if it were an error; and this perhaps admitted for the sake of a better example to be collected from your SUFFERINGS, than could have been given, had you never erred; for, my dear, the time of ADVERSITY is your SHINING-TIME. I see it evidently, that adversity must call forth graces and beauties which could not have been brought to light in a run of that prosperous fortune which attended you from your cradle till now, admirably as you became, and, as we all thought, greatly as you deserved that prosperity. All the matter is, the trial must be grievous to you. It is to me; it is to all who love you, and looked upon you as one set aloft to be admired and imitated, and not as a mark, as you have lately found, for envy to shoot its shafts at. Let what I have written above have its due weight with you, my dear; and then, as warm imaginations are not without a mixture of enthusiasm, your Anna Howe, who, on reperusal of it, imagines it to be in a style superior to her usual style, will be ready to flatter herself that she has been in a manner inspired with the hints that have comforted and raised the dejected heart of her suffering friend, who, from such hard trials, in a bloom so tender, may find at times her spirits sunk too low to enable her to pervade the surrounding darkness, which conceals from her the hopeful dawning of the better day which awaits her.

I will add no more at present, than that I am
Your ever faithful and affectionate
ANNA HOWE.

LETTER LXXXV.

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS Howe.

Friday, May 12. I MUST be silent, my exalted friend, under praises that oppress my heart with a consciousness of not deserving them, at the same time that the generous design of those praises raises and comforts it; for it is a charming thing to stand high in the opinion of those we love, and to find that there are souls that can carry their friendships beyond accidents, beyond body and ties of blood. Whatever, my dearest creature, is my shining-time, the time of a friend's adversity is yours. And it would be almost a fault in me to regret those afflictions, which give you an opportunity so gloriously to exert those qualities, which not only ennoble our sex, but dignify human nature.

But let me proceed to subjects less agreeable. I am sorry you have reason to think Singleton's projects are not at an end. But who knows what the sailor had to propose? Yet, had any good been intended me, this method would hardly have been fallen upon.

Depend upon it, my dear, your letters shall be safe.

I have made a handle of Mr Lovelace's bold attempt, and freedom, as I told you I would, to keep him ever since at a distance, that I may have an opportunity to see the success of the application to my uncle, and to be at liberty to embrace any favourable overtures that may arise from it. Yet he has been very importunate, and twice brought Mr Mennell from Mrs Fretchville to talk about the house. If I should be obliged to make up with him again, I shall think I am always doing myself a spite.

As to what you mention of his newly-detected crimes, and your advice to attach Dorcas to my interest, and to come at some of his letters, these things will require more or less of my attention, as I may hope favour or not from my uncle Harlowe.

I am sorry that my poor Hannah continues ill. Pray, my dear, inform yourself, and let me know whether she wants anything that befits her case.

I will not close this letter till to-morrow is over; for I am resolved to go to church, and this as well for the sake of my duty, as to see if I am at liberty to go out when I please, without being attended or accompanied.

Sunday, May 14.

I HAVE not been able to avoid a short debate with Mr Lovelace. I had ordered a coach to the door. When I had notice that it was come, I went out of my chamber to go to it, but met him dressed on the stairs-head, with a book in his hand, but without his hat and sword. He asked, with an air very solemn, yet respectful, if I were going abroad? I told him I was. He desired leave to attend me, if I were going to church. I refused him; and then he complained heavily of my treatment of him, and declared that he would not live such another week as the past, for the world.

I owned to him very frankly, that I had made an application to my friends, and that I was resolved to keep myself to myself till I knew the issue of it.

He coloured, and seemed surprised. But checking himself in something he was going to say, he pleaded my danger from Singleton, and again desired to attend me.

And then he told me, that Mrs Fretchville had desired to continue a fortnight longer in the house. She found, said he, that I was unable to determine about entering upon it; and now, who knows when such a vapourish creature will come to a resolution? This, madam, has been an unhappy week; for had I not stood upon such bad terms with you, you might have been now mistress of that house, and probably had my cousin Montague, if not Lady Betty, actually with you.

