AND now the debate is over.

A thousand charming things, (for LOVE is gentler than CONSCIENCE,) has this little urchin suggested in her favour. He pretended to know both our hearts; and he would have it, that, though my love was a prodigious strong and potent love; and though it has the merit of many months faithful service to plead, and has had infinite difficulties to struggle with; yet that it is not THE RIGHT SORT OF LOVE.

Right sort of love!-A puppy!-But, with due regard to your deityship, said I, what merits has she with you, that you should be of her party? Is hers, I pray you, a right sort of love? Is it love at all? She don't pretend that it is. She owns not your sovereignty. What a dmoves you, to plead thus earnestly for a rebel, who despises your power?

-1

And then he came with his Ifs and Andsand it would have been, and still, as he believed, would be, love, and a love of the exalted kind, if I would encourage it by the right sort of love he talked of; and, in justification of his opinion, pleaded her own confessions, as well those of yesterday, as of this morning; and even went so far back as to my ipecacuanha illness.

I never talked so familiarly with his godship before; thou mayest think, therefore, that this dialect sounded oddly in my ears. And then he told me, how often I had thrown cold water upon the most charming flame that ever warmed a lady's bosom, while but young and rising.

I required a definition of this right sort of love; he tried at it, but made a sorry hand of it; nor could I, for the soul of me, be convinced, that what he meant to extol was LOVE.

Upon the whole, we had a noble controversy upon this subject, in which he insisted upon the unprecedented merit of the lady. Nevertheless I got the better of him; for he was struck absolutely dumb, when (waving her present perverseness, which yet was a sufficient answer to all his pleas) I asserted, and offered to prove it, by a thousand instances impromptu, that love was not governed by merit, nor could be under the dominion of prudence, or any other reasoning power; and, if the lady were capable of love, it was of such a sort of love as he had nothing to do with, and which never before reigned in a female heart.

I asked him, what he thought of her flight from me, at a time when I was more than half overcome by the right sort of love he talked of? -And then I shewed him the letter she wrote, and left behind her for me, with an intention, no doubt, absolutely to break my heart, or to provoke me to hang, drown, or shoot myself; to say nothing of a multitude of declarations

from her, defying his power, and imputing all that looked like love in her behaviour to me, to the persecution and rejection of her friends; which made her think of me but as a last resort.

LOVE then gave her up. The letter, he said, deserved neither pardon nor excuse. He did not think he had been pleading for such a declared rebel. And, as to the rest, he should be a betrayer of the rights of his own sovereignty, if what I had alleged were true, and he were still to plead for her.

I swore to the truth of all. And truly I swore; which, perhaps, I do not always do.

And now what thinkest thou must become of the lady, whom Love itself gives up, and CONSCIENCE cannot plead for?

LETTER CLVII.

MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

Sunday Afternoon.

O BELFORD! what a hair's-breadth escape have I had !—Such a one, that I tremble between terror and joy, at the thoughts of what might have happened, and did not.

What a perverse girl is this, to contend with her fate; yet has reason to think, that her very stars fight against her! I am the luckiest of men!-But my breath almost fails me, when I reflect upon what a slender thread my destiny hung.

But, not to keep thee in suspense, I have, within this half-hour, obtained possession of the expected letter from Miss Howe-and by such an accident! But here, with the former, I dispatch this; thy messenger waiting.

LETTER CLVIII.

MR LOVELACE.

[In continuation.]

THUS it was-My charmer accompanied Mrs Moore again to church this afternoon. I had been very earnest, in the first place, to obtain her company at dinner; but in vain. According to what she had said to Mrs Moore,* I was too considerable to her to be allowed that favour. In the next place, I besought her to favour me, after dinner, with another garden-walk. But she would again go to church. And what reason have I to rejoice that she did!

My worthy friend Mrs Bevis, thought one sermon a day, well observed, enough; so staid at home to bear me company.

