post, if convenient,) in answer to
+the following questions:
+
+1. Whether you wrote a letter, dated, as I have a memorandum, Wedn.
+June 7, congratulating your nephew Lovelace on his supposed nuptials,
+as reported to you by Mr. Spurrier, your Ladyship’s steward, as from
+one Captain Tomlinson:—and in it reproaching Mr. Lovelace, as guilty of
+slight, &c. in not having acquainted your Ladyship and the family with
+his marriage?
+
+2. Whether your ladyship wrote to Miss Montague to meet you at Reading,
+in order to attend you to your cousin Leeson’s, in Albemarle-street; on
+your being obliged to be in town on your old chancery affair, I
+remember are the words? and whether you bespoke your nephew’s
+attendance there on Sunday night the 11th?
+
+3. Whether your Ladyship and Miss Montague did come to town at that
+time; and whether you went to Hampstead, on Monday, in a hired coach
+and four, your own being repairing, and took from thence to town with
+the young creature whom you visited there?
+
+Your Ladyship will probably guess, that the questions are not asked for
+reasons favourable to your nephew Lovelace. But be the answer what it
+will, it can do him no hurt, nor me any good; only that I think I owe
+it to my former hopes, (however deceived in them,) and even to charity,
+that a person, of whom I was once willing to think better, should not
+prove so egregiously abandoned, as to be wanting, in every instance, to
+that veracity which is indispensable in the character of a gentleman.
+
+Be pleased, Madam, to direct to me, (keeping the direction a secret for
+the present,) to be left at the Belle-Savage, on Ludgate hill, till
+called for. I am
+
+Your Ladyship’s most humble servant, CLARISSA HARLOWE.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER LVIII
+
+
+LADY BETTY LAWRANCE, TO MISS CL. HARLOWE SATURDAY, JULY 1.
+
+DEAR MADAM,
+
+I find that all is not as it should be between you and my nephew
+Lovelace. It will very much afflict me, and all his friends, if he has
+been guilty of any designed baseness to a lady of your character and
+merit.
+
+We have been long in expectation of an opportunity to congratulate you
+and ourselves upon an event most earnestly wished for by us all; since
+our hopes of him are built upon the power you have over him: for if
+ever man adored a woman, he is that man, and you, Madam, are that
+woman.
+
+Miss Montague, in her last letter to me, in answer to one of mine,
+inquiring if she knew from him whether he could call you his, or was
+likely soon to have that honour, has these words: ‘I know not what to
+make of my cousin Lovelace, as to the point your Ladyship is so earnest
+about. He sometimes says he is actually married to Miss Cl. Harlowe: at
+other times, that it is her own fault if he be not.—He speaks of her
+not only with love but with reverence: yet owns, that there is a
+misunderstanding between them; but confesses that she is wholly
+faultless. An angel, and not a woman, he says she is: and that no man
+living can be worthy of her.’—
+
+This is what my niece Montague writes.
+
+God grant, my dearest young lady, that he may not have so heinously
+offended you that you cannot forgive him! If you are not already
+married, and refuse to be his, I shall lose all hopes that he ever will
+marry, or be the man I wish him to be. So will Lord M. So will Lady
+Sarah Sadleir.
+
+I will now answer your questions: but indeed I hardly know what to
+write, for fear of widening still more the unhappy difference between
+you. But yet such a young lady must command every thing from me. This
+then is my answer:
+
+I wrote not any letter to him on or about the 7th of June.
+
+Neither I nor my steward know any such man as Captain Tomlinson.
+
+I wrote not to my niece to meet me at Reading, nor to accompany me to
+my cousin Leeson’s in town.
+
+My chancery affair, though, like most chancery affairs, it be of long
+standing, is, nevertheless, now in so good a way, that it cannot give
+me occasion to go to town.
+
+Nor have I been in town these six months: nor at Hampstead for years.
+
+Neither shall I have any temptation to go to town, except to pay my
+congratulatory compliments to Mrs. Lovelace. On which occasion I should
+go with the greatest pleasure; and should hope for the favour of your
+accompanying me to Glenham-hall, for a month at least.
+
+Be what will the reason of your inquiry, let me entreat you, my dear
+young lady, for Lord M.’s sake; for my sake; for this giddy man’s sake,
+soul as well as body; and for all our family’s sakes; not to suffer
+this answer to widen differences so far as to make you refuse him, if
+he already has not the honour of calling you his; as I am apprehensive
+he has not, by your signing by your family-name.
+
+And here let me offer to you my mediation to compose the difference
+between you, be it what it will. Your cause, my dear young lady, cannot
+be put into the hands of any body living more devoted to your service,
+than into those of
+
+Your sincere admirer, and humble servant, ELIZ. LAWRANCE.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER LIX
+
+
+MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MRS. HODGES ENFIELD, JUNE 22.
+
+MRS. HODGES,
+
+I am under a kind of necessity to write to you, having no one among my
+relations to whom I dare write, or hope a line from if I did. It is but
+to answer a question. It is this:
+
+Whether you know any such man as Captain Tomlinson? and, if you do,
+whether he be very intimate with my uncle Harlowe?
+
+I will describe his person lest, possibly, he should go by another name
+among you; although I know not why he should.
+
+‘He is a thin, tallish man, a little pock-fretten, of a sallowish
+complexion. Fifty years of age, or more. Of good aspect when he looks
+up. He seems to be a serious man, and one who knows the world. He
+stoops a little in the shoulders. Is of Berkshire. His wife of
+Oxfordshire; and has several children. He removed lately into your
+parts form Northamptonshire.’
+
+I must desire you, Mrs. Hodges, that you will not let my uncle, nor any
+of my relations, know that I write to you.
+
+You used to say, that you would be glad to have it in your power to
+serve me. That, indeed, was in my prosperity. But, I dare say, you will
+not refuse me in a particular that will oblige me, without hurting
+yourself.
+
+I understand that my father, mother, and sister, and I presume, my
+brother, and my uncle Antony, are to be at my uncle Harlowe’s this day.
+God preserve them all, and may they rejoice in many happy birth-days!
+You will write six words to me concerning their healths.
+
+Direct, for a particular reason, to Mrs. Dorothy Salcombe, to be left
+till called for, at the Four Swans Inn, Bishopsgate-street.
+
+You know my hand-writing well enough, were not the contents of the
+letter sufficient to excuse my name, or any other subscription, than
+that of
+
+Your friend.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER LX
+
+
+MRS. HODGES [IN ANSWER.] SAT. JULY 2.
+
+MADDAM,
+
+I return you an anser, as you wish me to doe. Master is acquented with
+no sitch man. I am shure no sitch ever came to our house. And master
+sturs very little out. He has no harte to stur out. For why? Your
+obstinacy makes um not care to see one another. Master’s birth-day
+never was kept soe before: for not a sole heere: and nothing but
+sikeing and sorrowin from master to think how it yused to bee.
+
+I axed master, if soe bee he knowed sitch a man as one Captain
+Tomlinson? but said not whirfor I axed. He sed, No, not he.
+
+Shure this is no trix nor forgery bruing against master by one
+Tomlinson—Won knows not what company you may have been forsed to keep,
+sen you went away, you knoe, Maddam; but Lundon is a pestilent plase;
+and that ’Squire Luvless is a devil (for all he is sitch a like
+gentleman to look to) as I hev herd every boddy say; and think as how
+you have found by thiss.
+
+I truste, Maddam, you wulde not let master cum to harme, if you knoed
+it, by any body who may pretend to be acquented with him: but for fere,
+I querid with myself if I shulde not tell him. But I was willin to show
+you, that I wulde plessure you in advarsity, if advarsity be your lott,
+as well as prosperity; for I am none of those that woulde doe
+otherwiss. Soe no more from
+
+Your humble sarvent, to wish you well, SARAH HODGES.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER LXI
+
+
+MISS CL. HARLOWE, TO LADY BETTY LAWRANCE. MONDAY, JULY 3.
+
+MADAM,
+
+I cannot excuse myself from giving your Ladyship this one trouble more;
+to thank you, as I most heartily do, for your kind letter.
+
+I must own to you, Madam, that the honour of being related to ladies as
+eminent for their virtue as for their descent, was at first no small
+inducement with me to lend an ear to Mr. Lovelace’s address. And the
+rather, as I was determined, had it come to effect, to do every thing
+in my power to deserve your favourable opinion.
+
+I had another motive, which I knew would of itself give me merit with
+your whole family; a presumptuous one, (a punishably presumptuous one,
+as it has proved,) in the hope that I might be an humble mean in the
+hand of Providence to reclaim a man, who had, as I thought, good sense
+enough to acknowledge the intended obligation, whether the generous
+hope were to succeed or not.
+
+But I have been most egregiously mistaken in Mr. Lovelace; the only
+man, I persuade myself, pretending to be a gentleman, in whom I could
+have been so much mistaken: for while I was endeavouring to save a
+drowning wretch, I have been, not accidentally, but premeditatedly, and
+of set purpose, drawn in after him. And he has had the glory to add to
+the list of those he has ruined, a name, that, I will be bold to say,
+would not have disparaged his own. And this, Madam, by means that would
+shock humanity to be made acquainted with.
+
+My whole end is served by your Ladyship’s answer to the questions I
+took the liberty to put to you in writing. Nor have I a wish to make
+the unhappy man more odious to you than is necessary to excuse myself
+for absolutely declining your offered mediation.
+
+When your Ladyship shall be informed of the following particulars:
+
+That after he had compulsorily, as I may say, tricked me into the act
+of going off with him, he could carry me to one of the vilest houses,
+as it proved, in London:
+
+That he could be guilty of a wicked attempt, in resentment of which, I
+found means to escape from him to Hampstead:
+
+That, after he had found me out there (I know not how) he could procure
+two women, dressed out richly, to personate your Ladyship and Miss
+Montague; who, under pretence of engaging me to make a visit in town to
+your cousin Leeson, (promising to return with me that evening to
+Hampstead,) betrayed me back again to the vile house: where, again made
+a prisoner, I was first robbed of my senses; and then of my honour. Why
+should I seek to conceal that disgrace from others which I cannot hide
+from myself?
+
+When your Ladyship shall know, that, in the shocking progress to this
+ruin, wilful falsehoods, repeated forgeries, (particularly of one
+letter from your Ladyship, another from Miss Montague, and a third from
+Lord M.) and numberless perjuries, were not the least of his crimes:
+you will judge, that I can have no principles that will make me worthy
+of an alliance with ladies of your’s and your noble sister’s character,
+if I could not from my soul declare, that such an alliance can never
+now take place.
+
+I will not offer to clear myself entirely of blame: but, as to him, I
+have no fault to accuse myself of: my crime was, the corresponding with
+him at first, when prohibited so to do by those who had a right to my
+obedience; made still more inexcusable, by giving him a clandestine
+meeting, which put me into the power of his arts. And for this I am
+content to be punished: thankful, that at last I have escaped from him;
+and have it in my power to reject so wicked a man for my husband: and
+glad, if I may be a warning, since I cannot be an example: which once
+(very vain, and very conceited, as I was) I proposed to myself to be.
+
+All the ill I wish him is, that he may reform; and that I may be the
+last victim to his baseness. Perhaps this desirable wish may be
+obtained, when he shall see how his wickedness, his unmerited
+wickedness! to a poor creature, made friendless by his cruel arts, will
+end.
+
+I conclude with my humble thanks to your Ladyship for your favourable
+opinion of me; and with the assurance that I will be, while life is
+lent me,
+
+Your Ladyship’s grateful and obliged servant, CLARISSA HARLOWE.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER LXII
+
+
+MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MRS. NORTON SUNDAY EVENING, JULY 2.
+
+How kindly, my beloved Mrs. Norton, do you soothe the anguish of a
+bleeding heart! Surely you are mine own mother; and, by some
+unaccountable mistake, I must have been laid to a family that, having
+newly found out, or at least suspected, the imposture, cast me from
+their hearts, with the indignation that such a discovery will warrant.
+
+Oh! that I had been indeed your own child, born to partake of your
+humble fortunes, an heiress only to that content in which you are so
+happy! then should I have had a truly gentle spirit to have guided my
+ductile heart, which force and ungenerous usage sit so ill upon: and
+nothing of what has happened would have been.
+
+But let me take heed that I enlarge not, by impatience, the breach
+already made in my duty by my rashness! since, had I not erred, my
+mother, at least, could never have been thought hard-hearted and
+unforgiving. Am I not then answerable, not only for my own faults, but
+for the consequences of them; which tend to depreciate and bring
+disgrace upon a maternal character never before called in question?
+
+It is kind, however, in you to endeavour to extenuate the faults of one
+so greatly sensible of it: and could it be wiped off entirely, it would
+render me more worthy of the pains you have taken in my education: for
+it must add to your grief, as it does to my confusion, that, after such
+promising beginnings, I should have so behaved as to be a disgrace
+instead of a credit to you and my other friends.
+
+But that I may not make you think me more guilty than I am, give me
+leave briefly to assure you, that, when my story is known, I shall be
+to more compassion than blame, even on the score of going away with Mr.
+Lovelace.
+
+As to all that happened afterwards, let me only say, that although I
+must call myself a lost creature as to this world, yet have I this
+consolation left me, that I have not suffered either for want of
+circumspection, or through careful credulity or weakness. Not one
+moment was I off my guard, or unmindful of your early precepts. But
+(having been enabled to baffle many base contrivances) I was at last
+ruined by arts the most inhuman. But had I not been rejected by every
+friend, this low-hearted man had not dared, nor would have had
+opportunity, to treat me as he has treated me.
+
+More I cannot, at this time, nor need I say: and this I desire you to
+keep to yourself, lest resentments should be taken up when I am gone,
+that may spread the evil which I hope will end with me.
