Clarissa, Volume 2 (of 9)

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If it be not accepted, I shall conclude, that you cannot defend your
conduct towards me; and shall only beg of you, that, for the future, you
will treat me with the respect due to a sister from a brother who would
be thought as polite as learned.

And now, Sir, if I have seemed to shew some spirit, not foreign to the
relation I have the honour to be to you, and to my sister; and which may
be deemed not altogether of a piece with that part of my character which
once, it seems, gained me every one's love; be pleased to consider to
whom, and to what it is owing; and that this part of that character was
not dispensed with, till it subjected me to that scorn, and to those
insults, which a brother, who has been so tenacious of an independence
voluntarily given up by me, and who has appeared so exalted upon it,
ought not to have shewn to any body, much less to a weak and defenceless
sister; who is, notwithstanding, an affectionate and respectful one, and
would be glad to shew herself to be so upon all future occasions; as she
has in every action of her past life, although of late she has met with
such unkind returns.

CL. HARLOWE

***

See, my dear, the force, and volubility, as I may say, of passion; for
the letter I send you is my first draught, struck off without a blot or
erasure.

***

FRIDAY, THREE O'CLOCK

As soon as I had transcribed it, I sent it down to my brother by Mrs.
Betty.

The wench came up soon after, all aghast, with a Laud, Miss! What have
you done?--What have you written? For you have set them all in a joyful
uproar!

***

My sister is but this moment gone from me. She came up all in a flame;
which obliged me abruptly to lay down my pen: she ran to me--

O Spirit! said she; tapping my neck a little too hard. And is it come to
this at last!--

Do you beat me, Bella?

Do you call this beating you? only tapping you shoulder thus, said she;
tapping again more gently--This is what we expected it would come to--You
want to be independent--My father has lived too long for you!--

I was going to speak with vehemence; but she put her handkerchief before
my mouth, very rudely--You have done enough with your pen, mean listener,
as you are!--But know that neither your independent scheme, nor any of
your visiting ones, will be granted you. Take your course, perverse one!
Call in your rake to help you to an independence upon your parents, and a
dependence upon him!--Do so!--Prepare this moment--resolve what you will
take with you--to-morrow you go--depend upon it to-morrow you go!--No
longer shall you stay here, watching and creeping about to hearken to
what people say--'Tis determined, child!--You go to-morrow--my brother
would have come up to tell you so; but I persuaded him to the contrary--
for I know not what had become of you, if he had--Such a letter! such an
insolent, such a conceited challenger!--O thou vain creature! But
prepare yourself, I say--to-morrow you go--my brother will accept of your
bold challenge; but it must be personal; and at my uncle Antony's--or
perhaps at Mr. Solmes's--

Thus she ran on, almost foaming with passion; till, quite out of
patience, I said, No more of your violence, Bella--Had I known in what
way you designed to come up, you should not have found my chamber-door
open--talk to your servant in this manner. Unlike you, as I bless God I
am, I am nevertheless your sister--and let me tell you, that I won't go
to-morrow, nor next day, nor next day to that--except I am dragged away
by violence.

What! not if your father or mother command it--Girl? said she, intending
another word, by her pause and manner before it came out.

Let it come to that, Bella; then I shall know what to say. But it shall
be from their own mouths, if I do--not from yours, nor you Betty's--And
say another word to me, in this manner, and be the consequence what it
may, I will force myself into their presence; and demand what I have done
to be used thus!

Come along, Child! Come along, Meekness--taking my hand, and leading me
towards the door--Demand it of them now--you'll find both your despised
parents together!--What! does your heart fail you?--for I resisted, being
thus insolently offered to be led, and pulled my hand from her.

I want not to be led, said I; and since I can plead your invitation, I
will go: and was posting to the stairs accordingly in my passion--but she
got between me and the door, and shut it--

Let me first, Bold one, said she, apprize them of your visit--for your
own sake let me--for my brother is with them. But yet opening it again,
seeing me shrink back--Go, if you will!--Why don't you go?--Why don't you
go, Miss?--following me to my closet, whither I retired, with my heart
full, and pulled the sash-door after me; and could no longer hold in my
tears.

Nor would I answer one word to her repeated aggravations, nor to her
demands upon me to open my door (for the key was on the inside); nor so
much as turn my head towards her, as she looked through the glass at me.
And at last, which vexed her to the heart, I drew the silk curtain, that
she should not see me, and down she went muttering all the way.

