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<h2> LETTER XIX </h2>
<h3> MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE THURSDAY, THREE O'CLOCK, MARCH 28. </h3>
<p>I have mentioned several times the pertness of Mrs. Betty to me; and now,
having a little time upon my hands, I will give you a short dialogue that
passed just now between us. It may, perhaps, be a little relief to you
from the dull subjects with which I am perpetually teasing you.</p>
<p>As she attended me at dinner, she took notice, That Nature is satisfied
with a very little nourishment: and thus she complimentally proved it—For,
Miss, said she, you eat nothing; yet never looked more charmingly in your
life.</p>
<p>As to the former part of your speech, Betty, said I, you observe well; and
I have often thought, when I have seen how healthy the children of the
labouring poor look, and are, with empty stomachs, and hardly a good meal
in a week, that God Almighty is very kind to his creatures, in this
respect, as well as in all others in making much not necessary to the
support of life; when three parts in four of His creatures, if it were,
would not know how to obtain it. It puts me in mind of two proverbial
sentences which are full of admirable meaning.</p>
<p>What, pray, Miss, are they? I love to hear you talk, when you are so
sedate as you seem now to be.</p>
<p>The one is to the purpose we are speaking of: Poverty is the mother of
health. And let me tell you, Betty, if I had a better appetite, and were
to encourage it, with so little rest, and so much distress and
persecution, I don't think I should be able to preserve my reason.</p>
<p>There's no inconvenience but has its convenience, said Betty, giving me
proverb for proverb. But what is the other, Madam?</p>
<p>That the pleasures of the mighty are not obtained by the tears of the
poor. It is but reasonable, therefore, methinks, that the plenty of the
one should be followed by distempers; and that the indigence of the other
should be attended with that health, which makes all its other discomforts
light on the comparison. And hence a third proverb, Betty, since you are
an admirer of proverbs: Better a hare-foot than none at all; that is to
say, than not to be able to walk.</p>
<p>She was mightily taken with what I said: See, returned she, what a fine
thing scholarship is!—I, said she, had always, from a girl, a taste
for reading, though it were but in Mother Goose, and concerning the
fairies [and then she took genteelly a pinch of snuff]: could but my
parents have let go as fast as I pulled, I should have been a very happy
creature.</p>
<p>Very likely, you would have made great improvements, Betty: but as it is,
I cannot say, but since I had the favour of your attendance in this
intimate manner, I have heard smarter things from you, than I have heard
at table from some of my brother's fellow-collegians.</p>
<p>Your servant, dear Miss; dropping me one of her best courtesies: so fine a
judge as you are!—It is enough to make one very proud. Then with
another pinch—I cannot indeed but say, bridling upon it, that I have
heard famous scholars often and often say very silly things: things I
should be ashamed myself to say; but I thought they did it out of
humility, and in condescension to those who had not their learning.</p>
<p>That she might not be too proud, I told her, I would observe, that the
liveliness or quickness she so happily discovered in herself, was not so
much an honour to her, as what she owed to her sex; which, as I had
observed in many instances, had great advantages over the other, in all
the powers that related to imagination. And hence, Mrs. Betty, you'll take
notice, as I have of late had opportunity to do, that your own talent at
repartee and smartness, when it has something to work upon, displays
itself to more advantage, than could well be expected from one whose
friends, to speak in your own phrase, could not let go so fast as you
pulled.</p>
<p>The wench gave me a proof of the truth of my observation, in a manner
still more alert than I had expected: If, said she, our sex had so much
advantage in smartness, it is the less to be wondered at, that you, Miss,
who have had such an education, should outdo all the men and women too,
that come near you.</p>
<p>Bless me, Betty, said I, what a proof do you give me of your wit and your
courage at the same time! This is outdoing yourself. It would make young
ladies less proud, and more apprehensive, were they generally attended by
such smart servants, and their mouths permitted to be unlocked upon them
as yours has been lately upon me.—But, take away, Mrs. Betty.</p>
<p>Why, Miss, you have eat nothing at all—I hope you are not displeased
with your dinner for any thing I have said.</p>
<p>No, Mrs. Betty, I am pretty well used to your freedoms now, you know.—I
am not displeased in the main, to observe, that, were the succession of
modern fine ladies to be extinct, it might be supplied from those whom
they place in the next rank to themselves, their chamber-maids and
confidants. Your young mistress has contributed a great deal to this
quickness of yours. She always preferred your company to mine. As you
pulled, she let go; and so, Mrs. Betty, you have gained by her
conversation what I have lost.</p>
<p>Why, Miss, if you come to that, nobody says better things than Miss
Harlowe. I could tell you one, if I pleased, upon my observing to her,
that you lived of late upon the air, and had no stomach to any thing; yet
looked as charmingly as ever.</p>
<p>I dare say, it was a very good-natured one, Mrs. Betty! Do you then please
that I shall hear it?</p>
<p>Only this, Miss, That your stomachfulness had swallowed up your stomach;
and, That obstinacy was meat, drink, and clothes to you.</p>
<p>Ay, Mrs. Betty; and did she say this?—I hope she laughed when she
said it, as she does at all her good things, as she calls them. It was
very smart, and very witty. I wish my mind were so much at ease, as to aim
at being witty too. But if you admire such sententious sayings, I'll help
you to another; and that is, Encouragement and approbation make people
show talents they were never suspected to have; and this will do both for
mistress and maid. And another I'll furnish you with, the contrary of the
former, that will do only for me: That persecution and discouragement
depress ingenuous minds, and blunt the edge of lively imaginations. And
hence may my sister's brilliancy and my stupidity be both accounted for.