+
+I have been misinformed, you say, as to my principal relations being at
+my uncle Harlowe’s. The day, you say, was not kept. Nor have my brother
+and Mr. Solmes—Astonishing!—What complicated wickedness has this
+wretched man to answer for!—Were I to tell you, you would hardly
+believe that there could have been such a heart in man.—
+
+But one day you may know the whole story!—At present I have neither
+inclination nor words—O my bursting heart!—Yet a happy, a wished
+relief!—Were you present my tears would supply the rest!
+
+
+I resume my pen!
+
+And so you fear no letter will be received from me. But DON’T grieve to
+tell me so! I expect every thing bad—and such is my distress, that had
+you not bid me hope for mercy from the throne of mercy, I should have
+been afraid that my father’s dreadful curse would be completed with
+regard to both worlds.
+
+For here, an additional misfortune!—In a fit of phrensical
+heedlessness, I sent a letter to my beloved Miss Howe, without
+recollecting her private address; and it has fallen into her angry
+mother’s hands: and so that dear friend perhaps has anew incurred
+displeasure on my account. And here too your worthy son is ill; and my
+poor Hannah, you think, cannot come to me—O my dear Mrs. Norton, will
+you, can you censure those whose resentments against me Heaven seems to
+approve of? and will you acquit her whom that condemns?
+
+Yet you bid me not despond.—I will not, if I can help it. And, indeed,
+most seasonable consolation has your kind letter afforded me.—Yet to
+God Almighty do I appeal, to avenge my wrongs, and vindicate my inno——
+
+But hushed be my stormy passions!—Have I not but this moment said that
+your letter gave me consolation?—May those be forgiven who hinder my
+father from forgiving me!—and this, as to them, shall be the harshest
+thing that shall drop from my pen.
+
+But although your son should recover, I charge you, my dear Mrs.
+Norton, that you do not think of coming to me. I don’t know still but
+your mediation with my mother (although at present your interposition
+would be so little attended to) may be of use to procure me the
+revocation of that most dreadful part of my father’s curse, which only
+remains to be fulfilled. The voice of Nature must at last be heard in
+my favour, surely. It will only plead at first to my friends in the
+still conscious plaintiveness of a young and unhardened beggar. But it
+will grow more clamorous when I have the courage to be so, and shall
+demand, perhaps, the paternal protection from farther ruin; and that
+forgiveness, which those will be little entitled to expect, for their
+own faults, who shall interpose to have it refused to me, for an
+accidental, not a premeditated error: and which, but for them, I had
+never fallen into.
+
+But again, impatiency, founded perhaps on self-partiality, that strange
+misleader! prevails.
+
+Let me briefly say, that it is necessary to my present and future hopes
+that you keep well with my family. And moreover, should you come, I may
+be traced out by that means by the most abandoned of men. Say not then
+that you think you ought to come up to me, let it be taken as it
+will:—For my sake, let me repeat, (were my foster-brother recovered, as
+I hope he is,) you must not come. Nor can I want your advice, while I
+can write, and you can answer me. And write I will as often as I stand
+in need of your counsel.
+
+Then the people I am now with seem to be both honest and humane: and
+there is in the same house a widow-lodger, of low fortunes, but of
+great merit:—almost such another serious and good woman as the dear one
+to whom I am now writing; who has, as she says, given over all other
+thoughts of the world but such as should assist her to leave it
+happily.—How suitable to my own views!—There seems to be a comfortable
+providence in this at least—so that at present there is nothing of
+exigence; nothing that can require, or even excuse, your coming, when
+so many better ends may be answered by your staying where you are. A
+time may come, when I shall want your last and best assistance: and
+then, my dear Mrs. Norton—and then, I will speak it, and embrace it
+with all my whole heart—and then, will it not be denied me by any body.
+
+You are very obliging in your offer of money. But although I was forced
+to leave my clothes behind me, yet I took several things of value with
+me, which will keep me from present want. You’ll say, I have made a
+miserable hand of it—so indeed I have—and, to look backwards, in a very
+little while too.
+
+But what shall I do, if my father cannot be prevailed upon to recall
+his malediction? O my dear Mrs. Norton, what a weight must a father’s
+curse have upon a heart so appreciative as mine!—Did I think I should
+ever have a father’s curse to deprecate? And yet, only that the
+temporary part of it is so terribly fulfilled, or I should be as
+earnest for its recall, for my father’s sake, as for my own!
+
+You must not be angry with me that I wrote not to you before. You are
+very right and very kind to say you are sure I love you. Indeed I do.
+And what a generosity, [so like yourself!] is there in your praise, to
+attribute to me more than I merit, in order to raise an emulation to me
+to deserve your praises!—you tell me what you expect from me in the
+calamities I am called upon to bear. May I behave answerably!
+
+I can a little account to myself for my silence to you, my kind, my
+dear maternal friend! How equally sweetly and politely do you express
+yourself on this occasion! I was very desirous, for your sake, as well
+as for my own, that you should have it to say that we did not
+correspond: had they thought we did, every word you could have dropt in
+my favour would have been rejected; and my mother would have been
+forbid to see you, or pay any regard to what you should say.
+
+Then I had sometimes better and sometimes worse prospects before me. My
+worst would only have troubled you to know: my better made me
+frequently hope, that, by the next post, or the next, and so on for
+weeks, I should have the best news to impart to you that then could
+happen: cold as the wretch had made my heart to that best.—For how
+could I think to write to you, with a confession that I was not
+married, yet lived in the house (for I could not help it) with such a
+man?—Who likewise had given it out to several, that we were actually
+married, although with restrictions that depended on the reconciliation
+with my friends? And to disguise the truth, or be guilty of a
+falsehood, either direct or equivocal, that was what you had never
+taught me.
+
+But I might have written to you for advice, in my precarious situation,
+perhaps you will think. But, indeed, my dear Mrs. Norton, I was not
+lost for want of advice. And this will appear clear to you from what I
+have already hinted, were I to explain myself no further:—For what need
+had the cruel spoiler to have recourse to unprecedented arts—I will
+speak out plainer still, (but you must not at present report it,) to
+stupifying potions, and to the most brutal and outrageous force, had I
+been wanting in my duty?
+
+A few words more upon this grievous subject—
+
+When I reflect upon all that has happened to me, it is apparent, that
+this generally-supposed thoughtless seducer has acted by me upon a
+regular and preconcerted plan of villany.
+
+In order to set all his vile plots in motion, nothing was wanting, from
+the first, but to prevail upon me, either by force or fraud, to throw
+myself into his power: and when this was effected, nothing less than
+the intervention of the paternal authority, (which I had not deserved
+to be exerted in my behalf,) could have saved me from the effect of his
+deep machinations. Opposition from any other quarter would but too
+probably have precipitated his barbarous and ungrateful violence: and
+had you yourself been with me, I have reason now to think, that somehow
+or other you would have suffered in endeavouring to save me: for never
+was there, as now I see, a plan of wickedness more steadily and
+uniformly pursued than his has been, against an unhappy creature who
+merited better of him: but the Almighty has thought fit, according to
+the general course of His providence, to make the fault bring on its
+own punishment: but surely not in consequence of my father’s dreadful
+imprecation, ‘That I might be punished here,’ [O my mamma Norton, pray
+with me, if so, that here it stop!] ‘by the very wretch in whom I had
+placed my wicked confidence!’
+
+I am sorry, for your sake, to leave off so heavily. Yet the rest must
+be brief.
+
+Let me desire you to be secret in what I have communicated to you; at
+least till you have my consent to divulge it.
+
+God preserve to you your more faultless child!
+
+I will hope for His mercy, although I should not obtain that of any
+earthly person.
+
+And I repeat my prohibition:—You must not think of coming up to
+
+Your ever dutiful CL. HARLOWE.
+
+The obliging person, who left your’s for me this day, promised to call
+to-morrow, to see if I should have any thing to return. I would not
+lose so good an opportunity.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER LXIII
+
+
+MRS. NORTON, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE MONDAY NIGHT, JULY 3.
+
+O the barbarous villany of this detestable man! And is there a man in
+the world who could offer violence to so sweet a creature!
+
+And are you sure you are now out of his reach?
+
+You command me to keep secret the particulars of the vile treatment you
+have met with; or else, upon an unexpected visit which Miss Harlowe
+favoured me with, soon after I had received your melancholy letter, I
+should have been tempted to own I had heard from you, and to have
+communicated to her such parts of your two letters as would have
+demonstrated your penitence, and your earnestness to obtain the
+revocation of your father’s malediction, as well as his protection from
+outrages that may still be offered to you. But then your sister would
+probably have expected a sight of the letters, and even to have been
+permitted to take them with her to the family.
+
+Yet they must one day be acquainted with the sad story:—and it is
+impossible but they must pity you, and forgive you, when they know your
+early penitence, and your unprecedented sufferings; and that you have
+fallen by the brutal force of a barbarous ravisher, and not by the vile
+arts of a seducing lover.
+
+The wicked man gives it out at Lord M.’s, as Miss Harlowe tells me,
+that he is actually married to you—yet she believes it not: nor had I
+the heart to let her know the truth.
+
+She put it close to me, Whether I had not corresponded with you from
+the time of your going away? I could safely tell her, (as I did,) that
+I had not: but I said, that I was well informed, that you took
+extremely to heart your father’s imprecation; and that, if she would
+excuse me, I would say it would be a kind and sisterly part, if she
+would use her interest to get you discharged from it.
+
+Among other severe things, she told me, that my partial fondness for
+you made me very little consider the honour of the rest of the family:
+but, if I had not heard this from you, she supposed I was set on by
+Miss Howe.
+
+She expressed herself with a good deal of bitterness against that young
+lady: who, it seems, every where, and to every body, (for you must
+think that your story is the subject of all conversations,) rails
+against your family; treating them, as your sister says, with contempt,
+and even with ridicule.
+
+I am sorry such angry freedoms are taken, for two reasons; first,
+because such liberties never do any good. I have heard you own, that
+Miss Howe has a satirical vein; but I should hope that a young lady of
+her sense, and right cast of mind, must know that the end of satire is
+not to exasperate, but amend; and should never be personal. If it be,
+as my good father used to say, it may make an impartial person suspect
+that the satirist has a natural spleen to gratify; which may be as
+great a fault in him, as any of those which he pretends to censure and
+expose in others.
+
+Perhaps a hint of this from you will not be thrown away.
+
+My second reason is, That these freedoms, from so warm a friend to you
+as Miss Howe is known to be, are most likely to be charged to your
+account.
+
+My resentments are so strong against this vilest of men, that I dare
+not touch upon the shocking particulars which you mention of his
+baseness. What defence, indeed, could there be against so determined a
+wretch, after you was in his power? I will only repeat my earnest
+supplication to you, that, black as appearances are, you will not
+despair. Your calamities are exceeding great; but then you have talents
+proportioned to your trials. This every body allows.
+
+Suppose the worst, and that your family will not be moved in your
+favour, your cousin Morden will soon arrive, as Miss Harlowe told me.
+If he should even be got over to their side, he will however see
+justice done you; and then may you live an exemplary life, making
+hundreds happy, and teaching young ladies to shun the snares in which
+you have been so dreadfully entangled.
+
+As to the man you have lost, is an union with such a perjured heart as
+his, with such an admirable one as your’s, to be wished for? A base,
+low-hearted wretch, as you justly call him, with all his pride of
+ancestry; and more an enemy to himself with regard to his present and
+future happiness than to you, in the barbarous and ungrateful wrongs he
+has done you: I need not, I am sure, exhort you to despise such a man
+as this, since not to be able to do so, would be a reflection upon a
+sex to which you have always been an honour.
+
+Your moral character is untainted: the very nature of your sufferings,
+as you will observe, demonstrates that. Cheer up, therefore, your dear
+heart, and do not despair; for is it not GOD who governs the world, and
+permits some things, and directs others, as He pleases? and will He not
+reward temporary sufferings, innocently incurred, and piously
+supported, with eternal felicity?—And what, my dear, is this poor
+needle’s point of NOW to a boundless eternity?
+
+My heart, however, labours under a double affliction: For my poor boy
+is very, very bad—a violent fever—nor can it be brought to
+intermit.—Pray for him, my dearest Miss—for his recovery, if God see
+fit.—I hope God will see fit—if not (how can I bear to suppose that!)
+Pray for me, that he will give me that patience and resignation which I
+have been wishing to you. I am, my dearest young lady,
+
+Your ever affectionate JUDITH NORTON.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER LXIV
+
+
+MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MRS. JUDITH NORTON THURSDAY, JULY 6.
+
+I ought not, especially at this time, to add to your afflictions—but
+yet I cannot help communicating to you (who now are my only soothing
+friend) a new trouble that has befallen me.
+
+I had but one friend in the world, beside you; and she is utterly
+displeased with me.* It is grievous, but for one moment, to lie under a
+beloved person’s censure; and this through imputations that affect
+one’s honour and prudence. There are points so delicate, you know, my
+dear Mrs. Norton, that it is a degree of dishonour to have a
+vindication of one’s self from them appear to be necessary. In the
+present case, my misfortune is, that I know not how to account, but by
+guess (so subtle have been the workings of the dark spirit I have been
+unhappily entangled by) for some of the facts that I am called upon to
+explain.
+
+Miss Howe, in short, supposes she has found a flaw in my character. I
+have just now received her severe letter—but I shall answer it,
+perhaps, in better temper, if I first consider your’s: for indeed my
+patience is almost at an end. And yet I ought to consider, that
+faithful are the wounds of a friend. But so many things at once! O my
+dear Mrs. Norton, how shall so young a scholar in the school of
+affliction be able to bear such heavy and such various evils!
+
+But to leave this subject for a while, and turn to your letter.