Is not this usage enough to provoke a rashness never before thought of?

As it is but too probable that I may be hurried away to my uncle's
without being able to give you previous notice of it; I beg that as soon
as you shall hear of such a violence, you would send to the usual place,
to take back such of your letters as may not have reached my hands, or to
fetch any of mine that may be there.

May you, my dear, be always happy, prays you
CLARISSA HARLOWE.

I have received your four letters. But am in such a ferment, that I
cannot at present write to them.

LETTER X

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
FRIDAY NIGHT, MARCH 24.

I have a most provoking letter from my sister. I might have supposed she
would resent the contempt she brought upon herself in my chamber. Her
conduct surely can only be accounted for by the rage instigate by a
supposed rivalry.

TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE

I am to tell you, that your mother has begged you off for the morrow: but
that you have effectually done your business with her, as well as with
every body else.

In your proposals and letter to your brother, you have shewn yourself so
silly, and so wise; so young, and so old; so gentle, and so obstinate; so
meek, and so violent; that never was there so mixed a character.

We all know of whom you have borrowed this new spirit. And yet the seeds
of it must be in your heart, or it could not all at once shew itself so
rampant. It would be doing Mr. Solmes a spite to wish him such a shy,
un-shy girl; another of your contradictory qualities--I leave you to make
out what I mean by it.

Here, Miss, your mother will not let you remain: she cannot have any
peace of mind while such a rebel of a child is so near her. Your aunt
Hervey will not take a charge which all the family put together cannot
manage. Your uncle Harlowe will not see you at his house, till you are
married. So, thanks to your own stubbornness, you have nobody that will
receive you but your uncle Antony. Thither you must go in a very few
days; and, when there, your brother will settle with you, in my presence,
all that relates to your modest challenge; for it is accepted, I assure
you. Dr. Lewen will possibly be there, since you make choice of him.
Another gentleman likewise, were it but to convince you, that he is
another sort of man than you have taken him to be. Your two uncles will
possibly be there too, to see that the poor, weak, and defenceless sister
has fair play. So, you see, Miss, what company your smart challenge will
draw together.

Prepare for the day. You'll soon be called upon. Adieu, Mamma Norton's
sweet child!

ARAB. HARLOWE.

***

I transcribed this letter, and sent it to my mother, with these lines:

A very few words, my ever-honoured Mamma!

If my sister wrote the enclosed by my father's direction, or yours, I
must submit to the usage she gave me in it, with this only observation,
That it is short of the personal treatment I have received from her. If
it be of her own head--why then, Madam--But I knew that when I was
banished from your presence--Yet, till I know if she has or has not
authority for this usage, I will only write further, that I am

Your very unhappy child,
CL. HARLOWE.

***

This answer I received in an open slip of paper; but it was wet in one
place. I kissed the place; for I am sure it was blistered, as I may say,
by a mother's tear!--She must (I hope she must) have written it
reluctantly.

To apply for protection, where authority is defied, is bold. Your
sister, who would not in your circumstances have been guilty of your
perverseness, may allowably be angry at you for it. However, we have
told her to moderate her zeal for our insulted authority. See, if you
can deserve another behaviour, than that you complain of: which cannot,
however be so grievous to you, as the cause of it is to

Your more unhappy Mother.

How often must I forbid you any address to me!

***

Give me, my dearest Miss Howe, your opinion, what I can, what I ought to
do. Not what you would do (pushed as I am pushed) in resentment or
passion--since, so instigated, you tell me, that you should have been
with somebody before now--and steps taken in passion hardly ever fail of
giving cause for repentance: but acquaint me with what you think cool
judgment, and after-reflection, whatever were to be the event, will
justify.

I doubt not your sympathizing love: but yet you cannot possibly feel
indignity and persecution so very sensibly as the immediate sufferer
feels them--are fitter therefore to advise me, than I am myself.

I will here rest my cause. Have I, or have I not, suffered or borne
enough? And if they will still persevere; if that strange persister
against an antipathy so strongly avowed, will still persist; say, What
can I do?--What course pursue?--Shall I fly to London, and endeavour to
hide myself from Lovelace, as well as from all my own relations, till my
cousin Morden arrives? Or shall I embark for Leghorn in my way to my
cousin? Yet, my sex, my youth, considered, how full of danger is this
last measure!--And may not my cousin be set out for England, while I am
getting thither?--What can I do?--Tell me, tell me, my dearest Miss Howe,
[for I dare not trust myself,] tell me, what I can do.

