path: root/old/clar110.txt

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Clarissa, Volume 1., by Samuel Richardson
#3 in our series by Samuel Richardson

Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.

This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project
Gutenberg file.  Please do not remove it.  Do not change or edit the
header without written permission.

Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the
eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file.  Included is
important information about your specific rights and restrictions in
how the file may be used.  You can also find out about how to make a
donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.


**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****


Title: Clarissa, Volume 1 (of 9)

Author: Samuel Richardson

Release Date: November, 2005 [EBook #9296]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on September 17, 2003]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLARISSA, VOLUME 1. ***




Produced by Julie C. Sparks




CLARISSA HARLOWE

or the

HISTORY OF A YOUNG LADY

Nine Volumes

Volume I.



CLARISSA

or, the

HISTORY

OF A

YOUNG LADY:


Comprehending
The most Important Concerns of Private Life.
And particularly shewing,
The Distresses that may attend the Misconduct
Both of Parents and Children,
In Relation to Marriage.





PREFACE


The following History is given in a series of letters, written
Principally in a double yet separate correspondence;

Between two young ladies of virtue and honor, bearing an inviolable
friendship for each other, and writing not merely for amusement, but
upon the most interesting subjects; in which every private family,
more or less, may find itself concerned; and,

Between two gentlemen of free lives; one of them glorying in his
talents for stratagem and invention, and communicating to the other,
in confidence, all the secret purposes of an intriguing head and
resolute heart.

But here it will be proper to observe, for the sake of such as may
apprehend hurt to the morals of youth, from the more freely-written
letters, that the gentlemen, though professed libertines as to the
female sex, and making it one of their wicked maxims, to keep no
faith with any of the individuals of it, who are thrown into their
power, are not, however, either infidels or scoffers; nor yet such
as think themselves freed from the observance of those other moral
duties which bind man to man.

On the contrary, it will be found, in the progress of the work, that
they very often make such reflections upon each other, and each upon
himself and his own actions, as reasonable beings must make, who
disbelieve not a future state of rewards and punishments, and who one
day propose to reform--one of them actually reforming, and by that
means giving an opportunity to censure the freedoms which fall from
the gayer pen and lighter heart of the other.

And yet that other, although in unbosoming himself to a select friend,
he discover wickedness enough to entitle him to general detestation,
preserves a decency, as well in his images as in his language, which
is not always to be found in the works of some of the most celebrated
modern writers, whose subjects and characters have less warranted
the liberties they have taken.

In the letters of the two young ladies, it is presumed, will be found
not only the highest exercise of a reasonable and practicable
friendship, between minds endowed with the noblest principles of
virtue and religion, but occasionally interspersed, such delicacy of
sentiments, particularly with regard to the other sex; such instances
of impartiality, each freely, as a fundamental principle of their
friendship, blaming, praising, and setting right the other, as are
strongly to be recommended to the observation of the younger part
(more specially) of female readers.

The principle of these two young ladies is proposed as an exemplar to
her sex.  Nor is it any objection to her being so, that she is not in
all respects a perfect character.  It was not only natural, but it was
necessary, that she should have some faults, were it only to show the
reader how laudably she could mistrust and blame herself, and carry to
her own heart, divested of self-partiality, the censure which arose
from her own convictions, and that even to the acquittal of those,
because revered characters, whom no one else would acquit, and to
whose much greater faults her errors were owing, and not to a
weak or reproachable heart.  As far as it is consistent with human
frailty, and as far as she could be perfect, considering the people
she had to deal with, and those with whom she was inseparably
connected, she is perfect.  To have been impeccable, must have left
nothing for the Divine Grace and a purified state to do, and carried our
idea of her from woman to angel.  As such is she often esteemed by
the man whose heart was so corrupt that he could hardly believe
human nature capable of the purity, which, on every trial or
temptation, shone out in her's [sic].

Besides the four principal person, several others are introduced,
whose letters are characteristic: and it is presumed that there will
be found in some of them, but more especially in those of the chief
character among the men, and the second character among the women,
such strokes of gayety, fancy, and humour, as will entertain and divert,
and at the same time both warn and instruct.

All the letters are written while the hearts of the writers must be
supposed to be wholly engaged in their subjects (the events at the
time generally dubious): so that they abound not only in critical
situations, but with what may be called instantaneous descriptions and
reflections (proper to be brought home to the breast of the youthful
reader;) as also with affecting conversations; many of them written in
the dialogue or dramatic way.

'Much more lively and affecting,' says one of the principal character,
'must be the style of those who write in the height of a present
distress; the mind tortured by the pangs of uncertainty (the events
then hidden in the womb of fate;) than the dry, narrative, unanimated
style of a person relating difficulties and danger surmounted, can be;
the relater perfectly at ease; and if himself unmoved by his own
story, not likely greatly to affect the reader.'

What will be found to be more particularly aimed at in the following
work is--to warn the inconsiderate and thoughtless of the one sex,
against the base arts and designs of specious contrivers of the other
--to caution parents against the undue exercise of their natural
authority over their children in the great article of marriage--
to warn children against preferring a man of pleasure to a man of
probity upon that dangerous but too-commonly-received notion, that a
reformed rake makes the best husband--but above all, to investigate
the highest and most important doctrines not only of morality, but of
christianity, by showing them thrown into action in the conduct of the
worthy characters; while the unworthy, who set those doctrines at
defiance, are condignly, and, as may be said, consequentially
punished.

From what has been said, considerate readers will not enter upon the
perusal of the piece before them as if it were designed only to divert
and amuse.  It will probably be thought tedious to all such as dip
into it, expecting a light novel, or transitory romance; and look upon
story in it (interesting as that is generally allowed to be) as its
sole end, rather than as a vehicle to the instruction.

Different persons, as might be expected, have been of different
opinions, in relation to the conduct of the Heroine in particular
situations; and several worthy persons have objected to the general
catastrophe, and other parts of the history.  Whatever is thought
material of these shall be taken notice of by way of Postscript, at
the conclusion of the History; for this work being addressed to the
public as a history of life and manners, those parts of it which are
proposed to carry with them the force of an example, ought to be as
unobjectionable as is consistent with the design of the whole, and
with human nature.





NAMES OF THE PRINCIPAL PERSONS


MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, a young lady of great beauty and merit.
ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. her admirer.
JAMES HARLOWE, ESQ. father of Clarissa.
MRS. HARLOWE, his lady.
JAMES HARLOWE, their only son.
ARABELLA, their elder daughter.
JOHN HARLOWE, ESQ. elder brother of James Harlowe, sen.
ANTONY HARLOWE, third brother.
ROGER SOLMES, ESQ. an admirer of Clarissa, favoured by her friends.
MRS. HERVEY, half-sister of Mrs. Harlowe.
MISS DOLLY HERVEY, her daughter.
MRS. JUDITH NORTON, a woman of great piety and discretion, who had a
principal share in the education of Clarissa.
COL. WM. MORDEN, a near relation of the Harlowes.
MISS HOWE, the most intimate friend, companion, and correspondent of
Clarissa.
MRS. HOWE, her mother.
CHARLES HICKMAN, ESQ. an admirer of Miss Howe.
LORD M., uncle to Mr. Lovelace.
LADY SARAH SADLEIR, LADY BETTY LAWRANCE, half-sisters of Lord M.
MISS CHARLOTTE MONTAGUE, MISS PATTY MONTAGUE, nieces of the same
nobleman.
DR. LEWEN, a worthy divine.
MR. ELIAS BRAND, a pedantic young clergyman.
DR. H. a humane physician.
MR. GODDARD, an honest and skilful apothecary.
JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. Mr. Lovelace's principal intimate and confidant.
RICHARD MOWBRAY, THOMAS DOLEMAN, JAMES TOURVILLE, THOMAS BELTON,
ESQRS. libertine friends of Mr. Lovelace.
MRS. MOORE, a widow, keeping a lodging-house at Hampstead.
MISS RAWLINS, a notable young gentlewoman there.
MRS. BEVIS, a lively young widow of the same place.
MRS. SINCLAIR, the pretended name of a private brothel-keeper in
London.
CAPTAIN TOMLINSON, the assumed name of a vile pander to the
debaucheries of Mr. Lovelace.
SALLY MARTIN, POLLY HORTON, assistants of, and partners with, the
infamous Sinclair.
DORCAS WYKES, an artful servant at the vile house.





CONTENTS OF VOLUME I


LETTER I.  Miss Howe to Miss Clarissa Harlowe.--
Desires from her the particulars of the rencounter between Mr.
Lovelace and her brother; and of the usage she receives upon it: also
the whole of her story from the time Lovelace was introduced as a
suitor to her sister Arabella.  Admires her great qualities, and
glories in the friendship between them.

LETTER II. III. IV.  Clarissa to Miss Howe.--
Gives the requested particulars.  Together with the grounds of her
brother's and sister's il-will to her; and of the animosity between
her brother and Lovelace.--Her mother connives at the private
correspondence between her and Lovelace, for the sake of preventing
greater evils.  Character of Lovelace, from an enemy.--Copy of the
preamble to her grandfather's will.

LETTER V.  From the same.--
Her father, mother, brother, briefly characterized.  Her brother's
consequence in the family.  Wishes Miss Howe had encouraged her
brother's address.  Endeavors to find excuses for her father's ill
temper, and for her mother's passiveness.

LETTER VI.  From the same.--
Mr. Symmes, Mr. Mullins, Mr. Wyerley, in return, proposed to her, in
malice to Lovelace; and, on their being rejected, Mr. Solmes.  Leave
given her to visit Miss Howe for a few days.  Her brother's insolent
behaviour upon it.

LETTER VII.  From the same.--
The harsh reception she meets with on her return from Miss Howe.
Solmes's first visit.

LETTER VIII.  From the same.--
All her family determined in Solmes's favour.  Her aversion to him.
She rejects him, and is forbid going to church, visiting, receiving
visits, or writing to any body out of the house.

LETTER IX.  Clarissa to Miss Howe.--
Her expedient to carry on a private correspondence with Miss Howe.
Regrets the necessity she is laid under to take such a clandestine
step.

LETTER X.  Miss Howe to Clarissa.--
Inveighs against the Harlowe family for proposing such a man as
Solmes.  Characterizes them.  Is jealous of Antony Harlowe's visits to
her mother.  Rallies her friend on her supposed regard to Lovelace.

LETTER XI.  Clarissa to Miss Howe.--
Is nettled and alarmed at her raillery.  Her reasons for not giving
way to a passion for Lovelace.

LETTER XII.  Miss Howe in reply.--
Continues her raillery.  Gives Lovelace's character from Mrs.
Fortescue.

LETTER XIII. XIV.  Clarissa to Miss Howe.--
The views of her family in favouring the address of Solmes.  Her
brother's and sister's triumph upon the difficulties into which they
have plunged her.

LETTER XV.  Miss Howe to Clarissa.--
She accounts for Arabella's malice.  Blames her for having given up
the power over the estate left her by her grandfather.

LETTER XVI. XVII.  Clarissa to Miss Howe.--
Offends her father by her behaviour to Solmes in his presence.  Tender
conversation between her mother and her.--Offers to give up all
thoughts of Lovelace, if she may be freed from Solmes's address.
Substance of one of Lovelace's letters, of her answer, and of his reply.
Makes a proposal.  Her mother goes down with it.

LETTER XVIII.  From the same.--
The proposal rejected.  Her mother affects severity to her.  Another
interesting conversation between them.

LETTER XIX.  From the same.--
Her dutiful motives for putting her estate into her father's power.
Why she thinks she ought not to have Solmes.  Afflicted on her
mother's account.

LETTER XX. XXI.  From the same.--
Another conference with her mother, who leaves her in anger.--She goes
down to beg her favour.  Solmes comes in.  She offers to withdraw; but
is forbid.  What follows upon it.

LETTER XXII.  Clarissa to Miss Howe.--
Substance of a letter from Lovelace.  She desires leave to go to
church.  Is referred to her brother, and insultingly refused by him.
Her letter to him.  His answer.

LETTER XXIII. XXIV. XXV.  From the same.--
Her faithful Hannah disgracefully dismissed.  Betty Barnes, her
sister's maid, set over her.  A letter from her brother forbidding her
to appear in the presence of any of her relations without leave.  Her
answer.  Writes to her mother.  Her mother's answer.  Writes to her
father.  His answer.

LETTER XXVI.  From the same.--
Is desirous to know the opinion Lord M.'s family have of her.
Substance of a letter from Lovelace, resenting the indignities he
receives from her relations.  She freely acquaints him that he has
nothing to expect from her contrary to her duty.  Insists that his
next letter shall be his last.

LETTER XXVII.  Miss Howe to Clarissa.--
Advises her to resume her estate.  Her satirical description of
Solmes.  Rallies her on her curiosity to know what opinion Lord M. and
his family have of her.  Ascribes to the difference in each of their
tempers their mutual love.  Gives particulars of a conversation
between her mother and her on Clarissa's case.  Reflects on the
Harlowe family, and particularly on Mrs. Harlowe, for her passiveness.

LETTER XXVIII.  Clarissa. In answer.--
Chides her for the liberties she takes with her relations.
Particularly defends her mother.  Chides her also for her lively airs
to her own mother.  Desires her to treat her freely; but wishes not
that she should impute love to her; and why.

LETTER XXIX.  From the same.--
Her expostulatory letter to her brother and sister.  Their answers.

LETTER XXX.  From the same.--
Exceedingly angry with Lovelace, on his coming to their church.
Reflections on pride, &c.

LETTER XXXI.  Mr. Lovelace to John Belford, Esq.--
Pride, revenge, love, ambition, or a desire of conquest, his avowedly
predominant passions.  His early vow to ruin as many of the fair sex
as he can get into his power.  His pretences for it.  Breathes revenge
against the Harlowe family.  Glories in his contrivances.  Is
passionately in love with Clarissa.  His high notions of her beauty
and merit.  Yet is incensed against her for preferring her own
relations to him.  Clears her, however, of intentional pride, scorn,
haughtiness, or want of sensibility.  What a triumph over the sex, and
over her whole family, if he can carry off a lady so watchful and so
prudent!   Is resolved, if he cannot have the sister, to carry off the
brother.  Libertine as he is, can have no thoughts of any other woman
but Clarissa.  Warns Belford, Mowbray, Tourville, and Belton, to hold
themselves in readiness to obey his summons, on the likelihood there
is of room for what he calls glorious mischief.

LETTER XXXII. XXXIII.  Clarissa to Miss Howe.--
Copies of her letters to her two uncles; and of their characteristic
answer.--Her expostulatory letter to Solmes.  His answer.--An insolent
letter from her brother, on her writing to Solmes.

LETTER XXXIV.  Lovelace to Belford.--
He directs him to come down to him.  For what end.  Description of the
poor inn he puts up at in disguise; and of the innocent daughter
there, whom he calls his Rosebud.  He resolves to spare her.  Pride
and policy his motives, and not principle.  Ingenuous reflections on
his own vicious disposition.  He had been a rogue, he says, had he
been a plough-boy.  Resolves on an act of generosity for his Rosebud,
by way of atonement, as he calls it, for some of his bad actions; and
for other reasons which appear in the sequel.

LETTER XXXV.  From the same.--
His artful contrivances and dealings with Joseph Leman.  His revenge
and his love uppermost by turns.  If the latter succeeds not, he vows
that the Harlowes shall feel the former, although for it he become an
exile from his country forever.  He will throw himself into Clarissa's
presence in the woodhouse.  If he thought he had no prospect of her
favour, he would attempt to carry her off: that, he says, would be a
rape worthy of a Jupiter.  The arts he is resolved to practise when he
sees her, in order to engage her future reliance upon his honour.

LETTER XXXVI.  Clarissa to Miss Howe.--
Lovelace, in disguise, surprises her in the woodhouse.  Her terrors on
first seeing him.  He greatly engages her confidence (as he had
designed) by his respectful behaviour.

LETTER XXXVII.  Miss Howe to Clarissa.--
After rallying her on her not readily owning the passion which she
supposes she has for Lovelace, she desires to know how far she thinks
him eligible for his best qualities, how far rejectable for his worst.

LETTER XXXVIII. XXXIX.  Clarissa to Miss Howe.--
She disclaims tyranny to a man who respects her.  Her unhappy
situation to be considered, in which the imputed love is held by her
parents to be an undutiful, and therefore a criminal passion, and
where the supposed object of it is a man of faulty morals.  Is
interrupted by a visit from Mrs. Norton, who is sent up to her to
influence her in Solmes's favour.  An affecting conversation between
them.  What passes upon it, and after it.

LETTER XL.  From the same.--
Resumes the requested subject.  What sort of man she could have
preferred to Mr. Lovelace.  Arguments she has used to herself in his
favour, and in his disfavour.  Frankly owns that were he now a moral
man, she would prefer him to all the men she ever saw.  Yet is
persuaded, that she could freely give up the one man to get rid of the
other, as she had offered to her friends.  Her delicacy affected by
Miss Howe's raillery; and why.  Gives her opinion of the force which
figure or person may be allowed to have upon her sex.

LETTER XLI.  From the same.--
A letter from her mother (with patterns of rich silks) in which she
entreats her to comply with all their wishes.  What ought to be the
principal view of a good wife in adorning her person.  Her distress.
Begs leave to wait upon her mother alone.  Her father's angry letter,
ordering her to prepare for her wedding-day.  Solmes requests to see
her.  She refuses.  All in tumults below upon it.  Her brother and her
sister desire that she may be left to their management.

LETTER XLII.  From the same.--
A very warm dialogue between her sister and her.  Her sister's envy,
unnatural behaviour, and violence.  Clarissa sends down proposals in
writing to her friends, and a letter to her brother.  His insolent
answer; in which he tells her, that her proposal will be considered in
full assembly next morning; but that, if they shall be complied with,
he will retire to Scotland, and never more return to Harlowe-place.

LETTER XLIII.  Clarissa to Miss Howe.--
Hardly doubts but her proposals will be accepted.  Paints to herself,
as her relations arrive one by one, what their deliberations, and the
result of them will be, when they are all assembled.  Her proposals
rejected.  Her sister's cruel insults on the occasion produce another
warm dialogue between them.  Her sister leaves her in a fury.  She is
greatly disturbed at the contents of a letter from Lovelace.

LETTER XLIV.  From the same.--
Her aunt Hervey, accompanied by her sister, makes her a visit.
Farther insults from her sister.  Her aunt's fruitless pleas in
Solmes's favour.





THE HISTORY

OF

CLARISSA HARLOWE





LETTER I

MISS ANNA HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
JAN 10.


I am extremely concerned, my dearest friend, for the disturbance that 
have happened in your family.  I know how it must hurt you to become 
the subject of the public talk: and yet, upon an occasion so generally 
known, it is impossible but that whatever relates to a young lady, 
whose distinguished merits have made her the public care, should 
engage every body's attention.  I long to have the particulars from 
yourself; and of the usage I am told you receive upon an accident you 
could not help; and in which, as far as I can learn, the sufferer was 
the aggressor.

Mr. Diggs, the surgeon, whom I sent for at the first hearing of the 
rencounter, to inquire, for your sake, how your brother was, told me, 
that there was no danger from the wound, if there were none from the 
fever; which it seems has been increased by the perturbation of his 
spirits.

Mr. Wyerley drank tea with us yesterday; and though he is far from 
being partial to Mr. Lovelace, as it may well be supposed, yet both he 
and Mr. Symmes blame your family for the treatment they gave him when 
he went in person to inquire after your brother's health, and to 
express his concern for what had happened.

They say, that Mr. Lovelace could not avoid drawing his sword: and 
that either your brother's unskilfulness or passion left him from the 
very first pass entirely in his power.

This, I am told, was what Mr. Lovelace said upon it; retreating as he 
spoke: 'Have a care, Mr. Harlowe--your violence puts you out of your 
defence.  You give me too much advantage.  For your sister's sake, I 
will pass by every thing:--if--'

But this the more provoked his rashness, to lay himself open to the 
advantage of his adversary--who, after a slight wound given him in the 
arm, took away his sword.

There are people who love not your brother, because of his natural 
imperiousness and fierce and uncontroulable temper: these say, that 
the young gentleman's passion was abated on seeing his blood gush 
plentifully down his arm; and that he received the generous offices of 
his adversary (who helped him off with his coat and waistcoat, and 
bound up his arm, till the surgeon could come,) with such patience, as 
was far from making a visit afterwards from that adversary, to inquire 
after his health, appear either insulting or improper.

Be this as it may, every body pities you.  So steady, so uniform in 
your conduct: so desirous, as you always said, of sliding through life 
to the end of it unnoted; and, as I may add, not wishing to be 
observed even for your silent benevolence; sufficiently happy in the 
noble consciousness which attends it: Rather useful than glaring, your 
deserved motto; though now, to your regret, pushed into blaze, as I 
may say: and yet blamed at home for the faults of others--how must 
such a virtue suffer on every hand!--yet it must be allowed, that your 
present trial is but proportioned to your prudence.

As all your friends without doors are apprehensive that some other 
unhappy event may result from so violent a contention, in which it 
seems the families on both sides are now engaged, I must desire you to 
enable me, on the authority of your own information, to do you 
occasional justice.

My mother, and all of us, like the rest of the world, talk of nobody 
but you on this occasion, and of the consequences which may follow 
from the resentments of a man of Mr. Lovelace's spirit; who, as he 
gives out, has been treated with high indignity by your uncles.  My 
mother will have it, that you cannot now, with any decency, either see 
him, or correspond with him.  She is a good deal prepossessed by your 
uncle Antony; who occasionally calls upon us, as you know; and, on 
this rencounter, has represented to her the crime which it would be in 
a sister to encourage a man who is to wade into her favour (this was 
his expression) through the blood of her brother.

Write to me therefore, my dear, the whole of your story from the time 
that Mr. Lovelace was first introduced into your family; and 
particularly an account of all that passed between him and your 
sister; about which there are different reports; some people scrupling 
not to insinuate that the younger sister has stolen a lover from the 
elder: and pray write in so full a manner as may satisfy those who 
know not so much of your affairs as I do.  If anything unhappy should 
fall out from the violence of such spirits as you have to deal with, 
your account of all things previous to it will be your best 
justification.

You see what you draw upon yourself by excelling all your sex.  Every 
individual of it who knows you, or has heard of you, seems to think 
you answerable to her for your conduct in points so very delicate and 
concerning.

Every eye, in short, is upon you with the expectation of an example.  
I wish to heaven you were at liberty to pursue your own methods: all 
would then, I dare say, be easy, and honourably ended.  But I dread 
your directors and directresses; for your mother, admirably well 
qualified as she is to lead, must submit to be led.  Your sister and 
brother will certainly put you out of your course.

But this is a point you will not permit me to expatiate upon: pardon 
me therefore, and I have done.--Yet, why should I say, pardon me? when 
your concerns are my concerns? when your honour is my honour? when I 
love you, as never woman loved another? and when you have allowed of 
that concern and of that love; and have for years, which in persons so 
young may be called many, ranked in the first class of your friends,

Your ever grateful and affectionate,
ANNA HOWE?


Will you oblige me with a copy of the preamble to the clauses in your 
grandfather's will in your favour; and allow me to send it to my aunt 
Harman?--She is very desirous to see it.  Yet your character has so 
charmed her, that, though a stranger to you personally, she assents to 
the preference given you in that will, before she knows the testator's 
reasons for giving you that preference.



LETTER II

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
HARLOWE-PLACE, JAN. 13.


How you oppress me, my dearest friend, with your politeness!  I cannot 
doubt your sincerity; but you should take care, that you give me not 
reason from your kind partiality to call in question your judgment.  
You do not distinguish that I take many admirable hints from you, and 
have the art to pass them upon you for my own: for in all you do, in 
all you say, nay, in your very looks (so animated!) you give lessons 
to one who loves you and observes you as I love you and observe you, 
without knowing that you do--So pray, my dear, be more sparing of your 
praise for the future, lest after this confession we should suspect 
that you secretly intend to praise yourself, while you would be 
thought only to commend another.

Our family has indeed been strangely discomposed.--Discomposed!--It 
has been in tumults, ever since the unhappy transaction; and I have 
borne all the blame; yet should have had too much concern from myself, 
had I been more justly spared by every one else.

For, whether it be owing to a faulty impatience, having been too 
indulgently treated to be inured to blame, or to the regret I have to 
hear those censured on my account, whom it is my duty to vindicate; I 
have sometimes wished, that it had pleased God to have taken me in my 
last fever, when I had every body's love and good opinion; but oftener 
that I had never been distinguished by my grandfather as I was: since 
that distinction has estranged from me my brother's and sister's 
affections; at least, has raised a jealousy with regard to the 
apprehended favour of my two uncles, that now-and-then overshadows 
their love.

My brother being happily recovered of his fever, and his wound in a 
hopeful way, although he has not yet ventured abroad, I will be as 
particular as you desire in the little history you demand of me.  But 
heaven forbid that any thing should ever happen which may require it 
to be produced for the purpose you mention!

I will begin, as you command, with Mr. Lovelace's address to my 
sister; and be as brief as possible.  I will recite facts only; and 
leave you to judge of the truth of the report raised, that the younger 
sister has robbed the elder.

It was in pursuance of a conference between Lord M. and my uncle 
Antony, that Mr. Lovelace [my father and mother not forbidding] paid 
his respect to my sister Arabella.  My brother was then in Scotland, 
busying himself in viewing the condition of the considerable estate 
which was left him there by his generous godmother, together with one 
as considerable in Yorkshire.  I was also absent at my Dairy-house, as 
it is called,* busied in the accounts relating to the estate which my 
grandfather had the goodness to devise to me; and which once a year 
was left to my inspection, although I have given the whole into my 
father's power.


* Her grandfather, in order to invite her to him as often as her other 
friends would spare her, indulged her in erecting and fitting up a 
diary-house in her own taste.  When finished, it was so much admired 
for its elegant simplicity and convenience, that the whole seat 
(before, of old time, from its situation, called The Grove) was 
generally known by the name of The Dairy-house.  Her grandfather in 
particular was fond of having it so called.


My sister made me a visit there the day after Mr. Lovelace had been 
introduced; and seemed highly pleased with the gentleman.  His birth, 
his fortune in possession, a clear 2000L. a year, as Lord M. had 
assured my uncle; presumptive heir to that nobleman's large estate: 
his great expectations from Lady Sarah Sadleir and Lady Betty 
Lawrence; who with his uncle interested themselves very warmly (he 
being the last of his line) to see him married.

'So handsome a man!--O her beloved Clary!'  (for then she was ready to 
love me dearly, from the overflowings of her good humour on his 
account!) 'He was but too handsome a man for her!--Were she but as 
amiable as somebody, there would be a probability of holding his 
affections!--For he was wild, she heard; very wild, very gay; loved 
intrigue--but he was young; a man of sense: would see his error, could 
she but have patience with his faults, if his faults were not cured by 
marriage!'

Thus she ran on; and then wanted me 'to see the charming man,' as she 
called him.--Again concerned, 'that she was not handsome enough for 
him;' with, 'a sad thing, that the man should have the advantage of 
the woman in that particular!'--But then, stepping to the glass, she 
complimented herself, 'That she was very well: that there were many 
women deemed passable who were inferior to herself: that she was 
always thought comely; and comeliness, let her tell me, having not so 
much to lose as beauty had, would hold, when that would evaporate or 
fly off:--nay, for that matter,' [and again she turned to the glass] 
'her features were not irregular; her eyes not at all amiss.'  And I 
remember they were more than usually brilliant at that time.--
'Nothing, in short, to be found fault with, though nothing very 
engaging she doubted--was there, Clary.'

Excuse me, my dear, I never was thus particular before; no, not to 
you.  Nor would I now have written thus freely of a sister, but that 
she makes a merit to my brother of disowning that she ever liked him; 
as I shall mention hereafter: and then you will always have me give 
you minute descriptions, nor suffer me to pass by the air and manner 
in which things are spoken that are to be taken notice of; rightly 
observing, that air and manner often express more than the 
accompanying words.

I congratulated her upon her prospects.  She received my compliments 
with a great deal of self-complacency.

She liked the gentleman still more at his next visit; and yet he made 
no particular address to her, although an opportunity was given him 
for it.  This was wondered at, as my uncle has introduced him into our 
family declaredly as a visitor to my sister.  But as we are ever ready 
to make excuses when in good humour with ourselves for the perhaps not 
unwilful slights of those whose approbation we wish to engage; so my 
sister found out a reason much to Mr. Lovelace's advantage for his not 
improving the opportunity that was given him.--It was bashfulness, 
truly, in him.  [Bashfulness in Mr. Lovelace, my dear!]--Indeed, gay 
and lively as he is, he has not the look of an impudent man.  But, I 
fancy, it is many, many years ago since he was bashful.

Thus, however, could my sister make it out--'Upon her word, she 
believed Mr. Lovelace deserved not the bad character he had as to 
women.--He was really, to her thinking, a modest man.  He would have 
spoken out, she believed; but once or twice as he seemed to intend to 
do so, he was under so agreeable a confusion!   Such a profound 
respect he seemed to shew her!  A perfect reverence, she thought: she 
loved dearly that a man in courtship should shew a reverence to his 
mistress'--So indeed we all do, I believe: and with reason; since, if 
I may judge from what I have seen in many families, there is little 
enough of it shewn afterwards.--And she told my aunt Hervey, that she 
would be a little less upon the reserve next time he came: 'She was 
not one of those flirts, not she, who would give pain to a person that 
deserved to be well-treated; and the more pain for the greatness of 
his value for her.'--I wish she had not somebody whom I love in her 
eye.

In his third visit, Bella governed herself by this kind and 
considerate principle: so that, according to her own account of the 
matter, the man might have spoken out.--But he was still bashful: he 
was not able to overcome this unseasonable reverence.  So this visit 
went off as the former.

But now she began to be dissatisfied with him.  She compared his 
general character with this his particular behaviour to her; and 
having never been courted before, owned herself puzzled how to deal 
with so odd a lover.  'What did the man mean, she wondered?  Had not 
her uncle brought him declaredly as a suitor to her?--It could not be 
bashfulness (now she thought of it) since he might have opened his 
mind to her uncle, if he wanted courage to speak directly to her.--Not 
that she cared much for the man neither: but it was right, surely, 
that a woman should be put out of doubt early as to a man's intentions 
in such a case as this, from his own mouth.--But, truly, she had begun 
to think, that he was more solicitous to cultivate her mamma's good 
opinion, than hers!--Every body, she owned, admired her mother's 
conversation; but he was mistaken if he thought respect to her mother 
only would do with her.  And then, for his own sake, surely he should 
put it into her power to be complaisant to him, if he gave her reason 
to approve of him.  This distant behaviour, she must take upon herself 
to say, was the more extraordinary, as he continued his visits, and 
declared himself extremely desirous to cultivate a friendship with the 
whole family; and as he could have no doubt about her sense, if she 
might take upon her to join her own with the general opinion; he 
having taken great notice of, and admired many of her good things as 
they fell from her lips.  Reserves were painful, she must needs say, 
to open and free spirits, like hers: and yet she must tell my aunt,' 
(to whom all this was directed) 'that she should never forget what she 
owed to her sex, and to herself, were Mr. Lovelace as unexceptionable 
in his morals as in his figure, and were he to urge his suit ever so 
warmly.'

I was not of her council.  I was still absent.  And it was agreed upon 
between my aunt Hervey and her, that she was to be quite solemn and 
shy in his next visit, if there were not a peculiarity in his address 
to her.

But my sister it seems had not considered the matter well.  This was 
not the way, as it proved, to be taken for matters of mere omission, 
with a man of Mr. Lovelace's penetration.  Nor with any man; since if 
love has not taken root deep enough to cause it to shoot out into 
declaration, if an opportunity be fairly given for it, there is little 
room to expect, that the blighting winds of anger or resentment will 
bring it forward.  Then my poor sister is not naturally good-humoured.  
This is too well-known a truth for me to endeavor to conceal it, 
especially from you.  She must therefore, I doubt, have appeared to 
great disadvantages when she aimed to be worse tempered than ordinary.

How they managed it in their next conversation I know not.  One would 
be tempted to think by the issue, that Mr. Lovelace was ungenerous 
enough to seek the occasion given,* and to improve it.  Yet he thought 
fit to put the question too:--But, she says, it was not till, by some 
means or other (she knew not how) he had wrought her up to such a 
pitch of displeasure with him, that it was impossible for her to 
recover herself at the instant.  Nevertheless he re-urged his 
question, as expecting a definitive answer, without waiting for the 
return of her temper, or endeavouring to mollify her; so that she was 
under a necessity of persisting in her denial: yet gave him reason to 
think she did not dislike his address, only the manner of it; his 
court being rather made to her mother than to herself, as if he was 
sure of her consent at any time.


* See Mr. Lovelace's Letter, No. XXXI, in which he briefly accounts for 
his conduct in this affair.


A good encouraging denial, I must own: as was the rest of her plea; to 
wit, 'A disinclination to change her state.  Exceedingly happy as she 
was: she never could be happier!'  And such-like consenting negatives, 
as I may call them, and yet not intend a reflection upon my sister: 
for what can any young creature in the like circumstances say, when 
she is not sure but a too-ready consent may subject her to the slights 
of a sex that generally values a blessing either more or less as it is 
obtained with difficulty or ease?  Miss Biddulph's answer to a copy of 
verse from a gentleman, reproaching our sex as acting in disguise, is 
not a bad one, although you may perhaps think it too acknowledging for 
the female character.

	Ungen'rous Sex!--To scorn us if we're kind;
  	And yet upbraid us if we seem severe!
	Do you, t' encourage us to tell our mind,
  	Yourselves put off disguise, and be sincere.
	You talk of coquetry!--Your own false hearts
	Compel our sex to act dissembling parts.

Here I am obliged to lay down my pen.  I will soon resume it.



LETTER III

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
JAN. 13, 14.


And thus, as Mr. Lovelace thought fit to take it, had he his answer 
from my sister.  It was with very great regret, as he pretended, [I 
doubt the man is an hypocrite, my dear] that he acquiesced in it.  'So 
much determinedness; such a noble firmness in my sister, that there 
was no hope of prevailing upon her to alter sentiments she had adopted 
on full consideration.'  He sighed, as Bella told us, when he took his 
leave of her: 'Profoundly sighed; grasped her hand, and kissed it with 
such an ardour--Withdrew with such an air of solemn respect--She could 
almost find it in her heart, although he had vexed her, to pity him.'  
A good intentional preparative to love, this pity; since, at the time, 
she little thought that he would not renew his offer.

He waited on my mother after he had taken leave of Bella, and reported 
his ill success in so respectful a manner, as well with regard to my 
sister, as to the whole family, and with so much concern that he was 
not accepted as a relation to it, that it left upon them all (my 
brother being then, as I have said, in Scotland) impressions in his 
favour, and a belief that this matter would certainly be brought on 
again.  But Mr. Lovelace going up directly to town, where he staid a 
whole fortnight, and meeting there with my uncle Antony, to whom he 
regretted his niece's cruel resolution not to change her state; it was 
seen that there was a total end of the affair.

My sister was not wanting to herself on this occasion.  She made a 
virtue of necessity; and the man was quite another man with her.  'A 
vain creature!  Too well knowing his advantages: yet those not what 
she had conceived them to be!--Cool and warm by fits and starts; an 
ague-like lover.  A steady man, a man of virtue, a man of morals, was 
worth a thousand of such gay flutterers.  Her sister Clary might think 
it worth her while perhaps to try to engage such a man: she had 
patience: she was mistress of persuasion: and indeed, to do the girl 
justice, had something of a person: But as for her, she would not have 
a man of whose heart she could not be sure for one moment; no, not for 
the world: and most sincerely glad was she that she had rejected him.'

But when Mr. Lovelace returned into the country, he thought fit to 
visit my father and mother; hoping, as he told them, that, however 
unhappy he had been in the rejection of the wished-for alliance, he 
might be allowed to keep up an acquaintance and friendship with a 
family which he should always respect.  And then unhappily, as I may 
say, was I at home and present.

It was immediately observed, that his attention was fixed on me.  My 
sister, as soon as he was gone, in a spirit of bravery, seemed 
desirous to promote his address, should it be tendered.

My aunt Hervey was there; and was pleased to say, we should make the 
finest couple in England--if my sister had no objection.--No, indeed! 
with a haughty toss, was my sister's reply--it would be strange if she 
had, after the denial she had given him upon full deliberation.

My mother declared, that her only dislike of his alliance with either 
daughter, was on account of his reputed faulty morals.

My uncle Harlowe, that his daughter Clary, as he delighted to call me 
from childhood, would reform him if any woman in the world could.

My uncle Antony gave his approbation in high terms: but referred, as 
my aunt had done, to my sister.

She repeated her contempt of him; and declared, that, were there not 
another man in England, she would not have him.  She was ready, on the 
contrary, she could assure them, to resign her pretensions under hand 
and seal, if Miss Clary were taken with his tinsel, and if every one 
else approved of his address to the girl.

My father indeed, after a long silence, being urged by my uncle Antony 
to speak his mind, said, that he had a letter from his son, on his 
hearing of Mr. Lovelace's visits to his daughter Arabella; which he 
had not shewn to any body but my mother; that treaty being at an end 
when he received it: that in this letter he expressed great dislike to 
an alliance with Mr. Lovelace on the score of his immoralities: that 
he knew, indeed, there was an old grudge between them; but that, being 
desirous to prevent all occasions of disunion and animosity in his 
family, he would suspend the declaration of his own mind till his son 
arrived, and till he had heard his further objections: that he was the 
more inclined to make his son this compliment, as Mr. Lovelace's 
general character gave but too much ground for his son's dislike of 
him; adding, that he had hear (so, he supposed, had every one,) that 
he was a very extravagant man; that he had contracted debts in his 
travels: and indeed, he was pleased to say, he had the air of a 
spendthrift.

These particulars I had partly from my aunt Hervey, and partly from my 
sister; for I was called out as soon as the subject was entered upon. 
When I returned, my uncle Antony asked me, how I should like Mr. 
Lovelace?  Every body saw, he was pleased to say, that I had made a 
conquest.

I immediately answered, that I did not like him at all: he seemed to 
have too good an opinion both on his person and parts, to have any 
regard to his wife, let him marry whom he would.

My sister particularly was pleased with this answer, and confirmed it 
to be just; with a compliment to my judgment.--For it was hers.

But the very next day Lord M. came to Harlowe-Place [I was then 
absent]; and in his nephew's name made a proposal in form; declaring, 
that it was the ambition of all his family to be related to ours: and 
he hoped his kinsman would not have such an answer on the part of the 
younger sister, as he had on that of the elder.

In short, Mr. Lovelace's visits were admitted as those of a man who 
had not deserved disrespect from our family; but as to his address to 
me, with a reservation, as above, on my father's part, that he would 
determine nothing without his son.  My discretion as to the rest was 
confided in: for still I had the same objections as to the man: nor 
would I, when we were better acquainted, hear any thing but general 
talk from him; giving him no opportunity of conversing with me in 
private.

He bore this with a resignation little expected from his natural 
temper, which is generally reported to be quick and hasty; unused it 
seems from childhood to check or controul.  A case too common in 
considerable families where there is an only son: and his mother never 
had any other child.  But, as I have heretofore told you, I could 
perceive, notwithstanding this resignation, that he had so good an 
opinion of himself, as not to doubt, that his person and 
accomplishments would insensibly engage me: And could that be once 
done, he told my aunt Hervey, he should hope, from so steady a temper, 
that his hold in my affections would be durable: While my sister 
accounted for his patience in another manner, which would perhaps have 
had more force if it had come from a person less prejudiced: 'That the 
man was not fond of marrying at all: that he might perhaps have half a 
score mistresses: and that delay might be as convenient for his 
roving, as for my well-acted indifference.'  That was her kind 
expression.

Whatever was his motive for a patience so generally believed to be out 
of his usual character, and where the object of his address was 
supposed to be of fortune considerable enough to engage his warmest 
attention, he certainly escaped many mortifications by it: for while my 
father suspended his approbation till my brother's arrival, Mr. 
Lovelace received from every one those civilities which were due to 
his birth: and although we heard from time to time reports to his 
disadvantage with regard to morals, yet could we not question him upon 
them without giving him greater advantages in his own opinion than the 
situation he was in with us would justify to prudence; since it was 
much more likely that his address would not be allowed of, than that 
it would.

And thus was he admitted to converse with our family almost upon his 
own terms; for while my friends saw nothing in his behaviour but what 
was extremely respectful, and observed in him no violent importunity, 
they seemed to have taken a great liking to his conversation: While I 
considered him only as a common guest when he came; and thought myself 
no more concerned in his visits, not at his entrance and departure, 
than any other of the family.

But this indifference on my side was the means of procuring him one 
very great advantage; since upon it was grounded that correspondence 
by letters which succeeded;--and which, had it been to be begun when 
the family animosity broke out, would never have been entered into on 
my part.  The occasion was this:

My uncle Hervey has a young gentleman intrusted to his care, whom he 
has thoughts of sending abroad a year or two hence, to make the Grand 
Tour, as it is called; and finding Mr. Lovelace could give a good 
account of every thing necessary for a young traveller to observe upon 
such an occasion, he desired him to write down a description of the 
courts and countries he had visited, and what was most worthy of 
curiosity in them.

He consented, on condition that I would direct his subjects, as he 
called it: and as every one had heard his manner of writing commended; 
and thought his narratives might be agreeable amusements in winter 
evenings; and that he could have no opportunity particularly to 
address me directly in them, since they were to be read in full 
assembly before they were given to the young gentleman, I made the 
less scruple to write, and to make observations, and put questions for 
our further information--Still the less perhaps as I love writing; and 
those who do, are fond, you know, of occasions to use the pen: And 
then, having ever one's consent, and my uncle Hervey's desire that I 
would write, I thought that if I had been the only scrupulous person, 
it would have shewn a particularity that a vain man might construe to 
his advantage; and which my sister would not fail to animadvert upon.

You have seen some of these letters; and have been pleased with this 
account of persons, places, and things; and we have both agreed, that 
he was no common observer upon what he had seen.

My sister allowed that the man had a tolerable knack of writing and 
describing: And my father, who had been abroad in his youth, said, 
that his remarks were curious, and shewed him to be a person of 
reading, judgment and taste.

Thus was a kind of correspondence begun between him and me, with 
general approbation; while every one wondered at, and was pleased 
with, his patient veneration of me; for so they called it.  However, 
it was not doubted but he would soon be more importunate, since his 
visits were more frequent, and he acknowledged to my aunt Hervey a 
passion for me, accompanied with an awe that he had never known 
before; to which he attributed what he called his but seeming 
acquiescence with my father's pleasure, and the distance I kept him 
at.  And yet, my dear, this may be his usual manner of behaviour to 
our sex; for had not my sister at first all his reverence?

Mean time, my father, expecting his importunity, kept in readiness the 
reports he had heard in his disfavour, to charge them upon him then, 
as so many objections to address.  And it was highly agreeable to me 
that he did so: it would have been strange if it were not; since the 
person who could reject Mr. Wyerley's address for the sake of his free 
opinions, must have been inexcusable, had she not rejected another's 
for his freer practices.

But I should own, that in the letters he sent me upon the general 
subject, he more than once inclosed a particular one, declaring his 
passionate regards for me, and complaining with fervour enough, of my 
reserves.  But of these I took not the least notice: for, as I had not 
written to him at all, but upon a subject so general, I thought it was 
but right to let what he wrote upon one so particular pass off as if I 
had never seen it; and the rather, as I was not then at liberty (from 
the approbation his letters met with) to break off the correspondence, 
unless I had assigned the true reason for doing so.  Besides, with all 
his respectful assiduities, it was easy to observe, (if it had not 
been his general character) that his temper is naturally haughty and 
violent; and I had seen too much of that untractable spirit in my 
brother to like it in one who hoped to be still more nearly related to 
me.

I had a little specimen of this temper of his upon the very occasion I 
have mentioned: For after he had sent me a third particular letter 
with the general one, he asked me the next time he came to Harlowe-
Place, if I had not received such a one from him?--I told him I should 
never answer one so sent; and that I had waited for such an occasion 
as he had now given me, to tell him so: I desired him therefore not to 
write again on the subject; assuring him, that if he did, I would 
return both, and never write another line to him.

You can't imagine how saucily the man looked; as if, in short, he was 
disappointed that he had not made a more sensible impression upon me: 
nor, when he recollected himself (as he did immediately), what a 
visible struggle it cost him to change his haughty airs for more 
placid ones.  But I took no notice of either; for I thought it best to 
convince him, by the coolness and indifference with which I repulsed 
his forward hopes (at the same time intending to avoid the affectation 
of pride or vanity) that he was not considerable enough in my eyes to 
make me take over-ready offence at what he said, or at his haughty 
looks: in other words, that I had not value enough for him to treat 
him with peculiarity either by smiles or frowns.  Indeed he had 
cunning enough to give me, undesignedly, a piece of instruction which 
taught me this caution; for he had said in conversation once, 'That if 
a man could not make a woman in courtship own herself pleased with 
him, it was as much and oftentimes more to his purpose to make her 
angry with him.'

I must break off here, but will continue the subject the very first 
opportunity.  Mean time, I am

Your most affectionate friend and servant,
CL. HARLOWE.



LETTER IV

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
JAN. 15.


Such, my dear, was the situation Mr. Lovelace and I were in when my 
brother arrived from Scotland.

The moment Mr. Lovelace's visits were mentioned to him, he, without 
either hesitation or apology, expressed his disapprobation of them. He 
found great flaws in his character; and took the liberty to say in so 
many words, that he wondered how it came into the heads of his uncles 
to encourage such a man for either of his sisters: At the same time 
returning his thanks to my father for declining his consent till he 
arrived, in such a manner, I thought, as a superior would do, when he 
commended an inferior for having well performed his duty in his 
absence.

He justified his avowed inveteracy by common fame, and by what he had 
known of him at college; declaring, that he had ever hated him; ever 
should hate him; and would never own him for a brother, or me for a 
sister, if I married him.

That early antipathy I have heard accounted for in this manner:

Mr. Lovelace was always noted for his vivacity and courage; and no 
less, it seems, for the swift and surprising progress he made in all 
parts of literature: for diligence in his studies in the hours of 
study, he had hardly his equal.  This it seems was his general 
character at the university; and it gained him many friends among the 
more learned; while those who did not love him, feared him, by reason 
of the offence his vivacity made him too ready to give, and of the 
courage he shewed in supporting the offence when given; which procured 
him as many followers as he pleased among the mischievous sort.--No 
very amiable character, you'll say, upon the whole.

But my brother's temper was not more happy.  His native haughtiness 
could not bear a superiority so visible; and whom we fear more than 
love, we are not far from hating: and having less command of his 
passions than the other, he was evermore the subject of his perhaps 
indecent ridicule: so that every body, either from love or fear, 
siding with his antagonist, he had a most uneasy time of it while both 
continued in the same college.--It was the less wonder therefore that 
a young man who is not noted for the gentleness of his temper, should 
resume an antipathy early begun, and so deeply rooted.

He found my sister, who waited but for the occasion, ready to join him 
in his resentments against the man he hated.  She utterly disclaimed 
all manner of regard for him: 'Never liked him at all:--His estate was 
certainly much incumbered: it was impossible it should be otherwise; 
so entirely devoted as he was to his pleasures.  He kept no house; had 
no equipage: Nobody pretended that he wanted pride: the reason 
therefore was easy to be guessed at.'  And then did she boast of, and 
my brother praised her for, refusing him: and both joined on all 
occasions to depreciate him, and not seldom made the occasions; their 
displeasure against him causing every subject to run into this, if it 
began not with it.

I was not solicitous to vindicate him when I was not joined in their 
reflection.  I told them I did not value him enough to make a 
difference in the family on his account: and as he was supposed to 
have given much cause for their ill opinion of him, I thought he ought 
to take the consequence of his own faults.

Now and then indeed, when I observed that their vehemence carried them 
beyond all bounds of probability in their charges against him, I 
thought it but justice to put in a word for him.  But this only 
subjected me to reproach, as having a prepossession in his favour 
which I would not own.--So that, when I could not change the subject, 
I used to retire either to my music, or to my closet.

Their behaviour to him, when they could not help seeing him, was very 
cold and disobliging; but as yet not directly affrontive.  For they 
were in hopes of prevailing upon my father to forbid his visits.  But 
as there was nothing in his behaviour, that might warrant such a 
treatment of a man of his birth and fortune, they succeeded not: And 
then they were very earnest with me to forbid them.  I asked, what 
authority I had to take such a step in my father's house; and when my 
behaviour to him was so distant, that he seemed to be as much the 
guest of any other person of the family, themselves excepted, as 
mine?--In revenge, they told me, that it was cunning management 
between us; and that we both understood one another better than we 
pretended to do.  And at last they gave such a loose to their 
passions, all of a sudden* as I may say, that instead of withdrawing, 
as they used to do when he came, they threw themselves in his way 
purposely to affront him.


* The reason of this their more openly shown animosity is given in 
Letter XIII.


Mr. Lovelace, you may believe, very ill brooked this: but nevertheless 
contented himself to complain of it to me: in high terms, however, 
telling me, that but for my sake my brother's treatment of him was not 
to be borne.

I was sorry for the merit this gave him in his own opinion with me: 
and the more, as some of the affronts he received were too flagrant to 
be excused: But I told him, that I was determined not to fall out with 
my brother, if I could help it, whatever faults he had: and since they 
could not see one another with temper, should be glad that he would 
not throw himself in my brother's way; and I was sure my brother would 
not seek him.

He was very much nettled at this answer: But said, he must bear his 
affronts if I would have it so.  He had been accused himself of 
violence in his temper; but he hoped to shew on this occasion that he 
had a command of his passions which few young men, so highly provoked, 
would be able to shew; and doubted not but it would be attributed to a 
proper motive by a person of my generosity and penetration.

My brother had just before, with the approbation of my uncles, 
employed a person related to a discharged bailiff or steward of Lord 
M. who had had the management of some part of Mr. Lovelace's affairs 
(from which he was also dismissed by him) to inquire into his debts, 
after his companions, into his amours, and the like.

My aunt Hervey, in confidence, gave me the following particulars of 
what the man had said of him.

'That he was a generous landlord: that he spared nothing for solid and 
lasting improvements upon his estate; and that he looked into his own 
affairs, and understood them: that he had been very expensive when 
abroad; and contracted a large debt (for he made no secret of his 
affairs); yet chose to limit himself to an annual sum, and to decline 
equipage, in order to avoid being obliged to his uncle and aunts; from 
whom he might have what money he pleased; but that he was very jealous 
of their controul; had often quarrels with them; and treated them so 
freely, that they were all afraid of him.  However, that his estate 
was never mortgaged, as my brother had heard it was; his credit was 
always high; and the man believed, he was by this time near upon, if 
not quite, clear of the world.

'He was a sad gentleman, he said, as to women:--If his tenants had 
pretty daughters, they chose to keep them out of his sight. He 
believed he kept no particular mistress; for he had heard newelty, 
that was the man's word, was every thing with him.  But for his 
uncle's and aunt's teazings, the man fancied he would not think of 
marriage: he was never known to be disguised with liquor; but was a 
great plotter, and a great writer: That he lived a wild life in town, 
by what he had heard: had six or seven companions as bad as himself; 
whom now and then he brought down with him; and the country was always 
glad when they went up again.  He would have it, that although 
passionate, he was good-humoured; loved as well to take a jest as to 
give one; and would rally himself upon occasion the freest of any man 
he ever knew.'

This was his character from an enemy; for, as my aunt observed, every 
thing the man said commendably of him came grudgingly, with a must 
needs say--to do him justice, &c. while the contrary was delivered 
with a free good-will.  And this character, as a worse was expected, 
though this was bad enough, not answering the end of inquiring after 
it, my brother and sister were more apprehensive than before, that his 
address would be encouraged, since the worst part of it was known, or 
supposed, when he was first introduced to my sister.

But, with regard to myself, I must observe in his disfavour, that, 
notwithstanding the merit he wanted to make with me for his patience 
upon my brother's ill-treatment of him, I owed him no compliments for 
trying to conciliate with him.  Not that I believe it would have 
signified any thing if he had made ever such court either to him or to 
my sister: yet one might have expected from a man of his politeness, 
and from his pretensions, you know, that he would have been willing to 
try.  Instead of which, he shewed such a contempt both of my brother 
and my sister, especially my brother, as was construed into a defiance 
of them.  And for me to have hinted at an alteration in his behaviour 
to my brother, was an advantage I knew he would have been proud of; 
and which therefore I had no mind to give him.  But I doubted not that 
having so very little encouragement from any body, his pride would 
soon take fire, and he would of himself discontinue his visits, or go 
to town; where, till he came acquainted with our family, he used 
chiefly to reside: And in this latter case he had no reason to expect, 
that I would receive, much less answer, his Letters: the occasions 
which had led me to receive any of his, being by this time over.

But my brother's antipathy would not permit him to wait for such an 
event; and after several excesses, which Mr. Lovelace still returned 
with contempt, and a haughtiness too much like that of the aggressor, 
my brother took upon himself to fill up the door-way once when he 
came, as if to oppose his entrance: And upon his asking for me, 
demanded, what his business was with his sister?

The other, with a challenging air, as my brother says, told him, he 
would answer a gentleman any question; but he wished that Mr. James 
Harlowe, who had of late given himself high airs, would remember that 
he was not now at college.

Just then the good Dr. Lewen, who frequently honours me with a visit 
of conversation, as he is pleased to call it, and had parted with me 
in my own parlour, came to the door: and hearing the words, 
interposed; both having their hands upon their swords: and telling Mr. 
Lovelace where I was, he burst by my brother, to come to me; leaving 
him chafing, he said, like a hunted boar at bay.

This alarmed us all.  My father was pleased to hint to Mr. Lovelace, 
that he wished he would discontinue his visits for the peace-sake of 
the family: And I, by his command, spoke a great deal plainer.

But Mr. Lovelace is a man not easily brought to give up his purpose, 
especially in a point wherein he pretends his heart is so much 
engaged: and no absolute prohibition having been given, things went on 
for a little while as before: for I saw plainly, that to have denied 
myself to his visits (which however I declined receiving as often as I 
could) was to bring forward some desperate issue between the two; 
since the offence so readily given on one side was brooked by the 
other only out of consideration to me.

And thus did my brother's rashness lay me under an obligation where I 
would least have owed it.

The intermediate proposals of Mr. Symmes and Mr. Mullins, both (in 
turn) encouraged by my brother, induced him to be more patient for a 
while, as nobody thought me over-forward in Mr. Lovelace's favour; for 
he hoped that he should engage my father and uncles to approve of the 
one or the other in opposition to the man he hated.  But when he found 
that I had interest enough to disengage myself from the addresses of 
those gentlemen, as I had (before he went to Scotland, and before Mr. 
Lovelace visited here) of Mr. Wyerley's, he then kept no measures: and 
first set himself to upbraid me for supposed prepossession, which he 
treated as if it were criminal; and then to insult Mr. Lovelace in 
person, at Mr. Edward Symmes's, the brother of the other Symmes, two 
miles off; and no good Dr. Lewen being there to interpose, the unhappy 
rencounter followed.  My brother was disarmed, as you have heard; and 
on being brought home, and giving us ground to suppose he was much 
worse hurt than he really was, and a fever ensuing, every one flamed 
out; and all was laid at my door.

Mr. Lovelace for three days together sent twice each day to inquire 
after my brother's health; and although he received rude and even 
shocking returns, he thought fit on the fourth day to make in person 
the same inquiries; and received still greater incivilities from my 
two uncles, who happened to be both there.  My father also was held by 
force from going to him with his sword in his hand, although he had 
the gout upon him.

I fainted away with terror, seeing every one so violent, and hearing 
Mr. Lovelace swear that he would not depart till he had made my uncles 
ask his pardon for the indignities he had received at their hands; a 
door being held fast locked between him and them.  My mother all the 
time was praying and struggling to with-hold my father in the great 
parlour.  Meanwhile my sister, who had treated Mr. Lovelace with 
virulence, came in to me, and insulted me as fast as I recovered.  But 
when Mr. Lovelace was told how ill I was, he departed; nevertheless 
vowing revenge.

He was ever a favourite with our domestics.  His bounty to them, and 
having always something facetious to say to each, had made them all of 
his party: and on this occasion they privately blamed every body else, 
and reported his calm and gentlemanly behaviour (till the provocations 
given him ran very high) in such favourable terms, that those reports, 
and my apprehensions of the consequence of this treatment, induced me 
to read a letter he sent me that night; and, it being written in the 
most respectful terms (offering to submit the whole to my decision, 
and to govern himself entirely by my will) to answer it some days 
after.

To this unhappy necessity was owing our renewed correspondence, as I 
may call it; yet I did not write till I had informed myself from Mr. 
Symmes's brother, that he was really insulted into the act of drawing 
his sword by my brother's repeatedly threatening (upon his excusing 
himself out of regard to me) to brand me ir he did not; and, by all 
the inquiry I could make, that he was again the sufferer from my 
uncles in a more violent manner than I have related.

The same circumstances were related to my father and other relations 
by Mr. Symmes; but they had gone too far in making themselves parties 
to the quarrel either to retract or forgive; and I was forbidden to 
correspond with him, or to be seen a moment in his company.

One thing however I can say, but that in confidence, because my mother 
commanded me not to mention it:--That, expressing her apprehension of 
the consequences of the indignities offered to Mr. Lovelace, she told 
me, she would leave it to my prudence to do all I could to prevent the 
impending mischief on one side.

I am obliged to break off.  But I believe I have written enough to 
answer very fully all that you have required of me.  It is not for a 
child to seek to clear her own character, or to justify her actions, 
at the expense of the most revered ones: yet, as I know that the 
account of all those further proceedings by which I may be affected, 
will be interesting to so dear a friend (who will communicate to 
others no more than what is fitting) I will continue to write, as I 
have opportunity, as minutely as we are used to write to each other.  
Indeed I have no delight, as I have often told you, equal to that which 
I take in conversing with you by letter, when I cannot in person.

Mean time, I cannot help saying, that I am exceedingly concerned to 
find, that I am become so much the public talk as you tell me I am.  
Your kind, your precautionary regard for my fame, and the opportunity 
you have given me to tell my own story previous to any new accident 
(which heaven avert!) is so like the warm friend I have ever found in 
my dear Miss Howe, that, with redoubled obligation, you bind me to be

Your ever grateful and affectionate,
CLARISSA HARLOWE.


Copy of the requested Preamble to the clauses in her Grandfather's 
Will: inclosed in the preceding Letter.


As the particular estate I have mentioned and described above, is 
principally of my own raising: as my three sons have been uncommonly 
prosperous; and are very rich: the eldest by means of the unexpected 
benefits he reaps from his new found mines; the second, by what has, 
as unexpectedly, fallen in to him on the deaths of several relations 
of his present wife, the worthy daughter by both sides of very 
honourable families; over and above the very large portion which he 
received with her in marriage: my son Antony by his East-India 
traffic, and successful voyages: as furthermore my grandson James will 
be sufficiently provided for by his grandmother Lovell's kindness to 
him; who, having no near relations, hath assured me, that she hath, as 
well by deed of gift as by will, left him both her Scottish and 
English estates: for never was there a family more prosperous in all 
its branches, blessed be God therefore: and as my said son James will 
very probably make it up to my grand-daughter Arabella; to whom I 
intend no disrespect; nor have reason; for she is a very hopeful and 
dutiful child: and as my sons, John and Antony, seem not inclined to a 
married life; so that my son James is the only one who has children, 
or is likely to have any.  For all these reasons; and because my 
dearest and beloved grand-daughter Clarissa hath been from her infancy 
a matchless young creature in her duty to me, and admired by all who 
knew her, as a very extraordinary child; I must therefore take the 
pleasure of considering her as my own peculiar child; and this without 
intending offence; and I hope it will not be taken as any, since my 
son James can bestow his favours accordingly, and in greater 
proportion, upon his son James, and upon his daughter Arabella.--

These, I say, are the reasons which move me to dispose of the above-
described estate in the precious child's favour; who is the delight of 
my old age: and, I verily think, has contributed, by her amiable duty 
and kind and tender regards, to prolong my life.

Wherefore it is my express will and commandment, and I enjoin my said 
three sons, John, James, and Antony, and my grandson James, and my 
grand-daughter Arabella, as they value my blessing, and will regard my 
memory, and would wish their own last wills and desires to be fulfilled 
by their survivors, that they will not impugn or contest the following 
bequests and devises in favour of my said grand-daughter Clarissa, 
although they should not be strictly conformable to law or to the forms 
thereof; nor suffer them to be controverted or disputed on any pretence 
whatsoever.

And in this confidence, &c. &c. &c.