+
+I am very sorry Miss Howe is so lively in her resentments on my
+account. I have always blamed her very freely for her liberties of this
+sort with my friends. I once had a good deal of influence over her kind
+heart, and she made all I said a law to her. But people in calamity
+have little weight in any thing, or with any body. Prosperity and
+independence are charming things on this account, that they give force
+to the counsels of a friendly heart; while it is thought insolence in
+the miserable to advise, or so much as to remonstrate.
+
+Yet is Miss Howe an invaluable person: And is it to be expected that
+she should preserve the same regard for my judgment that she had before
+I forfeited all title to discretion? With what face can I take upon me
+to reproach a want of prudence in her? But if I can be so happy as to
+re-establish myself in her ever-valued opinion, I shall endeavour to
+enforce upon her your just observation on this head.
+
+You need not, you say, exhort me to despise such a man as him, by whom
+I have suffered—indeed you need not: for I would choose the cruellest
+death rather than to be his. And yet, my dear Mrs. Norton, I will own
+to you, that once I could have loved him.—Ungrateful man!—had he
+permitted me to love him, I once could have loved him. Yet he never
+deserved love. And was not this a fault?—But now, if I can but keep out
+of his hands, and obtain a last forgiveness, and that as well for the
+sake of my dear friends’ future reflections, as for my own present
+comfort, it is all I wish for.
+
+Reconciliation with my friends I do not expect; nor pardon from them;
+at least, till in extremity, and as a _viaticum_.
+
+O my beloved Mrs. Norton, you cannot imagine what I have suffered!—But
+indeed my heart is broken!—I am sure I shall not live to take
+possession of that independence, which you think would enable me to
+atone, in some measure, for my past conduct.
+
+While this is my opinion, you may believe I shall not be easy till I
+can obtain a last forgiveness.
+
+I wish to be left to take my own course in endeavouring to procure this
+grace. Yet know I not, at present, what that course shall be.
+
+I will write. But to whom is my doubt. Calamity has not yet given me
+the assurance to address myself to my FATHER. My UNCLES (well as they
+once loved me) are hard hearted. They never had their masculine
+passions humanized by the tender name of FATHER. Of my BROTHER I have
+no hope. I have then but my MOTHER, and my SISTER, to whom I can
+apply.—‘And may I not, my dearest Mamma, be permitted to lift up my
+trembling eye to your all-cheering, and your once more than indulgent,
+your fond eye, in hopes of seasonable mercy to the poor sick heart that
+yet beats with life drawn from your own dearer heart?—Especially when
+pardon only, and not restoration, is implored?’
+
+Yet were I able to engage my mother’s pity, would it not be a mean to
+make her still more unhappy than I have already made her, by the
+opposition she would meet with, were she to try to give force to that
+pity?
+
+To my SISTER, then, I think, I will apply—Yet how hard-hearted has my
+sister been!—But I will not ask for protection; and yet I am in hourly
+dread that I shall want protection.—All I will ask for at present
+(preparative to the last forgiveness I will implore) shall be only to
+be freed from the heavy curse that seems to have operated as far is it
+can operate as to this life—and, surely, it was passion, and not
+intention, that carried it so far as to the other!
+
+But why do I thus add to your distresses?—It is not, my dear Mrs.
+Norton, that I have so much feeling for my own calamity that I have
+none for your’s: since your’s is indeed an addition to my own. But you
+have one consolation (a very great one) which I have not:—That your
+afflictions, whether respecting your more or your less deserving child,
+rise not from any fault of your own.
+
+But what can I do for you more than pray?—Assure yourself, that in
+every supplication I put up for myself, I will with equal fervour
+remember both you and your son. For I am and ever will be
+
+Your truly sympathising and dutiful CLARISSA HARLOWE.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER LXV
+
+
+MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE [SUPERSCRIBED FOR MRS. RACHEL
+CLARK, &c.] WEDNESDAY, JULY 5.
+
+MY DEAR CLARISSA,
+
+I have at last heard from you from a quarter I little expected.
+
+From my mother!
+
+She had for some time seen me uneasy and grieving; and justly supposed
+it was about you: and this morning dropt a hint, which made me
+conjecture that she must have heard something of you more than I knew.
+And when she found that this added to my uneasiness, she owned she had
+a letter in her hands of your’s, dated the 29th of June, directed for
+me.
+
+You may guess, that this occasioned a little warmth, that could not be
+wished for by either.
+
+[It is surprising, my dear, mighty surprising! that knowing the
+prohibition I lay under of corresponding with you, you could send a
+letter for me to our own house: since it must be fifty to one that it
+would fall into my mother’s hands, as you find it did.]
+
+In short, she resented that I should disobey her: I was as much
+concerned that she should open and withhold from me my letters: and at
+last she was pleased to compromise the matter with me by giving up the
+letter, and permitting me to write to you once or twice: she to see the
+contents of what I wrote. For, besides the value she has for you, she
+could not but have greater curiosity to know the occasion of so sad a
+situation as your melancholy letter shows you to be in.
+
+[But I shall get her to be satisfied with hearing me read what I write;
+putting in between hooks, { }, what I intend not to read to her.]
+
+Need I to remind you, Miss Clarissa Harlowe, of three letters I wrote
+to you, to none of which I had any answer; except to the first, and
+that of a few lines only, promising a letter at large, though you were
+well enough, the day after you received my second, to go joyfully back
+again with him to the vile house? But more of these by-and-by. I must
+hasten to take notice of your letter of Wednesday last week; which you
+could contrive should fall into my mother’s hands.
+
+Let me tell you, that that letter has almost broken my heart. Good
+God!—What have you brought yourself to, Miss Clarissa Harlowe?—Could I
+have believed, that after you had escaped from the miscreant, (with
+such mighty pains and earnestness escaped,) and after such an attempt
+as he had made, you would have been prevailed upon not only to forgive
+him, but (without being married too) to return with him to that horrid
+house!—A house I had given you such an account of!—Surprising!——What an
+intoxicating thing is this love?—I always feared, that you, even you,
+were not proof against its inconsistent effects.
+
+You your best self have not escaped!—Indeed I see not how you could
+expect to escape.
+
+What a tale have you to unfold!—You need not unfold it, my dear: I
+would have engaged to prognosticate all that has happened, had you but
+told me that you would once more have put yourself in his power, after
+you had taken such pains to get out of it.
+
+Your peace is destroyed!—I wonder not at it: since now you must
+reproach yourself for a credulity so ill-placed.
+
+Your intellect is touched!—I am sure my heart bleeds for you! But,
+excuse me, my dear, I doubt your intellect was touched before you left
+Hampstead: or you would never have let him find you out there; or, when
+he did, suffer him to prevail upon you to return to the horrid brothel.
+
+I tell you, I sent you three letters: The first of which, dated the 7th
+and 8th of June* (for it was written at twice) came safely to your
+hands, as you sent me word by a few lines dated the 9th: had it not, I
+should have doubted my own safety; since in it I give you such an
+account of the abominable house, and threw such cautions in your way,
+in relation to that Tomlinson, as the more surprised me that you could
+think of going back to it again, after you had escaped from it, and
+from Lovelace.—O my dear—but nothing now will I ever wonder at!
+
+* See Vol. V. Letter XX.
+
+The second, dated June 10,* was given into your own hand at Hampstead,
+on Sunday the 11th, as you was lying upon a couch, in a strange way,
+according to my messenger’s account of you, bloated, and
+flush-coloured; I don’t know how.
+
+* See Letter VII. of this volume.
+
+The third was dated the 20th of June.* Having not heard one word from
+you since the promising billet of the 9th, I own I did not spare you in
+it. I ventured it by the usual conveyance, by that Wilson’s, having no
+other: so cannot be sure you received it. Indeed I rather think you
+might not; because in your’s, which fell into my mother’s hands, you
+make no mention of it: and if you had had it, I believe it would have
+touched you too much to have been passed by unnoticed.
+
+* See Letter XXX. of this volume.
+
+You have heard, that I have been ill, you say. I had a cold, indeed;
+but it was so slight a one that it confined me not an hour. But I doubt
+not that strange things you have heard, and been told, to induce you to
+take the step you took. And, till you did take that step (the going
+back with this villain, I mean,) I knew not a more pitiable case than
+your’s: since every body must have excused you before, who knew how you
+were used at home, and was acquainted with your prudence and vigilance.
+But, alas! my dear, we see that the wisest people are not to be
+depended upon, when love, like an _ignis fatuus_, holds up its
+misleading lights before their eyes.
+
+My mother tells me, she sent you an answer, desiring you not to write
+to me, because it would grieve me. To be sure I am grieved; exceedingly
+grieved; and, disappointed too, you must permit me to say. For I had
+always thought that there never was such a woman, at your years, in the
+world.
+
+But I remember once an argument you held, on occasion of a censure
+passed in company upon an excellent preacher, who was not a very
+excellent liver: preaching and practising, you said, required very
+different talents:* which, when united in the same person, made the man
+a saint; as wit and judgment, going together, constituted a genius.
+
+* See Vol. II. Letter IV.
+
+You made it out, I remember, very prettily: but you never made it out,
+excuse me, my dear, more convincingly, than by that part of your late
+conduct, which I complain of.
+
+My love for you, and my concern for your honour, may possibly have made
+me a little of the severest. If you think so, place it to its proper
+account; to that love, and to that concern: which will but do justice
+to
+
+Your afflicted and faithful A.H.
+
+P.S. My mother would not be satisfied without reading my letter
+herself; and that before I had fixed all the proposed hooks. She knows,
+by this means, and has excused, our former correspondence.
+
+She indeed suspected it before: and so she very well might; knowing my
+love of you.
+
+She has so much real concern for your misfortunes, that, thinking it
+will be a consolation to you, and that it will oblige me, she consents
+that you shall write to me the particulars at large of your sad story.
+But it is on condition that I show her all that has passed between us,
+relating to yourself and the vilest of men. I have the more cheerfully
+complied, as the communication cannot be to your disadvantage.
+
+You may therefore write freely, and direct to our own house.
+
+My mother promises to show me the copy of her letter to you, and your
+reply to it; which latter she has but just told me of. She already
+apologizes for the severity of her’s: and thinks the sight of your
+reply will affect me too much. But, having her promise, I will not
+dispense with it.
+
+I doubt her’s is severe enough. So I fear you will think mine: but you
+have taught me never to spare the fault for the friend’s sake; and that
+a great error ought rather to be the more inexcusable in the person we
+value, than in one we are indifferent to; because it is a reflection
+upon our choice of that person, and tends to a breach of the love of
+mind, and to expose us to the world for our partiality. To the love of
+mind, I repeat; since it is impossible but the errors of the dearest
+friend must weaken our inward opinion of that friend; and thereby lay a
+foundation for future distance, and perhaps disgust.
+
+God grant that you may be able to clear your conduct after you had
+escaped from Hampstead; as all before that time was noble, generous,
+and prudent; the man a devil and you a saint!——Yet I hope you can; and
+therefore expect it from you.
+
+I send by a particular hand. He will call for your answer at your own
+appointment.
+
+I am afraid this horrid wretch will trace out by the post-offices where
+you are, if not careful.
+
+To have money, and will, and head, to be a villain, is too much for the
+rest of the world, when they meet in one man.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER LXVI
+
+
+MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE THURSDAY, JULY 6.
+
+Few young persons have been able to give more convincing proofs than
+myself how little true happiness lies in the enjoyment of our own
+wishes.
+
+To produce one instance only of the truth of this observation; what
+would I have given for weeks past, for the favour of a letter from my
+dear Miss Howe, in whose friendship I placed all my remaining comfort!
+Little did I think, that the next letter she would honour me with,
+should be in such a style, as should make me look more than once at the
+subscription, that I might be sure (the name not being written at
+length) that it was not signed by another A.H. For surely, thought I,
+this is my sister Arabella’s style: surely Miss Howe (blame me as she
+pleases in other points) could never repeat so sharply upon her friend,
+words written in the bitterness of spirit, and in the disorder of head;
+nor remind her, with asperity, and with mingled strokes of wit, of an
+argument held in the gaiety of a heart elated with prosperous fortunes,
+(as mine then was,) and very little apprehensive of the severe turn
+that argument would one day take against herself.
+
+But what have I, sink in my fortunes; my character forfeited; my honour
+lost, [while I know it, I care not who knows it;] destitute of friends,
+and even of hope; what have I to do to show a spirit of repining and
+expostulation to a dear friend, because she is not more kind than a
+sister?——
+
+You have till now, my dear, treated me with great indulgence. If it was
+with greater than I had deserved, I may be to blame to have built upon
+it, on the consciousness that I deserve it now as much as ever. But I
+find, by the rising bitterness which will mingle with the gall in my
+ink, that I am not yet subdued enough to my condition.—I lay down my
+pen for one moment.
+
+
+Pardon me, my Miss Howe. I have recollected myself: and will endeavour
+to give a particular answer to your letter; although it will take me up
+too much time to think of sending it by your messenger to-morrow: he
+can put off his journey, he says, till Saturday. I will endeavour to
+have the whole narrative ready for you by Saturday.
+
+But how to defend myself in every thing that has happened, I cannot
+tell: since in some part of the time, in which my conduct appears to
+have been censurable, I was not myself; and to this hour know not all
+the methods taken to deceive and ruin me.
+
+You tell me, that in your first letter you gave me such an account of
+the vile house I was in, and such cautions about that Tomlinson, as
+made you wonder how I could think of going back.
+
+Alas, my dear! I was tricked, most vilely tricked back, as you shall
+hear in its place.
+
+Without knowing the house was so very vile a house from your intended
+information, I disliked the people too much, ever voluntarily to have
+returned to it. But had you really written such cautions about
+Tomlinson, and the house, as you seem to have purposed to do, they
+must, had they come in time, have been of infinite service to me. But
+not one word of either, whatever was your intention, did you mention to
+me, in that first of the three letters you so warmly TELL me you did
+send me. I will enclose it to convince you.*
+
+* The letter she encloses was Mr. Lovelace’s forged one. See Vol. V.