And so, sir, taking all you say for granted, your cousin Montague cannot come to Mrs Sinclair's? What, pray, is her objection to Mrs

Sinclair's? Is this house fit for me to live in a month or two, and not fit for any of your relations for a few days?—And Mrs Fretchville has taken more time, too!-Then, pushing by him, I hurried down stairs.

He called to Dorcas to bring him his sword and hat, and following me down into the passage, placed himself between me and the door, and again desired leave to attend me.

Mrs Sinclair came out at that instant, and asked me, if I did not choose a dish of chocolate?

I wish, Mrs Sinclair, said I, you would take this man in with you to your chocolate. I don't know whether I am at liberty to stir out with

out his leave or not.

Then turning to him, I asked, if he kept me there his prisoner?

Dorcas just then bringing him his sword and hat, he opened the street-door, and taking my reluctant hand, led me, in a very obsequious manner, to the coach. People passing by, stopped, stared, and whispered; but he is so graceful in his person and dress, that he generally takes every eye.

I was uneasy to be so gazed at, and he stepped in after me, and the coachman drove to St Paul's.

He was very full of assiduities all the way, while I was as reserved as possible; and when I returned, dined, as I had done the greatest part of the week, by myself.

He told me, upon my resolving to do so, that although he would continue his passive observance till I knew the issue of my application, yet I must expect, that then I should not rest one moment till I had fixed his happy day, for that his very soul was fretted with my slights, resentments, and delays.

A wretch! when can say, I to my infinite regret, on a double account, that all he complains of is owing to himself!

O that I may have good tidings from my uncle!

Adieu, my dearest friend-This shall lie ready for an exchange, (as I hope for one tomorrow from you) that will decide, as I may say, the destiny of

Your

CLARISSA HARLOWE.

LETTER LXXXVI.

MISS HOWE TO MRS JUDITH NORTON.

Thursday, May 11.

GOOD MRS NORTON, CANNOT you, without naming me as an adviser, who am hated by the family, contrive a way to let Mrs Harlowe know, that in an accidental conversation with me, you had been assured that my beloved friend pines after a re

conciliation with her relations? That she has hitherto, in hopes of it, refused to enter into any obligation that shall be in the least an hindrance to it: that she would fain avoid giving Mr Lovelace a right to make her family uneasy in relation to her grandfather's estate: that all she wishes for still is to be indulged in her choice of a single life, and, on that condition, would make her father's pleasure her's with regard to that estate: that Mr Lovelace is continually pressing her to marry him; and all his friends likewise: but that I am sure she has so little liking to the man, because of his faulty morals, and of the antipathy of her relations to him, that if she had any hope given her of a reconciliation, she would forego all thoughts of him, and put herself into her father's protection. But that their resolution must be speedy; for otherwise she would find herself obliged to give way to his pressing entreaties; and it might then be out of her power to prevent disagreeable litigations.

I do assure you, Mrs Norton, upon my honour, that our dearest friend knows nothing of this procedure of mine: and therefore it is proper to acquaint you, in confidence, with my grounds for it.-These are they :

She had desired me to let Mr Hickman drop hints to the above effect to her uncle Harlowe; but indirectly, as from himself, lest, if the application should not be attended with success, and Mr Lovelace (who already takes it ill that he has so little of her favour) come to know it, she may be deprived of every protection, and be perhaps subjected to great inconveniencies from so haughty a spirit.

Having this authority from her, and being very solicitous about the success of the application, I thought, that if the weight of so good a wife, mother, and sister, as Mrs Harlowe is known to be, were thrown into the same scale with that of Mr John Harlowe (supposing he could be engaged) it could hardly fail of making a due impression.

Mr Hickman will see Mr John Harlowe tomorrow by that time you may see Mrs Harlowe. If Mr Hickman finds the old gentleman favourable, he will tell him, that you will have seen Mrs Harlowe upon the same account; and will advise him to join in consultation with her how best to proceed to melt the most obdurate heart in the world.

This is the fair state of the matter, and my true motive for writing to you. I leave all, therefore, to your discretion; and most heartily wish success to it; being of opinion that Mr Lovelace cannot possibly deserve our admirable friend: nor indeed know I the man who does.