LETTER V

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
JAN. 20


I have been hindered from prosecuting my intention.  Neither nights 
nor mornings have been my own.  My mother has been very ill; and would 
have no other nurse but me.  I have not stirred from her bedside (for 
she kept her bed); and two nights I had the honour of sharing it with 
her.

Her disorder was a very violet colic.  The contentions of these 
fierce, these masculine spirits, and the apprehension of mischiefs 
that may arise from the increasing animosity which all here have 
against Mr. Lovelace, and his too well known resenting and intrepid 
character, she cannot bear.  Then the foundations laid, as she dreads, 
for jealousy and heart-burnings in her own family, late so happy and 
so united, afflict exceedingly a gentle and sensible mind, which has 
from the beginning, on all occasions, sacrificed its own inward 
satisfaction to outward peace.  My brother and sister, who used very 
often to jar, are now so entirely one, and are so much together, 
(caballing was the word that dropt from my mother's lips, as if at 
unawares,) that she is very fearful of the consequences that may 
follow;--to my prejudice, perhaps, is her kind concern; since she sees 
that they behave to me every hour with more and more shyness and 
reserve: yet, would she but exert that authority which the superiority 
of her fine talents gives her, all these family feuds might perhaps be 
extinguished in their but yet beginnings; especially as she may be 
assured that all fitting concessions shall be made by me, not only as 
my brother and sister are my elders, but for the sake of so excellent 
and so indulgent a mother.

For, if I may say to you, my dear, what I would not to any other 
person living, it is my opinion, that had she been of a temper that 
would have borne less, she would have had ten times less to bear, than 
she has had.  No commendation, you'll say, of the generosity of those 
spirits which can turn to its own disquiet so much condescending 
goodness.

Upon my word I am sometimes tempted to think that we may make the 
world allow for and respect us as we please, if we can but be sturdy 
in our wills, and set out accordingly.  It is but being the less 
beloved for it, that's all: and if we have power to oblige those we 
have to do with, it will not appear to us that we are.  Our flatterers 
will tell us any thing sooner than our faults, or what they know we do 
not like to hear.

Were there not truth in this observation, is it possible that my 
brother and sister could make their very failings, their vehemences, 
of such importance to all the family?  'How will my son, how will my 
nephew, take this or that measure?  What will he say to it?  Let us 
consult him about it;' are references always previous to every 
resolution taken by his superiors, whose will ought to be his.  Well 
may he expect to be treated with this deference by every other person, 
when my father himself, generally so absolute, constantly pays it to 
him; and the more since his godmother's bounty has given independence 
to a spirit that was before under too little restraint.--But whither 
may these reflections lead me!--I know you do not love any of us but 
my mother and me; and, being above all disguises, make me sensible 
that you do not oftener than I wish.--Ought I then to add force to 
your dislikes of those whom I wish you to like?--of my father 
especially; for he, alas! has some excuse for his impatience of 
contradiction.  He is not naturally an ill-tempered man; and in his 
person and air, and in his conversation too, when not under the 
torture of a gouty paroxysm, every body distinguishes the gentleman 
born and educated.

Our sex perhaps must expect to bear a little--uncourtliness shall I 
call it?--from the husband whom as the lover they let know the 
preference their hearts gave him to all other men.--Say what they will 
of generosity being a manly virtue; but upon my word, my dear, I have 
ever yet observed, that it is not to be met with in that sex one time 
in ten that it is to be found in ours.--But my father was soured by 
the cruel distemper I have named; which seized him all at once in the 
very prime of life, in so violent a manner as to take from the most 
active of minds, as his was, all power of activity, and that in all 
appearance for life.--It imprisoned, as I may say, his lively spirits 
in himself, and turned the edge of them against his own peace; his 
extraordinary prosperity adding to his impatiency.  Those, I believe, 
who want the fewest earthly blessings, most regret that they want any.

But my brother!  What excuse can be made for his haughty and morose 
temper?  He is really, my dear, I am sorry to have occasion to say it, 
an ill-temper'd young man; and treats my mother sometimes--Indeed he 
is not dutiful.--But, possessing every thing, he has the vice of age, 
mingled with the ambition of youth, and enjoys nothing--but his own 
haughtiness and ill-temper, I was going to say.--Yet again am I adding 
force to your dislikes of some of us.--Once, my dear, it was perhaps 
in your power to have moulded him as you pleased.--Could you have been 
my sister!--Then had I friend in a sister.--But no wonder that he does 
not love you now; who could nip in the bud, and that with a disdain, 
let me say, too much of kin to his haughtiness, a passion that would 
not have wanted a fervour worthy of the object; and which possibly 
would have made him worthy.

But no more of this.  I will prosecute my former intention in my next; 
which I will sit down to as soon as breakfast is over; dispatching 
this by the messenger whom you have so kindly sent to inquire after us 
on my silence.  Mean time, I am,


Your most affectionate and obliged
friend and servant,
CL. HARLOWE.



LETTER VI

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
HARLOWE-PLACE, JAN. 20.


I will now resume my narrative of proceedings here.--My brother being 
in a good way, although you may be sure that his resentments are 
rather heightened than abated by the galling disgrace he has received, 
my friends (my father and uncles, however, if not my brother and 
sister) begin to think that I have been treated unkindly.  My mother 
been so good as to tell me this since I sent away my last.

Nevertheless I believe they all think that I receive letters from Mr. 
Lovelace. But Lord M. being inclined rather to support than to blame 
his nephew, they seem to be so much afraid of Mr. Lovelace, that they 
do not put it to me whether I do or not; conniving on the contrary, as 
it should seem, at the only method left to allay the vehemence of a 
spirit which they have so much provoked: For he still insists upon 
satisfaction from my uncles; and this possibly (for he wants not art) 
as the best way to be introduced again with some advantage into our 
family.  And indeed my aunt Hervey has put it to my mother, whether it 
were not best to prevail upon my brother to take a turn to his 
Yorkshire estate (which he was intending to do before) and to stay 
there till all is blown over.

But this is very far from being his intention: For he has already 
began to hint again, that he shall never be easy or satisfied till I 
am married; and, finding neither Mr. Symmes nor Mr. Mullins will be 
accepted, has proposed Mr. Wyerley once more, on the score of his 
great passion for me.  This I have again rejected; and but yesterday 
he mentioned one who has applied to him by letter, making high offers.  
This is Mr. Solmes; Rich Solmes you know they call him.  But this 
application has not met with the attention of one single soul.

If none of his schemes of getting me married take effect, he has 
thoughts, I am told, of proposing to me to go to Scotland, that as the 
compliment is, I may put his house there in such order as our own is 
in.  But this my mother intends to oppose for her own sake; because 
having relieved her, as she is pleased to say, of the household cares 
(for which my sister, you know, has no turn) they must again devolve 
upon her if I go.  And if she did not oppose it, I should; for, 
believe me, I have no mind to be his housekeeper; and I am sure, were 
I to go with him, I should be treated rather as a servant than a 
sister:--perhaps, not the better because I am his sister.  And if Mr. 
Lovelace should follow me, things might be worse than they are now.

But I have besought my mother, who is apprehensive of Mr. Lovelace's 
visits, and for fear of whom my uncles never stir out without arms and 
armed servants (my brother also being near well enough to go abroad), 
to procure me permission to be your guest for a fortnight, or so.--
Will your mother, think you, my dear, give me leave?

I dare not ask to go to my dairy-house, as my good grandfather would 
call it: for I am now afraid of being thought to have a wish to enjoy 
that independence to which his will has entitled me: and as matter are 
situated, such a wish would be imputed to my regard to the man to whom 
they have now so great an antipathy.  And indeed could I be as easy 
and happy here as I used to be, I would defy that man and all his sex; 
and never repent that I have given the power of my fortune into my 
father's hands.


***


Just now, my mother has rejoiced me with the news that my requested 
permission is granted.  Every one thinks it best that I should go to 
you, except my brother.  But he was told, that he must not expect to 
rule in every thing.  I am to be sent for into the great parlour, 
where are my two uncles and my aunt Hervey, and to be acquainted with 
this concession in form.

You know, my dear, that there is a good deal of solemnity among us.  
But never was there a family more united in its different branches 
than ours.  Our uncles consider us as their own children, and declare 
that it is for our sakes that they live single.  So that they are 
advised with upon every article relating to us, or that may affect us.  
It is therefore the less wonder, at a time when they understand that 
Mr. Lovelace is determined to pay us an amicable visit, as he calls 
it, (but which I am sure cannot end amicably,) that they should both 
be consulted upon the permission I had desired to attend you.


***


I will acquaint you with what passed at the general leave given me to 
be your guest.  And yet I know that you will not love my brother the 
better for my communication.  But I am angry with him myself, and 
cannot help it.  And besides, it is proper to let you know the terms I 
go upon, and their motives for permitting me to go.

Clary, said my mother, as soon as I entered the great parlour, your 
request to go to Miss Howe's for a few days has been taken into 
consideration, and granted--

Much against my liking, I assure you, said my brother, rudely 
interrupting her.

Son James! said my father, and knit his brows.

He was not daunted.  His arm was in a sling.  He often has the mean 
art to look upon that, when any thing is hinted that may be supposed 
to lead toward the least favour to or reconciliation with Mr. 
Lovelace.--Let the girl then [I am often the girl with him] be 
prohibited seeing that vile libertine.

Nobody spoke.

Do you hear, sister Clary? taking their silence for approbation of 
what he had dictated; you are not to receive visits from Lord M.'s 
nephew.

Every one still remained silent.

Do you so understand the license you have, Miss? interrogated he.

I would be glad, Sir, said I, to understand that you are my brother;--
and that you would understand that you are only my brother.

O the fond, fond heart! with a sneer of insult, lifting up his hands.

Sir, said I, to my father, to your justice I appeal: If I have 
deserved reflection, let me be not spared.  But if I am to be 
answerable for the rashness--

No more!--No more of either side, said my father.  You are not to 
receive the visits of that Lovelace, though.--Nor are you, son James, 
to reflect upon your sister.  She is a worthy child.

Sir, I have done, replied he:--and yet I have her honour at heart, as 
much as the honour of the rest of the family.

And hence, Sir, retorted I, your unbrotherly reflections upon me?

Well, but you observe, Miss, said he, that it is not I, but your 
father, that tells you, that you are not to receive the visits of that 
Lovelace.

Cousin Harlowe, said my aunt Hervey, allow me to say, that my cousin 
Clary's prudence may be confided in.

I am convinced it may, joined my mother.

But, aunt, but, madam (put in my sister) there is no hurt, I presume, 
in letting my sister know the condition she goes to Miss Howe upon; 
since, if he gets a nack of visiting her there--

You may be sure, interrupted my uncle Harlowe, he will endeavour to 
see her there.

So would such an impudent man here, said my uncle Antony: and 'tis 
better done there than here.

Better no where, said my father.--I command you (turning to me) on 
pain of displeasure, that you see him not at all.

I will not, Sir, in any way of encouragement, I do assure you: not at 
all, if I can properly avoid it.

You know with what indifference, said my mother, she has hitherto seen 
him.--Her prudence may be trusted to, as my sister Hervey says.

With what appa--rent indifference, drawled my brother.

Son James! said my father sternly.

I have done, Sir, said he.  But again, in a provoking manner, he 
reminded me of the prohibition.

Thus ended the conference.

Will you engage, my dear, that the hated man shall not come near your 
house?--But what an inconsistence is this, when they consent to my 
going, thinking his visits here no otherwise to be avoided!--But if he 
does come, I charge you never to leave us alone together.

As I have no reason to doubt a welcome from your good mother, I will 
put every thing in order here, and be with you in two or three days.

Mean time, I am
Your most affectionate and obliged,
CLARISSA HARLOWE.



LETTER VII

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
[AFTER HER RETURN FROM HER.]
HARLOWE-PLACE, FEB. 20.


I beg your excuse for not writing sooner.  Alas! my dear, I have sad 
prospects before me!  My brother and sister have succeeded in all 
their views.  They have found out another lover for me; an hideous 
one!--Yet he is encouraged by every body.  No wonder that I was 
ordered home so suddenly.  At an hour's warning!--No other notice, you 
know, than what was brought with the chariot that was to carry me 
back.--It was for fear, as I have been informed [an unworthy fear!] 
that I should have entered into any concert with Mr. Lovelace had I 
known their motive for commanding me home; apprehending, 'tis evident, 
that I should dislike the man they had to propose to me.

And well might they apprehend so:--For who do you think he is?--No 
other than that Solmes--Could you have believed it?--And they are all 
determined too; my mother with the rest!--Dear, dear excellence! how 
could she be thus brought over, when I am assured, that on his first 
being proposed she was pleased to say, That had Mr. Solmes the Indies 
in possession, and would endow me with them, she should not think him 
deserving of her Clarissa!

The reception I met with at my return, so different from what I used 
to meet with on every little absence [and now I had been from them 
three weeks], convinced me that I was to suffer for the happiness I 
had had in your company and conversation for that most agreeable 
period.  I will give you an account of it.

My brother met me at the door, and gave me his hand when I stepped out 
of the chariot.  He bowed very low: pray, Miss, favour me.--I thought 
it in good humour; but found it afterwards mock respect: and so he led 
me in great form, I prattling all the way, inquiring of every body's 
health, (although I was so soon to see them, and there was hardly time 
for answers,) into the great parlour; where were my father, mother, my 
two uncles, and sister.

I was struck all of a heap as soon as I entered, to see a solemnity 
which I had been so little used to on the like occasions in the 
countenance of every dear relation.  They all kept their seats.  I ran 
to my father, and kneeled: then to my mother: and met from both a cold 
salute: From my father a blessing but half pronounced: My mother 
indeed called me child; but embraced me not with her usual indulgent 
ardour.

After I had paid my duty to my uncles, and my compliments to my 
sister, which she received with solemn and stiff form, I was bid to 
sit down.  But my heart was full: and I said it became me to stand, if 
I could stand, upon a reception so awful and unusual.  I was forced to 
turn my face from them, and pull out my handkerchief.

My unbrotherly accuser hereupon stood forth, and charged me with 
having received no less than five or six visits at Miss Howe's from 
the man they had all so much reason to hate [that was the expression]; 
notwithstanding the commands I had had to the contrary.  And he bid me 
deny it if I could.

I had never been used, I said, to deny the truth, nor would I now.  I 
owned I had in the three weeks passed seen the person I presumed he 
meant oftener than five or six times [Pray hear me, brother, said I; 
for he was going to flame out], but he always asked for Mrs. or Miss 
Howe, when he came.

I proceeded, that I had reason to believe, that both Mrs. Howe and 
Miss, as matters stood, would much rather have excused his visits; but 
they had more than once apologized, that having not the same reason my 
papa had to forbid him their house, his rank and fortune entitled him 
to civility.

You see, my dear, I made not the pleas I might have made.

My brother seemed ready to give a loose to his passion: My father put 
on the countenance which always portends a gathering storm: My uncles 
mutteringly whispered: And my sister aggravatingly held up her hands.  
While I begged to be heard out:--And my mother said, let the child, 
that was her kind word, be heard.

I hoped, I said, there was no harm done: that it became not me to 
prescribe to Mrs. or Miss Howe who should be their visitors: that Mrs. 
Howe was always diverted with the raillery that passed between Miss 
and him: that I had no reason to challenge her guest for my visitor, 
as I should seem to have done had I refused to go into their company 
when he was with them: that I had never seen him out of the presence 
of one or both of those ladies; and had signified to him once, on his 
urging a few moments' private conversation with me, that, unless a 
reconciliation were effected between my family and his, he must not 
expect that I would countenance his visits, much less give him an 
opportunity of that sort.

I told him further, that Miss Howe so well understood my mind, that 
she never left me a moment while Mr. Lovelace was there: that when he 
came, if I was not below in the parlour, I would not suffer myself to 
be called to him: although I thought it would be an affectation which 
would give him an advantage rather than the contrary, if I had left 
company when he came in; or refused to enter into it when I found he 
would stay any time.

My brother heard me out with such a kind of impatience as shewed he 
was resolved to be dissatisfied with me, say what I would.  The rest, 
as the event has proved, behaved as if they would have been satisfied, 
had they not further points to carry by intimidating me.  All this 
made it evident, as I mentioned above, that they themselves expected 
not my voluntary compliance; and was a tacit confession of the 
disagreeableness of the person they had to propose.

I was no sooner silent than my brother swore, although in my father's 
presence, (swore, unchecked either by eye or countenance,) That for 
his part, he would never be reconciled to that libertine: and that he 
would renounce me for a sister, if I encouraged the addresses of a man 
so obnoxious to them all.

A man who had like to have been my brother's murderer, my sister said, 
with a face even bursting with restraint of passion.

The poor Bella has, you know, a plump high-fed face, if I may be 
allowed the expression.  You, I know, will forgive me for this liberty 
of speech sooner than I can forgive myself: Yet how can one be such a 
reptile as not to turn when trampled upon!

My father, with vehemence both of action and voice [my father has, you 
know, a terrible voice when he is angry] told me that I had met with 
too much indulgence in being allowed to refuse this gentleman, and the 
other gentleman,; and it was now his turn to be obeyed!

Very true, my mother said:--and hoped his will would not now be 
disputed by a child so favoured.

To shew they were all of a sentiment, my uncle Harlowe said, he hoped 
his beloved niece only wanted to know her father's will, to obey it.

And my uncle Antony, in his rougher manner, added, that surely I would 
not give them reason to apprehend, that I thought my grandfather's 
favour to me had made me independent of them all.--If I did, he would 
tell me, the will could be set aside, and should.

I was astonished, you must needs think.--Whose addresses now, thought 
I, is this treatment preparative to?--Mr. Wyerley's again?--or whose? 
And then, as high comparisons, where self is concerned, sooner than 
low, come into young people's heads; be it for whom it will, this is 
wooing as the English did for the heiress of Scotland in the time of 
Edward the Sixth.  But that it could be for Solmes, how should it 
enter into my head?

I did not know, I said, that I had given occasion for this harshness.  
I hoped I should always have a just sense of every one's favour to me, 
superadded to the duty I owed as a daughter and a niece: but that I 
was so much surprised at a reception so unusual and unexpected, that I 
hoped my papa and mamma would give me leave to retire, in order to 
recollect myself.

No one gainsaying, I made my silent compliments, and withdrew;--
leaving my brother and sister, as I thought, pleased; and as if they 
wanted to congratulate each other on having occasioned so severe a 
beginning to be made with me.

I went up to my chamber, and there with my faithful Hannah deplored 
the determined face which the new proposal it was plain they had to 
make me wore.

I had not recovered myself when I was sent for down to tea.  I begged 
my maid to be excused attending; but on the repeated command, went 
down with as much cheerfulness as I could assume; and had a new fault 
to clear myself of: for my brother, so pregnant a thing is determined 
ill-will, by intimations equally rude and intelligible, charged my 
desire of being excused coming down, to sullens, because a certain 
person had been spoken against, upon whom, as he supposed, my fancy 
ran.

I could easily answer you, Sir, said I, as such a reflection deserves: 
but I forbear.  If I do not find a brother in you, you shall have a 
sister in me.

Pretty meekness! Bella whisperingly said; looking at my brother, and 
lifting up her lip in contempt.

He, with an imperious air, bid me deserve his love, and I should be 
sure to have it.

As we sat, my mother, in her admirable manner, expatiated upon 
brotherly and sisterly love; indulgently blamed my brother and sister 
for having taken up displeasure too lightly against me; and 
politically, if I may say so, answered for my obedience to my father's 
will.--The it would be all well, my father was pleased to say: Then 
they should dote upon me, was my brother's expression: Love me as well 
as ever, was my sister's: And my uncles, That I then should be the 
pride of their hearts.--But, alas! what a forfeiture of all these must 
I make!

This was the reception I had on my return from you.

Mr. Solmes came in before we had done tea.  My uncle Antony presented 
him to me, as a gentleman he had a particular friendship for.  My 
uncle Harlowe in terms equally favourable for him.  My father said, 
Mr. Solmes is my friend, Clarissa Harlowe.  My mother looked at him, 
and looked at me, now-and-then, as he sat near me, I thought with 
concern.--I at her, with eyes appealing for pity.  At him, when I 
could glance at him, with disgust little short of affrightment.  While 
my brother and sister Mr. Solmes'd him, and Sirr'd--yet such a 
wretch!--But I will at present only add, My humble thanks and duty to 
your honoured mother (to whom I will particularly write, to express 
the grateful sense I have of her goodness to me); and that I am

Your ever obliged,
CL. HARLOWE.



LETTER VIII

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
FEB. 24.


They drive on here at a furious rate.  The man lives here, I think.  
He courts them, and is more and more a favourite.  Such terms, such 
settlements!  That's the cry.

O my dear, that I had not reason to deplore the family fault, 
immensely rich as they all are!  But this I may the more unreservedly 
say to you, as we have often joined in the same concern: I, for a 
father and uncles; you, for a mother; in every other respect, 
faultless.

Hitherto, I seem to be delivered over to my brother, who pretends as 
great a love to me as ever.

You may believe I have been very sincere with him.  But he affects to 
rally me, and not to believe it possible, that one so dutiful and 
discreet as his sister Clary can resolve to disoblige all her friends.  

Indeed, I tremble at the prospect before me; for it is evident that 
they are strangely determined.

My father and mother industriously avoid giving me opportunity of 
speaking to them alone.  They ask not for my approbation, intended, as 
it should seem, to suppose me into their will.  And with them I shall 
hope to prevail, or with nobody.  They have not the interest in 
compelling me, as my brother and sister have: I say less therefore to 
them, reserving my whole force for an audience of my father, if he 
will permit me a patient ear.  How difficult is it, my dear, to give a 
negative where both duty and inclination join to make one wish to 
oblige!

I have already stood the shock of three of this man's particular 
visits, besides my share in his more general ones; and find it is 
impossible I should ever endure him.  He has but a very ordinary share 
of understanding; is very illiterate; knows nothing but the value of 
estates, and how to improve them, and what belongs to land-jobbing and 
husbandry.  Yet I am as one stupid, I think.  They have begun so 
cruelly with me, that I have not spirit enough to assert my own 
negative.

They had endeavoured it seems to influence my good Mrs. Norton before 
I came home--so intent are they to carry their point!  And her opinion 
not being to their liking, she has been told that she would do well to 
decline visiting here for the present: yet she is the person of all 
the world, next to my mother, the most likely to prevail upon me, were 
the measures they are engaged in reasonable measures, or such as she 
could think so.

My aunt likewise having said that she did not think her niece could 
ever be brought to like Mr. Solmes, has been obliged to learn another 
lesson.

I am to have a visit from her to-morrow.  And, since I have refused so 
much as to hear from my brother and sister what the noble settlements 
are to be, she is to acquaint me with the particulars; and to receive 
from me my determination: for my father, I am told, will not have 
patience but to suppose that I shall stand in opposition to his will.

Mean time it has been signified to me, that it will be acceptable if I 
do not think of going to church next Sunday.

The same signification was made for me last Sunday; and I obeyed.  
They are apprehensive that Mr. Lovelace will be there with design to 
come home with me.

Help me, dear Miss Howe, to a little of your charming spirit: I never 
more wanted it.

The man, this Solmes, you may suppose, has no reason to boast of his 
progress with me.  He has not the sense to say any thing to the 
purpose.  His courtship indeed is to them; and my brother pretends to 
court me as his proxy, truly!--I utterly, to my brother, reject his 
address; but thinking a person, so well received and recommended by 
all my family, entitled to good manners, all I say against him is 
affectedly attributed to coyness: and he, not being sensible of his 
own imperfections, believes that my avoiding him when I can, and the 
reserves I express, are owing to nothing else: for, as I said, all his 
courtship is to them; and I have no opportunity of saying no, to one 
who asks me not the question.  And so, with an air of mannish 
superiority, he seems rather to pity the bashful girl, than to 
apprehend that he shall not succeed.


FEBRUARY 25.


I have had the expected conference with my aunt.

I have been obliged to hear the man's proposals from her; and have 
been told also what their motives are for espousing his interest with 
so much warmth.  I am even loth to mention how equally unjust it is 
for him to make such offers, or for those I am bound to reverence to 
accept of them.  I hate him more than before.  One great estate is 
already obtained at the expense of the relations to it, though distant 
relations; my brother's, I mean, by his godmother: and this has given 
the hope, however chimerical that hope, of procuring others; and that 
my own at least may revert to the family.  And yet, in my opinion, the 
world is but one great family.  Originally it was so.  What then is 
this narrow selfishness that reigns in us, but relationship remembered 
against relationship forgot?

But here, upon my absolute refusal of him upon any terms, have I had a 
signification made me that wounds me to the heart.  How can I tell it 
you?  Yet I must.  It is, my dear, that I must not for a month to 
come, or till license obtained, correspond with any body out of the 
house.

My brother, upon my aunt's report, (made, however, as I am informed, 
in the gentlest manner, and even giving remote hopes, which she had no 
commission from me to give,) brought me, in authoritative terms, the 
prohibition.

Not to Miss Howe? said I.

No, not to Miss Howe, Madam, tauntingly: for have you not 
acknowledged, that Lovelace is a favourite there?

See, my dear Miss Howe!--

And do you think, Brother, this is the way--

Do you look to that.--But your letters will be stopt, I can tell you.-
-And away he flung.

My sister came to me soon after--Sister Clary, you are going on in a 
fine way, I understand.  But as there are people who are supposed to 
harden you against your duty, I am to tell you, that it will be taken 
well if you avoid visits or visitings for a week or two till further 
order.

Can this be from those who have authority--

Ask them; ask them, child, with a twirl of her finger.--I have 
delivered my message.  Your father will be obeyed.  He is willing to 
hope you to be all obedience, and would prevent all incitements to 
refractoriness.

I know my duty, said I; and hope I shall not find impossible condition 
annexed to it.

A pert young creature, vain and conceited, she called me.  I was the 
only judge, in my own wise opinion, of what was right and fit.  She, 
for her part, had long seen into my specious ways: and now I should 
shew every body what I was at bottom.

Dear Bella! said I, hands and eyes lifted up--why all this?--Dear, 
dear Bella, why--

None of your dear, dear Bella's to me.--I tell you, I see through your 
witchcrafts [that was her strange word].  And away she flung; adding, 
as she went, and so will every body else very quickly, I dare say.

Bless me, said I to myself, what a sister have I!--How have I deserved 
this?

Then I again regretted my grandfather's too distinguishing goodness to 
me.


FEB. 25, IN THE EVENING.


What my brother and sister have said against me I cannot tell:--but I 
am in heavy disgrace with my father.

I was sent for down to tea.  I went with a very cheerful aspect: but 
had occasion soon to change it.

Such a solemnity in every body's countenance!--My mother's eyes were 
fixed upon the tea-cups; and when she looked up, it was heavily, as if 
her eye-lids had weights upon them; and then not to me.  My father sat 
half-aside in his elbow-chair, that his head might be turned from me: 
his hands clasped, and waving, as it were, up and down; his fingers, 
poor dear gentleman! in motion, as if angry to the very ends of them.  
My sister was swelling.  My brother looked at me with scorn, having 
measured me, as I may say, with his eyes as I entered, from head to 
foot.  My aunt was there, and looked upon me as if with kindness 
restrained, bending coldly to my compliment to her as she sat; and 
then cast an eye first on my brother, then on my sister, as if to give 
the reason [so I am willing to construe it] of her unusual stiffness.-
-Bless me, my dear! that they should choose to intimidate rather than 
invite a mind, till now, not thought either unpersuadable or 
ungenerous!

I took my seat.  Shall I make tea, Madam, to my mother?--I always 
used, you know, my dear, to make tea.

No! a very short sentence, in one very short word, was the expressive 
answer. And she was pleased to take the canister in her own hand.

My brother bid the footman, who attended, leave the room--I, he said, 
will pour out the water.

My heart was up in my mouth.  I did not know what to do with myself.  
What is to follow? thought I.

Just after the second dish, out stept my mother--A word with you, 
sister Hervey! taking her in her hand.  Presently my sister dropt 
away.  Then my brother.  So I was left alone with my father.

He looked so very sternly, that my heart failed me as twice or thrice 
I would have addressed myself to him: nothing but solemn silence on 
all hands having passed before.

At last, I asked, if it were his pleasure that I should pour him out 
another dish?

He answered me with the same angry monosyllable, which I had received 
from my mother before; and then arose, and walked about the room.  I 
arose too, with intent to throw myself at his feet; but was too much 
overawed by his sternness, even to make such an expression of my duty 
to him as my heart overflowed with.

At last, as he supported himself, because of his gout, on the back of 
a chair, I took a little more courage; and approaching him, besought 
him to acquaint me in what I had offended him?

He turned from me, and in a strong voice, Clarissa Harlowe, said he, 
know that I will be obeyed.

God forbid, Sir, that you should not!--I have never yet opposed your 
will--

Nor I your whimsies, Clarissa Harlowe, interrupted he.--Don't let me 
run the fate of all who shew indulgence to your sex; to be the more 
contradicted for mine to you.

My father, you know, my dear, has not (any more than my brother) a 
kind opinion of our sex; although there is not a more condescending 
wife in the world than my mother.

I was going to make protestations of duty--No protestations, girl!  No 
words!  I will not be prated to!  I will be obeyed!  I have no child, 
I will have no child, but an obedient one.

Sir, you never had reason, I hope--

Tell me not what I never had, but what I have, and what I shall have.

Good Sir, be pleased to hear me--My brother and sister, I fear--

Your brother and sister shall not be spoken against, girl!--They have 
a just concern for the honour of my family.

And I hope, Sir--

Hope nothing.--Tell me not of hopes, but of facts.  I ask nothing of 
you but what is in your power to comply with, and what it is your duty 
to comply with.

Then, Sir, I will comply with it--But yet I hope from your goodness--

No expostulations!  No but's, girl!  No qualifyings!  I will be 
obeyed, I tell you; and cheerfully too!--or you are no child of mine!

I wept.

Let me beseech you, my dear and ever-honoured Papa, (and I dropt down 
on my knees,) that I may have only yours and my mamma's will, and not 
my brother's, to obey.

I was going on; but he was pleased to withdraw, leaving me on the 
floor; saying, That he would not hear me thus by subtilty and cunning 
aiming to distinguish away my duty: repeating, that he would be 
obeyed.

My heart is too full;--so full, that it may endanger my duty, were I 
to try to unburden it to you on this occasion: so I will lay down my 
pen.--But can--Yet positively, I will lay down my pen!--



LETTER IX

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
FEB. 26, IN THE MORNING.


My aunt, who staid here last night, made me a visit this morning as 
soon as it was light.  She tells me, that I was left alone with my 
father yesterday on purpose that he might talk with me on my expected 
obedience; but that he owned he was put beside his purpose by 
reflecting on something my brother had told him in my disfavour, and 
by his impatience but to suppose, that such a gentle spirit as mine 
had hitherto seemed to be, should presume to dispute his will in a 
point where the advantage of the whole family was to be so greatly 
promoted by my compliance.

I find, by a few words which dropt unawares from my aunt, that they 
have all an absolute dependence upon what they suppose to be meekness 
in my temper.  But in this they may be mistaken; for I verily think, 
upon a strict examination of myself, that I have almost as much in me 
of my father's as of my mother's family.

My uncle Harlowe it seems is against driving me upon extremities: But 
my brother has engaged, that the regard I have for my reputation, and 
my principles, will bring me round to my duty; that's the expression.  
Perhaps I shall have reason to wish I had not known this.

My aunt advises me to submit for the present to the interdicts they 
have laid me under; and indeed to encourage Mr. Solmes's address.  I 
have absolutely refused the latter, let what will (as I have told her) 
be the consequence.  The visiting prohibition I will conform to.  But 
as to that of not corresponding with you, nothing but the menace that 
our letters shall be intercepted, can engage my observation of it.

She believes that this order is from my father, and that my mother has 
not been consulted upon it.  She says, that it is given, as she has 
reason think, purely in consideration to me, lest I should mortally 
offend him; and this from the incitements of other people (meaning you 
and Miss Lloyd, I make no doubt) rather than by my own will.  For 
still, as she tells me, he speaks kind and praiseful things of me.

Here is clemency!  Here is indulgence!--And so it is, to prevent a 
headstrong child, as a good prince would wish to deter disaffected 
subjects, from running into rebellion, and so forfeiting every thing!  
But this is allowing to the young-man's wisdom of my brother; a 
plotter without a head, and a brother without a heart!

How happy might I have been with any other brother in the world but 
James Harlowe; and with any other sister but his sister!  Wonder not, 
my dear, that I, who used to chide you for these sort of liberties 
with my relations, now am more undutiful than you ever was unkind.  I 
cannot bear the thought of being deprived of the principal pleasure of 
my life; for such is your conversation by person and by letter.  And 
who, besides, can bear to be made the dupe of such low cunning, 
operating with such high and arrogant passions?

But can you, my dear Miss Howe, condescend to carry on a private 
correspondence with me?--If you can, there is one way I have thought 
of, by which it may be done.

You must remember the Green Lane, as we call it, that runs by the side 
of the wood-house and poultry-yard where I keep my bantams, pheasants, 
and pea-hens, which generally engage my notice twice a day; the more 
my favourites because they were my grandfather's, and recommended to 
my care by him; and therefore brought hither from my Dairy-house since 
his death.

The lane is lower than the floor of the wood-house; and, in the side 
of the wood-house, the boards are rotted away down to the floor for 
half an ell together in several places.  Hannah can step into the 
lane, and make a mark with chalk where a letter or parcel may be 
pushed in, under some sticks; which may be so managed as to be an 
unsuspected cover for the written deposits from either.


***


I have been just now to look at the place, and find it will answer.  
So your faithful Robert may, without coming near the house, and as 
only passing through the Green Lame which leads to two or three farm-
houses [out of livery if you please] very easily take from thence my 
letters and deposit yours.

This place is the more convenient, because it is seldom resorted to 
but by myself or Hannah, on the above-mentioned account; for it is the 
general store-house for firing; the wood for constant use being nearer 
the house.

One corner of this being separated off for the roosting-place of my 
little poultry, either she or I shall never want a pretence to go 
thither.

Try, my dear, the success of a letter this way; and give me your 
opinion and advice what to do in this disgraceful situation, as I 
cannot but call it; and what you think of my prospects; and what you 
would do in my case.

But before-hand I will tell you, that your advice must not run in 
favour of this Solmes: and yet it is very likely they will endeavour 
to engage your mother, in order to induce you, who have such an 
influence over me, to favour him.

Yet, on second thoughts, if you incline to that side of the question, 
I would have you write your whole mind.  Determined as I think I am, 
and cannot help it, I would at least give a patient hearing to what 
may be said on the other side.  For my regards are not so much engaged 
[upon my word they are not; I know not myself if they be] to another 
person as some of my friends suppose; and as you, giving way to your 
lively vein, upon his last visits, affected to suppose.  What 
preferable favour I may have for him to any other person, is owing 
more to the usage he has received, and for my sake borne, than to any 
personal consideration.

I write a few lines of grateful acknowledgement to your good mother 
for her favours to me in the late happy period.  I fear I shall never 
know such another.  I hope she will forgive me, that I did not write 
sooner.

The bearer, if suspected and examined, is to produce that as the only 
one he carries.

How do needless watchfulness and undue restraint produce artifice and 
contrivance!  I should abhor these clandestine correspondences, were 
they not forced upon me.  They have so mean, so low an appearance to 
myself, that I think I ought not to expect that you should take part 
in them.

But why (as I have also expostulated with my aunt) must I be pushed 
into a state, which I have no wish to enter into, although I reverence 
it?--Why should not my brother, so many years older, and so earnest to 
see me engaged, be first engaged?--And why should not my sister be 
first provided for?

But here I conclude these unavailing expostulations, with the 
assurance, that I am, and ever will be,

Your affectionate,
CLARISSA HARLOWE.



LETTER X

MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
FEB. 27


What odd heads some people have!--Miss Clarissa Harlowe to be 
sacrificed in marriage to Mr. Roger Solmes!--Astonishing!

I must not, you say, give my advice in favour of this man!--You now 
convince me, my dear, that you are nearer of kin than I thought you, 
to the family that could think of so preposterous a match, or you 
would never have had the least notion of my advising in his favour.

Ask for his picture.  You know I have a good hand at drawing an ugly 
likeness.  But I'll see a little further first: for who knows what may 
happen, since matters are in such a train; and since you have not the 
courage to oppose so overwhelming a torrent?

You ask me to help you to a little of my spirit.  Are you in earnest?  
But it will not now, I doubt, do you service.--It will not sit 
naturally upon you.  You are your mother's girl, think what you will; 
and have violent spirits to contend with.  Alas! my dear, you should 
have borrowed some of mine a little sooner;--that is to say, before 
you had given the management of your estate into the hands of those 
who think they have a prior claim to it.  What though a father's!--Has 
not the father two elder children?--And do they not both bear more of 
his stamp and image than you do?--Pray, my dear, call me not to 
account for this free question; lest your application of my meaning, 
on examination, prove to be as severe as that.

Now I have launched out a little, indulge me one word more in the same 
strain--I will be decent, I promise you.  I think you might have know, 
that Avarice and Envy are two passions that are not to be satisfied, 
the one by giving, the other by the envied person's continuing to 
deserve and excel.--Fuel, fuel both, all the world over, to flames 
insatiate and devouring.

But since you ask for my opinion, you must tell me all you know or 
surmise of their inducements.  And if you will not forbid me to make 
extracts from your letters for the entertainment of my aunt and cousin 
in the little island, who long to hear more of your affairs, it will 
be very obliging.

But you are so tender of some people who have no tenderness for any 
body but themselves, that I must conjure you to speak out.  Remember, 
that a friendship like ours admits of no reserves.  You may trust my 
impartiality.  It would be an affront to your own judgment, if you did 
not: For do you not ask my advice?  And have you not taught me that 
friendship should never give a bias against justice?--Justify them, 
therefore, if you can.  Let us see if there be any sense, whether 
sufficient reason or not in their choice.  At present I cannot (and 
yet I know a good deal of your family) have any conception how all of 
them, your mother and your aunt Hervey in particular, can join with 
the rest against judgments given.  As to some of the others, I cannot 
wonder at any thing they do, or attempt to do, where self is 
concerned.

You ask, Why may not your brother be first engaged in wedlock?  I'll 
tell you why: His temper and his arrogance are too well known to 
induce women he would aspire to, to receive his addresses, 
notwithstanding his great independent acquisitions, and still greater 
prospects.  Let me tell you, my dear, those acquisitions have given 
him more pride than reputation.  To me he is the most intolerable 
creature that I ever conversed with.  The treatment you blame, he 
merited from one whom he addressed with the air of a person who 
presumes that he is about to confer a favour, rather than to receive 
one.  I ever loved to mortify proud and insolent spirits.  What, think 
you, makes me bear Hickman near me, but that the man is humble, and 
knows and keeps his distance?

As to your question, Why your elder sister may not be first provided 
for?  I answer, Because she must have no man, but one who has a great 
and clear estate; that's one thing.  Another is, Because she has a 
younger sister.  Pray, my dear, be so good as to tell me, What man of 
a great and clear estate would think of that eldest sister, while the 
younger were single?

You are all too rich to be happy, child.  For must not each of you, by 
the constitutions of your family, marry to be still richer?  People 
who know in what their main excellence consists, are not to be blamed 
(are they) for cultivating and improving what they think most 
valuable?--Is true happiness any part of your family view?--So far 
from it, that none of your family but yourself could be happy were 
they not rich.  So let them fret on, grumble and grudge, and 
accumulate; and wondering what ails them that they have not happiness 
when they have riches, think the cause is want of more; and so go on 
heaping up, till Death, as greedy an accumulator as themselves, 
gathers them into his garner.

Well then once more I say, do you, my dear, tell me what you know of 
their avowed and general motives; and I will tell you more than you 
will tell me of their failings!  Your aunt Hervey, you say,* has told 
you: Why must I ask you to let me know them, when you condescend to 
ask my advice on the occasion?


* See Letter VIII.


That they prohibit your corresponding with me, is a wisdom I neither 
wonder at, nor blame them for: since it is an evidence to me, that 
they know their own folly: And if they do, is it strange that they 
should be afraid to trust one another's judgment upon it?

I am glad you have found out a way to correspond with me.  I approve 
it much.  I shall more, if this first trial of it prove successful.  
But should it not, and should it fall into their hands, it would not 
concern me but for your sake.

We have heard before you wrote, that all was not right between your 
relations and you at your coming home: that Mr. Solmes visited you, 
and that with a prospect of success.  But I concluded the mistake lay 
in the person; and that his address was to Miss Arabella.  And indeed 
had she been as good-natured as your plump ones generally are, I 
should have thought her too good for him by half.  This must certainly 
be the thing, thought I; and my beloved friend is sent for to advise 
and assist in her nuptial preparations.  Who knows, said I to my 
mother, but that when the man has thrown aside his yellow full-buckled 
peruke, and his broad-brimmed beaver (both of which I suppose were Sir 
Oliver's best of long standing) he may cut a tolerable figure dangling 
to church with Miss Bell!--The woman, as she observes, should excel 
the man in features: and where can she match so well for a foil?

I indulged this surmise against rumour, because I could not believe 
that the absurdest people in England could be so very absurd as to 
think of this man for you.

We heard, moreover, that you received no visiters.  I could assign no 
reason for this, except that the preparations for your sister were to 
be private, and the ceremony sudden, for fear this man should, as 
another man did, change his mind.  Miss Lloyd and Miss Biddulph were 
with me to inquire what I knew of this; and of your not being in 
church, either morning or afternoon, the Sunday after your return from 
us; to the disappointment of a little hundred of your admirers, to use 
their words.  It was easy for me to guess the reason to be what you 
confirm--their apprehensions that Lovelace would be there, and attempt 
to wait on you home.

My mother takes very kindly your compliments in your letter to her.  
Her words upon reading it were, 'Miss Clarissa Harlowe is an admirable 
young lady: wherever she goes, she confers a favour: whomever she 
leaves, she fills with regret.'--And then a little comparative 
reflection--'O my Nancy, that you had a little of her sweet 
obligingness!'

No matter.  The praise was yours.  You are me; and I enjoyed it.  The 
more enjoyed it, because--Shall I tell you the truth?--Because I think 
myself as well as I am--were it but for this reason, that had I twenty 
brother James's, and twenty sister Bell's, not one of them, nor all of 
them joined together, would dare to treat me as yours presume to treat 
you.  The person who will bear much shall have much to bear all the 
world through; it is your own sentiment,* grounded upon the strongest 
instance that can be given in your own family; though you have so 
little improved by it.


* Letter V.


The result is this, that I am fitter for this world than you; you for 
the next than me:--that is the difference.--But long, long, for my 
sake, and for hundreds of sakes, may it be before you quit us for 
company more congenial to you and more worthy of you!

I communicated to my mother the account you give of your strange 
reception; also what a horrid wretch they have found out for you; and 
the compulsory treatment they give you.  It only set her on magnifying 
her lenity to me, on my tyrannical behaviour, as she will call it 
[mothers must have their way, you know, my dear] to the man whom she 
so warmly recommends, against whom it seems there can be no just 
exception; and expatiating upon the complaisance I owe her for her 
indulgence.  So I believe I must communicate to her nothing farther--
especially as I know she would condemn the correspondence between us, 
and that between you and Lovelace, as clandestine and undutiful 
proceedings, and divulge our secret besides; for duty implicit is her 
cry.  And moreover she lends a pretty open ear to the preachments of 
that starch old bachelor your uncle Antony; and for an example to her 
daughter would be more careful how she takes your part, be the cause 
ever so just.

Yet is this not the right policy neither.  For people who allow 
nothing will be granted nothing: in other words, those who aim at 
carrying too many points will not be able to carry any.

But can you divine, my dear, what the old preachment-making, plump-
hearted soul, your uncle Antony, means by his frequent amblings 
hither?--There is such smirking and smiling between my mother and him!  
Such mutual praises of economy; and 'that is my way!'--and 'this I 
do!'--and 'I am glad it has your approbation, Sir!'--and 'you look 
into every thing, Madam!'--'Nothing would be done, if I did not!'--

Such exclamations against servants!  Such exaltings of self!  And dear 
heart, and good lack!--and 'las a-day!--And now-and-then their 
conversation sinking into a whispering accent, if I come across them! 
--I'll tell you, my dear, I don't above half like it.

Only that these old bachelors usually take as many years to resolve 
upon matrimony as they can reasonably expect to live, or I should be 
ready to fire upon his visits; and to recommend Mr. Hickman to my 
mother's acceptance, as a much more eligible man: for what he wants in 
years, he makes up in gravity; and if you will not chide me, I will 
say, that there is a primness in both (especially when the man has 
presumed too much with me upon my mother's favour for him, and is 
under discipline on that account) as make them seem near of kin: and 
then in contemplation of my sauciness, and what they both fear from 
it, they sigh away! and seem so mightily to compassionate each other, 
that if pity be but one remove from love, I am in no danger, while 
they are both in a great deal, and don't know it.

Now, my dear, I know you will be upon me with your grave airs: so in 
for the lamb, as the saying is, in for the sheep; and do you yourself 
look about you; for I'll have a pull with you by way of being 
aforehand.  Hannibal, we read, always advised to attack the Romans 
upon their own territories.

You are pleased to say, and upon your word too! that your regards 
(a mighty quaint word for affections) are not so much engaged, as some 
of your friends suppose, to another person.  What need you give one to 
imagine, my dear, that the last month or two has been a period 
extremely favourable to that other person, whom it has made an obliger 
of the niece for his patience with the uncles.

But, to pass that by--so much engaged!--How much, my dear?--Shall I 
infer?  Some of your friends suppose a great deal.  You seem to own a 
little.

Don't be angry.  It is all fair: because you have not acknowledged to 
me that little.  People I have heard you say, who affect secrets, 
always excite curiosity.

But you proceed with a kind of drawback upon your averment, as if 
recollection had given you a doubt--you know not yourself, if they be 
[so much engaged].  Was it necessary to say this to me?--and to say it 
upon your word too?--But you know best.--Yet you don't neither, I 
believe.  For a beginning love is acted by a subtle spirit; and 
oftentimes discovers itself to a by-stander, when the person possessed 
(why should I not call it possessed?) knows not it has such a demon.

But further you say, what preferable favour you may have for him to 
any other person, is owing more to the usage he has received, and for 
your sake borne, than to any personal consideration.

This is generously said.  It is in character.  But, O my friend, 
depend upon it, you are in danger.  Depend upon it, whether you know 
it or not, you are a little in for't.  Your native generosity and 
greatness of mind endanger you: all your friends, by fighting against 
him with impolitic violence, fight for him.  And Lovelace, my life for 
yours, notwithstanding all his veneration and assiduities, has seen 
further than that veneration and those assiduities (so well calculated 
to your meridian) will let him own he has seen--has seen, in short, 
that his work is doing for him more effectually than he could do it 
for himself.  And have you not before now said, that nothing is so 
penetrating as the eye of a lover who has vanity?  And who says 
Lovelace wants vanity?

In short, my dear, it is my opinion, and that from the easiness of his 
heart and behaviour, that he has seen more than I have seen; more than 
you think could be seen--more than I believe you yourself know, or 
else you would let me know it.

Already, in order to restrain him from resenting the indignities he 
has received, and which are daily offered him, he has prevailed upon 
you to correspond with him privately.  I know he has nothing to boast 
of from what you have written: but is not his inducing you to receive 
his letters, and to answer them, a great point gained?  By your 
insisting that he should keep the correspondence private, it appears 
there is one secret which you do not wish the world should know: and 
he is master of that secret.  He is indeed himself, as I may say, that 
secret!  What an intimacy does this beget for the lover!  How is it 
distancing the parent!

Yet who, as things are situated, can blame you?--Your condescension 
has no doubt hitherto prevented great mischiefs.  It must be 
continued, for the same reasons, while the cause remains.  You are 
drawn in by a perverse fate against inclination: but custom, with such 
laudable purposes, will reconcile the inconveniency, and make an 
inclination.--And I would advise you (as you would wish to manage on 
an occasion so critical with that prudence which governs all your 
actions) not to be afraid of entering upon a close examination into 
the true springs and grounds of this your generosity to that happy 
man.

It is my humble opinion, I tell you frankly, that on inquiry it will 
come out to be LOVE--don't start, my dear!--Has not your man himself 
had natural philosophy enough to observe already to your aunt Hervey, 
that love takes the deepest root in the steadiest minds?  The deuce 
take his sly penetration, I was going to say; for this was six or 
seven weeks ago.

I have been tinctured, you know.  Nor on the coolest reflection, could 
I account how and when the jaundice began: but had been over head and 
ears, as the saying is, but for some of that advice from you, which I 
now return you.  Yet my man was not half so--so what, my dear--to be 
sure Lovelace is a charming fellow.  And were he only--but I will not 
make you glow, as you read--upon my word I will not.--Yet, my dear, 
don't you find at your heart somewhat unusual make it go throb, throb, 
throb, as you read just here?--If you do, don't be ashamed to own it--
it is your generosity, my love, that's all.--But as the Roman augur 
said, Caesar, beware of the Ides of March!

Adieu, my dearest friend.--Forgive, and very speedily, by the new 
found expedient, tell me that you forgive,

Your ever-affectionate,
ANNA HOWE.



LETTER XI

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 1.


You both nettled and alarmed me, my dearest Miss Howe, by the 
concluding part of your last.  At first reading it, I did not think it 
necessary, said I to myself, to guard against a critic, when I was 
writing to so dear a friend.  But then recollecting myself, is there 
not more in it, said I, than the result of a vein so naturally lively?  
Surely I must have been guilty of an inadvertence.  Let me enter into 
the close examination of myself which my beloved friend advises.

I do so; and cannot own any of the glow, any of the throbs you 
mention.--Upon my word I will repeat, I cannot.  And yet the passages 
in my letter, upon which you are so humourously severe, lay me fairly 
open to your agreeable raillery.  I own they do.  And I cannot tell 
what turn my mind had taken to dictate so oddly to my pen.

But, pray now--is it saying so much, when one, who has no very 
particular regard to any man, says, there are some who are preferable 
to others?  And is it blamable to say, they are the preferable, who 
are not well used by one's relations; yet dispense with that usage out 
of regard to one's self which they would otherwise resent?  Mr. 
Lovelace, for instance, I may be allowed to say, is a man to be 
preferred to Mr. Solmes; and that I do prefer him to that man: but, 
surely, this may be said without its being a necessary consequence 
that I must be in love with him.

Indeed I would not be in love with him, as it is called, for the 
world: First, because I have no opinion of his morals; and think it a 
fault in which our whole family (my brother excepted) has had a share, 
that he was permitted to visit us with a hope, which, however, being 
distant, did not, as I have observed heretofore,* entitle any of us to 
call him to account for such of his immoralities as came to our ears.  
Next, because I think him to be a vain man, capable of triumphing 
(secretly at least) over a person whose heart he thinks he has 
engaged.  And, thirdly, because the assiduities and veneration which 
you impute to him, seem to carry an haughtiness in them, as if he 
thought his address had a merit in it, that would be more than an 
equivalent to a woman's love.  In short, his very politeness, 
notwithstanding the advantages he must have had from his birth and 
education, appear to be constrained; and, with the most remarkable 
easy and genteel person, something, at times, seems to be behind in 
his manner that is too studiously kept in.  Then, good-humoured as he 
is thought to be in the main to other people's servants, and this even 
to familiarity (although, as you have observed, a familiarity that has 
dignity in it not unbecoming to a man of quality) he is apt sometimes 
to break out into a passion with his own: An oath or a curse follows, 
and such looks from those servants as plainly shew terror, and that 
they should have fared worse had they not been in my hearing: with a 
confirmation in the master's looks of a surmise too well justified.


* Letter III.


Indeed, my dear, THIS man is not THE man.  I have great objections to 
him.  My heart throbs not after him.  I glow not, but with indignation 
against myself for having given room for such an imputation.  But you 
must not, my dearest friend, construe common gratitude into love.  I 
cannot bear that you should.  But if ever I should have the misfortune 
to think it love, I promise you upon my word, which is the same as 
upon my honour, that I will acquaint you with it.

You bid me to tell you very speedily, and by the new-found expedient, 
that I am not displeased with you for your agreeable raillery: I 
dispatch this therefore immediately, postponing to my next the account 
of the inducements which my friends have to promote with so much 
earnestness the address of Mr. Solmes.

Be satisfied, my dear, mean time, that I am not displeased with you: 
indeed I am not.  On the contrary, I give you my hearty thanks for 
your friendly premonitions; and I charge you (as I have often done) 
that if you observe any thing in me so very faulty as would require 
from you to others in my behalf the palliation of friendly and partial 
love, you acquaint me with it: for methinks I would so conduct myself 
as not to give reason even for an adversary to censure me; and how 
shall so weak and so young a creature avoid the censure of such, if my 
friend will not hold a looking-glass before me to let me see my 
imperfections?

Judge me, then, my dear, as any indifferent person (knowing what you 
know of me) would do.  I may be at first be a little pained; may glow 
a little perhaps to be found less worthy of your friendship than I 
wish to be; but assure yourself, that your kind correction will give 
me reflection that shall amend me.  If it do not, you will have a 
fault to accuse me of, that will be utterly inexcusable: a fault, let 
me add, that should you not accuse me of it (if in your opinion I am 
guilty) you will not be so much, so warmly, my friend as I am yours; 
since I have never spared you on the like occasions.

Here I break off to begin another letter to you, with the assurance, 
mean time, that I am, and ever will be,

Your equally affectionate and grateful,
CL. HARLOWE.



LETTER XII

MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
THURSDAY MORNING, MARCH 2.


Indeed you would not be in love with him for the world!--Your servant, 
my dear.  Nor would I have you.  For, I think, with all the advantages 
of person, fortune, and family, he is not by any means worthy of you.  
And this opinion I give as well from the reasons you mention (which I 
cannot but confirm) as from what I have heard of him but a few hours 
ago from Mrs. Fortescue, a favourite of Lady Betty Lawrance, who knows 
him well--but let me congratulate you, however, on your being the 
first of our sex that ever I heard of, who has been able to turn that 
lion, Love, at her own pleasure, into a lap-dog.

Well but, if you have not the throbs and the glows, you have not: and 
are not in love; good reason why--because you would not be in love; 
and there's no more to be said.--Only, my dear, I shall keep a good 
look-out upon you; and so I hope you will be upon yourself; for it is 
no manner of argument that because you would not be in love, you 
therefore are not.--But before I part entirely with this subject, a 
word in your ear, my charming friend--'tis only by way of caution, and 
in pursuance of the general observation, that a stander-by is often a 
better judge of the game than those that play.--May it not be, that 
you have had, and have, such cross creatures and such odd heads to 
deal with, as have not allowed you to attend to the throbs?--Or, if 
you had them a little now and then, whether, having had two accounts 
to place them to, you have not by mistake put them to the wrong one?

But whether you have a value for Lovelace or not, I know you will be 
impatient to hear what Mrs. Fortescue has said of him.  Nor will I 
keep you longer in suspense.

An hundred wild stories she tells of him from childhood to manhood: 
for, as she observed, having never been subject to contradiction, he 
was always as mischievous as a monkey.  But I shall pass over these 
whole hundred of his puerile rogueries (although indicative ones, as I 
may say) to take notice as well of some things you are not quite 
ignorant of, as of others you know not, and to make a few observations 
upon him and his ways.

Mrs. Fortescue owns, what every body knows, 'that he is notoriously, 
nay, avowedly, a man of pleasure; yet says, that in any thing he sets 
his heart upon or undertakes, he is the most industrious and 
persevering mortal under the sun.  He rests it seems not above six 
hours in the twenty-four--any more than you.  He delights in writing.  
Whether at Lord M.'s, or at Lady Betty's, or Lady Sarah's, he has 
always a pen in his fingers when he retires.  One of his companions 
(confirming his love of writing) has told her, that his thoughts flow 
rapidly to his pen:' And you and I, my dear, have observed, on more 
occasions than one, that though he writes even a fine hand, he is one 
of the readiest and quickest of writers.  He must indeed have had 
early a very docile genius; since a person of his pleasurable turn and 
active spirit, could never have submitted to take long or great pains 
in attaining the qualifications he is master of; qualifications so 
seldom attained by youth of quality and fortune; by such especially of 
those of either, who, like him, have never known what it was to be 
controuled.

'He had once it seems the vanity, upon being complimented on these 
talents (and on his surprising diligence, for a man of pleasure) to 
compare himself to Julius Caesar; who performed great actions by day, 
and wrote them down at night; and valued himself, that he only wanted 
Caesar's out-setting, to make a figure among his contemporaries.

'He spoke of this indeed, she says, with an air of pleasantry: for she 
observed, and so have we, that he has the art of acknowledging his 
vanity with so much humour, that it sets him above the contempt which 
is due to vanity and self-opinion; and at the same time half persuades 
those who hear him, that he really deserves the exultation he gives 
himself.'

But supposing it to be true that all his vacant nightly hours are 
employed in writing, what can be his subjects?  If, like Caesar, his 
own actions, he must undoubtedly be a very enterprising and very 
wicked man; since nobody suspects him to have a serious turn; and, 
decent as he is in his conversation with us, his writings are not 
probably such as would redound either to his own honour, or to the 
benefit of others, were they to be read.  He must be conscious of 
this, since Mrs. Fortescue says, 'that in the great correspondence by 
letters which he holds, he is as secret and as careful as if it were 
of a treasonable nature;--yet troubles not his head with politics, 
though nobody knows the interests of princes and courts better than he 
is said to do.'

That you and I, my dear, should love to write, is no wonder.  We have 
always, from the time each could hold a pen, delighted in epistolary 
correspondencies.  Our employments are domestic and sedentary; and we 
can scribble upon twenty innocent subjects, and take delight in them 
because they are innocent; though were they to be seen, they might not 
much profit or please others.  But that such a gay, lively young 
fellow as this, who rides, hunts, travels, frequents the public 
entertainments, and has means to pursue his pleasures, should be able 
to set himself down to write for hours together, as you and I have 
heard him say he frequently does, that is the strange thing.

Mrs. Fortescue says, 'that he is a complete master of short-hand 
writing.'  By the way, what inducements could a swift writer as he 
have to learn short-hand!

She says (and we know it as well as she) 'that he has a surprising 
memory, and a very lively imagination.'

Whatever his other vices are, all the world, as well as Mrs. 
Fortescue, says, 'he is a sober man.  And among all his bad qualities, 
gaming, that great waster of time as well as fortune, is not his 
vice:' So that he must have his head as cool, and his reason as clear, 
as the prime of youth and his natural gaiety will permit; and by his 
early morning hours, a great portion of time upon his hands to employ 
in writing, or worse.

Mrs. Fortescue says, 'he has one gentleman who is more his intimate 
and correspondent than any of the rest.'  You remember what his 
dismissed bailiff said of him and of his associates.*  I don't find 
but that Mrs. Fortescue confirms this part of it, 'that all his 
relations are afraid of him; and that his pride sets him above owing 
obligations to them.  She believes he is clear of the world; and that 
he will continue so;' No doubt from the same motive that makes him 
avoid being obliged to his relations.


* Letter IV.


A person willing to think favourably of him would hope, that a brave, 
a learned, and a diligent, man, cannot be naturally a bad man.--But if 
he be better than his enemies say he is (and if worse he is bad 
indeed) he is guilty of an inexcusable fault in being so careless as 
he is of his reputation.  I think a man can be so but from one of 
these two reasons: either that he is conscious he deserves the ill 
spoken of him; or, that he takes a pride in being thought worse than 
he is.  Both very bad and threatening indications; since the first must 
shew him to be utterly abandoned; and it is but natural to conclude 
from the other, that what a man is not ashamed to have imputed to him, 
he will not scruple to be guilty of whenever he has an opportunity.

Upon the whole, and upon all I could gather from Mrs. Fortescue, Mr. 
Lovelace is a very faulty man.  You and I have thought him too gay, 
too inconsiderate, too rash, too little an hypocrite, to be deep.  You 
see he never would disguise his natural temper (haughty as it 
certainly is) with respect to your brother's behaviour to him.  Where 
he thinks a contempt due, he pays it to the uttermost.  Nor has he 
complaisance enough to spare your uncles.

But were he deep, and ever so deep, you would soon penetrate him, if 
they would leave you to yourself.  His vanity would be your clue.  
Never man had more: Yet, as Mrs. Fortescue observed, 'never did man 
carry it off so happily.'  There is a strange mixture in it of 
humourous vivacity:--Since but for one half of what he says of 
himself, when he is in the vein, any other man would be insufferable.


***


Talk of the devil, is an old saying.  The lively wretch has made me a 
visit, and is but just gone away.  He is all impatience and resentment 
at the treatment you meet with, and full of apprehensions too, that 
they will carry their point with you.

I told him my opinion, that you will never be brought to think of such 
a man as Solmes; but that it will probably end in a composition, never 
to have either.