+Letter XXX.
+
+But your account of your messenger’s delivering to me your second
+letter, and the description he gives of me, as lying upon a couch, in a
+strange way, bloated, and flush-coloured; you don’t know how,
+absolutely puzzles and confounds me.
+
+Lord have mercy upon the poor Clarissa Harlowe! What can this mean!—Who
+was the messenger you sent? Was he one of Lovelace’s creatures
+too!—Could nobody come near me but that man’s confederates, either
+setting out so, or made so? I know not what to make of any one syllable
+of this! Indeed I don’t.
+
+Let me see. You say, this was before I went from Hampstead! My
+intellects had not then been touched!—nor had I ever been surprised by
+wine, [strange if I had!]: How then could I be found in such a strange
+way, bloated and flush-coloured; you don’t know how!—Yet what a vile,
+what a hateful figure has your messenger represented me to have made!
+
+But indeed I know nothing of any messenger from you.
+
+Believing myself secure at Hampstead, I staid longer there than I would
+have done, in hopes of the letter promised me in your short one of the
+9th, brought me by my own messenger, in which you undertake to send for
+and engage Mrs. Townsend in my favour.*
+
+* See Vol. V. Letter XXIX.
+
+I wondered I had not heard from you: and was told you were sick; and,
+at another time, that your mother and you had had words on my account,
+and that you had refused to admit Mr. Hickman’s visits upon it: so that
+I supposed, at one time, that you were not able to write; at another,
+that your mother’s prohibition had its due force with you. But now I
+have no doubt that the wicked man must have intercepted your letter;
+and I wish he found not means to corrupt your messenger to tell you so
+strange a story.
+
+It was on Sunday, June 11, you say, that the man gave it me. I was at
+church twice that day with Mrs. Moore. Mr. Lovelace was at her house
+the while, where he boarded, and wanted to have lodged; but I would not
+permit that, though I could not help the other. In one of these spaces
+it must be that he had time to work upon the man. You’ll easily, my
+dear, find that out, by inquiring the time of his arrival at Mrs.
+Moore’s and other circumstances of the strange way he pretended to see
+me in, on a couch, and the rest.
+
+Had any body seen me afterwards, when I was betrayed back to the vile
+house, struggling under the operation of wicked potions, and robbed
+indeed of my intellects (for this, as you shall hear, was my dreadful
+case,) I might then, perhaps, have appeared bloated and flush-coloured,
+and I know not how myself. But were you to see your poor Clarissa, now
+(or even to have seen her at Hampstead before she suffered the vilest
+of all outrages,) you would not think her bloated or flush-coloured:
+indeed you would not.
+
+In a word, it could not be me your messenger saw; nor (if any body) who
+it was can I divine.
+
+I will now, as briefly as the subject will permit, enter into the
+darker part of my sad story: and yet I must be somewhat circumstantial,
+that you may not think me capable of reserve or palliation. The latter
+I am not conscious that I need. I should be utterly inexcusable were I
+guilty of the former to you. And yet, if you know how my heart sinks
+under the thoughts of a recollection so painful, you would pity me.
+
+As I shall not be able, perhaps, to conclude what I have to write in
+even two or three letters, I will begin a new one with my story; and
+send the whole of it together, although written at different periods,
+as I am able.
+
+Allow me a little pause, my dear, at this place; and to subscribe
+myself
+
+Your ever affectionate and obliged, CLARISSA HARLOWE.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER LXVII
+
+
+MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE [REFERRED TO IN LETTER XII.]
+THURSDAY NIGHT.
+
+He had found me out at Hampstead: strangely found me out; for I am
+still at a loss to know by what means.
+
+I was loth, in my billet of the 6th,* to tell you so, for fear of
+giving you apprehensions for me; and besides, I hoped then to have a
+shorter and happier issue to account to you for, through your
+assistance, than I met with.
+
+* See Vol. V. Letter XXXI.
+
+[She then gives a narrative of all that passed at Hampstead between
+herself, Mr. Lovelace, Capt. Tomlinson, and the women there, to the
+same effect with that so amply given by Mr. Lovelace.]
+
+Mr. Lovelace, finding all he could say, and all Captain Tomlinson could
+urge, ineffectual, to prevail upon me to forgive an outrage so
+flagrantly premeditated; rested all his hopes on a visit which was to
+be paid me by Lady Betty Lawrance and Miss Montague.
+
+In my uncertain situation, my prospects all so dark, I knew not to whom
+I might be obliged to have recourse in the last resort: and as those
+ladies had the best of characters, insomuch that I had reason to regret
+that I had not from the first thrown myself upon their protection,
+(when I had forfeited that of my own friends,) I thought I would not
+shun an interview with them, though I was too indifferent to their
+kinsman to seek it, as I doubted not that one end of their visit would
+be to reconcile me to him.
+
+On Monday, the 12th of June, these pretended ladies came to Hampstead;
+and I was presented to them, and they to me by their kinsman.
+
+They were richly dressed, and stuck out with jewels; the pretended Lady
+Betty’s were particularly very fine.
+
+They came in a coach-and-four, hired, as was confessed, while their own
+was repairing in town: a pretence made, I now perceive, that I should
+not guess at the imposture by the want of the real lady’s arms upon it.
+Lady Betty was attended by her woman, who she called Morrison; a modest
+country-looking person.
+
+I had heard, that Lady Betty was a fine woman, and that Miss Montague
+was a beautiful young lady, genteel, and graceful, and full of
+vivacity.—Such were these impostors: and having never seen either of
+them, I had not the least suspicion, that they were not the ladies they
+personated; and being put a little out of countenance by the richness
+of their dresses, I could not help, (fool that I was!) to apologize for
+my own.
+
+The pretended Lady Betty then told me, that her nephew had acquainted
+them with the situation of affairs between us. And although she could
+not but say, that she was very glad that she had not put such a slight
+upon his Lordship and them, as report had given them cause to
+apprehend, (the reasons for which report, however, she must have
+approved of;) yet it had been matter of great concern to her, and to
+her niece Montague, and would to the whole family, to find so great a
+misunderstanding subsisting between us, as, if not made up, might
+distance all their hopes.
+
+She could easily tell who was in fault, she said. And gave him a look
+both of anger and disdain; asking him, How it was possible for him to
+give an offence of such a nature to so charming a lady, [so she called
+me,] as should occasion a resentment so strong?
+
+He pretended to be awed into shame and silence.
+
+My dearest niece, said she, and took my hand, (I must call you niece,
+as well from love, as to humour your uncle’s laudable expedient,)
+permit me to be, not an advocate, but a mediatrix for him; and not for
+his sake, so much as for my own, my Charlotte’s, and all our family’s.
+The indignity he has offered to you, may be of too tender a nature to
+be inquired into. But as he declares, that it was not a premeditated
+offence; whether, my dear, [for I was going to rise upon it in my
+temper,] it were or not; and as he declares his sorrows for it, (and
+never did creature express a deeper sorrow for any offence than he);
+and as it is a repairable one; let us, for this one time, forgive him;
+and thereby lay an obligation upon this man of errors—Let US, I say, my
+dear: for, Sir, [turning to him,] an offence against such a peerless
+lady as this, must be an offence against me, against your cousin here,
+and against all the virtuous of our sex.
+
+See, my dear, what a creature he had picked out! Could you have thought
+there was a woman in the world who could thus express herself, and yet
+be vile? But she had her principal instructions from him, and those
+written down too, as I have reason to think: for I have recollected
+since, that I once saw this Lady Betty, (who often rose from her seat,
+and took a turn to the other end of the room with such an emotion, as
+if the joy of her heart would not let her sit still) take out a paper
+from her stays, and look into it, and put it there again. She might
+oftener, and I not observe it; for I little thought that there could be
+such impostors in the world.
+
+I could not forbear paying great attention to what she said. I found my
+tears ready to start; I drew out my handkerchief, and was silent. I had
+not been so indulgently treated a great while by a person of character
+and distinction, [such I thought her;] and durst not trust to the
+accent of my voice.
+
+The pretended Miss Montague joined in on this occasion: and drawing her
+chair close to me, took my other hand, and besought me to forgive her
+cousin; and consent to rank myself as one of the principals of a family
+that had long, very long, coveted the honour of my alliance.
+
+I am ashamed to repeat to you, my dear, now I know what wretches they
+are, the tender, the obliging, and the respectful things I said to
+them.
+
+The wretch himself then came forward. He threw himself at my feet. How
+was I beset!—The women grasping, one my right hand, the other my left:
+the pretended Miss Montague pressing to her lips more than once the
+hand she held: the wicked man on his knees, imploring my forgiveness;
+and setting before me my happy and my unhappy prospects, as I should
+forgive and not forgive him. All that he thought would affect me in
+former pleas, and those of Capt. Tomlinson, he repeated. He vowed, he
+promised, he bespoke the pretended ladies to answer for him; and they
+engaged their honours in his behalf.
+
+Indeed, my dear, I was distressed, perfectly distressed. I was sorry
+that I had given way to this visit. For I knew not how, in tenderness
+to relations, (as I thought them,) so worthy, to treat so freely as he
+deserved, a man nearly allied to them: so that my arguments and my
+resolutions were deprived of their greatest force.
+
+I pleaded, however, my application to you. I expected every hour, I
+told them, an answer from you to a letter I had written, which would
+decide my future destiny.
+
+They offered to apply to you themselves in person, in their own behalf,
+as they politely termed it. They besought me to write to you to hasten
+your answer.
+
+I said, I was sure that you would write the moment that the event of an
+application to be made to a third person enabled you to write. But as
+to the success of their request in behalf of their kinsman, that
+depended not upon the expected answer; for that, I begged their pardon,
+was out of the question. I wished him well. I wished him happy. But I
+was convinced, that I neither could make him so, nor he me.
+
+Then! how the wretch promised!—How he vowed!—How he entreated!—And how
+the women pleaded!—And they engaged themselves, and the honour of their
+whole family, for his just, his kind, his tender behaviour to me.
+
+In short, my dear, I was so hard set, that I was obliged to come to a
+more favourable compromise with them than I had intended. I would wait
+for your answer to my letter, I said: and if that made doubtful or
+difficult the change of measures I had resolved upon, and the scheme of
+life I had formed, I would then consider of the matter; and, if they
+would permit me, lay all before them, and take their advice upon it, in
+conjunction with your’s, as if the one were my own aunt, and the other
+were my own cousin.
+
+They shed tears upon this—of joy they called them:—But since, I
+believe, to their credit, bad as they are, that they were tears of
+temporary remorse; for, the pretended Miss Montague turned about, and,
+as I remember, said, There was no standing it.
+
+But Mr. Lovelace was not so easily satisfied. He was fixed upon his
+villanous measures perhaps; and so might not be sorry to have a
+pretence against me. He bit his lip—he had been but too much used, he
+said, to such indifference, such coldness, in the very midst of his
+happiest prospects. I had on twenty occasions shown him, to his
+infinite regret, that any favour I was to confer upon him was to be the
+result of—there he stopt—and not of my choice.
+
+This had like to have set all back again. I was exceedingly offended.
+But the pretended ladies interposed. The elder severely took him to
+task. He ought, she told him, to be satisfied with what I had said. She
+desired no other condition. And what, Sir, said she, with an air of
+authority, would you commit errors, and expect to be rewarded for them?
+
+They then engaged me in a more agreeable conversation—the pretended
+lady declared, that she, Lord M. and Lady Sarah, would directly and
+personally interest themselves to bring about a general reconciliation
+between the two families, and this either in open or private concert
+with my uncle Harlowe, as should be thought fit. Animosities on one
+side had been carried a great way, she said; and too little care had
+been shown on the other to mollify or heal. My father should see that
+they could treat him as a brother and a friend; and my brother and
+sister should be convinced that there was no room either for the
+jealousy or envy they had conceived from motives too unworthy to be
+avowed.
+
+Could I help, my dear, being pleased with them?—
+
+Permit me here to break off. The task grows too heavy, at present, for
+the heart of
+
+Your CLARISSA HARLOWE.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER LXVIII
+
+
+MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE [IN CONTINUATION.]
+
+I was very ill, and obliged to lay down my pen. I thought I should have
+fainted. But am better now—so will proceed.
+
+The pretended ladies, the more we talked, the fonder they seemed to be
+of me. And the Lady Betty had Mrs. Moore called up; and asked her, If
+she had accommodations for her niece and self, her woman, and two men
+servants, for three or four days?
+
+Mr. Lovelace answered for her that she had.
+
+She would not ask her dear niece Lovelace, [Permit me, my dear,
+whispered she, this charming style before strangers! I will keep your
+uncle’s secret,] whether she should be welcome or not to be so near
+her. But for the time she should stay in these parts, she would come up
+every night—What say you, niece Charlotte?
+
+The pretended Charlotte answered, she should like to do so, of all
+things.
+
+The Lady Betty called her an obliging girl. She liked the place, she
+said. Her cousin Leeson would excuse her. The air, and my company,
+would do her good. She never chose to lie in the smoky town, if she
+could help it. In short, my dear, said she to me, I will stay with you
+till you hear from Miss Howe; and till I have your consent to go with
+me to Glenham-hall. Not one moment will I be out of your company, when
+I can have it. Stedman, my solicitor, as the distance from town is so
+small, may attend me here for instructions. Niece Charlotte, one word
+with you, child.
+
+They retired to the further end of the room, and talked about their
+night-dresses.
+
+The Miss Charlotte said, Morrison might be dispatched for them.
+
+True, said the other—but I have some letters in my private box, which I
+must have up. And you know, Charlotte, that I trust nobody with the
+keys of that.
+
+Could not Morrison bring up the box?