Pray acquaint me by a line of the result of your interposition. If it prove not such as may be reasonably hoped for, our dear friend shall know nothing of this step from me; and pray

My heart is almost broken, to be obliged to let you know, that such is the situation of things in the family of my ever-dear Miss Harlowe, that there can be at present no success expected from any application in her favour. Her poor mother is to be pitied. I have a most affecting letter from her; but must not communicate it to you; and she forbids me to let it be known that she writes upon the subject; although she is compelled, as it were, to do it, for the ease of her own heart. I mention it therefore in confidence.

I hope in God that my beloved young lady has preserved her honour inviolate. I hope there is not a man breathing who could attempt a sacrilege so detestable. I have no apprehension of a failure in a virtue so established. God for ever keep so pure a heart out of the reach of surprises and violence! Ease, dear madam, I beseech you, my over-anxious heart, by one line, by the bearer, although but one line, to acquaint me (as surely you can) that her honour is unsullied. If it be not, adieu to all the comforts this life can give since none will it be able to afford

To the poor
JUDITH NORTON.

LETTER LXXXVIII.

MISS HOWE TO MRS JUDITH NORTON.

Saturday Evening, May 13.

DEAR GOOD WOMAN, YOUR beloved's honour is inviolate!-Must be inviolate! and will be so, in spite of men and devils. Could I have had hope of a reconciliation, all my view was, that she should not have had this man. All that can be said now, is, she must run the risk of a bad husband: she of whom no man living is worthy!

You pity her mother-so do not I! I pity no mother that puts it out of her power to shew maternal love, and humanity, in order to patch up for herself a precarious and sorry quiet, which every blast of wind shall disturb.

I hate tyrants in every form and shape: but paternal and maternal tyrants are the worst of all: for they can have no bowels.

I repeat, that I pity none of them. Our be loved friend only deserves pity. She had never been in the hands of this man, but for them. She is quite blameless. You don't know all her story. Were I to tell you that she had no intention to go off with this man, it would avail her nothing. It would only serve to condemn, with those who drove her to extremities, him who now must be her refuge. I am

Your sincere friend and servant,
ANNA HOWE.

LETTER LXXXIX.

MRS HARLOWE TO MRS NORTON.

[Not communicated till the letters came to be collected.]

Saturday, May 13.

I RETURN an answer in writing, as I promised, to your communication. But take no notice either to my Bella's Betty, (who I understand sometimes visits you,) or to the poor wretch herself, nor to anybody, that I do write. I charge you don't. My heart is full: writing may give some vent to my griefs, and perhaps I may write what lies most upon my heart, without confining myself strictly to the present subject.

You know how dear this ungrateful creature ever was to us all. You know how sincerely we joined with every one of those who ever had seen her, or conversed with her, to praise and admire her; and exceeded in our praise even the bounds of that modesty, which, because she was our own, should have restrained us; being of opinion, that to have been silent in the praise of so apparent a merit must rather have argued blindness or affectation in us, than that we should incur the censure of vain partiality

to our own.

When, therefore, anybody congratulated us on such a daughter, we received their congratulations without any diminution. If it was said, you are happy in this child! we owned, that no parents ever were happier in a child. If, more particularly, they praised her duti.ul behaviour to us, we said, she knew not how to offend. If it was said, Miss Clarissa Harlowe has a wit and penetration beyond her years; we, instead of disallowing it, would add-and a judgment no less extraordinary than her wit. If her prudence was praised, and a forethought, which every one saw, supplied what only years and experience gave to others-nobody need to scruple taking lessons from Clarissa Harlowe, was our proud answer.

Forgive me, O forgive me, my dear NortonBut I know you will; for yours, when good, was this child, and your glory as well as mine.

But have you not heard strangers, as she

passed to and from church, stop to praise the angel of a creature, as they called her; when it was enough for those who knew who she was, to cry, Why, it is Miss Clarissa Harlowe !-as if everybody were obliged to know, or to have heard of, Clarissa Harlowe, and of her excellencies. While, accustomed to praise, it was too familiar to her, to cause her to alter either her look or her pace.

