Clarissa Harlowe; or the history of a young lady — Volume 8

      'Credere fallacy gravis est dementia famæ.'      MANT.

Notwithstanding, Miss Clarissa Harlowe (I must be bold to say) is the 'only young lady,' that ever I heard of (or indeed read of) that, 'having made such a false step,' so 'soon' (of 'her own accord,' as I may say) 'recovered' herself, and conquered her 'love of the deceiver'; (a great conquest indeed!) and who flieth him, and resolveth to 'die,' rather than to be his; which now, to her never-dying 'honour' (I am well assured) is the case—and, in 'justice' to her, I am now ready to take to myself (with no small vexation) that of Ovid,

      'Heu! patior telis vulnera facta meis.'

But yet I do insist upon it, that all 'that part' of my 'information,' which I took upon mine own 'personal inquiry,' which is what relates to Mr. 'Belford' and 'his character,' is 'literally true'; for there is not any where to be met with a man of a more 'libertine character' as to 'women,' Mr. 'Lovelace' excepted, than he beareth.

And so, Sir, I must desire of you, that you will not let 'any blame' lie upon my 'intention'; since you see how ready I am to 'accuse myself' of too lightly giving ear to a 'rash information' (not knowing it to be so, however): for I depended the more upon it, as the 'people I had it from' are very 'sober,' and live in the 'fear of God': and indeed when I wait upon you, you will see by their letter, that they must be 'conscientious' good people: wherefore, Sir, let me be entitled, from 'all your good family,' to that of my last-named poet,

      'Aspera confesso verba remitte reo.'

And now, Sir, (what is much more becoming of my 'function,') let me, instead of appearing with the 'face of an accuser,' and a 'rash censurer,' (which in my 'heart' I have not 'deserved' to be thought,) assume the character of a 'reconciler'; and propose (by way of 'penance' to myself for my 'fault') to be sent up as a 'messenger of peace' to the 'pious young lady'; for they write me word 'absolutely' (and, I believe in my heart, 'truly') that the 'doctors' have 'given her over,' and that she 'cannot live.' Alas! alas! what a sad thing would that be, if the 'poor bough,' that was only designed (as I 'very well know,' and am 'fully assured') 'to be bent, should be broken!'

Let it not, dear Sir, seem to the 'world' that there was any thing in your 'resentments' (which, while meant for 'reclaiming,' were just and fit) that hath the 'appearance' of 'violence,' and 'fierce wrath,' and 'inexorability'; (as it would look to some, if carried to extremity, after 'repentance' and 'contrition,' and 'humiliation,' on the 'fair offender's' side:) for all this while (it seemeth) she hat been a 'second Magdalen' in her 'penitence,' and yet not so bad as a 'Magdalen' in her 'faults'; (faulty, nevertheless, as she hath been once, the Lord knoweth!

      'Nam vitiis nemo sine nascitur: optimus ille est,       Qui minimis urgentur'——saith Horace).

Now, Sir, if I may be named for this 'blessed' employment, (for, 'Blessed is the peace-maker!') I will hasten to London; and (as I know Miss had always a 'great regard' to the 'function' I have the honour to be of) I have no doubt of making myself acceptable to her, and to bring her, by 'sound arguments,' and 'good advice,' into a 'liking of life,' which must be the 'first step' to her 'recovery': for, when the 'mind' is 'made easy,' the 'body' will not 'long suffer'; and the 'love of life' is a 'natural passion,' that is soon 'revived,' when fortune turneth about, and smileth:

      'Vivere quisque diu, quamvis & egenus & ager,       Optat.—— —— ——' OVID.

And the sweet Lucan truly observeth,

      '—— —— Fatis debentibus annos       Mors invita subit.—— ——'

And now, Sir, let me tell you what shall be the 'tenor' of my 'pleadings' with her, and 'comfortings' of her, as she is, as I may say, a 'learned lady'; and as I can 'explain' to her 'those sentences,' which she cannot so readily 'construe herself': and this in order to convince 'you' (did you not already 'know' my 'qualifications') how well qualified I 'am' for the 'christian office' to which I commend myself.

I will, IN THE FIRST PLACE, put her in mind of the 'common course of things' in this 'sublunary world,' in which 'joy' and 'sorrow, sorrow' and joy,' succeed one another by turns'; in order to convince her, that her griefs have been but according to 'that' common course of things:

      'Gaudia post luctus veniunt, post gaudia luctus.'