+
+No. She thought it safest where it was. She had heard of a robbery
+committed but two days ago at the food of Hampstead-hill; and she
+should be ruined if she lost her box.
+
+Well, then, it was but going to town to undress, and she would leave
+her jewels behind her, and return; and should be easier a great deal on
+all accounts.
+
+For my part, I wondered they came up with them. But that was to be
+taken as a respect paid to me. And then they hinted at another visit of
+ceremony which they had thought to make, had they not found me so
+inexpressibly engaging.
+
+They talked loud enough for me to hear them; on purpose, no doubt,
+though in affected whispers; and concluded with high praises of me.
+
+I was not fool enough to believe, or to be puffed up with their
+encomiums; yet not suspecting them, I was not displeased at so
+favourable a beginning of acquaintance with Ladies (whether I were to
+be related to them or not) of whom I had always heard honourable
+mention. And yet at the time, I thought, highly as they exalted me,
+that in some respects (though I hardly know in what) they fell short of
+what I expected them to be.
+
+The grand deluder was at the farther end of the room, another way;
+probably to give me an opportunity to hear these preconcerted
+praises—looking into a book, which had there not been a preconcert,
+would not have taken his attention for one moment. It was Taylor’s Holy
+Living and Dying.
+
+When the pretended ladies joined me, he approached me with it in his
+hand—a smart book, this, my dear!—this old divine affects, I see, a
+mighty flowery style of an ordinary country funeral, where, the young
+women, in honour of a defunct companion, especially if she were a
+virgin, or passed for such, make a flower-bed of her coffin.
+
+And then, laying down the book, turning upon his heel, with one of his
+usual airs of gaiety, And are you determined, Ladies, to take up your
+lodgings with my charming creature?
+
+Indeed they were.
+
+Never were there more cunning, more artful impostors, than these women.
+Practised creatures, to be sure: yet genteel; and they must have been
+well-educated—once, perhaps, as much the delight of their parents, as I
+was of mine: and who knows by what arts ruined, body and mind—O my
+dear! how pregnant is this reflection!
+
+But the man!—Never was there a man so deep. Never so consummate a
+deceiver; except that detested Tomlinson; whose years and seriousness,
+joined with a solidity of sense and judgment that seemed uncommon, gave
+him, one would have thought, advantages in villany, the other had not
+time for. Hard, very hard, that I should fall into the knowledge of two
+such wretches; when two more such I hope are not to be met with in the
+world!—both so determined to carry on the most barbarous and perfidious
+projects against a poor young creature, who never did or wished harm to
+either.
+
+Take the following slight account of these women’s and of this man’s
+behaviour to each other before me.
+
+Mr. Lovelace carried himself to his pretended aunt with high respect,
+and paid a great deference to all she said. He permitted her to have
+all the advantage over him in the repartees and retorts that passed
+between them. I could, indeed, easily see, that it was permitted; and
+that he forbore that vivacity, that quickness, which he never spared
+showing to his pretended Miss Montague; and which a man of wit seldom
+knows how to spare showing, when an opportunity offers to display his
+wit.
+
+The pretended Miss Montague was still more respectful in her behaviour
+to her pretended aunt. While the aunt kept up the dignity of the
+character she had assumed, rallying both of them with the air of a
+person who depends upon the superiority which years and fortune give
+over younger persons, who might have a view to be obliged to her,
+either in her life, or at her death.
+
+The severity of her raillery, however, was turned upon Mr. Lovelace, on
+occasion of the character of the people who kept the lodgings, which,
+she said, I had thought myself so well warranted to leave privately.
+
+This startled me. For having then no suspicion of the vile Tomlinson, I
+concluded (and your letter of the 7th* favoured my conclusion) that if
+the house were notorious, either he, or Mr. Mennell, would have given
+me or him some hints of it—nor, although I liked not the people, did I
+observe any thing in them very culpable, till the Wednesday night
+before, that they offered not to come to my assistance, although within
+hearing of my distress, (as I am sure they were,) and having as much
+reason as I to be frighted at the fire, had it been real.
+
+* His forged letter. See Vol. V. Letter XXX.
+
+I looked with indignation upon Mr. Lovelace, at this hint.
+
+He seemed abashed. I have not patience, but to recollect the specious
+looks of this vile deceiver. But how was it possible, that even that
+florid countenance of his should enable him to command a blush at his
+pleasure? for blush he did, more than once: and the blush, on this
+occasion, was a deep-dyed crimson, unstrained for, and natural, as I
+thought—but he is so much of the actor, that he seems able to enter
+into any character; and his muscles and features appear entirely under
+obedience to his wicked will.*
+
+* It is proper to observe, that there was a more natural reason than
+this that the Lady gives for Mr. Lovelace’s blushing. It was a blush of
+indignation, as he owned afterwards to his friend Belford, in
+conversation; for the pretended Lady Betty had mistaken her cue, in
+condemning the house; and he had much ado to recover the blunder; being
+obliged to follow her lead, and vary from his first design; which was
+to have the people of the house spoken well of, in order to induce her
+to return to it, were it but on pretence to direct her clothes to be
+carried to Hampstead.
+
+The pretended lady went on, saying, she had taken upon herself to
+inquire after the people, on hearing that I had left the house in
+disgust; and though she heard not any thing much amiss, yet she heard
+enough to make her wonder that he could carry his spouse, a person of
+so much delicacy, to a house, that, if it had not a bad fame, had not a
+good one.
+
+You must think, my dear, that I liked the pretended Lady Betty the
+better for this. I suppose it was designed that I should.
+
+He was surprised, he said, that her Ladyship should hear a bad
+character of the people. It was what he had never before heard that
+they deserved. It was easy, indeed, to see, that they had not very
+great delicacy, though they were not indelicate. The nature of their
+livelihood, letting lodgings, and taking people to board, (and yet he
+had understood that they were nice in these particulars,) led them to
+aim at being free and obliging: and it was difficult, he said, for
+persons of cheerful dispositions, so to behave as to avoid censure:
+openness of heart and countenance in the sex (more was the pity) too
+often subjected good people, whose fortunes did not set them above the
+world, to uncharitable censure.
+
+He wished, however, that her Ladyship would tell what she had heard:
+although now it signified but little, because he would never ask me to
+set foot within their doors again: and he begged she would not mince
+the matter.
+
+Nay, no great matter, she said. But she had been informed, that there
+were more women-lodgers in the house than men: yet that their visiters
+were more men than women. And this had been hinted to her (perhaps by
+ill-wishers, she could not answer for that) in such a way, as if
+somewhat further were meant by it than was spoken.
+
+This, he said, was the true innuendo-way of characterizing, used by
+detractors. Every body and every thing had a black and a white side, of
+which well wishers and ill wishers may make their advantage. He had
+observed that the front house was well let, and he believed more to the
+one sex than to the other; for he had seen, occasionally passing to or
+fro, several genteel modest looking women; and who, it was very
+probable, were not so ill-beloved, but they might have visiters and
+relations of both sexes: but they were none of them any thing to us, or
+we to them: we were not once in any of their companies: but in the
+genteelest and most retired house of the two, which we had in a manner
+to ourselves, with the use of a parlour to the street, to serve us for
+a servants’ hall, or to receive common visiters, or our traders only,
+whom we admitted not up stairs.
+
+He always loved to speak as he found. No man in the world had suffered
+more from calumny than he himself had done.
+
+Women, he owned, ought to be more scrupulous than men needed to be
+where they lodged. Nevertheless he wished that fact, rather than
+surmise, were to be the foundation of their judgments, especially when
+they spoke of one another.
+
+He meant no reflection upon her Ladyship’s informants, or rather
+surmisants, (as he might call them,) be they who they would: nor did he
+think himself obliged to defend characters impeached, or not thought
+well of, by women of virtue and honour. Neither were these people of
+importance enough to have so much said about them.
+
+The pretended Lady Betty said, all who knew her, would clear her of
+censoriousness: that it gave her some opinion, she must needs say, of
+the people, that he had continued there so long with me; that I had
+rather negative than positive reasons of dislike to them; and that so
+shrewd a man as she heard Captain Tomlinson was had not objected to
+them.
+
+I think, niece Charlotte, proceeded she, as my nephew had not parted
+with these lodgings, you and I, (for, as my dear Miss Harlowe dislikes
+the people, I would not ask her for her company) will take a dish of
+tea with my nephew there, before we go out of town; and then we shall
+see what sort of people they are. I have heard that Mrs. Sinclair is a
+mighty forbidding creature.
+
+With all my heart, Madam. In your Ladyship’s company I shall make no
+scruple of going any where.
+
+It was Ladyship at every word; and as she seemed proud of her title,
+and of her dress too, I might have guessed that she was not used to
+either.
+
+What say you, cousin Lovelace? Lady Sarah, though a melancholy woman,
+is very inquisitive about all your affairs. I must acquaint her with
+every particular circumstance when I go down.
+
+With all his heart. He would attend her whenever she pleased. She would
+see very handsome apartments, and very civil people.
+
+The deuce is in them, said the Miss Montague, if they appear other to
+us.
+
+She then fell into family talk; family happiness on my hoped-for
+accession into it. They mentioned Lord M.’s and Lady Sarah’s great
+desire to see me: how many friends and admirers, with uplift hands, I
+should have! [Oh! my dear, what a triumph must these creatures, and he,
+have over the poor devoted all the time!]—What a happy man he would
+be!—They would not, the Lady Betty said, give themselves the
+mortification but to suppose that I should not be one of them!
+
+Presents were hinted at. She resolved that I should go with her to
+Glenham-hall. She would not be refused, although she were to stay a
+week beyond her time for me.
+
+She longed for the expected letter from you. I must write to hasten it,
+and to let Miss Howe know how every thing stood since I wrote last.
+That might dispose me absolutely in her favour and in her nephew’s; and
+then she hoped there would be no occasion for me to think of entering
+upon any new measures.
+
+Indeed, my dear, I did at the time intend, if I heard not from you by
+morning, to dispatch a man and horse to you, with the particulars of
+all, that you might (if you thought proper) at least put off Mrs.
+Townsend’s coming up to another day.—But I was miserably prevented.
+
+She made me promise that I would write to you upon this subject,
+whether I heard from you or not. One of her servants should ride post
+with my letter, and wait for Miss Howe’s answer.
+
+She then launched out in deserved praises of you, my dear. How fond she
+should be of the honour of your acquaintance.
+
+The pretended Miss Montague joined in with her, as well for herself as
+for her sister.
+
+Abominably well instructed were they both!
+
+O my dear! what risks may poor giddy girls run, when they throw
+themselves out of the protection of their natural friends, and into the
+wide world!
+
+They then talked again of reconciliation and intimacy with every one of
+my friends; with my mother particularly; and gave the dear good lady
+the praises that every one gives her, who has the happiness to know
+her.
+
+Ah, my dear Miss Howe! I had almost forgot my resentments against the
+pretended nephew!—So many agreeable things said, made me think, that,
+if you should advise it, and if I could bring my mind to forgive the
+wretch for an outrage so premeditatedly vile, and could forbear
+despising him for that and his other ungrateful and wicked ways, I
+might not be unhappy in an alliance with such a family. Yet, thought I
+at the time, with what intermixture does every thing come to me that
+had the appearance of good!——However, as my lucid hopes made me see
+fewer faults in the behaviour of these pretended ladies, than
+recollection and abhorrence have helped me since to see, I began to
+reproach myself, that I had not at first thrown myself into their
+protection.
+
+But amidst all these delightful prospects, I must not, said the Lady
+Betty, forget that I am to go to town.
+
+She then ordered her coach to be got to the door.—We will all go to
+town together, said she, and return together. Morrison shall stay here,
+and see every thing as I am used to have it, in relation to my
+apartment, and my bed; for I am very particular in some respects. My
+cousin Leeson’s servants can do all I want to be done with regard to my
+night-dresses, and the like. And it will be a little airing for you, my
+dear, and a want of your apparel to be sent from your former lodgings
+to Mrs. Leeson’s; and we can bring it up with us from thence.
+
+I had no intention to comply. But as I did not imagine that she would
+insist upon my going to town with them, I made no answer to that part
+of her speech.
+
+I must here lay down my tired pen!
+
+Recollection! heart-affecting recollection! how it pains me!
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER LXIX
+
+
+MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
+
+
+In the midst of this agreeableness, the coach came to the door. The
+pretended Lady Betty besought me to give them my company to their
+cousin Leeson’s. I desired to be excused: yet suspected nothing. She
+would not be denied. How happy would a visit so condescending make her
+cousin Leeson!——Her cousin Leeson was not unworthy of my acquaintance:
+and would take it for the greatest favour in the world.
+
+I objected my dress. But the objection was not admitted. She bespoke a
+supper of Mrs. Moore to be ready at nine.
+
+Mr. Lovelace, vile hypocrite, and wicked deceiver! seeing, as he said,
+my dislike to go, desired his Ladyship not to insist upon it.
+
+Fondness for my company was pleaded. She begged me to oblige her: made
+a motion to help me to my fan herself: and, in short, was so very
+urgent, that my feet complied against my speech and my mind: and being,
+in a manner, led to the coach by her, and made to step in first, she
+followed me: and her pretended niece, and the wretch, followed her: and
+away it drove.
+
+Nothing but the height of affectionate complaisance passed all the way:
+over and over, what a joy would this unexpected visit give her cousin
+Leeson! What a pleasure must it be to such a mind as mine, to be able
+to give so much joy to every body I came near!
+
+The cruel, the savage seducer (as I have since recollected) was in a
+rapture all the way; but yet such a sort of rapture, as he took visible
+pains to check.
+
+Hateful villain! how I abhor him!—What mischief must be then in his
+plotting heart!—What a devoted victim must I be in all their eyes!
+
+Though not pleased, I was nevertheless just then thoughtless of danger;
+they endeavouring thus to lift me up above all apprehensions of that,
+and above myself too.
