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

LETTER LXIV

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. TUEDAY, SEPT. 5, SIX O'CLOCK.

The lady remains exceedingly weak and ill. Her intellects, nevertheless, continue clear and strong, and her piety and patience are without example. Every one thinks this night will be her last. What a shocking thing is that to say of such an excellence! She will not, however, send away her letter to her Norton, as yet. She endeavoured in vain to superscribe it: so desired me to do it. Her fingers will not hold the pen with the requisite steadiness.—She has, I fear, written and read her last!

EIGHT O'CLOCK.

She is somewhat better than she was. The doctor had been here, and thinks she will hold out yet a day or two. He has ordered her, as for some time past, only some little cordials to take when ready to faint. She seemed disappointed, when he told her she might yet live two or three days; and said, she longed for dismission!—Life was not so easily extinguished, she saw, as some imagined.—Death from grief, was, she believed, the slowest of deaths. But God's will must be done!—Her only prayer was now for submission to it: for she doubted not but by the Divine goodness she should be an happy creature, as soon as she could be divested of these rags of mortality.

Of her own accord she mentioned you; which, till then, she had avoided to do. She asked, with great serenity, where you were?

I told her where, and your motives for being so near; and read to her a few lines of your's of this morning, in which you mention your wishes to see her, your sincere affliction, and your resolution not to approach her without her consent.

I would have read more; but she said, Enough, Mr. Belford, enough!—Poor man, does his conscience begin to find him!—Then need not any body to wish him a greater punishment!—May it work upon him to an happy purpose!

I took the liberty to say, that as she was in such a frame that nothing now seemed capable of discomposing her, I could wish that you might have the benefit of her exhortations, which, I dared to say, while you were so seriously affected, would have a greater force upon you than a thousand sermons; and how happy you would think yourself, if you could but receive her forgiveness on your knees.

How can you think of such a thing, Mr. Belford? said she, with some emotion; my composure is owing, next to the Divine goodness blessing my earnest supplications for it, to the not seeing him. Yet let him know that I now again repeat, that I forgive him.—And may God Almighty, clasping her fingers, and lifting up her eyes, forgive him too; and perfect repentance, and sanctify it to him!—Tell him I say so! And tell him, that if I could not say so with my whole heart, I should be very uneasy, and think that my hopes of mercy were but weakly founded; and that I had still, in my harboured resentment, some hankerings after a life which he has been the cause of shortening.

The divine creature then turning aside her head—Poor man, said she! I once could have loved him. This is saying more than ever I could say of any other man out of my own family! Would he have permitted me to have been an humble instrument to have made him good, I think I could have made him happy! But tell him not this if he be really penitent—it may too much affect him!—There she paused.—

Admirable creature!—Heavenly forgiver!—Then resuming—but pray tell him, that if I could know that my death might be a mean to reclaim and save him, it would be an inexpressible satisfaction to me!

But let me not, however, be made uneasy with the apprehension of seeing him. I cannot bear to see him!

Just as she had done speaking, the minister, who had so often attended her, sent up his name; and was admitted.

Being apprehensive that it would be with difficulty that you could prevail upon that impetuous spirit of your's not to invade her in her dying hours, and of the agonies into which a surprise of this nature would throw her, I thought this gentleman's visit afforded a proper opportunity to renew the subject; and, (having asked her leave,) acquainted him with the topic we had been upon.

The good man urged that some condescensions were usually expected, on these solemn occasions, from pious souls like her's, however satisfied with themselves, for the sake of showing the world, and for example-sake, that all resentments against those who had most injured them were subdued; and if she would vouchsafe to a heart so truly penitent, as I had represented Mr. Lovelace's to be, that personal pardon, which I had been pleading for there would be no room to suppose the least lurking resentment remained; and it might have very happy effects upon the gentleman.

I have no lurking resentment, Sir, said she—this is not a time for resentment: and you will be the readier to believe me, when I can assure you, (looking at me,) that even what I have most rejoiced in, the truly friendly love that has so long subsisted between my Miss Howe and her Clarissa, although to my last gasp it will be the dearest to me of all that is dear in this life, has already abated of its fervour; has already given place to supremer fervours; and shall the remembrance of Mr. Lovelace's personal insults, which I bless God never corrupted that mind which her friendship so much delighted, be stronger in these hours with me, then the remembrance of a love as pure as the human heart ever boasted? Tell, therefore, the world, if you please, and (if, Mr. Belford, you think what I said to you before not strong enough,) tell the poor man, that I not only forgive him, but have such earnest wishes for the good of his soul, and that from consideration of its immortality, that could my penitence avail for more sins than my own, my last tear should fall for him by whom I die!