ELEVEN O'CLOCK AT NIGHT.

I have been forced to try to compose my angry passions at my harpsichord;
having first shut close my doors and windows, that I might not be heard
below. As I was closing the shutters of the windows, the distant
whooting of the bird of Minerva, as from the often-visited woodhouse,
gave the subject in that charming Ode to Wisdom, which does honour to our
sex, as it was written by one of it. I made an essay, a week ago, to set
the three last stanzas of it, as not unsuitable to my unhappy situation;
and after I had re-perused the Ode, those were my lesson; and, I am sure,
in the solemn address they contain to the All-Wise and All-powerful
Deity, my heart went with my fingers.

I enclose the Ode, and my effort with it. The subject is solemn; my
circumstances are affecting; and I flatter myself, that I have not been
quite unhappy in the performance. If it obtain your approbation, I shall
be out of doubt, and should be still more assured, could I hear it tried
by your voice and finger.

ODE TO WISDOM
BY A LADY

I.
The solitary bird of night
Thro' thick shades now wings his flight,
And quits his time-shook tow'r;
Where, shelter'd from the blaze of day,
In philosophic gloom he lay,
Beneath his ivy bow'r.

II.
With joy I hear the solemn sound,
Which midnight echoes waft around,
And sighing gales repeat.
Fav'rite of Pallas! I attend,
And, faithful to thy summons, bend
At Wisdom's awful seat.

III.
She loves the cool, the silent eve,
Where no false shows of life deceive,
Beneath the lunar ray.
Here folly drops each vain disguise;
Nor sport her gaily colour'd dyes,
As in the beam of day.

IV.
O Pallas! queen of ev'ry art,
That glads the sense, and mends the heart,
Blest source of purer joys!
In ev'ry form of beauty bright,
That captivates the mental sight
With pleasure and surprise;

V.
To thy unspotted shrine I bow:
Attend thy modest suppliant's vow,
That breathes no wild desires;
But, taught by thy unerring rules,
To shun the fruitless wish of fools,
To nobler views aspires.

VI.
Not Fortune's gem, Ambition's plume,
Nor Cytherea's fading bloom,
Be objects of my prayer:
Let av'rice, vanity, and pride,
Those envy'd glitt'ring toys divide,
The dull rewards of care.

VII.
To me thy better gifts impart,
Each moral beauty of the heart,
By studious thought refin'd;
For wealth, the smile of glad content;
For pow'r, its amplest, best extent,
An empire o'er my mind.

VIII.
When Fortune drops her gay parade.
When Pleasure's transient roses fade,
And wither in the tomb,
Unchang'd is thy immortal prize;
Thy ever-verdant laurels rise
In undecaying bloom.

IX.
By thee protected, I defy
The coxcomb's sneer, the stupid lie
Of ignorance and spite:
Alike contemn the leaden fool,
And all the pointed ridicule
Of undiscerning wit.

X.
From envy, hurry, noise, and strife,
The dull impertinence of life,
In thy retreat I rest:
Pursue thee to the peaceful groves,
Where Plato's sacred spirit roves,
In all thy beauties drest.

XI.
He bad Ilyssus' tuneful stream
Convey thy philosophic theme
Of perfect, fair, and good:
Attentive Athens caught the sound,
And all her list'ning sons around
In awful silence stood.

XII.
Reclaim'd her wild licentious youth,
Confess'd the potent voice of Truth,
And felt its just controul.
The Passions ceas'd their loud alarms,
And Virtue's soft persuasive charms
O'er all their senses stole.

XIII.
Thy breath inspires the Poet's song
The Patriot's free, unbiass'd tongue,
The Hero's gen'rous strife;
Thine are retirement's silent joys,
And all the sweet engaging ties
Of still, domestic life.

XIV.
No more to fabled names confin'd;
To Thee supreme, all perfect mind,
My thought direct their flight.
Wisdom's thy gift, and all her force
From thee deriv'd, Eternal source
Of Intellectual Light!

XV.
O send her sure, her steady ray,
To regulate my doubtful way,
Thro' life's perplexing road:
The mists of error to controul,
And thro' its gloom direct my soul
To happiness and good.