+
+But think, my dear, what a dreadful turn all had upon me, when, through
+several streets and ways I knew nothing of, the coach slackening its
+pace, came within sight of the dreadful house of the dreadfullest woman
+in the world; as she proved to me.
+
+Lord be good unto me! cried the poor fool, looking out of the coach—Mr.
+Lovelace!—Madam! turning to the pretended Lady Betty!—Madam! turning to
+the niece, my hands and eyes lifted up—Lord be good unto me!
+
+What! What! What! my dear.
+
+He pulled the string—What need to have come this way? said he—But since
+we are, I will but ask a question—My dearest life, why this
+apprehension?
+
+The coachman stopped: his servant, who, with one of her’s was behind,
+alighted—Ask, said he, if I have any letters? Who knows, my dearest
+creature, turning to me, but we may already have one from the
+Captain?—We will not go out of the coach!—Fear nothing—Why so
+apprehensive?—Oh! these fine spirits!—cried the execrable insulter.
+
+Dreadfully did my heart then misgive me: I was ready to faint. Why this
+terror, my life? you shall not stir out of the coach but one question,
+now the fellow has drove us this way.
+
+Your lady will faint, cried the execrable Lady Betty, turning to him—My
+dearest Niece! (niece I will call you, taking my hand)—we must alight,
+if you are so ill.—Let us alight—only for a glass of water and
+hartshorn—indeed we must alight.
+
+No, no, no—I am well—quite well—Won’t the man drive on?—I am well—quite
+well—indeed I am.—Man, drive on, putting my head out of the coach—Man,
+drive on!—though my voice was too low to be heard.
+
+The coach stopt at the door. How I trembled!
+
+Dorcas came to the door, on its stopping.
+
+My dearest creature, said the vile man, gasping, as it were for breath,
+you shall not alight—Any letters for me, Dorcas?
+
+There are two, Sir. And here is a gentleman, Mr. Belton, Sir, waits for
+your honour; and has done so above an hour.
+
+I’ll just speak to him. Open the door—You sha’n’t step out, my dear—A
+letter perhaps from Captain already!—You sha’n’t step out, my dear.
+
+I sighed as if my heart would burst.
+
+But we must step out, Nephew: your lady will faint. Maid, a glass of
+hartshorn and water!—My dear you must step out—You will faint, child—We
+must cut your laces.—[I believe my complexion was all manner of colours
+by turns]—Indeed, you must step out, my dear.
+
+He knew, said I, I should be well, the moment the coach drove from the
+door. I should not alight. By his soul, I should not.
+
+Lord, Lord, Nephew, Lord, Lord, Cousin, both women in a breath, what
+ado you make about nothing! You persuade your lady to be afraid of
+alighting.—See you not that she is just fainting?
+
+Indeed, Madam, said the vile seducer, my dearest love must not be moved
+in this point against her will. I beg it may not be insisted upon.
+
+Fiddle-faddle, foolish man—What a pother is here! I guess how it is:
+you are ashamed to let us see what sort of people you carried your lady
+among—but do you go out, and speak to your friend, and take your
+letters.
+
+He stept out; but shut the coach-door after him, to oblige me.
+
+The coach may go on, Madam, said I.
+
+The coach shall go on, my dear life, said he.—But he gave not, nor
+intended to give, orders that it should.
+
+Let the coach go on! said I—Mr. Lovelace may come after us.
+
+Indeed, my dear, you are ill!—Indeed you must alight—alight but for one
+quarter of an hour.—Alight but to give orders yourself about your
+things. Whom can you be afraid of in my company, and my niece’s; these
+people must have behaved shockingly to you! Please the Lord, I’ll
+inquire into it!—I’ll see what sort of people they are!
+
+Immediately came the old creature to the door. A thousand pardons, dear
+Madam, stepping to the coach-side, if we have any way offended you—Be
+pleased, Ladies, [to the other two] to alight.
+
+Well, my dear, whispered the Lady Betty, I now find that an hideous
+description of a person we never saw is an advantage to them. I thought
+the woman was a monster—but, really, she seems tolerable.
+
+I was afraid I should have fallen into fits: but still refused to go
+out—Man!—Man!—Man!—cried I, gaspingly, my head out of the coach and in,
+by turns, half a dozen times running, drive on!—Let us go!
+
+My heart misgave me beyond the power of my own accounting for it; for
+still I did not suspect these women. But the antipathy I had taken to
+the vile house, and to find myself so near it, when I expected no such
+matter, with the sight of the old creature, all together made me behave
+like a distracted person.
+
+The hartshorn and water was brought. The pretended Lady Betty made me
+drink it. Heaven knows if there was any thing else in it!
+
+Besides, said she, whisperingly, I must see what sort of creatures the
+nieces are. Want of delicacy cannot be hid from me. You could not
+surely, my dear, have this aversion to re-enter a house, for a few
+minutes, in our company, in which you lodged and boarded several weeks,
+unless these women could be so presumptuously vile, as my nephew ought
+not to know.
+
+Out stept the pretended lady; the servant, at her command, having
+opened the door.
+
+Dearest Madam, said the other to me, let me follow you, [for I was next
+the door.] Fear nothing: I will not stir from your presence.
+
+Come, my dear, said the pretended lady, give me your hand; holding out
+her’s. Oblige me this once.
+
+I will bless your footsteps, said the old creature, if once more you
+honour my house with your presence.
+
+A crowd by this time was gathered about us; but I was too much affected
+to mind that.
+
+Again the pretended Miss Montague urged me; standing up as ready to go
+out if I would give her room.—Lord, my dear, said she, who can bear
+this crowd?—What will people think?
+
+The pretended Lady again pressed me, with both her hands held out—Only,
+my dear, to give orders about your things.
+
+And thus pressed, and gazed at, (for then I looked about me,) the women
+so richly dressed, people whispering; in an evil moment, out stepped I,
+trembling, forced to lean with both my hands (frighted too much for
+ceremony) on the pretended Lady Betty’s arm—Oh! that I had dropped down
+dead upon the guilty threshold!
+
+We shall stay but a few minutes, my dear!—but a few minutes! said the
+same specious jilt—out of breath with her joy, as I have since thought,
+that they had thus triumphed over the unhappy victim!
+
+Come, Mrs. Sinclair, I think your name is, show us the way——following
+her, and leading me. I am very thirsty. You have frighted me, my dear,
+with your strange fears. I must have tea made, if it can be done in a
+moment. We have farther to go, Mrs. Sinclair, and must return to
+Hampstead this night.
+
+It shall be ready in a moment, cried the wretch. We have water boiling.
+
+Hasten, then—Come, my dear, to me, as she led me through the passage to
+the fatal inner house—lean upon me—how you tremble!—how you falter in
+your steps!—Dearest niece Lovelace, [the old wretch being in hearing,]
+why these hurries upon your spirits?—We’ll be gone in a minute.
+
+And thus she led the poor sacrifice into the old wretch’s
+too-well-known parlour.
+
+Never was any body so gentle, so meek, so low voiced, as the odious
+woman; drawling out, in a puling accent, all the obliging things she
+could say: awed, I then thought, by the conscious dignity of a woman of
+quality; glittering with jewels.
+
+The called-for tea was ready presently.
+
+There was no Mr. Belton, I believe: for the wretch went not to any
+body, unless it were while we were parlying in the coach. No such
+person however, appeared at the tea-table.
+
+I was made to drink two dishes, with milk, complaisantly urged by the
+pretended ladies helping me each to one. I was stupid to their hands;
+and, when I took the tea, almost choked with vapours; and could hardly
+swallow.
+
+I thought, transiently thought, that the tea, the last dish
+particularly, had an odd taste. They, on my palating it, observed, that
+the milk was London-milk; far short in goodness of what they were
+accustomed to from their own dairies.
+
+I have no doubt that my two dishes, and perhaps my hartshorn, were
+prepared for me; in which case it was more proper for their purpose,
+that they should help me, than that I should help myself. Ill before, I
+found myself still more and more disordered in my head; a heavy torpid
+pain increasing fast upon me. But I imputed it to my terror.
+
+Nevertheless, at the pretended Lady’s motion, I went up stairs,
+attended by Dorcas; who affected to weep for joy, that she once more
+saw my blessed face; that was the vile creature’s word: and immediately
+I set about taking out some of my clothes, ordering what should be put
+up, and what sent after me.
+
+While I was thus employed, up came the pretended Lady Betty, in a
+hurrying way——My dear, you won’t be long before you are ready. My
+nephew is very busy in writing answers to his letters: so, I’ll just
+whip away, and change my dress, and call upon you in an instant.
+
+O Madam!—I am ready! I am now ready!—You must not leave me here. And
+down I sunk, affrighted, into a chair.
+
+This instant, this instant, I will return—before you can be
+ready—before you can have packed up your things—we would not be
+late—the robbers we have heard of may be out—don’t let us be late.
+
+And away she hurried before I could say another word. Her pretended
+niece went with her, without taking notice to me of her going.
+
+I had no suspicion yet that these women were not indeed the ladies they
+personated; and I blamed myself for my weak fears.—It cannot be,
+thought I, that such ladies will abet treachery against a poor creature
+they are so fond of. They must undoubtedly be the persons they appear
+to be—what folly to doubt it! The air, the dress, the dignity of women
+of quality. How unworthy of them, and of my charity, concluded I, is
+this ungenerous shadow of suspicion!
+
+So, recovering my stupefied spirits, as well as they could be
+recovered, (for I was heavier and heavier! and wondered to Dorcas what
+ailed me, rubbing my eyes, and taking some of her snuff, pinch after
+pinch, to very little purpose,) I pursued my employment: but when that
+was over, all packed up that I designed to be packed up; and I had
+nothing to do but to think; and found them tarry so long; I thought I
+should have gone distracted. I shut myself into the chamber that had
+been mine; I kneeled, I prayed; yet knew not what I prayed for: then
+ran out again: it was almost dark night, I said: where, where, where
+was Mr. Lovelace?
+
+He came to me, taking no notice at first of my consternation and
+wildness, [what they had given me made me incoherent and wild:] All
+goes well, said he, my dear!—A line from Capt. Tomlinson!
+
+All indeed did go well for the villanous project of the most cruel and
+most villanous of men!
+
+I demanded his aunt!—I demanded his cousin!—The evening, I said, was
+closing!—My head was very, very bad, I remember I said—and it grew
+worse and worse.—
+
+Terror, however, as yet kept up my spirits; and I insisted upon his
+going himself to hasten them.
+
+He called his servant. He raved at the sex for their delay: ’twas well
+that business of consequence seldom depended upon such parading,
+unpunctual triflers!
+
+His servant came.
+
+He ordered him to fly to his cousin Leeson’s, and to let Lady Betty and
+his cousin know how uneasy we both were at their delay: adding, of his
+own accord, desire them, if they don’t come instantly, to send their
+coach, and we will go without them. Tell them I wonder they’ll serve me
+so!
+
+I thought this was considerately and fairly put. But now, indifferent
+as my head was, I had a little time to consider the man and his
+behaviour. He terrified me with his looks, and with his violent
+emotions, as he gazed upon me. Evident joy-suppressed emotions, as I
+have since recollected. His sentences short, and pronounced as if his
+breath were touched. Never saw I his abominable eyes look as then they
+looked—Triumph in them!—fierce and wild; and more disagreeable than the
+women’s at the vile house appeared to me when I first saw them: and at
+times, such a leering, mischief-boding cast!—I would have given the
+world to have been an hundred miles from him. Yet his behaviour was
+decent—a decency, however, that I might have seen to be struggled
+for—for he snatched my hand two or three times, with a vehemence in his
+grasp that hurt me; speaking words of tenderness through his shut
+teeth, as it seemed; and let it go with a beggar-voiced humbled accent,
+like the vile woman’s just before; half-inward; yet his words and
+manner carrying the appearance of strong and almost convulsed
+passion!—O my dear! what mischief was he not then meditating!
+
+I complained once or twice of thirst. My mouth seemed parched. At the
+time, I supposed that it was my terror (gasping often as I did for
+breath) that parched up the roof of my mouth. I called for water: some
+table-beer was brought me: beer, I suppose, was a better vehicle for
+their potions. I told the maid, that she knew I seldom tasted malt
+liquor: yet, suspecting nothing of this nature, being extremely
+thirsty, I drank it, as what came next: and instantly, as it were,
+found myself much worse than before: as if inebriated, I should fancy:
+I know not how.
+
+His servant was gone twice as long as he needed: and, just before his
+return, came one of the pretended Lady Betty’s with a letter for Mr.
+Lovelace.
+
+He sent it up to me. I read it: and then it was that I thought myself a
+lost creature; it being to put off her going to Hampstead that night,
+on account of violent fits which Miss Montague was pretended to be
+seized with; for then immediately came into my head his vile attempt
+upon me in this house; the revenge that my flight might too probably
+inspire him with on that occasion, and because of the difficulty I made
+to forgive him, and to be reconciled to him; his very looks wild and
+dreadful to me; and the women of the house such as I had more reason
+than ever, even from the pretended Lady Betty’s hint, to be afraid of:
+all these crowding together in my apprehensive mind, I fell into a kind
+of phrensy.
+
+I have no remembrance how I was for this time it lasted: but I know
+that, in my first agitations, I pulled off my head-dress, and tore my
+ruffles in twenty tatters, and ran to find him out.
+
+When a little recovered, I insisted upon the hint he had given me of
+their coach. But the messenger, he said, had told him, that it was sent
+to fetch a physician, lest his chariot should be put up, or not ready.
+
+I then insisted upon going directly to Lady Betty’s lodgings.