For my own part, I could not stifle a pleasure that had perhaps a faulty vanity for its foundation, whenever I was spoken of, or addressed to, as the mother of so sweet a child: Mr Harlowe and I, all the time, loving each other the better for the share each had in such a daughter.

Still, still indulge the fond, the overflowing heart of a mother! I could dwell for ever upon the remembrance of what she was, would but that remembrance banish from my mind what she is!

In her bosom, young as she was, could I repose all my griefs-sure of receiving from her prudence advice as well as comfort; and both insinuated in so humble, in so dutiful a manner, that it was impossible to take those exceptions which the distance of years and character between a mother and a daughter would have made one apprehensive of from any other daughter. She was our glory when abroad, our delight when at home. Everybody was even covetous of her company; and we grudged her to our brothers Harlowe, and to our sister and brothers Hervey. No other contention among us, then, but who should be next favoured by her. No chiding ever knew she from us, but the chiding of lovers, when she was for shutting herself up too long together from us, in pursuit of those charming amusements and useful employments, for which, however, the whole family was the better.

Our other children had reason (good children as they always were) to think themselves neglected. But they likewise were so sensible of their sister's superiority, and of the honour she reflected upon the whole family, that they confessed themselves eclipsed, without envying the eclipser. Indeed, there was not anybody so equal with her, in their own opinions, as to envy what all aspired but to emulate. The dear creature, you know, my Norton, gave an eminence to us all!

Then her acquirements. Her skill in music, her fine needle-works, her elegance in dress; for which she was so much admired, that the neighbouring ladies used to say, that they need not fetch fashions from London; since whatever Miss Clarissa Harlowe wore was the best fashion, because her choice of natural beauties set those of art far behind them. Her genteel ease, and fine turn of person; her deep reading, and these, joined to her open manners, and her cheerful modesty-O my good Norton, what a sweet child was once my Clary Harlowe !

This, and more, you knew her to be; for many of her excellencies were owing to yourself; and with the milk you gave her, you gave her what no other nurse in the world could give her.

And do you think, my worthy woman, do you think, that the wilful lapse of such a child is to be forgiven? Can she herself think that she deserves not the severest punishment for the abuse of such talents as were intrusted to her?

Her fault was a fault of premeditation, of cunning, of contrivance. She has deceived everybody's expectations. Her whole sex, as well as the family she sprung from, is disgraced by it.

Would anybody ever have believed that such a young creature as this, who had by her advice saved her over-lively friend from marrying a fop, and a libertine, would herself have gone off with one of the most vilest and most notorious of libertines? A man whose character she knew; and knew it to be worse than the character of him from whom she saved her friend; a man against whom she was warned; one who had her brother's life in his hands; and who constantly set our whole family at defiance.

Think for me, my good Norton; think what my unhappiness must be both as a wife and a mother. What restless days, what sleepless nights; yet my own rankling anguish endeavoured to be smothered over, to soften the anguish of fiercer spirits, and to keep them from blazing out to farther mischief! O this naughty, naughty girl, who knew so well what she did; and who could look so far into consequences, that we thought she would have died rather than have done as she has done!

Her known character for prudence leaves her absolutely without excuse. How then can I offer to plead for her, if, through motherly indulgence, I would forgive her myself?—And have we not, moreover, suffered all the disgrace that can befall us? Has not she?

If now she has so little liking to his morals, had she not reason before to have as little? Or has she suffered by them in her own person?— O my good woman, I doubt I doubt-Will not the character of the man make one doubt an angel, if once in his power? The world will think the worst. I am told it does. So likewise her father fears; her brother hears; and what can I do?

Our antipathy to him she knew before, as well as his character. These, therefore, cannot be new motives without a new reason.-O my dear Mrs Norton, how shall I, how can you, support ourselves under the apprehensions to which these thoughts lead!

He continually pressing her, you say, to marry him: his friends likewise. She has reason, no doubt she has reason, for this application to us: and her crime is glossed over, to bring her to us with new disgrace! Whither, whither, does one guilty step lead the misguided heart!

