nnd mine. Say you will withdraw to consider; and then I will not presume to withhold you.

Compulsion shall do nothing with me. Though a slave, a prisoner in circumstance, I am no slave in my will!—Nothing will I promise thee!—Withheld, compelled—nothing will I promise thee.

Noble creature! But not implacable, I hope !— Promise me but to return in an hour!

Nothing will I promise thee!

Say but you will see me again this evening!

0 that I could say—that it were in my power to say—I never will see thee more !—Would to heaven I never were to see thee more!

Passionate beauty! still holding her—

1 speak, though with vehemence, the deliberate wish of my heart.—O that I could avoid looking down upon thee, mean groveller and abject as insulting !—Let me withdraw! My soul is in tumults! Let me withdraw!

I quitted my hold to clasp my hands together— Withdraw, O sovereign of my fate!—'Withdraw, if you will withdraw! My destiny is in your power! —It depends upon your breath !—Your scorn but augments my love !—your resentment is but too well founded!—But, dearest creature, return, return, with a resolution to bless with pardon and peace your faithful adorer.

She flew from me. The angel, as soon as she found her wings, flew from me. I, the reptile kneeler, the despicable slave, no more the proud victor, arose; and retiring, tried to comfort myself, that circumstanced as she is, destitute of friends and fortune; her uncle moreover, who is to reconcile all so soon, (as I thank my stars she still believes) expected—

O that she would forgive me !—Would she but generously forgive me, and receive my vows at the altar, at the instant of her forgiving me that I might not have time to relapse into my old prejudices !—By my soul, Belford, this dear girl gives the lie to all our rakish maxims. There must be something more than a name .in virtue!—I now see that there is!—Once subdued, always subdued— 'Tis an egregious falsehood !—But oh, Jack, she never was subdued. What have I obtained, but an increase of shame and confusion !—While her glory has been established by her sufferings!

This one merit is, however, left me, that I have laid all her sex under obligation to me, by putting this noble creature to trials, which, so gloriously supported, have done honour to them all.

However—but no more will I add—what a force have evil habits !—I will take an airing, and try to fly from myself.—Do not thou upbraid me on my weak fits—on my contradictory purposes—on my irresolution—and all will be well.



Wednesday night. A Man is just now arrived from M. Hall, who tells me, that my lord is in a very dangerous way. The gout in his stomach to an extreme degree, occasioned by drinking a great quantity of lemonade.

A man of 10,000/. a year to prefer his appetite to his health!—He deserves to die!—But we have all of us our inordinate passions to gratify: and they generally bring their punishment along with them.—So witnesses the nephew, as well as the uncle.

The fellow was sent upon other business; but stretched his orders a little to make his court to a successor.

I am glad I was not at M. Hall at the time my lord took the grateful dose. [It was certainly grateful to him at the time.] There are people in the world, who would have had the wickedness to sa)r, that I had persuaded him to drink it.

The man says, that his lordship was so bad when he came away, that the family began to talk of sending for me, in post-haste. As I know the old peer has a good deal of cash by him, of which he seldom keeps account, it behoves me to go down as soon as I can. But what shall I do with this dear creature the while? To-morrow over, I shall, perhaps, be able to answer my own question. I am afraid she will make me desperate.

For here have I sent to implore her company, and am denied with scorn.

* • #

I Have been so happy as to receive, this moment, a third letter from my dear correspondent Miss Howe. A little severe devil!—It would have broken the heart of my beloved, had it fallen into her hands. I will inclose a copy of it. Read it here.

Tuesday, June 20.


Again I venture to write to you (almost against inclination); and that by your former conveyance, little as I like it.

I know not how it is with you. It may be bad; and then it would be hard to upbraid you, for a silence you may not be able to help. But if not, what shall I say severe enough, that you have not answered either of my last letters? The first*, of which [and I think it imported you too much to be * See Vol. V. p. 31.

silent upon it] you owned the receipt of. The other, which was delivered into your own hands*, was so presssing for the favour of a line from you, that I am amazed I could not be obliged.—And still more, that I have not heard from you since.

The fellow made so strange a story of the condition he saw you in, and of your speech to him, that I know not what to conclude from it: only, that he is a simple, blundering, and yet conceited fellow, who, ainiing at description, and the rustic wonderful, gives an air of bumkinly romance to all he tells. That this is his character, you will believe, when you are informed, that he described you in grief excessive f, yet so improved in your person and features, and so rosy, that was his word, in your face, and so flush-coloured, and so plump in your arms, that one would conclude you were labouring under the operation of some malignant poison; and so much the rather, as he was introduced to you, when you were upon a couch, from which you offered not to rjse, or sit up.

Upon my word, Miss Harlowe, I am greatly distressed upon your account; for I must be so free as to say, that, in your ready return with your deceiver, you have not at all answered my expectations, nor acted up to your own character; for Mrs. Townsend tells me from the women at Hampstead, how cheerfully you put yourself into his hands again: yet, at the time it was impossible you should be married !—

Lord, my dear, .what pity it is, that you took so much pains to get from the man !—But you know best!—Sometimes I think it could notbe?/crato whom the rustic delivered my letter. But it must too: yet, it is strange I could not have one line

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by him :—not one!—And you so soon well enough to go with the wretch back again!

I am not sure, that the letter I am now writing will come to your hands: so shall not say half that I have upon my mind to say. But if you think it worth your while to write to me, pray let me know, what fine ladies, his relations, those were, who visited you at Hampstead, and carried you back again so joyfully, to a place that I had so fully warned you—but I will say no more: at least till I know more: for I can do nothing but wonder and stand amazed.

Notwithstanding all the man's baseness, 'tis plain, there was more than a lurking love—Good heaven!—rBut I have done !—Yet I know not how to have done neither—yet I must—I will.

Only account to me, my dear, for what I cannot at all account for: and inform me, whether you are really married, or not.—And then I shall know, whether there must, or must not, be a period shorter than that of one of our lives, to a friendship which has hitherto been the pride and boast ot


Dorcas tells me, that she has just now had a searching conversation, as she calls it, with her lady. She is willing, she tells the wench, still to place a confidence in her. Dorcas hopes she has re-assured her; but wishes me not to depend upon it. Yet Captain Tomlinson's letter must assuredly weigh with her. I sent it in just now by Dorcas, desiring her to re-peruse it. And it was not returned me, as I feared it wquld be. And that's a good sign, I think.

1 say I think, and I think, for this charming creature, entangled as I am in my own inventions, puzzles me ten thousand times more than I her.

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