shouldst be glad to have the justification of her memory left to one, who, at the same time, thou mayest be assured, will treat thee, and thy actions, with all the lenity the case will admit.

I cannot help expressing my surprise at one instance of thy self-partiality, and that is, where thou sayest she had need indeed to cry out for mercy herself from her friends, who knows not how to shew any.

Surely thou canst not think the cases alike for she, as I understand, desires but a last blessing, and a last forgiveness, for a fault in a manner involuntary, if a fault at all, and does not so much as hope to be received; thou, to be forgiven premeditated wrongs, (which, nevertheless, she forgives, on condition to be no more molested by thee,) and hopest to be received into favour, and to make the finest jewel in the world thy absolute property, in consequence of that forgiveness.

I will now briefly proceed to relate what has passed since my last, as to the excellent lady. By the account I shall give thee, thou wilt see that she has troubles enough upon her, all springing originally from thyself, without needing to add more to them by new vexations; and as long as thou canst exert thyself so very cavalierly at M. Hall, where every one is thy prisoner, I see not but the bravery of thy spirit may be as well gratified in domineering there over half-a-dozen persons of rank and distinction, as it could be over a helpless orphan, as I may call this lady, since she has not a single friend to stand by her, if I do not; and who will think herself happy, if she can refuge herself from thee, and from all the world, in the arms of death.

My last was dated on Saturday.

On Sunday, in compliance with her doctor's advice, she took a little airing. Mrs Lovick, and Mr Smith, and his wife, were with her. After being at Highgate Chapel at divine service, she treated them with a little repast, and in the afternoon was at Islington Church, in her way home, returning tolerably cheerful.

She had received several letters in my absence, as Mrs Lovick acquainted me, besides yours. Yours, it seems, much distressed her, but she ordered the messenger, who pressed for an answer, to be told that it did not require an immediate one.

On Wednesday she received a letter from her uncle Harlowe, in answer to one she had written to her mother on Saturday on her knees. It must have been a very cruel one, Mrs Lovick says, by the effects it had upon her; for, when she received it, she was intending to take an afternoon airing in a coach, but was thrown into so violent a fit of hysterics upon it, that she was

forced to lie down, and (being not recovered by it) to go to bed about eight o'clock.

On Thursday morning she was up very early, and had recourse to the Scriptures to calm her mind, as she told Mrs Lovick, and, weak as she was, would go in a chair to Lincoln's-Inn Chapel, about eleven. She was brought home a little better, and then sat down to write to her uncle; but was obliged to leave off several times, to struggle, as she told Mrs Lovick, for an humble temper. My heart, said she, to the good woman, is a proud heart, and not yet, I find, enough mortified to my condition; but, do what I can, will be for prescribing resenting things to my pen.

I arrived in town from Belton's this Thursday evening, and went directly to Smith's. She was too ill to receive my visit. But, on sending up my compliments, she sent me down word that she should be glad to see me in the morning.

Mrs Lovick obliged me with the copy of a Meditation collected by the lady from the Scriptures. She has entitled it, Poor Mortals the Cause of their own Misery; so entitled, I presume, with intention to take off the edge of her repinings at hardships so disproportioned to her fault, were her fault even as great as she is inclined to think it. We may see, by this, the method she takes to fortify her mind, and to which she owes, in a great measure, the magnanimity with which she bears her undeserved persecutions.

MEDITATION.

Poor Mortals the Cause of their own Misery.

Say not thou, it is through the Lord that I fell away; for thou oughtest not to do the thing that he hateth.

Say not thou, he hath caused me to err ; for he hath no need of the sinful man.

He himself made man from the beginning, and left him in the hand of his own counsel;

If thou wilt, to keep the commandments, and to perform acceptable faithfulness.

He hath set fire and water before thee: stretch forth thine hand to whether thou wilt.

He hath commanded no man to do wickedly: neither hath he given any man licence to sin.

And now, Lord, what is my hope? Truly my hope is only in thee.

Deliver me from all my offences, and make me not a rebuke unto the foolish.

When thou with rebuke dost chasten man for sin, thou makest his beauty to consume away, like as it were a moth fretting a garment ; every man, therefore, is vanity.

Turn thee unto me, and have mercy upon me; for I am desolate and afflicted.

Mrs Smith gave me the following particulars of a conversation that passed between herself and a young clergyman, on Tuesday afternoon, who, as it appears, was employed to make inquiries about the lady by her friends.