SECONDLY, I will remind her of her own notable description of 'sorrow,' whence she was once called upon to distinguish wherein 'sorrow, grief,' and 'melancholy,' differed from each other; which she did 'impromptu,' by their 'effects,' in a truly admirable manner, to the high satisfaction of every one: I myself could not, by 'study,' have distinguished 'better,' nor more 'concisely'—SORROW, said she, 'wears'; GRIEF 'tears'; but MELANCHOLY 'sooths.'

My inference to her shall be, that since a happy reconciliation will take place, 'grief' will be banished; 'sorrow' dismissed; and only sweet 'melancholy' remain to 'sooth' and 'indulge' her contrite 'heart,' and show to all the world the penitent sense she hath of her great error.

THIRDLY, That her 'joys,'* when restored to health and favour, will be the greater, the deeper her griefs were.

* 'Joy,' let me here observe, my dear Sir, by way of note, is not absolutely inconsistent with 'melancholy'; a 'soft gentle joy,' not a 'rapid,' not a 'rampant joy,' however; but such a 'joy,' as shall lift her 'temporarily' out of her 'soothing melancholy,' and then 'let her down gently' into it again; for 'melancholy,' to be sure, her 'reflection' will generally make to be her state.

      'Gaudia, quæ multo parta labore, placent.'

FOURTHLY, That having 'really' been guilty of a 'great error,' she should not take 'impatiently' the 'correction' and 'anger' with which she hath been treated.

      'Leniter, ex merito quicquid patiare ferundum est.'

FIFTHLY, That 'virtue' must be established by 'patience'; as saith Prudentius:

      'Hæc virtus vidua est, quam non patientia firmat.'

SIXTHLY, That in the words of Horace, she may 'expect better times,' than (of late) she had 'reason' to look for.

      'Grata superveniet, quæ non sperabitur, hora.'

SEVENTHLY, That she is really now in 'a way' to be 'happy,' since, according to 'Ovid,' she 'can count up all her woe':

      'Felix, qui patitur quæ numerare potest.'

And those comforting lines,

      'Estque serena dies post longos gratior imbres,           Et post triste malum gratior ipsa salus.'

EIGHTHLY, That, in the words of Mantuan, her 'parents' and 'uncles' could not 'help loving her' all the time they were 'angry at her':

      'Æqua tamen mens est, & amica voluntas,       Sit licet in natos austere parentum.'

NINTHLY, That the 'ills she hath met with' may be turned (by the 'good use' to be made of them) to her 'everlasting benefit'; for that,

      'Cum furit atque ferit, Deus olim parcere quærit.'

TENTHLY, That she will be able to give a 'fine lesson' (a 'very' fine lesson) to all the 'young ladies' of her 'acquaintance,' of the 'vanity' of being 'lifted up' in 'prosperity,' and the 'weakness' of being 'cast down' in 'adversity'; since no one is so 'high,' as to be above being 'humbled'; so 'low,' as to 'need to despair': for which purpose the advice of 'Ausonius,'

      'Dum fortuna juvat, caveto tolli:       Dum fortuna tonat, caveto mergi.'

I shall tell her, that Lucan saith well, when he calleth 'adversity the element of patience';

      '——Gaudet patientia duris:'

That

      'Fortunam superat virtus, prudential famam.'

That while weak souls are 'crushed by fortune,' the 'brave mind' maketh the fickle deity afraid of it:

      'Fortuna fortes metuit, ignavos permit.'

ELEVENTHLY, That if she take the advice of 'Horace,'

      'Fortiaque adversis opponite pectora rebus,'

it will delight her 'hereafter' (as 'Virgil' saith) to 'revoke her past troubles':

      '——Forsan & hæc olim meminisse juvabit.'

And, to the same purpose, 'Juvenal' speaking of the 'prating joy' of mariners, after all their 'dangers are over':

      'Gaudent securi narrare pericula nautæ.'

Which suiting the case so well, you'll forgive me, Sir, for 'popping down' in 'English metre,' as the 'translative impulse' (pardon a new word, and yet we 'scholars' are not fond of 'authenticating new' words) came upon me 'uncalled for':

      The seaman, safe on shore, with joy doth tell       What cruel dangers him at sea befell.