The lady and Mrs Moore had not been gone

a quarter of an hour, when a young countryfellow on horseback came to the door, and inquired for Mrs Harriot Lucas. The widow and I (undetermined how we were to entertain each other) were in the parlour next the door; and, hearing the fellow's inquiry, Omy dear Mrs Bevis, said I, I am undone, undone for ever, if you don't help me out!-Since here, in all probability, is a messenger from that implacable Miss Howe with a letter; which, if delivered to Mrs Lovelace, may undo all we have been doing.

What, said she, would you have me do? Call the maid in this moment, that I may give her her lesson; and, if it be as I imagined, I'll tell you what you shall do.

Wid. "Margaret!—Margaret! come in this minute.

Lovel. What answer, Mrs Margaret, did you give the man, upon his asking for Mrs Harriot Lucas?

Peggy. I only asked, What was his business, and whom he came from? (for, sir, your honour's servant had told me how things stood :) and I came at your call, madam, before he answered

me.

Lovel. Well, child, if ever you wish to be happy in wedlock yourself, and would have people disappointed who want to make mischief between you and your husband, get out of him his message, or letter, if he has one, and bring it to me, and say nothing to Mrs Lovelace, when she comes in; and here is a guinea for you. Peggy. I will do all I can to serve your honour's worship for nothing: [nevertheless, with a ready hand, taking the guinea:] for Mr William tells me what a good gentleman you be.

Away went Peggy to the fellow at the door. Peggy. What is your business, friend, with Mrs Harry Lucas?

Fellow. I must speak to her own self.

Lovel. My dearest widow, do you personate Mrs Lovelace for Heaven's sake, do you personate Mrs Lovelace!

Wid. I personate Mrs Lovelace, sir! can I do that?-She is fair; I am brown. is slender; I am plump

How

She

Lovel. No matter, no matter-The fellow may be a new-come servant; he is not in livery, I see. He may not know her person. You can but be bloated and in a dropsy.

Wid. Dropsical people look not so fresh and ruddy as I do.

Lovel. True-but the clown may not know that. 'Tis but for a present deception. Peggy, Peggy, called I, in a female tone, softly at the door. Madam, answered Peggy; and came up to me to the parlour-door.

Peggy. Tell him the lady is ill; and has lain down upon the couch. And get his business from him, whatever you do.

Away went Peggy.

Lovel. Now, my dear widow, lie along on the

Lovel. And now, my dear widow, let me see what a charming Mrs Lovelace you'll make !— Ask if he comes from Miss Howe. Ask if he lives with her. Ask how she does. Call her, at every word, your dear Miss Howe. Offer him money-take this half-guinea for him-complain of your head, to have a pretence to hold it down; and cover your forehead and eyes with your hand, where your handkerchief hides not your face. That's right-and dismiss the rascal here he comes]-as soon as you can.

In came the fellow, bowing and scraping, his hat poked out before him with both his hands.

Fellow. I am sorry, madam, an't please you, to find you ben't well.

Wid. What is your business with me, friend? Fellow. You are Mrs Harriot Lucas, I suppose, madam?

Wid. Yes. Do you come from Miss Howe? Fellow. I do, madam.

Wid. Dost thou know my right name, friend? Fellow. I can give a shrewd guess. But that is none of my business.

Wid. What is thy business? I hope Miss Howe is well?

Fellow. Yes, madam; pure well, I thank God. I wish you were so too.

Wid. I am too full of grief to be well, Fellow. So belike I have hard to say. Wid. My head aches so dreadfully, I cannot hold it up. I must beg of you to let me know your business.

Fellow. Nay, an that be all, my business is soon known. It is but to give this letter into your own partiklar hands-here it is.

Wid. Taking it.] From my dear friend Miss Howe?—Ah, my head!

Fellow. Yes, madam; but I am sorry you are so bad.

Wid. Do you live with Miss Howe?

Fellow. No, madam; I am one of her tenants' sons. Her lady-mother must not know as how I came of this errand. But the letter, I sup pose, will tell you all.

Wid. How shall I satisfy you for this kind trouble?

