MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
THURSDAY, JULY 13.
I am extremely concerned, my dear Miss Howe, for being primarily the
occasion of the apprehensions you have of this wicked man's vindictive
attempts. What a wide-spreading error is mine!----
If I find that he has set foot on any machination against you, or against
Mr. Hickman, I do assure you I will consent to prosecute him, although I
were sure I could not survive my first appearance at the bar he should be
arraigned at.
I own the justice of your mother's arguments on that subject; but must
say, that I think there are circumstances in my particular case, which
will excuse me, although on a slighter occasion than that you are
apprehensive of I should decline to appear against him. I have said,
that I may one day enter more particularly into this argument.
Your messenger has now indeed seen me. I talked with him on the cheat
put upon him at Hampstead: and am sorry to have reason to say, that had
not the poor young man been very simple, and very self-sufficient, he had
not been so grossly deluded. Mrs. Bevis has the same plea to make for
herself. A good-natured, thoughtless woman; not used to converse with so
vile and so specious a deceiver as him, who made his advantage of both
these shallow creatures.
I think I cannot be more private than where I am. I hope I am safe. All
the risque I run, is in going out, and returning from morning-prayers;
which I have two or three times ventured to do; once at Lincoln's-inn
chapel, at eleven; once at St. Dunstan's, Fleet-street, at seven in the
morning,* in a chair both times; and twice, at six in the morning, at the
neighbouring church in Covent-garden. The wicked wretches I have escaped
from, will not, I hope, come to church to look for me; especially at so
early prayers; and I have fixed upon the privatest pew in the latter
church to hide myself in; and perhaps I may lay out a little matter in an
ordinary gown, by way of disguise; my face half hid by my mob.--I am very
careless, my dear, of my appearance now. Neat and clean takes up the
whole of my attention.
* The seven-o'clock prayers at St. Dunstan's have been since
discontinued.
The man's name at whose house I belong, is Smith--a glove maker, as well
as seller. His wife is the shop-keeper. A dealer also in stockings,
ribbands, snuff, and perfumes. A matron-like woman, plain-hearted, and
prudent. The husband an honest, industrious man. And they live in good
understanding with each other: a proof with me that their hearts are
right; for where a married couple live together upon ill terms, it is a
sign, I think, that each knows something amiss of the other, either with
regard to temper or morals, which if the world knew as well as
themselves, it would perhaps as little like them as such people like each
other. Happy the marriage, where neither man nor wife has any wilful or
premeditated evil in their general conduct to reproach the other with!--
for even persons who have bad hearts will have a veneration for those who
have good ones.
Two neat rooms, with plain, but clean furniture, on the first floor, are
mine; one they call the dining-room.
There is, up another pair of stairs, a very worthy widow-lodger, Mrs.
Lovick by name; who, although of low fortunes, is much respected, as Mrs.
Smith assures me, by people of condition of her acquaintance, for her
piety, prudence, and understanding. With her I propose to be well
acquainted.
I thank you, my dear, for your kind, your seasonable advice and
consolation. I hope I shall have more grace given me than to despond, in
the religious sense of the word: especially as I can apply to myself the
comfort you give me, that neither my will, nor my inconsiderateness, has
contributed to my calamity. But, nevertheless, the irreconcilableness of
my relations, whom I love with an unabated reverence; my apprehensions of
fresh violences, [this wicked man, I doubt, will not let me rest]; my
being destitute of protection; my youth, my sex, my unacquaintedness with
the world, subjecting me to insults; my reflections on the scandal I have
given, added to the sense of the indignities I have received from a man,
of whom I deserved not ill; all together will undoubtedly bring on the
effect that cannot be undesirable to me.--The situation; and, as I
presume to imagine, from principles which I hope will, in due time, and
by due reflection, set me above the sense of all worldly disappointments.
At present, my head is much disordered. I have not indeed enjoyed it
with any degree of clearness, since the violence done to that, and to my
heart too, by the wicked arts of the abandoned creatures I was cast
among.
I must have more conflicts. At times I find myself not subdued enough to
my condition. I will welcome those conflicts as they come, as
probationary ones.--But yet my father's malediction--the temporary part
so strangely and so literally completed!--I cannot, however, think, when
my mind is strongest--But what is the story of Isaac, and Jacob, and
Esau, and of Rebekah's cheating the latter of the blessing designed for
him, (in favour of Jacob,) given us for in the 27th chapter of Genesis?
My father used, I remember, to enforce the doctrine deducible from it, on
his children, by many arguments. At least, therefore, he must believe
there is great weight in the curse he has announced; and shall I not be
solicitous to get it revoked, that he may not hereafter be grieved, for
my sake, that he did not revoke it?
All I will at present add, are my thanks to your mother for her
indulgence to us; due compliments to Mr. Hickman; and my request, that
you will believe me to be, to my last hour, and beyond it, if possible,
my beloved friend, and my dearer self (for what is now myself!)
Your obliged and affectionate
CLARISSA HARLOWE.