With 'these,' Sir, and an 'hundred more' wise 'adages,' which I have always at my 'fingers' end,' will I (when reduced to 'form' and 'method') entertain Miss; and as she is a 'well-read,' and (I might say, but for this 'one' great error) a 'wise' young lady, I make no doubt but I shall 'prevail' upon her, if not by 'mine own arguments,' by those of 'wits' and 'capacities' that have a 'congeniality' (as I may say) to 'her own,' to take to heart,

      ——Nor of the laws of fate complain,       Since, though it has been cloudy, now't clears up again.——

Oh! what 'wisdom' is there in these 'noble classical authors!' A 'wise man' will (upon searching into them,) always find that they speak 'his' sense of 'men' and 'things.' Hence it is, that they so readily occur to my 'memory' on every occasion—though this may look like 'vanity,' it is too true to be omitted; and I see not why a man may not 'know these things of himself,' which 'every body' seeth and 'saith of him'; who, nevertheless, perhaps know not 'half so much as he,' in other matters.

I know but of 'one objection,' Sir, that can lie against my going; and that will arise from your kind 'care' and 'concern' for the 'safety of my person,' in case that 'fierce' and 'terrible man,' the wicked Mr. Lovelace, (of whom every one standeth in fear,) should come cross me, as he may be resolved to try once more to 'gain a footing in Miss's affections': but I will trust in 'Providence' for 'my safety,' while I shall be engaged in a 'cause so worthy of my function'; and the 'more' trust in it, as he is a 'learned man' as I am told.

Strange too, that so 'vile a rake' (I hope he will never see this!) should be a 'learned man'; that is to say, that a 'learned man' may be a 'sly sinner,' and take opportunities, 'as they come in his way'—which, however, I do assure you, 'I never did,'

I repeat, that as he is a 'learned man,' I shall 'vest myself,' as I may say, in 'classical armour'; beginning 'meekly' with him (for, Sir, 'bravery' and 'meekness' are qualities 'very consistent with each other,' and in no persons so shiningly 'exert' themselves, as in the 'Christian priesthood'; beginning 'meekly' with him, I say) from Ovid,

      'Corpora magnanimo satis est protrasse leoni:'

So that, if I should not be safe behind the 'shield of mine own prudence,' I certainly should be behind the 'shields' of the 'ever-admirable classics': of 'Horace' particularly; who, being a 'rake' (and a 'jovial rake' too,) himself, must have great weight with all 'learned rakes.'

And who knoweth but I may be able to bring even this 'Goliath in wickedness,' although in 'person' but a 'little David' myself, (armed with the 'slings' and 'stones' of the 'ancient sages,') to a due sense of his errors? And what a victory would that be!

I could here, Sir, pursuing the allegory of David and Goliath, give you some of the 'stones' ('hard arguments' may be called 'stones,' since they 'knock down a pertinacious opponent') which I could 'pelt him with,' were he to be wroth with me; and this in order to take from you, Sir, all apprehensions for my 'life,' or my 'bones'; but I forbear them till you demand them of me, when I have the honour to attend you in person.

And now, (my dear Sir,) what remaineth, but that having shown you (what yet, I believe, you did not doubt) how 'well qualified' I am to attend the lady with the 'olive-branch,' I beg of you to dispatch me with it 'out of hand'? For if she be so 'very ill,' and if she should not live to receive the grace, which (to my knowledge) all the 'worthy family' design her, how much will that grieve you all! And then, Sir, of what avail will be the 'eulogies' you shall all, peradventure, join to give to her memory? For, as Martial wisely observeth,

      '—— Post cineres gloria sera venit.'

Then, as 'Ausonius' layeth it down with 'equal propriety,' that 'those favours which are speedily conferred are the most grateful and obliging' ——

And to the same purpose Ovid:

      'Gratia ab officio, quod mora tar dat, abest.'

And, Sir, whatever you do, let the 'lady's pardon' be as 'ample,' and as 'cheerfully given,' as she can 'wish for it': that I may be able to tell her, that it hath your 'hands,' your 'countenances,' and your 'whole hearts,' with it—for, as the Latin verse hath it, (and I presume to think I have not weakened its sense by my humble advice),

      'Dat bene, dat multum, qui dat cum munere vultum.'

