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Clarissa Harlowe; or the history of a young lady — Volume 1

by Samuel Richardson · English · Gutenberg #9296 · 599,035 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Clarissa Harlowe; or the history of a young lady — Volume 1

Author: Samuel Richardson


        
Release date: November 1, 2005 [eBook #9296]
                Most recently updated: October 14, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9296

Credits: Julie C. Sparks and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLARISSA HARLOWE; OR THE HISTORY OF A YOUNG LADY — VOLUME 1 ***




CLARISSA HARLOWE

or the

HISTORY OF A YOUNG LADY

Nine Volumes

Volume I.


     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 discovers 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.





LETTERS 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
ill-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 disturbances 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 dairy-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 wh

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