Our eyes and hands expressed to us both what our lips could not utter.

Say not, then, proceeded she, nor let it be said, that my resentments are unsubdued!—And yet these eyes, lifted up to Heaven as witness to the truth of what I have said, shall never, if I can help it, behold him more!—For do you not consider, Sirs, how short my time is; what much more important subjects I have to employ it upon; and how unable I should be, (so weak as I am,) to contend even with the avowed penitence of a person in strong health, governed by passions unabated, and always violent?—And now I hope you will never urge me more on this subject?

The minister said, it were pity ever to urge this plea again.

You see, Lovelace, that I did not forget the office of a friend, in endeavouring to prevail upon her to give you her last forgiveness personally. And I hope, as she is so near her end, you will not invade her in her last hours; since she must be extremely discomposed at such an interview; and it might make her leave the world the sooner for it.

This reminds me of an expression which she used on your barbarous hunting of her at Smith's, on her return to her lodgings; and that with a serenity unexampled, (as Mrs. Lovick told me, considering the occasion, and the trouble given her by it, and her indisposition at the time;) he will not let me die decently, said the angelic sufferer!—He will not let me enter into my Maker's presence with the composure that is required in entering into the drawing-room of an earthly prince!

I cannot, however, forbear to wish, that the heavenly creature could have prevailed upon herself, in these her last hours, to see you; and that for my sake, as well as yours; for although I am determined never to be guilty of the crimes, which, till within these few past weeks have blackened my former life; and for which, at present, I most heartily hate myself; yet should I be less apprehensive of such a relapse, if wrought upon by the solemnity which such an interview must have been attended with, you had become a reformed man: for no devil do I fear, but one in your shape.

***

It is now eleven o'clock at night. The lady who retired to rest an hour ago, is, as Mrs. Lovick tells me, in a sweet slumber.

I will close here. I hope I shall find her the better for it in the morning. Yet, alas! how frail is hope—How frail is life; when we are apt to build so much on every shadowy relief; although in such a desperate case as this, sitting down to reflect, we must know, that it is but shadowy!

I will enclose Brand's horrid pedantry. And for once am aforehand with thy ravenous impatience.

LETTER LXV

MR. BRAND, TO MR. JOHN WALTON SAT. NIGHT, SEPT. 2.

DEAR MR. WALTON,

I am obliged to you for the very 'handsomely penned', (and 'elegantly written,') letter which you have sent me on purpose to do 'justice' to the 'character' of the 'younger' Miss Harlowe; and yet I must tell you that I had reason, 'before that came,' to 'think,' (and to 'know' indeed,) that we were 'all wrong.' And so I had employed the 'greatest part' of this 'week,' in drawing up an 'apologetical letter' to my worthy 'patron,' Mr. John Harlowe, in order to set all 'matters right' between 'me and them,' and, ('as far as I could,') between 'them' and 'Miss.' So it required little more than 'connection' and 'transcribing,' when I received 'your's'; and it will be with Mr. Harlowe aforesaid, 'to-morrow morning'; and this, and the copy of that, will be with you on 'Monday morning.'

You cannot imagine how sorry I am that 'you' and Mrs. Walton, and Mrs. Barker, and 'I myself,' should have taken matters up so lightly, (judging, alas-a-day! by appearance and conjecture,) where 'character' and 'reputation' are concerned. Horace says truly,

That is, 'Words one spoken cannot be recalled.' But, Mr. Walton, they may be 'contradicted' by 'other' words; and we may confess ourselves guilty of a 'mistake,' and express our 'concern' for being 'mistaken'; and resolve to make our 'mistake' a 'warning' to us for the 'future': and this is all that 'can be done,' and what every 'worthy mind will do'; and what nobody can be 'readier to do' than 'we four undesigning offenders,' (as I see by 'your letter,' on 'your part,' and as you will see by the 'enclosed copy,' on 'mine';) which, if it be received as I 'think it ought,' (and as I 'believe it will,') must give me a 'speedy' opportunity to see you when I 'visit the lady'; to whom, (as you will see in it,) I expect to be sent up with the 'olive-branch.'