Fellow. No how at all. What I do is for love of Miss Howe. She will satisfy me more than

enough. But, mayhap, you can send no answer, you are so ill.

Wid. Was you ordered to wait for an answer?

Fellow. No, I cannot say as that I was. But I was bidden to observe how you looked, and how you was; and, if you did write a line or so, to take care of it, and give it only to our young landlady in secret.

Wid. You see I look strangely. Not so well as I used to do.

Fellow. Nay, I don't know I ever saw you but once before; and that was at a stile, where I met you and my young landlady; but knew better than to stare a gentlewoman in the face; especially at a stile.

Wid. Will you eat, or drink, friend? Fellow. A cup of small ale, I don't care if I do.

Wid. Margaret, take the young man down, and treat him with what the house affords.

Fellow. Your servant, madam. But I staid to eat as I came along, just upon the Heath yonder; or else, to say the truth, I had been here sooner. [Thank my stars, thought I, thou didst. A piece of powdered beef was upon the table, at the sign of the Castle, where I stopt to inquire for this house; and so, thoff I only intended to wet my whistle, I could not help eating. So shall only taste of your ale; for the beef was woundily corned.

Prating dog! Pox on thee! thought I.
He withdrew, bowing and scraping.

Margaret, whispered I, in a female voice, [whipping out of the closet, and holding the parlour-door in my hand, get him out of the house as fast as you can, lest they come from church, and catch him here.

Peggy. Never fear, sir.

The fellow went down, and, it seems, drank a large draught of ale; and Margaret, finding him very talkative, told him, she begged his pardon, but she had a sweetheart just come from sea, whom she was forced to hide in the pantry; so was sure he would excuse her from staying with him.

Ay, ay, to be sure, the clown said; for, if he could not make sport, he would spoil none. But he whispered her, that one Squire Lovelace was a damnation rogue, if the truth might be told.

For what? said Margaret. And could have given him, she told the widow (who related to me all this) a good dowse of the chaps.

For kissing all the women he came near. At the same time, the dog wrapped himself round Margery, and gave her a smack, that, she told Mrs Bevis afterwards, she might have heard into the parlour.

Such, Jack, is human nature; thus does it operate in all degrees; and so does the clown, as well as his betters, practise what he censures; and censure what he practises! Yet this sly dog

All women are born to intrigue, Jack; and practise it more or less, as fathers, guardians, governesses, from dear experience, can tell; and in love affairs are naturally expert, and quicker in their wits by half than men. This ready, though raw wench, gave an instance of this, and improved on the dropsical hint I had given her. The lady's seeming plumpness was owing to a dropsical disorder, and to the round posture she lay in—very likely, truly. Her appearing to him to be shorter, he might have observed, was owing to her drawing her feet up from pain, and because the couch was too short, she supposedAdso, he did not think of that. Her rosy colour was owing to her grief and headach-Ay, that might very well be-but he was highly pleased that he had given the letter into Mrs Harriot's own hand, as he should tell Miss Howe.

He desired once more to see the lady at his going away, and would not be denied. The widow, therefore, sat up, with her handkerchief over her face, leaning her head against the wainscot.

He asked if she had any partiklar message? No; she was so ill she could not write; which was a great grief to her.

Should he call next day? for he was going to London, now he was so near; and should stay at a cousin's that night, who lived in a strect called Fetter-lane.

No; she would write as soon as able, and send by the post.

Well, then, if she had nothing to send by him, mayhap he might stay in town a day or two; for he had never seen the lions in the Tower, nor Bedlam, nor the Tombs; and he would make a holiday or two, as he had leave to do, if she had no business or message that required his posting down next day.

She had not.

She offered him the half-guinea I had given her for him; but he refused it with great professions of disinterestedness, and love, as he called it, to Miss Howe; to serve whom, he would ride to the world's-end, or even to Jericho.

And so the shocking rascal went away; and glad at my heart was I when he was gone; for I feared nothing so much as that he would have staid till they came from church.