He came into the shop in a riding-habit, and asked for some Spanish snuff; and finding only Mrs Smith there, he desired to have a little talk with her in the back-shop.

He beat about the bush in several distant questions, and at last began to talk more directly about Miss Harlowe.

He said he knew her before her full [that was his impudent word; and gave the substance of the following account of her, as I collected it from Mrs Smith :

"She was then, he said, the admiration and delight of everybody; he lamented, with great solemnity, her backsliding; another of his phrases. Mrs Smith said, he was a fine scholar; for he spoke several things she understood not; and either in Latin or Greek, she could not tell which; but was so good as to give her the English of them without asking. A fine thing, she said, for a scholar to be so condescending!"

He said, "Her going off with so vile a rake had given great scandal and offence to all the neighbouring ladies, as well as to her friends."

He told Mrs Smith "How much she used to be followed by every one's eye, whenever she went abroad, or to church; and praised and blessed by every tongue, as she passed; especially by the poor; that she gave the fashion to the fashionable, without seeming herself to intend it, or to know she did; that, however, it was pleasant to see ladies imitate her in dress and behaviour, who, being unable to come up to her in grace and ease, exposed but their own affectation and awkwardness, at the time that they thought themselves secure of general approbation, because they wore the same things, and put them on in the same manner, that she did, who had everybody's admiration; little considering, that were her person like theirs, or if she had had their defects, she would have brought up a very different fashion; for that nature was her guide in everything, and ease her study; which, joined with a mingled dignity and condescension in her air and manner, whether she received or paid a compliment, distinguished her above all her sex.

"He spoke not, he said, his own sentiments only on this occasion, but those of everybody; for that the praises of Miss Clarissa Harlowe were such a favourite topic, that a person who could not speak well upon any other subject, was

Hence it was, perhaps, that this novice accounted for the best things he said himself; though I must own that the personal knowledge of the lady, which I am favoured with, made it easy to me to lick into shape what the good woman reported to me, as the character given her by the young Levite. For who, even now, in her decline of health sees not that all these attributes belong to her?

as

I suppose he has not been long come from college, and now thinks he has nothing to do but to blaze away for a scholar among the ignorant; such young fellows are apt to think those who cannot cap verses with them, and tell us how an ancient author expressed himself in Latin on a subject, upon which, however, they may know how, as well as that author, to express themselves in English.

Mrs Smith was so taken with him, that she would fain have introduced him to the lady, not questioning but it would be very acceptable to her to see one who knew her and her friends so well. But this he declined for several reasons, as he called them; which he gave. One was, that persons of his cloth should be very cautious of the company they were in, especially where sex was concerned, and where a woman had slurred her reputation-I wish I had been there when he gave himself these airs.] Another, that he was desired to inform himself of her present way of life, and who her visitors were; for, as to the praises Mrs Smith gave the lady, he hinted, that she seemed to be a good-natured woman, and might (though for the lady's sake he hoped not,) be too partial and short-sighted to be trusted to, absolutely, in a concern of so high a nature as he intimated the task was which he had undertaken; nodding out words of doubtful import, and assuming airs of great significance (as I could gather) throughout the whole conversation. And when Mrs Smith told him that the lady was in a very bad state of health, he gave a careless shrug-She may be very ill, says he; her disappointments must have touched her to the quick; but she is not bad enough, I dare say, yet, to atone for her very great lapse, and to expect to be forgiven by those whom she has so much disgraced.

A starched, conceited coxcomb! what would I give he had fallen in my way!

He departed, highly satisfied with himself, no doubt, and assured of Mrs Smith's great opinion of his sagacity and learning; but bid her not say anything to the lady about him or his inquiries. And I, for very different reasons, enjoined the same thing.

I am glad, however, for her peace of mind's sake, that they begin to think it behoves them to inquire about her.

LETTER CCCVII.

MR BELFORD TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ.

Friday, Aug. 11. [MR BELFORD acquaints his friend with the generosity of Lord M. and the Ladies of his family; and with the Lady's grateful sentiments upon the occasion.

He says, that in hopes to avoid the pain of seeing him, (Mr Lovelace,) she intends to answer his letter of the 7th, though much against her inclination.]

"SHE took great notice," says Mr Belford, "of that passage in yours, which makes necessary to the Divine pardon, the forgiveness of a person causelessly injured.

"Her grandfather, I find, has enabled her at eighteen years of age to make her will, and to devise great part of his estate to whom she pleases of the family, and the rest out of it (if she die single) at her own discretion; and this to create respect to her; as he apprehended that she would be envied: and she now resolves to set about making her will out of hand."