The matter in which we all 'erred,' must be owned to be 'very nice'; and (Mr. Belford's 'character considered') 'appearances' ran very strong 'against the lady.' But all that this serveth to show is, 'that in doubtful matters, the wisest people may be mistaken'; for so saith the 'Poet,'

If you have an 'opportunity,' you may (as if 'from yourself,' and 'unknown to me') show the enclosed to Mr. Belford, who (you tell me) 'resenteth' the matter very heinously; but not to let him 'see' or 'hear read,' those words 'that relate to him,' in the paragraph at the 'bottom of the second page,' beginning, ['But yet I do insist upon it,] to the 'end' of that paragraph; for one would not make one's self 'enemies,' you know; and I have 'reason to think,' that this Mr. 'Belford' is as 'passionate' and 'fierce' a man as Mr. Lovelace. What pity it is the lady could find no 'worthier a protector!' You may paste those lines over with 'blue' or 'black paper,' before he seeth it: and if he insisteth upon taking a copy of my letter, (for he, or any body that 'seeth it,' or 'heareth it read,' will, no doubt, be glad to have by them the copy of a letter so full of the 'sentiments' of the 'noblest writers' of 'antiquity,' and 'so well adapted,' as I will be bold to say they are, to the 'point in hand'; I say, if he insisteth upon taking a copy,) let him give you the 'strongest assurances' not to suffer it to be 'printed' on 'any account'; and I make the same request to you, that 'you' will not; for if any thing be to be made of a 'man's works,' who, but the 'author,' should have the 'advantage'? And if the 'Spectators,' the 'Tatlers,' the 'Examiners,' the 'Guardians,' and other of our polite papers, make such a 'strutting' with a 'single verse,' or so by way of 'motto,' in the 'front' of 'each day's' paper; and if other 'authors' pride themselves in 'finding out' and 'embellishing' the 'title-pages' of their 'books' with a 'verse' or 'adage' from the 'classical writers'; what a figure would 'such a letter as the enclosed make,' so full fraught with 'admirable precepts,' and 'à-propos quotations,' from the 'best authority'?

I have been told that a 'certain noble Lord,' who once sat himself down to write a 'pamphlet' in behalf of a 'great minister,' after taking 'infinite pains' to 'no purpose' to find a 'Latin motto,' gave commission to a friend of 'his' to offer to 'any one,' who could help him to a 'suitable one,' but of one or two lines, a 'hamper of claret.' Accordingly, his lordship had a 'motto found him' from 'Juvenal,' which he 'unhappily mistaking,' (not knowing 'Juvenal' was a 'poet,') printed as a prose 'sentence' in his 'title-page.'

If, then, 'one' or 'two' lines were of so much worth, (A 'hamper of claret'! No 'less'!) of what 'inestimable value' would 'such a letter as mine' be deemed?—And who knoweth but that this noble P—r, (who is now* living,) if he should happen to see 'this letter' shining with such a 'glorious string of jewels,' might give the 'writer a scarf,' in order to have him 'always at hand,' or be a 'mean' (some way or other) to bring him into 'notice'? And I would be bold to say ('bad' as the 'world' is) a man of 'sound learning' wanteth nothing but an 'initiation' to make his 'fortune.'

* i.e. At the time this Letter was written.

I hope, my good friend, that the lady will not 'die': I shall be much 'grieved,' if she doth; and the more because of mine 'unhappy misrepresentation': so will 'you' for the 'same cause'; so will her 'parents' and 'friends.' They are very 'rich' and 'very worthy' gentlefolks.

But let me tell you, 'by-the-by,' that they had carried the matter against her 'so far,' that I believe in my heart they were glad to 'justify themselves' by 'my report'; and would have been 'less pleased,' had I made a 'more favourable one.' And yet in 'their hearts' they 'dote' upon her. But now they are all (as I hear) inclined to be 'friends with her,' and 'forgive her'; her 'brother,' as well as 'the rest.'

But their 'cousin,' Col. Morden, 'a very fine gentleman,' had had such 'high words' with them, and they with him, that they know not how to 'stoop,' lest it should look like being frighted into an 'accommodation.' Hence it is, that 'I' have taken the greater liberty to 'press the reconciliation'; and I hope in 'such good season,' that they will all be 'pleased' with it: for can they have a 'better handle' to save their 'pride' all round, than by my 'mediation'? And let me tell you, (inter nos, 'betwixt ourselves,') 'very proud they all are.'