And now, truly, to save a stubborn spirit, we are only to be sounded, that the application may be occasionally retracted or denied!

Upon the whole were I inclined to plead for her, it is now the most improper of all times. Now that my brother Harlowe has discouraged (as he last night came hither on purpose to tell us) Mr Hickman's insinuated application; and been applauded for it. Now, that my brother Antony is intending to carry his great fortune, through her fault, into another family:-she expecting, no doubt, herself to be put into her grandfather's estate, in consequence of a reconciliation, and as a reward for her fault: and insisting still upon the same terms which she offered before, and which were rejected-Not through my fault, I am sure, rejected !—

From all these things you will return such an answer as the case requires. It might cost me the peace of my whole life, at this time, to move for her. God forgive her! If I do, nobody else will. And let it, for your own sake, as well as mine, be a secret that you and I have entered upon this subject. And I desire you not to touch upon it again, but by particular permission: for, O my dear, good woman, it sets my heart a bleeding in as many streams as there are veins

in it!

Yet think me not impenetrable by a proper contrition and remorse-But what a torment is it to have a will without a power?

Adieu! adieu! God give us both comfort; and to the once dear-the ever-dear creature (for can a mother forget her child?) repentance, deep repentance! and as little suffering as may befit His blessed will, and her grievous fault, prays Your real friend,

CHARLOTTE HARLOWE.

LETTER XC.

MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Sunday, May 14.

How it is now, my dear, between you and Mr Lovelace, I cannot tell. But, wicked as the man is, I am afraid he must be your lord and

master.

I called him by several very hard names in my last. I had but just heard of some of his vilenesses, when I sat down to write; so my indignation was raised. But on inquiry and recollection, I find that the facts laid to his charge were all of the committed some time ago-not since he has had strong hopes of your favour.

This is saying something for him. His generous behaviour to the innkeeper's daughter is

See Vol. VI. Letter IV.

a more recent instance to his credit; to say nothing of the universal good character he has as a kind landlord. And then I approve much of the motion he made to put you in possession of Mrs Fretchville's house, while he continues at the other widow's, till you agree that one house should hold you. I wish this were done. Be sure you embrace this offer, (if you do not soon meet at the altar,) and get one of his cousins with you.

Were you once married, I should think you cannot be very unhappy, though you may not be so happy with him as you deserve to be. The stake he has in his country, and his reversions; the care he takes of his affairs; his freedom from obligation; nay, his pride, with your merit, must be a tolerable security for you, I should think. Though particulars of his wickedness, as they come to my knowledge, hurt and incense me; yet, after all, when I give myself time to reflect, all that I have heard of him to his disadvantage was comprehended in the general character given of him long ago, by Lord M.'s and his own dismissed bailiff, and which was confirmed to me by Mrs Fortescue, as I heretofore told you,† and to you by Mrs Greme.‡

You can have nothing, therefore, I think, to be deeply concerned about, but his future good, and the bad example he may hereafter set to his own family. These, indeed, are very just concerns; but were you to leave him now, either with or without his consent, his fortunes and alliances so considerable, his person and address so engaging, (every one excusing you now on those accounts, and because of your relations' follies,) it would have a very ill appearance for your reputation. I cannot, therefore, on the most deliberate consideration, advise you to think of that, while you have no reason to doubt his honour. May eternal vengeance pursue the villain, if he give room for an apprehension of this nature!

Yet his teazing ways are intolerable: his acquiescence with your slight delays, and his resignedness to the distance you now keep him at, (for a fault so much slighter, as he must think, than the punishment,) are unaccountable. He doubts your love of him, that is very probable; but you have reason to be surprised at his want of ardour; a blessing so great within his reach, as I may say.

By the time you have read to this place, you will have no doubt of what has been the issue of the conference between the two gentlemen. I am equally shocked, and enraged against them all. Against them all, I say; for I have tried your good Norton's weight with your mother, (though at first I did not intend to tell you so, to the same purpose as the gentleman sounded