No man, he said, whose fortunes and alliances are so considerable, 
ever had so little favour from a woman for whose sake he had borne so 
much.

I told him my mind as freely as I used to do.  But whoever was in 
fault, self being judge?  He complained of spies set upon his conduct, 
and to pry into his life and morals, and this by your brother and 
uncles.

I told him, that this was very hard upon him; and the more so, as 
neither his life nor morals perhaps would stand a fair inquiry.

He smiled, and called himself my servant.--The occasion was too fair, 
he said, for Miss Howe, who never spared him, to let it pass.--But, 
Lord help the shallow souls of the Harlowes!  Would I believe it! they 
were for turning plotters upon him.  They had best take care he did 
not pay them in their own coin.  Their hearts were better turned for 
such works than their heads.

I asked him, If he valued himself upon having a head better turned 
than theirs for such works, as he called them?

He drew off: and then ran into the highest professions of reverence 
and affection for you.

The object so meritorious, who can doubt the reality of his 
professions?

Adieu, my dearest, my noble friend!--I love and admire you for the 
generous conclusion of your last more than I can express.  Though I 
began this letter with impertinent raillery, knowing that you always 
loved to indulge my mad vein; yet never was there a heart that more 
glowed with friendly love, than that of

Your own
ANNA HOWE.



LETTER XIII

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 1.


I now take up my pen to lay before you the inducements and motive 
which my friends have to espouse so earnestly the address of this Mr. 
Solmes.

In order to set this matter in a clear light, it is necessary to go a 
little back, and even perhaps to mention some things which you already 
know: and so you may look upon what I am going to relate, as a kind 
of supplement to my letters of the 15th and 20th of January last.*


* Letters IV. and V.


In those letters, of which I have kept memorandums, I gave you an 
account of my brother's and sister's antipathy to Mr. Lovelace; and 
the methods they took (so far as they had then come to my knowledge) 
to ruin him in the opinion of my other friends.  And I told you, that 
after a very cold, yet not a directly affrontive behaviour to him, 
they all of a sudden* became more violent, and proceeded to personal 
insults; which brought on at last the unhappy rencounter between my 
brother and him.


* See Letter IV.


Now you must know, that from the last conversation that passed between 
my aunt and me, it comes out, that this sudden vehemence on my 
brother's and sister's parts, was owing to stronger reasons than to 
the college-begun antipathy on his side, or to slighted love on hers; 
to wit, to an apprehension that my uncles intended to follow my 
grandfather's example in my favour; at least in a higher degree than 
they wish they should.  An apprehension founded it seems on a 
conversation between my two uncles and my brother and sister: which my 
aunt communicated to me in confidence, as an argument to prevail upon 
me to accept of Mr. Solmes's noble settlements: urging, that such a 
seasonable compliance, would frustrate my brother's and sister's 
views, and establish me for ever in the love of my father and uncles.

I will give you the substance of this communicated conversation, after 
I have made a brief introductory observation or two, which however I 
hardly need to make to you who are so well acquainted with us all, did 
not the series or thread of the story require it.

I have more than once mentioned to you the darling view some of us 
have long had of raising a family, as it is called.  A reflection, as 
I have often thought, upon our own, which is no considerable or 
upstart one, on either side, on my mother's especially.--A view too 
frequently it seems entertained by families which, having great 
substance, cannot be satisfied without rank and title.

My uncles had once extended this view to each of us three children; 
urging, that as they themselves intended not to marry, we each of us 
might be so portioned, and so advantageously matched, as that our 
posterity, if not ourselves, might make a first figure in our 
country.--While my brother, as the only son, thought the two girls 
might be very well provided for by ten or fifteen thousand pounds 
a-piece: and that all the real estates in the family, to wit, my 
grandfather's, father's, and two uncles', and the remainder of their 
respective personal estates, together with what he had an expectation 
of from his godmother, would make such a noble fortune, and give him 
such an interest, as might entitle him to hope for a peerage.  Nothing 
less would satisfy his ambition.

With this view he gave himself airs very early; 'That his grandfather 
and uncles were his stewards: that no man ever had better: that 
daughters were but incumbrances and drawbacks upon a family:' and this 
low and familiar expression was often in his mouth, and uttered always 
with the self-complaisance which an imagined happy thought can be 
supposed to give the speaker; to wit, 'That a man who has sons brings 
up chickens for his own table,' [though once I made his comparison 
stagger with him, by asking him, If the sons, to make it hold, were to 
have their necks wrung off?] 'whereas daughters are chickens brought 
up for tables of other men.'  This, accompanied with the equally 
polite reflection, 'That, to induce people to take them off their 
hands, the family-stock must be impaired into the bargain,' used to 
put my sister out of all patience: and, although she now seems to 
think a younger sister only can be an incumbrance, she was then often 
proposing to me to make a party in our own favour against my brother's 
rapacious views, as she used to call them: while I was for considering 
the liberties he took of this sort, as the effect of a temporary 
pleasantry, which, in a young man, not naturally good-humoured, I was 
glad to see; or as a foible that deserved raillery, but no other 
notice.

But when my grandfather's will (of the purport of which in my 
particular favour, until it was opened, I was as ignorant as they) had 
lopped off one branch of my brother's expectation, he was extremely 
dissatisfied with me.  Nobody indeed was pleased: for although every 
one loved me, yet being the youngest child, father, uncles, brother, 
sister, all thought themselves postponed, as to matter of right and 
power [Who loves not power?]: And my father himself could not bear 
that I should be made sole, as I may call it, and independent; for 
such the will, as to that estate and the powers it gave, 
(unaccountably, as they all said,) made me.

To obviate, therefore, every one's jealousy, I gave up to my father's 
management, as you know, not only the estate, but the money bequeathed 
me (which was a moiety of what my grandfather had by him at his death; 
the other moiety being bequeathed to my sister); contenting myself to 
take as from his bounty what he was pleased to allow me, without 
desiring the least addition to my annual stipend.  And then I hoped I 
had laid all envy asleep: but still my brother and sister (jealous, as 
now is evident, of my two uncles' favour of me, and of the pleasure I 
had given my father and them by this act of duty) were every 
now-and-then occasionally doing me covert ill offices: of which, 
however, I took the less notice, when I was told of them, as I thought 
I had removed the cause of their envy; and I imputed every thing of 
that sort to the petulance they are both pretty much noted for.

My brother's acquisition then took place.  This made us all very 
happy; and he went down to take possession of it: and his absence (on 
so good an account too) made us still happier.  Then followed Lord 
M.'s proposal for my sister: and this was an additional felicity for 
the time.  I have told you how exceedingly good-humoured it made my 
sister.

You know how that went off: you know what came on in its place.

My brother then returned; and we were all wrong again: and Bella, as I 
observed in my letters abovementioned, had an opportunity to give 
herself the credit of having refused Mr. Lovelace, on the score of his 
reputed faulty morals.  This united my brother and sister in one 
cause.  They set themselves on all occasions to depreciate Mr. 
Lovelace, and his family too (a family which deserves nothing but 
respect): and this gave rise to the conversation I am leading to, 
between my uncles and them: of which I now come to give the 
particulars; after I have observed, that it happened before the 
rencounter, and soon after the inquiry made into Mr. Lovelace's 
affairs had come out better than my brother and sister hoped it 
would.*


* See Letter IV.


They were bitterly inveighing against him, in their usual way, 
strengthening their invectives with some new stories in his disfavour, 
when my uncle Antony, having given them a patient hearing, declared, 
'That he thought the gentleman behaved like a gentleman; his niece 
Clary with prudence; and that a more honourable alliance for the 
family, as he had often told them, could not be wished for: since Mr. 
Lovelace had a very good paternal estate; and that, by the evidence of 
an enemy, all clear.  Nor did it appear, that he was so bad a man as 
he had been represented to be: wild indeed; but it was a gay time of 
life: he was a man of sense: and he was sure that his niece would not 
have him, if she had not good reason to think him reformed, or that 
there was a likelihood that she could reform him by her example.'

My uncle then gave one instance, my aunt told me, as a proof of a 
generosity in Mr. Lovelace's spirit, which convinced him that he was 
not a bad man in nature; and that he was of a temper, he was pleased 
to say, like my own; which was, That when he (my uncle) had 
represented to him, that he might, if he pleased, make three or four 
hundred pounds a year of his paternal estate, more than he did; he 
answered, 'That his tenants paid their rents well: that it was a maxim 
with his family, from which he would by no means depart, Never to 
rack-rent old tenants, or their descendants; and that it was a 
pleasure to him, to see all his tenants look fat, sleek, and 
contented.'

I indeed had once occasionally heard him say something like this; and 
thought he never looked so well as at that time;--except once; and 
that was in an instance given by him on the following incident.

An unhappy tenant of my uncle Antony came petitioning to my uncle for 
forbearance, in Mr. Lovelace's presence.  When he had fruitlessly 
withdrawn, Mr. Lovelace pleaded his cause so well, that the man was 
called in again, and had his suit granted.  And Mr. Lovelace privately 
followed him out, and gave him two guineas, for present relief; the 
man having declared, that, at the time, he had not five shilling in 
the world.

On this occasion, he told my uncle (but without any airs of 
ostentation), that he had once observed an old tenant and his wife in 
a very mean habit at church; and questioning them about it the next 
day, as he knew they had no hard bargain in their farm, the man said, 
he had done some very foolish things with a good intention, which had 
put him behind-hand, and he could not have paid his rent, and appear 
better.  He asked him how long it would take him to retrieve the 
foolish step he acknowledged he had made.  He said, Perhaps two or 
three years.  Well then, said he, I will abate you five pounds a year 
for seven years, provided you will lay it upon your wife and self, that 
you may make a Sunday-appearance like MY tenants.  Mean time, 
take this (putting his hand in his pocket, and giving him five 
guineas), to put yourselves in present plight; and let me see you next 
Sunday at church, hand in hand, like an honest and loving couple; and 
I bespeak you to dine with me afterwards.

Although this pleased me when I heard it, as giving an instance of 
generosity and prudence at the same time, not lessening (as my uncle 
took notice) the yearly value of the farm, yet, my dear, I had no 
throbs, no glows upon it!--Upon my word, I had not.  Nevertheless I 
own to you, that I could not help saying to myself on the occasion, 
'Were it ever to be my lot to have this man, he would not hinder me 
from pursuing the methods I so much delight to take'--With 'A pity, 
that such a man were not uniformly good!'

Forgive me this digression.

My uncle went on (as my aunt told me), 'That, besides his paternal 
estate, he was the immediate heir to very splendid fortunes: that, 
when he was in treaty for his niece Arabella, Lord M. told him (my 
uncle) what great things he and his two half-sisters intended to do 
for him, in order to qualify him for the title, which would be extinct 
at his Lordship's death, and which they hoped to procure for him, or a 
still higher, that of those ladies' father, which had been for some 
time extinct on failure of heirs male: that it was with this view that 
his relations were all so earnest for his marrying: that as he saw not 
where Mr. Lovelace could better himself; so, truly, he thought there 
was wealth enough in their own family to build up three considerable 
ones: that, therefore, he must needs say, he was the more desirous of 
this alliance, as there was a great probability, not only from Mr. 
Lovelace's descent, but from his fortunes, that his niece Clarissa 
might one day be a peeress of Great Britain:--and, upon that prospect 
[here was the mortifying stroke], he should, for his own part, think 
it not wrong to make such dispositions as should contribute to the 
better support of the dignity.'

My uncle Harlowe, it seems, far from disapproving of what his brother 
had said, declared, 'That there was but one objection to an alliance 
with Mr. Lovelace; to wit, his faulty morals: especially as so much 
could be done for Miss Bella, and for my brother too, by my father; 
and as my brother was actually possessed of a considerable estate by 
virtue of the deed of gift and will of his godmother Lovell.'

Had I known this before, I should the less have wondered at many 
things I have been unable to account for in my brother's and sister's 
behaviour to me; and been more on my guard than I imagined there was a 
necessity to be.

You may easily guess how much this conversation affected my brother at 
the time.  He could not, you know, but be very uneasy to hear two of 
his stewards talk at this rate to his face.

He had from early days, by his violent temper, made himself both 
feared and courted by the whole family.  My father himself, as I have 
lately mentioned, very often (long before my brother's acquisition had 
made him still more assuming) gave way to him, as to an only son who 
was to build up the name, and augment the honour of it.  Little 
inducement, therefore, had my brother to correct a temper which gave 
him so much consideration with every body.

'See, Sister Bella,' said he, in an indecent passion before my uncles, 
on this occasion I have mentioned--'See how it is!--You and I ought to 
look about us!--This little syren is in a fair way to out-uncle, as 
she has already out-grandfather'd, us both!'

From this time (as I now find it plain upon recollection) did my 
brother and sister behave to me, as to one who stood in their way; and 
to each other as having but one interest: and were resolved, 
therefore, to bend all their force to hinder an alliance from taking 
effect, which they believed was likely to oblige them to contract 
their views.

And how was this to be done, after such a declaration from both my 
uncles?

My brother found out the way.  My sister (as I have said) went hand in 
hand with him.  Between them, the family union was broke, and every 
one was made uneasy.  Mr. Lovelace was received more and more coldly 
by all: but not being to be put out of his course by slights only, 
personal affronts succeeded; defiances next; then the rencounter: that, 
as you have heard, did the business.  And now, if I do not oblige them, my grandfather's estate is to be litigated with me; and I, who never designed 
to take advantage of the independency bequeathed me, am to be as dependent 
upon my father's will, as a daughter ought to be who knows not what is 
good for herself.  This is the language of the family now.

But if I will suffer myself to be prevailed upon, how happy (as they 
lay it out) shall we all be!--Such presents am I to have, such jewels, 
and I cannot tell what, from every one in the family!  Then Mr. 
Solmes's fortunes are so great, and his proposals so very 
advantageous, (no relation whom he values,) that there will be 
abundant room to raise mine upon them, were the high-intended favours 
of my own relations to be quite out of the question.  Moreover, it is 
now, with this view, found out, that I have qualifications which of 
themselves will be a full equivalent to Mr. Solmes for the settlements 
he is to make; and still leave him under an obligation to me for my 
compliance.  He himself thinks so, I am told--so very poor a creature 
is he, even in his own eyes, as well as in theirs.

These desirable views answered, how rich, how splendid shall we all 
three be!  And I--what obligations shall I lay upon them all!--And 
that only by doing an act of duty so suitable to my character, and 
manner of thinking; if, indeed, I am the generous as well as dutiful 
creature I have hitherto made them believe I am.

This is the bright side that is turned to my father and uncles, to 
captivate them: but I am afraid that my brother's and sister's design 
is to ruin me with them at any rate.  Were it otherwise, would they 
not on my return from you have rather sought to court than frighten me 
into measures which their hearts are so much bent to carry?  A method 
they have followed ever since.

Mean time, orders are given to all the servants to shew the highest 
respect to Mr. Solmes; the generous Mr. Solmes is now his character 
with some of our family!  But are not these orders a tacit confession, 
that they think his own merit will not procure him respect?  He is 
accordingly, in every visit he makes, not only highly caressed by the 
principals of our family, but obsequiously attended and cringed to by 
the menials.--And the noble settlements are echoed from every mouth.

Noble is the word used to enforce the offers of a man who is mean 
enough avowedly to hate, and wicked enough to propose to rob of their 
just expectations, his own family, (every one of which at the same 
time stands in too much need of his favour,) in order to settle all he 
is worth upon me; and if I die without children, and he has none by 
any other marriage, upon a family which already abounds.  Such are his 
proposals.

But were there no other motive to induce me to despise the upstart 
man, is not this unjust one to his family enough?--The upstart man, I 
repeat; for he was not born to the immense riches he is possessed of: 
riches left by one niggard to another, in injury to the next heir, 
because that other is a niggard.  And should I not be as culpable, do 
you think, in my acceptance of such unjust settlements, as he is in 
the offer of them, if I could persuade myself to be a sharer in them, 
or suffer a reversionary expectation of possessing them to influence 
my choice?

Indeed, it concerns me not a little, that my friends could be brought 
to encourage such offers on such motives as I think a person of 
conscience should not presume to begin the world with.

But this it seems is the only method that can be taken to disappoint 
Mr. Lovelace; and at the same time to answer all my relations have 
wish for each of us.  And surely I will not stand against such an 
accession to the family as may happen from marrying Mr. Solmes: since 
now a possibility is discovered, (which such a grasping mind as my 
brother's can easily turn into a probability,) that my grandfather's 
estate will revert to it, with a much more considerable one of the 
man's own.  Instances of estates falling in, in cases far more 
unlikely than this, are insisted upon; and my sister says, in the 
words of an old saw, It is good to be related to an estate.

While Solmes, smiling no doubt to himself at a hope so remote, by 
offers only, obtains all their interests; and doubts not to join to 
his own the estate I am envied for; which, for the conveniency of its 
situation between two of his, will it seems be of twice the value to 
him that it would be of to any other person; and is therefore, I doubt 
not, a stronger motive with him than the wife.

These, my dear, seem to me the principal inducements of my relations 
to espouse so vehemently as they do this man's suit.  And here, once 
more, must I deplore the family fault, which gives those inducements 
such a force as it will be difficult to resist.

And thus far, let matters with regard to Mr. Solmes and me come out as 
they will, my brother has succeeded in his views; that is to say, he 
has, in the first place, got my FATHER to make the cause his own, and 
to insist upon my compliance as an act of duty.

My MOTHER has never thought fit to oppose my father's will, when once 
he has declared himself determined.

My UNCLES, stiff, unbroken, highly-prosperous bachelors, give me leave 
to say, (though very worthy persons in the main,) have as high notions 
of a child's duty, as of a wife's obedience; in the last of which, my 
mother's meekness has confirmed them, and given them greater reason to 
expect the first.

My aunt HERVEY (not extremely happy in her own nuptials, and perhaps 
under some little obligation) is got over, and chuses [sic] not to 
open her lips in my favour against the wills of a father and uncles so 
determined.

This passiveness in my mother and in my aunt, in a point so contrary 
to their own first judgments, is too strong a proof that my father is 
absolutely resolved.

Their treatment of my worthy MRS. NORTON is a sad confirmation of it: 
a woman deserving of all consideration for her wisdom, and every body 
thinking so; but who, not being wealthy enough to have due weight in a 
point against which she has given her opinion, and which they seem 
bent upon carrying, is restrained from visiting here, and even from 
corresponding with me, as I am this very day informed.

Hatred to Lovelace, family aggrandizement, and this great motive 
paternal authority!--What a force united must they be supposed to have, 
when singly each consideration is sufficient to carry all before it!

This is the formidable appearance which the address of this 
disagreeable man wears at present.

My BROTHER and my SISTER triumph.--They have got me down, as Hannah 
overheard them exult.  And so they have (yet I never knew that I was 
insolently up); for now my brother will either lay me under an obligation 
to comply to my own unhappiness, and so make me an instrument of his 
revenge upon Lovelace; or, if I refuse, will throw me into disgrace 
with my whole family.

Who will wonder at the intrigues and plots carried on by undermining 
courtiers against one another, when a private family, but three of 
which can possibly have clashing interests, and one of them (as she 
presumes to think) above such low motives, cannot be free from them?

What at present most concerns me, is, the peace of my mother's mind!  
How can the husband of such a wife (a good man too!--But oh! this 
prerogative of manhood!) be so positive, so unpersuadable, to one who 
has brought into the family means, which they know so well the value 
of, that methinks they should value her the more for their sake?

They do indeed value her: but, I am sorry to say, she has purchased 
that value by her compliances; yet has merit for which she ought to be 
venerated; prudence which ought of itself to be conformed to in every 
thing.

But whither roves my pen?  How dare a perverse girl take these 
liberties with relations so very respectable, and whom she highly 
respects?  What an unhappy situation is that which obliges her, in her 
own defence as it were, to expose their failings?

But you, who know how much I love and reverence my mother, will judge 
what a difficulty I am under, to be obliged to oppose a scheme which 
she has engaged in.  Yet I must oppose it (to comply is impossible); 
and must without delay declare my opposition, or my difficulties will 
increase; since, as I am just now informed, a lawyer has been this 
very day consulted [Would you have believed it?] in relation to 
settlements.

Were ours a Roman Catholic family, how much happier for me, that they 
thought a nunnery would answer all their views!--How happy, had not a 
certain person slighted somebody!  All then would have been probably 
concluded between them before my brother had arrived to thwart the 
match: then had I a sister; which now I have not; and two brothers;--
both aspiring; possibly both titled: while I should only have valued 
that in either which is above title, that which is truly noble in 
both!

But by what a long-reaching selfishness is my brother governed!  By 
what remote, exceedingly remote views!  Views, which it is in the 
power of the slightest accident, of a fever, for instance, (the seeds 
of which are always vegetating, as I may say, and ready to burst 
forth, in his own impetuous temper,) or of the provoked weapon of an 
adversary, to blow up and destroy!

I will break off here.  Let me write ever so freely of my friends, I 
am sure of your kind construction: and I confide in your discretion, 
that you will avoid reading to or transcribing for others such 
passages as may have the appearance of treating too freely the 
parental, or even the fraternal character, or induce others to censure 
for a supposed failure in duty to the one, or decency to the other,

Your truly affectionate,
CL. HARLOWE.



LETTER XIV

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
THURSDAY EVENING, MARCH 2.


On Hannah's depositing my long letter, (begun yesterday, but by reason 
of several interruptions not finished till within this hour,) she 
found and brought me yours of this day.  I thank you, my dear, for 
this kind expedition.  These few lines will perhaps be time enough 
deposited, to be taken away by your servant with the other letter: yet 
they are only to thank you, and to tell you my increasing 
apprehensions.

I must take or seek the occasion to apply to my mother for her 
mediation; for I am in danger of having a day fixed, and antipathy 
taken for bashfulness.--Should not sisters be sisters to each other?  
Should not they make a common cause of it, as I may say, a cause of 
sex, on such occasions as the present?  Yet mine, in support of my 
brother's selfishness, and, no doubt, in concert with him, has been 
urging in full assembly it seems, (and that with an earnestness 
peculiar to herself when she sets upon any thing,) that an absolute 
day be given me; and if I comply not, to be told, that it shall be to 
the forfeiture of all my fortunes, and of all their love.

She need not be so officious: my brother's interest, without hers, is 
strong enough; for he has found means to confederate all the family 
against me.  Upon some fresh provocation, or new intelligence 
concerning Mr. Lovelace, (I know not what it is,) they have bound 
themselves, or are to bind themselves, by a signed paper, to one 
another [The Lord bless me, my dear, what shall I do!] to carry their 
point in favour of Mr. Solmes, in support of my father's authority, as 
it is called, and against Mr. Lovelace, as a libertine, and an enemy 
to the family: and if so, I am sure, I may say against me.--How 
impolitic in them all, to join two people in one interest, whom they 
wish for ever to keep asunder!

What the discharged steward reported of him is surely bad enough: what 
Mrs. Fortescue said, not only confirms that bad, but gives room to 
think him still worse.  And yet the something further which my friends 
have come at, is of so heinous a nature (as Betty Barnes tells Hannah) 
that it proves him almost to be the worst of men.--But, hang the man, 
I had almost said--What is he to me?  What would he be--were not this 
Mr. Sol----O my dear, how I hate the man in the light he is proposed 
to me!

All of them, at the same time, are afraid of Mr. Lovelace; yet not 
afraid to provoke him!--How am I entangled!--to be obliged to go on 
corresponding with him for their sakes--Heaven forbid, that their 
persisted-in violence should so drive me, as to make it necessary for 
my own!

But surely they will yield--Indeed I cannot.

I believe the gentlest spirits when provoked (causelessly and cruelly 
provoked) are the most determined.  The reason may be, that not taking 
up resolutions lightly--their very deliberation makes them the more 
immovable.--And then when a point is clear and self-evident, how can 
one with patience think of entering into an argument or contention 
upon it?--

An interruption obliges me to conclude myself, in some hurry, as well 
as fright, what I must ever be,

Yours more than my own,
CLARISSA HARLOWE.



LETTER XV

MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
FRIDAY, MARCH 3.


I have both your letters at once.  It is very unhappy, my dear, since 
your friends will have you marry, that a person of your merit should 
be addressed by a succession of worthless creatures, who have nothing 
but their presumption for their excuse.

That these presumers appear not in this very unworthy light to some of 
your friends, is, because their defects are not so striking to them as 
to others.--And why?  Shall I venture to tell you?--Because they are 
nearer their own standard--Modesty, after all, perhaps has a concern 
in it; for how should they think that a niece or sister of theirs [I 
will not go higher, for fear of incurring your displeasure] should be 
an angel?

But where indeed is the man to be found (who has the least share of 
due diffidence) that dares to look up to Miss Clarissa Harlowe with 
hope, or with any thing but wishes?  Thus the bold and forward, not 
being sensible of their defects, aspire; while the modesty of the 
really worthy fills them with too much reverence to permit them to 
explain themselves.  Hence your Symmes's, your Byron's, your 
Mullins's, your Wyerley's (the best of the herd), and your Solmes's, 
in turn, invade you--Wretches that, looking upon the rest of your 
family, need not despair of succeeding in an alliance with it--But to 
you, what an inexcusable presumption!

Yet I am afraid all opposition will be in vain.  You must, you will, I 
doubt, be sacrificed to this odious man.  I know your family.  There 
will be no resisting such baits as he has thrown out.  O, my dear, my 
beloved friend! and are such charming qualities, is such exalted 
merit, to be sunk in such a marriage!--You must not, your uncle tells 
your mother, dispute their authority.  AUTHORITY! what a full word is 
that in the mouth of a narrow-minded person, who happened to be born 
thirty years before one!--Of your uncles I speak; for as to the 
paternal authority, that ought to be sacred.--But should not parents 
have reason for what they do?

Wonder not, however, at your Bell's unsisterly behaviour in this 
affair: I have a particular to add to the inducements your insolent 
brother is governed by, which will account for all her driving.  You 
have already owned, that her outward eye was from the first struck 
with the figure and address of the man whom she pretends to despise, 
and who, 'tis certain, thoroughly despises her: but you have not told 
me, that still she loves him of all men.  Bell has a meanness in her 
very pride; that meanness rises with her pride, and goes hand in hand 
with it; and no one is so proud as Bell.  She has owned her love, her 
uneasy days, and sleepless nights, and her revenge grafted upon her 
love, to her favourite Betty Barnes--To lay herself in the power of a 
servant's tongue!  Poor creature!--But LIKE little souls will find one 
another out, and mingle, as well as LIKE great ones.  This, however, 
she told the wench in strict confidence: and thus, by way of the 
female round-about, as Lovelace had the sauciness on such another 
occasion, in ridicule of our sex, to call it, Betty (pleased to be 
thought worthy of a secret, and to have an opportunity of inveighing 
against Lovelace's perfidy, as she would have it to be) told it to one 
of her confidants: that confidant, with like injunctions of secrecy, 
to Miss Lloyd's Harriot--Harriot to Miss Lloyd--Miss Lloyd to me--I to 
you--with leave to make what you please of it.

And now you will not wonder to find Miss Bell an implacable rival, 
rather than an affectionate sister; and will be able to account for 
the words witchcraft, syren, and such like, thrown out against you; 
and for her driving on for a fixed day for sacrificing you to Solmes: 
in short, for her rudeness and violence of every kind.

What a sweet revenge will she take, as well upon Lovelace as upon you, 
if she can procure her rival sister to be married to the man that 
sister hates; and so prevent her having the man whom she herself loves 
(whether she have hope of him or not), and whom she suspects her 
sister loves!

Poisons and poniard have often been set to work by minds inflamed by 
disappointed love, and actuated by revenge.--Will you wonder, then, 
that the ties of relationship in such a case have no force, and that a 
sister forgets to be a sister?

Now I know this to be her secret motive, (the more grating to her, as 
her pride is concerned to make her disavow it), and can consider it 
joined with her former envy, and as strengthened by a brother, who has 
such an ascendant over the whole family; and whose interest (slave to 
it as he always was) engaged him to ruin you with every one: both 
possessed of the ears of all your family, and having it as much in 
their power as in their will to misrepresent all you say, all you do; 
such subject also as to the rencounter, and Lovelace's want of morals, 
to expatiate upon: your whole family likewise avowedly attached to the 
odious man by means of the captivating proposals he has made them;--
when I consider all these things, I am full of apprehensions for you.
--O my dear, how will you be able to maintain your ground;--I am sure, 
(alas! I am too sure) that they will subdue such a fine spirit as 
yours, unused to opposition; and (tell it not in Gath) you must be 
Mrs. Solmes!

Mean time, it is now easy, as you will observe, to guess from what 
quarter the report I mentioned to you in one of my former, came, That 
the younger sister has robbed the elder of her lover:* for Betty 
whispered it, at the time she whispered the rest, that neither 
Lovelace nor you had done honourably by her young mistress.--How 
cruel, my dear, in you, to rob the poor Bella of the only lover she 
only had!--At the instant too that she was priding herself, that now 
at last she should have it in her power not only to gratify her own 
susceptibilities, but to give an example to the flirts of her sex** 
(my worship's self in her eye) how to govern their man with a silken 
rein, and without a curb-bridle!


* Letter I.
** Letter II.


Upon the whole, I have now no doubt of their persevering in favour of 
the despicable Solmes; and of their dependence upon the gentleness of 
your temper, and the regard you have for their favour, and for your 
own reputation.  And now I am more than ever convinced of the 
propriety of the advice I formerly gave you, to keep in your own hands 
the estate bequeathed to you by your grandfather.--Had you done so, it 
would have procured you at least an outward respect from your brother 
and sister, which would have made them conceal the envy and ill-will 
that now are bursting upon you from hearts so narrow.

I must harp a little more upon this string--Do not you observe, how 
much your brother's influence has overtopped yours, since he has got 
into fortunes so considerable, and since you have given some of them 
an appetite to continue in themselves the possession of your estate, 
unless you comply with their terms?

I know your dutiful, your laudable motives; and one would have 
thought, that you might have trusted to a father who so dearly loved 
you.  But had you been actually in possession of that estate, and 
living up to it, and upon it, (your youth protected from blighting 
tongues by the company of your prudent Norton, as you had proposed,) 
do you think that your brother, grudging it to you at the time as he 
did, and looking upon it as his right as an only son, would have been 
practising about it, and aiming at it?  I told you some time ago, that 
I thought your trials but proportioned to your prudence:* but you will 
be more than woman, if you can extricate yourself with honour, having 
such violent spirits and sordid minds in some, and such tyrannical and 
despotic wills in others, to deal with.  Indeed, all may be done, and 
the world be taught further to admire you for your blind duty and 
will-less resignation, if you can persuade yourself to be Mrs. Solmes.


* Letter I.


I am pleased with the instances you give me of Mr. Lovelace's 
benevolence to his own tenants, and with his little gift to your 
uncle's.  Mrs. Fortescue allows him to be the best of landlords: I 
might have told you that, had I thought it necessary to put you into 
some little conceit of him.  He has qualities, in short, that may make 
him a tolerable creature on the other side of fifty: but God help the 
poor woman to whose lot he shall fall till then! women, I should say, 
perhaps; since he may break half-a-dozen hearts before that time.--But 
to the point I was upon--Shall we not have reason to commend the 
tenant's grateful honesty, if we are told, that with joy the poor man 
called out your uncle, and on the spot paid him in part of his debt 
those two guineas?--But what shall we say of that landlord, who, 
though he knew the poor man to be quite destitute, could take it; and, 
saying nothing while Mr. Lovelace staid, as soon as he was gone, tell 
of it in praise of the poor fellow's honesty?--Were this so, and were 
not that landlord related to my dearest friend, how should I despise 
such a wretch?--But, perhaps, the story is aggravated.  Covetous 
people have every one's ill word: and so indeed they ought; because 
they are only solicitous to keep that which they prefer to every one's 
good one.--Covetous indeed would they be, who deserved neither, yet 
expected both!

I long for your next letter.  Continue to be as particular as 
possible.  I can think of no other subject but what relates to you and 
to your affairs: for I am, and ever will be, most affectionately,

Your own,
ANNA HOWE. 



LETTER XVI

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
[HER PRECEDING NOT AT THAT TIME RECEIVED.]
FRIDAY, MARCH 3.


O my dear friend, I have had a sad conflict!  Trial upon trial; 
conference upon conference!--But what law, what ceremony, can give a 
man a right to a heart which abhors him more than it does any living 
creature?

I hope my mother will be able to prevail for me.--But I will recount 
it all, though I sit up the whole night to do it; for I have a vast 
deal to write, and will be as minute as you wish me to be.

I concluded my last in a fright.  It was occasioned by a conversation 
that passed between my mother and my aunt, part of which Hannah 
overheard.  I need not give you the particulars; since what I have to 
relate to you from different conversations that have passed between my 
mother and me, in the space of a very few hours, will include them 
all.  I will begin then.

I went down this morning when breakfast was ready with a very uneasy 
heart, from what Hannah had informed me of yesterday afternoon; 
wishing for an opportunity, however, to appeal to my mother, in hopes 
to engage her interest in my behalf, and purposing to try to find one 
when she retired to her own apartment after breakfast: but, unluckily, 
there was the odious Solmes, sitting asquat between my mother and 
sister, with so much assurance in his looks!--But you know, my dear, 
that those we love not, cannot do any thing to please us.

Had the wretch kept his seat, it might have been well enough: but the 
bend and broad-shouldered creature must needs rise, and stalk towards 
a chair, which was just by that which was set for me.

I removed it to a distance, as if to make way to my own: and down I 
sat, abruptly I believe; what I had heard all in my head.

But this was not enough to daunt him.  The man is a very confident, he 
is a very bold, staring man!--Indeed, my dear, the man is very 
confident.

He took the removed chair, and drew it so near mine, squatting in it 
with his ugly weight, that he pressed upon my hoop.--I was so offended 
(all I had heard, as I said, in my head) that I removed to another 
chair.  I own I had too little command of myself.  It gave my brother 
and sister too much advantage.  I day say they took it.  But I did it 
involuntarily, I think.  I could not help it.--I knew not what I did.

I saw that my father was excessively displeased.  When angry, no man's 
countenance ever shews it so much as my father's.  Clarissa Harlowe! 
said he with a big voice--and there he stopped.  Sir! said I, 
trembling and courtesying (for I had not then sat down again); and put 
my chair nearer the wretch, and sat down--my face, as I could feel, 
all in a glow.

Make tea, child, said my kind mamma; sit by me, love, and make tea.

I removed with pleasure to the seat the man had quitted; and being 
thus indulgently put into employment, soon recovered myself; and in 
the course of the breakfasting officiously asked two or three 
questions of Mr. Solmes, which I would not have done, but to make up 
with my father.--Proud spirits may be brought to! Whisperingly spoke 
my sister to me, over her shoulder, with an air of triumph and scorn: 
but I did not mind her.

My mother was all kindness and condescension.  I asked her once, if 
she were pleased with the tea?  She said, softly, (and again called me 
dear,) she was pleased with all I did.  I was very proud of this 
encouraging goodness: and all blew over, as I hoped, between my father 
and me; for he also spoke kindly to me two or three times.

Small accidents these, my dear, to trouble you with; only as they lead 
to greater, as you shall hear.

Before the usual breakfast-time was over, my father withdrew with my 
mother, telling her he wanted to speak with her.  Then my sister and 
next my aunt (who was with us) dropt away.

My brother gave himself some airs of insult, which I understood well 
enough; but which Mr. Solmes could make nothing of: and at last he 
arose from his seat--Sister, said he, I have a curiosity to shew you.  
I will fetch it.  And away he went shutting the door close after him.

I saw what all this was for.  I arose; the man hemming up for a 
speech, rising, and beginning to set his splay-feet [indeed, my dear, 
the man in all his ways is hateful to me] in an approaching posture.--
I will save my brother the trouble of bringing to me his curiosity, 
said I.  I courtesied--Your servant, sir--The man cried, Madam, Madam, 
twice, and looked like a fool.--But away I went--to find my brother, 
to save my word.--But my brother, indifferent as the weather was, was 
gone to walk in the garden with my sister.  A plain case, that he had 
left his curiosity with me, and designed to shew me no other.

I had but just got into my own apartment, and began to think of 
sending Hannah to beg an audience of my mother (the more encouraged by 
her condescending goodness at breakfast) when Shorey, her woman, 
brought me her commands to attend me in her closet.

My father, Hannah told me, was just gone out of it with a positive 
angry countenance.  Then I as much dreaded the audience as I had 
wished for it before.

I went down however; but, apprehending the subject she intended to 
talk to me upon, approached her trembling, and my heart in visible 
palpitations.

She saw my concern.  Holding out her kind arms, as she sat, Come kiss 
me, my dear, said she, with a smile like a sun-beam breaking through 
the cloud that overshadowed her naturally benign aspect--Why flutters 
my jewel so?

This preparative sweetness, with her goodness just before, confirmed 
my apprehensions.  My mother saw the bitter pill wanted gilding.

O my Mamma! was all I could say; and I clasped my arms round her neck, 
and my face sunk into her bosom.

My child! my child! restrain, said she, your powers of moving!  I dare 
not else trust myself with you.--And my tears trickled down her bosom, 
as hers bedewed my neck.

O the words of kindness, all to be expressed in vain, that flowed from 
her lips!

Lift up your sweet face, my best child, my own Clarissa Harlowe!--O my 
daughter, best beloved of my heart, lift up a face so ever amiable to 
me!--Why these sobs?--Is an apprehended duty so affecting a thing, 
that before I can speak--But I am glad, my love, you can guess at what 
I have to say to you.  I am spared the pains of breaking to you what 
was a task upon me reluctantly enough undertaken to break to you.  
Then rising, she drew a chair near her own, and made me sit down by 
her, overwhelmed as I was with tears of apprehension of what she had 
to say, and of gratitude for her truly maternal goodness to me--sobs 
still my only language.

And drawing her chair still nearer to mine, she put her arms round my 
neck, and my glowing cheek wet with my tears, close to her own: Let me 
talk to you, my child.  Since silence is your choice, hearken to me, 
and be silent.

You know, my dear, what I every day forego, and undergo, for the sake 
of peace.  Your papa is a very good man, and means well; but he will 
not be controuled; nor yet persuaded.  You have sometimes seemed to 
pity me, that I am obliged to give up every point.  Poor man! his 
reputation the less for it; mine the greater: yet would I not have 
this credit, if I could help it, at so dear a rate to him and to 
myself.  You are a dutiful, a prudent, and a wise child, she was 
pleased to say, in hope, no doubt, to make me so: you would not add, I 
am sure, to my trouble: you would not wilfully break that peace which 
costs your mother so much to preserve.  Obedience is better than 
sacrifice.  O my Clary Harlowe, rejoice my heart, by telling me that I 
have apprehended too much!--I see your concern!  I see your 
perplexity!  I see your conflict!  [loosing her arm, and rising, not 
willing I should see how much she herself was affected].  I will leave 
you a moment.--Answer me not--[for I was essaying to speak, and had, 
as soon as she took her dear cheek from mine, dropt down on my knees, 
my hands clasped, and lifted up in a supplicating manner]--I am not 
prepared for your irresistible expostulation, she was pleased to say.  
I will leave you to recollection: and I charge you, on my blessing, 
that all this my truly maternal tenderness be not thrown away upon you.

And then she withdrew into the next apartment; wiping her eyes as she 
went from me; as mine overflowed; my heart taking in the whole compass 
of her meaning.

She soon returned, having recovered more steadiness.

Still on my knees, I had thrown my face across the chair she had sat 
in.

Look up to me, my Clary Harlowe--No sullenness, I hope!

No, indeed, my ever-to-be-revered Mamma.--And I arose.  I bent my 
knee.

She raised me.  No kneeling to me, but with knees of duty and 
compliance.  Your heart, not your knees, must bend.  It is absolutely 
determined.  Prepare yourself therefore to receive your father, when 
he visits you by-and-by, as he would wish to receive you.  But on this 
one quarter of an hour depends the peace of my future life, the 
satisfaction of all the family, and your own security from a man of 
violence: and I charge you besides, on my blessing, that you think of 
being Mrs. Solmes.

There went the dagger to my heart, and down I sunk: and when I 
recovered, found myself in the arms of my Hannah, my sister's Betty 
holding open my reluctantly -opened palm, my laces cut, my linen 
scented with hartshorn; and my mother gone.  Had I been less kindly 
treated, the hated name still forborne to be mentioned, or mentioned 
with a little more preparation and reserve, I had stood the horrid 
sound with less visible emotion--But to be bid, on the blessing of a 
mother so dearly beloved, so truly reverenced, to think of being MRS. 
SOLMES--what a denunciation was that!

Shorey came in with a message (delivered in her solemn way): Your 
mamma, Miss, is concerned for your disorder: she expects you down 
again in an hour; and bid me say, that she then hopes every thing from 
your duty.

I made no reply; for what could I say?  And leaning upon my Hannah's 
arm, withdrew to my own apartment.  There you will guess how the 
greatest part of the hour was employed.

Within that time, my mother came up to me.

I love, she was pleased to say, to come into this apartment.--No 
emotions, child!  No flutters!--Am I not your mother?--Do not 
discompose me by discomposing yourself!  Do not occasion me 
uneasiness, when I would give you nothing but pleasure.  Come, my 
dear, we will go into your closet.

She took my hand, led the way, and made me sit down by her: and after 
she had inquired how I did, she began in a strain as if she supposed I 
had made use of the intervening space to overcome all my objections. 

She was pleased to tell me, that my father and she, in order to spare 
my natural modesty, had taken the whole affair upon themselves--

Hear me out; and then speak.--He is not indeed every thing I wish him 
to be: but he is a man of probity, and has no vices--

No vices, Madam!--

Hear me out, child.--You have not behaved much amiss to him: we have 
seen with pleasure that you have not--

O Madam, must I not now speak!

I shall have done presently.--A young creature of your virtuous and 
pious turn, she was pleased to say, cannot surely love a profligate: 
you love your brother too well, to wish to marry one who had like to 
have killed him, and who threatened your uncles, and defies us all.  
You have had your own way six or seven times: we want to secure you 
against a man so vile.  Tell me (I have a right to know) whether you 
prefer this man to all others?--Yet God forbid that I should know you 
do; for such a declaration would make us all miserable.  Yet tell me, 
are your affections engaged to this man?

I knew not what the inference would be, if I said they were not.

You hesitate--You answer me not--You cannot answer me.--Rising--Never 
more will I look upon you with an eye of favour--

O Madam, Madam!  Kill me not with your displeasure--I would not, I 
need not, hesitate one moment, did I not dread the inference, if I 
answer you as you wish.--Yet be that inference what it will, your 
threatened displeasure will make me speak.  And I declare to you, that 
I know not my own heart, if it not be absolutely free.  And pray, let 
me ask my dearest Mamma, in what has my conduct been faulty, that, 
like a giddy creature, I must be forced to marry, to save me from--
From what?  Let me beseech you, Madam, to be the guardian of my 
reputation!  Let not your Clarissa be precipitated into a state she 
wishes not to enter into with any man!  And this upon a supposition 
that otherwise she shall marry herself, and disgrace her whole family.

Well then, Clary [passing over the force of my plea] if your heart be 
free--

O my beloved Mamma, let the usual generosity of your dear heart 
operate in my favour.  Urge not upon me the inference that made me 
hesitate.

I won't be interrupted, Clary--You have seen in my behaviour to you, 
on this occasion, a truly maternal tenderness; you have observed that 
I have undertaken the task with some reluctance, because the man is 
not every thing; and because I know you carry your notions of 
perfection in a man too high--

Dearest Madam, this one time excuse me!--Is there then any danger that 
I should be guilty of an imprudent thing for the man's sake you hint 
at?

Again interrupted!--Am I to be questioned, and argued with?  You know 
this won't do somewhere else.  You know it won't.  What reason then, 
ungenerous girl, can you have for arguing with me thus, but because 
you think from my indulgence to you, you may?

What can I say?  What can I do?  What must that cause be that will not 
bear being argued upon?

Again!  Clary Harlowe!

Dearest Madam, forgive me: it was always my pride and my pleasure to 
obey you. But look upon that man--see but the disagreeableness of his 
person--

Now, Clary, do I see whose person you have in your eye!--Now is Mr. 
Solmes, I see, but comparatively disagreeable; disagreeable only as 
another man has a much more specious person

But, Madam, are not his manners equally so?--Is not his person the 
true representative of his mind?--That other man is not, shall not be, 
any thing to me, release me but from this one man, whom my heart, 
unbidden, resists.

Condition thus with your father.  Will he bear, do you think, to be 
thus dialogued with?  Have I not conjured you, as you value my peace--
What is it that I do not give up?--This very task, because I 
apprehended you would not be easily persuaded, is a task indeed upon 
me.  And will you give up nothing?  Have you not refused as many as 
have been offered to you?  If you would not have us guess for whom, 
comply; for comply you must, or be looked upon as in a state of 
defiance with your whole family.

And saying this, she arose and went from me.  But at the chamber-door 
stopt; and turned back: I will not say below in what a disposition I 
leave you.  Consider of every thing.  The matter is resolved upon.  As 
you value your father's blessing and mine, and the satisfaction of all 
the family, resolve to comply.  I will leave you for a few moments.  I 
will come up to you again.  See that I find you as I wish to find you; 
and since your heart is free, let your duty govern it.

In about half an hour, my mother returned.  She found me in tears.  
She took my hand: It is my part evermore, said she, to be of the 
acknowledging side.  I believe I have needlessly exposed myself to 
your opposition, by the method I have taken with you.  I first began 
as if I expected a denial, and by my indulgence brought it upon 
myself.

Do not, my dearest Mamma! do not say so!

Were the occasion for this debate, proceeded she, to have risen from 
myself; were it in my power to dispense with your compliance; you too 
well know what you can do with me.

Would any body, my dear Miss Howe, wish to marry, who sees a wife of 
such a temper, and blessed with such an understanding as my mother is 
noted for, not only deprived of all power, but obliged to be even 
active in bringing to bear a point of high importance, which she thinks 
ought not to be insisted upon?

When I came to you a second time, proceeded she, knowing that your 
opposition would avail you nothing, I refused to hear your reasons: 
and in this I was wrong too, because a young creature who loves to 
reason, and used to love to be convinced by reason, ought to have all 
her objections heard: I now therefore, this third time, see you; and 
am come resolved to hear all you have to say: and let me, my dear, by 
my patience engage your gratitude; your generosity, I will call it, 
because it is to you I speak, who used to have a mind wholly 
generous.--Let me, if your heart be really free, let me see what it 
will induce you to do to oblige me: and so as you permit your usual 
discretion to govern you, I will hear all you have to say; but with 
this intimation, that say what you will, it will be of no avail 
elsewhere.

What a dreadful saying is that!  But could I engage your pity, Madam, 
it would be somewhat. 

You have as much of my pity as of my love.  But what is person, Clary, 
with one of your prudence, and your heart disengaged?

Should the eye be disgusted, when the heart is to be engaged?--O 
Madam, who can think of marrying when the heart is shocked at the 
first appearance, and where the disgust must be confirmed by every 
conversation afterwards?

This, Clary, is owing to your prepossession.  Let me not have cause to 
regret that noble firmness of mind in so young a creature which I 
thought your glory, and which was my boast in your character.  In this 
instance it would be obstinacy, and want of duty.--Have you not made 
objections to several--

That was to their minds, to their principles, Madam.--But this man--

Is an honest man, Clary Harlowe.  He has a good mind.  He is a 
virtuous man.

He an honest man?  His a good mind, Madam?  He a virtuous man?--

Nobody denies these qualities.

Can he be an honest man who offers terms that will rob all his own 
relations of their just expectations?--Can his mind be good--

You, Clary Harlowe, for whose sake he offers so much, are the last 
person who should make this observation.

Give me leave to say, Madam, that a person preferring happiness to 
fortune, as I do; that want not even what I have, and can give up the 
use of that, as an instance of duty--

No more, no more of your merits!--You know you will be a gainer by 
that cheerful instance of your duty; not a loser.  You know you have 
but cast your bread upon the waters--so no more of that!--For it is 
not understood as a merit by every body, I assure you; though I think 
it a high one; and so did your father and uncles at the time--

At the time, Madam!--How unworthily do my brother and sister, who are 
afraid that the favour I was so lately in--

I hear nothing against your brother and sister--What family feuds have 
I in prospect, at a time when I hoped to have most comfort from you 
all!


God bless my brother and sister in all their worthy views!  You shall 
have no family feuds if I can prevent them.  You yourself, Madam, 
shall tell me what I shall bear from them, and I will bear it: but let 
my actions, not their misrepresentations (as I am sure by the 
disgraceful prohibitions I have met with has been the case) speak for 
me.

Just then, up came my father, with a sternness in his looks that made 
me tremble.--He took two or three turns about my chamber, though 
pained by his gout; and then said to my mother, who was silent as soon 
as she saw him--

My dear, you are long absent.--Dinner is near ready.  What you had to 
say, lay in a very little compass.  Surely, you have nothing to do but 
to declare your will, and my will--But perhaps you may be talking of 
the preparations--Let us have you soon down--Your daughter in your 
hand, if worthy of the name.

And down he went, casting his eye upon me with a look so stern, that I 
was unable to say one word to him, or even for a few minutes to my 
mother.

Was not this very intimidating, my dear?

My mother, seeing my concern, seemed to pity me.  She called me her 
good child, and kissed me; and told me that my father should not know 
I had made such opposition.  He has kindly furnished us with an excuse 
for being so long together, said she.--Come, my dear--dinner will be 
upon table presently--Shall we go down?--And took my hand.

This made me start: What, Madam, go down to let it be supposed we were 
talking of preparations!--O my beloved Mamma, command me not down upon 
such a supposition.

You see, child, that to stay longer together, will be owning that you 
are debating about an absolute duty; and that will not be borne.  Did 
not your father himself some days ago tell you, he would be obeyed?  I 
will a third time leave you.  I must say something by way of excuse 
for you: and that you desire not to go down to dinner--that your 
modesty on the occasion--

O Madam! say not my modesty on such an occasion: for that will be to 
give hope--

And design you not to give hope?--Perverse girl!--Rising and flinging 
from me; take more time for consideration!--Since it is necessary, 
take more time--and when I see you next, let me know what blame I have 
to cast upon myself, or to bear from your father, for my indulgence to 
you.

She made, however, a little stop at the chamber-door; and seemed to 
expect that I would have besought her to make the gentlest 
construction for me; for, hesitating, she was pleased to say, I 
suppose you would not have me make a report--

O Madam, interrupted I, whose favour can I hope for if I lose my 
mamma's?

To have desired a favourable report, you know, my dear, would have 
been qualifying upon a point that I was too much determined upon, to 
give room for any of my friends to think I have the least hesitation 
about it.  And so my mother went down stairs.

I will deposit thus far; and, as I know you will not think me too 
minute in the relation of particulars so very interesting to one you 
honour with your love, proceed in the same way.  As matters stand, I 
don't care to have papers, so freely written, about me.

Pray let Robert call every day, if you can spare him, whether I have 
any thing ready or not.

I should be glad you would not send him empty handed.  What a 
generosity will it be in you, to write as frequently from friendship, 
as I am forced to do from misfortune!  The letters being taken away 
will be an assurance that you have them.  As I shall write and deposit 
as I have opportunity, the formality of super and sub-scription will 
be excused.  For I need not say how much I am

Your sincere and ever affectionate,
CL. HARLOWE.



LETTER XVII

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE


My mother, on her return, which was as soon as she had dined, was 
pleased to inform me, that she told my father, on his questioning her 
about my cheerul compliance (for, it seems, the cheerful was all that 
was doubted) that she was willing, on so material a point, to give a 
child whom she had so much reason to love (as she condescended to 
acknowledge were her words) liberty to say all that was in her heart 
to say, that her compliance might be the freer: letting him know, that 
when he came up, she was attending to my pleas; for that she found I 
had rather not marry at all.

She told me, that to this my father angrily said, let her take care--
let her take care--that she give me not ground to suspect her of a 
preference somewhere else.  But, if it be to ease her heart, and not 
to dispute my will, you may hear her out.

So, Clary, said my mother, I am returned in a temper accordingly: and 
I hope you will not again, by your peremptoriness, shew me how I ought 
to treat you.

Indeed, Madam, you did me justice to say, I have no inclination to 
marry at all. I have not, I hope, made myself so very unuseful in my 
papa's family, as--

No more of your merits, Clary!  You have been a good child.  You have 
eased me of all the family cares: but do not now give more than ever 
you relieved me from.  You have been amply repaid in the reputation 
your skill and management have given you: but now there is soon to be 
a period to all those assistances from you.  If you marry, there will 
be a natural, and, if to please us, a desirable period; because your 
own family will employ all your talents in that way: if you do not, 
there will be a period likewise, but not a natural one--you understand 
me, child.

I wept.

I have made inquiry already after a housekeeper.  I would have had 
your good Norton; but I suppose you will yourself wish to have the 
worthy woman with you.  If you desire it, that shall be agreed upon 
for you.

But, why, dearest Madam, why am I, the youngest, to be precipitated 
into a state, that I am very far from wishing to enter into with any 
body?

You are going to question me, I suppose, why your sister is not 
thought of for Mr. Solmes?

I hope, Madam, it will not displease you if I were.

I might refer you for an answer to your father.--Mr. Solmes has 
reasons for preferring you--

And I have reasons, Madam, for disliking him.  And why I am--

This quickness upon me, interrupted my mother, is not to be borne!  I 
am gone, and your father comes, if I can do no good with you.

O Madam, I would rather die, than--

She put her hand to my mouth--No peremptoriness, Clary Harlowe: once 
you declare yourself inflexible, I have done.

I wept for vexation.  This is all, all, my brother's doings--his 
grasping views--

No reflections upon your brother: he has entirely the honour of the 
family at heart.

I would no more dishonour my family, Madam, than my brother would.

I believe it: but I hope you will allow your father, and me, and your 
uncles, to judge what will do it honour, what dishonour.

I then offered to live single; never to marry at all; or never but 
with their full approbation.

If you mean to shew your duty, and your obedience, Clary, you must 
shew it in our way, not in your own.

I hope, Madam, that I have not so behaved hitherto, as to render such 
a trial of my obedience necessary.

Yes, Clary, I cannot but say that you have hitherto behaved extremely 
well: but you have had no trials till now: and I hope, that now you 
are called to one, you will not fail in it.  Parents, proceeded she, 
when children are young, are pleased with every thing they do.  You 
have been a good child upon the whole: but we have hitherto rather 
complied with you, than you with us.  Now that you are grown up to 
marriageable years, is the test; especially as your grandfather has 
made you independent, as we may say, in preference to those who had 
prior expectations upon that estate.

Madam, my grandfather knew, and expressly mentioned in his will his 
desire, that my father will more than make it up to my sister.  I did 
nothing but what I thought my duty to procure his favour.  It was 
rather a mark of his affection, than any advantage to me: For, do I 
either seek or wish to be independent?  Were I to be queen of the 
universe, that dignity should not absolve me from my duty to you and 
to my father.  I would kneel for your blessings, were it in the 
presence of millions--so that--

I am loth to interrupt you, Clary; though you could more than once 
break in upon me.  You are young and unbroken: but, with all this 
ostentation of your duty, I desire you to shew a little more deference 
to me when I am speaking.

I beg your pardon, dear Madam, and your patience with me on such an 
occasion as this.  If I did not speak with earnestness upon it, I 
should be supposed to have only maidenly objections against a man I 
never can endure.

Clary Harlowe!--

Dearest, dearest Madam, permit me to speak what I have to say, this 
once--It is hard, it is very hard, to be forbidden to enter into the 
cause of all these misunderstandings, because I must not speak 
disrespectfully of one who supposes me in the way of his ambition, and 
treats me like a slave--

Whither, whither, Clary--

My dearest Mamma!--My duty will not permit me so far to suppose my 
father arbitrary, as to make a plea of that arbitrariness to you--

How now, Clary!--O girl!

Your patience, my dearest Mamma:--you were pleased to say, you would 
hear me with patience.--PERSON in a man is nothing, because I am 
supposed to be prudent: so my eye is to be disgusted, and my reason 
not convinced--

Girl, girl!

Thus are my imputed good qualities to be made my punishment; and I am 
to wedded to a monster--

[Astonishing!--Can this, Clarissa, be from you?

The man, Madam, person and mind, is a monster in my eye.]--And that I 
may be induced to bear this treatment, I am to be complimented with 
being indifferent to all men: yet, at other times, and to serve other 
purposes, be thought prepossessed in favour of a man against whose 
moral character lie just objections.--Confined, as if, like the 
giddiest of creatures, I would run away with this man, and disgrace my 
whole family!  O my dearest Mamma! who can be patient under such 
treatment?

Now, Clary, I suppose you will allow me to speak.  I think I have had 
patience indeed with you.--Could I have thought--but I will put all 
upon a short issue.  Your mother, Clarissa, shall shew you an example 
of that patience you so boldly claim from her, without having any 
yourself.

O my dear, how my mother's condescension distressed me at the time!--
Infinitely more distressed me, than rigour could have done.  But she 
knew, she was to be sure aware, that she was put upon a harsh, upon an 
unreasonable service, let me say, or she would not, she could not, 
have had so much patience with me.

Let me tell you then, proceeded she, that all lies in a small compass, 
as your father said.--You have been hitherto, as you are pretty ready 
to plead, a dutiful child.  You have indeed had no cause to be 
otherwise.  No child was ever more favoured.  Whether you will 
discredit all your past behaviour; whether, at a time and upon an 
occasion, that the highest instance of duty is expected from you (an 
instance that is to crown all); and when you declare that your heart 
is free--you will give that instance; or whether, having a view to the 
independence you may claim, (for so, Clary, whatever be your motive, 
it will be judged,) and which any man you favour, can assert for you 
against us all; or rather for himself in spite of us--whether, I say, 
you will break with us all; and stand in defiance of a jealous father, 
needlessly jealous, I will venture to say, of the prerogatives of his 
sex, as to me, and still ten times more jealous of the authority of a 
father;--this is now the point with us.  You know your father has made 
it a point; and did he ever give up one he thought he had a right to 
carry?

Too true, thought I to myself!  And now my brother has engaged my 
father, his fine scheme will walk alone, without needing his leading-
strings; and it is become my father's will that I oppose; not my 
brother's grasping views.

I was silent.  To say the truth, I was just then sullenly silent.  My 
heart was too big.  I thought it was hard to be thus given up by my 
mother; and that she should make a will so uncontroulable as my 
brother's, her will.--My mother, my dear, though I must not say so, 
was not obliged to marry against her liking.  My mother loved my 
father.

My silence availed me still less.

I see, my dear, said she, that you are convinced.  Now, my good child
--now, my Clary, do I love you!  It shall not be known, that you have 
argued with me at all.  All shall be imputed to that modesty which has 
ever so much distinguished you.  You shall have the full merit of your 
resignation.

I wept.

She tenderly wiped the tears from my eyes, and kissed my cheek--Your 
father expects you down with a cheerful countenance--but I will excuse 
your going.  All your scruples, you see, have met with an indulgence 
truly maternal from me.  I rejoice in the hope that you are convinced.  
This indeed seems to be a proof of the truth of your agreeable 
declaration, that your heart is free.

Did not this seem to border upon cruelty, my dear, in so indulgent a 
mother?--It would be wicked [would it not] to suppose my mother 
capable of art?--But she is put upon it, and obliged to take methods 
to which her heart is naturally above stooping; and all intended for 
my good, because she sees that no arguing will be admitted any where 
else!

I will go down, proceeded she, and excuse your attendance at afternoon 
tea, as I did to dinner: for I know you will have some little 
reluctances to subdue.  I will allow you those; and also some little 
natural shynesses--and so you shall not come down, if you chuse not to 
come down.  Only, my dear, do not disgrace my report when you come to 
supper.  And be sure behave as you used to do to your brother and 
sister; for your behaviour to them will be one test of your cheerful 
obedience to us.  I advise as a friend, you see, rather than command 
as a mother--So adieu, my love.  And again she kissed me; and was 
going.

O my dear Mamma, said I, forgive me!--But surely you cannot believe, I 
can ever think of having that man!

She was very angry, and seemed to be greatly disappointed.  She 
threatened to turn me over to my father and uncles:--she however bid 
me (generously bid me) consider, what a handle I gave to my brother 
and sister, if I thought they had views to serve by making my uncles 
dissatisfied with me.