Ingenuous, you must know, Mrs. Betty, and ingenious, are two things; and I
would not arrogate the latter to myself.</p>
<p>Lord, Miss, said the foolish girl, you know a great deal for your years.—You
are a very learned young lady!—What pity—</p>
<p>None of your pitties, Mrs. Betty, I know what you'd say. But tell me, if
you can, Is it resolved that I shall be carried to my uncle Antony's on
Thursday?</p>
<p>I was willing to reward myself for the patience she had made me exercise,
by getting at what intelligence I could from her.</p>
<p>Why, Miss, seating herself at a little distance (excuse my sitting down)
with the snuff-box tapped very smartly, the lid opened, and a pinch taken
with a dainty finger and thumb, the other three fingers distendedly bent,
and with a fine flourish—I cannot but say, that it is my opinion,
you will certainly go on Thursday; and this noless foless, as I have heard
my young lady say in FRENCH.</p>
<p>Whether I am willing or not willing, you mean, I suppose, Mrs. Betty?</p>
<p>You have it, Miss.</p>
<p>Well but, Betty, I have no mind to be turned out of doors so suddenly. Do
you think I could not be permitted to tarry one week longer?</p>
<p>How can I tell, Miss?</p>
<p>O Mrs. Betty, you can tell a great deal, if you please. But here I am
forbid writing to any one of my family; none of it now will come near me;
nor will any of it permit me to see them: How shall I do to make known my
request, to stay here a week or fortnight longer?</p>
<p>Why, Miss, I fancy, if you were to shew a compliable temper, your friends
would shew a compliable one too. But would you expect favours, and grant
none?</p>
<p>Smartly put, Betty! But who knows what may be the result of my being
carried to my uncle Antony's?</p>
<p>Who knows, Miss!—Why any body will guess what may be the result.</p>
<p>As how, Betty?</p>
<p>As how! repeated the pert wench, Why, Miss, you will stand in your own
light, as you have hitherto done: and your parents, as such good parents
ought, will be obeyed.</p>
<p>If, Mrs. Betty, I had not been used to your oughts, and to have my duty
laid down to me by your oraculous wisdom I should be apt to stare at the
liberty of you speech.</p>
<p>You seem angry, Miss. I hope I take no unbecoming liberty.</p>
<p>If thou really thinkest thou dost not, thy ignorance is more to be pitied,
than thy pertness resented. I wish thou wouldst leave me to myself.</p>
<p>When young ladies fall out with their own duty, it is not much to be
wondered at, that they are angry at any body who do theirs.</p>
<p>That's a very pretty saying, Mrs. Betty!—I see plainly what thy duty
is in thy notion, and am obliged to those who taught it thee.</p>
<p>Every body takes notice, Miss, that you can say very cutting words in a
cool manner, and yet not call names, as I have known some gentlefolks as
well as others do when in a passion. But I wish you had permitted 'Squire
Solmes to see you: he would have told you such stories of 'Squire
Lovelace, as you would have turned your heart against him for ever.</p>
<p>And know you any of the particulars of those sad stories?</p>
<p>Indeed I don't; but you'll hear all at your uncle Antony's, I suppose; and
a great deal more perhaps than you will like to hear.</p>
<p>Let me hear what I will, I am determined against Mr. Solmes, were it to
cost me my life.</p>
<p>If you are, Miss, the Lord have mercy on you! For what with this letter of
yours to 'Squire Solmes, whom they so much value, and what with their
antipathy to 'Squire Lovelace, whom they hate, they will have no patience
with you.</p>
<p>What will they do, Betty? They won't kill me? What will they do?</p>
<p>Kill you! No!—But you will not be suffered to stir from thence, till
you have complied with your duty. And no pen and ink will be allowed you
as here; where they are of opinion you make no good use of it: nor would
it be allowed here, only as they intend so soon to send you away to your
uncle's. No-body will be permitted to see you, or to correspond with you.