Thus, Jack, got I my heart's ease, the letter of Miss Howe; and through such a train of ac

cidents, as makes me say, that the lady's stars fight against her. But yet I must attribute a good deal to my own precaution, in having taken right measures. For, had I not secured the widow by my stories, and the maid by my servant, all would have signified nothing. And so heartily were they secured, the one by a single guinea, the other by half-a-dozen warm kisses, and the aversion they both had to such wicked creatures as delighted in making mischief between man and wife, that they promised, that neither Mrs Moore, Miss Rawlins, Mrs Lovelace, nor any body living, till a week at least were past, and till I gave leave, should know anything of the

matter.

The widow rejoiced that I had got the mischief-maker's letter. I excused myself to her, and instantly withdrew with it; and, after I had read it, fell to my short-hand, to acquaint thee with my good luck, and, they not returning so soon as church was done, (stepping, as it proved, into Miss Rawlins's, and tarrying there a while to bring that busy girl with them to drink tea,) I wrote thus far to thee, that thou mightest, when thou camest to this place, rejoice with me upon the occasion.

They are all three just come in.
I hasten to them.

LETTER CLIX.

MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

I HAVE begun another letter to thee, in continuation of my narrative; but I believe I shall send thee this before I shall finish that. By the enclosed thou wilt see, that neither of the correspondents deserve mercy from me, and I am resolved to make the ending with one the beginning with the other.

If thou sayest, that the provocations I have given to one of them, will justify her freedoms, I answer, so they will, to any other person but myself; but he that is capable of giving those provocations, and has the power to punish those who abuse him for giving them, will shew his resentment, and the more remorselessly, perhaps, as he has deserved the freedoms.

If thou sayest, it is, however, wrong to do so, I reply, that it is nevertheless human nature: And wouldst thou not have me to be a man, Jack?

Here, read the letter, if thou wilt. But thou art not my friend, if thou offerest to plead for either of the saucy creatures, after thou hast

read it.

See Letter CXXXVI. of this Volume.

TO MRS HARRIOT LUCAS, At Mrs Moore's, at Hampstead.

June 10.

AFTER the discoveries I had made of the villainous machinations of the most abandoned of men, particularized in my long letter of Wednesday last,* you will believe, my dearest friend, that my surprise upon perusing yours of Thursday evening from Hampstead,† was not so great as my indignation. Had the villain attempted to fire a city instead of a house, I should not have wondered at it. All that I am amazed at is, that he (whose boast, as I am told, it is, that no woman shall keep him out of her bed-chamber, when he has made a resolution to be in it,) did not discover his foot before. And it is as strange to me, that, having got you at such a shocking advantage, and in such a horrid house, you could, at the time, escape dishonour, and afterwards get from such a set of infernals.

I gave you, in my long letter of Wednesday and Thursday last, reasons why you ought to mistrust that specious Tomlinson. That man, my dear, must be a solemn villain. May lightning from heaven blast the wretch, who has set him and the rest of his REMORSELESS GANG at work, to endeavour to destroy the most consummate virtue!-Heaven be praised! you have escaped from all their snares, and now are out of danger; so I will not trouble you at present with the particulars that I have further collected relating to this abominable imposture.

For the same reason, I forbear to communicate to you some new stories of the abhorred wretch himself, which have come to my ears; one, in particular, of so shocking a nature!— Indeed, my dear, the man's a devil.

The whole story of Mrs Fretchville and her house, I have no doubt to pronounce, likewise, an absolute fiction.-Fellow!-How my soul spurns the villain!

Your thought of going abroad, and your reasons for so doing, most sensibly affect me. But be comforted, my dear; I hope you will not be under a necessity of quitting your native country. Were I sure that that must be the cruel case, I would abandon all my own better prospects, and soon be with you. And I would accompany you whithersoever you went, and share fortunes with you, for it is impossible that I should be happy, if I knew that you were exposed not only to the perils of the sea, but to the attempts of other vile men, your personal graces attracting every eye, and exposing you to those hourly dangers which others, less distinguished by the gifts of nature, might avoid.

+ See Letter CXXXVII. Ibid.