+
+Mrs. Leeson’s was now a crowded house, he said: and as my earnestness
+could be owing to nothing but groundless apprehensions, [and Oh! what
+vows, what protestations of his honour, did he then make!] he hoped I
+would not add to their present concern. Charlotte, indeed, was used to
+fits, he said, upon any great surprises, whether of joy or grief; and
+they would hold her for one week together, if not got off in a few
+hours.
+
+You are an observer of eyes, my dear, said the villain; perhaps in
+secret insult: Saw you not in Miss Montague’s, now-and-then at
+Hampstead, something wildish? I was afraid for her then. Silence and
+quiet only do her good: your concern for her, and her love for you,
+will but augment the poor girl’s disorder, if you should go.
+
+All impatient with grief and apprehension, I still declared myself
+resolved not to stay in that house till morning. All I had in the
+world, my rings, my watch, my little money, for a coach; or, if one
+were not to be got, I would go on foot to Hampstead that night, though
+I walked it by myself.
+
+A coach was hereupon sent for, or pretended to be sent for. Any price,
+he said, he would give to oblige me, late as it was; and he would
+attend me with all his soul. But no coach was to be got.
+
+Let me cut short the rest. I grew worse and worse in my head! now
+stupid, now raving, now senseless. The vilest of vile women was brought
+to frighten me. Never was there so horrible a creature as she appeared
+to me at this time.
+
+I remember I pleaded for mercy. I remember that I said I would be
+his—indeed I would be his—to obtain his mercy. But no mercy found I! My
+strength, my intellects failed me—And then such scenes followed—O my
+dear, such dreadful scenes!—fits upon fits, (faintly indeed and
+imperfectly remembered,) procuring me no compassion—But death was
+withheld from me. That would have been too great a mercy!
+
+
+Thus was I tricked and deluded back by blacker hearts of my own sex
+than I thought there were in the world; who appeared to me to be
+persons of honour; and, when in his power, thus barbarously was I
+treated by this villanous man!
+
+I was so senseless, that I dare not aver, that the horrid creatures of
+the house were personally aiding and abetting: but some visionary
+remembrances I have of female figures, flitting, as I may say, before
+my sight; the wretched woman’s particularly. But as these confused
+ideas might be owing to the terror I had conceived of the worse than
+masculine violence she had been permitted to assume to me, for
+expressing my abhorrence of her house; and as what I suffered from his
+barbarity wants not that aggravation; I will say no more on a subject
+so shocking as this must ever be to my remembrance.
+
+I never saw the personating wretches afterwards. He persisted to the
+last, (dreadfully invoking Heaven as a witness to the truth of his
+assertion) that they were really and truly the ladies they pretended to
+be; declaring, that they could not take leave of me, when they left
+town, because of the state of senselessness and phrensy I was in. For
+their intoxicating, or rather stupefying, potions had almost
+deleterious effects upon my intellects, as I have hinted; insomuch
+that, for several days together, I was under a strange delirium; now
+moping, now dozing, now weeping, now raving, now scribbling, tearing
+what I scribbled as fast as I wrote it: most miserable when
+now-and-then a ray of reason brought confusedly to my remembrance what
+I had suffered.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER LXX
+
+
+MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE [IN CONTINUATION.]
+
+[The lady next gives an account,
+
+Of her recovery from her delirium and sleepy disorder:
+
+Of her attempt to get away in his absence:
+
+Of the conversations that followed, at his return, between them:
+
+Of the guilty figure he made:
+
+Of her resolution not to have him:
+
+Of her several efforts to escape:
+
+Of her treaty with Dorcas to assist her in it:
+
+Of Dorcas’s dropping the promissory note, undoubtedly, as she says, on
+purpose to betray her:
+
+Of her triumph over all the creatures of the house, assembled to
+terrify her; and perhaps to commit fresh outrages upon her:
+
+Of his setting out for M. Hall:
+
+Of his repeated letters to induce her to meet him at the altar, on her
+uncle’s anniversary:
+
+Of her determined silence to them all:
+
+Of her second escape, effected, as she says, contrary to her own
+expectation: the attempt being at first but the intended prelude to a
+more promising one, which she had formed in her mind:
+
+And of other particulars; which being to be found in Mr. Lovelace’s
+letters preceding, and the letter of his friend Belford, are omitted.
+She then proceeds:]
+
+The very hour that I found myself in a place of safety, I took pen to
+write to you. When I began, I designed only to write six or eight
+lines, to inquire after your health: for, having heard nothing from
+you, I feared indeed, that you had been, and still were, too ill to
+write. But no sooner did my pen begin to blot the paper, but my sad
+heart hurried it into length. The apprehensions I had lain under, that
+I should not be able to get away; the fatigue I had in effecting my
+escape: the difficulty of procuring a lodging for myself; having
+disliked the people of two houses, and those of a third disliking me;
+for you must think I made a frighted appearance—these, together with
+the recollection of what I had suffered from him, and my farther
+apprehensions of my insecurity, and my desolate circumstances, had so
+disordered me, that I remember I rambled strangely in that letter.
+
+In short, I thought it, on re-perusal, a half-distracted one: but I
+then despaired, (were I to begin again,) of writing better: so I let it
+go: and can have no excuse for directing it as I did, if the cause of
+the incoherence in it will not furnish me with a very pitiable one.
+
+The letter I received from your mother was a dreadful blow to me. But
+nevertheless it had the good effect upon me (labouring, as I did just
+then, under a violent fit of vapourish despondency, and almost yielding
+to it) which profuse bleeding and blisterings have in paralytic or
+apoplectical strokes; reviving my attention, and restoring me to
+spirits to combat the evils I was surrounded by—sluicing off, and
+diverting into a new channel, (if I may be allowed another metaphor,)
+the overcharging woes which threatened once more to overwhelm my
+intellects.
+
+But yet I most sincerely lamented, (and still lament,) in your mother’s
+words, That I cannot be unhappy by myself: and was grieved, not only
+for the trouble I had given you before; but for the new one I had
+brought upon you by my inattention.
+
+[She then gives the substance of the letters she wrote to Mrs. Norton,
+to Lady Betty Lawrance, and to Mrs. Hodges; as also of their answers;
+whereby she detected all Mr. Lovelace’s impostures. She proceeds as
+follows:]
+
+I cannot, however, forbear to wonder how the vile Tomlinson could come
+at the knowledge of several of the things he told me of, and which
+contributed to give me confidence in him.*
+
+* The attentive reader need not be referred back for what the Lady
+nevertheless could not account for, as she knew not that Mr. Lovelace
+had come at Miss Howe’s letters; particularly that in Vol. IV. Letter
+XXIX. which he comments upon in Letter XLIV. of the same volume.
+
+I doubt not that the stories of Mrs. Fretchville and her house would be
+found as vile as any of the rest, were I to inquire; and had I not
+enough, and too much, already against the perjured man.
+
+How have I been led on!—What will be the end of such a false and
+perjured creature! Heaven not less profaned and defied by him than
+myself deceived and abused! This, however, against myself I must say,
+That if what I have suffered be the natural consequence of my first
+error, I never can forgive myself, although you are so partial in my
+favour, as to say, that I was not censurable for what passed before my
+first escape.
+
+And now, honoured Madam, and my dearest Miss Howe, who are to sit in
+judgment upon my case, permit me to lay down my pen with one request,
+which, with the greatest earnestness, I make to you both: and that is,
+That you will neither of you open your lips in relation to the potions
+and the violences I have hinted at.—Not that I am solicitous, that my
+disgrace should be hidden from the world, or that it should not be
+generally known, that the man has proved a villain to me: for this, it
+seems, every body but myself expected from his character. But suppose,
+as his actions by me are really of a capital nature, it were insisted
+upon that I should appear to prosecute him and his accomplices in a
+court of justice, how do you think I could bear that?
+
+But since my character, before the capital enormity, was lost in the
+eye of the world; and that from the very hour I left my father’s house;
+and since all my own hopes of worldly happiness are entirely over; let
+me slide quietly into my grave; and let it be not remembered, except by
+one friendly tear, and no more, dropt from your gentle eye, mine own
+dear Anna Howe, on the happy day that shall shut up all my sorrows,
+that there was such a creature as
+
+CLARISSA HARLOWE SATURDAY, JULY 8.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER LXXI
+
+
+MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE SUNDAY, JULY 9.
+
+May Heaven signalize its vengeance, in the face of all the world, upon
+the most abandoned and profligate of men!—And in its own time, I doubt
+not but it will.—And we must look to a WORLD BEYOND THIS for the reward
+of your sufferings!
+
+Another shocking detection, my dear!—How have you been deluded!—Very
+watchful I have thought you; very sagacious:—but, alas! not watchful,
+not sagacious enough, for the horrid villain you have had to deal
+with!——
+
+The letter you sent me enclosed as mine, of the 7th of June, is a
+villanous forgery.*
+
+* See Vol. V. Letter XXX.
+
+The hand, indeed, is astonishingly like mine; and the cover, I see, is
+actually my cover: but yet the letter is not so exactly imitated, but
+that, (had you had any suspicions about his vileness at the time,) you,
+who so well know my hand, might have detected it.
+
+In short, this vile, forged letter, though a long one, contains but a
+few extracts from mine. Mine was a very long one. He has omitted every
+thing, I see, in it that could have shown you what a detestable house
+the house is; and given you suspicions of the vile Tomlinson.—You will
+see this, and how he has turned Miss Lardner’s information, and my
+advices to you, [execrable villain!] to his own horrid ends, by the
+rough draught of the genuine letter, which I shall enclose.*
+
+* See Vol. V. Letter XX.
+
+Apprehensive for both our safeties from the villany of such a daring
+and profligate contriver, I must call upon you, my dear, to resolve
+upon taking legal vengeance of the infernal wretch. And this not only
+for our own sakes, but for the sakes of innocents who otherwise may yet
+be deluded and outraged by him.
+
+[She then gives the particulars of the report made by the young fellow
+whom she sent to Hampstead with her letter; and who supposed he had
+delivered it into her own hand;* and then proceeds:]
+
+* See Vol. VI. Letter VI.
+
+I am astonished, that the vile wretch, who could know nothing of the
+time my messenger, (whose honesty I can vouch for) would come, could
+have a creature ready to personate you! Strange, that the man should
+happen to arrive just as you were gone to church, (as I find was the
+fact, on comparing what he says with your hint that you were at church
+twice that day,) when he might have got to Mrs. Moore’s two hours
+before!—But had you told me, my dear, that the villain had found you
+out, and was about you!—You should have done that—yet I blame you upon
+a judgment founded on the event only!
+
+I never had any faith in the stories that go current among country
+girls, of specters, familiars, and demons; yet I see not any other way
+to account for this wretch’s successful villany, and for his means of
+working up his specious delusions, but by supposing, (if he be not the
+devil himself,) that he has a familiar constantly at his elbow.
+Sometimes it seems to me that this familiar assumes the shape of that
+solemn villain Tomlinson: sometimes that of the execrable Sinclair, as
+he calls her: sometimes it is permitted to take that of Lady Betty
+Lawrance—but, when it would assume the angelic shape and mien of my
+beloved friend, see what a bloated figure it made!
+
+’Tis my opinion, my dear, that you will be no longer safe where you
+are, than while the V. is in the country. Words are poor!—or how could
+I execrate him! I have hardly any doubt that he has sold himself for a
+time. Oh! may the time be short!—or may his infernal prompter no more
+keep covenant with him than he does with others!
+
+I enclose not only the rough draught of my long letter mentioned above,
+but the heads of that which the young fellow thought he delivered into
+your own hands at Hampstead. And when you have perused them, I will
+leave to you to judge how much reason I had to be surprised that you
+wrote me not an answer to either of those letters; one of which you
+owned you had received, (though it proved to be his forged one,) the
+other delivered into your own hands, as I was assured; and both of them
+of so much concern to your honour; and still now much more surprised I
+must be, when I received a letter from Mrs. Townsend, dated June 15,
+from Hampstead, importing, ‘That Mr. Lovelace, who had been with you
+several days, had, on the Monday before, brought Lady Betty and his
+cousin, richly dressed, and in a coach-and-four, to visit you: who,
+with your own consent, had carried you to town with them—to your former
+lodgings; where you still were: that the Hampstead women believed you
+to be married; and reflected upon me as a fomenter of differences
+between man and wife: that he himself was at Hampstead the day before;
+viz. Wednesday the 14th; and boasted of his happiness with you;
+inviting Mrs. Moore, Mrs. Bevis, and Miss Rawlins, to go to town, to
+visit his spouse; which they promised to do: that he declared that you
+were entirely reconciled to your former lodgings:—and that, finally,
+the women at Hampstead told Mrs. Townsend, that he had very handsomely
+discharged theirs.’
+
+I own to you, my dear, that I was so much surprised and disgusted at
+these appearances against a conduct till then unexceptionable, that I
+was resolved to make myself as easy as I could, and wait till you
+should think fit to write to me. But I could rein-in my impatience but
+for a few days; and on the 20th of June I wrote a sharp letter to you;
+which I find you did not receive.
+
+What a fatality, my dear, has appeared in your case, from the very
+beginning till this hour! Had my mother permitted——
+
+But can I blame her; when you have a father and mother living, who have
+so much to answer for?—So much!—as no father and mother, considering
+the child they have driven, persecuted, exposed, renounced, ever had to
+answer for!
+
+But again I must execrate the abandoned villain—yet, as I said before,
+all words are poor, and beneath the occasion.
+
+But see we not, in the horrid perjuries and treachery of this man, what
+rakes and libertines will do, when they get a young creature into their
+power! It is probable that he might have the intolerable presumption to
+hope an easier conquest: but, when your unexampled vigilance and
+exalted virtue made potions, and rapes, and the utmost violences,
+necessary to the attainment of his detestable end, we see that he never
+boggled at them. I have no doubt that the same or equal wickedness
+would be oftener committed by men of his villanous cast, if the folly
+and credulity of the poor inconsiderates who throw themselves into
+their hands, did not give them an easier triumph.