I, said she, in a milder accent, have early said all that I thought 
could be said against the present proposal, on a supposition, that 
you, who have refused several other (whom I own to be preferable as to 
person) would not approve of it; and could I have succeeded, you, 
Clary, had never heard of it.  But if I could not, how can you expect 
to prevail?  My great ends in the task I have undertaken, are the 
preservation of the family peace so likely to be overturned; to 
reinstate you in the affections of your father and uncles: and to 
preserve you from a man of violence.--Your father, you must needs 
think will flame out upon your refusal to comply: your uncles are so 

thoroughly convinced of the consistency of the measure with their 
favourite views of aggrandizing the family, that they are as much 
determined as your father: your aunt Hervey and your uncle Hervey are 
of the same party.  And it is hard, if a father and mother, and 
uncles, and aunt, all conjoined, cannot be allowed to direct your 
choice--surely, my dear girl, proceeded she [for I was silent all this 
time], it cannot be that you are the more averse, because the family 
views will be promoted by the match--this, I assure you, is what every 
body must think, if you comply not.  Nor, while the man, so obnoxious 
to us all, remains unmarried, and buzzes about you, will the strongest 
wishes to live single, be in the least regarded.  And well you know, 
that were Mr. Lovelace an angel, and your father had made it a point 
that you should not have him, it would be in vain to dispute his will.  
As to the prohibition laid upon you (much as I will own against my 
liking), that is owing to the belief that you corresponded by Miss 
Howe's means with that man; nor do I doubt that you did so.

I answered to every article, in such a manner, as I am sure would have 
satisfied her, could she have been permitted to judge for herself; and 
I then inveighed with bitterness against the disgraceful prohibitions 
laid upon me. 

They would serve to shew me, she was pleased to say, how much in 
earnest my father was.  They might be taken off, whenever I thought 
fit, and no harm done, nor disgrace received.  But if I were to be 
contumacious, I might thank myself for all that would follow.

I sighed.  I wept.  I was silent.

Shall I, Clary, said she, shall I tell your father that these 
prohibitions are as unnecessary as I hoped they would be?  That you 
know your duty, and will not offer to controvert his will?  What say 
you, my love?

O Madam, what can I say to questions so indulgently put?  I do indeed 
know my duty: no creature in the world is more willing to practise it: 
but, pardon me, dearest Madam, if I say, that I must bear these 
prohibitions, if I am to pay so dear to have them taken off.

Determined and perverse, my dear mamma called me: and after walking 
twice or thrice in anger about the room, she turned to me: Your heart 
free, Clarissa!  How can you tell me your heart is free?  Such 
extraordinary prepossessions to a particular person must be owing to 
extraordinary prepossessions in another's favour!  Tell me, Clary, and 
tell me truly--Do you not continue to correspond with Mr. Lovelace?

Dearest Madam, replied I, you know my motives: to prevent mischief, I 
answered his letters.  The reasons for our apprehensions of this sort 
are not over.

I own to you, Clary, (although now I would not have it known,) that I 
once thought a little qualifying among such violent spirits was not 
amiss.  I did not know but all things would come round again by the 
mediation of Lord M. and his two sisters: but as they all three think 
proper to resent for their nephew; and as their nephew thinks fit to 
defy us all; and as terms are offered, on the other hand, that could 
not be asked, which will very probably prevent your grandfather's 
estate going out of the family, and may be a means to bring still 
greater into it; I see not, that the continuance of your 
correspondence with him either can or ought to be permitted.  I 
therefore now forbid it to you, as you value my favour.

Be pleased, Madam, only to advise me how to break it off with safety 
to my brother and uncles; and it is all I wish for.  Would to heaven, 
the man so hated had not the pretence to make of having been too 
violently treated, when he meant peace and reconciliation!  It would 
always have been in my own power to have broke with him.  His reputed 
immoralities would have given me a just pretence at any time to do so.  
But, Madam, as my uncles and my brother will keep no measures; as he 
has heard what the view is; and his regard for me from resenting their 
violent treatment of him and his family; what can I do?  Would you 
have me, Madam, make him desperate?

The law will protect us, child!  offended magistracy will assert 
itself--

But, Madam, may not some dreadful mischief first happen?--The law 
asserts not itself, till it is offended.

You have made offers, Clary, if you might be obliged in the point in 
question--Are you really in earnest, were you to be complied with, to 
break off all correspondence with Mr. Lovelace?--Let me know this.

Indeed I am; and I will.  You, Madam, shall see all the letters that 
have passed between us.  You shall see I have given him no 
encouragement independent of my duty.  And when you have seen them, 
you will be better able to direct me how, on the condition I have 
offered, to break entirely with him.

I take you at your word, Clarissa--Give me his letters; and the copies 
of yours. 

I am sure, Madam, you will keep the knowledge that I write, and what I 
write--

No conditions with your mother--surely my prudence may be trusted to.

I begged her pardon; and besought her to take the key of the private 
drawer in my escritoire, where they lay, that she herself might see 
that I had no reserves to my mother.

She did; and took all his letters, and the copies of mine.--
Unconditioned with, she was pleased to say, they shall be yours again, 
unseen by any body else.

I thanked her; and she withdrew to read them; saying, she would return 
them, when she had.


***


You, my dear, have seen all the letters that passed between Mr. 
Lovelace and me, till my last return from you.  You have acknowledged, 
that he has nothing to boast of from them.  Three others I have 
received since, by the private conveyance I told you of: the last I 
have not yet answered.

In these three, as in those you have seen, after having besought my 
favour, and, in the most earnest manner, professed the ardour of his 
passion for me; and set forth the indignities done him; the defiances 
my brother throws out against him in all companies; the menaces, and 
hostile appearance of my uncles wherever they go; and the methods they 
take to defame him; he declares, 'That neither his own honour, nor the 
honour of his family, (involved as that is in the undistinguishing 
reflection cast upon him for an unhappy affair which he would have 
shunned, but could not) permit him to bear these confirmed 
indignities: that as my inclinations, if not favourable to him, cannot 
be, nor are, to such a man as the newly-introduced Solmes, he is 
interested the more to resent my brother's behaviour; who to every 
body avows his rancour and malice; and glories in the probability he 
has, through the address of this Solmes, of mortifying me, and 
avenging himself on him: that it is impossible he should not think 
himself concerned to frustrate a measure so directly levelled at him, 
had he not a still higher motive for hoping to frustrate it: that I 
must forgive him, if he enter into conference with Solmes upon it.  He 
earnestly insists (upon what he has so often proposed) that I will 
give him leave, in company with Lord M. to wait upon my uncles, and 
even upon my father--and he promises patience, if new provocations, 
absolutely beneath a man to bear, be not given:' which by the way I am 
far from being able to engage for.

In my answer, I absolutely declare, as I tell him I have often done, 
'That he is to expect no favour from me against the approbation of my 
friends: that I am sure their consents for his visiting any of them 
will never be obtained: that I will not be either so undutiful, or so 
indiscreet, as to suffer my interests to be separated from the 
interests of my family, for any man upon earth: that I do not think 
myself obliged to him for the forbearance I desire one flaming spirit 
to have with others: that in this desire I require nothing of him, but 
what prudence, justice, and the laws of his country require: that if 
he has any expectations of favour from me, on that account, he 
deceives himself: that I have no inclination, as I have often told 
him, to change my condition: that I cannot allow myself to correspond 
with him any longer in this clandestine manner: it is mean, low, 
undutiful, I tell him; and has a giddy appearance, which cannot be 
excused: that therefore he is not to expect that I will continue it.

To this in his last, among other things, he replies, 'That if I am 
actually determined to break off all correspondence with him, he must 
conclude, that it is with a view to become the wife of a man, whom no 
woman of honour and fortune can think tolerable.  And in that case, I 
must excuse him for saying, that he shall neither be able to bear the 
thoughts of losing for ever a person in whom all his present and all 
his future hopes are centred; nor support himself with patience under 
the insolent triumphs of my brother upon it.  But that nevertheless he 
will not threaten either his own life, or that of any other man.  He 
must take his resolutions as such a dreaded event shall impel him at 
the time.  If he shall know that it will have my consent, he must 
endeavour to resign to his destiny: but if it be brought about by 
compulsion, he shall not be able to answer for the consequence.'

I will send you these letters for your perusal in a few days.  I would 
enclose them; but that it is possible something may happen, which may 
make my mother require to re-peruse them.  When you see them, you will 
observe how he endeavours to hold me to this correspondence.


***


In about an hour my mother returned.  Take your letters, Clary: I have 
nothing, she was pleased to say, to tax your discretion with, as to 
the wording of yours to him: you have even kept up a proper dignity, 
as well as observed all the rules of decorum; and you have resented, 
as you ought to resent, his menacing invectives.  In a word, I see 
not, that he can form the least expectations, from what you have 
written, that you will encourage the passion he avows for you.  But 
does he not avow his passion?  Have you the least doubt about what 
must be the issue of this correspondence, if continued?  And do you 
yourself think, when you know the avowed hatred of one side, and he 
declared defiances of the other, that this can be, that it ought to be 
a match?

By no means it can, Madam; you will be pleased to observed, that I 
have said as much to him.  But now, Madam, that the whole 
correspondence is before you, I beg your commands what to do in a 
situation so very disagreeable.

One thing I will tell you, Clary--but I charge you, as you would not 
have me question the generosity of your spirit, to take no advantage 
of it, either mentally or verbally; that I am so much pleased with the 
offer of your keys to me, made in so cheerful and unreserved a manner, 
and in the prudence you have shewn in your letters, that were it 
practicable to bring every one, or your father only, into my opinion, 
I should readily leave all the rest to your discretion, reserving only 
to myself the direction or approbation of your future letters; and to 
see, that you broke off the correspondence as soon as possible.  But 
as it is not, and as I know your father would have no patience with 
you, should it be acknowledged that you correspond with Mr. Lovelace, 
or that you have corresponded with him since the time he prohibited 
you to do so; I forbid you to continue such a liberty--Yet, as the 
case is difficult, let me ask you, What you yourself can propose?  
Your heart, you say, is free.  Your own, that you cannot think, as 
matters circumstanced, that a match with a man so obnoxious as he now 
is to us all, is proper to be thought of: What do you propose to do?--
What, Clary, are your own thoughts of the matter?

Without hesitation thus I answered--What I humbly propose is this:--
'That I will write to Mr. Lovelace (for I have not answered his last) 
that he has nothing to do between my father and me: that I neither ask 
his advice nor need it: but that since he thinks he has some pretence 
for interfering, because of my brother's avowal of the interest of Mr. 
Solmes in displeasure to him, I will assure him (without giving him 
any reason to impute the assurance to be in the least favourable to 
himself) that I will never be that man's.'  And if, proceeded I, I may 
never be permitted to give him this assurance; and Mr. Solmes, in 
consequence of it, be discouraged from prosecuting his address; let 
Mr. Lovelace be satisfied or dissatisfied, I will go no farther; nor 
write another line to him; nor ever see him more, if I can avoid it: 
and I shall have a good excuse for it, without bringing in any of my 
family.

Ah! my love!--But what shall we do about the terms Mr. Solmes offers?  
Those are the inducements with every body.  He has even given hopes to 
your brother that he will make exchanges of estates; or, at least, 
that he will purchase the northern one; for you know it must be 
entirely consistent with the family-views, that we increase our 
interest in this country.  Your brother, in short, has given a plan 
that captivates us all.  And a family so rich in all its branches, and 
that has its views to honour, must be pleased to see a very great 
probability of taking rank one day among the principal in the kingdom.

And for the sake of these views, for the sake of this plan of my 
brother's, am I, Madam, to be given in marriage to a man I can never 
endure!--O my dear Mamma, save me, save me, if you can, from this 
heavy evil.--I had rather be buried alive, indeed I had, than have 
that man!

She chid me for my vehemence; but was so good as to tell me, That she 
would sound my uncle Harlowe, who was then below; and if he encouraged 
her (or would engage to second her) she would venture to talk to my 
father herself; and I should hear further in the morning.

She went down to tea, and kindly undertook to excuse my attendance at 
supper.

But is it not a sad thing, I repeat, to be obliged to stand in 
opposition to the will of such a mother?  Why, as I often say to 
myself, was such a man as this Solmes fixed upon?  The only man in the 
world, surely, that could offer so much, and deserve so little!

Little indeed does he deserve!--Why, my dear, the man has the most 
indifferent of characters.  Every mouth is opened against him for his 
sordid ways--A foolish man, to be so base-minded!--When the difference 
between the obtaining of a fame for generosity, and incurring the 
censure of being a miser, will not, prudently managed, cost fifty 
pounds a year.

What a name have you got, at a less expense?  And what an opportunity 
had he of obtaining credit at a very small one, succeeding such a 
wretched creature as Sir Oliver, in fortunes so vast?--Yet has he so 
behaved, that the common phrase is applied to him, That Sir Oliver 
will never be dead while Mr. Solmes lives.

The world, as I have often thought, ill-natured as it is said to be, 
is generally more just in characters (speaking by what it feels) than 
is usually apprehended: and those who complain most of its 
censoriousness, perhaps should look inwardly for the occasion oftener 
than they do.

My heart is a little at ease, on the hopes that my mother will be able 
to procure favour for me, and a deliverance from this man; and so I 
have leisure to moralize.  But if I had not, I should not forbear to 
intermingle occasionally these sorts of remarks, because you command 
me never to omit them when they occur to my mind: and not to be able 
to make them, even in a more affecting situation, when one sits down 
to write, would shew one's self more engaged to self, and to one's own 
concerns, than attentive to the wishes of a friend.  If it be said, 
that it is natural so to be, what makes that nature, on occasions 
where a friend may be obliged, or reminded of a piece of instruction, 
which (writing down) one's self may be the better for, but a fault; 
which it would set a person above nature to subdue?



LETTER XVIII

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
SAT. MAR. 4.


Would you not have thought something might have been obtained in my 
favour, from an offer so reasonable, from an expedient so proper, as I 
imagine, to put a tolerable end, as from myself, to a correspondence I 
hardly know how otherwise, with safety to some of my family, to get 
rid of?--But my brother's plan, (which my mother spoke of, and of 
which I have in vain endeavoured to procure a copy, with a design to 
take it to pieces, and expose it, as I question not there is room to 
do,) joined with my father's impatience of contradiction, are 
irresistible.

I have not been in bed all night; nor am I in the least drowsy.  
Expectation, and hope, and doubt, (an uneasy state!) kept me 
sufficiently wakeful.  I stept down at my usual time, that it might 
not be known I had not been in bed; and gave directions in the family 
way.

About eight o'clock, Shorey came to me from my mother with orders to 
attend her in her chamber.

My mother had been weeping, I saw by her eyes: but her aspect seemed 
to be less tender, and less affectionate, than the day before; and 
this, as soon as I entered into her presence, struck me with an awe, 
which gave a great damp to my spirits.

Sit down, Clary Harlowe; I shall talk to you by-and-by: and continued 
looking into a drawer among laces and linens, in a way neither busy 
nor unbusy.

I believe it was a quarter of an hour before she spoke to me (my heart 
throbbing with the suspense all the time); and then she asked me 
coldly, What directions I had given for the day?

I shewed her the bill of fare for this day, and to-morrow, if, I said, 
it pleased her to approve of it.

She made a small alteration in it; but with an air so cold and so 
solemn, as added to my emotions.

Mr. Harlowe talks of dining out to-day, I think, at my brother 
Antony's--

Mr. Harlowe!--Not my father!--Have I not then a father!--thought I.

Sit down when I bid you.

I sat down.

You look very sullen, Clary.

I hope not, Madam.

If children would always be children--parents--And there she stopt.

She then went to her toilette, and looked into the glass, and gave 
half a sigh--the other half, as if she would not have sighed if she 
could have helped it, she gently hem'd away.

I don't love to see the girl look so sullen.

Indeed, Madam, I am not sullen.--And I arose, and, turning from her, 
drew out my handkerchief; for the tears ran down my cheeks.

I thought, by the glass before me, I saw the mother in her softened 
eye cast towards me.  But her words confirmed not the hoped-for 
tenderness.

One of the most provoking things in this world is, to have people cry 
for what they can help!

I wish to heaven I could, Madam!--And I sobbed again.

Tears of penitence and sobs of perverseness are mighty well suited!--
You may go up to your chamber.  I shall talk with you by-and-by.

I courtesied with reverence.

Mock me not with outward gestures of respect.  The heart, Clary, is 
what I want.

Indeed, Madam, you have it.  It is not so much mine as my Mamma's!

Fine talking!--As somebody says, If words were to pass for duty, 
Clarissa Harlowe would be the dutifulest child breathing.

God bless that somebody!--Be it whom it will, God bless that 
somebody!--And I courtesied, and, pursuant to her last command, was 
going.

She seemed struck; but was to be angry with me.

So turning from me, she spoke with quickness, Whither now, Clary 
Harlowe?

You commanded me, Madam, to go to my chamber.

I see you are very ready to go out of my presence.--Is your compliance 
the effect of sullenness, or obedience?--You are very ready to leave 
me.

I could hold no longer; but threw myself at her feet: O my dearest 
Mamma!  Let me know all I am to suffer!  Let me know what I am to be!
--I will bear it, if I can bear it: but your displeasure I cannot 
bear!

Leave me, leave me, Clary Harlowe!--No kneeling!--Limbs so supple!  
Will so stubborn!--Rise, I tell you.

I cannot rise!  I will disobey my Mamma, when she bids me leave her 
without being reconciled to me!  No sullens, my Mamma: no 
perverseness: but, worse than either: this is direct disobedience!--
Yet tear not yourself from me!  [wrapping my arms about her as I 
kneeled; she struggling to get from me; my face lifted up to hers, 
with eyes running over, that spoke not my heart if they were not all 
humility and reverence] You must not, must not, tear yourself from me!  
[for still the dear lady struggled, and looked this way and that, all 
in a sweet disorder, as if she knew not what to do].--I will neither 
rise, nor leave you, nor let you go, till you say you are not angry 
with me.

O thou ever-moving child of my heart!  [folding her dear arms about my 
neck, as mine embraced her knees] Why was this task--But leave me!--
You have discomposed me beyond expression!  Leave me, my dear!--I 
won't be angry with you--if I can help it--if you'll be good.

I arose trembling, and, hardly knowing what I did, or how I stood or 
walked, withdrew to my chamber.  My Hannah followed me as soon as she 
heard me quit my mother's presence, and with salts and spring-water 
just kept me from fainting; and that was as much as she could do.  It 
was near two hours before I could so far recover myself as to take up 
my pen, to write to you how unhappily my hopes have ended.

My mother went down to breakfast.  I was not fit to appear: but if I 
had been better, I suppose I should not have been sent for; since the 
permission for my attending her down, was given by my father (when in 
my chamber) only on condition that she found me worthy of the name of 
daughter.  That, I doubt, I shall never be in his opinion, if he be 
not brought to change his mind as to this Mr. Solmes.



LETTER XIX

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
[IN ANSWER TO LETTER XV.]
SAT. MARCH 4, 12 O'CLOCK.


Hannah has just now brought me from the usual place your favour of 
yesterday.  The contents of it have made me very thoughtful; and you 
will have an answer in my gravest style.--I to have that Mr. Solmes!--
No indeed!--I will sooner--But I will write first to those passages in 
your letter which are less concerning, that I may touch upon this part 
with more patience.

As to what you mention of my sister's value for Mr. Lovelace, I am not 
very much surprised at it.  She takes such officious pains, and it is 
so much her subject, to have it thought that she never did, and never 
could like him, that she gives but too much room to suspect that she 
does.  She never tells the story of their parting, and of her refusal 
of him, but her colour rises, she looks with disdain upon me, and 
mingles anger with the airs she gives herself:--anger as well as airs, 
demonstrating, that she refused a man whom she thought worth 
accepting: Where else is the reason either for anger or boast?--Poor 
Bella!  She is to be pitied--she cannot either like or dislike with 
temper!  Would to heaven she had been mistress of all her wishes!--
Would to heaven she had!

As to what you say of my giving up to my father's controul the estate 
devised me, my motives at the time, as you acknowledge, were not 
blamable.  Your advice to me on the subject was grounded, as I 
remember, on your good opinion of me; believing that I should not make 
a bad use of the power willed me.  Neither you nor I, my dear, 
although you now assume the air of a diviner, [pardon me] could have 
believed that would have happened which has happened, as to my 
father's part particularly.  You were indeed jealous of my brother's 
views against me; or rather of his predominant love of himself; but I 
did not think so hardly of my brother and sister as you always did.  
You never loved them; and ill-will has eyes ever open to the faulty 
side; as good-will or love is blind even to real imperfections.  I 
will briefly recollect my motives.

I found jealousies and uneasiness rising in every breast, where all 
before was unity and love.  The honoured testator was reflected upon: 
a second childhood was attributed to him; and I was censured, as 
having taken advantage of it.  All young creatures, thought I, more or 
less, covet independency; but those who wish most for it, are seldom 
the fittest to be trusted either with the government of themselves, or 
with power over others.  This is certainly a very high and unusual 
devise to so young a creature.  We should not aim at all we have power 
to do.  To take all that good-nature, or indulgence, or good opinion 
confers, shews a want of moderation, and a graspingness that is 
unworthy of that indulgence; and are bad indications of the use that 
may be made of the power bequeathed.  It is true, thought I, that I 
have formed agreeable schemes of making others as happy as myself, by 
the proper discharge of the stewardship intrusted to me.  [Are not all 
estates stewardships, my dear?] But let me examine myself: Is not 
vanity, or secret love of praise, a principal motive with me at the 
bottom?--Ought I not to suspect my own heart?  If I set up for myself, 
puffed up with every one's good opinion, may I not be left to myself?
--Every one's eyes are upon the conduct, upon the visits, upon the 
visiters, of a young creature of our sex, made independent: And are 
not such subjected, more than any others, to the attempts of 
enterprisers and fortune-seekers?--And then, left to myself, should I 
take a wrong step, though with ever so good an intention, how many 
should I have to triumph over me, how few to pity me!--The more of the 
one, and the fewer of the other, for having aimed at excelling. 

These were some of my reflections at the time: and I have no doubt, 
but that in the same situation I should do the very same thing; and 
that upon the maturest deliberation.  Who can command or foresee 
events?  To act up to our best judgments at the time, is all we can 
do.  If I have erred, 'tis to worldly wisdom only that I have erred.  
If we suffer by an act of duty, or even by an act of generosity, is it 
not pleasurable on reflection, that the fault is in others, rather 
than in ourselves?--I had much rather have reason to think others 
unkind, than that they should have any to think me undutiful.

And so, my dear, I am sure had you.

And now for the most concerning part of your letter.

You think I must of necessity, as matters are circumstanced, be 
Solmes's wife.  I will not be very rash, my dear, in protesting to the 
contrary: but I think it never can, and, what is still more, never 
ought to be!--My temper, I know, is depended upon.  But I have 
heretofore said,* that I have something in me of my father's family, 
as well as of my mother's.  And have I any encouragement to follow too 
implicitly the example which my mother sets of meekness, and 
resignedness to the wills of others?  Is she not for ever obliged (as 
she was pleased to hint to me) to be of the forbearing side?  In my 
mother's case, your observation I must own is verified, that those who 
will bear much, shall have much to bear.**  What is it, as she says, 
that she has not sacrificed to peace?--Yet, has she by her sacrifices 
always found the peace she has deserved to find?  Indeed, no!--I am 
afraid the very contrary.  And often and often have I had reason (on 
her account) to reflect, that we poor mortals, by our over-solicitude 
to preserve undisturbed the qualities we are constitutionally fond of, 
frequently lose the benefits we propose to ourselves from them: since 
the designing and encroaching (finding out what we most fear to 
forfeit) direct their batteries against these our weaker places, and, 
making an artillery (if I may so phrase it) of our hopes and fears, 
play upon us at their pleasure.


* See Letter IX.
** See Letter X.


Steadiness of mind, (a quality which the ill-bred and censorious deny 
to any of our sex) when we are absolutely convinced of being in the 
right [otherwise it is not steadiness, but obstinacy] and when it is 
exerted in material cases, is a quality, which, as my good Dr. Lewen 
was wont to say, brings great credit to the possessor of it; at the 
same time that it usually, when tried and known, raises such above the 
attempts of the meanly machinating.  He used therefore to inculcate 
upon me this steadiness, upon laudable convictions.  And why may I not 
think that I am now put upon a proper exercise of it?

I said above, that I never can be, that I never ought to be, Mrs. 
Solmes.--I repeat, that I ought not: for surely, my dear, I should not 
give up to my brother's ambition the happiness of my future life.  
Surely I ought not to be the instrument of depriving Mr. Solmes's 
relations of their natural rights and reversionary prospects, for the 
sake of further aggrandizing a family (although that I am of) which 
already lives in great affluence and splendour; and which might be as 
justly dissatisfied, were all that some of it aim at to be obtained, 
that they were not princes, as now they are that they are not peers 
[For when ever was an ambitious mind, as you observe in the case of 
avarice,* satisfied by acquisition?].  The less, surely, ought I to 
give into these grasping views of my brother, as I myself heartily 
despise the end aimed at; as I wish not either to change my state, or 
better my fortunes; and as I am fully persuaded, that happiness and 
riches are two things, and very seldom meet together.


* See Letter X.


Yet I dread, I exceedingly dread, the conflicts I know I must 
encounter with.  It is possible, that I may be more unhappy from the 
due observation of the good doctor's general precept, than were I to 
yield the point; since what I call steadiness is deemed stubbornness, 
obstinacy, prepossession, by those who have a right to put what 
interpretation they please upon my conduct.

So, my dear, were we perfect (which no one can be) we could not be 
happy in this life, unless those with whom we have to deal (those more 
especially who have any controul upon us) were governed by the same 
principles.  But then does not the good Doctor's conclusion recur,--
That we have nothing to do, but to chuse what is right; to be steady 
in the pursuit of it; and to leave the issue to Providence?

This, if you approve of my motives, (and if you don't, pray inform me) 
must be my aim in the present case.

But what then can I plead for a palliation to myself of my mother's 
sufferings on my account?  Perhaps this consideration will carry some 
force with it--That her difficulties cannot last long; only till this 
great struggle shall be one way or other determined--Whereas my 
unhappiness, if I comply, will (from an aversion not to be overcome) 
be for life.  To which let me add, That as I have reason to think that 
the present measures are not entered upon with her own natural liking, 
she will have the less pain, should they want the success which I 
think in my heart they ought to want.

I have run a great length in a very little time.  The subject touched 
me to the quick.  My reflections upon it will give you reason to 
expect from me a perhaps too steady behaviour in a new conference, 
which, I find, I must have with my mother.  My father and brother, as 
she was pleased to tell me, dine at my uncle Antony's; and that, as I 
have reason to believe, on purpose to give an opportunity for it.

Hannah informs me, that she heard my father high and angry with my 
mother, at taking leave of her: I suppose for being to favourable to 
me; for Hannah heard her say, as in tears, 'Indeed, Mr. Harlowe, you 
greatly distress me!--The poor girl does not deserve--' Hannah heard 
no more, but that he said, he would break somebody's heart--Mine, I 
suppose--Not my mother's, I hope.

As only my sister dines with my mother, I thought I should have been 
commanded down: but she sent me up a plate from her table.  I 
continued my writing.  I could not touch a morsel.  I ordered Hannah 
however to eat of it, that I might not be thought sullen.

Before I conclude this, I will see whether any thing offers from 
either of my private correspondencies, that will make it proper to add 
to it; and will take a turn in the wood-yard and garden for that 
purpose.


***


I am stopped.  Hannah shall deposit this.  She was ordered by my 
mother (who asked where I was) to tell me, that she would come up and 
talk with me in my own closet.--She is coming!  Adieu, my dear.



LETTER XX

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
SAT. AFTERNOON.


The expected conference is over: but my difficulties are increased.  
This, as my mother was pleased to tell me, being the last persuasory 
effort that is to be attempted, I will be particular in the account of 
it as my head and my heart will allow it to be.

I have made, said she, as she entered my room, a short as well as 
early dinner, on purpose to confer with you: and I do assure you, that 
it will be the last conference I shall either be permitted or inclined 
to hold with you on the subject, if you should prove as refractory as 
it is imagined you will prove by some, who are of opinion, that I have 
not the weight with you which my indulgence deserves.  But I hope you 
will convince as well them as me of the contrary.

Your father both dines and sups at your uncle's, on purpose to give us 
this opportunity; and, according to the report I shall make on his 
return, (which I have promised shall be a very faithful one,) he will 
take his measures with you.

I was offering to speak--Hear, Clarissa, what I have to tell you, said 
she, before you speak, unless what you have to say will signify to me 
your compliance--Say--Will it?--If it will, you may speak.

I was silent.

She looked with concern and anger upon me--No compliance, I find!--
Such a dutiful young creature hitherto!--Will you not, can you not, 
speak as I would have you speak?--Then [rejecting me as it were with 
her hand] continue silent.--I, no more than your father, will bear 
your avowed contradiction.

She paused, with a look of expectation, as if she waited for my 
consenting answer.

I was still silent; looking down; the tears in my eyes.

O thou determined girl!--But say--Speak out--Are you resolved to stand 
in opposition to us all, in a point our hearts are set upon?

May I, Madam, be permitted to expostulate?--

To what purpose expostulate with me, Clarissa?  Your father is 
determined.  Have I not told you there is no receding; that the honour 
as well as the interest of the family is concerned?  Be ingenuous: you 
used to be so, even occasionally against yourself:--Who at the long 
run must submit--all of us to you; or you to all of us?--If you intend 
to yield at last if you find you cannot conquer, yield now, and with a 
grace--for yield you must, or be none of our child.

I wept.  I knew not what to say; or rather how to express what I had 
to say.

Take notice, that there are flaws in your grandfather's will: not a 
shilling of that estate will be yours, if you do not yield.  Your 
grandfather left it to you, as a reward of your duty to him and to us
--You will justly forfeit it, if--

Permit me, good Madam, to say, that, if it were unjustly bequeathed 
me, I ought not to wish to have it.  But I hope Mr. Solmes will be 
apprised of these flaws.

This is very pertly said, Clarissa: but reflect, that the forfeiture 
of that estate, through your opposition, will be attended with the 
total loss of your father's favour: and then how destitute must you 
be; how unable to support yourself; and how many benevolent designs 
and good actions must you give up!

I must accommodate myself, Madam, in the latter case, to my 
circumstance: much only is required where much is given.  It becomes 
me to be thankful for what I have had.  I have reason to bless you, 
Madam, and my good Mrs. Norton, for bringing me up to be satisfied 
with little; with much less, I will venture to say, than my father's 
indulgence annually confers upon me.--And then I thought of the old 
Roman and his lentils.

What perverseness! said my mother.--But if you depend upon the favour 
of either or both of your uncles, vain will be that dependence: they 
will give you up, I do assure you, if your father does, and absolutely 
renounce you.

I am sorry, Madam, that I have had so little merit as to have made no 
deeper impressions of favour for me in their hearts: but I will love 
and honour them as long as I live.

All this, Clarissa, makes your prepossession in a certain man's favour 
the more evident.  Indeed, your brother and sister cannot go any 
where, but they hear of these prepossessions.

It is a great grief to me, Madam, to be made the subject of the public 
talk: but I hope you will have the goodness to excuse me for 
observing, that the authors of my disgrace within doors, the talkers 
of my prepossession without, and the reporters of it from abroad, are 
originally the same persons.

She severely chid me for this.

I received her rebukes in silence.

You are sullen, Clarissa: I see you are sullen.--And she walked about 
the room in anger.  Then turning to me--You can bear the imputation of 
sullenness I see! --You have no concern to clear yourself of it.  I 
was afraid of telling you all I was enjoined to tell you, in case you 
were to be unpersuadable: but I find that I had a greater opinion of 
your delicacy, of your gentleness, than I needed to have--it cannot 
discompose so steady, so inflexible a young creature, to be told, as I 
now tell you, that the settlements are actually drawn; and that you 
will be called down in a very few days to hear them read, and to sign 
them: for it is impossible, if your heart be free, that you can make 
the least objection to them; except it will be an objection with you, 
that they are so much in your favour, and in the favour of all our 
family.

I was speechless, absolutely speechless.  Although my heart was ready 
to burst, yet could I neither weep nor speak.

I am sorry, said she, for your averseness to this match: [match she 
was pleased to call it!] but there is no help.  The honour and 
interest of the family, as your aunt has told you, and as I have told 
you, are concerned; and you must comply.

I was still speechless.

She folded the warm statue, as she was pleased to call me, in her 
arms; and entreated me, for heaven's sake, to comply.

Speech and tears were lent me at the same time.--You have given me 
life, Madam, said I, clasping my uplifted hands together, and falling 
on one knee; a happy one, till now, has your goodness, and my papa's, 
made it!  O do not, do not, make all the remainder of it miserable!

Your father, replied she, is resolved not to see you, till he sees you 
as obedient a child as you used to be.  You have never been put to a 
test till now, that deserved to be called a test.  This is, this must 
be, my last effort with you.  Give me hope, my dear child: my peace is 
concerned: I will compound with you but for hope: and yet your father 
will not be satisfied without an implicit, and even a cheerful 
obedience--Give me but hope, child!

To give you hope, my dearest, my most indulgent Mamma, is to give you 
every thing.  Can I be honest, if I give a hope that I cannot confirm?

She was very angry.  She again called me perverse: she upbraided me 
with regarding only my own prepossessions, and respecting not either 
her peace of mind or my own duty:--'It is a grating thing, said she, 
for the parents of a child, who delighted in her in all the time of 
her helpless infancy, and throughout every stage of her childhood; and 
in every part of her education to womanhood, because of the promises 
she gave of proving the most grateful and dutiful of children; to 
find, just when the time arrived which should crown their wishes, that 
child stand in the way of her own happiness, and her parents' 
comfort,and, refusing an excellent offer and noble settlements, give 
suspicions to her anxious friends, that she would become the property 
of a vile rake and libertine, who (be the occasion what it will) 
defies her family, and has actually embrued his hands in her brother's 
blood.

'I have had a very hard time of it, said she, between your father and 
you; for, seeing your dislike, I have more than once pleaded for you: 
but all to no purpose.  I am only treated as a too fond mother, who, 
from motives of a blamable indulgence, encourage a child to stand in 
opposition to a father's will.  I am charged with dividing the family 
into two parts; I and my youngest daughter standing against my 
husband, his two brothers, my son, my eldest daughter, and my sister 
Hervey.  I have been told, that I must be convinced of the fitness as 
well as advantage to the whole (your brother and Mr. Lovelace out of 
the question) of carrying the contract with Mr. Solmes, on which so 
many contracts depend, into execution.

'Your father's heart, I tell you once more, is in it: he has declared, 
that he had rather have no daughter in you, than one he cannot dispose 
of for your own good: especially if you have owned, that your heart is 
free; and as the general good of his whole family is to be promoted by 
your obedience.  He has pleaded, poor man! that his frequent gouty 
paroxysms (every fit more threatening than the former) give him no 
extraordinary prospects, either of worldly happiness, or of long days: 
and he hopes, that you, who have been supposed to have contributed to 
the lengthening of your grandfather's life, will not, by your 
disobedience, shorten your father's.'

This was a most affecting plea, my dear.  I wept in silence upon it.  
I could not speak to it.  And my mother proceeded: 'What therefore can 
be his motives, Clary Harlowe, in the earnest desire he has to see 
this treaty perfected, but the welfare and aggrandizement of his 
family; which already having fortunes to become the highest condition, 
cannot but aspire to greater distinctions?  However slight such views 
as these may appear to you, Clary, you know, that they are not slight 
ones to any other of the family: and your father will be his own judge 
of what is and what is not likely to promote the good of his children.  
Your abstractedness, child, (affectation of abstractedness, some call 
it,) savours, let me tell you, of greater particularity, than we aim 
to carry.  Modesty and humility, therefore, will oblige you rather to 
mistrust yourself of peculiarity, than censure views which all the 
world pursues, as opportunity offers.'

I was still silent; and she proceeded--'It is owing to the good 
opinion, Clary, which your father has of you, and of your prudence, 
duty, and gratitude, that he engaged for your compliance, in your 
absence (before you returned from Miss Howe); and that he built and 
finished contracts upon it, which cannot be made void, or cancelled.'

But why then, thought I, did they receive me, on my return from Miss 
Howe, with so much intimidating solemnity?--To be sure, my dear, this 
argument, as well as the rest, was obtruded upon my mother.

She went on, 'Your father has declared, that your unexpected 
opposition, [unexpected she was pleased to call it,] and Mr. 
Lovelace's continued menaces and insults, more and more convince him, 
that a short day is necessary in order to put an end to all that man's 
hopes, and to his own apprehensions resulting from the disobedience of 
a child so favoured.  He has therefore actually ordered patterns of 
the richest silks to be sent for from London--'

I started--I was out of breath--I gasped, at this frightful 
precipitance--I was going to open with warmth against it.  I knew 
whose the happy expedient must be: female minds, I once heard my 
brother say, that could but be brought to balance on the change of 
their state, might easily be determined by the glare and splendour of 
the nuptial preparations, and the pride of becoming the mistress of a 
family.--But she was pleased to hurry on, that I might not have time 
to express my disgusts at such a communication--to this effect:
'Your father therefore, my Clary, cannot, either for your sake, or his 
own, labour under a suspense so affecting to his repose.  He has even 
thought fit to acquaint me, on my pleading for you, that it becomes 
me, as I value my own peace, [how harsh to such a wife!] and as I 
wish, that he does not suspect that I secretly favour the address of a 
vile rake, (a character which all the sex, he is pleased to say, 
virtuous and vicious, are but too fond of!) to exert my authority over 
you: and that this I may the less scrupulously do, as you have owned 
[the old string!] that your heart is free.'

Unworthy reflection in my mother's case, surely, this of our sex's 
valuing a libertine; since she made choice of my father in preference 
to several suitors of equal fortune, because they were of inferior 
reputation for morals!

'Your father, added she, at his going out, told me what he expected 
from me, in case I found out that I had not the requisite influence 
upon you--It was this--That I should directly separate myself from 
you, and leave you singly to take the consequence of your double 
disobedience--I therefore entreat you, my dear Clarissa, concluded 
she, and that in the most earnest and condescending manner, to signify 
to your father, on his return, your ready obedience; and this as well 
for my sake as your own.'

Affected by my mother's goodness to me, and by that part of her 
argument which related to her own peace, and to the suspicions they 
had of her secretly inclining to prefer the man so hated by them, to 
the man so much my aversion, I could not but wish it were possible for 
me to obey, I therefore paused, hesitated, considered, and was silent 
for some time.  I could see, that my mother hoped that the result of 
this hesitation would be favourable to her arguments.  But then 
recollecting, that all was owing to the instigations of a brother and 
sister, wholly actuated by selfish and envious views; that I had not 
deserved the treatment I had of late met with; that my disgrace was 
already become the public talk; that the man was Mr. Solmes; and that 
my aversion to him was too generally known, to make my compliance 
either creditable to myself or to them: that it would give my brother 
and sister a triumph over me, and over Mr. Lovelace, which they would 
not fail to glory in; and which, although it concerned me but little 
to regard on his account, yet might be attended with fatal mischiefs--
And then Mr. Solmes's disagreeable person; his still more disagreeable 
manners; his low understanding--Understanding! the glory of a man, so 
little to be dispensed with in the head and director of a family, in 
order to preserve to him that respect which a good wife (and that for 
the justification of her own choice) should pay him herself, and wish 
every body to pay him.--And as Mr. Solmes's inferiority in this 
respectable faculty of the human mind [I must be allowed to say this 
to you, and no great self assumption neither] would proclaim to all 
future, as well as to all present observers, what must have been my 
mean inducement.  All these reflections crowding upon my remembrance; 
I would, Madam, said I, folding my hands, with an earnestness in which 
my whole heart was engaged, bear the cruelest tortures, bear loss of 
limb, and even of life, to give you peace.  But this man, every moment 
I would, at you command, think of him with favour, is the more my 
aversion.  You cannot, indeed you cannot, think, how my whole soul 
resists him!--And to talk of contracts concluded upon; of patterns; of 
a short day!--Save me, save me, O my dearest Mamma, save your child, 
from this heavy, from this insupportable evil!--

Never was there a countenance that expressed so significantly, as my 
mother's did, an anguish, which she struggled to hide, under an anger 
she was compelled to assume--till the latter overcoming the former, 
she turned from me with an uplifted eye, and stamping--Strange 
perverseness! were the only words I heard of a sentence that she 
angrily pronounced; and was going.  I then, half-frantically I 
believe, laid hold of her gown--Have patience with me, dearest Madam! 
said I--Do not you renounce me totally!--If you must separate yourself 
from your child, let it not be with absolute reprobation on your own 
part!--My uncles may be hard-hearted--my father may be immovable--I 
may suffer from my brother's ambition, and from my sister's envy!--But 
let me not lose my Mamma's love; at least, her pity.

She turned to me with benigner rays--You have my love!  You have my 
pity!  But, O my dearest girl--I have not yours.

Indeed, indeed, Madam, you have: and all my reverence, all my 
gratitude, you have!--But in this one point--Cannot I be this once 
obliged?--Will no expedient be accepted?  Have I not made a very fair 
proposal as to Mr. Lovelace?

I wish, for both our sakes, my dear unpersuadable girl, that the 
decision of this point lay with me.  But why, when you know it does 
not, why should you thus perplex and urge me?--To renounce Mr. 
Lovelace is now but half what is aimed at.  Nor will any body else 
believe you in earnest in the offer, if I would.  While you remain 
single, Mr. Lovelace will have hopes--and you, in the opinion of 
others, inclinations.

Permit me, dearest Madam, to say, that your goodness to me, your 
patience, your peace, weigh more with me, than all the rest put 
together: for although I am to be treated by my brother, and, through 
his instigations, by my father, as a slave in this point, and not as a 
daughter, yet my mind is not that of a slave.  You have not brought me 
up to be mean.

So, Clary! you are already at defiance with your father!  I have had 
too much cause before to apprehend as much--What will this come to?--
I, and then my dear mamma sighed--I, am forced to put up with many 
humours--

That you are, my ever-honoured Mamma, is my grief.  And can it be 
thought, that this very consideration, and the apprehension of what 
may result from a much worse-tempered man, (a man who has not half the 
sense of my father,) has not made an impression upon me, to the 
disadvantage of the married life?  Yet 'tis something of an 
alleviation, if one must bear undue controul, to bear it from a man of 
sense.  My father, I have heard you say, Madam, was for years a very 
good-humoured gentleman--unobjectionable in person and manners--but 
the man proposed to me--

Forbear reflecting upon your father: [Did I, my dear, in what I have 
repeated, and I think they are the very words, reflect upon my 
father?] it is not possible, I must say again, and again, were all men 
equally indifferent to you, that you should be thus sturdy in your 
will.  I am tired out with your obstinacy--The most unpersuadable 
girl--You forget, that I must separate myself from you, if you will 
not comply.  You do not remember that you father will take you up, 
where I leave you.  Once more, however, I will put it to you,--Are you 
determined to brave your father's displeasure?--Are you determined to 
defy your uncles?--Do you choose to break with us all, rather than 
encourage Mr. Solmes?--Rather than give me hope?

Dreadful alternative--But is not my sincerity, is not the integrity of 
my heart, concerned in the answer?  May not my everlasting happiness 
be the sacrifice?  Will not the least shadow of the hope you just now 
demanded from me, be driven into absolute and sudden certainty?  Is it 
not sought to ensnare, to entangle me in my own desire of obeying, if 
I could give answers that might be construed into hope?--Forgive me, 
Madam: bear with your child's boldness in such a cause as this!--
Settlements drawn!--Patterns sent for!--An early day!--Dear, dear 
Madam, how can I give hope, and not intend to be this man's?

Ah, girl, never say your heart is free!  You deceive yourself if you 
think it is.

Thus to be driven [and I wrung my hands through impatience] by the 
instigations of a designing, an ambitious brother, and by a sister, 
that--

How often, Clary, must I forbid your unsisterly reflections?--Does not 
your father, do not your uncles, does not every body, patronize Mr. 
Solmes?  And let me tell you, ungrateful girl, and unmovable as 
ungrateful, let me repeatedly tell you, that it is evident to me, that 
nothing but a love unworthy of your prudence can make you a creature 
late so dutiful, now so sturdy.  You may guess what your father's 
first question on his return will be.  He must know, that I can do 
nothing with you.  I have done my part.  Seek me, if your mind change 
before he comes back: you have yet a little more time, as he stays 
supper.  I will no more seek you, nor to you.--And away she flung.

What could I do but weep?

I am extremely affected on my mother's account--more, I must needs 
say, than on my own.  And indeed, all things considered, and 
especially, that the measure she is engaged in, is (as I dare say it 
is) against her own judgment, she deserves more compassion than 
myself.--Excellent woman!  What pity, that meekness and condescension 
should not be attended with the due rewards of those charming graces!
--Yet had she not let violent spirits (as I have elsewhere observed 
with no small regret) find their power over hers, it could not have 
been thus.

But here, run away with my pen, I suffer my mother to be angry with me 
on her own account.  She hinted to me, indeed, that I must seek her, 
if my mind changed; which is a condition that amounts to a prohibition 
of attending her: but, as she left me in displeasure, will it not have 
a very obstinate appearance, and look like a kind of renunciation of 
her mediation in my favour, if I go not down before my father returns, 
to supplicate her pity, and her kind report to him?

I will attend her.  I had rather all the world should be angry with me 
than my mamma!

Mean time, to clear my hands from papers of such a nature, Hannah 
shall deposit this.  If two or three letters reach you together, they 
will but express from one period to another, the anxieties and 
difficulties which the mind of your unhappy but ever affectionate 
friend labours under.

CL. H.



LETTER XXI

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
SAT. NIGHT.


I have been down.  I am to be unlucky in all I do, I think, be my 
intentions ever so good.  I have made matters worse instead of better: 
as I shall now tell you.

I found my mother and sister together in my sister's parlour.  My 
mother, I fear, by the glow of her fine face, (and as the browner, 
sullener glow in her sister's confirmed,) had been expressing herself 
with warmth, against her unhappier child: perhaps giving such an 
account of what had passed, as should clear herself, and convince 
Bella, and, through her, my brother and uncles, of the sincere pains 
she had taken with me.

I entered like a dejected criminal; and besought the favour of a 
private audience.  My mother's return, both looks and words, gave but 
too much reason for my above surmise.

You have, said she [looking at me with a sternness that never sits 
well on her sweet features] rather a requesting than a conceding 
countenance, Clarissa Harlowe: if I am mistaken, tell me so; and I 
will withdraw with you wherever you will.--Yet whether so, or not, you 
may say what you have to say before your sister.

My mother, I thought, might have withdrawn with me, as she knows that 
I have not a friend in my sister.

I come down, Madam, said I, to beg of you to forgive me for any thing 
you may have taken amiss in what passed above respecting your honoured 
self; and that you will be pleased to use your endeavours to soften my 
papa's displeasure against me, on his return.

Such aggravating looks; such lifting up of hands and eyes; such a 
furrowed forehead, in my sister!

My mother was angry enough without all that; and asked me to what 
purpose I came down, if I were still so intractable.

She had hardly spoken the words, when Shorey came in to tell her, that 
Mr. Solmes was in the hall, and desired admittance.

Ugly creature!  What, at the close of day, quite dark, brought him 
hither?--But, on second thoughts, I believe it was contrived, that he 
should be here at supper, to know the result of the conference between 
my mother and me, and that my father, on his return, might find us 
together.

I was hurrying away, but my mother commanded me (since I had come down 
only, as she said, to mock her) not to stir; and at the same time see 
if I could behave so to Mr. Solmes, as might encourage her to make the 
favourable report to my father which I had besought her to make.

My sister triumphed.  I was vexed to be so caught, and to have such an 
angry and cutting rebuke given me, with an aspect much more like the 
taunting sister than the indulgent mother, if I may presume to say so: 
for she herself seemed to enjoy the surprise upon me.

The man stalked in.  His usual walk is by pauses, as if (from the same 
vacuity of thought which made Dryden's clown whistle) he was telling 
his steps: and first paid his clumsy respects to my mother; then to my 
sister; next to me, as if I was already his wife, and therefore to be 
last in his notice; and sitting down by me, told us in general what 
weather it was.  Very cold he made it; but I was warm enough.  Then 
addressing himself to me: And how do you find it, Miss? was his 
question; and would have taken my hand.

I withdrew it, I believe with disdain enough.  My mother frowned.  My 
sister bit her lip.

I could not contain myself: I was never so bold in my life; for I went 
on with my plea, as if Mr. Solmes had not been there.

My mother coloured, and looked at him, at my sister, and at me.  My 
sister's eyes were opener and bigger than ever I saw them before.

The man understood me.  He hemmed, and removed from one chair to 
another.

I went on, supplicating for my mother's favourable report: Nothing but 
invincible dislike, said I--

What would the girl be at, interrupted my mother?  Why, Clary!  Is 
this a subject!--Is this!--Is this!--Is this a time--And again she 
looked upon Mr. Solmes.

I am sorry, on reflection, that I put my mamma into so much confusion
--To be sure it was very saucy in me.

I beg pardon, Madam, said I.  But my papa will soon return.  And since 
I am not permitted to withdraw, it is not necessary, I humbly presume, 
that Mr. Solmes's presence should deprive me of this opportunity to 
implore your favourable report; and at the same time, if he still 
visit on my account [looking at him] to convince him, that it cannot 
possibly be to any purpose--

Is the girl mad? said my mother, interrupting me.

My sister, with the affectation of a whisper to my mother--This is--
This is spite, Madam, [very spitefully she spoke the word,] because 
you commanded her to stay.

I only looked at her, and turning to my mother, Permit me, Madam, said 
I, to repeat my request.  I have no brother, no sister!--If I ever 
lose my mamma's favour, I am lost for ever!

Mr. Solmes removed to his first seat, and fell to gnawing the head of 
his hazel; a carved head, almost as ugly as his own--I did not think 
the man was so sensible.

My sister rose, with a face all over scarlet; and stepping to the 
table, where lay a fan, she took it up, and, although Mr. Solmes had 
observed that the weather was cold, fanned herself very violently.

My mother came to me, and angrily taking my hand, led me out of that 
parlour into my own; which, you know, is next to it--Is not this 
behaviour very bold, very provoking, think you, Clary?

I beg your pardon, Madam, if it has that appearance to you.  But 
indeed, my dear Mamma, there seem to be snares laying in wait for me.  
Too well I know my brother's drift.  With a good word he shall have my 
consent for all he wishes to worm me out of--neither he, nor my 
sister, shall need to take half this pains--

My mother was about to leave me in high displeasure.

I besought her to stay: One favour, but one favour, dearest Madam, 
said I, give me leave to beg of you--

What would the girl?

I see how every thing is working about.--I never, never can think of 
Mr. Solmes. My papa will be in tumults when he is told that I cannot.  
They will judge of the tenderness of your heart to a poor child who 
seems devoted by every one else, from the willingness you have already 
shewn to hearken to my prayers.  There will be endeavours used to 
confine me, and keep me out of your presence, and out of the presence 
of every one who used to love me [this, my dear Miss Howe, is 
threatened].  If this be effected; if it be put out of my power to 
plead my own cause, and to appeal to you, and to my uncle Harlowe, of 
whom only I have hope; then will every ear be opened against me, and 
every tale encouraged--It is, therefore, my humble request, that, 
added to the disgraceful prohibitions I now suffer under, you will 
not, if you can help it, give way to my being denied your ear.

Your listening Hannah has given you this intelligence, as she does 
many others.

My Hannah, Madam, listens not--My Hannah--

No more in Hannah's behalf--Hannah is known to make mischief--Hannah 
is known--But no more of that bold intermeddler--'Tis true your father 
threatened to confine you to your chamber, if you complied not, in 
order the more assuredly to deprive you of the opportunity of 
corresponding with those who harden your heart against his will.  He 
bid me tell you so, when he went out, if I found you refractory.  But 
I was loth to deliver so harsh a declaration; being still in hope that 
you would come down to us in a compliant temper.  Hannah has overheard 
this, I suppose; and has told you of it; as also, that he declared he 
would break your heart, rather than you should break his.  And I now 
assure you, that you will be confined, and prohibited making teasing 
appeals to any of us: and we shall see who is to submit, you to us, or 
every body to you.

Again I offered to clear Hannah, and to lay the latter part of the 
intelligence to my sister's echo, Betty Barnes, who had boasted of it 
to another servant: but I was again bid to be silent on that head.  I 
should soon find, my mother was pleased to say, that others could be 
as determined as I was obstinate: and once for all would add, that 
since she saw that I built upon her indulgence, and was indifferent 
about involving her in contentions with my father, she would now 
assure me, that she was as much determined against Mr. Lovelace, and 
for Mr. Solmes and the family schemes, as any body; and would not 
refuse her consent to any measures that should be thought necessary to 
reduce a stubborn child to her duty.

I was ready to sink.  She was so good as to lend me her arm to support 
me.

And this, said I, is all I have to hope for from my Mamma?

It is.  But, Clary, this one further opportunity I give you--Go in 
again to Mr. Solmes, and behave discreetly to him; and let your father 
find you together, upon civil terms at least.

My feet moved [of themselves, I think] farther from the parlour where 
he was, and towards the stairs; and there I stopped and paused.

If, proceeded she, you are determined to stand in defiance of us all--
then indeed you may go up to your chamber (as you are ready to do)--
And God help you!

God help me, indeed! for I cannot give hope of what I cannot intend--
But let me have your prayers, my dear Mamma!--Those shall have mine, 
who have brought me into all this distress.

I was moving to go up--

And will you go up, Clary?

I turned my face to her: my officious tears would needs plead for me: 
I could not just then speak, and stood still.

Good girl, distress me not thus!--Dear, good girl, do not thus 
distress me! holding out her hand; but standing still likewise.

What can I do, Madam?--What can I do?

Go in again, my child--Go in again, my dear child!--repeated she; and 
let your father find you together.

What, Madam, to give him hope?--To give hope to Mr. Solmes?

Obstinate, perverse, undutiful Clarissa! with a rejecting hand, and 
angry aspect; then take your own way, and go up!--But stir not down 
again, I charge you, without leave, or till your father's pleasure be 
known concerning you.

She flung away from me with high indignation: and I went up with a 
very heavy heart; and feet as slow as my heart was heavy.


***


My father is come home, and my brother with him.  Late as it is, they 
are all shut up together.  Not a door opens; not a soul stirs.  
Hannah, as she moves up and down, is shunned as a person infected.


***


The angry assembly is broken up.  My two uncles and my aunt Hervey are 
sent for, it seems, to be here in the morning to breakfast.  I shall 
then, I suppose, know my doom.  'Tis past eleven, and I am ordered not 
to go to bed.


TWELVE O'CLOCK.


This moment the keys of every thing are taken from me.  It was 
proposed to send for me down: but my father said, he could not bear to 
look upon me.--Strange alteration in a few weeks!--Shorey was the 
messenger.  The tears stood in her eyes when she delivered her 
message.

You, my dear, are happy--May you always be so--and then I can never be 
wholly miserable.  Adieu, my beloved friend!

CL. HARLOWE.



LETTER XXII

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
SUNDAY MORNING, MARCH 5.


Hannah has just brought me from the private place in the garden-wall, 
a letter from Mr. Lovelace, deposited last night, signed also by Lord 
M.

He tells me in it, 'That Mr. Solmes makes it his boast, that he is to 
be married in a few days to one of the shyest women in England: that 
my brother explains his meaning: This shy creature, he says, is me; 
and he assures every one, that his younger sister is very soon to be 
Mr. Solmes's wife.  He tells me of the patterns bespoken which my 
mother mentioned to me.'

Not one thing escapes him that is done or said in this house.

'My sister, he says, reports the same things; and that with such 
particular aggravations of insult upon him, that he cannot but be 
extremely piqued, as well at the manner, as from the occasion; and 
expresses himself with great violence upon it.

'He knows not, he says, what my relations' inducements can be to 
prefer such a man as Solmes to him.  If advantageous settlements be 
the motive, Solmes shall not offer what he will refuse to comply with.

'As to his estate and family; the first cannot be excepted against: 
and for the second, he will not disgrace himself by a comparison so 
odious.  He appeals to Lord M. for the regularity of his life and 
manners ever since he has made his addresses to me, or had hope of my 
favour.'

I suppose he would have his Lordship's signing to this letter to be 
taken as a voucher for him.

'He desires my leave (in company with my Lord), in a pacific manner, 
to attend my father and uncles, in order to make proposals that must 
be accepted, if they will see him, and hear what they are: and tells 
me, that he will submit to any measures that I shall prescribe, in 
order to bring about a reconciliation.'

He presumes to be very earnest with me, 'to give him a private meeting 
some night, in my father's garden, attended by whom I please.'

Really, my dear, were you to see his letter, you would think I had 
given him great encouragement, and that I am in direct treaty with 
him; or that he is sure that my friends will drive me into a foreign 
protection; for he has the boldness to offer, in my Lord's name, an 
asylum to me, should I be tyrannically treated in Solmes's behalf.

I suppose it is the way of this sex to endeavour to entangle the 
thoughtless of ours by bold supposals and offers, in hopes that we 
shall be too complaisant or bashful to quarrel with them; and, if not 
checked, to reckon upon our silence, as assents voluntarily given, or 
concessions made in their favour.

There are other particulars in this letter which I ought to mention to 
you: but I will take an opportunity to send you the letter itself, or 
a copy of it.

For my own part, I am very uneasy to think how I have been drawn on 
one hand, and driven on the other, into a clandestine, in short, into 
a mere loverlike correspondence, which my heart condemns.

It is easy to see, if I do not break it off, that Mr. Lovelace's 
advantages, by reason of my unhappy situation, will every day 
increase, and I shall be more and more entangled.  Yet if I do put an 
end to it, without making it a condition of being freed from Mr. 
Solmes's address--May I, my dear, is it best to continue it a little 
longer, in order to extricate myself out of the other difficulty, by 
giving up all thoughts of Mr. Lovelace?--Whose advice can I now ask 
but yours.

All my relations are met.  They are at breakfast together.  Mr. Solmes 
is expected.  I am excessively uneasy.  I must lay down my pen.


***


They are all going to church together.  Grievously disordered they 
appear to be, as Hannah tells me.  She believes something is resolved 
upon.


SUNDAY NOON.


What a cruel thing is suspense!--I will ask leave to go to church this 
afternoon.  I expect to be denied.  But, if I do not ask, they may 
allege, that my not going is owing to myself.


***


I desired to speak with Shorey.  Shorey came.  I directed her to carry 
to my mother my request for permission to go to church this afternoon.  
What think you was the return?  Tell her, that she must direct herself 
to her brother for any favour she has to ask.--So, my dear, I am to be 
delivered up to my brother!

I was resolved, however, to ask of him this favour.  Accordingly, when 
they sent me up my solitary dinner, I gave the messenger a billet, in 
which I made it my humble request through him to my father, to be 
permitted to go to church this afternoon.

This was the contemptuous answer: 'Tell her, that her request will be 
taken into consideration to-morrow.'

Patience will be the fittest return I can make to such an insult.  But 
this method will not do with me; indeed it will not!  And yet it is 
but the beginning, I suppose, of what I am to expect from my brother, 
now I am delivered up to him.



On recollection, I thought it best to renew my request.  I did.  The 
following is a copy of what I wrote, and what follows that, of the 
answer sent me.


SIR,

I know not what to make of the answer brought to my request of being 
permitted to go to church this afternoon.  If you designed to shew 
your pleasantry by it, I hope that will continue; and then my request 
will be granted.

You know, that I never absented myself, when well, and at home, till 
the two last Sundays; when I was advised not to go.  My present 
situation is such, that I never more wanted the benefit of the public 
prayers.

I will solemnly engage only to go thither, and back again.

I hope it cannot be thought that I would do otherwise.

My dejection of spirits will give a too just excuse on the score of 
indisposition for avoiding visits.  Nor will I, but by distant 
civilities, return the compliments of any of my acquaintances.  My 
disgraces, if they are to have an end, need not be proclaimed to the 
whole world.  I ask this favour, therefore, for my reputation's sake, 
that I may be able to hold up my head in the neighbourhood, if I live 
to see an end of the unmerited severities which seem to be designed 
for

Your unhappy sister,
CL. HARLOWE.



TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE

For a girl to lay so much stress upon going to church, and yet resolve 
to defy her parents, in an article of the greatest consequence to 
them, and to the whole family, is an absurdity.  You are recommended, 
Miss, to the practice of your private devotions.  May they be 
efficacious upon the mind of one of the most pervicacious young 
creatures that ever was heard of!  The intention is, I tell you 
plainly, to mortify you into a sense of your duty.  The neighbours you 
are so solicitous to appear well with, already know, that you defy 
that.  So, Miss, if you have a real value for your reputation, shew it 
as you ought.  It is yet in your own power to establish or impair it.

JA. HARLOWE.



Thus, my dear Miss Howe, has my brother got me into his snares; and I, 
like a poor silly bird, the more I struggle, am the more entangled.



LETTER XXIII

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
MONDAY MORNING, MARCH 6.


They are resolved to break my heart.  My poor Hannah is discharged--
disgracefully discharged!--Thus it was.