-All that I know that beauty (so greatly coveted, and so greatly admired) is good for.

O my dear, were I ever to marry, and to be the mother of a CLARISSA, [Clarissa must be the name, if promisingly lovely, how often would my heart ache for the dear creature, as she grew up, when I reflected that a prudence and discretion, unexampled in woman, had not, in you, been a sufficient protection to that beauty which had drawn after it as many admirers as beholders!-How little should I regret the attacks of that cruel distemper, as it is called, which frequently makes the greatest ravages in the finest faces!

Sat. Afternoon.

I HAVE just parted with Mrs Townsend.* I thought you had once seen her with me; but she says she never had the honour to be personally known to you. She has a manlike spirit. She knows the world. And, her two brothers being in town, she is sure she can engage them in so good a cause, and (if there should be occasion) both their ships' crews in your service. Give your consent, my dear, and the horrid villain shall be repaid, with broken bones at least, for all his vileness!

The misfortune is, Mrs Townsend cannot be with you till Thursday next, or Wednesday, at soonest. Are you sure you can be safe where you are, till then? I think you are too near London, and, perhaps, you had better be in it. If you remove, let me, the very moment, know whither.

How my heart is torn, to think of the necessity so dear a creature is driven to of hiding herself! Devilish fellow! He must have been sportive and wanton in his inventions-yet that cruel, that savage sportiveness, has saved you from the sudden violence to which he has had recourse in the violation of others, of names and families not contemptible; for such the villain always gloried to spread his snares.

The vileness of this specious monster has done more than any other consideration could do, to bring Mr Hickman into credit with me. Mr Hickman alone knows (from me) of your flight, and the reason of it. Had I not given him the reason, he might have thought still worse of the vile attempt. I communicated it to him by shewing him your letter from Hampstead.When he had read it, and he trembled and reddened, as he read, he threw himself at my feet, and besought me to permit him to attend you, and to give you the protection of his house. The good-natured man had tears in his eyes, and was repeatedly earnest on this subject, proposing to take his chariot-and-four, or a set, and in person, in the face of all the world, give him

self the glory of protecting such an oppressed innocent.

I could not but be pleased with him; and I let him know that I was. I hardly expected so much spirit from him. But a man's passiveness to a beloved object of our sex, may not, perhaps, argue want of courage on proper occasions.

I thought I ought, in return, to have some consideration for his safety, as such an open step would draw upon him the vengeance of the most villainous enterprizer in the world, who has always a gang of fellows, such as himself, at his call, ready to support one another in the vilest outrages. But yet, as Mr Hickman might have strengthened his hands by legal recourses, I should not have stood upon it, had I not known your delicacy, [since such a step must have made a great noise, and given occasion for scandal, as if some advantage had been gained over you,] and were there not the greatest probability that all might be more silently, and more effectually, managed, by Mrs Townsend's means.

Mrs Townsend will in person attend you— she hopes on Wednesday; her brothers, and some of their people, will, scatteringly, and as if they knew nothing of you, (so we have contrived,) see you safe not only to London, but to her house at Deptford.

She has a kinswoman who will take your commands there, if she herself be obliged to leave you; and there you may stay till the wretch's fury on losing you, and his search, are

over.

He will very soon, 'tis likely, enter upon some new villainy which may engross him; and it may be given out that you are gone to lay claim to the protection of your cousin Morden, at Florence.

Possibly, if he can be made to believe it, he will go over, in hopes to find you there.

After a while, I can procure you a lodging in one of our neighbouring villages, where I may have the happiness to be your daily visitor. And, if this Hickman be not silly and apish, and if my mother do not do unaccountable things, I may the sooner think of marrying, that I may, without control, receive and entertain the darling of my heart.

Many, very many, happy days do I hope we shall yet see together; and, as this is my hope, I expect that it will be your consolation.

As to your estate, since you are resolved not to litigate for it, we will be patient either till Colonel Morden arrives, or till shame compels some people to be just.

Upon the whole, I cannot but think your prospects now much happier than they could