ca t
REGENT LIERART
Samuel Richardson
SHEILA KATE-SMITH
CHICAGO :
F. G. BROWNE
& CO.
bjC***
LONDON: HERBERT &
DANIEL
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION I
CALENDAR OF PRINCIPAL EVENTS 37
APPRECIATIONS FROM GREAT CRITICS . . 38
PAMELA, OR VIRTUE REWARDED . . .4!
CLARISSA, OR THE HISTORY OF A YOUNG LADY . 139
THE HISTORY OF SIR CHARLES GRANDISON . 243
A SHORT BIBLIOGRAPHY 365
INTRODUCTION
I.
THE chief interest of an author's life generally lies in
its relation to his writings, and it is scarcely remarkable
that where life and work touch most intimately the
finest flash of achievement should be the result. There
is, however, a rather rare type of author whose experi
ence runs a quiet course apart from his expression at
no point can we find any contact, the whole trend of
the one might be altered without influencing a hair's-
breadth the character of the other.
Richardson is a most perfect example of this class.
It is interesting to compare him with representatives of
the " life and experience " type, Defoe, Fielding,
Smollett, and, in more recent times, Charlotte Bronte.
The last, perhaps, offers the best points of comparison,
for her life was in every respect as quiet, monotonous,
even dull, as Richardson's own. .The great difference
between them is that, while each one of Miss Bronte's
novels reflects a separate phase of her existence, but
foV which it would never have been written, Richard
son, as far as we know, did not reproduce a single
character or episode from his outer world in the inner
I
2 INTRODUCTION
world of his imagination. If Charlotte Bronte had
never been to school at Cowan Bridge, or served
tedious months as a governess, we should never have
had yane Eyre, nor, without the visit to Brussels, should
we have had Villette or The Professor. But we cannot
say that if Richardson had never married Miss Martha
Wilde, or if he had never become Law Printer to the
King, or even if he had never endured some dreary
months of domestic trouble, we should have lost a
single character or a single scene of Pamela, Clarissa,
or Sir Charles Grandison. He drew his characters and
their adventures entirely from his inner consciousness,
not only in their broader outlines but in their minutest
details.
For an account of his early years we have to depend
on Richardson himself. His father was a joiner, in
the days when the trade was often combined with
some practice of drawing and architecture. " His skill
and ingenuity, and an understanding superior to his
business, with his remarkable integrity of heart and
manners, made him personally beloved by several
persons of rank, among whom were the Duke of Mon-
mouth and the first Earl of Shaftesbury. . . . Their
known favour for him having, on the Duke's attempt
on the crown, subjected him to be looked upon with a
jealous eye ... he thought it proper, on the decolla
tion of the first-named unhappy nobleman, to quit his
London business, and retire to Derbyshire, though to
his great detriment."
Richardson was born in Derbyshire in 1689, and
was at first intended for the Church, but as his father
INTRODUCTION 3
could not afford to give him more than a " common
school education," the project had to be abandoned.
Richardson always had an unbounded admiration for
the clergy and the Church of England, and it is easy
to imagine him as an eighteenth-century divine. If he
had been ordained we should probably never have had his
novels, for it is doubtful whether he sat down to write
Pamela with any view other than " to cultivate
principles of virtue and religion in the minds of the
youth of both sexes." It was his exclusion from the
pulpit that sent him to the circulating library.
In the account he gives us of his boyhood it is interest
ing to note the two subjects which seem to have
absorbed him most "the cause ofjvirtue and religion,"
and what he called "the tender passion."" It is also
significant that both soon became associated with letter-
writing. " I was not eleven years old when I wrote
spontaneously a letter to a widow near fifty, who,
pretending a zeal for religion, and being a constant
frequenter of Church ordinances, was continually
fomenting quarrels and disturbances by backbiting and
scandal among all her acquaintance. I collected from
the Scripture texts that made against her. Assuming
the style and address of a person in years, I exhorted
her, I expostulated with her." In the matter of love
he was equally zealous, and doubtless better appreciated.
" I was not more than thirteen when three young
women, unknown to each other, having a high
opinion of my taciturnity, revealed to me their love
secrets in order to induce me to give them copies to
write after, or correct, for answers to their lovers'
4 INTRODUCTION
letters." In this way he had opportunity not only of
learning to write fair English, but of grounding himself
in that peculiar knowledge of feminine outlook and
motive which has made him unique among eighteenth-
century writers, if not in literature. "I have been
directed to chide and even repulse at the very time that
the heart of the chider or repulser was open before me,
overflowing with esteem and affection ; and the fair
repulser, dreading to be taken at her word, directing
this word or that expression to be softened or
changed."
After Richardson had left his native county, and had
become the industrious apprentice of John Wilde,
a printer, of Stationers' Hall, he continued to improve
himself in letter-writing, corresponding regularly with
a gentleman who, he tells us, was "a master of the
epistolary style." When the term of his apprentice
ship was over, he became a journeyman printer and
corrector of the press, and afterwards an overseer. In
1719 he set up for himself as a master printer in Fleet
Street, and two years later married the daughter of his
former master, Martha Allington Wilde.
His marriage necessitated his supplementing his in
come in some way ; accordingly we find him writing
prefaces, indexes, and dedications, as well as printing
them. In 1739 two booksellers, Osborne and Riving-
ton, knowing his skill as a letter-writer, asked him to
compile for them a volume of " familiar letters " for
the use of those who had difficulty in writing for them
selves. Richardson took characteristic advantage of
the occasion. " Will it be any harm, in a piece you
INTRODUCTION 5
want written so low, if we should instruct them how
to think and act in common cases, as well as indite ?"