Within half an hour after I had sent the poor girl down for my 
breakfast, that bold creature Betty Barnes, my sister's confidant and 
servant, (if a favourite maid and confidant can be deemed a servant,) 
came up.

What, Miss, will you please to have for breakfast?

I was surprised.  What will I have for breakfast, Betty!--How!--What!
--How comes it!--Then I named Hannah.  I could not tell what to say.

Don't be surprised, Miss:--but you'll see Hannah no more in this 
house.

God forbid!--Is any harm come to Hannah?--What!  What is the matter 
with Hannah?

Why, Miss, the short and the long is this: Your papa and mamma think 
Hannah has staid long enough in the house to do mischief; and so she 
is ordered to troop [that was the confident creature's word]; and I am 
directed to wait upon you in her stead.

I burst into tears.  I have no service for you, Betty Barnes; none at 
all.  But where is Hannah?  Cannot I speak with the poor girl?  I owe 
her half a year's wages.  May I not see the honest creature, and pay 
her her wages?  I may never see her again perhaps; for they are 
resolved to break my heart.

And they think you are resolved to break theirs: so tit for tat, Miss.

Impertinent I called her; and asked her, if it were upon such 
confident terms that her service was to begin.

I was so very earnest to see the poor maid, that (to oblige me, as she 
said) she went down with my request.

The worthy creature was as earnest to see me; and the favour was 
granted in presence of Shorey and Betty.

I thanked her, when she came up, for her past service to me.

Her heart was ready to break.  And she began to vindicate her fidelity 
and love; and disclaimed any mischief she had ever made.

I told her, that those who occasioned her being turned out of my 
service, made no question of her integrity: that her dismission was 
intended for an indignity to me: that I was very sorry to be obliged 
to part with her, and hoped she would meet with as good a service.

Never, never, wringing her hands, should she meet with a mistress she 
loved so well.  And the poor creature ran on in my praises, and in 
professions of love to me.

We are all apt, you know, my dear, to praise our benefactors, because 
they are our benefactors; as if every body did right or wrong, as they 
obliged or disobliged us.  But this good creature deserved to be 
kindly treated; so I could have no merit in favouring one whom it 
would have been ungrateful not to distinguish.

I gave her a little linen, some laces, and other odd things; and 
instead of four pounds which were due to her, ten guineas: and said, 
if ever I were again allowed to be my own mistress, I would think of 
her in the first place.

Betty enviously whispered Shorey upon it.

Hannah told me, before their faces, having no other opportunity, that 
she had been examined about letters to me, and from me: and that she 
had given her pockets to Miss Harlowe, who looked into them, and put 
her fingers in her stays, to satisfy herself that she had not any.

She gave me an account of the number of my pheasants and bantams; and 
I said, they should be my own care twice or thrice a day.

We wept over each other at parting.  The girl prayed for all the 
family.

To have so good a servant so disgracefully dismissed, is very cruel: 
and I could not help saying that these methods might break my heart, 
but not any other way answer the end of the authors of my disgraces.

Betty, with a very saucy fleer, said to Shorey, There would be a trial 
of skill about that she fancied.  But I took no notice of it.  If this 
wench thinks that I have robbed her young mistress of a lover, as you 
say she has given out, she may believe that it is some degree of merit 
in herself to be impertinent to me.

Thus have I been forced to part with my faithful Hannah.  If you can 
command the good creature to a place worthy of her, pray do for my 
sake.



LETTER XXIV

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
MONDAY, NEAR 12 O'CLOCK.


The enclosed letter was just now delivered to me.  My brother has 
carried all his points.

I send you also the copy of my answer.  No more at this time can I 
write!--



MONDAY, MAR. 6.

MISS CLARY,


By command of your father and mother I write expressly to forbid you 
to come into their presence, or into the garden when they are there: 
nor when they are not there, but with Betty Banes to attend you; 
except by particular license or command.

On their blessings, you are forbidden likewise to correspond with the 
vile Lovelace; as it is well known you did by means of your sly 
Hannah.  Whence her sudden discharge.  As was fit.

Neither are you to correspond with Miss Howe; who has given herself 
high airs of late; and might possibly help on your correspondence with 
that detested libertine.  Nor, in short, with any body without leave.

You are not to enter into the presence of either of your uncles, 
without their leave first obtained.  It is a mercy to you, after such 
a behaviour to your mother, that your father refuses to see you.

You are not to be seen in any apartment of the house you so lately 
governed as you pleased, unless you are commanded down.

In short, you are strictly to confine yourself to your chamber, except 
now and then, in Betty Barnes's sight (as aforesaid) you take a 
morning or evening turn in the garden: and then you are to go 
directly, and without stopping at any apartment in the way, up or down 
the back stairs, that the sight of so perverse a young creature may 
not add to the pain you have given every body.

The hourly threatenings of your fine fellow, as well as your own 
unheard-of obstinacy, will account to you for all this.  What a hand 
has the best and most indulgent of mothers had with you, who so long 
pleaded for you, and undertook for you; even when others, from the 
manner of your setting out, despaired of moving you!--What must your 
perverseness have been, that such a mother can give you up!  She 
thinks it right so to do: nor will take you to favour, unless you make 
the first steps, by a compliance with your duty.

As for myself, whom perhaps you think hardly of [in very good company, 
if you do, that is my sole consolation]; I have advised, that you may 
be permitted to pursue your own inclinations, (some people need no 
greater punishment than such a permission,) and not to have the house 
encumbered by one who must give them the more pain for the necessity 
she has laid them under of avoiding the sight of her, although in it.

If any thing I have written appear severe or harsh, it is still in 
your power (but perhaps will not always be so) to remedy it; and that 
by a single word.

Betty Barnes has orders to obey you in all points consistent with her 
duty to those whom you owe it, as well as she.

JA. HARLOWE.



TO JAMES HARLOWE, JUNIOR, ESQ.

SIR,

I will only say, That you may congratulate yourself on having so far 
succeeded in all your views, that you may report what you please of 
me, and I can no more defend myself, than if I were dead.  Yet one 
favour, nevertheless, I will beg of you.  It is this--That you will 
not occasion more severities, more disgraces, that are necessary for 
carrying into execution your further designs, whatever they be, 
against

Your unhappy sister,
CLARISSA HARLOWE.



LETTER XXV

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
TUESDAY, MARCH 7.


By my last deposit, you will see how I am driven, and what a poor 
prisoner I am.--No regard had to my reputation.  The whole matter is 
now before you.  Can such measures be supposed to soften?--But surely 
they can only mean to try and frighten me into my brother's views!--
All my hope is, to be able to weather this point till my cousin Morden 
comes from Florence; and he is soon expected: yet, if they are 
determined upon a short day, I doubt he will not be here in time 
enough to save me.

It is plain by my brother's letter, that my mother has not spared me, 
in the report she was pleased to make of the conference between 
herself and me: yet she was pleased to hint to me, that my brother had 
views which she would have had me try to disappoint.  But indeed she 
had engaged to give a faithful account of what was to pass between 
herself and me: and it was, doubtless, much more eligible to give up a 
daughter, than to disoblige a husband, and every other person of the 
family.

They think they have done every thing by turning away my poor Hannah: 
but as long as the liberty of the garden, and my poultry-visits, are 
allowed me, they will be mistaken.

I asked Mrs. Betty, if she had any orders to watch or attend me; or 
whether I was to ask her leave whenever I should be disposed to walk 
in the garden, or to go feed my bantams?--Lord bless her! what could I 
mean by such a question!  Yet she owned, that she had heard, that I 
was not to go into the garden, when my father, mother, or uncles were 
there.

However, as it behoved me to be assured on this head, I went down 
directly, and staid an hour, without question or impediment; and yet a 
good part of the time, I walked under and in sight, as I may say, of 
my brother's study window, where both he and my sister happened to be.  
And I am sure they saw me, by the loud mirth they affected, by way of 
insult, as I suppose.

So this part of my restraint was doubtless a stretch of the authority 
given him.  The enforcing of that may perhaps come next.  But I hope 
not.


TUESDAY NIGHT.


Since I wrote the above, I ventured to send a letter by Shorey to my 
mother.  I desired her to give it into her own hand, when nobody was 
by.

I shall enclose a copy of it.  You will see that I would have it 
thought, that now Hannah is gone, I have no way to correspond out of 
the house.  I am far from thinking all I do right.  I am afraid this 
is a little piece of art, that is not so.  But this is an 
afterthought.  The letter went first.


HONOURED MADAM,

Having acknowledged to you, that I had received letters from Mr. 
Lovelace full of resentment, and that I answered them purely to 
prevent further mischief, and having shewn you copies of my answers, 
which you did not disapprove of, although you thought fit, after you 
had read them, to forbid me any further correspondence with him, I 
think it my duty to acquaint you, that another letter from him has 
since come to my hand, in which he is very earnest with me to permit 
him to wait on my papa, or you, or my two uncles, in a pacific way, 
accompanied by Lord M.: on which I beg your commands.

I own to you, Madam, that had not the prohibition been renewed, and 
had not Hannah been so suddenly dismissed my service, I should have 
made the less scruple to have written an answer, and to have commanded 
her to convey it to him, with all speed, in order to dissuade him from 
these visits, lest any thing should happen on the occasion that my 
heart aches but to think of.

And here I cannot but express my grief, that I should have all the 
punishment and all the blame, who, as I have reason to think, have 
prevented great mischief, and have not been the occasion of any.  For, 
Madam, could I be supposed to govern the passions of either of the 
gentlemen?--Over the one indeed I have had some little influence, 
without giving him hitherto any reason to think he has fastened an 
obligation upon me for it.--Over the other, Who, Madam, has any?--I am 
grieved at heart, to be obliged to lay so great a blame at my 
brother's door, although my reputation and my liberty are both to be 
sacrificed to his resentment and ambition.  May not, however, so deep 
a sufferer be permitted to speak out?

This communication being as voluntarily made, as dutifully intended, I 
humbly presume to hope, that I shall not be required to produce the 
letter itself.  I cannot either in honour or prudence do that, because 
of the vehemence of his style; for having heard [not, I assure you, by 
my means, or through Hannah's] of some part of the harsh treatment I 
have met with; he thinks himself entitled to place it to his own 
account, by reason of speeches thrown out by some of my relations, 
equally vehement.

If I do not answer him, he will be made desperate, and think himself 
justified (thought I shall not think him so) in resenting the 
treatment he complains of: if I do, and if, in compliment to me, he 
forbears to resent what he thinks himself entitled to resent; be 
pleased, Madam, to consider the obligation he will suppose he lays me 
under.

If I were as strongly prepossessed in his favour as is supposed, I 
should not have wished this to be considered by you.  And permit me, 
as a still further proof that I am not prepossessed, to beg of you to 
consider, Whether, upon the whole, the proposal I made, of declaring 
for the single life (which I will religiously adhere to) is not the 
best way to get rid of his pretensions with honour.  To renounce him, 
and not be allowed to aver, that I will never be the other man's, will 
make him conclude (driven as I am driven) that I am determined in that 
other man's favour.

If this has not its due weight, my brother's strange schemes must be 
tried, and I will resign myself to my destiny with all the 
acquiescence that shall be granted to my prayers.  And so leaving the 
whole to your own wisdom, and whether you choose to consult my papa 
and uncles upon this humble application, or not; or whether I shall be 
allowed to write an answer to Mr. Lovelace, or not [and if allowed to 
do so, I beg your direction by whom to send it]; I remain,

Honoured Madam,
Your unhappy, but ever dutiful daughter,
CL. HARLOWE.


WEDNESDAY MORNING.


I have just received an answer to the enclosed letter.  My mother, you 
will observe, has ordered me to burn it: but, as you will have it in 
your safekeeping, and nobody else will see it, her end will be equally 
answered, as if it were burnt.  It has neither date nor 
superscription.


CLARISSA,

Say not all the blame and all the punishment is yours.  I am as much 
blamed, and as much punished, as you are; yet am more innocent.  When 
your obstinacy is equal to any other person's passion, blame not your 
brother.  We judged right, that Hannah carried on your 
correspondencies.  Now she is gone, and you cannot write [we think you 
cannot] to Miss Howe, nor she to you, without our knowledge, one cause 
of uneasiness and jealousy is over.

I had no dislike of Hannah.  I did not tell her so; because somebody 
was within hearing when she desired to pay her duty to me at going.  I 
gave her a caution, in a raised voice, To take care, wherever she went 
to live next, if there were any young ladies, how she made parties, 
and assisted in clandestine correspondencies.  But I slid two guineas 
into her hand: nor was I angry to hear that you were still more 
bountiful to her.  So much for Hannah.

I don't know what to write, about your answering that man of violence.  
What can you think of it, that such a family as ours, should have such 
a rod held over it?--For my part, I have not owned that I know you 
have corresponded.  By your last boldness to me [an astonishing one it 
was, to pursue before Mr. Solmes the subject I was forced to break 
from above-stairs!] you may, as far as I know, plead, that you had my 
countenance for your correspondence with him; and so add to the 
uneasiness between your father and me.  You were once my comfort, 
Clarissa; you made all my hardships tolerable:--But now!--However, 
nothing, it is plain, can move you; and I will say no more on that 
head: for you are under your father's discipline now; and he will 
neither be prescribed to, nor entreated.

I should have been glad to see the letter you tell me of, as I saw the 
rest.  You say, both honour and prudence forbid you to shew it to me.
--O Clarissa! what think you of receiving letters that honour and 
prudence forbid you to shew to a mother!--But it is not for me to see 
it, if you would choose to shew it me.  I will not be in your secret.  
I will not know that you did correspond.  And, as to an answer, take 
your own methods.  But let him know it will be the last you will 
write.  And, if you do write, I won't see it: so seal it up (if you 
do) and give it to Shorey; and she--Yet do not think I give you 
license to write.

We will be upon no conditions with him, nor will you be allowed to be 
upon any.  Your father and uncles would have no patience were he to 
come.  What have you to do to oblige him with your refusal of Mr. 
Solmes?--Will not that refusal be to give him hope?  And while he has 
any, can we be easy or free from his insults?  Were even your brother 
in fault, as that fault cannot be conquered, is a sister to carry on a 
correspondence that shall endanger her brother?  But your father has 
given his sanction to your brother's dislikes, your uncles', and every 
body's!--No matter to whom owing.

As to the rest, you have by your obstinacy put it out of my power to 
do any thing for you.  Your father takes it upon himself to be 
answerable for all consequences.  You must not therefore apply to me 
for favour.  I shall endeavour to be only an observer: Happy, if I 
could be an unconcerned one!--While I had power, you would not let me 
use it as I would have used it.  Your aunt has been forced to engage 
not to interfere but by your father's direction.  You'll have severe 
trials.  If you have any favour to hope for, it must be from the 
mediation of your uncles.  And yet, I believe, they are equally 
determined: for they make it a principle, [alas! they never had 
children!] that that child, who in marriage is not governed by her 
parents, is to be given up as a lost creature!

I charge you, let not this letter be found.  Burn it.  There is too 
much of the mother in it, to a daughter so unaccountably obstinate.

Write not another letter to me.  I can do nothing for you.  But you 
can do every thing for yourself.


***


Now, my dear, to proceed with my melancholy narrative.

After this letter, you will believe, that I could have very little 
hopes, that an application directly to my father would stand me in any 
stead: but I thought it became me to write, were it but to acquit 
myself to myself, that I have left nothing unattempted that has the 
least likelihood to restore me to his favour.  Accordingly I wrote to 
the following effect:


I presume not, I say, to argue with my Papa; I only beg his mercy and 
indulgence in this one point, on which depends my present, and perhaps 
my future, happiness; and beseech him not to reprobate his child for 
an aversion which it is not in her power to conquer.  I beg, that I 
may not be sacrificed to projects, and remote contingencies.  I 
complain of the disgraces I suffer in this banishment from his 
presence, and in being confined to my chamber.  In every thing but 
this one point, I promise implicit duty and resignation to his will.  
I repeat my offers of a single life; and appeal to him, whether I have 
ever given him cause to doubt my word.  I beg to be admitted to his, 
and to my mamma's, presence, and that my conduct may be under their 
own eye: and this with the more earnestness, as I have too much reason 
to believe that snares are laid for me; and tauntings and revilings 
used on purpose to make a handle of my words against me, when I am not 
permitted to speak in my own defence.  I conclude with hoping, that my 
brother's instigations may not rob an unhappy child of her father.


***


This is the answer, sent without superscription, and unsealed, 
although by Betty Barnes, who delivered it with an air, as if she knew 
the contents.


WEDNESDAY.

I write, perverse girl; but with all the indignation that your 
disobedience deserves.  To desire to be forgiven a fault you own, and 
yet resolve to persevere in, is a boldness, no more to be equaled, 
than passed over.  It is my authority you defy.  Your reflections upon 
a brother, that is an honour to us all, deserve my utmost resentment.  
I see how light all relationship sits upon you.  The cause I guess at, 
too.  I cannot bear the reflections that naturally arise from this 
consideration.  Your behaviour to your too-indulgent and too-fond 
mother----But, I have no patience--Continue banished from my presence, 
undutiful as you are, till you know how to conform to my will.  
Ingrateful creature!  Your letter but upbraid me for my past
indulgence.  Write no more to me, till you can distinguish better; and 
till you are convinced of your duty to

A JUSTLY INCENSED FATHER.


***


This angry letter was accompanied by one from my mother, unsealed, and 
unsuperscribed also.  Those who take so much pains to confederate 
every one against me, I make no doubt, obliged her to bear her 
testimony against the poor girl.

My mother's letter being a repetition of some of the severe things 
that passed between herself and me, of which I have already informed 
you, I shall not need to give you the contents--only thus far, that 
she also praises my brother, and blames me for my freedoms with him.



LETTER XXVI

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
THURSDAY MORN., MARCH 9.


I have another letter from Mr. Lovelace, although I had not answered 
his former.

This man, somehow or other, knows every thing that passes in our 
family.  My confinement; Hanna's dismission; and more of the 
resentments and resolutions of my father, uncles, and brother, than I 
can possibly know, and almost as soon as the things happen, which he 
tells me of.  He cannot come at these intelligencies fairly.

He is excessively uneasy upon what he hears; and his expressions, both 
of love to me, and resentment to them, are very fervent.  He solicits 
me, 'To engage my honour to him never to have Mr. Solmes.'

I think I may fairly promise him that I will not.

He begs, 'That I will not think he is endeavouring to make to himself 
a merit at any man's expense, since he hopes to obtain my favour on 
the foot of his own; nor that he seeks to intimidate me into a 
consideration for him.  But declares, that the treatment he meets with 
from my family is of such a nature, that he is perpetually reproached 
for not resenting it; and that as well by Lord M. and Lady Sarah, and 
Lady Betty, as by all his other friends: and if he must have no hope 
from me, he cannot answer for what his despair will make him do.'

Indeed, he says, 'his relations, the ladies particularly, advise him 
to have recourse to a legal remedy: But how, he asks, can a man of 
honour go to law for verbal abuses given by people entitled to wear 
swords?'

You see, my dear, that my mother seems as apprehensive of mischief as 
myself; and has indirectly offered to let Shorey carry my answer to 
the letter he sent me before.

He is full of the favours of the ladies of his family to me: to whom, 
nevertheless, I am personally a stranger; except, that I once saw Miss 
Patty Montague at Mrs. Knolly's.

It is natural, I believe, for a person to be the more desirous of 
making new friends, in proportion as she loses the favour of old ones.  
Yet had I rather appear amiable in the eyes of my own relations, and 
in your eyes, than in those of all the world besides--but these four 
ladies of his family have such excellent characters, that one cannot 
but wish to be thought well of by them.  Cannot there be a way to find 
out, by Mrs. Fortescue's means, or by Mr. Hickman, who has some 
knowledge of Lord M. [covertly, however,] what their opinions are of 
the present situation of things in our family; and of the little 
likelihood there is, that ever the alliance once approved of by them, 
can take effect?

I cannot, for my own part, think so well of myself, as to imagine, 
that they can wish their kinsman to persevere in his views with regard 
to me, through such contempts and discouragements.--Not that it would 
concern me, should they advise him to the contrary.  By my Lord's 
signing Mr. Lovelace's former letter; by Mr. Lovelace's assurances of 
the continued favour of all his relations; and by the report of 
others; I seem still to stand high in their favour.  But, methinks, I 
should be glad to have this confirmed to me, as from themselves, by the 
lips of an indifferent person; and the rather, because of their 
fortunes and family; and take it amiss (as they have reason) to be 
included by ours in the contempt thrown upon their kinsman.

Curiosity at present is all my motive: nor will there ever, I hope, be 
a stronger, notwithstanding your questionable throbs--even were the 
merits of Mr. Lovelace much greater than they are.


***


I have answered his letters.  If he takes me at my word, I shall need 
to be less solicitous for the opinions of his relations in my favour: 
and yet one would be glad to be well thought of by the worthy.

This is the substance of my letter:

'I express my surprise at his knowing (and so early) all that passes 
here.'

I assure him, 'That were there not such a man in the world as himself, 
I would not have Mr. Solmes.'

I tell him, 'That to return, as I understand he does, defiances for 
defiances, to my relations, is far from being a proof with me, either 
of his politeness, or of the consideration he pretends to have for me.

'That the moment I hear he visits any of my friends without their 
consent, I will make a resolution never to see him more, if I can help 
it.'

I apprize him, 'That I am connived at in sending this letter (although 
no one has seen the contents) provided it shall be the last I will 
ever write to him: that I had more than once told him, that the single 
life was my choice; and this before Mr. Solmes was introduced as a 
visitor in our family: that Mr. Wyerley, and other gentlemen, knew it 
to be my choice, before himself was acquainted with any of us: that I 
had never been induced to receive a line from him on the subject, but 
that I thought he had not acted ungenerously by my brother; and yet 
had not been so handsomely treated by my friends, as he might have 
expected: but that had he even my friends on his side, I should have 
very great objections to him, were I to get over my choice of a single 
life, so really preferable to me as it is; and that I should have 
declared as much to him, had I not regarded him as more than a common 
visiter.  On all these accounts, I desire, that the one more letter, 
which I will allow him to deposit in the usual place, may be the very 
last; and that only, to acquaint me with his acquiescence that it 
shall be so; at least till happier times.'

This last I put in that he may not be quite desperate.  But, if he 
take me at my word, I shall be rid of one of my tormentors.

I have promised to lay before you all his letters, and my answers: I 
repeat that promise: and am the less solicitous, for that reason, to 
amplify upon the contents of either.  But I cannot too often express 
my vexation, to be driven to such streights and difficulties, here at 
home, as oblige me to answer letters, (from a man I had not absolutely 
intended to encourage, and to whom I had really great objections,) 
filled as his are with such warm protestations, and written to me with 
a spirit of expectation.

For, my dear, you never knew so bold a supposer.  As commentators find 
beauties in an author, to which the author perhaps was a stranger; so 
he sometimes compliments me in high strains of gratitude for favours, 
and for a consideration, which I never designed him; insomuch that I 
am frequently under a necessity of explaining away the attributed 
goodness to him, which, if I shewed, I should have the less opinion of 
myself.

In short, my dear, like a restiff horse, (as I have heard described by 
sportsmen,) he pains one's hands, and half disjoints one's arms, to 
rein him in.  And, when you see his letters, you must form no judgment 
upon them, till you have read my answers.  If you do, you will indeed 
think you have cause to attribute self-deceit, and throbs, and glows, 
to your friend: and yet, at other times, the contradictory nature 
complains, that I shew him as little favour, and my friends as much 
inveteracy, as if, in the rencontre betwixt my brother and him, he had 
been the aggressor; and as if the catastrophe had been as fatal, as it 
might have been.

If he has a design by this conduct (sometimes complaining of my 
shyness, at others exalting in my imaginary favours) to induce me at 
one time to acquiesce with his compliments; at another to be more 
complaisant for his complaints; and if the contradiction be not the 
effect of his inattention and giddiness; I shall think him as deep and 
as artful (too probably, as practised) a creature, as ever lived; and 
were I to be sure of it, should hate him, if possible, worse than I do 
Solmes.

But enough for the present of a creature so very various.



LETTER XXVII

MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
THURSDAY NIGHT, MARCH 9.


I have not patience with any of the people you are with.  I know not 
what to advise you to do.  How do you know that you are not punishable 
for being the cause, though to your own loss, that the will of your 
grandfather is not complied with?--Wills are sacred things, child.  
You see, that they, even they, think so, who imagine they suffer by a 
will, through the distinction paid you in it. 

I allow of all your noble reasonings for what you did at the time: 
But, since such a charming, such a generous instance of filial duty is 
to go thus unrewarded, why should you not resume?

Your grandfather knew the family-failing.  He knew what a noble spirit 
you had to do good.  He himself, perhaps, [excuse me, my dear,] had 
done too little in his life-time; and therefore he put it in your 
power to make up for the defects of the whole family.  Were it to me, 
I would resume it.  Indeed I would.

You will say, you cannot do it, while you are with them.  I don't know 
that.  Do you think they can use you worse than they do?  And is it 
not your right?  And do they not make use of your own generosity to 
oppress you?  Your uncle Harlowe is one trustee; your cousin Morden is 
the other: insist upon your right to your uncle; and write to your 
cousin Morden about it.  This, I dare say, will make them alter their 
behaviour to you.

Your insolent brother--what has he to do to controul you?--Were it me 
[I wish it were for one month, and no more] I'd shew him the 
difference.  I would be in my own mansion, pursuing my charming 
schemes, and making all around me happy.  I would set up my own 
chariot.  I would visit them when they deserved it.  But when my 
brother and sister gave themselves airs, I would let them know, that I 
was their sister, and not their servant: and, if that did not do, I 
would shut my gates against them; and bid them go and be company for 
each other.

It must be confessed, however, that this brother and sister of yours, 
judging as such narrow spirits will ever judge, have some reason for 
treating you as they do.  It must have long been a mortification to 
them (set disappointed love on her side, and avarice on his, out of 
the question) to be so much eclipsed by a younger sister.  Such a sun 
in a family, where there are none but faint twinklers, how could they 
bear it!  Why, my dear, they must look upon you as a prodigy among 
them: and prodigies, you know, though they obtain our admiration, 
never attract our love.  The distance between you and them is immense.  
Their eyes ache to look up at you.  What shades does your full day of 
merit cast upon them!  Can you wonder, then, that they should embrace 
the first opportunity that offered, to endeavour to bring you down to 
their level?

Depend upon it, my dear, you will have more of it, and more still, as 
you bear it.

As to this odious Solmes, I wonder not at your aversion to him.  It is 
needless to say any thing to you, who have so sincere any antipathy to 
him, to strengthen your dislike: Yet, who can resist her own talents?  
One of mine, as I have heretofore said, is to give an ugly likeness.  
Shall I indulge it?--I will.  And the rather, as, in doing so, you 
will have my opinion in justification of your aversion to him, and in 
approbation of a steadiness that I ever admired, and must for ever 
approve of, in your temper.

'I was twice in this wretch's company.  At one of the times your 
Lovelace was there.  I need not mention to you, who have such a pretty 
curiosity, (though at present, only a curiosity, you know,) the 
unspeakable difference.

'Lovelace entertained the company in his lively gay way, and made 
every body laugh at one of his stories.  It was before this creature 
was thought of for you.  Solmes laughed too.  It was, however, his 
laugh: for his first three years, at least, I imagine, must have been 
one continual fit of crying; and his muscles have never yet been able 
to recover a risible tone.  His very smile [you never saw him smile, I 
believe; never at least gave him cause to smile] is so little natural 
to his features, that it appears to him as hideous as the grin of a 
man in malice.

'I took great notice of him, as I do of all the noble lords of the 
creation, in their peculiarities; and was disgusted, nay, shocked at 
him, even then.  I was glad, I remember, on that particular occasion, 
to see his strange features recovering their natural gloominess; 
though they did this but slowly, as if the muscles which contributed 
to his distortions, had turned upon rusty springs.

'What a dreadful thing must even the love of such a husband be!  For 
my part, were I his wife! (But what have I done to myself, to make 
such a supposition?) I should never have comfort but in his absence, 
or when I was quarreling with him.  A splenetic woman, who must have 
somebody to find fault with, might indeed be brought to endure such a 
wretch: the sight of him would always furnish out the occasion, and 
all her servants, for that reason, and for that only, would have cause 
to blame their master.  But how grievous and apprehensive a thing it 
must be for his wife, had she the least degree of delicacy, to catch 
herself in having done something to oblige him?

'So much for his person.  As to the other half of him, he is said to 
be an insinuating, creeping mortal to any body he hopes to be a gainer 
by: an insolent, overbearing one, where he has no such views: And is 
not this the genuine spirit of meanness?  He is reported to be 
spiteful and malicious, even to the whole family of any single person 
who has once disobliged him; and to his own relations most of all.  I 
am told, that they are none of them such wretches as himself.  This 
may be one reason why he is for disinheriting them.

'My Kitty, from one of his domestics, tells me, that his tenants hate 
him: and that he never had a servant who spoke well of him.  Vilely 
suspicious of their wronging him (probably from the badness of his own 
heart) he is always changing.

'His pockets, they say, are continually crammed with keys: so that, 
when he would treat a guest, (a friend he has not out of your family), 
he is half as long puzzling which is which, as his niggardly treat 
might be concluded in.  And if it be wine, he always fetches it 
himself.  Nor has he much trouble in doing so; for he has very few 
visiters--only those, whom business or necessity brings: for a 
gentleman who can help it, would rather be benighted, than put up at 
his house.'

Yet this is the man they have found out (for considerations as sordid 
as those he is governed by) for a husband, that is to say, for a lord 
and master, for Miss Clarissa Harlowe!

But, perhaps, he may not be quite so miserable as he is represented.  
Characters extremely good, or extremely bad, are seldom justly given.  
Favour for a person will exalt the one, as disfavour will sink the 
other.  But your uncle Antony has told my mother, who objected to his 
covetousness, that it was intended to tie him up, as he called it, to 
your own terms; which would be with a hempen, rather than a 
matrimonial, cord, I dare say.  But, is not this a plain indication, 
that even his own recommenders think him a mean creature; and that he 
must be articled with--perhaps for necessaries?  But enough, and too 
much, of such a wretch as this!--You must not have him, my dear,--that 
I am clear in--though not so clear, how you will be able to avoid it, 
except you assert the independence to which your estate gives you a 
title.


***


Here my mother broke in upon me.  She wanted to see what I had 
written.  I was silly enough to read Solmes's character to her.

She owned, that the man was not the most desirable of men; and that he 
had not the happiest appearance: But what, said she, is person in a 
man?  And I was chidden for setting you against complying with your 
father's will.  Then followed a lecture on the preference to be given 
in favour of a man who took care to discharge all his obligations to 
the world, and to keep all together, in opposition to a spendthrift or 
profligate.  A fruitful subject you know, whether any particular 
person be meant by it, or not.

Why will these wise parents, by saying too much against the persons 
they dislike, put one upon defending them?  Lovelace is not a 
spendthrift; owes not obligations to the world; though, I doubt not, 
profligate enough.  Then, putting one upon doing such but common 
justice, we must needs be prepossessed, truly!--And so perhaps we are 
put upon curiosities first, that is to say, how such a one or his 
friends may think of one: and then, but too probably, comes in a 
distinguishing preference, or something that looks exceedingly like 
it.

My mother charged me at last, to write that side over again.--But 
excuse me, my good Mamma!  I would not have the character lost upon 
any consideration; since my vein ran freely into it: and I never wrote 
to please myself, but I pleased you.  A very good reason why--we have 
but one mind between us--only, that sometimes you are a little too 
grave, methinks; I, no doubt, a little too flippant in your opinion.

This difference in our tempers, however, is probably the reason that 
we love one another so well, that in the words of Norris, no third 
love can come in betwixt.  Since each, in the other's eye, having 
something amiss, and each loving the other well enough to bear being 
told of it (and the rather perhaps as neither wishes to mend it); this 
takes off a good deal from that rivalry which might encourage a little 
(if not a great deal) of that latent spleen, which in time might rise 
into envy, and that into ill-will.  So, my dear, if this be the case, 
let each keep her fault, and much good may do her with it: and what an 
hero or heroine must he or she be, who can conquer a constitutional 
fault?  Let it be avarice, as in some I dare not name: let it be 
gravity, as in my best friend: or let it be flippancy, as in--I need 
not say whom.

It is proper to acquaint you, that I was obliged to comply with my 
mother's curiosity, [my mother has her share, her full share, of 
curiosity, my dear,] and to let her see here-and-there some passages 
in your letters--

I am broken in upon--but I will tell you by-and-by what passed between 
my mother and me on this occasion--and the rather, as she had her 
GIRL, her favourite HICKMAN, and your LOVELACE, all at once in her 
eye, in her part of the conversation.

Thus it was.

'I cannot but think, Nancy, said she, after all, that there is a 
little hardship in Miss Harlowe's case: and yet (as her mother says) 
it is a grating thing to have a child, who was always noted for her 
duty in smaller points, to stand in opposition to her parents' will in 
the greater; yea, in the greatest of all.  And now, to middle the 
matter between both, it is pity, that the man they favour has not that 
sort of merit which a person of a mind so delicate as that of Miss 
Harlowe might reasonably expect in a husband.--But then, this man is 
surely preferable to a libertine: to a libertine too, who has had a 
duel with her own brother; fathers and mothers must think so, were it 
not for that circumstance--and it is strange if they do not know 
best.'

And so they must, thought I, from their experience, if no little dirty 
views give them also that prepossession in one man's favour, which 
they are so apt to censure their daughters for having in another's--
and if, as I may add in your case, they have no creeping, old, musty 
uncle Antonys to strengthen their prepossessions, as he does my 
mother's.  Poor, creeping, positive soul, what has such an old 
bachelor as he to do, to prate about the duties of children to 
parents; unless he had a notion that parents owe some to their 
children?  But your mother, by her indolent meekness, let me call it, 
has spoiled all the three brothers.

'But you see, child, proceeded my mother, what a different behaviour 
MINE is to YOU.  I recommend to you one of the soberest, yet politest, 
men in England--'

I think little of my mother's politest, my dear.  She judges of honest 
Hickman for her daughter, as she would have done, I suppose, twenty 
years ago, for herself.

'Of a good family, continued my mother; a fine, clear, and improving 
estate [a prime consideration with my mother, as well as with some 
other folks, whom you know]: and I beg and I pray you to encourage 
him: at least not to use him the worse, for his being so obsequious to 
you.'

Yes, indeed!  To use him kindly, that he may treat me familiarly--but 
distance to the men-wretches is best--I say.

'Yet all will hardly prevail upon you to do as I would have you.  What 
would you say, were I to treat you as Miss Harlowe's father and mother 
treat her? 

'What would I say, Madam!--That's easily answered.  I would say 
nothing.  Can you think such usage, and to such a young lady, is to be 
borne?

'Come, come, Nancy, be not so hasty: you have heard but one side; and 
that there is more to be said is plain, by your reading to me but 
parts of her letters.  They are her parents.  They must know best.  
Miss Harlowe, as fine a child as she is, must have done something, 
must have said something, (you know how they loved her,) to make them 
treat her thus.

'But if she should be blameless, Madam, how does your own supposition 
condemn them?'

Then came up Solmes's great estate; his good management of it--'A 
little too NEAR indeed,' was the word!--[O how money-lovers, thought 
I, will palliate!  Yet my mother is a princess in spirit to this 
Solmes!] 'What strange effects, added she, have prepossession and love 
upon young ladies!'

I don't know how it is, my dear; but people take high delight in 
finding out folks in love.  Curiosity begets curiosity.  I believe 
that's the thing.

She proceeded to praise Mr. Lovelace's person, and his qualifications 
natural and acquired.  But then she would judge as mothers will judge, 
and as daughters are very loth to judge: but could say nothing in answer 
to your offer of living single; and breaking with him--if--if--
[three or four if's she made of one good one, if] that could be 
depended on.

But still obedience without reserve, reason what I will, is the burden 
of my mother's song: and this, for my sake, as well as for yours.

I must needs say, that I think duty to parents is a very meritorious 
excellence. But I bless God I have not your trials.  We can all be 
good when we have no temptation nor provocation to the contrary: but 
few young persons (who can help themselves too as you can) would bear 
what you bear.

I will now mention all that is upon my mind, in relation to the 
behaviour of your father and uncles, and the rest of them, because I 
would not offend you: but I have now a higher opinion of my own 
sagacity, than ever I had, in that I could never cordially love any 
one of your family but yourself.  I am not born to like them.  But it 
is my duty to be sincere to my friend: and this will excuse her Anna 
Howe to Miss Clarissa Harlowe.

I ought indeed to have excepted your mother; a lady to be reverenced: 
and now to be pitied.  What must have been her treatment, to be thus 
subjugated, as I may call it?  Little did the good old viscount think, 
when he married his darling, his only daughter, to so well-appearing a 
gentleman, and to her own liking too, that she would have been so much 
kept down.  Another would call your father a tyrant, if I must not: 
all the world that know him, do call him so; and if you love your 
mother, you should not be very angry at the world for taking that 
liberty.

Yet, after all, I cannot help thinking, that she is the less to be 
pitied, as she may be said (be the gout, or what will, the occasion of 
his moroseness) to have long behaved unworthy of her birth and fine 
qualities, in yielding so much as she yields to encroaching spirits 
[you may confine the reflection to your brother, if it will pain you 
to extend it]; and this for the sake of preserving a temporary peace 
to herself; which was the less worth endeavouring to preserve, as it 
always produced a strength in the will of others, which subjected her 
to an arbitrariness that of course grew, and became established, upon 
her patience.--And now to give up the most deserving of her children 
(against her judgment) a sacrifice to the ambition and selfishness of 
the least deserving!--But I fly from this subject--having I fear, said 
too much to be forgiven--and yet much less than is in my heart to say 
upon the over-meek subject.

Mr. Hickman is expected from London this evening.  I have desired him 
to inquire after Lovelace's life and conversation in town.  If he has 
not inquired, I shall be very angry with him.  Don't expect a very 
good account of either.  He is certainly an intriguing wretch, and 
full of inventions.

Upon my word, I most heartily despise that sex!  I wish they would let 
our fathers and mothers alone; teasing them to tease us with their 
golden promises, and protestations and settlements, and the rest of 
their ostentatious nonsense.  How charmingly might you and I live 
together, and despise them all!--But to be cajoled, wire-drawn, and 
ensnared, like silly birds, into a state of bondage, or vile 
subordination; to be courted as princesses for a few weeks, in order 
to be treated as slaves for the rest of our lives.  Indeed, my dear, 
as you say of Solmes, I cannot endure them!--But for your relations 
[friends no more will I call them, unworthy as they are even of the 
other name!] to take such a wretch's price as that; and to the cutting 
off of all reversions from his own family:--How must a mind but 
commonly just resist such a measure!

Mr. Hickman shall sound Lord M. upon the subject you recommend.  But 
beforehand, I can tell you what he and what his sisters will say, when 
they are sounded.  Who would not be proud of such a relation as Miss 
Clarissa Harlowe?--Mrs. Fortescue told me, that they are all your very 
great admirers.

If I have not been clear enough in my advice about what you shall do, 
let me say, that I can give it in one word: it is only by re-urging 
you to RESUME.  If you do, all the rest will follow.

We are told here, that Mrs. Norton, as well as your aunt Hervey, has 
given her opinion on the implicit side of the question.  If she can 
think, that the part she has had in your education, and your own 
admirable talents and acquirements, are to be thrown away upon such a 
worthless creature as Solmes, I could heartily quarrel with her.  You 
may think I say this to lessen your regard for the good woman.  And 
perhaps not wholly without cause, if you do.  For, to own the truth, 
methinks, I don't love her so well as I should do, did you love her so 
apparently less, that I could be out of doubt, that you love me 
better.

Your mother tells you, 'That you will have great trials: that you are 
under your father's discipline.'--The word is enough for me to despise 
them who give occasion for its use.--'That it is out of her power to 
help you!'  And again: 'That if you have any favour to hope for, it 
must be by the mediation of your uncles.'  I suppose you will write to 
the oddities, since you are forbid to see them.  But can it be, that 
such a lady, such a sister, such a wife, such a mother, has no 
influence in her own family?  Who, indeed, as you say, if this be so, 
would marry, that can live single?  My choler is again beginning to 
rise.  RESUME, my dear: and that is all I will give myself time to say 
further, lest I offend you when I cannot serve you--only this, that I 
am

Your truly affectionate friend and servant,
ANNA HOWE.



LETTER XXVIII

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
FRIDAY, MARCH 10.


You will permit me, my dear, to touch upon a few passages in your last 
letter, that affect me sensibly.

In the first place, you must allow me to say, low as I am in spirits, 
that I am very angry with you, for your reflections on my relations, 
particularly on my father and mother, and on the memory of my 
grandfather.  Nor, my dear, does your own mother always escape the 
keen edge of your vivacity.  One cannot one's self forbear to write or 
speak freely of those we love and honour, when grief from imagined 
hard treatment wrings the heart: but it goes against one to hear any 
body else take the same liberties.  Then you have so very strong a 
manner of expression where you take a distaste, that when passion has 
subdued, and I come (upon reflection) to see by your severity what I 
have given occasion for, I cannot help condemning myself.

But least of all can I bear that you should reflect upon my mother.  
What, my dear, if her meekness should not be rewarded?  Is the want of 
reward, or the want even of a grateful acknowledgement, a reason for 
us to dispense with what we think our duty?  They were my father's 
lively spirits that first made him an interest in her gentle bosom.  
They were the same spirits turned inward, as I have heretofore 
observed,* that made him so impatient when the cruel malady seized 
him.  He always loved my mother: And would not LOVE and PITY 
excusably, nay laudably, make a good wife (who was an hourly witness 
of his pangs, when labouring under a paroxysm, and his paroxysms 
becoming more and more frequent, as well as more and more severe) give 
up her own will, her own likings, to oblige a husband, thus afflicted, 
whose love for her was unquestionable?--And if so, was it not too 
natural [human nature is not perfect, my dear] that the husband thus 
humoured by the wife, should be unable to bear controul from any body 
else, much less contradiction from his children?


* See Letter V. 


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

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

I cannot help owning, however, that I am pleased to have you join with 
me in opinion of the contempt which Mr. Solmes deserves from me.  But 
yet, permit me to say, that he is not quite so horrible a creature as 
you make him: as to his person, I mean; for with regard to his mind, 
by all I have heard, you have done him but justice: but you have such 
a talent at an ugly likeness, and such a vivacity, that they sometimes 
carry you out of verisimilitude.  In short, my dear, I have known you, 
in more instances than one, sit down resolved to write all that wit, 
rather than strict justice, could suggest upon the given occasion.  
Perhaps it may be thought, that I should say the less on this 
particular subject, because your dislike of him arises from love to 
me: But should it not be our aim to judge of ourselves, and of every 
thing that affects us, as we may reasonably imagine other people would 
judge of us and of our actions?

As to the advice you give, to resume my estate, I am determined not to 
litigate with my father, let what will be the consequence to myself.  
I may give you, at another time, a more particular answer to your 
reasonings on this subject: but, at present, will only observe, that 
it is in my opinion, that Lovelace himself would hardly think me worth
addressing, were he to know this would be my resolution.  These men, 
my dear, with all their flatteries, look forward to the PERMANENT.  
Indeed, it is fit they should.  For love must be a very foolish thing 
to look back upon, when it has brought persons born to affluence into 
indigence, and laid a generous mind under obligation and dependence.

You very ingeniously account for the love we bear to one another, from 
the difference in our tempers.  I own, I should not have thought of 
that.  There may possibly be something in it: but whether there be or 
not, whenever I am cool, and give myself time to reflect, I will love 
you the better for the correction you give, be as severe as you will 
upon me.  Spare me not, therefore, my dear friend, whenever you think 
me in the least faulty.  I love your agreeable raillery: you know I 
always did: nor, however over-serious you think me, did I ever think 
you flippant, as you harshly call it.  One of the first conditions of 
our mutual friendship was, each should say or write to the other 
whatever was upon her mind, without any offence to be taken: a 
condition, that is indeed indispensable in friendship.

I knew your mother would be for implicit obedience in a child.  I am 
sorry my case is so circumstanced, that I cannot comply.  It would be 
my duty to do so, if I could.  You are indeed very happy, that you 
have nothing but your own agreeable, yet whimsical, humours to contend 
with, in the choice she invites you to make of Mr. Hickman.  How happy 
I should be, to be treated with so much lenity!--I should blush to 
have my mother say, that she begged and prayed me, and all in vain, to 
encourage a man so unexceptionable as Mr. Hickman.

Indeed, my beloved Miss Howe, I am ashamed to have your mother say, 
with ME in her view, 'What strange effects have prepossession and love 
upon young creatures of our sex!'  This touches me the more sensibly, 
because you yourself, my dear, are so ready to persuade me into it.

I should be very blamable to endeavour to hide any the least bias upon 
my mind, from you: and I cannot but say--that this man--this Lovelace
--is a man that might be liked well enough, if he bore such a 
character as Mr. Hickman bears; and even if there were hopes of 
reclaiming him.  And further still I will acknowledge, that I believe 
it possible that one might be driven, by violent measures, step by 
step, as it were, into something that might be called--I don't know 
what to call it--a conditional kind of liking, or so.  But as to the 
word LOVE--justifiable and charming as it is in some cases, (that is 
to say, in all the relative, in all the social, and, what is still 
beyond both, in all our superior duties, in which it may be properly 
called divine;) it has, methinks, in the narrow, circumscribed, 
selfish, peculiar sense, in which you apply it to me, (the man too so 
little to be approved of for his morals, if all that report says of 
him be true,) no pretty sound with it.  Treat me as freely as you will 
in all other respects, I will love you, as I have said, the better for 
your friendly freedom.  But, methinks, I could be glad that you would 
not let this imputation pass so glibly from your pen, or your lips, as 
attributable to one of your own sex, whether I be the person or not: 
since the other must have a double triumph, when a person of your 
delicacy (armed with such contempts of them all, as you would have one 
think) can give up a friend, with an exultation over her weakness, as 
a silly, love-sick creature.

I could make some other observations upon the contents of your last 
two letters; but my mind is not free enough at present.  The occasion 
for the above stuck with me; and I could not help taking the earliest 
notice of them.

Having written to the end of my second sheet, I will close this 
letter, and in my next, acquaint you with all that has happened here 
since my last.



LETTER XXIX

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
SATURDAY, MARCH 11.


I have had such taunting messages, and such repeated avowals of ill 
offices, brought me from my brother and sister, if I do no comply with 
their wills, (delivered, too, with provoking sauciness by Betty 
Barnes,) that I have thought it proper, before I entered upon my 
intended address to my uncles, in pursuance of the hint given me in my 
mother's letter, to expostulate a little with them.  But I have done 
it in such a manner, as will give you (if you please to take it as you 
have done some parts of my former letters) great advantage over me.  
In short, you will have more cause than ever, to declare me far gone 
in love, if my reasons for the change of my style in these letters, 
with regard to Mr. Lovelace, do not engage your more favourable 
opinion.--For I have thought proper to give them their own way: and, 
since they will have it, that I have a preferable regard for Mr. 
Lovelace, I give them cause rather to confirm their opinion than doubt 
it.

These are my reasons in brief, for the alteration of my style.

In the first place, they have grounded their principal argument for my 
compliance with their will, upon my acknowledgement that my heart is 
free; and so, supposing I give up no preferable person, my opposition 
has the look of downright obstinacy in their eyes; and they argue, 
that at worst, my aversion to Solmes is an aversion that may be easily 
surmounted, and ought to be surmounted in duty to my father, and for 
the promotion of family views.

Next, although they build upon this argument in order to silence me, 
they seem not to believe me, but treat me as disgracefully, as if I 
were in love with one of my father's footmen: so that my conditional 
willingness to give up Mr. Lovelace has procured me no favour.

In the next place, I cannot but think, that my brother's antipathy to 
Mr. Lovelace is far from being well grounded: the man's inordinate 
passion for the sex is the crime that is always rung in my ears: and a 
very great one it is: But, does my brother recriminate upon him thus 
in love to me?--No--his whole behaviour shews me, that that is not his 
principal motive, and that he thinks me rather in his way than 
otherwise.

It is then the call of justice, as I may say, to speak a little in 
favour of a man, who, although provoked by my brother, did not do him 
all the mischief he could have done him, and which my brother had 
endeavoured to do him.  It might not be amiss therefore, I thought, to 
alarm them a little with apprehension, that the methods they are 
taking with me are the very reverse of those they should take to 
answer the end they design by them.  And after all, what is the 
compliment I make Mr. Lovelace, if I allow it to be thought that I do 
really prefer him to such a man as him they terrify me with?  Then, my 
Miss Howe [concluded I] accuses me of a tameness which subject me to 
insults from my brother: I will keep that dear friend in my eye; and 
for all these considerations, try what a little of her spirit will do
--sit it ever so awkwardly upon me.

In this way of thinking, I wrote to my brother and sister.  This is my 
letter to him.



TREATED as I am, and, in a great measure, if not wholly, by your 
instigations, Brother, you must permit me to expostulate with you upon 
the occasion.  It is not my intention to displease you in what I am 
going to write: and yet I must deal freely with you: the occasion 
calls for it.

And permit me, in the first place, to remind you, that I am your 
sister; and not your servant; and that, therefore, the bitter 
revilings and passionate language brought me from you, upon an 
occasion in which you have no reason to prescribe to me, are neither 
worthy of my character to bear, nor of yours to offer.

Put the case, that I were to marry the man you dislike: and that he 
were not to make a polite or tender husband, Is that a reason for you 
to be an unpolite and disobliging brother?--Why must you, Sir, 
anticipate my misfortunes, were such a  case to happen?--Let me tell 
you plainly, that the man who could treat me as a wife, worse than you 
of late have treated me as a sister, must be a barbarous man indeed.

Ask yourself, I pray you, Sir, if you would thus have treated your 
sister Bella, had she thought fit to receive the addresses of the man 
so much hated by you?--If not, let me caution you, my Brother, not to 
take your measures by what you think will be borne, but rather by what 
ought to be offered.

How would you take it, if you had a brother, who, in a like case, were 
to act by you, as you do by me?--You cannot but remember what a 
laconic answer you gave even to my father, who recommended to you Miss 
Nelly D'Oily--You did not like her, were your words: and that was 
thought sufficient.

You must needs think, that I cannot but know to whom to attribute my 
disgraces, when I recollect my father's indulgence to me, permitting 
me to decline several offers; and to whom, that a common cause is 
endeavoured to be made, in favour of a man whose person and manners 
are more exceptional than those of any of the gentlemen I have been 
permitted to refuse.

I offer not to compare the two men together: nor is there indeed the 
least comparison to be made between them.  All the difference to the 
one's disadvantage, if I did, is but one point--of the greatest 
importance, indeed--But to whom of most importance?--To myself, 
surely, were I to encourage his application: of the least to you.  
Nevertheless, if you do not, by your strange politics, unite that man 
and me as joint sufferers in one cause, you shall find me as much 
resolved to renounce him, as I am to refuse the other.  I have made an 
overture to this purpose: I hope you will not give me reason to 
confirm my apprehensions, that it will be owing to you if it be not 
accepted.

It is a sad thing to have it to say, without being conscious of ever 
having given you cause of offence, that I have in you a brother, but 
not a friend.

Perhaps you will not condescend to enter into the reasons of your late 
and present conduct with a foolish sister.  But if politeness, if 
civility, be not due to that character, and to my sex, justice is.

Let me take the liberty further to observe, that the principal end of 
a young man's education at the university, is, to learn him to reason 
justly, and to subdue the violence of his passions.  I hope, Brother, 
that you will not give room for any body who knows us both, to 
conclude, that the toilette has taught the one more of the latter 
doctrine, than the university has taught the other.  I am truly sorry 
to have cause to say, that I have heard it often remarked, that your 
uncontrouled passions are not a credit to your liberal education.

I hope, Sir, that you will excuse the freedom I have taken with you: 
you have given me too much reason for it, and you have taken much 
greater with me, without reason:--so, if you are offended, ought to 
look at the cause, and not at the effect:--then examining yourself, 
that cause will cease, and there will not be any where a more 
accomplished gentleman than my brother.

Sisterly affection, I do assure you, Sir, (unkindly as you have used 
me,) and not the pertness which of late you have been so apt to impute 
to me, is my motive in this hint.  Let me invoke your returning 
kindness, my only brother!  And give me cause, I beseech you, to call 
you my compassionating friend.  For I am, and ever will be,

Your affectionate sister,
CLARISSA HARLOWE.


***


This is my brother's answer.


TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE

I KNOW there will be no end of your impertinent scribble, if I don't 
write to you.  I write therefore: but, without entering into argument 
with such a conceited and pert preacher and questioner, it is, to 
forbid you to plague me with your quaint nonsense.  I know not what 
wit in a woman is good for, but to make her overvalue herself, and 
despise every other person.  Yours, Miss Pert, has set you above your 
duty, and above being taught or prescribed to, either by parents, or 
any body else.  But go on, Miss: your mortification will be the 
greater; that's all, child.  It shall, I assure you, if I can make it 
so, so long as you prefer that villainous Lovelace, (who is justly 
hated by all your family) to every body.  We see by your letter now 
(what we too justly suspected before), most evidently we see, the hold 
he has got of your forward heart.  But the stronger the hold, the 
greater must be the force (and you shall have enough of that) to tear 
such a miscreant from it.  In me, notwithstanding your saucy 
lecturing, and your saucy reflections before, you are sure of a 
friend, as well as of a brother, if it be not your own fault.  But if 
you will still think of such a wretch as that Lovelace, never expect 
either friend or brother in

JA. HARLOWE.


***


I will now give you a copy of my letter to my sister; with her answer.


IN what, my dear Sister, have I offended you, that instead of 
endeavouring to soften my father's anger against me, (as I am sure I 
should have done for you, had my unhappy case been yours,) you should, 
in so hard-hearted a manner, join to aggravate not only his 
displeasure, but my mother's against me.  Make but my case your own, 
my dear Bella; and suppose you were commanded to marry Mr. Lovelace, 
(to whom you are believed to have such an antipathy,) would you not 
think it a very grievous injunction?--Yet cannot your dislike to Mr. 
Lovelace be greater than mine is to Mr. Solmes.  Nor are love and 
hatred voluntary passions.

My brother may perhaps think it a proof of a manly spirit, to shew 
himself an utter stranger to the gentle passions.  We have both heard 
him boast, that he never loved with distinction: and, having 
predominating passions, and checked in his first attempt, perhaps he 
never will.  It is the less wonder, then, raw from the college, so 
lately himself the tutored, that he should set up for a tutor, a 
prescriber to our gentler sex, whose tastes and manners are 
differently formed: for what, according to his account, are colleges, 
but classes of tyrants, from the upper students over the lower, and 
from them to the tutor?--That he, with such masculine passions should 
endeavour to controul and bear down an unhappy sister, in a case where 
his antipathy, and, give me leave to say, his ambition [once you would 
have allowed the latter to be his fault] can be gratified by so doing, 
may not be quite so much to be wondered at--but that a sister should 
give up the cause of a sister, and join with him to set her father and 
mother against her, in a case that might have been her own--indeed, my 
Bella, this is not pretty in you.

There was a time that Mr. Lovelace was thought reclaimable, and when 
it was far from being deemed a censurable view to hope to bring back 
to the paths of virtue and honour, a man of his sense and 
understanding.  I am far from wishing to make the experiment: but 
nevertheless will say, that if I have not a regard for him, the 
disgraceful methods taken to compel me to receive the addresses of 
such a man as Mr. Solmes are enough to induce it.

Do you, my Sister, for one moment, lay aside all prejudice, and 
compare the two men in their births, their educations, their persons, 
their understandings, their manners, their air, and their whole 
deportments; and in their fortunes too, taking in reversions; and then 
judge of both; yet, as I have frequently offered, I will live single 
with all my heart, if that will do.

I cannot thus live in displeasure and disgrace.  I would, if I could, 
oblige all my friends.  But will it be just, will it be honest, to 
marry a man I cannot endure?  If I have not been used to oppose the 
will of my father, but have always delighted to oblige and obey, judge 
of the strength of my antipathy, by the painful opposition I am 
obliged to make, and cannot help it.

Pity then, my dearest Bella, my sister, my friend, my companion, my 
adviser, as you used to be when I was happy, and plead for

Your ever-affectionate,
CL. HARLOWE.


***


TO MISS CLARY HARLOWE

Let it be pretty or not pretty, in your wise opinion, I shall speak my 
mind, I will assure you, both of you and your conduct in relation to 
this detested Lovelace.  You are a fond foolish girl with all your 
wisdom.  Your letter shews that enough in twenty places.  And as to 
your cant of living single, nobody will believe you.  This is one of 
your fetches to avoid complying with your duty, and the will of the 
most indulgent parents in the world, as yours have been to you, I am 
sure--though now they see themselves finely requited for it.

We all, indeed, once thought your temper soft and amiable: but why was 
it?  You never were contradicted before: you had always your own way.  
But no sooner do you meet with opposition in your wishes to throw 
yourself away upon a vile rake, but you shew what you are.  You cannot 
love Mr. Solmes! that's the pretence; but Sister, Sister, let me tell 
you, that is because Lovelace has got into your fond heart:--a wretch 
hated, justly hated, by us all; and who has dipped his hands in the 
blood of your brother: yet him you would make our relation, would you?

I have no patience with you, but for putting the case of my liking 
such a vile wretch as him.  As to the encouragement you pretend he 
received formerly from all our family, it was before we knew him to be 
so vile: and the proofs that had such force upon us, ought to have had 
some upon you:--and would, had you not been a foolish forward girl; as 
on this occasion every body sees you are.

O how you run out in favour of the wretch!--His birth, his education, 
his person, his understanding, his manners, his air, his fortune--
reversions too taken in to augment the surfeiting catalogue!  What a 
fond string of lovesick praises is here!  And yet you would live 
single--Yes, I warrant!--when so many imaginary perfections dance 
before your dazzled eye!--But no more--I only desire, that you will 
not, while you seem to have such an opinion of your wit, think every 
one else a fool; and that you can at pleasure, by your whining 
flourishes, make us all dance after your lead.

Write as often as you will, this shall be the last answer or notice 
you shall have upon this subject from

ARABELLA HARLOWE.


***


I had in readiness a letter for each of my uncles; and meeting in the 
garden a servant of my uncle Harlowe, I gave him to deliver according 
to their respective directions.  If I am to form a judgment by the 
answers I have received from my brother and sister, as above, I must 
not, I doubt, expect any good from those letters.  But when I have 
tried every expedient, I shall have the less to blame myself for, if 
any thing unhappy should fall out.  I will send you copies of both, 
when I shall see what notice they will be thought worthy of, if of 
any.



LETTER XXX

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
SUNDAY NIGHT, MARCH 12.


This man, this Lovelace, gives me great uneasiness.  He is extremely 
bold and rash.  He was this afternoon at our church--in hopes to see 
me, I suppose: and yet, if he had such hopes, his usual intelligence 
must have failed him.

Shorey was at church; and a principal part of her observation was upon 
his haughty and proud behaviour when he turned round in the pew where 
he sat to our family-pew.  My father and both my uncles were there; so 
were my mother and sister.  My brother happily was not.--They all came 
home in disorder.  Nor did the congregation mind any body but him; it 
being his first appearance there since the unhappy rencounter.

What did the man come for, if he intended to look challenge and 
defiance, as Shorey says he did, and as others, it seems, thought he 
did, as well as she?  Did he come for my sake; and, by behaving in 
such a manner to those present of my family, imagine he was doing me 
either service or pleasure?--He knows how they hate him: nor will he 
take pains, would pains do, to obviate their hatred.

You and I, my dear, have often taken notice of his pride; and you have 
rallied him upon it; and instead of exculpating himself, he has owned 
it: and by owning it he has thought he has done enough.

For my own part, I thought pride in his case an improper subject for 
raillery.--People of birth and fortune to be proud, is so needless, so 
mean a vice!--If they deserve respect, they will have it, without 
requiring it.  In other words, for persons to endeavour to gain 
respect by a haughty behaviour, is to give a proof that they mistrust 
their own merit: To make confession that they know that their actions 
will not attract it.--Distinction or quality may be prided in by those 
to whom distinction or quality is a new thing.  And then the 
reflection and contempt which such bring upon themselves by it, is a 
counter-balance.

Such added advantages, too, as this man has in his person and mien: 
learned also, as they say he is: Such a man to be haughty, to be 
imperious!--The lines of his own face at the same time condemning him
--how wholly inexcusable!--Proud of what?  Not of doing well: the only 
justifiable pride.--Proud of exterior advantages!--Must not one be led 
by such a stop-short pride, as I may call it, in him or her who has 
it, to mistrust the interior?  Some people may indeed be afraid, that 
if they did not assume, they would be trampled upon.  A very narrow 
fear, however, since they trample upon themselves, who can fear this.  
But this man must be secure that humility would be an ornament to him.

