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family's distress must be, that, as I told your brother, Mr. Antony Harlowe, I had often forbid her corresponding with the poor fallen angel-for surely never did young lady more resemble what we imagine of angels, both in person and mind. But, tired out with her headstrong ways (I am sorry to say this of my own child) I was forced to give way to it again. And, indeed, so sturdy was she in her will, that I was afraid it would end in a fit of sickness, as too often it did in fits of sullens.

There are a thousand excellencies in the poor sufferer, notwithstanding her fault: and, if the hints she has given to my daughter be true, she has been most grievously abused. But I think your forgiveness and her father's forgiveness of her ought to be all at your own choice; and nobody should intermeddle in that, for the sake of due authority in parents.

I am, madam, with compliments to good Mr. Harlowe, and all your afflicted family,

Your most humble servant,

ANNABELLA HOWE.

I shall set out for the Isle of Wight in a few days, with my daughter. I will hasten our setting out, on purpose to break her mind from her friend's distresses; which afflict us as much, nearly, as Miss Clary's rashness has done you.

MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE.

Saturday, July 22. Y DEAREST FRIEND,-We are busy in preparing for our little journey and voyage: but I will be ill, I will be very ill, if I cannot hear you

are better before I go.

I dispatch this by an extraordinary way, that it may reach you time enough to move you to consider well before you absolutely decide upon the contents of mine of

the 13th, on the subject of the two Misses Montague's visit to me; since, according to what you write, must I answer them.

In your last, you conclude very positively, that you will not be his. To be sure, he rather deserves an infamous death, than such a wife. But, as I really believe him innocent of the arrest, and as all his family are such earnest pleaders, and will be guarantees, for him, I think the compliance with their entreaties, and his own, will be now the best step you can take; your own family remaining implacable, as I can assure you they do. He is a man of sense; and it is not impossible but he may make you a good husband, and in time may become no bad man.

My mother is entirely of my opinion and on Friday, pursuant to a hint I gave you in my last, Mr. Hickman had a conference with the strange wretch: and though he liked not, by any means, his behaviour to himself; nor, indeed, had reason to do so; yet he is of opinion, that he is sincerely determined to marry you, if you will condescend to have him.

Perhaps Mr. Hickman may make you a private visit before we set out. If I may not attend you myself, I shall not be easy, except he does. And he will then give you an account of the admirable character the surprising wretch gave of you, and of the justice he does to your virtue. Adieu, my dear,

A. HOWE.

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE.

Sunday, July 23.

OU set before me your reasons, enforced by the opinion of your honoured mother, why I should

think of Mr. Lovelace for a husband.

And I have as well weighed the whole matter, and your

arguments in support of your advice, as at present my head and my heart will let me weigh them.

I am, moreover, willing to believe, not only from your own opinion, but from the assurances of one of Mr. Lovelace's friends, Mr. Belford, a good-natured and humane man, who spares not to censure the author of my calamities (I think, with undissembled and undesigning sincerity) that that man is innocent of the disgraceful arrest.

And even, if you please, in sincere compliment to your opinion, and to that of Mr. Hickman, that (over-persuaded by his friends, and ashamed of his unmerited baseness to me) he would in earnest marry me, if I would have him.

Well, and now, what is the result of all? It is thisthat I must abide by what I have already declared—and that is (don't be angry at me, my best friend) that I have much more pleasure in thinking of death, than of such a husband. In short, as I declared in my last, that I cannot (forgive me, if I say, I will not) ever be his.

My pride, then, my dearest friend, although a great deal mortified, is not sufficiently mortified, if it be necessary for me to submit to make that man my choice, whose actions are, and ought to be, my abhorrence! What!— Shall I, who have been treated with such premeditated and perfidious barbarity, as is painful to be thought of, and cannot with modesty be described, think of taking the violator to my heart? Can I vow duty to one so wicked, and hazard my salvation by joining myself to so great a profligate, now I know him to be so? Do you think your Clarissa Harlowe so lost, so sunk, at least, as that she could, for the sake of patching up, in the world's eye, a broken reputation, meanly appear indebted to the generosity, or perhaps compassion, of a man, who has, by means so inhuman, robbed her of it? Indeed, my dear, I should not think my penitence for the rash step I took, anything better than a specious delusion, if I had not

got above the least wish to have Mr. Lovelace for my husband.

Yes, I warrant, I must creep to the violator, and be thankful to him for doing me poor justice!

Do you not already see me (pursuing the advice you give) with a downcast eye, appear before his friends, and before my own (supposing the latter would at last condescend to own me) divested of that noble confidence, which arises from a mind unconscious of having deserved reproach.

Do you not see me creep about mine own house, preferring all my honest maidens to myself-as if afraid, too, to open my lips, either by way of reproof or admonition, lest their bolder eyes should bid me look inward, and not expect perfection from them?

And shall I entitle the wretch to upbraid me with his generosity, and his pity; and, perhaps to reproach me, for having been capable of forgiving crimes of such a nature?

I once indeed hoped, little thinking him so premeditatedly vile a man, that I might have the happiness to reclaim him: but now, what hope is there left?

Let me repeat, that I truly despise this man! If I know my own heart, indeed I do! I pity him! Beneath my very pity as he is, I nevertheless pity him! But this I could not do, if I still loved him: for, my dear, one must be greatly sensible of the baseness and ingratitude of those we love. I love him not, therefore! My soul disdains communion with him.

What then, my dear and only friend, can I wish for but death? And what, after all, is death? "Tis but a cessation from mortal life: 'tis but the finishing of an appointed course: the refreshing inn after a fatiguing journey the end of a life of cares and troubles; and, if happy, the beginning of a life of immortal happiness.

But now, my dear, for your satisfaction let me say, that although I wish not for life, yet would I not, like a

poor coward, desert my post when I can maintain it, and when it is my duty to maintain it.

More than once, indeed, was I urged by thoughts so sinful but then it was in the height of my distress and once, particularly, I have reason to believe, I saved myself by my desperation from the most shocking personal insults; from a repetition, as far as I know, of his vileness; the base women (with so much reason dreaded by me) present, to intimidate me, if not to assist him! O my dear, you know not what I suffered on that occasion!— nor do I what I escaped at the time, if the wicked man had approached me to execute the horrid purposes of his

vile heart.

As I am of opinion, that it would have manifested more of revenge and despair, than of principle, had I committed a violence upon myself, when the villany was perpetrated; so I should think it equally criminal, were I now wilfully to neglect myself; were I purposely to run into the arms of death (as that man supposes I shall do) when I might avoid it.

But here, my dear, is another reason; a reason that will convince you yourself, that I ought not to think of wedlock; but of a preparation for a quite different event. I am persuaded, as much as that I am now alive, that I shall not long live. The strong sense I have ever had of my fault, the loss of my reputation, my disappointments, the determined resentment of my friends, aiding the barbarous usage I have met with where I least deserved it, have seized upon my heart: seized upon it, before it was so well fortified by religious considerations as I hope it now is. Don't be concerned, my dear-but I am sure, if I may say it with as little presumption as grief, that God will soon dissolve my substance; and bring me to death, and to the house appointed for all living.

And now, my dearest friend, you know all my mind. And you will be pleased to write to the ladies of Mr.,

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