What farther will be done, I can't say; and, if I could, it may not be
proper. But you may prevent all, by one word: and I wish you would, Miss.
All then would be easy and happy. And, if I may speak my mind, I see not
why one man is not as good as another: why, especially, a sober man is not
as good as a rake.</p>
<p>Well, Betty, said I, sighing, all thy impertinence goes for nothing. But I
see I am destined to be a very unhappy creature. Yet I will venture upon
one request more to them.</p>
<p>And so, quite sick of the pert creature and of myself, I retired to my
closet, and wrote a few lines to my uncle Harlowe, notwithstanding his
prohibition; in order to get a reprieve from being carried away so soon as
Thursday next, if I must go. And this, that I might, if complied with,
suspend the appointment I have made with Mr. Lovelace; for my heart
misgives me as to meeting him; and that more and more; I know not why.
Under the superscription of the letter, I wrote these words: 'Pray, dear
Sir, be pleased to give this a reading.'</p>
<p>This is a copy of what I wrote:</p>
<p>TUESDAY AFTERNOON. HONOURED SIR,</p>
<p>Let me this once be heard with patience, and have my petition granted. It
is only, that I may not be hurried away so soon as next Thursday.</p>
<p>Why should the poor girl be turned out of doors so suddenly, so
disgracefully? Procure for me, Sir, one fortnight's respite. In that space
of time, I hope you will all relent. My mamma shall not need to shut her
door in apprehension of seeing her disgraceful child. I will not presume
to think of entering her presence, or my papa's without leave. One
fortnight's respite is but a small favour for them to grant, except I am
to be refused every thing I ask; but it is of the highest import to my
peace of mind. Procure it for me, therefore, dearest Sir; and you will
exceedingly oblige</p>
<p>Your dutiful, though greatly afflicted niece, CL. HARLOWE.</p>
<p>I sent this down: my uncle was not gone: and he now stays to know the
result of the question put to me in the enclosed answer which he has given
to mind.</p>
<p>Your going to your uncle's was absolutely concluded upon for next
Thursday. Nevertheless, your mother, seconded by Mr. Solmes, pleaded so
strongly to have you indulged, that your request for a delay will be
complied with, upon one condition; and whether for a fortnight, or a
shorter time, that will depend upon yourself. If you refuse the condition,
your mother declares she will give over all further intercession for you.—Nor
do you deserve this favour, as you put it upon our yielding to you, not
you to us.</p>
<p>This condition is, that you admit of a visit from Mr. Solmes, for one
hour, in company of your brother, your sister, or your uncle Antony,
choose who you will.</p>
<p>If you comply not, go next Thursday to a house which is become strangely
odious to you of late, whether you get ready to go or not. Answer
therefore directly to the point. No evasion. Name your day and hour. Mr.
Solmes will neither eat you, nor drink you. Let us see, whether we are to
be complied with in any thing, or not.</p>
<p>JOHN HARLOWE.</p>
<hr />
<p>After a very little deliberation, I resolved to comply with this
condition. All I fear is, that Mr. Lovelace's intelligencer may inform him
of it; and that his apprehensions upon it may make him take some desperate
resolution: especially as now (having more time given me here) I think to
write to him to suspend the interview he is possibly so sure of. I sent
down the following to my uncle:</p>
<p>HONOURED SIR,</p>
<p>Although I see not what end the proposed condition can answer, I comply
with it. I wish I could with every thing expected of me. If I must name
one, in whose company I am to see the gentleman, and that one not my
mamma, whose presence I could wish to be honoured by on the occasion, let
my uncle, if he pleases, be the person. If I must name the day, (a long
day, I doubt, will not be permitted me,) let it be next Tuesday.</p>
<p>The hour, four in the afternoon. The place either the ivy summer-house, or
in the little parlour I used to be permitted to call mine.</p>
<p>Be pleased, Sir, nevertheless, to prevail upon my mamma, to vouchsafe me
her presence on the occasion.</p>
<p>I am, Sir, your ever-dutiful CL. HARLOWE.</p>
<p>A reply is just sent me. I thought it became my averseness to this
meeting, to name a distant day: but I did not expect they would have
complied with it. So here is one week gained!</p>
<p>This is the reply:</p>
<p>You have done well to comply. We are willing to think the best of every
slight instance of duty from you. Yet have you seemed to consider the day
as an evil day, and so put if far off. This nevertheless is granted you,
as no time need to be lost, if you are as generous after the day, as we
are condescending before it. Let me advise you, not to harden your mind;
nor take up your resolution beforehand. Mr. Solmes has more awe, and even