He has talents indeed: but those talents and his personal advantages 
have been snares to him.  It is plain they have.  And this shews, 
that, weighed in an equal balance, he would be found greatly wanting.

Had my friends confided as they did at first, in that discretion which 
they do not accuse me of being defective in, I dare say I should have 
found him out: and then should have been as resolute to dismiss him, 
as I was to dismiss others, and as I am never to have Mr. Solmes. 
O that they did but know my heart!--It shall sooner burst, than 
voluntarily, uncompelled, undriven, dictate a measure that shall cast 
a slur either upon them, or upon my sex.

Excuse me, my dear friend, for these grave soliloquies, as I may call 
them.  How have I run from reflection to reflection!--But the occasion 
is recent--They are all in commotion below upon it.

Shorey says, that Mr. Lovelace watched my mother's eye, and bowed to 
her: and she returned the compliment.  He always admired my mother.  
She would not, I believe, have hated him, had she not been bid to hate 
him: and had it not been for the rencounter between him and her only 
son.

Dr. Lewen was at church; and observing, as every one else did, the 
disorder into which Mr. Lovelace's appearance* had put all our family, 
was so good as to engage him in conversation, when the service was 
over, till they were all gone to their coaches.


* See Letter XXXI, for Mr. Lovelace's account of his behaviour and 
intentions in his appearance at church.


My uncles had my letters in the morning.  They, as well as my father, 
are more and more incensed against me, it seems.  Their answers, if 
they vouchsafe to answer me, will demonstrate, I doubt not, the 
unseasonableness of this rash man's presence at our church.

They are angry also, as I understand, with my mother, for returning 
his compliment.  What an enemy is hatred, even to the common forms of 
civility! which, however, more distinguish the payer of a compliment, 
than the receiver.  But they all see, they say, that there is but one 
way to put an end to his insults.  So I shall suffer: And in what will 
the rash man have benefited himself, or mended his prospects?

I am extremely apprehensive that this worse than ghost-like appearance 
of his, bodes some still bolder step.  If he come hither (and very 
desirous he is of my leave to come) I am afraid there will be murder.  
To avoid that, if there were no other way, I would most willingly be 
buried alive.

They are all in consultation--upon my letters, I suppose--so they were 
in the morning; which occasioned my uncles to be at our church.  I 
will send you the copies of those letters, as I promised in my last, 
when I see whether I can give you their answers with them.  This 
letter is all--I cannot tell what--the effect of apprehension and 
displeasure at the man who has occasioned my apprehensions.  Six lines 
would have contained all that is in it to the purpose of my story.

CL. H.



LETTER XXXI

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
MONDAY, MARCH 13.


In vain dost thou* and thy compeers press me to go to town, while I am 
in such an uncertainty as I am in at present with this proud beauty.  
All the ground I have hitherto gained with her is entirely owing to 
her concern for the safety of people whom I have reason to hate.

*These gentlemen affected what they called the Roman style (to wit, 
the thee and the thou) in their letters: and it was an agreed rule 
with them, to take in good part whatever freedoms they treated each 
other with, if the passages were written in that style.

Write then, thou biddest me, if I will not come.  That, indeed, I can 
do; and as well without a subject, as with one.  And what follows 
shall be a proof of it.

The lady's malevolent brother has now, as I told thee at M. Hall, 
introduced another man; the most unpromising in his person and 
qualities, the most formidable in his offers, that has yet appeared.

This man has by his proposals captivated every soul of the Harlowes--
Soul! did I say--There is not a soul among them but my charmer's: and 
she, withstanding them all, is actually confined, and otherwise 
maltreated by a father the most gloomy and positive; at the 
instigation of a brother the most arrogant and selfish.  But thou 
knowest their characters; and I will not therefore sully my paper with 
them.

But is it not a confounded thing to be in love with one, who is the 
daughter, the sister, the niece, of a family, I must eternally 
despise?  And, the devil of it, that love increasing with her--what 
shall I call it?--'Tis not scorn:--'Tis not pride:--'Tis not the 
insolence of an adored beauty:--But 'tis to virtue, it seems, that my 
difficulties are owin; and I pay for not being a sly sinner, an 
hypocrite; for being regardless of my reputation; for permittin 
slander to open its mouth against me.  But is it necessary for such a 
one as I, who have been used to carry all before me, upon my own 
terms--I, who never inspired a fear, that had not a discernibly-
predominant mixture of love in it, to be a hypocrite?--Well says the 
poet:

	He who seems virtuous does but act a part;
	And shews not his own nature, but his art.

Well, but it seems I must practise for this art, if it would succeed 
with this truly-admirable creature; but why practise for it?--Cannot I 
indeed reform?--I have but one vice;--Have I, Jack?--Thou knowest my 
heart, if any man living does.  As far as I know it myself, thou 
knowest it.  But 'tis a cursed deceiver; for it has many a time 
imposed upon its master--Master, did I say?  That I am not now; nor 
have I been from the moment I beheld this angel of a woman.  Prepared 
indeed as I was by her character before I saw her: For what a mind 
must that be, which, though not virtuous itself, admires not virtue in 
another?--My visit to Arabella, owing to a mistake of the sister, into 
which, as thou hast heard me say, I was led by the blundering uncle; 
who was to introduce me (but lately come from abroad) to the divinity, 
as I thought; but, instead of her, carried me to a mere mortal.  And 
much difficulty had I, so fond and forward my lady! to get off without 
forfeiting all with a family I intended should give me a goddess.

I have boasted that I was once in love before:--and indeed I thought I 
was.  It was in my early manhood--with that quality jilt, whose 
infidelity I have vowed to revenge upon as many of the sex as shall 
come into my power.  I believe, in different climes, I have already 
sacrificed an hecatomb to my Nemesis, in pursuance of this vow.  But 
upon recollecting what I was then, and comparing it with what I find 
myself now, I cannot say that I was ever in love before.

What was it then, dost thou ask me, since the disappointment had such 
effects upon me, when I found myself jilted, that I was hardly kept in 
my senses?--Why, I'll grant thee what, as near as I can remember; for 
it was a great while ago:--It was--Egad, Jack, I can hardly tell what 
it was--but a vehement aspiration after a novelty, I think.  Those 
confounded poets, with their terrenely-celestial descriptions, did as 
much with me as the lady: they fired my imagination, and set me upon a 
desire to become a goddess-maker.  I must needs try my new-fledged 
pinions in sonnet, elogy, and madrigal.  I must have a Cynthia, a 
Stella, a Sacharissa, as well as the best of them: darts and flames, 
and the devil knows what, must I give to my cupid.  I must create 
beauty, and place it where nobody else could find it: and many a time 
have I been at a loss for a subject, when my new-created goddess has 
been kinder than it was proper for my plaintive sonnet that she should 
be.

Then I found I had a vanity of another sort in my passion: I found 
myself well received among the women in general; and I thought it a 
pretty lady-like tyranny [I was then very young, and very vain!] to 
single out some one of the sex, to make half a score jealous.  And I 
can tell thee, it had its effect: for many an eye have I made to 
sparkle with rival indignation: many a cheek glow; and even many a fan 
have I caused to be snapped at a sister-beauty; accompanied with a 
reflection perhaps at being seen alone with a wild young fellow who 
could not be in private with both at once.

In short, Jack, it was more pride than love, as I now find it, that 
put me upon making such a confounded rout about losing that noble 
varletess.  I thought she lo9ved me at least as well as I believed I 
loved her: nay, I had the vanity to suppose she could not help it.  My 
friends were pleased with my choice.  They wanted me to be shackled: 
for early did they doubt my morals, as to the sex.  They saw, that the 
dancing, the singing, the musical ladies were all fond of my company: 
For who [I am in a humour to be vain, I think!]--for who danced, who 
sung, who touched the string, whatever the instrument, with a better 
grace than thy friend?

I have no notion of playing the hypocrite so egregiously, as to 
pretend to be blind to qualifications which every one sees and 
acknowledges.  Such praise-begetting hypocrisy!  Such affectedly 
disclaimed attributes!  Such contemptible praise-traps!--But yet, 
shall my vanity extend only to personals, such as the gracefulness of 
dress, my debonnaire, and my assurance?--Self-taught, self-acquired, 
these!--For my parts, I value not myself upon them.  Thou wilt say, I 
have no cause.--Perhaps not.  But if I had any thing valuable as to 
intellectuals, those are not my own; and to be proud of what a man is 
answerable for the abuse of, and has no merit in the right use of, is 
to strut, like the jay, in borrowed plumage.

But to return to my fair jilt.  I could not bear, that a woman, who 
was the first that had bound me in silken fetters [they were not iron 
ones, like those I now wear] should prefer a coronet to me: and when 
the bird was flown, I set more value upon it, that when I had it safe 
in my cage, and could visit in when I pleased.

But now am I indeed in love.  I can think of nothing, of nobody, but 
the divine Clarissa Harlowe--Harlowe!--How that hated word sticks in 
my throat--But I shall give her for it the name of Love.*


* Lovelace.


	CLARISSA! O there's music in the name,
	That, soft'ning me to infant tenderness,
	Makes my heart spring like the first leaps of life!

But couldst thou have believed that I, who think it possible for me to 
favour as much as I can be favoured; that I, who for this charming 
creature think of foregoing the life of honour for the life of 
shackles; could adopt these over-tender lines of Otway?

I checked myself, and leaving the first three lines of the following 
of Dryden to the family of whiners, find the workings of the passion 
in my stormy soul better expressed by the three last:

	Love various minds does variously inspire:
	He stirs in gentle natures gentle fires;
	Like that of incense on the alter laid.

	But raging flames tempestuous souls invade:
	A fire which ev'ry windy passion blows;
	With pride it mounts, and with revenge it glows.

And with REVENGE it shall glow!--For, dost thou think, that if it were 
not from the hope, that this stupid family are all combined to do my 
work for me, I would bear their insults?--Is it possible to imagine, 
that I would be braved as I am braved, threatened as I am threatened, 
by those who are afraid to see me; and by this brutal brother, too, to 
whom I gave a life; [a life, indeed, not worth my taking!] had I not a 
greater pride in knowing that by means of his very spy upon me, I am 
playing him off as I please; cooling or inflaming his violent passions 
as may best suit my purposes; permitting so much to be revealed of my 
life and actions, and intentions, as may give him such a confidence in 
his double-faced agent, as shall enable me to dance his employer upon 
my own wires?

This it is that makes my pride mount above my resentment.  By this 
engine, whose springs I am continually oiling, I play them all off.  
The busy old tarpaulin uncle I make but my ambassador to Queen 
Anabella Howe, to engage her (for example-sake to her princessly 
daughter) to join in their cause, and to assert an authority they are 
resolved, right or wrong, (or I could do nothing,) to maintain.

And what my motive, dost thou ask?  No less than this, That my beloved 
shall find no protection out of my family; for, if I know hers, fly 
she must, or have the man she hates.  This, therefore, if I take my 
measures right, and my familiar fail me not, will secure her mine, in 
spite of them all; in spite of her own inflexible heart: mine, without 
condition; without reformation-promises; without the necessity of a 
siege of years, perhaps; and to be even then, after wearing the guise 
of merit-doubting hypocrisy, at an uncertainty, upon a probation 
unapproved of.  Then shall I have all the rascals and rascalesses of 
the family come creeping to me: I prescribing to them; and bringing 
that sordidly imperious brother to kneel at the footstool of my 
throne. 

All my fear arises from the little hold I have in the heart of this 
charming frost-piece: such a constant glow upon her lovely features: 
eyes so sparkling: limbs so divinely turned: health so florid: youth 
so blooming: air so animated--to have an heart so impenetrable: and I, 
the hitherto successful Lovelace, the addresser--How can it be?  Yet 
there are people, and I have talked with some of them, who remember 
that she was born.  Her nurse Norton boasts of her maternal offices in 
her earliest infancy; and in her education gradatim.  So there is full 
proof, that she came not from above all at once an angel! How then can 
she be so impenetrable?

But here's her mistake; nor will she be cured of it--She takes the man 
she calls her father [her mother had been faultless, had she not been 
her father's wife]; she takes the men she calls her uncles; the fellow 
she calls her brother; and the poor contemptible she calls her sister; 
to be her father, to be her uncles, her brother, her sister; and that, 
as such, she owes to some of them reverence, to others respect, let 
them treat her ever so cruelly!--Sordid ties!--Mere cradle 
prejudices!--For had they not been imposed upon her by Nature, when 
she was in a perverse humour, or could she have chosen her relations, 
would any of these have been among them?

How my heart rises at her preference of them to me, when she is 
convinced of their injustice to me!  Convinced, that the alliance 
would do honour to them all--herself excepted; to whom every one owes 
honour; and from whom the most princely family might receive it.  But 
how much more will my heart rise with indignation against her, if I 
find she hesitates but one moment (however persecuted) about 
preferring me to the man she avowedly hates!  But she cannot surely be 
so mean as to purchase her peace with them at so dear a rate.  She 
cannot give a sanction to projects formed in malice, and founded in a 
selfishness (and that at her own expense) which she has spirit enough 
to despise in others; and ought to disavow, that we may not think her 
a Harlowe.

By this incoherent ramble thou wilt gather, that I am not likely to 
come up in haste; since I must endeavour first to obtain some 
assurance from the beloved of my soul, that I shall not be sacrificed 
to such a wretch as Solmes!  Woe be to the fair one, if ever she be 
driven into my power (for I despair of a voluntary impulse in my 
favour) and I find a difficulty in obtaining this security.

That her indifference to me is not owing to the superior liking she 
has for any other, is what rivets my chains.  But take care, fair one; 
take care, O thou most exalted of female minds, and loveliest of 
persons, how thou debasest thyself by encouraging such a competition 
as thy sordid relations have set on foot in mere malice to me!--Thou 
wilt say I rave.  And so I do:

	Perdition catch my soul, but I do love her.

Else, could I hear the perpetual revilings of her implacable family?--
Else, could I basely creep about--not her proud father's house--but 
his paddock and garden walls?--Yet (a quarter of a mile distance 
between us) not hoping to behold the least glimpse of her shadow?--
Else, should I think myself repaid, amply repaid, if the fourth, 
fifth, or sixth midnight stroll, through unfrequented paths, and over 
briery enclosures, affords me a few cold lines; the even expected 
purport only to let me know, that she values the most worthless person 
of her very worthless family, more than she values me; and that she 
would not write at all, but to induce me to bear insults, which unman 
me to bear?--My lodging in the intermediate way at a wretched 
alehouse; disguised like an inmate of it: accommodations equally vile, 
as those I met with in my Westphalian journey.  'Tis well, that the 
necessity for all this arise not from scorn and tyranny! but is first 
imposed upon herself!

But was ever hero in romance (fighting with giants and dragons 
excepted) called upon to harder trials?--Fortune and family, and 
reversionary grandeur on my side!  Such a wretched fellow my 
competitor!--Must I not be deplorably in love, that can go through 
these difficulties, encounter these contempts?--By my soul, I am half 
ashamed of myself: I, who am perjured too, by priority of obligation, 
if I am faithful to any woman in the world?

And yet, why say I, I am half ashamed?--Is it not a glory to love her 
whom every one who sees her either loves, or reveres, or both?  Dryden 
says,

	The cause of love can never be assign'd:
	'Tis in no face;--but in the lover's mind.

--And Cowley thus addresses beauty as a mere imaginary:

	Beauty! thou wild fantastic ape,
	Who dost in ev'ry country change thy shape:
	Here black; there brown; here tawny; and there white!
	Thou flatt'rer, who comply'st with ev'ry sight!
	Who hast no certain what, nor where.

But both these, had they been her contemporaries, and known her, would 
have confessed themselves mistaken: and, taking together person, mind, 
and behaviour, would have acknowledged the justice of the universal 
voice in her favour.

	--Full many a lady
	I've ey'd with best regard; and many a time
	Th' harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
	Brought my too-diligent ear.  For sev'ral virtues
	Have I liked several women.  Never any
	With so full a soul, but some defect in her
	Did quarrel with the noblest grace she ow'd,
	And put it to the foil.  But SHE!--O SHE!
	So perfect and so peerless is created,
	Of ev'ry creature's best.

	SHAKESP.	

Thou art curious to know, if I have not started a new game?  If it be 
possible for so universal a lover to be confined so long to one 
object?--Thou knowest nothing of this charming creature, that thou 
canst put such questions to me; or thinkest thou knowest me better 
than thou dost.  All that's excellent in her sex is this lady!--Until 
by MATRIMONIAL	or EQUAL intimacies, I have found her less than 
angel, it is impossible to think of any other.  Then there are so many 
stimulatives to such a spirit as mine in this affair, besides love: 
such a field of stratagem and contrivance, which thou knowest to be 
the delight of my heart.  Then the rewarding end of all!--To carry off 
such a girl as this, in spite of all her watchful and implacable 
friends; and in spite of a prudence and reserve that I never met with 
in any of the sex;--what a triumph!--What a triumph over the whole 
sex!--And then such a revenge to gratify; which is only at present 
politically reined in, eventually to break forth with greater fury--Is 
it possible, thinkest thou, that there can be room for a thought that 
is not of her, and devoted to her?


***


By the devices I have this moment received, I have reason to think, 
that I shall have occasion for thee here.  Hold thyself in readiness 
to come down upon the first summons. 

Let Belton, and Mowbray, and Tourville, likewise prepare themselves.  
I have a great mind to contrive a method to send James Harlowe to 
travel for improvement.  Never was there a booby 'squire that more 
wanted it.  Contrive it, did I say?  I have already contrived it; 
could I but put it in execution without being suspected to have a hand 
in it.  This I am resolved upon; if I have not his sister, I will have 
him.

But be this as it may, there is a present likelihood of room for 
glorious mischief.  A confederacy had been for some time formed 
against me; but the uncles and the nephew are now to be double-
servanted [single-servanted they were before]; and those servants are 
to be double armed when they attend their masters abroad.  This 
indicates their resolute enmity to me, and as resolute favour to 
Solmes.

The reinforced orders for this hostile apparatus are owing it seems to 
a visit I made yesterday to their church.--A good place I thought to 
begin a reconciliation in; supposing the heads of the family to be 
christians, and that they meant something by their prayers.  My hopes 
were to have an invitation (or, at least, to gain a pretence) to 
accompany home the gloomy sire; and so get an opportunity to see my 
goddess: for I believed they durst not but be civil to me, at least.  
But they were filled with terror it seems at my entrance; a terror 
they could not get over.  I saw it indeed in their countenances; and 
that they all expected something extraordinary to follow.--And so it 
should have done, had I been more sure than I am of their daughter's 
favour.  Yet not a hair of any of their stupid heads do I intend to 
hurt.

You shall all have your directions in writing, if there be occasion.  
But after all, I dare say there will be no need but to shew your faces 
in my company.

Such faces never could four men shew--Mowbray's so fierce and so 
fighting: Belton's so pert and so pimply: Tourville's so fair and so 
foppish: thine so rough and so resolute: and I your leader!--What 
hearts, although meditating hostility, must those be which we shall 
not appall?--Each man occasionally attended by a servant or two, long 
ago chosen for qualities resembling those of his master.

Thus, Jack, as thou desirest, have I written.--Written upon something; 
upon nothing; upon REVENGE, which I love; upon LOVE, which I hate, 
heartily hate, because 'tis my master: and upon the devil knows what 
besides: for looking back, I am amazed at the length of it.  Thou 
mayest read it: I would not for a king's ransom.  But so as I do but 
write, thou sayest thou wilt be pleased.

Be pleased then.  I command thee to be pleased: if not for the 
writer's or written sake, for thy word's sake.  And so in the royal 
style (for am I not likely to be thy king and thy emperor in the great 
affair before us?) I bid thee very heartily

Farewell.



LETTER XXXII

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
TUESDAY, MARCH 14.


I now send you copies of my letters to my uncles: with their answers.  
Be pleased to return the latter by the first deposit.  I leave them 
for you to make remarks upon.  I shall make none.


TO JOHN HARLOWE, ESQ.
SAT. MARCH 11.

Allow me, my honoured second Papa, as in my happy days you taught me 
to call you, to implore your interest with my Papa, to engage him to 
dispense with a command, which, if insisted upon, will deprive me of 
my free-will, and make me miserable for my whole life.

For my whole life! let me repeat: Is that a small point, my dear 
Uncle, to give up?  Am not I to live with the man?  Is any body else?  
Shall I not therefore be allowed to judge for myself, whether I can, 
or cannot, live happily with him?

Should it be ever so unhappily, will it be prudence to complain or 
appeal?  If it were, to whom could I appeal with effect against a 
husband?  And would not the invincible and avowed dislike I have for 
him at setting out, seem to justify any ill usage from him, in that 
state, were I to be ever so observant of him?  And if I were to be at 
all observant of him, it must be from fear, not love.

Once more, let me repeat, That this is not a small point to give up: 
and that it is for life.  Why, I pray you, good Sir, should I be made 
miserable for life?  Why should I be deprived of all comfort, but that 
which the hope that it would be a very short one, would afford me?

Marriage is a very solemn engagement, enough to make a young 
creature's heart ache, with the best prospects, when she thinks 
seriously of it!--To be given up to a strange man; to be engrafted 
into a strange family; to give up her very name, as a mark of her 
becoming his absolute and dependent property; to be obliged to prefer 
this strange man to father, mother--to every body:--and his humours to 
all her own--or to contend, perhaps, in breach of avowed duty, for 
every innocent instance of free-will.  To go no where; to make 
acquaintance; to give up acquaintance; to renounce even the strictest 
friendships, perhaps; all at his pleasure, whether she thinks it 
reasonable to do so or not.  Surely, Sir, a young creature ought not 
to be obliged to make all these sacrifices but for such a man as she 
can love.  If she be, how sad must be the case!  How miserable the 
life, if it can be called life!

I wish I could obey you all.  What a pleasure would it be to me, if I 
could!--Marry first, and love will come after, was said by one of my 
dearest friends!  But this is a shocking assertion.  A thousand thing 
may happen to make that state but barely tolerable, where it is 
entered into with mutual affections: What must it then be, where the 
husband can have no confidence in the love of his wife: but has reason 
rather to question it, from the preference he himself believes she 
would have given to somebody else, had she had her own option?  What 
doubts, what jealousies, what want of tenderness, what unfavourable 
prepossessions, will there be, in a matrimony thus circumstanced!  How 
will every look, every action, even the most innocent, be liable to 
misconstruction!--While, on the other hand, an indifference, a 
carelessness to oblige, may take place; and fear only can constrain 
even an appearance of what ought to be the effect of undisguised love!

Think seriously of these things, dear, good Sir, and represent them to 
my father in that strong light which the subject will bear; but in 
which my sex, and my tender years and inexperience, will not permit me 
to paint it; and use your powerful interest, that your poor niece may 
not be consigned to a misery so durable.

I offered to engage not to marry at all, if that condition may be 
accepted.  What a disgrace is it to me to be thus sequestered from 
company, thus banished my papa's and mamma's presence; thus slighted 
and deserted by you, Sir, and my other kind uncle!  And to be hindered 
from attending at that public worship, which, were I out of the way of 
my duty, would be most likely to reduce me into the right path again!
--Is this the way, Sir; can this be thought to be the way to be taken 
with a free and open spirit?  May not this strange method rather 
harden than convince?  I cannot bear to live in disgrace thus.  The 
very servants so lately permitted to be under my own direction, hardly 
daring to speak to me; my own servant discarded with high marks of 
undeserved suspicion and displeasure, and my sister's maid set over 
me.

The matter may be too far pushed.--Indeed it may.--And then, perhaps, 
every one will be sorry for their parts in it.

May I be permitted to mention an expedient?--'If I am to be watched, 
banished, and confined; suppose, Sir, it were to be at your house?'--
Then the neighbouring gentry will the less wonder, that the person of 
whom they used to think so favourably, appear not at church here; and 
that she received not their visits.

I hope there can be no objection to this.  You used to love to have me 
with you, Sir, when all went happily with me: And will you not now 
permit me, in my troubles, the favour of your house, till all this 
displeasure is overblown?--Upon my word, Sir, I will not stir out of 
doors, if you require the contrary of me: nor will I see any body, 
but whom you will allow me to see; provided Mr. Solmes be not brought 
to persecute me there.

Procure, then, this favour for me; if you cannot procure the still 
greater, that of a happy reconciliation (which nevertheless I presume 
to hope for, if you will be so good as to plead for me); and you will 
then add to those favours and to that indulgence, which have bound me, 
and will for ever bind me to be

Your dutiful and obliged niece,
CLARISSA HARLOWE.


THE ANSWER


SUNDAY NIGHT.

MY DEAR NIECE,

It grieves me to be forced to deny you any thing you ask.  Yet it must 
be so; for unless you can bring your mind to oblige us in this one 
point, in which our promises and honour were engaged before we 
believed there could be so sturdy an opposition, you must never expect 
to be what you have been to us all.

In short, Niece, we are in an embattled phalanx.  Your reading makes 
you a stranger to nothing but what you should be most acquainted with.  
So you will see by that expression, that we are not to be pierced by 
your persuasions, and invincible persistence.  We have agreed all to 
be moved, or none; and not to comply without one another.  So you know 
your destiny; and have nothing to do but to yield to it.

Let me tell you, the virtue of obedience lies not in obliging when you 
can be obliged again.  But give up an inclination, and there is some 
merit in that.

As to your expedient; you shall not come to my house, Miss Clary; 
though this is a prayer I little thought I ever should have denied 
you: for were you to keep your word as to seeing nobody but whom we 
please, yet can you write to somebody else, and receive letters from 
him.  This we too well know you can, and have done--more is the shame 
and the pity!

You offer to live single, Miss--we wished you married: but because you 
may not have the man your heart is set upon, why, truly, you will have 
nobody we shall recommend: and as we know, that somehow or other you 
correspond with him, or at least did as long as you could; and as he 
defies us all, and would not dare to do so, if he were not sure of you 
in spite of us all, (which is not a little vexatious to us, you must 
think,) we are resolved to frustrate him, and triumph over him, rather 
than that he should triumph over us: that's one word for all.  So 
expect not any advocateship from me: I will not plead for you; and 
that's enough.  From

Your displeased uncle,
JOHN HARLOWE.

P.S. For the rest I refer to my brother Antony.


***


TO ANTONY HARLOWE, ESQ.
SATURDAY, MARCH 11.

HONOURED SIR, 

As you have thought fit to favour Mr. Solmes with your particular 
recommendation, and was very earnest in his behalf, ranking him (as 
you told me, upon introducing him to me) among your select friends; 
and expecting my regards to him accordingly; I beg your patience, 
while I offer a few things, out of many that I could offer, to your 
serious consideration, on occasion of his address to me, if I am to 
use that word.

I am charged with prepossession in another person's favour.  You will 
be pleased, Sir, to remember, that till my brother returned from 
Scotland, that other person was not absolutely discouraged, nor was I 
forbid to receive his visits.  I believe it will not be pretended, 
that in birth, education, or personal endowments, a comparison can be 
made between the two.  And only let me ask you, Sir, if the one would 
have been thought of for me, had he not made such offers, as, upon my 
word, I think, I ought not in justice to accept of, nor he to propose: 
offers, which if he had not made, I dare say, my papa would not have 
required them of him.

But the one, it seems, has many faults:--Is the other faultless?--The 
principal thing objected to Mr. Lovelace (and a very inexcusable one) 
is that he is immoral in his loves--Is not the other in his hatreds?--
Nay, as I may say, in his loves too (the object only differing) if the 
love of money be the root of all evil.

But, Sir, if I am prepossessed, what has Mr. Solmes to hope for?--Why 
should he persevere?  What must I think of the man who would wish me 
to be his wife against my inclination?--And is it not a very harsh 
thing for my friends to desire to see me married to one I cannot love, 
when they will not be persuaded but that there is one whom I do love?

Treated as I am, now is the time for me to speak out or never.--Let me 
review what it is Mr. Solmes depends upon on this occasion.  Does he 
believe, that the disgrace which I supper on his account, will give 
him a merit with me?  Does he think to win my esteem, through my 
uncles' sternness to me; by my brother's contemptuous usage; by my 
sister's unkindness; by being denied to visit, or be visited; and to 
correspond with my chosen friend, although a person of unexceptionable 
honour and prudence, and of my own sex; my servant to be torn from me, 
and another servant set over me; to be confined, like a prisoner, to 
narrow and disgraceful limits, in order avowedly to mortify me, and to 
break my spirit; to be turned out of that family-management which I 
loved, and had the greater pleasure in it, because it was an ease, as 
I thought, to my mamma, and what my sister chose not; and yet, though 
time hangs heavy upon my hands, to be so put out of my course, that I 
have as little inclination as liberty to pursue any of my choice 
delights?--Are these steps necessary to reduce me to a level so low, 
as to make me a fit wife for this man?--Yet these are all he can have 
to trust to.  And if his reliance is on these measures, I would have 
him to know, that he mistakes meekness and gentleness of disposition 
for servility and baseness of heart.

I beseech you, Sir, to let the natural turn and bent of his mind and 
my mind be considered: What are his qualities, by which he would hope 
to win my esteem?--Dear, dear Sir, if I am to be compelled, let it be 
in favour of a man that can read and write--that can teach me 
something: For what a husband must that man make, who can do nothing 
but command; and needs himself the instruction he should be qualified 
to give?

I may be conceited, Sir; I may be vain of my little reading; of my 
writing; as of late I have more than once been told I am.  But, Sir, 
the more unequal the proposed match, if so: the better opinion I have 
of myself, the worse I must have of him; and the more unfit are we for 
each other.

Indeed, Sir, I must say, I thought my friends had put a higher value 
upon me.  My brother pretended once, that it was owing to such value, 
that Mr. Lovelace's address was prohibited.--Can this be; and such a 
man as Mr. Solmes be intended for me?

As to his proposed settlements, I hope I shall not incur your great 
displeasure, if I say, what all who know me have reason to think (and 
some have upbraided me for), that I despise those motives.  Dear, dear 
Sir, what are settlements to one who has as much of her own as she 
wishes for?--Who has more in her own power, as a single person, than 
it is probable she would be permitted to have at her disposal, as a 
wife?--Whose expenses and ambition are moderate; and who, if she had 
superfluities, would rather dispense them to the necessitous, than lay 
them by her useless?  If then such narrow motives have so little 
weight with me for my own benefit, shall the remote and uncertain view 
of family-aggrandizements, and that in the person of my brother and 
his descendents, be thought sufficient to influence me?

Has the behaviour of that brother to me of late, or his consideration 
for the family (which had so little weight with him, that he could 
choose to hazard a life so justly precious as an only son's, rather 
than not ratify passions which he is above attempting to subdue, and, 
give me leave to say, has been too much indulged in, either with 
regard to his own good, or the peace of any body related to him;) Has 
his behaviour, I say, deserved of me in particular, that I should make 
a sacrifice of my temporal (and, who knows? of my eternal) happiness, 
to promote a plan formed upon chimerical, at least upon unlikely, 
contingencies; as I will undertake to demonstrate, if I may be 
permitted to examine it?

I am afraid you will condemn my warmth: But does not the occasion 
require it?  To the want of a greater degree of earnestness in my 
opposition, it seems, it is owing, that such advances have been made, 
as have been made.  Then, dear Sir, allow something, I beseech you, 
for a spirit raised and embittered by disgraces, which (knowing my own 
heart) I am confident to say, are unmerited.

But why have I said so much, in answer to the supposed charge of 
prepossession, when I have declared to my mamma, as now, Sir, I do to 
you, that if it be not insisted upon that I shall marry any other 
person, particularly this Mr. Solmes, I will enter into any 
engagements never to have the other, nor any man else, without their 
consents; that is to say, without the consents of my father and my 
mother, and of you my uncle, and my elder uncle, and my cousin Morden, 
as he is one of the trustees for my grandfather's bounty to me?--As to 
my brother indeed, I cannot say, that his treatment of me has been of 
late so brotherly, as to entitle him to more than civility from me: 
and for this, give me leave to add, he would be very much my debtor.

If I have not been explicit enough in declaring my dislike to Mr. 
Solmes (that the prepossession which is charged upon me may not be 
supposed to influence me against him) I do absolutely declare, That 
were there no such man as Mr. Lovelace in the world, I would not have 
Mr. Solmes.  It is necessary, in some one of my letters to my dear 
friends, that I should write so clearly as to put this matter out of 
all doubt: and to whom can I better address myself with an 
explicitness that can admit of no mistake, than to that uncle who 
professes the highest regard for plain-dealing and sincerity?

Let me, for these reasons, be still more particular in some of my 
exceptions to him.

Mr. Solmes appears to me (to all the world, indeed) to have a very 
narrow mind, and no great capacity: he is coarse and indelicate; as 
rough in his manners as in his person: he is not only narrow, but 
covetous: being possessed of great wealth, he enjoys it not; nor has 
the spirit to communicate to a distress of any kind.  Does not his own 
sister live unhappily, for want of a little of his superfluities?  And 
suffers not he his aged uncle, the brother of his own mother, to owe 
to the generosity of strangers the poor subsistence he picks up from 
half-a-dozen families?--You know, Sir, my open, free, communicative 
temper: how unhappy must I be, circumscribed in his narrow, selfish 
circle! out of which being with-held by this diabolical parsimony, he 
dare no more stir, than a conjurer out of his; nor would let me.

Such a man, as this, love!--Yes, perhaps he may, my grandfather's 
estate; which he has told several persons (and could not resist 
hinting the same thing tome, with that sort of pleasure which a low 
mind takes, when it intimates its own interest as a sufficient motive 
for it to expect another's favour) lies so extremely convenient for 
him, that it would double the value of a considerable part of his own.  
That estate, and an alliance which would do credit to his obscurity 
and narrowness, they make him think he can love, and induce him to 
believe he does: but at most, he is but a second-place love.  Riches 
were, are, and always will be, his predominant passion.  His were left 
him by a miser, on this very account: and I must be obliged to forego 
all the choice delights of my life, and be as mean as he, or else be 
quite unhappy.  Pardon, Sir, this severity of expression--one is apt 
to say more than one would of a person one dislikes, when more is said 
in his favour than he can possibly deserve; and when he is urged to my 
acceptance with so much vehemence, that there is no choice left me.

Whether these things be perfectly so, or not, while I think they are, 
it is impossible I should ever look upon Mr. Solmes in the light he is 
offered to me.  Nay, were he to be proved ten times better than I have 
represented him, and sincerely think him; yet would he be still ten 
times more disagreeable to me than any other man I know in the world.  
Let me therefore beseech you, Sir, to become an advocate for your 
niece, that she may not be made a victim to a man so highly disgustful 
to her.

You and my other uncle can do a great deal for me, if you please, with 
my papa.  Be persuaded, Sir, that I am not governed by obstinacy in 
this case; but by aversion; an aversion I cannot overcome: for, if I 
have but endeavoured to reason with myself, (out of regard to the duty 
I owe to my father's will,) my heart has recoiled, and I have been 
averse to myself, for offering but to argue with myself, in behalf of 
a man who, in the light he appears to me, has no one merit; and who, 
knowing this aversion, could not persevere as he does, if he had the 
spirit of a man.

If, Sir, you can think of the contents of this letter reasonable, I 
beseech you to support them with your interest.  If not--I shall be 
most unhappy!--Nevertheless, it is but just in me so to write, as that 
Mr. Solmes may know what he has to trust to.

Forgive, dear Sir, this tedious letter; and suffer it to have weight 
with you; and you will for ever oblige

Your dutiful and affectionate niece,

CL. HARLOWE.


***


MR. ANTONY HARLOWE, TO MISS CL. HARLOWE

NIECE CLARY,

You had better not write to us, or to any of us.  To me, particularly, 
you had better never to have set pen to paper, on the subject whereon 
you have written.  He that is first in his own cause, saith the wise 
man, seemeth just: but his neighbour cometh and searcheth him.  And 
so, in this respect, I will be your neighbour: for I will search your 
heart to the bottom; that is to say, if your letter be written from 
your heart.  Yet do I know what a task I have undertaken, because of 
the knack you are noted for at writing.  But in defence of a father's 
authority, in behalf of the good, and honour, and prosperity of the 
family one comes of, what a hard thing it would be, if one could not 
beat down all the arguments a rebel child (how loth I am to write down 
that word of Miss Clary Harlowe!) can bring, in behalf of her 
obstinacy!

In the first place, don't you declare (and that contrary to your 
declarations to your mother, remember that, girl!) that you prefer the 
man we all hate, and who hates us as bad!--Then what a character have 
you given of a worthy man!  I wonder you dare write so freely of one 
we all respect--but possibly it may be for that very reason.

How you begin your letter!--Because I value Mr. Solmes as my friend, 
you treat him the worse--That's the plain dunstable of the matter, 
Miss!--I am not such a fool but I can see that.--And so a noted 
whoremonger is to be chosen before a man who is a money-lover!--Let me 
tell you, Niece, this little becomes so nice a one as you have been 
always reckoned.  Who, think you, does more injustice, a prodigal man 
or a saving man?--The one saves his own money; the other spends other 
people's.  But your favourite is a sinner in grain, and upon record.

The devil's in your sex!  God forgive me for saying so--the nicest of 
them will prefer a vile rake and wh--I suppose I must not repeat the 
word:--the word will offend, when the vicious denominated by that word 
will be chosen!--I had not been a bachelor to this time, if I had not 
seen such a mass of contradictions in you all.--Such gnat-strainers 
and camel-swallowers, as venerable Holy Writ has it.

What names will perverseness call things by!--A prudent man, who 
intends to be just to every body, is a covetous man!--While a vile, 
profligate rake is christened with the appellation of a gallant man; 
and a polite man, I'll warrant you!

It is my firm opinion, Lovelace would not have so much regard for you 
as he professes, but for two reasons.  And what are these?--Why, out 
of spite to all of us--one of them.  The other, because of your 
independent fortune.  I wish your good grandfather had not left what 
he did so much in your own power, as I may say.  But little did he 
imagine his beloved grand-daughter would have turned upon all her 
friends as she has done!

What has Mr. Solmes to hope for, if you are prepossessed!  Hey-day!  
Is this you, cousin Clary!--Has he then nothing to hope for from your
father's, and mother's, and our recommendations?--No, nothing at all,
it seems!--O brave!--I should think that this, with a dutiful child, 
as we took you to be, was enough.  Depending on this your duty, we 
proceeded: and now there is no help for it: for we will not be balked: 
neither shall our friend Mr. Solmes, I can tell you that.

If your estate is convenient for him, what then?  Does that (pert 
cousin) make it out that he does not love you?  He had need to expect 
some good with you, that has so little good to hope for from you; mind 
that.  But pray, is not this estate our estate, as we may say?  Have 
we not all an interest in it, and a prior right, if right were to have 
taken place?  And was it not more than a good old man's dotage, God 
rest his soul! that gave it you before us all?--Well then, ought we 
not to have a choice who shall have it in marriage with you? and would 
you have the conscience to wish us to let a vile fellow, who hates us 
all, run away with it?--You bid me weigh what you write: do you weigh 
this, Girl: and it will appear we have more to say for ourselves than 
you was aware of.

As to your hard treatment, as you call it, thank yourself for that.  
It may be over when you will: so I reckon nothing upon that.  You was 
not banished and confined till all entreaty and fair speeches were 
tried with you: mind that.  And Mr. Solmes can't help your obstinacy: 
let that be observed too.

As to being visited, and visiting; you never was fond of either: so 
that's a grievance put into the scale to make weight.--As to disgrace, 
that's as bad to us as to you: so fine a young creature!  So much as 
we used to brag of you too!--And besides, this is all in your power, 
as the rest.

But your heart recoils, when you would persuade yourself to obey your 
parent--Finely described, is it not!--Too truly described, I own, as 
you go on.  I know that you may love him if you will.  I had a good 
mind to bid you hate him; then, perhaps, you would like him the 
better: for I have always found a most horrid romantic perverseness in 
your sex.--To do and to love what you should not, is meat, drink, and 
vesture, to you all.

I am absolutely of your brother's mind, That reading and writing, 
though not too much for the wits of you young girls, are too much for 
your judgments.--You say, you may be conceited, Cousin; you may be 
vain!--And so you are, to despise this gentleman as you do.  He can 
read and write as well as most gentlemen, I can tell you that.  Who 
told you Mr. Solmes cannot read and write?  But you must have a 
husband who can learn you something!--I wish you knew but your duty as 
well as you do your talents--that, Niece, you have of late days to 
learn; and Mr. Solmes will therefore find something to instruct you 
in.  I will not shew him this letter of yours, though you seem to 
desire it, lest it should provoke him to be too severe a schoolmaster, 
when you are his'n.

But now I think of it, suppose you are the reader at your pen than he
--You will make the more useful wife to him; won't you?  For who so 
good an economist as you?--And you may keep all of his accounts, and 
save yourselves a steward.--And, let me tell you, this is a fine 
advantage in a family: for those stewards are often sad dogs, and 
creep into a man's estate before he knows where he is; and not seldom 
is he forced to pay them interest for his own money.

I know not why a good wife should be above these things.  It is better 
than lying a-bed half the day, and junketing and card-playing all the 
night, and making yourselves wholly useless to every good purpose in 
your own families, as is now the fashion among ye.  The duce take you 
all that do so, say I!--Only that, thank my stars, I am a bachelor.

Then this is a province you are admirably versed in: you grieve that 
it is taken from you here, you know.  So here, Miss, with Mr. Solmes 
you will have something to keep account of, for the sake of you and 
your children: with the other, perhaps you will have an account to 
keep, too--but an account of what will go over the left shoulder; only 
of what he squanders, what he borrows, and what he owes, and never 
will pay.  Come, come, Cousin, you know nothing of the world; a man's 
a man; and you may have many partners in a handsome man, and costly 
ones too, who may lavish away all you save.  Mr. Solmes therefore for 
my money, and I hope for yours.

But Mr. Solmes is a coarse man.  He is not delicate enough for your 
niceness; because I suppose he dresses not like a fop and a coxcomb, 
and because he lays not himself out in complimental nonsense, the 
poison of female minds.  He is a man of sense, that I can tell you.  
No man talks more to the purpose to us: but you fly him so, that he 
has no opportunity given him, to express it to you: and a man who 
loves, if he have ever so much sense, looks a fool; especially when he 
is despised, and treated as you treated him the last time he was in 
your company.

As to his sister; she threw herself away (as you want to do) against 
his full warning: for he told her what she had to trust to, if she 
married where she did marry.  And he was as good as his word; and so 
an honest man ought: offences against warning ought to be smarted for.  
Take care this be not your case: mind that.

His uncle deserves no favour from him; for he would have circumvented 
Mr. Solmes, and got Sir Oliver to leave to himself the estate he had 
always designed for him his nephew, and brought him up in the hope of 
it.  Too ready forgiveness does but encourage offences: that's your 
good father's maxim: and there would not be so many headstrong 
daughters as there are, if this maxim were kept in mind.--Punishments 
are of service to offenders; rewards should be only to the meriting: 
and I think the former are to be dealt out rigourously, in willful 
cases.

As to his love; he shews it but too much for your deservings, as they 
have been of late; let me tell you that: and this is his misfortune; 
and may in time perhaps be yours. 

As to his parsimony, which you wickedly call diabolical, [a very free 
word in your mouth, let me tell ye], little reason have you of all 
people for this, on whom he proposes, of his own accord, to settle all 
he has in the world: a proof, let him love riches as he will, that he 
loves you better.  But that you may be without excuse on this score, 
we will tie him up to your own terms, and oblige him by the marriage-
articles to allow you a very handsome quarterly sum to do what you 
please with.  And this has been told you before; and I have said it to 
Mrs. Howe (that good and worthy lady) before her proud daughter, that 
you might hear of it again.

To contradict the charge of prepossession to Lovelace, you offer never 
to have him without our consents: and what is this saying, but that 
you will hope on for our consents, and to wheedle and tire us out?  
Then he will always be in expectation while you are single: and we are 
to live on at this rate (are we?) vexed by you, and continually 
watchful about you; and as continually exposed to his insolence and 
threats.  Remember last Sunday, Girl!--What might have happened, had 
your brother and he met?--Moreover, you cannot do with such a spirit 
as his, as you can with worthy Mr. Solmes: the one you make tremble; 
the other will make you quake: mind that--and you will not be able to 
help yourself.  And remember, that if there should be any 
misunderstanding between one of them and you, we should all interpose; 
and with effect, no doubt: but with the other, it would be self-do, 
self-have; and who would either care or dare to put in a word for you?  
Nor let the supposition of matrimonial differences frighten you: 
honey-moon lasts not now-a-days above a fortnight; and Dunmow flitch, 
as I have been informed, was never claimed; though some say once it 
was.  Marriage is a queer state, Child, whether paired by the parties 
or by their friends.  Out of three brothers of us, you know, there was 
but one had courage to marry.  And why was it, do you think?  We were 
wise by other people's experience.

Don't despise money so much: you may come to know the value of it: 
that is a piece of instruction that you are to learn; and which, 
according to your own notions, Mr. Solmes will be able to teach you.

I do indeed condemn your warmth.  I will not allow for disgraces you 
bring upon yourself.  If I thought them unmerited, I would be your 
advocate.  But it was always my notion, that children should not 
dispute their parents' authority.  When your grandfather left his 
estate to you, though his three sons, and a grandson, and your elder 
sister, were in being, we all acquiesced: and why?  Because it was our 
father's doing.  Do you imitate that example: if you will not, those 
who set it you have the more reason to hold you inexcusable: mind 
that, Cousin.

You mention your brother too scornfully: and, in your letter to him, 
are very disrespectful; and so indeed you are to your sister, in the 
letter you wrote to her.  Your brother, Madam, is your brother; and 
third older than yourself, and a man: and pray be so good as not to 
forget what is due to a brother, who (next to us three brothers) is 
the head of the family, and on whom the name depends--as upon your 
dutiful compliance laid down for the honour of the family you are come 
of.  And pray now let me ask you, If the honour of that will not be an 
honour to you?--If you don't think so, the more unworthy you.  You 
shall see the plan, if you promise not to be prejudiced against it 
right or wrong.  If you are not besotted to that man, I am sure you 
will like it.  If you are, were Mr. Solmes an angel, it would signify 
nothing: for the devil is love, and love is the devil, when it gets 
into any of your heads.  Many examples have I seen of that.

If there were no such man as Lovelace in the world, you would not have 
Mr. Solmes.--You would not, Miss!--Very pretty, truly!--We see how 
your spirit is embittered indeed.--Wonder not, since it is come to 
your will not's, that those who have authority over you, say, You 
shall have the other.  And I am one: mind that.  And if it behoves YOU 
to speak out, Miss, it behoves US not to speak in.  What's sauce for 
the goose is sauce for the gander: take that in your thought too.

I humbly apprehend, that Mr. Solmes has the spirit of a man, and a 
gentleman.  I would admonish you therefore not to provoke it.  He 
pities you as much as he loves you.  He says, he will convince you of 
his love by deeds, since he is not permitted by you to express it by 
words.  And all his dependence is upon your generosity hereafter.  We 
hope he may depend upon that: we encourage him to think he may.  And 
this heartens him up.  So that you may lay his constancy at your 
parents' and your uncles' doors; and this will be another mark of your 
duty, you know.

You must be sensible, that you reflect upon your parents, and all of 
us, when you tell me you cannot in justice accept of the settlements 
proposed to you.  This reflection we should have wondered at from you 
once; but now we don't.

There are many other very censurable passages in this free letter of 
yours; but we must place them to the account of your embittered 
spirit.  I am glad you mentioned that word, because we should have 
been at a loss what to have called it.--I should much rather 
nevertheless have had reason to give it a better name.

I love you dearly still, Miss.  I think you, though my niece, one of 
the finest young gentlewomen I ever saw.  But, upon my conscience, I 
think you ought to obey your parents, and oblige me and my brother 
John: for you know very well, that we have nothing but your good at 
heart: consistently indeed with the good and honour of all of us.  
What must we think of any one of it, who would not promote the good of 
the whole? and who would set one part of it against another?--Which 
God forbid, say I!--You see I am for the good of all.  What shall I 
get by it, let things go as they will?  Do I want any thing of any 
body for my own sake?--Does my brother John?--Well, then, Cousin 
Clary, what would you be at, as I may say?

O but you can't love Mr. Solmes!--But, I say, you know not what you 
can do.  You encourage yourself in your dislike.  You permit your 
heart (little did I think it was such a froward one) to recoil.  Take 
it to task, Niece; drive it on as fast as it recoils, [we do so in all 
our sea-fights, and land-fights too, by our sailors and soldiers, or 
we should not conquer]; and we are all sure you will overcome it.  And 
why?  Because you ought.  So we think, whatever you think: and whose 
thoughts are to be preferred?  You may be wittier than we; but, if you 
were wiser, we have lived some of us, let me tell you, to very little 
purpose, thirty or forty years longer than you.

I have written as long a letter as yours.  I may not write in so 
lively, or so polite a style as my Niece: but I think I have all the 
argument on my side: and you will vastly oblige me, if you will shew 
me, by your compliance with all our desires, that you think so too.  
If you do not, you must not expect an advocate, or even a friend, in 
me, dearly as I love you.  For then I shall be sorry to be called

Your uncle,
ANT. HARLOWE.

TUESDAY, TWO IN THE MORNING.
POSTSCRIPT.

You must send me no more letters: but a compliable one you may send.  
But I need not have forbid you; for I am sure this, by fair argument, 
is unanswerable--I know it is.  I have written day and night, I may 
say, ever since Sunday morning, only church-time, or the like of that: 
but this is the last, I can tell you, from

ANT. H.



LETTER XXXIII

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
THURSDAY, MARCH 16.


Having met with such bad success in my application to my relations, I 
have taken a step that will surprise you.  It is no other than writing 
a letter to Mr. Solmes himself.  I sent it, and have his answer.  He 
had certainly help in it.  For I have seen a letter of his, and 
indifferently worded, as poorly spelt.  Yet the superscription is of 
his dictating, I dare say, for he is a formal wretch.  With these, I 
shall enclose one from my brother to me, on occasion of mine to Mr. 
Solmes.  I did think that it was possible to discourage the man from 
proceeding; and if I could have done that, it would have answered all 
my wishes.  It was worth the trial.  But you'll see nothing will do.  
My brother has taken his measures too securely.


TO ROGER SOLMES, ESQ.
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 15.

SIR,

You will wonder to receive a letter from me; and more still at the 
uncommon subject of it.  But the necessity of the case will justify 
me, at least in my own apprehension; and I shall therefore make no 
other apology for it.

When you first came acquainted with our family, you found the writer 
of this one of the happiest creatures in the world; beloved by the 
best and most indulgent of parents; and rejoicing in the kind favour 
of two affectionate uncles, and in the esteem of every one.

But how is this scene now changed!--You was pleased to cast a 
favourable eye upon me.  You addressed yourself to my friends: your 
proposals were approved of by them--approved of without consulting me; 
as if my choice and happiness were of the least signification.  Those 
who had a right to all reasonable obedience from me, insisted upon it 
without reserve.  I had not the felicity to think as they did; almost 
the first time my sentiments differed from theirs.  I besought them to 
indulge me in a point so important to my future happiness: but, alas, 
in vain!  And then (for I thought it was but honest) I told you my 
mind; and even that my affections were engaged.  But, to my 
mortification and surprise, you persisted, and still persist.

The consequence of all is too grievous for me to repeat: you, who have 
such free access to the rest of the family, know it too well--too well 
you know it, either for the credit of your own generosity, or for my 
reputation.  I am used, on your account, as I never before was used, 
and never before was thought to deserve to be used; and this was the 
hard, the impossible, condition of their returning favour, that I must 
prefer a man to all others, that of all others I cannot prefer.

Thus distressed, and made unhappy, and all to your sake, and through 
your cruel perseverance, I write, Sir, to demand of you the peace of 
mind you have robbed me of: to demand of you the love of so many dear 
friends, of which you have deprived me; and, if you have the 
generosity that should distinguish a man, and a gentleman, to adjure 
you not to continue an address that has been attended with such cruel 
effects to the creature you profess to esteem.

If you really value me, as my friends would make me believe, and as 
you have declared you do, must it not be a mean and selfish value?  A 
value that can have no merit with the unhappy object of it, because it 
is attended with effects so grievous to her?  It must be for your own 
sake only, not for mine.  And even in this point you must be mistaken: 
For, would a prudent man wish to marry one who has not a heart to 
give?  Who cannot esteem him?  Who therefore must prove a bad wife!--
And how cruel would it be to make a poor creature a bad wife, whose 
pride it would be to make a good one!

If I am capable of judging, our tempers and inclinations are vastly 
different.  Any other of my sex will make you happier than I can.  The 
treatment I meet with, and the obstinacy, as it is called, with which 
I support myself under it, ought to convince you of this; were I not 
able to give so good a reason for this my supposed perverseness, as 
that I cannot consent to marry a man whom I cannot value.

But if, Sir, you have not so much generosity in your value for me, as 
to desist for my own sake, let me conjure you, by the regard due to 
yourself, and to your own future happiness, to discontinue your suit, 
and place your affections on a worthier object: for why should you 
make me miserable, and yourself not happy?  By this means you will do 
all that is now in your power to restore to me the affection of my 
friends; and, if that can be, it will leave me in as happy a state as 
you found me in.  You need only to say, that you see there are no 
HOPES, as you will perhaps complaisantly call it, of succeeding with 
me [and indeed, Sir, there cannot be a greater truth]; and that you 
will therefore no more think of me, but turn your thoughts another 
way.

Your compliance with this request will lay me under the highest 
obligation to your generosity, and make me ever

Your well-wisher, and humble servant,
CLARISSA HARLOWE.



TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
These most humbly present.

DEAREST MISS,

Your letter has had a very contrary effect upon me, to what you seem 
to have expected from it.  It has doubly convinced me of the 
excellency of your mind, and of the honour of your disposition.  Call 
it selfish, or what you please, I must persist in my suit; and happy 
shall I be, if by patience and perseverance, and a steady and 
unalterable devoir, I may at last overcome the difficulty laid in my 
way.

As your good parents, your uncles, and other friends, are absolutely 
determined you shall never have Mr. Lovelace, if they can help it; and 
as I presume no other person is in the way, I will contentedly wait 
the issue of this matter.  And forgive me, dearest Miss, but a person 
should sooner persuade me to give up to him my estate, as an instance 
of my generosity, because he could not be happy without it, than I 
would a much more valuable treasure, to promote the felicity of 
another, and make his way easier to circumvent myself.

Pardon me, dear Miss; but I must persevere, though I am sorry you 
suffer on my account, as you are pleased to think; for I never before 
saw the woman I could love: and while there is any hope, and that you 
remain undisposed of to some happier man, I must and will be

Your faithful and obsequious admirer, 
ROGER SOLMES.

MARCH 16.


***


MR. JAMES HARLOWE, TO MISS CL. HARLOWE
MARCH 16.

What a fine whim you took into your head, to write a letter to Mr. 
Solmes, to persuade him to give up his pretensions to you!--Of all the 
pretty romantic flights you have delighted in, this was certainly one 
of the most extraordinary.  But to say nothing of what fires us all 
with indignation against you (your owning your prepossession in a 
villain's favour, and your impertinence to me, and your sister, and 
your uncles; one of which has given it you home, child), how can you 
lay at Mr. Solmes's door the usage you so bitterly complain of?--You 
know, little fool as you are, that it is your fondness for Lovelace 
that has brought upon you all these things; and which would have 
happened, whether Mr. Solmes had honoured you with his addresses or 
not.

As you must needs know this to be true, consider, pretty witty Miss, 
if your fond, love-sick heart can let you consider, what a fine figure 
all your expostulations with us, and charges upon Mr. Solmes, make!--
With what propriety do you demand of him to restore to you your former 
happiness (as you call it, and merely call it; for if you thought our 
favour so, you would restore it to yourself), since it is yet in your 
own power to do so?  Therefore, Miss Pert, none of your pathetics, 
except in the right place.  Depend upon it, whether you have Mr. 
Solmes, or not, you shall never have your heart's delight, the vile 
rake Lovelace, if our parents, if our uncles, if I, can hinder it.  
No! you fallen angel, you shall not give your father and mother such a 
son, nor me such a brother, in giving yourself that profligate wretch 
for a husband.  And so set your heart at rest, and lay aside all 
thoughts of him, if ever you expect forgiveness, reconciliation, or a 
kind opinion, from any of your family; but especially from him, who, 
at present, styles himself

Your brother,
JAMES HARLOWE.

P.S. I know your knack at letter-writing.  If you send me an answer 
for this, I will return it unopened; for I will not argue with your 
perverseness in so plain a case--Only once for all, I was willing to 
put you right as to Mr. Solmes; whom I think to blame to trouble his 
head about you.



LETTER XXXIV

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
FRIDAY, MARCH 17.


I receive, with great pleasure, the early and cheerful assurances of 
your loyalty and love.  And let our principal and most trusty friends 
named in my last know that I do.

I would have thee, Jack, come down, as soon as thou canst.  I believe 
I shall not want the others so soon.  Yet they may come down to Lord 
M.'s.  I will be there, if not to receive them, to satisfy my lord, 
that there is no new mischief in hand, which will require his second 
intervention.

For thyself, thou must be constantly with me: not for my security: the 
family dare do nothing but bully: they bark only at a distance: but 
for my entertainment: that thou mayest, from the Latin and the English 
classics, keep my lovesick soul from drooping.

Thou hadst best come to me here, in thy old corporal's coat: thy 
servant out of livery; and to be upon a familiar footing with me, as a 
distant relation, to be provided for by thy interest above--I mean not 
in Heaven, thou mayest be sure.  Thou wilt find me at a little 
alehouse, they call it an inn; the White Hart, most terribly wounded, 
(but by the weather only,) the sign: in a sorry village, within five 
miles from Harlowe-place.  Every body knows Harlowe-place, for, like 
Versailles, it is sprung up from a dunghill, within every elderly 
person's remembrance.  Every poor body, particularly, knows it: but 
that only for a few years past, since a certain angel has appeared 
there among the sons and daughters of men.

The people here at the Hart are poor, but honest; and have gotten it 
into their heads, that I am a man of quality in disguise; and there is 
no reining-in their officious respect.  Here is a pretty little 
smirking daughter, seventeen six days ago.  I call her my Rose-bud.  
Her grandmother (for there is no mother), a good neat old woman, as 
ever filled a wicker chair in a chimney-corner, has besought me to be 
merciful to her.

This is the right way with me.  Many and many a pretty rogue had I 
spared, whom I did not spare, had my power been acknowledged, and my 
mercy in time implored.  But the debellare superbos should be my 
motto, were I to have a new one.

This simple chit (for there is a simplicity in her thou wouldst be 
highly pleased with: all humble; all officious; all innocent--I love 
her for her humility, her officiousness, and even for her innocence) 
will be pretty amusement to thee; while I combat with the weather, and 
dodge and creep about the walls and purlieus of Harlowe-place.  Thou 
wilt see in her mind, all that her superiors have been taught to 
conceal, in order to render themselves less natural, and of 
consequence less pleasing.

But I charge thee, that thou do not (what I would not permit myself to 
do for the world--I charge thee, that thou do not) crop my Rose-bud.  
She is the only flower of fragrance, that has blown in this vicinage 
for ten years past, or will for ten years to come: for I have looked 
backward to the have-been's, and forward to the will-be's; having but 
too much leisure upon my hands in my present waiting.

I never was so honest for so long together since my matriculation.  It 
behoves me so to be--some way or other, my recess at this little inn 
may be found out; and it will then be thought that my Rose-bud has 
attracted me.  A report in my favour, from simplicities so amiable, 
may establish me; for the grandmother's relation to my Rose-bud may be 
sworn to: and the father is an honest, poor man; has no joy, but in 
his Rose-bud.--O Jack! spare thou, therefore, (for I shall leave thee 
often alone with her, spare thou) my Rose-bud!--Let the rule I never 
departed from, but it cost me a long regret, be observed to my Rose-
bud!--never to ruin a poor girl, whose simplicity and innocence were 
all she had to trust to; and whose fortunes were too low to save her 
from the rude contempts of worse minds than her own, and from an 
indigence extreme: such a one will only pine in secret; and at last, 
perhaps, in order to refuge herself from slanderous tongues and 
virulence, be induced to tempt some guilty stream, or seek her end in 
the knee-encircling garter, that peradventure, was the first attempt 
of abandoned love.--No defiances will my Rose-bud breathe; no self-
dependent, thee-doubting watchfulness (indirectly challenging thy 
inventive machinations to do their worst) will she assume.  
Unsuspicious of her danger, the lamb's throat will hardly shun thy 
knife!--O be not thou the butcher of my lambkin!