By this 'honest means,' (for by 'dishonest ones' I would not be 'Archbishop of Canterbury,') I hope to please every body; to be 'forgiven,' in the 'first place,' by 'the lady,' (whom, being a 'lover of learning' and 'learned men,' I shall have great 'opportunities' of 'obliging'; for, when she departed from her father's house, I had but just the honour of her 'notice,' and she seemed 'highly pleased' with my 'conversation';) and, 'next' to be 'thanked' and 'respected' by her 'parents,' and 'all her family'; as I am (I bless God for it) by my 'dear friend' Mr. John Harlowe: who indeed is a man that professeth a 'great esteem' for 'men of erudition'; and who (with 'singular delight,' I know) will run over with me the 'authorities' I have 'quoted,' and 'wonder' at my 'memory,' and the 'happy knack' I have of recommending 'mine own sense of things' in the words of the 'greatest sages of antiquity.'

Excuse me, my good friend, for this 'seeming vanity.' The great Cicero (you must have heard, I suppose) had a 'much greater' spice of it, and wrote a 'long letter begging' and 'praying' to be 'flattered.' But if I say 'less of myself' than other people (who know me) 'say of me,' I think I keep a 'medium' between 'vanity' and 'false modesty'; the latter of which oftentimes gives itself the 'lie,' when it is 'declaring of' the 'compliments,' that 'every body' gives it as its due: an hypocrisy, as well as folly, that, (I hope,) I shall for ever scorn to be guilty of.

I have 'another reason' (as I may tell to you, my 'old school-fellow') to make me wish for this 'fine lady's recovery' and 'health'; and that is, (by some distant intimations,) I have heard from Mr. John Harlowe, that it is 'very likely' (because of the 'slur' she hath received) that she will choose to 'live privately' and 'penitently'—and will probably (when she cometh into her 'estate') keep a 'chaplain' to direct her in her 'devotions' and 'penitence'—If she doth, who can stand a 'better chance' than 'myself'?—And as I find (by 'your' account, as well as by 'every body's') that she is innocent as to 'intention,' and is resolved never to think of Mr. 'Lovelace more,' who knoweth 'what' (in time) 'may happen'? —And yet it must be after Mr. 'Lovelace's death,' (which may possibly sooner happen than he 'thinketh' of, by means of his 'detestable courses':) for, after all, a man who is of 'public utility,' ought not (for the 'finest woman' in the world) to lay his 'throat' at the 'mercy' of a man who boggleth at nothing.

I beseech you, let not this hint 'go farther' than to 'yourself,' your 'spouse,' and Mrs. 'Barker.' I know I may trust my 'life' in 'your hands' and 'theirs.' There have been (let me tell ye) 'unlikelier' things come to pass, and that with 'rich widows,' (some of 'quality' truly!) whose choice, in their 'first marriages' hath (perhaps) been guided by 'motives of convenience,' or 'mere corporalities,' as I may say; but who by their 'second' have had for their view the 'corporal' and 'spiritual' mingled; which is the most eligible (no doubt) to 'substance' composed 'of both,' as 'men' and 'women' are.

Nor think (Sir) that, should such a thing come to pass, 'either' would be 'disgraced,' since 'the lady' in 'me' would marry a 'gentleman' and a 'scholar': and as to 'mine own honour,' as the 'slur' would bring her 'high fortunes' down to an 'equivalence' with my 'mean ones,' (if 'fortune' only, and not 'merit,' be considered,) so hath not the 'life' of 'this lady' been 'so tainted,' (either by 'length of time,' or 'naughtiness of practice,') as to put her on a 'foot' with the 'cast Abigails,' that too, too often, (God knoweth,) are thought good enough for a 'young clergyman,' who, perhaps, is drawn in by a 'poor benefice'; and (if the 'wicked one' be not 'quite worn out') groweth poorer and poorer upon it, by an 'increase of family' he knoweth not whether 'is most his,' or his 'noble,' ('ignoble,' I should say,) 'patrons.'

But, all this 'apart,' and 'in confidence.'

I know you made at school but a small progress in 'languages.' So I have restrained myself from 'many illustrations' from the 'classics,' that I could have filled this letter with, (as I have done the enclosed one:) and, being at a 'distance,' I cannot 'explain' them to you, as I 'do to my friend,' Mr. John Harlowe; and who, (after all,) is obliged to 'me' for pointing out to 'him' many 'beauties' of the 'authors I quote,' which otherwise would lie concealed from 'him,' as they must from every 'common observer.'—But this (too) 'inter nos'—for he would not take it well to 'have it known'—'Jays' (you know, old school-fellow, 'jays,' you know) 'will strut in peacocks' feathers.'

