Should she fail in the trial; should I succeed; and should she refuse
to go on with me; and even resolve not to marry me (of which I can have
no notion); and should she disdain to be obliged to me for the handsome
provision I should be proud to make for her, even to the half of my
estate; yet cannot she be altogether unhappy—Is she not entitled to an
independent fortune? Will not Col. Morden, as her trustee, put her in
possession of it? And did she not in our former conference point out
the way of life, that she always preferred to the married life—to wit,
‘To take her good Norton for her directress and guide, and to live upon
her own estate in the manner her grandfather desired she should live?’*
* See Letter III. of this volume.
It is moreover to be considered that she cannot, according to her own
notions, recover above one half of her fame, were we not to intermarry;
so much does she think she has suffered by her going off with me. And
will she not be always repining and mourning for the loss of the other
half?—And if she must live a life of such uneasiness and regret for
half, may she not as well repine and mourn for the whole?
Nor, let me tell thee, will her own scheme or penitence, in this case,
be half so perfect, if she do not fall, as if she does: for what a
foolish penitent will she make, who has nothing to repent of!—She
piques herself, thou knowest, and makes it matter of reproach to me,
that she went not off with me by her own consent; but was tricked out
of herself.
Nor upbraid thou me upon the meditated breach of vows so repeatedly
made. She will not, thou seest, permit me to fulfil them. And if she
would, this I have to say, that, at the time I made the most solemn of
them, I was fully determined to keep them. But what prince thinks
himself obliged any longer to observe the articles of treaties, the
most sacredly sworn to, than suits with his interest or inclination;
although the consequence of the infraction must be, as he knows, the
destruction of thousands.
Is not this then the result of all, that Miss Clarissa Harlowe, if it
be not her own fault, may be as virtuous after she has lost her honour,
as it is called, as she was before? She may be a more eminent example
to her sex; and if she yield (a little yield) in the trial, may be a
completer penitent. Nor can she, but by her own wilfulness, be reduced
to low fortunes.
And thus may her old nurse and she; an old coachman; and a pair of old
coach-horses; and two or three old maid-servants, and perhaps a very
old footman or two, (for every thing will be old and penitential about
her,) live very comfortably together; reading old sermons, and old
prayer-books; and relieving old men and old women; and giving old
lessons, and old warnings, upon new subjects, as well as old ones, to
the young ladies of her neighbourhood; and so pass on to a good old
age, doing a great deal of good both by precept and example in her
generation.
And is a woman who can live thus prettily without controul; who ever
did prefer, and who still prefers, the single to the married life; and
who will be enabled to do every thing that the plan she had formed will
direct her to do; to be said to be ruined, undone, and such sort of
stuff?—I have no patience with the pretty fools, who use those strong
words, to describe a transitory evil; an evil which a mere church-form
makes none?
At this rate of romancing, how many flourishing ruins dost thou, as
well as I, know? Let us but look about us, and we shall see some of the
haughtiest and most censorious spirits among our acquaintance of that
sex now passing for chaste wives, of whom strange stories might be
told; and others, whose husbands’ hearts have been made to ache for
their gaieties, both before and after marriage; and yet know not half
so much of them, as some of us honest fellows could tell them.
But, having thus satisfied myself in relation to the worst that can
happen to this charming creature; and that it will be her own fault, if
she be unhappy; I have not at all reflected upon what is likely to be
my own lot.
This has always been my notion, though Miss Howe grudges us rakes the
best of the sex, and says, that the worst is too good for us,* that the
wife of a libertine ought to be pure, spotless, uncontaminated. To what
purpose has such a one lived a free life, but to know the world, and to
make his advantages of it!—And, to be very serious, it would be a
misfortune to the public for two persons, heads of a family, to be both
bad; since, between two such, a race of varlets might be propagated
(Lovelaces and Belfords, if thou wilt) who might do great mischief in
the world.
Thou seest at bottom that I am not an abandoned fellow; and that there
is a mixture of gravity in me. This, as I grow older, may increase; and
when my active capacity begins to abate, I may sit down with the
preacher, and resolve all my past life into vanity and vexation of
spirit.
This is certain, that I shall never find a woman so well suited to my
taste as Miss Clarissa Harlowe. I only wish that I may have such a lady
as her to comfort and adorn my setting sun. I have often thought it
very unhappy for us both, that so excellent a creature sprang up a
little too late for my setting out, and a little too early in my
progress, before I can think of returning. And yet, as I have picked up
the sweet traveller in my way, I cannot help wishing that she would
bear me company in the rest of my journey, although she were stepping
out of her own path to oblige me. And then, perhaps, we could put up in
the evening at the same inn; and be very happy in each other’s
conversation; recounting the difficulties and dangers we had passed in
our way to it.
I imagine that thou wilt be apt to suspect that some passages in this
letter were written in town. Why, Jack, I cannot but say that the
Westminster air is a little grosser than that at Hampstead; and the
conversation of Mrs. Sinclair and the nymphs less innocent than Mrs.
Moore’s and Miss Rawlins’s. And I think in my heart I can say and write
those things at one place which I cannot at the other, nor indeed any
where else.
I came to town about seven this morning—all necessary directions and
precautions remembered to be given.
I besought the favour of an audience before I set out. I was desirous
to see which of her lovely faces she was pleased to put on, after
another night had passed. But she was resolved, I found, to leave our
quarrel open. She would not give me an opportunity so much as to
entreat her again to close it, before the arrival of Lady Betty and my
cousin.
I had notice from my proctor, by a few lines brought by a man and
horse, just before I set out, that all difficulties had been for two
days past surmounted; and that I might have the license for fetching.
I sent up the letter to my beloved, by Mrs. Bevis, with a repeated
request for admittance to her presence upon it; but neither did this
stand me in stead. I suppose she thought it would be allowing of the
consequences that were naturally to be expected to follow the obtaining
of this instrument, if she had consented to see me on the contents of
this letter, having refused me that honour before I sent it up to
her.—No surprising her.—No advantage to be taken of her inattention to
the nicest circumstances.
And now, Belford, I set out upon business.