terror, at the thought of seeing you, than you can have at the thoughts of
seeing him. His motive is love; let not yours be hatred. My brother Antony
will be present, in hopes you will deserve well of him, by behaving well
to the friend of the family. See you use him as such. Your mother had
permission to be there, if she thought fit: but says, she would not for a
thousand pound, unless you would encourage her beforehand as she wishes to
be encouraged. One hint I am to give you mean time. It is this: To make a
discreet use of your pen and ink. Methinks a young creature of niceness
should be less ready to write to one man, when she is designed to be
another's.</p>
<p>This compliance, I hope, will produce greater, and then the peace of the
family will be restored: which is what is heartily wished by</p>
<p>Your loving uncle, JOHN HARLOWE.</p>
<p>Unless it be to the purpose our hearts are set upon, you need not write
again.</p>
<hr />
<p>This man have more terror at seeing me, than I can have at seeing him!—How
can that be? If he had half as much, he would not wish to see me!—His
motive love!—Yes, indeed! Love of himself! He knows no other; for
love, that deserves the name, seeks the satisfaction of the beloved object
more than its own. Weighed in this scale, what a profanation is this man
guilty of!</p>
<p>Not to take up my resolution beforehand!—That advice comes too late.</p>
<p>But I must make a discreet use of my pen. That, I doubt, as they have
managed it, in the sense they mean it, is as much out of my power, as the
other.</p>
<p>But write to one man, when I am designed for another!—What a
shocking expression is that!</p>
<p>Repenting of my appointment with Mr. Lovelace before I had this favour
granted me, you may believe I hesitated not a moment to revoke it now that
I had gained such a respite. Accordingly, I wrote, 'That I found it
inconvenient to meet him, as I had intended: that the risque I should run
of a discovery, and the mischiefs that might flow from it, could not be
justified by any end that such a meeting could answer: that I found one
certain servant more in my way, when I took my morning and evening
airings, than any other: that the person who might reveal the secrets of a
family to him, might, if opportunity were given him, betray me, or him, to
those whom it was his duty to serve: that I had not been used to a conduct
so faulty, as to lay myself at the mercy of servants: and was sorry he had
measures to pursue, that made steps necessary in his own opinion, which,
in mine, were very culpable, and which no end could justify: that things
drawing towards a crisis between my friends and me, an interview could
avail nothing; especially as the method by which this correspondence was
carried on was not suspected, and he could write all that was in his mind
to write: that I expected to be at liberty to judge of what was proper and
fit upon this occasion: especially as he might be assured, that I would
sooner choose death, than Mr. Solmes.'</p>
<p>TUESDAY NIGHT.</p>
<p>I have deposited my letter to Mr. Lovelace. Threatening as things look
against me, I am much better pleased with myself for declining the
interview than I was before. I suppose he will be a little out of humour
upon it, however: but as I reserved to myself the liberty of changing my
mind; and as it is easy for him to imagine there may be reasons for it
within-doors, which he cannot judge of without; besides those I have
suggested, which of themselves are of sufficient weight to engage his
acquiescence; I should think it strange, if he acquiesces not on this
occasion, and that with a cheerfulness, which may shew me, that his last
letter is written from his heart: For, if he be really so much concerned
at his past faults, as he pretends, and has for some time pretended, must
he not, of course, have corrected, in some degree, the impetuosity of his
temper? The first step to reformation, as I conceive, is to subdue sudden
gusts of passion, from which frequently the greatest evils arise, and to
learn to bear disappointments. If the irascible passions cannot be
overcome, what opinion can we have of the person's power over those to
which bad habit, joined to greater temptation, gives stronger force?</p>
<p>Pray, my dear, be so kind as to make inquiry, by some safe hand, after the
disguises Mr. Lovelace assumes at the inn he puts up at in the poor
village of Neale, he calls it. If it be the same I take it to be, I never
knew it was considerable enough to have a name; nor that it has an inn in
it.</p>
<p>As he must, to be so constantly near us, be much there, I would be glad to
have some account of his behaviour; and what the people think of him. In
such a length of time, he must by his conduct either give scandal, or hope
of reformation. Pray, my dear, humour me in this inquiry. I have reason
for it, which you shall be acquainted with another time, if the result of
the inquiry discover them not.</p>
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