And now, Sir, when I survey this long letter,* (albeit I see it enamelled, as a 'beautiful meadow' is enamelled by the 'spring' or 'summer' flowers, very glorious to behold!) I begin to be afraid that I may have tired you; and the more likely, as I have written without that 'method' or 'order,' which I think constituteth the 'beauty' of 'good writing': which 'method' or 'order,' nevertheless, may be the 'better excused' in a 'familiar epistle,' (as this may be called,) you pardoning, Sir, the 'familiarity' of the 'word'; but yet not altogether 'here,' I must needs own; because this is 'a letter' and 'not a letter,' as I may say; but a kind of 'short' and 'pithy discourse,' touching upon 'various' and 'sundry topics,' every one of which might be a 'fit theme' to enlarge upon of volumes; if this 'epistolary discourse' (then let me call it) should be pleasing to you, (as I am inclined to think it will, because of the 'sentiments' and 'aphorisms' of the 'wisest of the antients,' which 'glitter through it' like so many dazzling 'sunbeams,') I will (at my leisure) work it up into a 'methodical discourse'; and perhaps may one day print it, with a 'dedication' to my 'honoured patron,' (if, Sir, I have 'your' leave,) 'singly' at first, (but not till I have thrown out 'anonymously,' two or three 'smaller things,' by the success of which I shall have made myself of 'some account' in the 'commonwealth of letters,') and afterwards in my 'works'—not for the 'vanity' of the thing (however) I will say, but for the 'use' it may be of to the 'public'; for, (as one well observeth,) 'though glory always followeth virtue, yet it should be considered only as its shadow.'

* And here, by way of note, permit me to say, that no 'sermon' I ever composed cost me half the 'pains' that this letter hath done—but I knew your great 'appetite' after, as well as 'admiration' of, the 'antient wisdom,' which you so justly prefer to the 'modern'—and indeed I join with you to think, that the 'modern' is only 'borrowed,' (as the 'moon' doth its light from the 'sun,') at least, that we 'excel' them in nothing; and that our 'best cogitations' may be found, generally speaking, more 'elegantly' dressed and expressed by them.

      'Contemnit laudem virtus, licet usque sequatur           Gloria virtutem, corpus ut umbra suum.'

A very pretty saying, and worthy of all men's admiration.

And now, ('most worthy Sir,' my very good friend and patron,) referring the whole to 'your's,' and to your 'two brothers,' and to 'young Mr. Harlowe's' consideration, and to the wise consideration of good 'Madam Harlowe,' and her excellent daughter, 'Miss Arabella Harlowe'; I take the liberty to subscribe myself, what I 'truly am,' and 'every shall delight to be,' in 'all cases,' and at 'all times,'

Your and their most ready and obedient as well as faithful servant, ELIAS BRAND.

LETTER LXVII

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. [IN ANSWER TO LETTER LXIV. OF THIS VOLUME.] WEDN. MORN. SEPT. 6.

And is she somewhat better?—Blessings upon thee without number or measure! Let her still be better and better! Tell me so at least, if she be not so: for thou knowest not what a joy that poor temporary reprieve, that she will hold out yet a day or two, gave me.

But who told this hard-hearted and death-pronouncing doctor that she will hold it no longer? By what warrant says he this? What presumption in these parading solemn fellows of a college, which will be my contempt to the latest hour of my life, if this brother of it (eminent as he is deemed to be) cannot work an ordinary miracle in her favour, or rather in mine!

Let me tell thee, Belford, that already he deserves the utmost contempt, for suffering this charming clock to run down so low. What must be his art, if it could not wind it up in a quarter of the time he has attended her, when, at his first visits, the springs and wheels of life and motion were so god, that they seemed only to want common care and oiling!

I am obliged to you for endeavouring to engage her to see me. 'Twas acting like a friend. If she had vouchsafed me that favour, she should have seen at her feet the most abject adorer that ever kneeled to justly-offended beauty.

What she bid you, and what she forbid you, to tell me, (the latter for tender considerations:) that she forgives me; and that, could she have made me a good man, she would have made me a happy one! That she even loved me! At such a moment to own that she once loved me! Never before loved any man! That she prays for me! That her last tear should be shed for me, could she by it save a soul, doomed, without her, to perdition!— O Belford! Belford! I cannot bear it!—What a dog, what a devil have I been to a goodness so superlative!—Why does she not inveigh against me? —Why does she not execrate me?—O the triumphant subduer! Ever above me!—And now to leave me so infinitely below her!