The less thou be so, for the reason I am going to give thee--The 
gentle heart is touched by love: her soft bosom heaves with a passion 
she has not yet found a name for.  I once caught her eye following a 
young carpenter, a widow neighbour's son, living [to speak in her 
dialect] at the little white house over the way.  A gentle youth he 
also seems to be, about three years older than herself: playmates from 
infancy, till his eighteenth and her fifteenth year furnished a reason 
for a greater distance in shew, while their hearts gave a better for 
their being nearer than ever--for I soon perceived the love 
reciprocal.  A scrape and a bow at first seeing his pretty mistress; 
turning often to salute her following eye; and, when a winding lane 
was to deprive him of her sight, his whole body turned round, his hat 
more reverently doffed than before.  This answered (for, unseen, I was 
behind her) by a low courtesy, and a sigh, that Johnny was too far off 
to hear!--Happy whelp! said I to myself.--I withdrew; and in tript my 
Rose-bud, as if satisfied with the dumb shew, and wishing nothing 
beyond it.

I have examined the little heart.  She has made me her confidant.  She 
owns, she could love Johnny Barton very well: and Johnny Barton has 
told her, he could love her better than any maiden he ever saw--but, 
alas! it must not be thought of.  Why not be thought of!--She don't 
know!--And then she sighed: But Johnny has an aunt, who will give him 
an hundred pounds, when his time is out; and her father cannot give 
her but a few things, or so, to set her out with: and though Johnny's 
mother says, she knows not where Johnny would have a prettier, or 
notabler wife, yet--And then she sighed again--What signifies 
talking?--I would not have Johnny be unhappy and poor for me!--For 
what good would that do me, you know, Sir!

What would I give [by my soul, my angel will indeed reform me, if her 
friends' implacable folly ruin us not both!--What would I give] to 
have so innocent and so good a heart, as either my Rose-bud's, or 
Johnny's!

I have a confounded mischievous one--by nature too, I think!--A good 
motion now-and-then rises from it: but it dies away presently--a love 
of intrigue--an invention for mischief--a triumph in subduing--fortune 
encouraging and supporting--and a constitution--What signifies 
palliating?  But I believe I had been a rogue, had I been a 
plough-boy.

But the devil's in this sex!  Eternal misguiders.  Who, that has once 
trespassed with them, ever recovered his virtue?  And yet where there 
is not virtue, which nevertheless we freelivers are continually 
plotting to destroy, what is there even in the ultimate of our wishes 
with them?--Preparation and expectation are in a manner every thing: 
reflection indeed may be something, if the mind be hardened above 
feeling the guilt of a past trespass: but the fruition, what is there
in that?  And yet that being the end, nature will not be satisfied 
without it.

See what grave reflections an innocent subject will produce!  It gives 
me some pleasure to think, that it is not out of my power to reform: 
but then, Jack, I am afraid I must keep better company than I do at 
present--for we certainly harden one another.  But be not cast down, 
my boy; there will be time enough to give the whole fraternity warning 
to choose another leader: and I fancy thou wilt be the man.

Mean time, as I make it my rule, whenever I have committed a very 
capital enormity, to do some good by way of atonement; and as I 
believe I am a pretty deal indebted on that score, I intend, before I 
leave these parts (successfully shall I leave them I hope, or I shall 
be tempted to double the mischief by way of revenge, though not to my 
Rose-bud any) to join an hundred pounds to Johnny's aunt's hundred 
pounds, to make one innocent couple happy.--I repeat therefore, and 
for half a dozen more therefores, spare thou my Rose-bud.

An interruption--another letter anon; and both shall go together.



LETTER XXXV

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.


I have found out by my watchful spy almost as many of my charmer's 
motions, as those of the rest of her relations.  It delights me to 
think how the rascal is caressed by the uncles and nephew; and let 
into their secrets; yet it proceeds all the time by my line of 
direction.  I have charged him, however, on forfeiture of his present 
weekly stipend, and my future favour, to take care, that neither my 
beloved, nor any of the family suspect him: I have told him that he 
may indeed watch her egresses and regresses; but that only keep off 
other servants from her paths; yet not to be seen by her himself.

The dear creature has tempted him, he told them, with a bribe [which 
she never offered] to convey a letter [which she never wrote] to Miss 
Howe; he believes, with one enclosed (perhaps to me): but he declined 
it: and he begged they would take notice of it to her.  This brought 
him a stingy shilling; great applause; and an injunction followed it 
to all the servants, for the strictest look-out, lest she should 
contrive some way to send it--and, above an hour after, an order was 
given him to throw himself in her way; and (expressing his concern for 
denying her request) to tender his service to her, and to bring them 
her letter: which it will be proper for him to report that she has 
refused to give him.

Now seest thou not, how many good ends this contrivance answers?

In the first place, the lady is secured by it, against her own 
knowledge, in the liberty allowed her of taking her private walks in 
the garden: for this attempt has confirmed them in their belief, that 
now they have turned off her maid, she has no way to send a letter out 
of the house: if she had, she would not have run the risque of 
tempting a fellow who had not been in her secret--so that she can 
prosecute unsuspectedly her correspondence with me and Miss Howe.

In the next place, it will perhaps afford me an opportunity of a 
private interview with her, which I am meditating, let her take it as 
she will; having found out by my spy (who can keep off every body 
else) that she goes every morning and evening to a wood-house remote 
from the dwelling-house, under pretence of visiting and feeding a set 
of bantam-poultry, which were produced from a breed that was her 
grandfather's, and of which for that reason she is very fond; as also 
of some other curious fowls brought from the same place.  I have an 
account of all her motions here.  And as she has owned to me in one of 
her letters that she corresponds privately with Miss Howe, I presume 
it is by this way.

The interview I am meditating, will produce her consent, I hope, to 
other favours of the like kind: for, should she not choose the place 
in which I am expecting to see her, I can attend her any where in the 
rambling Dutch-taste garden, whenever she will permit me that honour: 
for my implement, high Joseph Leman, has procured me the opportunity 
of getting two keys made to the garden-door (one of which I have given 
him for reasons good); which door opens to the haunted coppice, as 
tradition has made the servants think it; a man having been found 
hanging in it about twenty years ago: and Joseph, upon proper notice, 
will leave it unbolted.

But I was obliged previously to give him my honour, that no mischief 
should happen to any of my adversaries, from this liberty: for the 
fellow tells me, that he loves all his masters: and, only that he 
knows I am a man of honour; and that my alliance will do credit to the 
family; and after prejudices are overcome, every body will think so; 
or he would not for the world act the part he does.

There never was a rogue, who had not a salvo to himself for being so.
--What a praise to honesty, that every man pretends to it, even at the 
instant that he knows he is pursuing the methods that will perhaps 
prove him a knave to the whole world, as well as to his own 
conscience! 

But what this stupid family can mean, to make all this necessary, I 
cannot imagine.  My REVENGE and my LOVE are uppermost by turns.  If 
the latter succeed not, the gratifying of the former will be my only 
consolation: and, by all that's good, they shall feel it; although for 
it I become an exile from my native country for ever.

I will throw myself into my charmer's presence.  I have twice already 
attempted it in vain.  I shall then see what I may depend upon from 
her favour.  If I thought I had no prospect of that, I should be 
tempted to carry her off.  That would be a rape worthy of Jupiter!

But all gentle shall be my movements: all respectful, even to 
reverence, my address to her--her hand shall be the only witness to 
the pressure of my lip--my trembling lip: I know it will tremble, if I 
do not bid it tremble.  As soft my sighs, as the sighs of my gentle 
Rose-bud.  By my humility will I invite her confidence: the loneliness 
of the place shall give me no advantage: to dissipate her fears, and 
engage her reliance upon my honour for the future, shall be my whole 
endeavour: but little will I complain of, not at all will I threaten, 
those who are continually threatening me: but yet with a view to act 
the part of Dryden's lion; to secure my love, or to let loose my 
vengeance upon my hunters.

	What tho' his mighty soul his grief contains?
	He meditates revenge who least complains:
	And like a lion slumb'ring in his way,
	Or sleep dissembling, while he waits his prey,
	His fearless foes within his distance draws,
	Constrains his roaring, and contracts his paws:
	Till at the last, his time for fury found,
	He shoots with sudden vengeance from the ground:
	The prostrate vulgar passes o'er, and spares,
	But, with a lordly rage, his hunter tears.



LETTER XXXVI

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
SATURDAY, MARCH 18.


I have been frighted out of my wits--still am in a manner out of 
breath--thus occasioned--I went down, under the usual pretence, in 
hopes to find something from you.  Concerned at my disappointment, I 
was returning from the wood-house, when I heard a rustling as of 
somebody behind a stack of wood.  I was extremely surprised: but still 
more, to behold a man coming from behind the furthermost stack.  Oh! 
thought I, at that moment, the sin of a prohibited correspondence!

In the same point of time that I saw him, he besought me not to be 
frighted: and, still nearer approaching me, threw open a horseman's 
coat: And who should it be but Mr. Lovelace!--I could not scream out 
(yet attempted to scream, the moment I saw a man; and again, when I 
saw who it was); for I had no voice: and had I not caught hold of a 
prop which supported the old roof, I should have sunk.

I had hitherto, as you know, kept him at a distance: And now, as I 
recovered myself, judge of my first emotions, when I recollected his 
character from every mouth of my family; his enterprising temper; and 
found myself alone with him, in a place so near a bye-lane, and so 
remote from the house.

But his respectful behaviour soon dissipated these fears, and gave me 
others; lest we should be seen together, and information of it given 
to my brother: the consequences of which, I could readily think, would 
be, if not further mischief, an imputed assignation, a stricter 
confinement, a forfeited correspondence with you, my beloved friend, 
and a pretence for the most violent compulsion: and neither the one 
set of reflections, nor the other, acquitted him to me for his bold 
intrusion.

As soon therefore as I could speak, I expressed with the greatest 
warmth my displeasure; and told him, that he cared not how much he 
exposed me to the resentment of all my friends, provided he could 
gratify his own impetuous humour.  I then commanded him to leave the 
place that moment; and was hurrying from him, when he threw himself in 
the way at my feet, beseeching my stay for one moment; declaring, that 
he suffered himself to be guilty of this rashness, as I thought it, to 
avoid one much greater:--for, in short, he could not bear the hourly 
insults he received from my family, with the thoughts of having so 
little interest in my favour, that he could not promise himself that 
his patience and forbearance would be attended with any other issue 
than to lose me for ever, and be triumphed over and insulted upon it.

This man, you know, has very ready knees.  You have said, that he 
ought, in small points, frequently to offend, on purpose to shew what 
an address he is master of.

He ran on, expressing his apprehensions that a temper so gentle and 
obliging, as he said mine was, to every body but him, (and a 
dutifulness so exemplary inclined me to do my part to others, whether 
they did theirs or not by me,) would be wrought upon in favour of a 
man set up in part to be revenged upon myself, for my grandfather's 
envied distinction of me; and in part to be revenged upon him, for 
having given life to one, who would have taken his; and now sought to 
deprive him of hopes dearer to him than life.

I told him, he might be assured, that the severity and ill-usage I met 
with would be far from effecting the proposed end: that although I 
could, with great sincerity, declare for a single life (which had 
always been my choice); and particularly, that if ever I married, if 
they would not insist upon the man I had an aversion to, it should not 
be with the man they disliked--

He interrupted me here: He hoped I would forgive him for it; but he 
could not help expressing his great concern, that, after so many 
instances of his passionate and obsequious devotion--

And pray, Sir, said I, let me interrupt you in my turn;--Why don't you 
assert, in still plainer words, the obligation you have laid me under 
by this your boasted devotion?  Why don't you let me know, in terms as 
high as your implication, that a perseverance I have not wished for, 
which has set all my relations at variance with me, is a merit that 
throws upon me the guilt of ingratitude for not having answered it as 
you seem to expect?

I must forgive him, he said, if he, who pretended only to a 
comparative merit, (and otherwise thought no man living could deserve 
me,) had presumed to hope for a greater share in my favour, than he 
had hitherto met with, when such men as Mr. Symmes, Mr. Wyerley, and 
now, lastly, so vile a reptile as this Solmes, however discouraged by 
myself, were made his competitors.  As to the perseverance I 
mentioned, it was impossible for him not to persevere: but I must 
needs know, that were he not in being, the terms Solmes had proposed 
were such, as would have involved me in the same difficulties with my 
relations that I now laboured under.  He therefore took the liberty to 
say, that my favour to him, far from increasing those difficulties, 
would be the readiest way to extricate me from them.  They had made it 
impossible [he told me, with too much truth] to oblige them any way, 
but by sacrificing myself to Solmes.  They were well apprized besides 
of the difference between the two; one, whom they hoped to manage as 
they pleased; the other, who could and would protect me from every 
insult; and who had natural prospects much superior to my brother's 
foolish views of a title.

How comes this man to know so well all our foibles?  But I more 
wonder, how he came to have a notion of meeting me in this place?

I was very uneasy to be gone; and the more as the night came on apace.  
But there was no getting from him, till I had heard a great deal more 
of what he had to say.

As he hoped, that I would one day make him the happiest man in the 
world, he assured me, that he had so much regard for my fame, that he 
would be as far from advising any step that was likely to cast a shade 
upon my reputation, (although that step was to be ever so much in his 
own favour,) as I would be to follow such advice.  But since I was not 
to be permitted to live single, he would submit it to my 
consideration, whether I had any way but one to avoid the intended 
violence to my inclinations--my father so jealous of his authority: 
both my uncles in my father's way of thinking: my cousin Morden at a 
distance: my uncle and aunt Hervey awed into insignificance, was his 
word: my brother and sister inflaming every one: Solmes's offers 
captivating: Miss Howe's mother rather of a party with them, for 
motives respecting example to her own daughter.

And then he asked me, if I would receive a letter from Lady Betty 
Lawrance, on this occasion: for Lady Sarah Sadleir, he said, having 
lately lost her only child, hardly looked into the world, or thought 
of it farther than to wish him married, and, preferably to all the 
women in the world, with me.

To be sure, my dear, there is a great deal in what the man said--I may 
be allowed to say this, without an imputed glow or throb.  But I told 
him nevertheless, that although I had great honour for the ladies he 
was related to, yet I should not choose to receive a letter on a 
subject that had a tendency to promote an end I was far from intending 
to promote: that it became me, ill as I was treated at present, to 
hope every thing, to bear every thing, and to try ever thing: when my 
father saw my steadfastness, and that I would die rather than have Mr. 
Solmes, he would perhaps recede--

Interrupting me, he represented the unlikelihood there was of that, 
from the courses they had entered upon; which he thus enumerated:--
Their engaging Mrs. Howe against me, in the first place, as a person I 
might have thought to fly to, if pushed to desperation--my brother 
continually buzzing in my father's ears, that my cousin Morden would 
soon arrive, and then would insist upon giving me possession of my 
grandfather's estate, in pursuance of the will; which would render me 
independent of my father--their disgraceful confinement of me--their 
dismissing so suddenly my servant, and setting my sister's over me--
their engaging my mother, contrary to her own judgment, against me: 
these, he said, were all so many flagrant proofs that they would stick 
at nothing to carry their point; and were what made him inexpressibly 
uneasy.

He appealed to me, whether ever I knew my father recede from any 
resolution he had once fixed; especially, if he thought either his 
prerogative, or his authority concerned in the question.  His 
acquaintance with our family, he said, enabled him to give several 
instances (but they would be too grating to me) of an arbitrariness 
that had few examples even in the families of princes: an 
arbitrariness, which the most excellent of women, my mother, too 
severely experienced.  He was proceeding, as I thought, with 
reflections of this sort; and I angrily told him, I would not permit 
my father to be reflected upon; adding, that his severity to me, 
however unmerited, was not a warrant for me to dispense with my duty 
to him.

He had no pleasure, he said, in urging any thing that could be so 
construed; for, however well warranted he was to make such reflections 
from the provocations they were continually giving him, he knew how 
offensive to me any liberties of this sort would be.  And yet he must 
own, that it was painful to him, who had youth and passions to be 
allowed for, as well as others, and who had always valued himself 
under speaking his mind, to curb himself, under such treatment.  
Nevertheless, his consideration for me would make him confine himself, 
in his observations, to facts that were too flagrant, and too openly 
avowed, to be disputed.  It could not therefore justly displease, he 
would venture to say, if he made this natural inference from the 
premises, That if such were my father's behaviour to a wife, who 
disputed not the imaginary prerogatives he was so unprecedently fond 
of asserting, what room had a daughter to hope, that he would depart 
from an authority he was so earnest, and so much more concerned, to 
maintain?--Family-interests at the same time engaging; an aversion, 
however causelessly conceived, stimulating my brother's and sister's 
resentments and selfish views cooperating; and my banishment from 
their presence depriving me of all personal plea or entreaty in my own 
favour.

How unhappy, my dear, that there is but too much reason for these 
observations, and for this inference; made, likewise, with more 
coolness and respect to my family than one would have apprehended from 
a man so much provoked, and of passions so high, and generally thought 
uncontroulable!

Will you not question me about throbs and glows, if from such 
instances of a command over his fiery temper, for my sake, I am ready 
to infer, that were my friends capable of a reconciliation with him, 
he might be affected by arguments apparently calculated for his 
present and future good!  Nor is it a very bad indication, that he has 
such moderate notions of that very high prerogative in husbands, of 
which we in our family have been accustomed to hear so much. 

He represented to me, that my present disgraceful confinement was 
known to all the world: that neither my sister nor my brother scrupled 
to represent me as an obliged and favoured child in a state of actual 
rebellion.  That, nevertheless, every body who knew me was ready to 
justify me for an aversion to a man whom every body thought utterly 
unworthy of me, and more fit for my sister: that unhappy as he was, in 
not having been able to make any greater impression upon me in his 
favour, all the world gave me to him.  Nor was there but one objection 
made to him by his very enemies (his birth, his prospects all very 
unexceptionable, and the latter splendid); and that objection, he 
thanked God, and my example, was in a fair way of being removed for 
ever: since he had seen his error, and was heartily sick of the 
courses he had followed; which, however, were far less enormous than 
malice and envy had represented them to be.  But of this he should say 
the less, as it were much better to justify himself by his actions, 
than by the most solemn asseverations and promises.  And then, 
complimenting my person, he assured me (for that he always loved 
virtue, although he had not followed its rules as he ought) that he 
was still more captivated with the graces of my mind: and would 
frankly own, that till he had the honour to know me, he had never met 
with an inducement sufficient to enable him to overcome an unhappy 
kind of prejudice to matrimony; which had made him before impenetrable 
to the wishes and recommendations of all his relations.

You see, my dear, he scruples not to speak of himself, as his enemies 
speak of him.  I can't say, but his openness in these particulars 
gives a credit to his other professions.  I should easily, I think, 
detect an hypocrite: and this man particularly, who is said to have 
allowed himself in great liberties, were he to pretend to instantaneous 
lights and convictions--at this time of life too.  Habits, I am sensible, 
are not so easily changed.  You have always joined with me in remarking, 
that he will speak his mind with freedom, even to a degree of 
unpoliteness sometimes; and that his very treatment of my family is a 
proof that he cannot make a mean court to any body for interest sake--
What pity, where there are such laudable traces, that they should have 
been so mired, and choaked up, as I may say!--We have heard, that the 
man's head is better than his heart: But do you really think Mr. 
Lovelace can have a very bad heart?  Why should not there be something 
in blood in the human creature, as well as in the ignobler animals? 
None of his family are exceptionable--but himself, indeed.  The 
characters of the ladies are admirable.  But I shall incur the 
imputation I wish to avoid.  Yet what a look of censoriousness does 
it carry in an unsparing friend, to take one to task for doing that 
justice, and making those which one ought without scruple to do, and 
to make, in the behalf of any other man living?

He then again pressed me to receive a letter of offered protection 
from Lady Betty.  He said, that people of birth stood a little too 
much upon punctilio; as people of value also did (but indeed birth, 
worthily lived up to, was virtue: virtue, birth; the inducements to a 
decent punctilio the same; the origin of both one): [how came this 
notion from him!] else, Lady Betty would write to me: but she would be 
willing to be first apprized that her offer will be well received--as 
it would have the appearance of being made against the liking of one 
part of my family; and which nothing would induce her to make, but the 
degree of unworthy persecution which I actually laboured under, and 
had reason further to apprehend.

I told him, that, however greatly I thought myself obliged to Lady 
Betty Lawrance, if this offer came from herself; yet it was easy to 
see to what it led.  It might look like vanity in me perhaps to say, 
that this urgency in him, on this occasion, wore the face of art, in 
order to engage me into measures from which I might not easily 
extricate myself.  I said, that I should not be affected by the 
splendour of even a royal title.  Goodness, I thought, was greatness.  
That the excellent characters of the ladies of his family weighed more 
with me, than the consideration that they were half-sisters to Lord M. 
and daughters of an earl: that he would not have found encouragement 
from me, had my friends been consenting to his address, if he had only 
a mere relative merit to those ladies: since, in that case, the very 
reasons that made me admire them, would have been so many objections 
to their kinsman.

I then assured him, that it was with infinite concern, that I had 
found myself drawn into an epistolary correspondence with him; 
especially since that correspondence had been prohibited: and the only 
agreeable use I could think of making of this unexpected and undesired 
interview, was, to let him know, that I should from henceforth think 
myself obliged to discontinue it.  And I hoped, that he would not have 
the thought of engaging me to carry it on by menacing my relations.

There was light enough to distinguish, that he looked very grave upon 
this.  He so much valued my free choice, he said, and my unbiassed 
favour, (scorning to set himself upon a footing with Solmes in the 
compulsory methods used in that man's behalf,) that he should hate 
himself, were he capable of a view of intimidating me by so very poor 
a method.  But, nevertheless, there were two things to be considered: 
First, that the continual outrages he was treated with; the spies set 
over him, one of which he had detected; the indignities all his family 
were likewise treated with;--as also, myself; avowedly in malice to 
him, or he should not presume to take upon himself to resent for me, 
without my leave [the artful wretch saw he would have lain open here, 
had he not thus guarded]--all these considerations called upon him to 
shew a proper resentment: and he would leave it to me to judge, 
whether it would be reasonable for him, as a man of spirit, to bear 
such insults, if it were not for my sake.  I would be pleased to 
consider, in the next place, whether the situation I was in, (a 
prisoner in my father's house, and my whole family determined to 
compel me to marry a man unworthy of me, and that speedily, and 
whether I consented or not,) admitted of delay in the preventive 
measures he was desirous to put me upon, in the last resort only.  Nor 
was there a necessity, he said, if I were actually in Lady Betty's 
protection, that I should be his, if, afterwards, I should see any 
thing objectionable in his conduct.

But what would the world conclude would be the end, I demanded, were 
I, in the last resort, as he proposed, to throw myself into the 
protection of his friends, but that it was with such a view?

And what less did the world think of me now, he asked, than that I was 
confined that I might not?  You are to consider, Madam, you have not 
now an option; and to whom is it owing that you have not; and that you 
are in the power of those (parents, why should I call them?) who are 
determined, that you shall not have an option.  All I propose is, that 
you will embrace such a protection--but not till you have tried every 
way, to avoid the necessity for it.

And give me leave to say, proceeded he, that if a correspondence, on 
which I have founded all my hopes, is, at this critical conjuncture, 
to be broken off; and if you are resolved not to be provided against 
the worst; it must be plain to me, that you will at last yield to that 
worst--worst to me only--it cannot be to you--and then! [and he put 
his hand clenched to his forehead] How shall I bear this supposition?
--Then will you be that Solmes's!--But, by all that's sacred, neither 
he, nor your brother, nor your uncles, shall enjoy their triumph--
Perdition seize my soul, if they shall!

The man's vehemence frightened me: yet, in resentment, I would have 
left him; but, throwing himself at my feet again, Leave me not thus--
I beseech you, dearest Madam, leave me not thus, in despair!  I kneel 
not, repenting of what I have vowed in such a case as that I have 
supposed.  I re-vow it, at your feet!--and so he did.  But think not 
it is by way of menace, or to intimidate you to favour me.  If your 
heart inclines you [and then he arose] to obey your father (your 
brother rather) and to have Solmes; although I shall avenge myself on 
those who have insulted me, for their insults to myself and family, 
yet will I tear out my heart from this bosom (if possible with my own 
hands) were it to scruple to give up its ardours to a woman capable of 
such a preference.

I told him, that he talked to me in very high language; but he might 
assure himself that I never would have Mr. Solmes, (yet that this I 
said not in favour to him,) and I had declared as much to my 
relations, were there not such a man as himself in the world.

Would I declare, that I would still honour him with my 
correspondence?--He could not bear, that, hoping to obtain greater 
instances of my favour, he should forfeit the only one he had to boast 
of.

I bid him forbear rashness or resentment to any of my family, and I 
would, for some time at least, till I saw what issue my present trials 
were likely to have, proceed with a correspondence, which, 
nevertheless, my heart condemned--

And his spirit him, the impatient creature said, interrupting me, for 
bearing what he did; when he considered, that the necessity of it was 
imposed upon him, not by my will, (for then he would bear it 
cheerfully, and a thousand times more,) but by creatures--And there he 
stopt.

I told him plainly that he might thank himself (whose indifferent 
character, as to morals, had given such a handle against him) for all.  
It was but just, that a man should be spoken evil of, who set no value 
upon his reputation.

He offered to vindicate himself.  But I told him, I would judge him by 
his own rule--by his actions, not by his professions.

Were not his enemies, he said, so powerful, and so determined; and had 
they not already shewn their intentions in such high acts of even 
cruel compulsion; but would leave me to my choice, or to my desire of 
living single; he would have been content to undergo a twelvemonth's 
probation, or more: but he was confident, that one month would either 
complete all their purposes, or render them abortive: and I best knew 
what hopes I had of my father's receding--he did not know him, if I 
had any.

I said, I would try every method, that either my duty or my influence 
upon any of them should suggest, before I would put myself into any 
other protection: and, if nothing else would do, would resign the 
envied estate; and that I dared to say would.

He was contented, he said, to abide that issue.  He should be far from 
wishing me to embrace any other protection, but, as he had frequently 
said, in the last necessity.  But dearest creature, said he, catching 
my hand with ardour, and pressing it to his lips, if the yielding up 
of that estate will do--resign it--and be mine--and I will 
corroborate, with all my soul, your resignation!

This was not ungenerously said: But what will not these men say to 
obtain belief, and a power over one?

I made many efforts to go; and now it was so dark, that I began to 
have great apprehensions.  I cannot say from his behaviour: indeed, he 
has a good deal raised himself in my opinion by the personal respect, 
even to reverence, which he paid me during the whole conference: for, 
although he flamed out once, upon a supposition that Solmes might 
succeed, it was upon a supposition that would excuse passion, if any 
thing could, you know, in a man pretending to love with fervour; 
although it was so levelled, that I could not avoid resenting it.

He recommended himself to my favour at parting, with great 
earnestness, yet with as great submission; not offering to condition 
any thing with me; although he hinted his wishes for another meeting: 
which I forbad him ever attempting again in the same place.  And I 
will own to you, from whom I should be really blamable to conceal any 
thing, that his arguments (drawn from the disgraceful treatment I meet 
with) of what I am to expect, make me begin to apprehend that I shall 
be under an obligation to be either the one man's or the other's--and, 
if so, I fancy I shall not incur your blame, were I to say which of 
the two it must be: you have said, which it must not be.  But, O my 
dear, the single life is by far the most eligible to me: indeed it is.  
And I hope yet to be permitted to make that option.

I got back without observation; but the apprehension that I should 
not, gave me great uneasiness; and made me begin a letter in a greater 
flutter than he gave me cause to be in, except at the first seeing him; 
for then indeed my spirits failed me; and it was a particular 
felicity, that, in such a place, in such a fright, and alone with him, 
I fainted not away.

I should add, that having reproached him with his behaviour the last 
Sunday at church, he solemnly assured me, that it was not what had 
been represented to me: that he did not expect to see me there: but 
hoped to have an opportunity to address himself to my father, and to 
be permitted to attend him home.  But that the good Dr. Lewen had 
persuaded him not to attempt speaking to any of the family, at that 
time; observing to him the emotions into which his presence had put 
every body.  He intended no pride, or haughtiness of behaviour, he 
assured me; and that the attributing such to him was the effect of 
that ill-will which he had the mortification to find insuperable: 
adding, that when he bowed to my mother, it was a compliment he 
intended generally to every one in the pew, as well as to her, whom he 
sincerely venerated.

If he may be believed, (and I should think he would not have come 
purposely to defy my family, yet expect favour from me,) one may see, 
my dear, the force of hatred, which misrepresents all things.  Yet why 
should Shorey (except officiously to please her principals) make a 
report in his disfavour?  He told me, that he would appeal to Dr. 
Lewen for his justification on this head; adding, that the whole 
conversation between the Doctor and him turned upon his desire to 
attempt to reconcile himself to us all, in the face of the church; and 
upon the Doctor's endeavouring to dissuade him from making such a 
public overture, till he knew how it would be accepted.  But to what 
purpose his appeal, when I am debarred from seeing that good man, or 
any one who would advise me what to do in my present difficult 
situation!

I fancy, my dear, however, that there would hardly be a guilty person 
in the world, were each suspected or accused person to tell his or her 
own story, and be allowed any degree of credit.

I have written a very long letter. 

To be so particular as you require in subjects of conversation, it is 
impossible to be short.

I will add to it only the assurance, That I am, and ever will be,

Your affectionate and faithful
friend and servant,
CLARISSA HARLOWE.

You'll be so good, my dear, as to remember, that the date of your last 
letter to me was the 9th.



LETTER XXXVII

MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE.
SUNDAY, MARCH 19.


I beg your pardon, my dearest friend, for having given you occasion to 
remind me of the date of my last.  I was willing to have before me as 
much of the workings of your wise relations as possible; being verily 
persuaded, that one side or the other would have yielded by this time: 
and then I should have had some degree of certainty to found my 
observations upon.  And indeed what can I write that I have not 
already written?--You know, that I can do nothing but rave at your 
stupid persecutors: and that you don't like.  I have advised you to 
resume your own estate: that you won't do.  You cannot bear the 
thoughts of having their Solmes: and Lovelace is resolved you shall be 
his, let who will say to the contrary.  I think you must be either the 
one man's or the other's.  Let us see what their next step will be.

As to Lovelace, while he tells his own story (having also behaved so 
handsomely on his intrusion in the wood-house, and intended so well at 
church) who can say, that the man is in the least blameworthy?--Wicked 
people! to combine against so innocent a man!--But, as I said, let us 
see what their next step will be, and what course you will take upon 
it; and then we may be the more enlightened.

As to your change of style to your uncles, and brother and sister, 
since they were so fond of attributing to you a regard for Lovelace, 
and would not be persuaded to the contrary; and since you only 
strengthened their arguments against yourself by denying it; you did 
but just as I would have done, in giving way to their suspicions, and 
trying what that would do--But if--but if--Pray, my dear, indulge me a 
little--you yourself think it was necessary to apologize to me for 
that change of style to them--and till you will speak out like a 
friend to her unquestionable friend, I must tease you a little--let it 
run therefore; for it will run--

If, then, there be not a reason for this change of style, which you 
have not thought fit to give me, be so good as to watch, as I once 
before advised you, how the cause for it will come on--Why should it 
be permitted to steal upon you, and you know nothing of the matter?

When we get a great cold, we are apt to puzzle ourselves to find out 
when it began, or how we got it; and when that is accounted for, down 
we sit contented, and let it have its course; or, if it be very 
troublesome, take a sweat, or use other means to get rid of it.  So my 
dear, before the malady you wot of, yet wot not of, grows so 
importunate, as that you must be obliged to sweat it out, let me 
advise you to mind how it comes on.  For I am persuaded, as surely as 
that I am now writing to you, that the indiscreet violence of your 
friends on the one hand, and the insinuating address of Lovelace on 
the other, (if the man be not a greater fool than any body thinks 
him,) will effectually bring it to this, and do all his work for him.

But let it--if it must be Lovelace or Solmes, the choice cannot admit 
of debate.  Yet if all be true that is reported, I should prefer 
almost any of your other lovers to either; unworthy as they also are.  
But who can be worthy of a Clarissa?

I wish you are not indeed angry with me for harping so much on one 
string.  I must own, that I should think myself inexcusable so to do, 
(the rather, as I am bold enough imagine it a point out of all doubt 
from fifty places in your letters, were I to labour the proof,) if you 
would ingenuously own--

Own what? you'll say.  Why, my Anna Howe, I hope you don't think that 
I am already in love!--

No, to be sure!  How can your Anna Howe have such a thought?--What 
then shall we call it?  You might have helped me to a phrase--A 
conditional kind of liking!--that's it.--O my friend! did I not know 
how much you despise prudery; and that you are too young, and too 
lovely, to be a prude--

But, avoiding such hard names, let me tell you one thing, my dear 
(which nevertheless I have told you before); and that is this: that I 
shall think I have reason to be highly displeased with you, if, when 
you write to me, you endeavour to keep from me any secret of your 
heart.

Let me add, that if you would clearly and explicitly tell me, how far 
Lovelace has, or has not, a hold in your affections, I could better 
advise you what to do, than at present I can.  You, who are so famed 
for prescience, as I may call it; and than whom no young lady ever had 
stronger pretensions to a share of it; have had, no doubt, reasonings 
in your heart about him, supposing you were to be one day his: [no 
doubt but you have had the same in Solmes's case: whence the ground for 
the hatred of the one; and for the conditional liking of the other.]  
Will you tell me, my dear, what you have thought of Lovelace's best 
and of his worst?--How far eligible for the first; how far rejectable 
for the last?--Then weighing both parts in opposite scales, we shall 
see which is likely to preponderate; or rather which does 
preponderate.  Nothing less than the knowledge of the inmost recesses 
of your heart, can satisfy my love and my friendship.  Surely, you are 
not afraid to trust yourself with a secret of this nature: if you are, 
then you may the more allowably doubt me.  But, I dare say, you will 
not own either--nor is there, I hope, cause for either.

Be pleased to observe one thing, my dear, that whenever I have given 
myself any of those airs of raillery, which have seemed to make you 
look about you, (when, likewise, your case may call for a more serious 
turn from a sympathizing friend,) it has not been upon those passages 
which are written, though, perhaps not intended, with such 
explicitness [don't be alarmed, my dear!] as leaves little cause of 
doubt: but only when you affect reserve; when you give new words for 
common things; when you come with your curiosities, with your 
conditional likings, and with your PRUDE-encies [mind how I spell the 
word] in a case that with every other person defies all prudence--
over-acts of treason all these, against the sovereign friendship we 
have avowed to each other.

Remember, that you found me out in a moment.  You challenged me.  I 
owned directly, that there was only my pride between the man and me; 
for I could not endure, I told you, to think of any fellow living to 
give me a moment's uneasiness.  And then my man, as I have elsewhere 
said, was not such a one as yours: so I had reason to impute full as 
much as to my own inconsideration, as to his power over me: nay, more: 
but still more to yours.  For you reasoned me out of the curiosity 
first; and when the liking was brought to be conditional--why then, 
you know, I throbbed no more about him.

O! pray now, as you say, now I have mentioned that my fellow was not 
such a charming fellow as yours, let Miss Biddulph, Miss Lloyd, Miss 
Campion, and me, have your opinion, how far figure ought to engage us: 
with a view to your own case, however--mind that--as Mr. Tony says--
and whether at all, if the man be vain of it; since, as you observe in 
a former, that vanity is a stop-short pride in such a one, that would 
make one justly doubt the worthiness of his interior.  You, our 
pattern, so lovely in feature, so graceful in person, have none of it; 
and have therefore with the best grace always held, that it is not 
excusable even in a woman.

You must know, that this subject was warmly debated among us in our 
last conversation: and Miss Lloyd wished me to write to you upon it 
for your opinion; to which, in every debated case, we always paid the 
greatest deference.  I hope you will not be so much engrossed by your 
weighty cares, as not to have freedom of spirits enough to enter upon 
the task.  You know how much we all admire your opinion on such 
topics; which ever produces something new and instructive, as you 
handle the subjects.  And pray tell us, to what you think it owing, 
that your man seems so careful to adorn that self-adorned person of 
his! yet so manages, that one cannot for one's heart think him a 
coxcomb?--Let this question, and the above tasks, divert, and not 
displease you, my dear.  One subject, though ever so important, could 
never yet engross your capacious mind.  If they should displease you, 
you must recollect the many instances of my impertinence which you 
have forgiven, and then say, 'This is a mad girl: but yet I love her!
--And she is my own'

ANNA HOWE.



LETTER XXXVIII

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
MONDAY, MARCH 20.


Your last so sensibly affects me, that I must postpone every other 
consideration, however weighty, to reply to it: and this I will do 
very distinctly, and with all the openness of heart which our mutual 
friendship demands.

But let me observe, in the first place, gratefully observe, that if I 
have in fifty passages of my letters given you such undoubted proofs 
of my value for Mr. Lovelace, that you have spared me for the sake of 
my explicitness, it is acting by me with a generosity worthy of 
yourself.

But lives the man, think you, who is so very bad, that he does not 
give even a doubting mind reason at one time to be better pleased with 
him than at another?  And when that reason offers, is it not just to 
express one's self accordingly?  I would do the man who addresses me 
as much justice, as if he did not address me: it has such a look of 
tyranny, it appears so ungenerous, methinks, in our sex, to use a man 
worse for his respect to us, (no other cause for disrespect 
occurring,) that I would not by any means be that person who should do 
so.

But, although I may intend no more than justice, it will perhaps be 
difficult to hinder those who know the man's views, from construing it 
as a partial favour: and especially if the eager-eyed observer has 
been formerly touched herself, and would triumph that her friend had 
been no more able to escape than she.  Noble minds, emulative of 
perfection, (and yet the passion properly directed, I do not take to 
be an imperfection neither,) may be allowed a little generous envy, I 
think.

If I meant by this a reflection, by way of revenge, it is but a 
revenge, my dear, in the soft sense of the word.  I love, as I have 
told you, your pleasantry.  Although at the time your reproof may pain 
me a little; yet, on recollection, when I find it more of the 
cautioning friend than of the satirizing observer, I shall be all 
gratitude upon it.  All the business will be this; I shall be sensible 
of the pain in the present letter perhaps; but I shall thank you in 
the next, and ever after.

In this way, I hope, my dear, you will account for a little of that 
sensibility which you find above, and perhaps still more, as I 
proceed.--You frequently remind me, by an excellent example, your own 
to me, that I must not spare you!

I am not conscious, that I have written any thing of this man, that 
has not been more in his dispraise than in his favour.  Such is the 
man, that I think I must have been faulty, and ought to take myself to 
account, if I had not.  But you think otherwise, I will not put you 
upon labouring the proof, as you call it.  My conduct must then have a 
faulty appearance at least, and I will endeavour to rectify it.  But 
of this I assure you, that whatever interpretation my words were 
capable of, I intended not any reserve to you.  I wrote my heart at 
the time: if I had had thought of disguising it, or been conscious 
that there was reason for doing so, perhaps I had not given you the 
opportunity of remarking upon my curiosity after his relations' esteem 
for me; nor upon my conditional liking, and such-like.  All I intended 
by the first, I believe, I honestly told you at the time.  To that 
letter I therefore refer, whether it make for me, or against me: and 
by the other, that I might bear in mind, what it became a person of my 
sex and character to be and to do, in such an unhappy situation, where 
the imputed love is thought an undutiful, and therefore a criminal 
passion; and where the supported object of it is a man of faulty 
morals too.  And I am sure you will excuse my desire of appearing at 
those times the person I ought to be; had I no other view in it but to 
merit the continuance of your good opinion.

But that I may acquit myself of having reserves--O, my dear, I must 
here break off!--



LETTER XXXIX

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
MONDAY, MARCH 12.


This letter will account to you, my dear, for my abrupt breaking off 
in the answer I was writing to yours of yesterday; and which, 
possibly, I shall not be able to finish and send you till to-morrow or 
next day; having a great deal to say to the subjects you put to me in 
it.  What I am now to give you are the particulars of another effort 
made by my friends, through the good Mrs. Norton.

It seems they had sent to her yesterday, to be here this day, to take 
their instructions, and to try what she could do with me.  It would, 
at least, I suppose they thought, have this effect; to render me 
inexcusable with her; or to let her see, that there was no room for 
the expostulations she had often wanted to make in my favour to my 
mother.

The declaration, that my heart was free, afforded them an argument to 
prove obstinacy and perverseness upon me; since it could be nothing 
else that governed me in my opposition to their wills, if I had no 
particular esteem for another man.  And now, that I have given them 
reason (in order to obviate this argument) to suppose that I have a 
preference to another, they are resolved to carry their schemes into 
execution as soon as possible.  And in order to this, they sent for 
this good woman, for whom they know I have even a filial regard.

She found assembled my father and mother, my brother and sister, my 
two uncles, and my aunt Hervey.

My brother acquainted her with all that had passed since she was last 
permitted to see me; with the contents of my letters avowing my regard 
for Mr. Lovelace (as they all interpreted them); with the substance of 
their answers to them; and with their resolutions.

My mother spoke next; and delivered herself to this effect, as the 
good woman told me.

After reciting how many times I had been indulged in my refusals of 
different men, and the pains she had taken with me, to induce me to 
oblige my whole family in one instance out of five or six, and my 
obstinacy upon it; 'O my good Mrs. Norton, said the dear lady, could 
you have thought, that my Clarissa and your Clarissa was capable of so 
determined an opposition to the will of parents so indulgent to her?  
But see what you can do with her.  The matter is gone too far to be 
receded from on our parts.  Her father had concluded every thing with 
Mr. Solmes, not doubting her compliance.  Such noble settlements, Mrs. 
Norton, and such advantages to the whole family!--In short, she has it 
in her power to lay an obligation upon us all.  Mr. Solmes, knowing 
she has good principles, and hoping by his patience now, and good 
treatment hereafter, to engage her gratitude, and by degrees her love, 
is willing to overlook all!--'

[Overlook all, my dear!  Mr. Solmes to overlook all!  There's a word!]

'So, Mrs. Norton, if you are convinced, that it is a child's duty to 
submit to her parents' authority, in the most important point as well 
as in the least, I beg you will try your influence over her: I have 
none: her father has none: her uncles neither: although it is her 
apparent interest to oblige us all; for, on that condition, her 
grandfather's estate is not half of what, living and dying, is 
purposed to be done for her.  If any body can prevail with her, it is 
you; and I hope you will heartily enter upon this task.'

The good woman asked, Whether she was permitted to expostulate with 
them upon the occasion, before she came up to me?

My arrogant brother told her, she was sent for to expostulate with his 
sister, and not with them.  And this, Goody Norton [she is always 
Goody with him!] you may tell her, that the treaty with Mr. Solmes is 
concluded: that nothing but her compliance with her duty is wanting; 
of consequence, that there is no room for your expostulation, or hers 
either.

Be assured of this, Mrs. Norton, said my father, in an angry tone, 
that we will not be baffled by her.  We will not appear like fools in 
this matter, and as if we have no authority over our own daughter.  We 
will not, in short, be bullied out of our child by a cursed rake, who 
had like to have killed our only son!--And so she had better make a 
merit of her obedience; for comply she shall, if I live; independent 
as she thinks my father's indiscreet bounty has made her of me, her 
father.  Indeed, since that, she has never been like she was before.  
An unjust bequest!--And it is likely to prosper accordingly!--But if 
she marry that vile rake Lovelace, I will litigate every shilling with 
her: tell her so; and that the will may be set aside, and shall.

My uncles joined, with equal heat.

My brother was violent in his declarations.

My sister put in with vehemence, on the same side.

My aunt Hervey was pleased to say, there was no article so proper for 
parents to govern in, as this of marriage: and it was very fit mine 
should be obliged.

Thus instructed, the good woman came up to me.  She told me all that 
had passed, and was very earnest with me to comply; and so much 
justice did she to the task imposed upon her, that I more than once 
thought, that her own opinion went with theirs.  But when she saw what 
an immovable aversion I had to the man, she lamented with me their 
determined resolution: and then examined into the sincerity of my 
declaration, that I would gladly compound with them by living single.  
Of this being satisfied, she was so convinced that this offer, which, 
carried into execution, would exclude Lovelace effectually, ought to 
be accepted, that she would go down (although I told her, it was what 
I had tendered over-and-over to no purpose) and undertake to be 
guaranty for me on that score.

She went accordingly; but soon returned in tears; being used harshly 
for urging this alternative:--They had a right to my obedience upon 
their own terms, they said: my proposal was an artifice, only to gain 
time: nothing but marrying Mr. Solmes should do: they had told me so 
before: they should not be at rest till it was done; for they knew 
what an interest Lovelace had in my heart: I had as good as owned it 
in my letters to my uncles, and brother and sister, although I had 
most disingenuously declared otherwise to my mother.  I depended, they 
said, upon their indulgence, and my own power over them: they would 
not have banished me from their presence, if they had not known that 
their consideration for me was greater than mine for them.  And they 
would be obeyed, or I never should be restored to their favour, let 
the consequence be what it would.

My brother thought fit to tell the good woman, that her whining 
nonsense did but harden me.  There was a perverseness, he said, in 
female minds, a tragedy-pride, that would make a romantic young 
creature, such a one as me, risque any thing to obtain pity.  I was of 
an age, and a turn [the insolent said] to be fond of a lover-like 
distress: and my grief (which she pleaded) would never break my heart: 
I should sooner break that of the best and most indulgent of mothers.  
He added, that she might once more go up to me: but that, if she 
prevailed not, he should suspect, that the man they all hated had 
found a way to attach her to his interest.

Every body blamed him for this unworthy reflection; which greatly 
affected the good woman.  But nevertheless he said, and nobody 
contradicted him, that if she could not prevail upon her sweet child, 
[as it seems she had fondly called me,] she had best draw to her own 
home, and there tarry till she was sent for; and so leave her sweet 
child to her father's management.

Sure nobody had ever so insolent, so hard-hearted a brother, as I 
have!  So much resignation to be expected from me!  So much arrogance, 
and to so good a woman, and of so fine an understanding, to be allowed 
in him.

She nevertheless told him, that however she might be ridiculed for 
speaking of the sweetness of my disposition, she must take upon 
herself to say, that there never was a sweeter in the sex: and that 
she had ever found, that my mild methods, and gentleness, I might at 
any time be prevailed upon, even in points against my own judgment and 
opinion.

My aunt Hervey hereupon said, It was worth while to consider what Mrs. 
Norton said: and that she had sometimes allowed herself to doubt, 
whether I had been begun with by such methods as generous tempers are 
only to be influenced by, in cases where their hearts are supposed to 
be opposite to the will of their friends.

She had both my brother and sister upon her for this: who referred to 
my mother, whether she had not treated me with an indulgence that had 
hardly any example?

My mother said, she must own, that no indulgence had been wanting from 
her: but she must needs say, and had often said it, that the reception 
I met with on my return from Miss Howe, and the manner in which the 
proposal of Mr. Solmes was made to me, (which was such as left nothing 
to my choice,) and before I had an opportunity to converse with him, 
were not what she had by any means approved of.

She was silenced, you will guess by whom,--with, My dear!--my dear!--
You have ever something to say, something to palliate, for this rebel 
of a girl!--Remember her treatment of you, of me!--Remember, that the 
wretch, whom we so justly hate, would not dare persist in his 
purposes, but for her encouragement of him, and obstinacy to us.--Mrs. 
Norton, [angrily to her,] go up to her once more--and if you think 
gentleness will do, you have a commission to be gentle--if it will 
not, never make use of that plea again.

Ay, my good woman, said my mother, try your force with her.  My sister 
Hervey and I will go up to her, and bring her down in our hands, to 
receive her father's blessing, and assurances of every body's love, if 
she will be prevailed upon: and, in that case, we will all love you 
the better for your good offices.

She came up to me, and repeated all these passages with tears.  But I 
told her, that after what had passed between us, she could not hope to 
prevail upon me to comply with measures so wholly my brother's, and so 
much to my aversion.  And then folding me to her maternal bosom, I 
leave you, my dearest Miss, said she--I leave you, because I must!--
But let me beseech you to do nothing rashly; nothing unbecoming your 
character.  If all be true that is said, Mr. Lovelace cannot deserve 
you.  If you can comply, remember it is your duty to comply.  They 
take not, I own, the right method with so generous a spirit.  But 
remember, that there would not be any merit in your compliance, if it 
were not to be against your own liking.  Remember also, what is 
expected from a character so extraordinary as yours: remember, it is 
in your power to unite or disunite your whole family for ever.  
Although it should at present be disagreeable to you to be thus 
compelled, your prudence, I dare say, when you consider the matter 
seriously, will enable you to get over all prejudices against the one, 
and all prepossessions in favour of the other: and then the obligation 
you will lay all your family under, will be not only meritorious in 
you, with regard to them, but in a few months, very probably, highly 
satisfactory, as well as reputable, to yourself.

Consider, my dear Mrs. Norton, said I, only consider, that it is not a 
small thing that is insisted upon; not for a short duration; it is for 
my life: consider too, that all this is owing to an overbearing 
brother, who governs every body.  Consider how desirous I am to oblige 
them, if a single life, and breaking all correspondence with the man 
they hate, because my brother hates him, will do it.

I consider every thing, my dearest Miss: and, added to what I have 
said, do you only consider, that if, by pursuing your own will, and 
rejecting theirs, you should be unhappy, you will be deprived of all 
that consolation which those have, who have been directed by their 
parents, although the event prove not answerable to their wishes.

I must go, repeated she: your brother will say [and she wept] that I 
harden you by my whining nonsense.  'Tis indeed hard, that so much 
regard should be paid to the humours of one child, and so little to 
the inclination of another.  But let me repeat, that it is your duty 
to acquiesce, if you can acquiesce: your father has given your 
brother's schemes his sanction, and they are now his.  Mr. Lovelace, I 
doubt, is not a man that will justify your choice so much as he will 
their dislike.  It is easy to see that your brother has a view in 
discrediting you with all your friends, with your uncles in 
particular: but for that very reason, you should comply, if possible, 
in order to disconcert his ungenerous measures.  I will pray for you; 
and that is all I can do for you.  I must now go down, and make a 
report, that you are resolved never to have Mr. Solmes--Must I?--
Consider, my dear Miss Clary--Must I?

Indeed you must!--But of this I do assure you, that I will do nothing 
to disgrace the part you have had in my education.  I will bear every 
thing that shall be short of forcing my hand into his who never can 
have any share in my heart.  I will try by patient duty, by humility, 
to overcome them.  But death will I choose, in any shape, rather than 
that man.

I dread to go down, said she, with so determined an answer: they will 
have no patience with me.--But let me leave you with one observation, 
which I beg of you always to bear in mind:--

'That persons of prudence, and distinguished talents, like yours, seem 
to be sprinkled through the world, to give credit, by their example, 
to religion and virtue.  When such persons wilfully err, how great 
must be the fault!  How ungrateful to that God, who blessed them with 
such talents!  What a loss likewise to the world!  What a wound to 
virtue!--But this, I hope, will never be to be said of Miss Clarissa 
Harlowe!'

I could give her no answer, but by my tears.  And I thought, when she 
went away, the better half of my heart went with her.

I listened to hear what reception she would meet with below; and found 
it was just such a one as she had apprehended.

Will she, or will she not, be Mrs. Solmes?  None of your whining 
circumlocutions, Mrs. Norton!--[You may guess who said this] Will she, 
or will she not, comply with her parents' will?

This cut short all she was going to say.

If I must speak so briefly, Miss will sooner die, than have--

Any body but Lovelace! interrupted my brother.--This, Madam, this, 
Sir, is your meek daughter!  This is Mrs. Norton's sweet child!--Well, 
Goody, you may return to your own habitation.  I am empowered to 
forbid you to have any correspondence with this perverse girl for a 
month to come, as you value the favour of our whole family, or of any 
individual of it.

And saying this, uncontradicted by any body, he himself shewed her to 
the door,--no doubt, with all that air of cruel insult, which the 
haughty rich can put on to the unhappy low, who have not pleased them.

So here, my dear Miss Howe, am I deprived of the advice of one of the 
most prudent and conscientious women in the world, were I to have ever 
so much occasion for it.

I might indeed write (as I presume, under your cover) and receive her 
answers to what I should write.  But should such a correspondence be 
charged upon her, I know she would not be guilty of a falsehood for 
the world, nor even of an equivocation: and should she own it after 
this prohibition, she would forfeit my mother's favour for ever.  And 
in my dangerous fever, some time ago, I engaged my mother to promise 
me, that, if I died before I could do any thing for the good woman, 
she would set her above want for the rest of her life, should her eyes 
fail her, or sickness befall her, and she could not provide for 
herself, as she now so prettily does by her fine needle-works.

What measures will they fall upon next?--Will they not recede when 
they find that it must be a rooted antipathy, and nothing else, that 
could make a temper, not naturally inflexible, so sturdy?

Adieu, my dear.  Be you happy!--To know that it is in your power to be 
so, is all that seems wanting to make you so.

CL. HARLOWE.



LETTER XL

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
[In continuation of the subject in Letter XXXVIII.]


I will now, though midnight (for I have no sleep in my eyes) resume 
the subject I was forced so abruptly to quit, and will obey yours, 
Miss Lloyd's, Miss Campion's, and Miss Biddulph's call, with as much 
temper as my divided thought will admit.  The dead stillness of this 
solemn hour will, I hope, contribute to calm my disturbed mind.

In order to acquit myself of so heavy a charge as that of having 
reserves to so dear a friend, I will acknowledge (and I thought I had 
over-and-over) that it is owing to my particular situation, if Mr. 
Lovelace appears to me in a tolerable light: and I take upon me to 
say, that had they opposed to him a man of sense, of virtue, of 
generosity; one who enjoyed his fortune with credit, who had a 
tenderness in his nature for the calamities of others, which would 
have given a moral assurance, that he would have been still less 
wanting in grateful returns to an obliging spirit:--had they opposed 
such a man as this to Mr. Lovelace, and been as earnest to have me 
married, as now they are, I do not know myself, if they would have had 
reason to tax me with that invincible obstinacy which they lay to my 
charge: and this whatever had been the figure of the man; since the 
heart is what we women should judge by in the choice we make, as the 
best security for the party's good behaviour in every relation of 
life.

But, situated as I am, thus persecuted and driven, I own to you, that 
I have now-and-then had a little more difficulty than I wished for, in 
passing by Mr. Lovelace's tolerable qualities, to keep up my dislike 
to him for his others.

You say, I must have argued with myself in his favour, and in his 
disfavour, on a supposition, that I might possibly be one day his.  I 
own that I have: and thus called upon by my dearest friend, I will set 
before you both parts of the argument.

And first, what occurred to me in his favour.

At his introduction into our family, his negative virtues were 
insisted upon:--He was no gamester; no horse-racer; no fox-hunter; no 
drinker: my poor aunt Hervey had, in confidence, given us to apprehend 
much disagreeable evil (especially to a wife of the least delicacy) 
from a wine-lover: and common sense instructed us, that sobriety in a 
man is no small point to be secured, when so many mischiefs happen 
daily from excess.  I remember, that my sister made the most of this 
favourable circumstance in his character while she had any hopes of 
him.

He was never thought to be a niggard; not even ungenerous: nor when 
his conduct came to be inquired into, an extravagant, a squanderer: 
his pride [so far was it a laudable pride] secured him from that.  
Then he was ever ready to own his errors.  He was no jester upon 
sacred things: poor Mr. Wyerley's fault; who seemed to think there was 
wit in saying bold things, which would shock a serious mind.  His 
conversation with us was always unexceptionable, even chastely so; 
which, be his actions what they would, shewed him capable of being 
influenced by decent company; and that he might probably therefore be 
a led man, rather than a leader, in other company.  And one late 
instance, so late as last Saturday evening, has raised him not a 
little in my opinion, with regard to this point of good (and at the 
same time, of manly) behaviour.

As to the advantage of birth, that is of his side, above any man who 
has been found out for me.  If we may judge by that expression of his, 
which you were pleased with at the time; 'That upon true quality, and 
hereditary distinction, if good sense were not wanting, humour sat as 
easy as his glove;' that, with as familiar an air, was his familiar 
expression; 'while none but the prosperous upstart, MUSHROOMED into 
rank, (another of his peculiars,) was arrogantly proud of it.'--If, I 
say, we may judge of him by this, we shall conclude in his favour, 
that he knows what sort of behaviour is to be expected from persons of 
birth, whether he act up to it or not.  Conviction is half way to 
amendment.

His fortunes in possession are handsome; in expectation, splendid: so 
nothing need be said on that subject.

But it is impossible, say some, that he should make a tender or kind 
husband.  Those who are for imposing upon me such a man as Mr. Solmes, 
and by methods so violent, are not entitled to make this objection.  
But now, on this subject, let me tell you how I have argued with 
myself--for still you must remember, that I am upon the extenuating 
part of his character.

A great deal of the treatment a wife may expect from him, will 
possibly depend upon herself.  Perhaps she must practise as well as 
promise obedience, to a man so little used to controul; and must be 
careful to oblige.  And what husband expects not this?--The more 
perhaps if he had not reason to assure himself of the preferable love 
of his wife before she became such.  And how much easier and 
pleasanter to obey the man of her choice, if he should be even more 
unreasonable sometimes, than one she would not have had, could she 
have avoided it?  Then, I think, as the men were the framers of the 
matrimonial office, and made obedience a part of the woman's vow, she 
ought not, even in policy, to shew him, that she can break through her 
part of the contract, (however lightly she may think of the instance,) 
lest he should take it into his head (himself is judge) to think as 
lightly of other points, which she may hold more important--but, 
indeed, no point so solemnly vowed can be slight.

Thus principled, and acting accordingly, what a wretch must that 
husband be, who could treat such a wife brutally!--Will Lovelace's 
wife be the only person to whom he will not pay the grateful debt of 
civility and good manners?  He is allowed to be brave: Who ever knew a 
brave man, if a brave man of sense, an universally base man?  And how 
much the gentleness of our sex, and the manner of our training up and 
education, make us need the protection of the brave, and the 
countenance of the generous, let the general approbation, which we are 
all so naturally inclined to give to men of that character, testify.

At worst, will he confine me prisoner to my chamber?  Will he deny me 
the visits of my dearest friend, and forbid me to correspond with her?  
Will he take from me the mistressly management, which I had not 
faultily discharged?  Will he set a servant over me, with license to 
insult me?  Will he, as he has not a sister, permit his cousins 
Montague, or would either of those ladies accept of a permission, to 
insult and tyrannize over me?--It cannot be.--Why then, think I often, 
do you tempt me, O my cruel friends, to try the difference?

And then has the secret pleasure intruded itself, to be able to 
reclaim such a man to the paths of virtue and honour: to be a 
secondary means, if I were to be his, of saving him, and preventing 
the mischiefs so enterprising a creature might otherwise be guilty of, 
if he be such a one.

When I have thought of him in these lights, (and that as a man of 
sense he will sooner see his errors, than another,) I own to you, that 
I have had some difficulty to avoid taking the path they so violently 
endeavour to make me shun: and all that command of my passions which 
has been attributed to me as my greatest praise, and, in so young a 
creature, as my distinction, has hardly been sufficient for me.

And let me add, that the favour of his relations (all but himself 
unexceptionable) has made a good deal of additional weight, thrown in 
the same scale.

But now, in his disfavour.  When I have reflected upon the prohibition 
of my parents; the giddy appearance, disgraceful to our sex, that such 
a preference would have: that there is no manner of likelihood, 
enflamed by the rencounter, and upheld by art and ambition on my 
brother's side, that ever the animosity will be got over: that I must 
therefore be at perpetual variance with all my own family: that I must 
go to him, and to his, as an obliged and half-fortuned person: that 
his aversion to them all is as strong as theirs to him: that his whole 
family are hated for his sake; they hating ours in return: that he has 
a very immoral character as to women: that knowing this, it is a high 
degree of impurity to think of joining in wedlock with such a man: 
that he is young, unbroken, his passions unsubdued: that he is violent 
in his temper, yet artful; I am afraid vindictive too: that such a 
husband might unsettle me in all my own principles, and hazard my 
future hopes: that his own relations, two excellent aunts, and an 
uncle, from whom he has such large expectations, have no influence 
upon him: that what tolerable qualities he has, are founded more in 
pride than in virtue: that allowing, as he does, the excellency of 
moral precepts, and believing the doctrine of future rewards and 
punishments, he can live as if he despised the one, and defied the 
other: the probability that the taint arising from such free 
principles, may go down into the manners of posterity: that I knowing 
these things, and the importance of them, should be more inexcusable 
than one who knows them not; since an error against judgment is worse, 
infinitely worse, than an error in judgment.  Reflecting upon these 
things, I cannot help conjuring you, my dear, to pray with me, and to 
pray for me, that I may not be pushed upon such indiscreet measures, 
as will render me inexcusable to myself: for that is the test, after 
all.  The world's opinion ought to be but a secondary consideration.