XVI.
Beneath her clear discerning eye
The visionary shadows fly
Of Folly's painted show.
She sees thro' ev'ry fair disguise,
That all but Virtue's solid joys,
Is vanity and woe.

[Facsimile of the music to "The Ode to Wisdom" (verse 14).]

LETTER XI

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
FRIDAY MIDNIGHT.

I have now a calmer moment. Envy, ambition, high and selfish resentment,
and all the violent passions, are now, most probably, asleep all around
me; and shall now my own angry ones give way to the silent hour, and
subside likewise?--They have given way to it; and I have made use of the
gentler space to re-peruse your last letters. I will touch upon some
passages in them. And that I may the less endanger the but-just
recovered calm, I will begin with what you write about Mr. Hickman.

Give me leave to say, That I am sorry you cannot yet persuade yourself to
think better, that is to say, more justly, of that gentleman, than your
whimsical picture of him shews you so; or, at least, than the
humourousness of your natural vein would make one think you do.

I do not imagine, that you yourself will say, he sat for the picture you
have drawn. And yet, upon the whole, it is not greatly to his
disadvantage. Were I at ease in my mind, I would venture to draw a much
more amiable and just likeness.

If Mr. Hickman has not that assurance which some men have, he has that
humility and gentleness which many want: and which, with the infinite
value he has for you, will make him one of the fittest husbands in the
world for a person of your vivacity and spirit.

Although you say I would not like him myself, I do assure you, if Mr.
Solmes were such a man as Mr. Hickman, in person, mind, and behaviour, my
friends and I had never disagreed about him, if they would not have
permitted me to live single; Mr. Lovelace (having such a character as he
has) would have stood no chance with me. This I can the more boldly
aver, because I plainly perceive, that of the two passions, love and
fear, this man will be able to inspire one with a much greater proportion
of the latter, than I imagine is compatible with the former, to make a
happy marriage.

I am glad you own, that you like no one better than Mr. Hickman. In a
little while, I make no doubt, you will be able, if you challenge your
heart upon it, to acknowledge, that you like not any man so well:
especially, when you come to consider, that the very faults you find in
Mr. Hickman, admirably fit him to make you happy: that is to say, if it
be necessary to your happiness, that you should have your own will in
every thing.

But let me add one thing: and that is this:--You have such a sprightly
turn, that, with your admirable talents, you would make any man in the
world, who loved you, look like a fool, except he were such a one as
Lovelace.

Forgive me, my dear, for my frankness: and forgive me, also, for so soon
returning to subject so immediately relative to myself, as those I now
must touch upon.

You again insist (strengthened by Mr. Lovelace's opinion) upon my
assuming my own estate [I cannot call it resuming, having never been in
possession of it]: and I have given you room to expect, that I will
consider this subject more closely than I have done before. I must
however own, that the reasons which I had to offer against taking your
advice were so obvious, that I thought you would have seen them yourself,
and been determined by them, against your own hastier counsel.--But since
this has not been so, and that both you and Mr. Lovelace call upon me to
assume my own estate, I will enter briefly into the subject.

In the first place, let me ask you, my dear, supposing I were inclined to
follow your advice, Whom have I to support me in my demand? My uncle
Harlowe is one of my trustees--he is against me. My cousin Morden is the
other--he is in Italy, and very probably may be set against me too. My
brother has declared, that they are resolved to carry their points before
he arrives: so that, as they drive on, all will probably be decided
before I can have an answer from him, were I to write: and, confined as I
am, were the answer to come in time, and they did not like it, they would
keep it from me.

In the next place, parents have great advantages in every eye over the
child, if she dispute their pleasure in the disposing of her: and so they
ought; since out of twenty instances, perhaps two could not be produced,
when they were not in the right, the child in the wrong.

You would not, I am sure, have me accept of Mr. Lovelace's offered
assistance in such a claim. If I would embrace any other person's, who
else would care to appear for a child against parents, ever, till of
late, so affectionate?==But were such a protector to be found, what a
length of time would it take up in a course of litigation! The will and
the deeds have flaws in them, they say. My brother sometimes talks of
going to reside at The Grove: I suppose, with a design to make ejectments
necessary, were I to offer at assuming; or, were I to marry Mr. Lovelace,
in order to give him all the opposition and difficulty the law would help
him to give.