Marry and repair, at any time; this, wretch that I was, was my plea to myself. To give her a lowering sensibility; to bring her down from among the stars which her beamy head was surrounded by, that my wife, so greatly above me, might not despise me; this was one of my reptile motives, owing to my more reptile envy, and to my consciousness of inferiority to her!—Yet she, from step to step, from distress to distress, to maintain her superiority; and, like the sun, to break out upon me with the greater refulgence for the clouds that I had contrived to cast about her!—And now to escape me thus!—No power left me to repair her wrongs!—No alleviation to my self-reproach!—No dividing of blame with her!—

Tell her, O tell her, Belford, that her prayers and wishes, her superlatively-generous prayers and wishes, shall not be vain: that I can, and do repent—and long have repented.—Tell her of my frequent deep remorses—it was impossible that such remorses should not at last produce effectual remorse—yet she must not leave me—she must live, if she would wish to have my contrition perfect—For what can despair produce?

***

I will do every thing you would have me do, in the return of your letters. You have infinitely obliged me by this last, and by pressing for an admission for me, though it succeeded not.

Once more, how could I be such a villain to so divine a creature! Yet love her all the time, as never man loved woman!—Curse upon my contriving genius!—Curse upon my intriguing head, and upon my seconding heart!—To sport with the fame, with the honour, with the life, of such an angel of a woman!—O my d——d incredulity! That, believing her to be a woman, I must hope to find her a woman! On my incredulity, that there could be such virtue (virtue for virtue's sake) in the sex, founded I my hope of succeeding with her.

But say not, Jack, that she must leave us yet. If she recover, and if I can but re-obtain her favour, then, indeed, will life be life to me. The world never saw such an husband as I will make. I will have no will but her's. She shall conduct me in all my steps. She shall open and direct my prospects, and turn every motion of my heart as she pleases.

You tell me, in your letter, that at eleven o'clock she had sweet rest; and my servant acquaints me, from Mrs. Smith, that she has had a good night. What hopes does this fill me with! I have given the fellow five guineas for his good news, to be divided between him and his fellow-servant.

Dear, dear Jack! confirm this to me in thy next—for Heaven's sake, do!— Tell the doctor I'll make a present of a thousand guineas if he recover her. Ask if a consultation then be necessary.

Adieu, dear Belford! Confirm, I beseech thee, the hopes that now, with sovereign gladness, have taken possession of a heart, that, next to her's, is

Thine.

LETTER LXVIII

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. WEDN. MORN. EIGHT O'CLOCK, (6 SEPT.)

Your servant arrived here before I was stirring. I sent him to Smith's to inquire how the lady was; and ordered him to call upon me when he came back. I was pleased to hear she had tolerable rest. As soon as I had dispatched him with the letter I had written over night, I went to attend her.

I found hr up, and dressed; in a white sattin night-gown. Ever elegant; but now more so than I had seen her for a week past: her aspect serenely cheerful.

She mentioned the increased dimness of her eyes, and the tremor which had invaded her limbs. If this be dying, said she, there is nothing at all shocking in it. My body hardly sensible of pain, my mind at ease, my intellects clear and perfect as ever. What a good and gracious God have I!—For this is what I always prayed for.

I told her it was not so serene with you.

There is not the same reason for it, replied she. 'Tis a choice comfort, Mr. Belford, at the winding up of our short story, to be able to say, I have rather suffered injuries myself, than offered them to others. I bless God, though I have bee unhappy, as the world deems it, and once I thought more so than at present I think I ought to have done, since my calamities were to work out for me my everlasting happiness; yet have I not wilfully made any one creature so. I have no reason to grieve for any thing but for the sorrow I have given my friends.

But pray, Mr. Belford, remember me in the best manner to my cousin Morden; and desire him to comfort them, and to tell them, that all would have been the same, had they accepted of my true penitence, as I wish and as I trust the Almighty has done.

I was called down: it was to Harry, who was just returned from Miss Howe's, to whom he carried the lady's letter. The stupid fellow being bid to make haste with it, and return as soon as possible, staid not until Miss Howe had it, she being at the distance of five minutes, although Mrs. Howe would have had him stay, and sent a man and horse purposely with it to her daughter.

WEDNESDAY MORNING, TEN O'CLOCK.

The poor lady is just recovered from a fainting fit, which has left her at death's door. Her late tranquillity and freedom from pain seemed but a lightening, as Mrs. Lovick and Mrs. Smith call it.