[Mr Belford insists upon the promise he had made him, not to molest the Lady; and gives him the contents of her answer to Lord M. and the Ladies of his Lordship's family, declining their generous offers. See Letter CCCV.

LETTER CCCVIII.

MISS CL. HARLOWE TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ.

Friday, Aug. 11.

IT is a cruel alternative to be either forced to see you, or to write to you. But a will of my own has been long denied me; and to avoid a greater evil, nay, now I may say, the greatest, I write.

Were I capable of disguising or concealing my real sentiments, I might safely, I dare say, give you the remote hope you request, and yet keep all my resolutions. But I must tell you, sir, (it becomes my character to tell you,) that, were I to live more years than perhaps I may weeks, and there was not another man in the world, I could not, I would not, be yours.

There is no merit in performing a duty. Religion enjoins me not only to forgive injuries, but to return good for evil. It is all my consolation, and I bless God for giving me that, that I am now in such a state of mind, with regard to you, that I can cheerfully obey its dictates. And, accordingly, I tell you, that, where

KINSWOMAN!

YOUR mother neither caring, nor being permitted, to write, I am desired to set pen to paper, though I had resolved against it.

And so I am to tell you, that your letters, joined to the occasion of them, almost break the hearts of us all.

Were we sure you had seen your folly, and were truly penitent, and, at the same time, that you were so very ill as you pretend, I know not what might be done for you. But we are all acquainted with your moving ways when you want to carry a point.

Unhappy girl! how miserable have you made us all! We, who used to visit with so much pleasure, now cannot endure to look upon one another.

If you had not known, upon a hundred occasions, how dear you once was to us, you might judge of it now, were you to know how much your folly has unhinged us all.

Naughty, naughty girl! You see the fruits of preferring a rake and libertine to a man of sobriety and morals, against full warning, against better knowledge. And such a modest creature, too, as you were! How could you think of such an unworthy preference ?

Your mother can't ask, and your sister knows not in modesty how to ask; and so I ask you, if you have any reason to think yourself with child by this villain?-You must answer this, and answer it truly, before anything can be resolved upon about you.

You may well be touched with a deep remorse for your misdeeds. Could I ever have thought that my doating-piece, as every one called you, would have done thus? To be sure I loved you too well. But that is over now. Yet, though I will not pretend to answer for anybody but myself, for my own part I say God forgive you! and this all from

Your afflicted uncle,

JOHN HARLOWE.

The following MEDITATION was stitched to the bottom of this letter with black silk.

MEDITATION.

O that thou wouldst hide me in the grave! that thou wouldst keep me secret, till thy wrath be past!

My face is foul with weeping; and on my eyelid is the shadow of death.

My friends scorn me; but mine eye poureth out tears unto God.

A dreadful sound is in my ears; in prosperity the destroyer came upon me!

I have sinned! what shall I do unto thee, O thou Preserver of men! why hast thou set me as a mark against thee; so that I am a burden to myself!

When I say my bed shall comfort me; my couch shall ease my complaint;

Then thou scarest me with dreams, and terrifiest me through visions.

So that my soul chooseth strangling, and death rather than life.

I loath it! I would not live alway !—Let me alone; for my days are vanity!

He hath made me a by-word of the people; and aforetime I was as a tabret.

My days are past, my purposes are broken off, even the thoughts of my heart.

When I looked for good, then evil came unto me; and when I waited for light, then came dark

It was an act of charity I begged; only for a last blessing, that I might die in peace. I ask not to be received again, as my severe sister [Oh! that I had not written to her! is pleased to say, is my view. Let that grace be denied me when I do.

I could not look forward to my last scene with comfort, without seeking, at least, to obtain the blessing I petitioned for; and that with a contrition so deep, that I deserved not, were it known, to be turned over from the tender nature of a mother, to the upbraiding pen of an uncle! and to be wounded by a cruel question, put by him in a shocking manner; and which a little, a very little time, will better answer than I can; for I am not either a hardened or shameless creature; if I were, I should not have been so solicitous to obtain the favour I sued for.

And permit me to say, that I asked it as well for my father and mother's sake, as for my own; for I am sure they at least will be uneasy, after I am gone, that they refused it to me.

I should still be glad to have theirs, and yours, sir, and all your blessings, and your prayers; but denied in such a manner, I will not presume again to ask it; relying entirely on the Almighty's; which is never denied, when supplicated for with such true penitence as I hope

mine is.