+
+With what comfort must those parents reflect upon these things who have
+happily disposed of their daughters in marriage to a virtuous man! And
+how happy the young women who find themselves safe in a worthy
+protection!—If such a person as Miss Clarissa Harlowe could not escape,
+who can be secure?—Since, though every rake is not a LOVELACE, neither
+is every woman a CLARISSA: and his attempts were but proportioned to
+your resistance and vigilance.
+
+My mother has commanded me to let you know her thoughts upon the whole
+of your sad story. I will do it in another letter; and send it to you
+with this, by a special messenger.
+
+But, for the future, if you approve of it, I will send my letters by
+the usual hand, (Collins’s,) to be left at the Saracen’s Head, on
+Snow-hill: whither you may send your’s, (as we both used to do, to
+Wilson’s,) except such as we shall think fit to transmit by the post:
+which I am afraid, after my next, must be directed to Mr. Hickman, as
+before: since my mother is fixing a condition to our correspondence,
+which, I doubt, you will not comply with, though I wish you would. This
+condition I shall acquaint you with by-and-by.
+
+Mean time, begging excuse for all the harsh things in my last, of which
+your sweet meekness and superior greatness of soul have now made me
+most heartily ashamed, I beseech you, my dearest creature, to believe
+me to be
+
+Your truly sympathising, and unalterable friend, ANNA HOWE.
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER LXXII
+
+
+MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE MONDAY, JULY 10.
+
+I now, my dearest friend, resume my pen, to obey my mother, in giving
+you her opinion upon your unhappy story.
+
+She still harps upon the old string, and will have it that all your
+calamities are owing to your first fatal step; for she believes, (what
+I cannot,) that your relations had intended after one general trial
+more, to comply with your aversion, if they had found it to be as
+riveted a one, as, let me say, it was a folly to suppose it would not
+be found to be, after so many ridiculously-repeated experiments.
+
+As to your latter sufferings from that vilest of miscreants, she is
+unalterably of opinion that if all be as you have related (which she
+doubts not) with regard to the potions, and to the violences you have
+sustained, you ought by all means to set on foot a prosecution against
+him, and against his devilish accomplices.
+
+She asks, What murderers, what ravishers, would be brought to justice,
+if modesty were to be a general plea, and allowable, against appearing
+in a court to prosecute?
+
+She says, that the good of society requires, that such a beast of prey
+should be hunted out of it: and, if you do not prosecute him, she
+thinks you will be answerable for all the mischiefs he may do in the
+course of his future villanous life.
+
+Will it be thought, Nancy, said she, that Miss Clarissa Harlowe can be
+in earnest, when she says, she is not solicitous to have her disgraces
+concealed from the world, if she be afraid or ashamed to appear in
+court, to do justice to herself and her sex against him? Will it not be
+rather surmised, that she may be apprehensive that some weakness, or
+lurking love, will appear upon the trial of the strange cause? If,
+inferred she, such complicated villany as this (where perjury, potions,
+forgery, subornation, are all combined to effect the ruin of an
+innocent creature, and to dishonour a family of eminence, and where the
+very crimes, as may be supposed, are proofs of her innocence) is to go
+off with impunity, what case will deserve to be brought into judgment?
+or what malefactor ought to be hanged?
+
+Then she thinks, and so do I, that the vile creatures, his accomplices,
+ought, by all means, to be brought to condign punishment, as they must
+and will be upon bringing him to trial: and this may be a mean to blow
+up and root out a whole nest of vipers, and save many innocent
+creatures.
+
+She added, that if Miss Clarissa Harlowe could be so indifferent about
+having this public justice done upon such a wretch for her own sake,
+she ought to overcome her scruples out of regard to her family, her
+acquaintance, and her sex, which are all highly injured and scandalized
+by his villany to her.
+
+For her own part, she declares, that were she your mother, she would
+forgive you upon no other terms: and, upon your compliance with these,
+she herself will undertake to reconcile all your family to you.
+
+These, my dear, are my mother’s sentiments upon your sad story.
+
+I cannot say but there are reason and justice in them: and it is my
+opinion, that it would be very right for the law to oblige an injured
+woman to prosecute, and to make seduction on the man’s part capital,
+where his studied baseness, and no fault in her will, appeared.
+
+To this purpose the custom in the Isle of Man is a very good one——
+
+‘If a single woman there prosecutes a single man for a rape, the
+ecclesiastical judges impannel a jury; and, if this jury find him
+guilty, he is returned guilty to the temporal courts: where if he be
+convicted, the deemster, or judge, delivers to the woman a rope, a
+sword, and a ring; and she has it in her choice to have him hanged,
+beheaded, or to marry him.’
+
+One of the two former, I think, should always be her option.
+
+I long for the particulars of your story. You must have too much time
+upon your hands for a mind so active as your’s, if tolerable health and
+spirits be afforded you.
+
+The villany of the worst of men, and the virtue of the most excellent
+of women, I expect will be exemplified in it, were it to be written in
+the same connected and particular manner in which you used to write to
+me.
+
+Try for it, my dearest friend; and since you cannot give the example
+without the warning, give both, for the sakes of all those who shall
+hear of your unhappy fate; beginning from your’s of June 5, your
+prospects then not disagreeable. I pity you for the task; though I
+cannot willingly exempt you from it.
+
+
+My mother will have me add, that she must insist upon your prosecuting
+the villain. She repeats, that she makes that a condition on which she
+permits our future correspondence. Let me therefore know your thoughts
+upon it. I asked her, if she would be willing that I should appear to
+support you in court, if you complied?—By all means, she said, if that
+would induce you to begin with him, and with the horrid women. I think
+I could probably attend you, I am sure I could, were there but a
+probability of bringing the monster to his deserved end.
+
+Once more your thoughts of it, supposing it were to meet with the
+approbation of your relations.
+
+But whatever be your determination on this head, it shall be my
+constant prayer, that God will give you patience to bear your heavy
+afflictions, as a person ought to do who has not brought them upon
+herself by a faulty will: that He will speak peace and comfort to your
+wounded mind; and give you many happy years. I am, and ever will be,
+
+Your affectionate and faithful ANNA HOWE.
+
+
+[The two preceding letters were sent by a special messenger: in the
+cover were written the following lines:]
+
+MONDAY, JULY 10.
+
+I cannot, my dearest friend, suffer the enclosed to go unaccompanied by
+a few lines, to signify to you that they are both less tender in some
+places than I would have written, had they not been to pass my mother’s
+inspection. The principal reason, however, of my writing thus
+separately is, to beg of you to permit me to send you money and
+necessaries, which you must needs want; and that you will let me know,
+if either I, or any body I can influence, can be of service to you. I
+am excessively apprehensive that you are not enough out of the
+villain’s reach where you are. Yet London, I am persuaded, is the
+place, of all others, to be private in.
+
+I could tear my hair for vexation, that I have it not in my power to
+afford you personal protection!—I am
+
+Your ever devoted ANNA HOWE.
+
+Once more forgive me, my dearest creature, for my barbarous taunting in
+mine of the 5th! Yet I can hardly forgive myself. I to be so cruel, yet
+to know you so well!—Whence, whence, had I this vile impatiency of
+spirit!—
+
+
+
+
+ LETTER LXXIII
+
+
+MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE TUESDAY, JULY 11.
+
+Forgive you, my dear!—Most cordially do I forgive you—Will you forgive
+me for some sharp things I wrote in return to your’s of the 5th? You
+could not have loved me as you do, nor had the concern you have always
+shown for my honour, if you had not been utterly displeased with me, on
+the appearance which my conduct wore to you when you wrote that letter.
+I most heartily thank you, my best and only love, for the opportunity
+you gave me of clearing it up; and for being generously ready to acquit
+me of intentional blame, the moment you had read my melancholy
+narrative.
+
+As you are so earnest to have all the particulars of my sad story
+before you, I will, if life and spirits be lent me, give you an ample
+account of all that has befallen me, from the time you mention. But
+this, it is very probable, you will not see, till after the close of my
+last scene: and as I shall write with a view to that, I hope no other
+voucher will be wanted for the veracity of the writer, be who will the
+reader.
+
+I am far from thinking myself out of the reach of this man’s further
+violence. But what can I do? Whither can I fly?—Perhaps my bad state of
+health (which must grow worse, as recollection of the past evils, and
+reflections upon them, grow heavier and heavier upon me) may be my
+protection. Once, indeed, I thought of going abroad; and, had I the
+prospect of many years before me, I would go.—But, my dear, the blow is
+given.—Nor have you reason now, circumstanced as I am, to be concerned
+that it is. What a heart must I have, if it be not broken—and indeed,
+my dear friend, I do so earnestly wish for the last closing scene, and
+with so much comfort find myself in a declining way, that I even
+sometimes ungratefully regret that naturally-healthy constitution,
+which used to double upon me all my enjoyments.
+
+As to the earnestly-recommended prosecution, I may possibly touch upon
+it more largely hereafter, if ever I shall have better spirits; for
+they are at present extremely sunk and low. But just now, I will only
+say, that I would sooner suffer every evil (the repetition of the
+capital one excepted) than appear publicly in a court to do myself
+justice.* And I am heartily grieved that your mother prescribes such a
+measure as the condition of our future correspondence: for the
+continuance of your friendship, my dear, and the desire I had to
+correspond with you to my life’s end, were all my remaining hopes and
+consolation. Nevertheless, as that friendship is in the power of the
+heart, not of the hand only, I hope I shall not forfeit that.
+
+* Dr. Lewen, in Letter XXIV. of Vol. VIII. presses her to this public
+prosecution, by arguments worthy of his character; which she answers in
+a manner worthy of her’s. See Letter XXV. of that volume.
+
+O my dear! what would I give to obtain a revocation of my father’s
+malediction! a reconciliation is not to be hoped for. You, who never
+loved my father, may think my solicitude on this head a weakness: but
+the motive for it, sunk as my spirits at times are, is not always weak.
+
+
+I approve of the method you prescribe for the conveyance of our
+letters; and have already caused the porter of the inn to be engaged to
+bring to me your’s, the moment that Collins arrives with them. And the
+servant of the house where I am will be permitted to carry mine to
+Collins for you.
+
+I have written a letter to Miss Rawlins, of Hampstead; the answer to
+which, just now received, has helped me to the knowledge of the vile
+contrivance, by which the wicked man got your letter of June the 10th.
+I will give you the contents of both.
+
+In mine to her, I briefly acquainted her ‘with what had befallen me,
+through the vileness of the women who had passed upon me as the aunt
+and cousin of the wickedest of men; and own, that I never was married
+to him. I desire her to make particular inquiry, and to let me know,
+who it was at Mrs. Moore’s that, on Sunday afternoon, June 11, while I
+was at church, received a letter from Miss Howe, pretending to be me,
+and lying on a couch:—which letter, had it come to my hands, would have
+saved me from ruin. I excuse myself (on the score of the delirium,
+which the horrid usage I had received threw me into, and from a
+confinement as barbarous as illegal) that I had not before applied to
+Mrs. Moore for an account of what I was indebted to her: which account
+I now desired. And, for fear of being traced by Mr. Lovelace, I
+directed her to superscribe her answer, To Mrs. Mary Atkins; to be left
+till called for, at the Belle Savage Inn, on Ludgate-hill.’
+
+In her answer, she tells me, ‘that the vile wretch prevailed upon Mrs.
+Bevis to personate me, [a sudden motion of his, it seems, on the
+appearance of your messenger,] and persuaded her to lie along a couch:
+a handkerchief over her neck and face; pretending to be ill; the
+credulous woman drawn in by false notions of your ill offices to keep
+up a variance between a man and his wife—and so taking the letter from
+your messenger as me.
+
+‘Miss Rawlins takes pains to excuse Mrs. Bevis’s intention. She
+expresses their astonishment, and concern at what I communicate: but is
+glad, however, and so they are all, that they know in time the vileness
+of the base man; the two widows and herself having, at his earnest
+invitation, designed me a visit at Mrs. Sinclair’s: supposing all to be
+happy between him and me; as he assured them was the case. Mr.
+Lovelace, she informs me, had handsomely satisfied Mrs. Moore. And Miss
+Rawlins concludes with wishing to be favoured with the particulars of
+so extraordinary a story, as these particulars may be of use, to let
+her see what wicked creatures (women as well as men) there are in the
+world.’
+
+I thank you, my dear, for the draughts of your two letters which were
+intercepted by this horrid man. I see the great advantage they were of
+to him, in the prosecution of his villanous designs against the poor
+wretch whom he had so long made the sport of his abhorred inventions.
+
+Let me repeat, that I am quite sick of life; and of an earth, in which
+innocent and benevolent spirits are sure to be considered as aliens,
+and to be made sufferers by the genuine sons and daughters of that
+earth.
+
+How unhappy, that those letters only which could have acquainted me
+with his horrid views, and armed me against them, and against the
+vileness of the base women, should fall into his hands!—Unhappier
+still, in that my very escape to Hampstead gave him the opportunity of
+receiving them.
+
+Nevertheless, I cannot but still wonder, how it was possible for that
+Tomlinson to know what passed between Mr. Hickman and my uncle
+Harlowe:* a circumstance which gave the vile impostor most of his
+credit with me.
+
+* See the note in Letter LXX. of this volume.
+
+How the wicked wretch himself could find me out at Hampstead, must also
+remain wholly a mystery to me. He may glory in his contrivances—he, who
+has more wickedness than wit, may glory in his contrivances!—But, after
+all, I shall, I humbly presume to hope, be happy, when he, poor wretch,
+will be—alas!—who can say what!——
+
+Adieu, my dearest friend!—May you be happy!—And then your Clarissa
+cannot be wholly miserable!
+
+END OF VOL. 6.
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11364 ***