But whither am I running? I never know where to end, when I get upon 'learned topics.' And albeit I cannot compliment 'you' with the 'name of a learned man,' yet are you 'a sensible man'; and ('as such') must have 'pleasure' in 'learned men,' and in 'their writings.'

In this confidence, (Mr. Walton,) with my 'kind respects' to the good ladies, (your 'spouse' and 'sister,') and in hopes, for the 'young lady's sake,' soon to follow this long, long epistle, in 'person,' I conclude myself,

Your loving and faithful friend, ELIAS BRAND.

LETTER LXVI

MR. BRAND, TO JOHN HARLOWE, ESQ. SAT. NIGHT, SEPT. 2.

WORTHY SIR,

I am under no 'small concern,' that I should (unhappily) be the 'occasion' (I am sure I 'intended' nothing like it) of 'widening differences' by 'light misreport,' when it is the 'duty' of one of 'my function' (and no less consisting with my 'inclination') to 'heal' and 'reconcile.'

I have received two letter to set me 'right': one from a 'particular acquaintance,' (whom I set to inquire of Mr. Belford's character); and that came on Tuesday last, informing me, that your 'unhappy niece' was greatly injured in the account I had had of her; (for I had told 'him' of it, and that with very 'great concern,' I am sure, apprehending it to be 'true.') So I 'then' set about writing to you, to 'acknowledge' the 'error.' And had gone a good way in it, when the second letter came (a very 'handsome one' it is, both in 'style' and 'penmanship') from my friend Mr. Walton, (though I am sure it cannot be 'his inditing,') expressing his sorrow, and his wife's, and his sister-in-law's likewise, for having been the cause of 'misleading me,' in the account I gave of the said 'young lady'; whom they 'now' say (upon 'further inquiry') they find to be the 'most unblameable,' and 'most prudent,' and (it seems) the most 'pious' young lady, that ever (once) committed a 'great error'; as (to be sure) 'her's was,' in leaving such 'worthy parents' and 'relations' for so 'vile a man' as Mr. Lovelace; but what shall we say?— Why, the divine Virgil tells us,

For 'my part,' I was but too much afraid (for we have 'great opportunities),' you are sensible, Sir, at the 'University,' of knowing 'human nature' from 'books,' the 'calm result' of the 'wise man's wisdom,' as I may say,

'uninterrupted' by the 'noise' and 'vanities' that will mingle with 'personal conversation,' which (in the 'turbulent world') is not to be enjoyed but over a 'bottle,' where you have an 'hundred foolish things' pass to 'one that deserveth to be remembered'; I was but too much afraid 'I say', that so 'great a slip' might be attended with 'still greater' and 'worse': for 'your' Horace, and 'my' Horace, the most charming writer that ever lived among the 'Pagans' (for the 'lyric kind of poetry,' I mean; for, the be sure, 'Homer' and 'Virgil' would 'otherwise' be 'first' named 'in their way') well observeth (and who understood 'human nature' better than he?)

And 'Ovid' no less wisely observeth:

Who, that can draw 'knowledge' from its 'fountain-head,' the works of the 'sages of antiquity,' (improved by the 'comments' of the 'moderns,') but would 'prefer' to all others the 'silent quiet life,' which 'contemplative men' lead in the 'seats of learning,' were they not called out (according to their 'dedication') to the 'service' and 'instruction' of the world?

Now, Sir, 'another' favourite poet of mine (and not the 'less a favourite' for being a 'Christian') telleth us, that ill is the custom of 'some,' when in a 'fault,' to throw the blame upon the backs of 'others,'

But I, though (in this case) 'misled,' ('well intendedly,' nevertheless, both in the 'misleaders' and 'misled,' and therefore entitled to lay hold of that plea, if 'any body' is so entitled,) will not however, be classed among such 'extenuators'; but (contrarily) will always keep in mind that verse, which 'comforteth in mistake,' as well as 'instructeth'; and which I quoted in my last letter;

And will own, that I was very 'rash' to take up with 'conjectures' and 'consequences' drawn from 'probabilites,' where (especially) the 'character' of so 'fine a lady' was concerned.

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,

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,

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 hath 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!

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:

And the sweet Lucan truly observeth,

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:

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.

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.

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

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

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

And those comforting lines,

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

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,

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,'

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

That

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

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

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

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

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':

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,

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,

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,

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:

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),

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.