I have said in his praise, that he is extremely ready to own his 
errors: but I have sometimes made a great drawback upon this article, 
in his disfavour; having been ready to apprehend, that this 
ingenuousness may possibly be attributable to two causes, neither of 
them, by any means, creditable to him.  The one, that his vices are so 
much his masters, that he attempts not to conquer them; the other, 
that he may think it policy, to give up one half of his character to 
save the other, when the whole may be blamable: by this means, 
silencing by acknowledgment the objections he cannot answer; which may 
give him the praise of ingenuousness, when he can obtain no other, and 
when the challenged proof might bring out, upon discussion, other 
evils.  These, you will allow, are severe constructions; but every 
thing his enemies say of him cannot be false.  

I will proceed by-and-by.


***


Sometimes we have both thought him one of the most undesigning merely 
witty men we ever knew; at other times one of the deepest creatures we 
ever conversed with.  So that when in one visit we have imagined we 
fathomed him, in the next he has made us ready to give him up as 
impenetrable.  This impenetrableness, my dear, is to be put among the 
shades in his character.  Yet, upon the whole, you have been so far of 
his party, that you have contested that his principal fault is over-
frankness, and too much regardlessness of appearances, and that he is 
too giddy to be very artful: you would have it, that at the time he 
says any thing good, he means what he speaks; that his variableness 
and levity are constitutional, owing to sound health, and to a soul 
and body [that was your observation] fitted for and pleased with each 
other.  And hence you concluded, that could this consentaneousness [as 
you call it] of corporal and animal faculties be pointed by 
discretion; that is to say, could his vivacity be confined within the 
pale of but moral obligations, he would be far from being rejectable 
as a companion for life.

But I used then to say, and I still am of opinion, that he wants a 
heart: and if he does, he wants every thing.  A wrong head may be 
convinced, may have a right turn given it: but who is able to give a 
heart, if a heart be wanting?  Divine Grace, working a miracle, or 
next to a miracle, can only change a bad heart.  Should not one fly the 
man who is but suspected of such a one?  What, O what, do parents do, 
when they endeavour to force a child's inclination, but make her think 
better than otherwise she would think of a man obnoxious to 
themselves, and perhaps whose character will not stand examination?

I have said, that I think Mr. Lovelace a vindictive man: upon my word, 
I have sometimes doubted, whether his perseverance in his addresses to 
me has not been the more obstinate, since he has found himself so 
disagreeable to my friends.  From that time I verily think he has been 
the more fervent in them; yet courts them not, but sets them at 
defiance.  For this indeed he pleads disinterestedness [I am sure he 
cannot politeness]; and the more plausibly, as he is apprized of the 
ability they have to make it worth his while to court them.  'Tis true 
he has declared, and with too much reason, (or there would be no 
bearing him,) that the lowest submissions on his part would not be 
accepted; and to oblige me, has offered to seek a reconciliation with 
them, if I would give him hope of success.

As to his behaviour at church, the Sunday before last, I lay no stress 
upon that, because I doubt there was too much outward pride in his 
intentional humility, or Shorey, who is not his enemy, could not have 
mistaken it.

I do not think him so deeply learned in human nature, or in ethics, as 
some have thought him.  Don't you remember how he stared at the 
following trite observations, which every moralist could have 
furnished him with?  Complaining as he did, in a half-menacing strain, 
of the obloquies raised against him--'That if he were innocent, he 
should despise the obloquy: if not, revenge would not wipe off his 
guilt.'  'That nobody ever thought of turning a sword into a sponge!'   
'That it was in his own power by reformation of an error laid to his 
charge by an enemy, to make that enemy one of his best friends; and 
(which was the noblest revenge in the world) against his will; since 
an enemy would not wish him to be without the faults he taxed him 
with.'

But the intention, he said, was the wound.

How so, I asked him, when that cannot wound without the application?  
'That the adversary only held the sword: he himself pointed it to his 
breast:--And why should he mortally resent that malice, which he might 
be the better for as long as he lived?'--What could be the reading he 
has been said to be master of, to wonder, as he did, at these 
observations?

But, indeed, he must take pleasure in revenge; and yet holds others to 
be inexcusable for the same fault.  He is not, however, the only one 
who can see how truly blamable those errors are in another, which they 
hardly think such in themselves.

From these considerations, from these over-balances, it was, that I 
said, in a former, that I would not be in love with this man for the 
world: and it was going further than prudence would warrant, when I 
was for compounding with you, by the words conditional liking, which 
you so humourously rally.

Well but, methinks you say, what is all this to the purpose?  This is 
still but reasoning: but, if you are in love, you are: and love, like 
the vapours, is the deeper rooted for having no sufficient cause 
assignable for its hold.  And so you call upon me again to have no 
reserves, and so-forth.

Why then, my dear, if you will have it, I think, that, with all his 
preponderating faults, I like him better than I ever thought I should 
like him; and, those faults considered, better perhaps than I ought to 
like him.  And I believe, it is possible for the persecution I labour 
under to induce me to like him still more--especially while I can 
recollect to his advantage our last interview, and as every day 
produces stronger instances of tyranny, I will call it, on the other 
side.--In a word, I will frankly own (since you cannot think any thing 
I say too explicit) that were he now but a moral man, I would prefer 
him to all the men I ever saw.

So that this is but conditional liking still, you'll say: nor, I hope, 
is it more.  I never was in love as it is called; and whether this be 
it, or not, I must submit to you.  But will venture to think it, if it 
be, no such mighty monarch, no such unconquerable power, as I have 
heard it represented; and it must have met with greater encouragement 
than I think I have given it, to be absolutely unconquerable--since I 
am persuaded, that I could yet, without a throb, most willingly give 
up the one man to get rid of the other.

But now to be a little more serious with you: if, my dear, my 
particularly-unhappy situation had driven (or led me, if you please) 
into a liking of the man; and if that liking had, in your opinion, 
inclined me to love him, should you, whose mind is susceptible of the 
most friendly impressions, who have such high notions of the delicacy 
which ought to be observed by our sex in these matters, and who 
actually do enter so deeply into the distresses of one you love--
should you have pushed so far that unhappy friend on so very nice a 
subject?--Especially, when I aimed not (as you could prove by fifty 
instances, it seems) to guard against being found out.  Had you 
rallied me by word of mouth in the manner you do, it might have been 
more in character; especially, if your friend's distresses had been 
surmounted, and if she had affected prudish airs in revolving the 
subject: but to sit down to write it, as methinks I see you, with a 
gladdened eye, and with all the archness of exultation--indeed, my 
dear, (and I take notice of it, rather for the sake of your own 
generosity, than for my sake, for, as I have said, I love your 
raillery,) it is not so very pretty; the delicacy of the subject, and 
the delicacy of your own mind, considered.

I lay down my pen here, that you may consider of it a little, if you 
please.


***


I resume, to give you my opinion of the force which figure or person 
ought to have upon our sex: and this I shall do both generally as to 
the other sex, and particularly as to this man; whence you will be 
able to collect how far my friends are in the right, or in the wrong, 
when they attribute a good deal of prejudice in favour of one man, and 
in disfavour of the other, on the score of figure.  But, first, let me 
observe, that they see abundant reason, on comparing Mr. Lovelace and 
Mr. Solmes together, to believe that this may be a consideration with 
me; and therefore they believe it is.

There is certainly something very plausible and attractive, as well as 
creditable to a woman's choice, in figure.  It gives a favourable 
impression at first sight, in which we wish to be confirmed: and if, 
upon further acquaintance, we find reason to be so, we are pleased 
with our judgment, and like the person the better, for having given us 
cause to compliment our own sagacity, in our first-sighted 
impressions.  But, nevertheless, it has been generally a rule with me, 
to suspect a fine figure, both in man and woman; and I have had a good 
deal of reason to approve my rule;--with regard to men especially, who 
ought to value themselves rather upon their intellectual than personal 
qualities.  For, as to our sex, if a fine woman should be led by the 
opinion of the world, to be vain and conceited upon her form and 
features; and that to such a degree, as to have neglected the more 
material and more durable recommendations, the world will be ready to 
excuse her; since a pretty fool, in all she says, and in all she does, 
will please, we know not why.

But who would grudge this pretty fool her short day!  Since, with her 
summer's sun, when her butterfly flutters are over, and the winter of 
age and furrows arrives, she will feel the just effects of having 
neglected to cultivate her better faculties: for then, lie another 
Helen, she will be unable to bear the reflection even of her own 
glass, and being sunk into the insignificance of a mere old woman, she 
will be entitled to the contempts which follow that character.  While 
the discreet matron, who carries up [we will not, in such a one's 
case, say down] into advanced life, the ever-amiable character of 
virtuous prudence and useful experience, finds solid veneration take 
place of airy admiration, and more than supply the want of it.

But for a man to be vain of his person, how effeminate!  If such a one 
happens to have genius, it seldom strikes deep into intellectual 
subjects.  His outside usually runs away with him.  To adorn, and 
perhaps, intending to adorn, to render ridiculous that person, takes 
up all his attention.  All he does is personal; that is to say, for 
himself: all he admires, is himself: and in spite of the correction of 
the stage, which so often and so justly exposes a coxcomb, he usually 
dwindles down, and sinks into that character; and, of consequence, 
becomes the scorn of one sex, and the jest of the other.

This is generally the case of your fine figures of men, and of those 
who value themselves on dress and outward appearance: whence it is, 
that I repeat, that mere person in a man is a despicable 
consideration.  But if a man, besides figure, has learning, and such 
talents as would have distinguished him, whatever were his form, then 
indeed person is an addition: and if he has not run too egregiously 
into self-admiration, and if he has preserved his morals, he is truly 
a valuable being.

Mr. Lovelace has certainly taste; and, as far as I am able to 
determine, he has judgment in most of the politer arts.  But although 
he has a humourous way of carrying it off, yet one may see that he 
values himself not a little, both on his person and his parts, and 
even upon his dress; and yet he has so happy an ease in the latter, 
that it seems to be the least part of his study.  And as to the 
former, I should hold myself inexcusable, if I were to add to his 
vanity by shewing the least regard for what is too evidently so much 
his.

And now, my dear, let me ask you, Have I come up to your expectation?  
If I have not, when my mind is more at ease, I will endeavour to 
please you better.  For, methinks, my sentences drag, my style creeps, 
my imagination is sunk, my spirits serve me not, only to tell you, 
that whether I have more or less, I am wholly devoted to the commands 
of my dear Miss Howe.



P.S. The insolent Betty Barnes has just now fired me anew, by 
reporting to me the following expressions of the hideous creature, 
Solmes--'That he is sure of the coy girl; and that with little labour 
to himself.  That be I ever so averse to him beforehand, he can depend 
upon my principles; and it will be a pleasure to him to see by what 
pretty degrees I shall come to.'  [Horrid wretch!]  'That it was Sir 
Oliver's observation, who knew the world perfectly well, that fear was 
a better security than love, for a woman's good behaviour to her 
husband; although, for his part, to such a fine creature [truly] he 
would try what love would do, for a few weeks at least; being 
unwilling to believe what the old knight used to aver, that fondness 
spoils more wives than it makes good.'

What think you, my dear, of such a wretch as this! tutored, too, by 
that old surly misogynist, as he was deemed, Sir Oliver?--



LETTER XLI

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
TUESDAY, MARCH 21.


How willingly would my dear mother shew kindness to me, were she 
permitted!  None of this persecution should I labour under, I am sure, 
if that regard were paid to her prudence and fine understanding, which 
they so well deserve.  Whether owing to her, or to my aunt, or to 
both, that a new trial was to be made upon me, I cannot tell, but this 
morning her Shorey delivered into my hand the following condescending 
letter.


MY DEAR GIRL,

For so I must still call you; since dear you may be to me, in every 
sense of the word--we have taken into particular consideration some 
hints that fell yesterday from your good Norton, as if we had not, at 
Mr. Solmes's first application, treated you with that condescension, 
wherewith we have in all other instances treated you.  If it even had 
been so, my dear, you were not excusable to be wanting in your part, 
and to set yourself to oppose your father's will in a point which he 
had entered too far, to recede with honour.  But all yet may be well.  
On your single will, my child, depends all our happiness.

Your father permits me to tell you, that if you now at last comply 
with his expectations, all past disobligations shall be buried in 
oblivion, as if they had never been: but withal, that this is the last 
time that that grace will be offered you.

I hinted to you, you must remember,* that patterns of the richest 
silks were sent for.  They are come.  And as they are come, your 
father, to shew how much he is determined, will have me send them up 
to you.  I could have wished they might not have accompanied this 
letter, but there is not great matter in that.  I must tell you, that 
your delicacy is not quite so much regarded as I had once thought it 
deserved to be.


* See Letter XX.


These are the newest, as well as richest, that we could procure; 
answerable to our situation in the world; answerable to the fortune, 
additional to your grandfather's estate, designed you; and to the 
noble settlements agreed upon.

Your father intends you six suits (three of them dressed suits) at his 
own expense.  You have an entire new suit; and one besides, which I 
think you never wore but twice.  As the new suit is rich, if you 
choose to make that one of the six, your father will present you with 
an hundred guineas in lieu.

Mr. Solmes intends to present you with a set of jewels.  As you have 
your grandmother's and your own, if you choose to have the former new 
set, and to make them serve, his present will be made in money; a very 
round sum--which will be given in full property to yourself; besides a 
fine annual allowance for pin-money, as it is called. So that your 
objection against the spirit of a man you think worse of than it 
deserves, will have no weight; but you will be more independent than a 
wife of less discretion than we attribute to you, perhaps ought to be.  
You know full well, that I, who first and last brought a still larger 
fortune into the family than you will carry to Mr. Solmes, had not a 
provision made me of near this that we have made for you.--Where 
people marry to their liking, terms are the least things stood upon--
yet should I be sorry if you cannot (to oblige us all) overcome a 
dislike.

Wonder not, Clary, that I write to you thus plainly and freely upon 
this subject.  Your behaviour hitherto has been such, that we have had 
no opportunity of entering minutely into the subject with you.  Yet, 
after all that has passed between you and me in conversation, and 
between you and your uncles by letter, you have no room to doubt what 
is to be the consequence.--Either, child, we must give up our 
authority, or you your humour.  You cannot expect the one.  We have 
all the reason in the world to expect the other.  You know I have told 
you more than once, that you must resolve to have Mr. Solmes, or never 
to be looked upon as our child.

The draught of the settlement you may see whenever you will.  We think 
there can be no room for objection to any of the articles.  There is 
still more in them in our family's favour, than was stipulated at 
first, when your aunt talked of them to you.  More so, indeed, than we 
could have asked.  If, upon perusal of them, you think any alteration 
necessary, it shall be made.--Do, my dear girl, send to me within this 
day or two, or rather ask me, for the perusal of them.

As a certain person's appearance at church so lately, and what he 
gives out every where, makes us extremely uneasy, and as that 
uneasiness will continue while you are single, you must not wonder 
that a short day is intended.  This day fortnight we design it to be, 
if you have no objection to make that I shall approve of.  But if you 
determine as we would have you, and signify it to us, we shall not 
stand with you for a week or so.

Your sightlines of person may perhaps make some think this alliance 
disparaging.  But I hope you will not put such a personal value upon 
yourself: if you do, it will indeed be the less wonder that person 
should weigh with you (however weak the consideration!) in another 
man.

Thus we parents, in justice, ought to judge: that our two daughters 
are equally dear and valuable to us: if so, why should Clarissa think 
that a disparagement, which Arabella would not (nor we for her) have 
thought any, had the address been made to her?--You will know what I 
mean by this, without my explaining myself farther.

Signify to us, now, therefore, your compliance with our wishes.  And 
then there is an end of your confinement.  An act of oblivion, as I 
may call it, shall pass upon all your former refractoriness: and you 
will once more make us happy in you, and in one another.  You may, in 
this case, directly come down to your father and me, in his study; 
where we will give you our opinions of the patterns, with our hearty 
forgiveness and blessings.

Come, be a good child, as you used to be, my Clarissa.  I have 
(notwithstanding your past behaviour, and the hopelessness which some 
have expressed in your compliance) undertaken this one time more for 
you.  Discredit not my hopes, my dear girl.  I have promised never 
more to interfere between your father and you, if this my most earnest 
application succeed not.  I expect you down, love.  Your father 
expects you down.  But be sure don't let him see any thing uncheerful 
in your compliance.  If you come, I will clasp you to my fond heart, 
with as much pleasure as ever I pressed you to it in my whole life.  
You don't know what I have suffered within these few weeks past; nor 
ever will be able to guess, till you come to be in my situation; which 
is that of a fond and indulgent mother, praying night and day, and 
struggling to preserve, against the attempts of more ungovernable 
spirits, the peace and union of her family.

But you know the terms.  Come not near us, if you have resolve to be 
undutiful: but this, after what I have written, I hope you cannot be.

If you come directly, and, as I have said, cheerfully, as if your 
heart were in your duty, (and you told me it was free, you know,) I 
shall then, as I said, give you the most tender proofs how much I am

Your truly affectionate Mother.


***


Think for me, my dearest friend, how I must be affected by this 
letter; the contents of it is so surprisingly terrifying, yet so 
sweetly urged!--O why, cried I to myself, am I obliged to undergo this 
severe conflict between a command that I cannot obey, and language so 
condescendingly moving!--Could I have been sure of being struck dead 
at the alter before the ceremony had given the man I hate a title to 
my vows, I think I could have submitted to having been led to it.  But 
to think of living with and living for a man one abhors, what a sad 
thing is that!

And then, how could the glare of habit and ornament be supposed any 
inducement to one, who has always held, that the principal view of a 
good wife in the adorning of her person, ought to be, to preserve the 
affection of her husband, and to do credit to his choice; and that she 
should be even fearful of attracting the eyes of others?--In this 
view, must not the very richness of the patterns add to my disgusts?--
Great encouragement, indeed, to think of adorning one's self to be the 
wife of Mr. Solmes!

Upon the whole, it was not possible for me to go down upon the 
prescribed condition.  Do you think it was?--And to write, if my 
letter would have been read, what could I write that would be 
admitted, and after what I had written and said to so little effect?

I walked backward and forward.  I threw down with disdain the 
patterns.  Now to my closet retired I; then quitting it, threw myself 
upon the settee; then upon this chair, then upon that; then into one 
window, then into another--I knew not what to do!--And while I was in 
this suspense, having again taken up the letter to re-peruse it, Betty 
came in, reminding me, by order, that my papa and mamma waited for me 
in my father's study.

Tell my mamma, said I, that I beg the favour of seeing her here for 
one moment, or to permit me to attend her any where by herself.

I listened at the stairs-head--You see, my dear, how it is, cried my 
father, very angrily: all your condescension (as your indulgence 
heretofore) is thrown away.  You blame your son's violence, as you 
call it [I had some pleasure in hearing this]; but nothing else will 
do with her.  You shall not see her alone.  Is my presence an 
exception to the bold creature?

Tell her, said my mother to Betty, she knows upon what terms she may 
come down to us.  Nor will I see her upon any other.

The maid brought me this answer.  I had recourse to my pen and ink; 
but I trembled so, that I could not write, nor knew what to say, had I 
steadier fingers.  At last Betty brought me these lines from my 
father.


UNDUTIFUL AND PERVERSE CLARISSA,

No condescension, I see, will move you.  Your mother shall not see 
you; nor will I.  Prepare however to obey.  You know our pleasure.  
Your uncle Antony, your brother, and your sister, and your favourite 
Mrs. Norton, shall see the ceremony performed privately at your 
uncle's chapel.  And when Mr. Solmes can introduce you to us, in the 
temper we wish to behold you in, we may perhaps forgive his wife, 
although we never can, in any other character, our perverse daughter.  
As it will be so privately performed, clothes and equipage may be 
provided for afterwards.  So prepare to go to your uncle's for an 
early day in next week.  We will not see you till all is over: and we 
will have it over the sooner, in order to shorten the time of your 
deserved confinement, and our own trouble in contending with such a 
rebel, as you have been of late.  I will hear no pleas, I will receive 
no letter, nor expostulation.  Nor shall you hear from me any more 
till you have changed your name to my liking.  This from

Your incensed Father.


If this resolution be adhered to, then will my father never see me 
more!--For I will never be the wife of that Solmes--I will die 
first!--


TUESDAY EVENING.


He, this Solmes, came hither soon after I had received my father's 
letter.  He sent up to beg leave to wait upon me--I wonder at his 
assurance!--

I said to Betty, who brought me this message, let him restore an 
unhappy creature to her father and mother, and then I may hear what he 
has to say.  But, if my friends will not see me on his account, I will 
not see him upon his own.

I hope, Miss, said Betty, you will not send me down with this answer.  
He is with you papa and mamma.

I am driven to despair, said I.  I cannot be used worse.  I will not 
see him.

Down she went with my answer.  She pretended, it seems, to be loth to 
repeat it: so was commanded out of her affected reserves, and gave it 
in its full force. 

O how I heard my father storm!

They were altogether, it seems, in his study.  My brother was for 
having me turned out of the house that moment, to Lovelace, and my 
evil destiny.  My mother was pleased to put in a gentle word for me: I 
know not what it was: but thus she was answered--My dear, this is the 
most provoking thing in the world in a woman of your good sense!--To 
love a rebel, as well as if she were dutiful.  What encouragement for 
duty is this?--Have I not loved her as well as ever you did?  And why 
am I changed!  Would to the Lord, your sex knew how to distinguish!  
It is plain, that she relies upon her power over you.  The fond mother 
ever made a hardened child!

She was pleased, however, to blame Betty, as the wench owned, for 
giving my answer its full force.  But my father praised her for it.

The wench says, that he would have come up in his wrath, at my 
refusing to see Mr. Solmes, had not my brother and sister prevailed 
upon him to the contrary.

I wish he had!--And, were it not for his own sake, that he had killed 
me!

Mr. Solmes condescended [I am mightily obliged to him truly!] to plead 
for me.

They are all in tumults!  How it will end, I know not--I am quite 
weary of life--So happy, till within these few weeks!--So miserable 
now!

Well, indeed, might my mother say, that I should have severe trials.*


* See Letter XXV.


P.S. The idiot [such a one am I treated like!] is begged, as I may 
say, by my brother and sister.  They have desired, that I may be 
consigned over entirely to their management.  If it be granted, [it is 
granted, on my father's part, I understand, but not yet on my 
mother's,] what cruelty may I not expect from their envy, jealousy, 
and ill-will!--I shall soon see, by its effects, if I am to be so 
consigned.  This is a written intimation privately dropt in my wood-
house walk, by my cousin Dolly Hervey.  The dear girl longs to see me, 
she tells me: but is forbidden till she see me as Mrs. Solmes, or as 
consenting to be his.  I will take example by their perseverance!--
Indeed I will!--



LETTER XLII

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE


An angry dialogue, a scolding-bout rather, has passed between my 
sister and me.  Did you think I could scold, my dear?

She was sent up to me, upon my refusal to see Mr. Solmes--let loose 
upon me, I think!--No intention on their parts to conciliate!  It 
seems evident that I am given up to my brother and her, by general 
consent.

I will do justice to every thing she said against me, which carried 
any force with it.  As I ask for your approbation or disapprobation of 
my conduct, upon the facts I lay before you, I should think it the 
sign of a very bad cause, if I endeavoured to mislead my judge.

She began with representing to me the danger I had been in, had my 
father come up, as he would have done had he not been hindered--by Mr. 
Solmes, among the rest.  She reflected upon my Norton, as if she 
encouraged me in my perverseness.  She ridiculed me for my supposed 
esteem for Mr. Lovelace--was surprised that the witty, the prudent, 
nay, the dutiful and pi--ous [so she sneeringly pronounced the word] 
Clarissa Harlowe, should be so strangely fond of a profligate man, 
that her parents were forced to lock her up, in order to hinder her 
from running into his arms.  'Let me ask you, my dear, said she, how 
you now keep your account of the disposition of your time?  How many 
hours in the twenty-four do you devote to your needle?  How many to 
your prayers?  How many to letter-writing?  And how many to love?--I 
doubt, I doubt, my little dear, was her arch expression, the latter 
article is like Aaron's rod, and swallows up the rest!--Tell me; is it 
not so?'

To these I answered, That it was a double mortification to me to owe 
my safety from the effects of my father's indignation to a man I could 
never thank for any thing.  I vindicated the good Mrs. Norton with a 
warmth that was due to her merit.  With equal warmth I resented her 
reflections upon me on Mr. Lovelace's account.  As to the disposition 
of my time in the twenty-four hours, I told her it would better have 
become her to pity a sister in distress, than to exult over her--
especially, when I could too justly attribute to the disposition of 
some of her wakeful hours no small part of that distress.

She raved extremely at this last hint: but reminded me of the gentle 
treatment of all my friends, my mother's in particular, before it came 
to this.  She said, that I had discovered a spirit they never had 
expected: that, if they had thought me such a championess, they would 
hardly have ventured to engage with me: but that now, the short and 
the long of it was, that the matter had gone too far to be given up: 
that it was become a contention between duty and willfulness; whether 
a parent's authority were to yield to a daughter's obstinacy, or the 
contrary: that I must therefore bend or break, that was all, child.

I told her, that I wished the subject were of such a nature, that I 
could return her pleasantry with equal lightness of heart: but that, 
if Mr. Solmes had such merit in every body's eyes, in hers, 
particularly, why might he not be a brother to me, rather than a 
husband?

O child, says she, methinks you are as pleasant to the full as I am: I 
begin to have some hopes of you now.  But do you think I will rob my 
sister of her humble servant?  Had he first addressed himself to me, 
proceeded she, something might have been said: but to take my younger 
sister's refusal!  No, no, child; it is not come to that neither!  
Besides, that would be to leave the door open in your heart for you 
know who, child; and we would fain bar him out, if possible.  In short 
[and then she changed both her tone and her looks] had I been as 
forward as somebody, to throw myself into the arms of one of the 
greatest profligates in England, who had endeavoured to support his 
claim to me through the blood of my brother, then might all my family 
join together to save me from such a wretch, and to marry me as fast 
as they could, to some worthy man, who might opportunely offer 
himself.  And now, Clary, all's out, and make the most of it.

Did not this deserve a severe return?  Do, say it did, to justify my 
reply.--Alas! for my poor sister! said I--The man was not always so 
great a profligate.  How true is the observation, That unrequited love 
turns to deepest hate!

I thought she would beat me.  But I proceeded--I have heard often of 
my brother's danger, and my brother's murderer.  When so little 
ceremony is made with me, why should I not speak out?--Did he not seek 
to kill the other, if he could have done it?  Would my brother have 
given Lovelace his life, had it been in his power?--The aggressor 
should not complain.--And, as to opportune offers, would to Heaven 
some one had offered opportunely to somebody!  It is not my fault, 
Bella, the opportune gentleman don't come!

Could you, my dear, have shewn more spirit?  I expected to feel the 
weight of her hand.  She did come up to me, with it held up: then, 
speechless with passion, ran half way down the stairs, and came up 
again.

When she could speak--God give me patience with you!

Amen, said I: but you see, Bella, how ill you bear the retort you 
provoke.  Will you forgive me; and let me find a sister in you, as I 
am sorry, if you had reason to think me unsisterly in what I have 
said?

Then did she pour upon me, with greater violence; considering my 
gentleness as a triumph of temper over her.  She was resolved, she 
said, to let every body know how I took the wicked Lovelace's part 
against my brother.

I wished, I told her, I could make the plea for myself, which she 
might for herself; to wit, that my anger was more inexcusable than my 
judgment.  But I presumed she had some other view in coming to me, 
than she had hitherto acquainted me with.  Let me, said I, but know 
(after all that has passed) if you have any thing to propose that I 
can comply with; any thing that can make my only sister once more my 
friend?

I had before, upon hearing her ridiculing me on my supposed character 
of meekness, said, that, although I wished to be thought meek, I would 
not be abject; although humble not mean: and here, in a sneering way, 
she cautioned me on that head.

I replied, that her pleasantry was much more agreeable than her anger.  
But I wished she would let me know the end of a visit that had 
hitherto (between us) been so unsisterly.

She desired to be informed, in the name of every body, was her word, 
what I was determined upon?  And whether to comply or not?--One word 
for all: My friends were not to have patience with so perverse a 
creature for ever.

This then I told her I would do: Absolutely break with the man they 
were all so determined against: upon condition, however, that neither 
Mr. Solmes, nor any other, were urged upon me with the force of a 
command.

And what was this, more than I had offered before?  What, but ringing 
my changes upon the same bells, and neither receding nor advancing one 
tittle?

If I knew what other proposals I could make, I told her, that would be 
acceptable to them all, and free me from the address of a man so 
disagreeable to me, I would make them.  I had indeed before offered, 
never to marry without my father's consent--

She interrupted me, That was because I depended upon my whining tricks 
to bring my father and mother to what I pleased.

A poor dependence! I said:--She knew those who would make that 
dependence vain--

And I should have brought them to my own beck, very probably, and my 
uncle Harlowe too, as also my aunt Hervey, had I not been forbidden 
from their sight, and thereby hindered from playing my pug's tricks 
before them.

At least, Bella, said I, you have hinted to me to whom I am obliged, 
that my father and mother, and every body else, treat me thus harshly.  
But surely you make them all very weak.  Indifferent persons, judging 
of us two from what you say, would either think me a very artful 
creature, or you a very spiteful one--

You are indeed a very artful one, for that matter, interrupted she in 
a passion: one of the artfullest I ever knew!  And then followed an 
accusation so low! so unsisterly!--That I half-bewitched people by my 
insinuating address: that nobody could be valued or respected, but 
must stand like ciphers wherever I came.  How often, said she, have I 
and my brother been talking upon a subject, and had every body's 
attention, till you came in, with your bewitching meek pride, and 
humble significance?  And then have we either been stopped by 
references to Miss Clary's opinion, forsooth; or been forced to stop 
ourselves, or must have talked on unattended to by every body.

She paused.  Dear Bella, proceed!

She indeed seemed only gathering breath.

And so I will, said she--Did you not bewitch my grandfather?  Could 
any thing be pleasing to him, that you did not say or do?  How did he 
use to hang, till he slabbered again, poor doting old man! on your 
silver tongue!  Yet what did you say, that we could not have said?  
What did you do, that we did not endeavour to do?--And what was all 
this for?  Why, truly, his last will shewed what effect your smooth 
obligingness had upon him!--To leave the acquired part of his estate 
from the next heirs, his own sons, to a grandchild; to his youngest 
grandchild!  A daughter too!--To leave the family-pictures from his 
sons to you, because you could tiddle about them, and, though you now 
neglect their examples, could wipe and clean them with your dainty 
hands!  The family-plate too, in such quantities, of two or three 
generations standing, must not be changed, because his precious 
child,* humouring his old fal-lal taste, admired it, to make it all 
her own.


* Alluding to his words in the preamble to the clauses in his will. 
See Letter IV.


This was too low to move me: O my poor sister! said I: not to be able, 
or at least willing, to distinguish between art and nature!  If I did 
oblige, I was happy in it: I looked for no further reward: my mind is 
above art, from the dirty motives you mention.  I wish with all my 
heart my grandfather had not thus distinguished me; he saw my brother 
likely to be amply provided for out of the family, as well as in it: 
he desired that you might have the greater share of my father's favour 
for it; and no doubt but you both have.  You know, Bella, that the 
estate my grandfather bequeathed me was not half the real estate he 
left.

What's all that to an estate in possession, and left you with such 
distinctions, as gave you a reputation of greater value than the 
estate itself?

Hence my misfortune, Bella, in your envy, I doubt!--But have I not 
given up that possession in the best manner I could--

Yes, interrupting me, she hated me for that best manner.  Specious 
little witch! she called me: your best manner, so full of art and 
design, had never been seen through, if you, with your blandishing 
ways, have not been put out of sight, and reduced to positive 
declarations!--Hindered from playing your little declarations!--
Hindered from playing your little whining tricks! curling, like a  
serpent about your mamma; and making her cry to deny you any thing 
your little obstinate heart was set upon!--

Obstinate heart, Bella!

Yes, obstinate heart!  For did you ever give up any thing?  Had you 
not the art to make them think all was right you asked, though my 
brother and I were frequently refused favours of no greater import!

I know not, Bella, that I ever asked any thing unfit to be granted.  I 
seldom asked favours for myself, but for others.

I was a reflecting creature for this.

All you speak of, Bella, was a long time ago.  I cannot go so far back 
into our childish follies.  Little did I think of how long standing 
your late-shewn antipathy is.

I was a reflector again!  Such a saucy meekness; such a best manner; 
and such venom in words!--O Clary!  Clary!  Thou wert always a 
two-faced girl!

Nobody thought I had two faces, when I gave up all into my father's 
management; taking from his bounty, as before, all my little 
pocket-money, without a shilling addition to my stipend, or desiring 
it--

Yes, cunning creature!--And that was another of your fetches!--For did 
it not engage my fond father (as no doubt you thought it would) to 
tell you, that since you had done so grateful and dutiful a thing, he 
would keep entire, for your use, all the produce of the estate left 
you, and be but your steward in it; and that you should be entitled to 
the same allowances as before?  Another of your hook-in's, Clary!--So 
that all your extravagancies have been supported gratis.

My extravagancies, Bella!--But did my father ever give me any thing he 
did not give you?

Yes, indeed; I got more by that means, than I should have had the 
conscience to ask.  But I have still the greater part to shew!  But 
you!  What have you to shew?--I dare say, not fifty pieces in the 
world!

Indeed I have not!

I believe you!--Your mamma Norton, I suppose--But mum for that!--

Unworthy Bella!  The good woman, although low in circumstance, is 
great in mind!  Much greater than those who would impute meanness to a 
soul incapable of it.

What then have you done with the sums given you from infancy to 
squander?--Let me ask you [affecting archness], Has, has, has 
Lovelace, has your rake, put it out at interest for you?

O that my sister would not make me blush for her!  It is, however, out 
at interest!--And I hope it will bring me interest upon interest!--
Better than to lie useless in my cabinet.

She understood me, she said.  Were I a man, she should suppose I was 
aiming to carry the county--Popularity!  A crowd to follow me with 
their blessings as I went to and from church, and nobody else to be 
regarded, were agreeable things.  House-top-proclamations!  I hid not 
my light under a bushel, she would say that for me.  But was it not a 
little hard upon me, to be kept from blazing on a Sunday?--And to be 
hindered from my charitable ostentations?

This, indeed, Bella, is cruel in you, who have so largely contributed 
to my confinement.--But go on.  You'll be out of breath by-and-by.  I 
cannot wish to be able to return this usage.--Poor Bella!  And I 
believe I smiled a little too contemptuously for a sister to a sister.

None of your saucy contempts [rising in her voice]: None of your poor 
Bella's, with that air of superiority in a younger sister!

Well then, rich Bella! courtesying--that will please you better--and 
it is due likewise to the hoards you boast of.

Look ye, Clary, holding up her hand, if you are not a little more 
abject in your meekness, a little more mean in your humility, and 
treat me with the respect due to an elder sister--you shall find--

Not that you will treat me worse than you have done, Bella!--That 
cannot be; unless you were to let fall your uplifted hand upon me--and 
that would less become you to do, than me to bear.

Good, meek creature:--But you were upon your overtures just now!--I 
shall surprise every body by tarrying so long.  They will think some 
good may be done with you--and supper will be ready.

A tear would stray down my cheek--How happy have I been, said I, 
sighing, in the supper-time conversations, with all my dear friends in 
my eye round their hospitable board.

I met only with insult for this--Bella has not a feeling heart.  The 
highest joy in this life she is not capable of: but then she saves 
herself many griefs, by her impenetrableness--yet, for ten times the 
pain that such a sensibility is attended with, would I not part with 
the pleasure it brings with it.

She asked me, upon my turning from her, if she should not say any 
thing below of my compliances?

You may say, that I will do every thing they would have me do, if they 
will free me from Mr. Solmes's address.

This is all you desire at present, creeper on! insinuator! [What words 
she has!]  But will not t'other man flame out, and roar most horribly, 
upon the snatching from his paws a prey he thought himself sure of?

I must let you talk in your own way, or we shall never come to a 
point.  I shall not matter in his roaring, as you call it.  I will 
promise him, that, if I ever marry any other man, it shall not be till 
he is married.  And if he be not satisfied with such a condescension, 
I shall think he ought: and I will give any assurances, that I will 
neither correspond with him, nor see him.  Surely this will do.

But I suppose then you will have no objection to see and converse, on 
a civil footing, with Mr. Solmes--as your father's friend, or so?

No! I must be permitted to retire to my apartment whenever he comes.  
I would no more converse with the one, than correspond with the other.  
That would be to make Mr. Lovelace guilty of some rashness, on a 
belief, that I broke with him, to have Mr. Solmes.

And so, that wicked wretch is to be allowed such a controul over you, 
that you are not to be civil to your father's friends, at his own 
house, for fear of incensing him!--When this comes to be represented, 
be so good as to tell me, what is it you expect from it!

Every thing, I said, or nothing, as she was pleased to represent it.--
Be so good as to give it your interest, Bella, and say, further, 'That 
I will by any means I can, in the law or otherwise, make over to my 
father, to my uncles, or even to my brother, all I am entitled to by 
my grandfather's will, as a security for the performance of my 
promises.  And as I shall have no reason to expect any favour from my 
father, if I break them, I shall not be worth any body's having.  And 
further still, unkindly as my brother has used me, I will go down to 
Scotland privately, as his housekeeper [I now see I may be spared 
here] if he will promise to treat me no worse than he would do an 
hired one.--Or I will go to Florence, to my cousin Morden, if his stay 
in Italy will admit of it.  In either case, it may be given out, that 
I am gone to the other; or to the world's end.  I care not whither it 
is said I am gone, or do go.'

Let me ask you, child, if you will give your pretty proposal in 
writing?

Yes, with all my heart.  And I stepped to my closet, and wrote to the 
purpose I have mentioned; and moreover, the following lines to my 
brother.


MY DEAR BROTHER,

I hope I have made such proposals to my sister as will be accepted.  I 
am sure they will, if you please to give them your sanction.  Let me 
beg of you, for God's sake, that you will.  I think myself very 
unhappy in having incurred your displeasure.  No sister can love a 
brother better than I love you.  Pray do not put the worst but the 
best constructions upon my proposals, when you have them reported to 
you.  Indeed I mean the best.  I have no subterfuges, no arts, no 
intentions, but to keep to the letter of them.  You shall yourself 
draw up every thing into writing, as strong as you can, and I will 
sign it: and what the law will not do to enforce it, my resolution and 
my will shall: so that I shall be worth nobody's address, that has not 
my papa's consent: nor shall any person, nor any consideration, induce 
me to revoke it.  You can do more than any body to reconcile my 
parents and uncles to me.  Let me owe this desirable favour to your 
brotherly interposition, and you will for ever oblige

Your afflicted Sister,
CL. HARLOWE.


***


And how do you think Bella employed herself while I was writing?--Why, 
playing gently upon my harpsichord; and humming to it, to shew her 
unconcernedness.

When I approached her with what I had written, she arose with an air 
of levity--Why, love, you have not written already!--You have, I 
protest!--O what a ready penwoman!--And may I read it?

If you please.  And let me beseech you, my dear Bella, to back these 
proposals with your good offices: and [folding my uplifted hands; 
tears, I believe, standing in my eyes] I will love you as never sister 
loved another.

Thou art a strange creature, said she; there is no withstanding thee.

She took the proposals and letter; and having read them, burst into an 
affected laugh: How wise ones may be taken in!--Then you did not know, 
that I was jesting with you all this time!--And so you would have me 
carry down this pretty piece of nonsense?

Don't let me be surprised at your seeming unsisterliness, Bella.  I 
hope it is but seeming.  There can be no wit in such jesting as this.

The folly of the creature!--How natural is it for people, when they 
set their hearts upon any thing, to think every body must see with 
their eyes!--Pray, dear child, what becomes of your father's authority 
here?--Who stoops here, the parent, or the child?--How does this 
square with engagements actually agreed upon between your father and 
Mr. Solmes?  What security, that your rake will not follow you to the 
world's end?--Nevertheless, that you may not think that I stand in the 
way of a reconciliation on such fine terms as these, I will be your 
messenger this once, and hear what my papa will say to it; although 
beforehand I can tell you, these proposals will not answer the 
principal end.

So down she went.  But, it seems, my aunt Hervey and my uncle Harlowe 
were not gone away: and as they have all engaged to act in concert, 
messengers were dispatched to my uncle and aunt to desire them to be 
there to breakfast in the morning.


MONDAY NIGHT, ELEVEN O'CLOCK.


I am afraid I shall not be thought worthy--

Just as I began to fear I should not be thought worthy of an answer, 
Betty rapped at my door, and said, if I were not in bed, she had a 
letter for me.  I had but just done writing the above dialogue, and 
stept to the door with the pen in my hand--Always writing, Miss! said 
the bold wench: it is admirable how you can get away what you write--
but the fairies, they say, are always at hand to help lovers.--She 
retired in so much haste, that, had I been disposed, I could not take 
the notice of this insolence which it deserved.

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


TO MISS CLARY HARLOWE
[ENCLOSED IN THE PRECEDING.]

Your proposals will be considered by your father and mother, and all 
your friends, to-morrow morning.  What trouble does your shameful 
forwardness give us all!  I wonder you have the courage to write to 
me, upon whom you are so continually emptying your whole female 
quiver.  I have no patience with you, for reflecting upon me as the 
aggressor in a quarrel which owed its beginning to my consideration 
for you.

You have made such confessions in a villain's favour, as ought to 
cause all your relations to renounce you for ever.  For my part, I 
will not believe any woman in the world, who promises against her 
avowed inclination.  To put it out of your power to ruin yourself is 
the only way left to prevent your ruin.  I did not intend to write; 
but your too-kind sister has prevailed upon me.  As to your going to 
Scotland, that day of grace is over.--Nor would I advise, that you 
should go to grandfather-up your cousin Morden.  Besides, that worthy 
gentleman might be involved in some fatal dispute, upon your account; 
and then be called the aggressor.

A fine situation you have brought yourself to, to propose to hide 
yourself from your rake, and to have falsehoods told, to conceal you!
--Your confinement, at this rate, is the happiest thing that could 
befal you.  Your bravo's behaviour at church, looking out for you, is 
a sufficient indication of his power over you, had you not so 
shamelessly acknowledged it.

One word for all--Your parents and uncles may do as they will: but if, 
for the honour of the family, I cannot carry this point, I will retire 
to Scotland, and never see the face of any one of it more.

JAMES HARLOWE.


***


There's a brother!--There's flaming duty to a father, and mother, and 
uncles!--But he sees himself valued, and made of consequence; and he 
gives himself airs accordingly!--Nevertheless, as I said above, I will 
hope better things from those who have not the interest my brother has 
to keep open these unhappy differences.



LETTER XLIII

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
TUESDAY, MARCH 21.


Would you not have thought, my dear Miss Howe, as well as I, that my 
proposal must have been accepted: and that my brother, by the last 
article of his unbrotherly letter (where he threatens to go to 
Scotland if it should be hearkened to) was of opinion that it would.

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

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

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

That, thought I, is my aunt Hervey's!  That my uncle Harlowe's!  Now 
comes my uncle Antony!  And my imagination made a fourth chariot for 
the odious Solmes, although it happened he was not there.

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

And then I ran through the whole conference in my imagination, forming 
speeches for this person and that, pro and con, till all concluded, as 
I flattered myself, in an acceptance of my conditions, and in giving 
directions to have an instrument drawn to tie me up to my good 
behaviour; while I supposed all agreed to give Solmes a wife every way 
more worthy of him, and with her the promise of my grandfather's 
estate, in case of my forfeiture, or dying unmarried, on the righteous 
condition he proposes to entitle himself to it with me.

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

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

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

And thus, my Nancy, [excuse the fanciful prolixity,] was I employed, 
and such were my thoughts and imaginations, when I found a very 
different result from the hopeful conference.

For about ten o'clock up came my sister, with an air of cruel triumph, 
waving her hand with a light flourish--

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

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

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

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

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

Pretty mopsy-eyed soul!--was her expression!--And was it willing to 
think it had still a brother and sister?  And why don't you go on, 
Clary?  [mocking my half-weeping accent] I thought I had a father, and 
mother, two uncles, and an aunt: but I am mis--taken, that's all--
come, Clary, say this, and it will in part be true, because you have 
thrown off all their authority, and because you respect one vile 
wretch more than them all.

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

And with that disdainful air too, Clary!--None of that bridled neck! 
none of your scornful pity, girl!--I beseech you!

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

Because you don't, said she--

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

Then say, Lovelace is a villain.

So I will, when I think him so.

Then you don't think him so?

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

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

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

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

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

Do you justify duelling at all?

I do not: neither can I help his duelling.

Will you go down, and humble that stubborn spirit of yours to your 
mamma?

I said nothing.

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

What! not vouchsafe to answer me?

I turned from her in silence.

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

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

Well, well, [insultingly wiping my averted face with her handkerchief, 
while her other hand held mine, in a ridiculing tone,] I am glad any 
thing will make thee speak: then you think you may be brought to speak 
the two words--only they are to be the last!--How like a gentle lovyer 
from its tender bleeding heart was that!

Ridiculous Bella!

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

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

Yes, if you can be dutiful at last.

I can.  I will.

But what call you dutiful?

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

For me, do you mean, Clary?

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

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

If it were so, you seem resolved, for your part, and so does my 
brother for his, that I shall not want one.--But indeed, Bella, I can 
bear no longer this repetition of the worst part of yesterday's 
conversation: I desire I may throw myself at my father's and mother's 
feet, and hear from them what their sentence is.  I shall at least 
avoid, by that means, the unsisterly insults I meet with from you.

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

Yes, it is I, Bella; and I will claim the protection due to a child of 
the family, or to know why I am to be thus treated, when I offer only 
to preserve to myself the liberty of refusal, which belongs to my sex; 
and, to please my parents, would give up my choice.  I have contented 
myself till now to take second-hand messengers, and first-hand 
insults: you are but my sister: my brother is not my sovereign.  And 
while I have a father and mother living, I will not be thus treated by 
a brother and sister, and their servants, all setting upon me, as it 
should seem, to make me desperate, and do a rash thing.--I will know, 
in short, sister Bella, why I am to be constrained thus?--What is 
intended by it?--And whether I am to be considered as a child or a 
slave?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This set her into a flame: I wish I had forborne it.  O how the poor 
Bella raved!  I thought she would have beat me once or twice: and she 
vowed her fingers itched to do so--but I was not worth her anger: yet 
she flamed on.

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


TUESDAY NOON, MARCH 21.


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

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

But what shall I do with this Lovelace?  I have just now, but the 
unsuspected hole in the wall (that I told you of in my letter by 
Hannah) got a letter from him--so uneasy is he for fear I should be 
prevailed upon in Solmes's favour; so full of menaces, if I am; so 
resenting the usage I receive [for, how I cannot tell, but he has 
undoubtedly intelligence of all that is done in the family]; such 
protestations of inviolable faith and honour; such vows of 
reformation; such pressing arguments to escape from this disgraceful 
confinement--O my Nancy, what shall I do with this Lovelace?--



LETTER XLIV

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
WENESDAY MORNING, NINE O'CLOCK.


My aunt Hervey lay here last night, and is but just gone from me.  She 
came up to me with my sister.  They would not trust my aunt without 
this ill-natured witness.  When she entered my chamber, I told her, 
that this visit was a high favour to a poor prisoner, in her hard 
confinement.  I kissed her hand.  She, kindly saluting me, said, Why 
this distance to your aunt, my dear, who loves you so well?

She owned, that she came to expostulate with me, for the peace-sake of 
the family: for that she could not believe it possible, if I did not 
conceive myself unkindly treated, that I, who had ever shewn such a 
sweetness of temper, as well as manners, should be thus resolute, in a 
point so very near to my father, and all my friends.  My mother and 
she were both willing to impute my resolution to the manner I had been 
begun with; and to my supposing that my brother had originally more of 
a hand in the proposals made by Mr. Solmes, than my father or other 
friends.  In short, fain would my aunt have furnished me with an 
excuse to come off my opposition; Bell all the while humming a tune, 
and opening this book and that, without meaning; but saying nothing.

After having shewed me, that my opposition could not be of 
signification, my father's honour being engaged, my aunt concluded 
with enforcing upon me my duty, in stronger terms than I believe she 
would have done, (the circumstances of the case considered), had not 
my sister been present.

It would be repeating what I have so often mentioned, to give you the 
arguments that passed on both sides.--So I will only recite what she 
was pleased to say, that carried with it a new face.

When she found me inflexible, as she was pleased to call it, she said, 
For her part, she could not but say, that if I were not to have either 
Mr. Solmes or Mr. Lovelace, and yet, to make my friends easy, must 
marry, she should not think amiss of Mr. Wyerley.  What did I think of 
Mr. Wyerley?

Ay, Clary, put in my sister, what say you to Mr. Wyerley?

I saw through this immediately.  It was said on purpose, I doubted 
not, to have an argument against me of absolute prepossession in Mr. 
Lovelace's favour: since Mr. Wyerley every where avows his value, even 
to veneration, for me; and is far less exceptionable both in person 
and mind, than Mr. Solmes: and I was willing to turn the tables, by 
trying how far Mr. Solmes's terms might be dispensed with; since the 
same terms could not be expected from Mr. Wyerley.

I therefore desired to know, whether my answer, if it should be in 
favour of Mr. Wyerley, would release me from Mr. Solmes?--For I owned, 
that I had not the aversion to him, that I had to the other.

Nay, she had no commission to propose such a thing.  She only knew, 
that my father and mother would not be easy till Mr. Lovelace's hopes 
were entirely defeated.

Cunning creature! said my sister.

And this, and her joining in the question before, convinced me, that 
it was a designed snare for me.

Don't you, dear Madam, said I, put questions that can answer no end, 
but to support my brother's schemes against me.--But are there any 
hopes of an end to my sufferings and disgrace, without having this 
hated man imposed upon me?  Will not what I have offered be accepted?  
I am sure it ought--I will venture to say that.

Why, Niece, if there be not any such hopes, I presume you don't think 
yourself absolved from the duty due from a child to her parents?

Yes, said my sister, I do not doubt but it is Miss Clary's aim, if she 
does not fly to her Lovelace, to get her estate into her own hands, 
and go to live at The Grove, in that independence upon which she 
builds all her perverseness.  And, dear heart! my little love, how 
will you then blaze away!  Your mamma Norton, your oracle, with your 
poor at your gates, mingling so proudly and so meanly with the ragged 
herd!  Reflecting, by your ostentation, upon all the ladies in the 
county, who do not as you do.  This is known to be your scheme! and 
the poor without-doors, and Lovelace within, with one hand building up 
a name, pulling it down with the other!--O what a charming scheme is 
this!--But let me tell you, my pretty little flighty one, that your 
father's living will shall controul your grandfather's dead one; and 
that estate will be disposed of as your fond grandfather would have 
disposed of it, had he lived to see such a change in his favourite.  
In a word, Miss, it will be kept out of your hands, till my father 
sees you discreet enough to have the management of it, or till you can 
dutifully, by law, tear it from him.

Fie, Miss Harlowe! said my aunt: this is not pretty to your sister.

O Madam, let her go on.  This is nothing to what I have borne from 
Miss Harlowe.  She is either commissioned to treat me ill by her envy, 
or by an higher authority, to which I must submit.--As to revoking the 
estate, what hinders, if I pleased?  I know my power; but have not the 
least thought of exerting it.  Be pleased to let my father know, that, 
whatever be the consequence to myself, were he to turn me out of 
doors, (which I should rather he would do, than to be confined and 
insulted as I am), and were I to be reduced to indigence and want, I 
would seek no relief that should be contrary to his will.

For that matter, child, said my aunt, were you to marry, you must do 
as your husband will have you.  If that husband be Mr. Lovelace, he 
will be glad of any opportunity of further embroiling the families.  
And, let me tell you, Niece, if he had the respect for you which he 
pretends to have, he would not throw out defiances as he does.  He is 
known to be a very revengeful man; and were I you, Miss Clary, I 
should be afraid he would wreak upon me that vengeance, though I had 
not offended him, which he is continually threatening to pour upon the 
family.

Mr. Lovelace's threatened vengeance is in return for threatened 
vengeance.  It is not every body will bear insult, as, of late, I have 
been forced to bear it.

O how my sister's face shone with passion!

But Mr. Lovelace, proceeded I, as I have said twenty and twenty times, 
would be quite out of question with me, were I to be generously 
treated!

My sister said something with great vehemence: but only raising my 
voice, to be heard, without minding her, Pray, Madam, (provokingly 
interrogated I), was he not known to have been as wild a man, when he 
was at first introduced into our family, as he now is said to be?  Yet 
then, the common phrases of wild oats, and black oxen, and such-like, 
were qualifiers; and marriage, and the wife's discretion, were to 
perform wonders--but (turning to my sister) I find I have said too 
much.

O thou wicked reflecter!--And what made me abhor him, think you, but 
the proof of those villainous freedoms that ought to have had the same 
effect upon you, were you but half so good a creature as you pretend 
to be?

Proof, did you say, Bella!  I thought you had not proof?--But you know 
best.

Was not this very spiteful, my dear?

Now, Clary, said she, would I give a thousand pounds to know all that 
is in thy little rancorous and reflecting heart at this moment.

I might let you know for a much less sum, and not be afraid of being 
worse treated than I have been.

Well, young ladies, I am sorry to see passion run so high between you.  
You know, Niece, (to me,) you had not been confined thus to your 
apartment, could your mother by condescension, or your father by 
authority, have been able to move you.  But how can you expect, when 
there must be a concession on one side, that it should be on theirs?  
If my Dolly, who has not the hundredth part of your understanding, 
were thus to set herself up in absolute contradiction to my will, in a 
point so material, I should not take it well of her--indeed I should 
not.

I believe not, Madam: and if Miss Hervey had just such a brother, and 
just such a sister [you may look, Bella!] and if both were to 
aggravate her parents, as my brother and sister do mine--then, 
perhaps, you might use her as I am used: and if she hated the man you 
proposed to her, and with as much reason as I do Mr. Solmes--

And loved a rake and libertine, Miss, as you do Lovelace, said my 
sister--

Then might she [continued I, not minding her,] beg to be excused from 
obeying.  Yet if she did, and would give you the most solemn 
assurances, and security besides, that she would never have the man 
you disliked, against your consent--I dare say, Miss Hervey's father 
and mother would sit down satisfied, and not endeavour to force her 
inclinations.

So!--[said my sister, with uplifted hands] father and mother now come 
in for their share!

But if, child, replied my aunt, I knew she loved a rake, and suspected 
that she sought only to gain time, in order to wire-draw me into a 
consent--

I beg pardon, Madam, for interrupting you; but if Miss Hervey could 
obtain your consent, what further would be said?

True, child; but she never should.

Then, Madam, it would never be.

That I doubt, Niece.

If you do, Madam, can you think confinement and ill usage is the way 
to prevent the apprehended rashness?

My dear, this sort of intimation would make one but too apprehensive, 
that there is no trusting to yourself, when one knows your 
inclination.

That apprehension, Madam, seems to have been conceived before this 
intimation, or the least cause for it, was given.  Why else the 
disgraceful confinement I have been laid under?--Let me venture to 
say, that my sufferings seem to be rather owing to a concerted design 
to intimidate me [Bella held up her hands], (knowing there were too 
good grounds for my opposition,) than to a doubt of my conduct; for, 
when they were inflicted first, I had given no cause of doubt: nor 
should there now be room for any, if my discretion might be trusted 
to.

My aunt, after a little hesitation, said, But, consider, my dear, what 
confusion will be perpetuated in your family, if you marry this hated 
Lovelace!

And let it be considered, what misery to me, Madam, if I marry that 
hated Solmes!

Many a young creature has thought she could not love a man, with whom 
she has afterwards been very happy.  Few women, child, marry their 
first loves.

That may be the reason there are so few happy marriages.

But there are few first impressions fit to be encouraged.

I am afraid so too, Madam.  I have a very indifferent opinion of light 
and first impressions.  But, as I have often said, all I wish for is, 
to have leave to live single.

Indeed you must not, Miss.  Your father and mother will be unhappy 
till they see you married, and out of Lovelace's reach.  I am told 
that you propose to condition with him (so far are matters gone 
between you) never to have any man, if you have not him.

I know no better way to prevent mischief on all sides, I freely own 
it--and there is not, if he be out of the question, another man in the 
world I can think favourably of.  Nevertheless, I would give all I 
have in the world, that he were married to some other person--indeed I 
would, Bella, for all you put on that smile of incredulity.

May be so, Clary: but I will smile for all that.

If he be out of the question! repeated my aunt--So, Miss Clary, I see 
how it is--I will go down--[Miss Harlowe, shall I follow you?]--And I 
will endeavour to persuade your father to let my sister herself come 
up: and a happier event may then result.

Depend upon it, Madam, said my sister, this will be the case: my 
mother and she will both be in tears; but with this different effect: 
my mother will come down softened, and cut to the heart; but will 
leave her favourite hardened, from the advantages she will think she 
has over my mother's tenderness--why, Madam, it is for this very 
reason the girl is not admitted into her presence.

Thus she ran on, as she went downstairs.

END OF VOL. 1





End of Project Gutenberg's Clarissa, Volume 1., by Samuel Richardson

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLARISSA, VOLUME 1. ***

This file should be named clar110.txt or clar110.zip
Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, clar111.txt
VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, clar110a.txt

Produced by Julie C. Sparks

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we usually do not
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance
of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections,
even years after the official publication date.

Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month.  A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so.

Most people start at our Web sites at:
http://gutenberg.net or
http://promo.net/pg

These Web sites include award-winning information about Project
Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new
eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!).


Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement
can get to them as follows, and just download by date.  This is
also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the
indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an
announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter.

http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext03 or
ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03

Or /etext02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90

Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want,
as it appears in our Newsletters.


Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)

We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work.  The
time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc.   Our
projected audience is one hundred million readers.  If the value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text
files per month:  1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+
We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002
If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total
will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end.

The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks!
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users.

Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated):

eBooks Year Month

    1  1971 July
   10  1991 January
  100  1994 January
 1000  1997 August
 1500  1998 October
 2000  1999 December
 2500  2000 December
 3000  2001 November
 4000  2001 October/November
 6000  2002 December*
 9000  2003 November*
10000  2004 January*


The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created
to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium.

We need your donations more than ever!

As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people
and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut,
Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois,
Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts,
Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New
Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio,
Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South
Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West
Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.

We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones
that have responded.

As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list
will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states.
Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state.

In answer to various questions we have received on this:

We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally
request donations in all 50 states.  If your state is not listed and
you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have,
just ask.

While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are
not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting
donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to
donate.

International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about
how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made
deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are
ways.

Donations by check or money order may be sent to:

Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Ave.
Oxford, MS 38655-4109

Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment
method other than by check or money order.

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by
the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN
[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154.  Donations are
tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law.  As fund-raising
requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be
made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states.

We need your donations more than ever!

You can get up to date donation information online at:

http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html


***

If you can't reach Project Gutenberg,
you can always email directly to:

Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com>

Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message.

We would prefer to send you information by email.


**The Legal Small Print**


(Three Pages)

***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how
you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to.

*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.

ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks,
is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart
through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project").
Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook
under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.

Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market
any commercial products without permission.

To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may
receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims
all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.

If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from. If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy. If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.

THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.

Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.

INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation,
and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated
with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including
legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the
following that you do or cause:  [1] distribution of this eBook,
[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook,
or [3] any Defect.

DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
or:

[1]  Only give exact copies of it.  Among other things, this
     requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
     eBook or this "small print!" statement.  You may however,
     if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable
     binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
     including any form resulting from conversion by word
     processing or hypertext software, but only so long as
     *EITHER*:

     [*]  The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
          does *not* contain characters other than those
          intended by the author of the work, although tilde
          (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
          be used to convey punctuation intended by the
          author, and additional characters may be used to
          indicate hypertext links; OR

     [*]  The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at
          no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
          form by the program that displays the eBook (as is
          the case, for instance, with most word processors);
          OR

     [*]  You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
          no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
          eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
          or other equivalent proprietary form).

[2]  Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this
     "Small Print!" statement.

[3]  Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the
     gross profits you derive calculated using the method you
     already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  If you
     don't derive profits, no royalty is due.  Royalties are
     payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation"
     the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were
     legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent
     periodic) tax return.  Please contact us beforehand to
     let us know your plans and to work out the details.

WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of
public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed
in machine readable form.

The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time,
public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses.
Money should be paid to the:
"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or
software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at:
hart@pobox.com

[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only
when distributed free of all fees.  Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by
Michael S. Hart.  Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be
used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be
they hardware or software or any other related product without
express permission.]

*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END*