Yarmouth, Isle of Wight, Monday, Aug. 7. MY DEAREST CREATURE,

I CAN write but just now a few lines. I cannot tell how to bear the sound of that Mr Belford for your executor, cogent as your reasons for that measure are; and yet I am firmly of opinion, that none of your relations should be named for the trust. But I dwell the less upon this subject, as I hope (and cannot bear to apprehend the contrary) that you will still live many, many years.

Mr Hickman, indeed, speaks very handsomely of Mr Belford. But he, poor man! has not much penetration.-If he had, he would hardly think so well of me as he does.

I have a particular opportunity of sending this by a friend of my aunt Harman's; who is ready to set out for London, (and this occasions my hurry,) and is to return out of hand. I expect, therefore, by him a large packet from you; and hope and long for news of your amended health; which Heaven grant to the prayers of Your ever-affectionate

ANNA HOWE.

LETTER CCCXII.

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE.

Friday, Aug. 11.

I WILL send you a large packet, as you desire and expect; since I can do it by so safe a conveyance; but not all that is come to my handfor I must own that my friends are very severe; too severe for anybody, who loves them not, to see their letters. You, my dear, would not call them my friends, you said, long ago; but my relations; indeed I cannot call them my relations, I think!-But I am ill; and therefore perhaps more peevish than I should be. It is difficult to go out of ourselves to give a judg

ment against ourselves; and yet, oftentimes, to pass a just judgment, we ought.

I thought I should alarm you in the choice of my executor. But the sad necessity I am reduced to must excuse me.

I shall not repeat anything I have said before on that subject; but, if your objections will not be answered to your satisfaction by the papers and letters I shall enclose, marked 1, 2, 3, 4, to 9, I must think myself in another instance unhappy; since I am engaged too far (and with my own judgment too) to recede.

As Mr Belford has transcribed for me, in confidence, from his friend's letters, the passages which accompany this, I must insist that you suffer no soul but yourself to peruse them; and that you return them by the very first opportunity; that so no use may be made of them that may do hurt either to the original writer or to the communicator. You'll observe I am bound by promise to this care. If through my means any mischief should arise, between this humane and that inhuman libertine, I should think myself utterly inexcusable.

I subjoin a list of the papers or letters I shall enclose. You must return them all when perused.*

I am very much tired and fatigued-withI don't know what-with writing,—I thinkbut most with myself, and with a situation I cannot help aspiring to get out of, and above!

O my dear, the world we live in is a sad, a very sad world!While under our parents' protecting wings, we know nothing at all of it. Book-learned and a scribbler, and looking at people as I saw them as visitors or visiting, I thought I knew a great deal of it. Pitiable ignorance!-Alas! I knew nothing at all!

With zealous wishes for your happiness, and the happiness of every one dear to you, I am, and will ever be,

Your gratefully-affectionate
CL. HARLOWE.

1. A letter from Miss Montague, dated

2. A copy of my answer

As your uncle Harlowe chooses not to answer your pert letter to him; and as mine, written to you before,† was written as if it were in the spirit of prophecy, as you have found to your sorrow; and as you are now making yourself worse than you are in your health, and better than you are in your penitence, as we are very well assured, in order to move compassion; which you do not deserve, having had so much warning; for all these reasons, I take up my pen once more; though I had told your brother, at his going to Edinburgh, that I would not write to you, even were you to write to me, without letting him know. So indeed had we all; for he prognosticated what would happen, as to your applying to us, when you knew not how to help it.

Brother John has hurt your niceness, it seems, by asking you a plain question, which your mother's heart is too full of grief to let her ask; and modesty will not let your sister ask; though but the consequence of your actions-and yet it must be answered, before you'll obtain from your father and mother, and us, the notice you hope for, I can tell you that.

You lived several guilty weeks with one of the vilest fellows that ever drew breath, at bed, as well as board, no doubt, (for is not his character known?) and, pray, don't be ashamed to be asked after what may naturally come of such free living. This modesty indeed would have become you for eighteen years of your lifeyou'll be pleased to mark that--but makes no good figure compared with your behaviour since the beginning of April last. So, pray, don't take

Aug. 1. Aug. 3.

5. Mr Belford's acceptance of the trust

Aug. 3, 4:

Aug. 4. Aug. 4.

family

7. Mr Lovelace's to me

Aug. 7.

Aug, 7.

Aug. 8.

9. Copy of my answer to Mr Lovelace

+ See Letter XXXII. Vol. VI.

Aug.

11.