These cases I have put to myself, for argument-sake: but they are all out
of the question, although any body were to be found who would espouse my
cause: for I do assure you, I would sooner beg my bread, than litigate
for my right with my father: since I am convinced, that whether the
parent do his duty by the child or not, the child cannot be excused from
doing hers to him. And to go to law with my father, what a sound has
that! You will see, that I have mentioned my wish (as an alternative,
and as a favour) to be permitted, if I must be put out of his house, to
go thither: but not one step further can I go. And you see how this is
resented.

Upon the whole, then, what have I to hope for, but a change in my
father's resolution?--And is there any probability of that; such an
ascendancy as my brother and sister have obtained over every body; and
such an interest to pursue the enmity they have now openly avowed against
me?

As to Mr. Lovelace's approbation of your assumption-scheme, I wonder not
at. He very probably penetrates the difficulties I should have to bring
it to effect, without his assistance. Were I to find myself as free as I
would wish myself to be, perhaps Mr. Lovelace would stand a worse chance
with me than his vanity may permit him to imagine; notwithstanding the
pleasure you take in rallying me on his account. How know you, but all
that appears to be specious and reasonable in his offers; such as,
standing his chance for my favour, after I became independent, as I may
call it [by which I mean no more, than to have the liberty of refusing
for my husband a man whom it hurts me but to think of in that light]; and
such as his not visiting me but by my leave; and till Mr. Morden come;
and till I am satisfied of his reformation;--How know you, I say, that he
gives not himself these airs purely to stand better in your graces as
well as mine, by offering of his own accord conditions which he must
needs think would be insisted on, were the case to happen?

Then am I utterly displeased with him. To threaten as he threatens; yet
to pretend, that it is not to intimidate me; and to beg of you not to
tell me, when he must know you would, and no doubt intended that you
should, is so meanly artful!--The man must think he has a frightened fool
to deal with.--I, to join hands with such a man of violence! my own
brother the man whom he threatens!--And what has Mr. Solmes done to him?
--Is he to be blamed, if he thinks a person would make a wife worth
having, to endeavour to obtain her?--Oh that my friends would but leave
me to my own way in this one point! For have I given the man
encouragement sufficient to ground these threats upon? Were Mr. Solmes a
man to whom I could but be indifferent, it might be found, that to have
spirit, would very little answer the views of that spirit. It is my
fortune to be treated as a fool by my brother: but Mr. Lovelace shall
find--Yet I will let him know my mind; and then it will come with a
better grace to your knowledge.

Mean time, give me leave to tell you, that it goes against me, in my
cooler moments, unnatural as my brother is to me, to have you, my dear,
who are my other self, write such very severe reflections upon him, in
relation to the advantage Lovelace had over him. He is not indeed your
brother: but remember, that you write to his sister.--Upon my word, my
dear Miss Howe, you dip your pen in gall whenever you are offended: and I
am almost ready to question, whether I read some of your expressions
against others of my relations as well as him, (although in my favour,)
whether you are so thoroughly warranted to call other people to account
for their warmth. Should we not be particularly careful to keep clear of
the faults we censure?--And yet I am so angry both at my brother and
sister, that I should not have taken this liberty with my dear friend,
notwithstanding I know you never loved them, had you not made so light of
so shocking a transaction where a brother's life was at stake: when his
credit in the eye of the mischievous sex has received a still deeper
wound than he personally sustained; and when a revival of the same wicked
resentments (which may end more fatally) is threatened.

His credit, I say, in the eye of the mischievous sex: Who is not
warranted to call it so; when it is re (as the two libertines his
companions gloried) to resolve never to give a challenge; and among whom
duelling is so fashionable a part of brutal bravery, that the man of
temper, who is, mostly, I believe, the truly brave man, is often at a
loss so to behave as to avoid incurring either a mortal guilt, or a
general contempt?

To enlarge a little upon this subject, May we not infer, that those who
would be guilty of throwing these contempts upon a man of temper, who
would rather pass by a verbal injury, than to imbrue his hands in blood,
know not the measure of true magnanimity? nor how much nobler it is to
forgive, and even how much more manly to despise, than to resent, an
injury? Were I a man, methinks, I should have too much scorn for a
person, who could wilfully do me a mean wrong, to put a value upon his
life, equal to what I put upon my own. What an absurdity, because a man
had done me a small injury, that I should put it in his power (at least,
to an equal risque) to do me, and those who love me, an irreparable one!
--Were it not a wilful injury, nor avowed to be so, there could not be
room for resentment.

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