At this, he tells us, " they were the more urgent with
me to begin the little volume." It did not, however,
appear till two years later, its progress being interrupted
by the writing and publication of Pamela. "In the
progress of it writing two or three letters to instruct
handsome girls who were obliged to go out to service,
as we phrase it, how to avoid snares that might be laid
against their virtue . . ." he remembered a story he
had heard many years before from a friend concerning
a certain Mr. B. who had married his mother's serving-
maid. " I thought the story, if written in an easy and
natural manner, suitable to the simplicity of it, might
possibly introduce a new species of writing, that might
possibly turn young people into a course of reading
different from the pomp and parade of romance-writing,
and dismissing the improbable and marvellous with
which novels generally abound, might promote the
cause of religion and virtue."
Pamela was published anonymously in 1740, and
was received with rapturous enthusiasm by a public
unaccustomed and delighted to find the ordinary joys
and sorrows of every day between the covers of a
novel. It seems also to have been welcomed as a
work of the most beautiful morality. It was recom
mended from the pulpit, and its moral influence
rated second to that of the Bible alone. Even Pope
admired Pamela, declaring that it would " do more
good than many volumes of sermons," and on the
secret of its authorship being divulged, he suggested
6 INTRODUCTION
that Richardson should write a sequel, satirizing the
society of the time. Richardson, however, would
probably have done nothing so foolish had not a
spurious continuation Pamela in High Life appeared
in 1741, and induced him, in self-defence, to write two
more volumes, which are not only unnecessary, but far
inferior to the first part. The second part of Pamela
is no witty exposure of the vices and follies of " high
life " Richardson would have been quite incapable of
taking such a liberty but a dreary exposition of the
heroine as " an affectionate wife, a faithful friend, a
polite and kind neighbour, an indulgent mother, and
a beneficent mistress."
For eight years Richardson worked enthusiastically
and industriously, both at his printing-office and at
his writing-table, and in 1748 appeared the novel
which has universally been acknowledged his master
piece Clarissa^ or the History of a Young Lady. It
found even greater contemporary favour than Pamela^
in spite of the fact that it was published in two parts,
with a seven months' interval between them, during
which the catastrophe of the story leaked out through
the indiscretion of the author's lady confidantes. It
at once made Richardson the most popular writer of
his day, and won him fame and praise not only at
home but abroad, where Diderot lauded it to extrava
gance, and Rousseau paid it the compliment of
imitation.
In 1754 appeared The History of Sir Charles Grandi-
50, in a Series of Letters. It is certainly not so fine
a work as Clarissa indeed, some critics have rated it
INTRODUCTION 7
below Pamela but it was received with little less
enthusiasm. With it Richardson completed his literary
scheme. His object had been to write three novels
dealing with lower-class, middle-class, and upper-class
life respectively, and though his qualifications for dealing
with fashionable life were not such as would secure
entire success, Sir Charles must be acknowledged a
fitting conclusion to a trilogy which stands unique
in English literature. All three novels were translated,
soon after their publication, into French, German,
Dutch, Italian, and Spanish. " We may be proud of
Richardson," writes Professor Saintsbury, "and justly
proud, for the very reason that he ranks among the
extremely few writers who have achieved the extra
ordinary honour of popularity, both immediate and
lasting, in countries other than their own."
During this period of success, Richardson continued
to live the life of a plain, hard-working tradesman. In
1754 he was made master of the Stationers' Company,
and in 1760 he bought a moiety of the patent of Law
Printer to the King. In 1754 he also moved from
his country house at North End, Fulham, to another,
more imposing, at Parson's Green ; but he continued
to go regularly to his office, by this time transferred to
larger premises in Salisbury Court. It was in Salisbury
Court, where his town house also stood, that he was
seized with a paralytic stroke on July 2, 1761. He
died on the 4th, and was buried in St. Bride's, Fleet
Street, where his first wife had been laid in 1731. He
was twice married the second time to Elizabeth
Leake, the daughter of a bookseller at Bath but
8 INTRODUCTION
though he had twelve children, only four survived
him.
For the last years of his life Richardson was a
valetudinarian ; he suffered from a nervous disorder,
brought on by a series of domestic trials the loss of
his first wife and all her children, of his father and
two brothers, and " a friend more valuable than most
brothers." He was a vegetarian in an age when
vegetarianism was looked upon as a form of insanity,
and a total abstainer in days when even the virtuous
and decorous Clarissa could be allowed a glass of beer.
As time wore on his frailty increased, so that at length
he could not lift a glass to his lips without help. He
seems, however, to have attended to his business to the
very last, though he preferred to give instructions to
his workmen in writing, shrinking from the possibility
of any noise or altercation.
During his famous years he was surrounded by what
Mrs. Barbauld calls " a flower-garden of ladies," and
Dr. Johnson rather unkindly, yet perhaps truthfully,
suggests that he chose female society because he found
in women a more uncritical and effusive admiration
than in his own sex. Most certainly his chief failing
was vanity, and it is no doubt for this reason that we
do not find a single instance of friendship between him
and one of his more famous contemporaries. He de
lighted to encourage and patronize men halfway up
the ladder, or who were in no danger of becoming his
rivals in his own field such as Aaron Hill, Colley
Cibber, and Dr. Johnson in his unfortunate days if
only they were willing to offer the incense without
INTRODUCTION 9
which he could not breathe ; but his attitude towards
the great fictionists of his time, especially Fielding,
shows an unhealthy sensitiveness of criticism, and a far
from generous rivalry.
In his private life Richardson was hospitality and
charity itself; his house was always open to his friends,
and his purse to the poor. In an age of looseness and
coarseness his morals and conversation were exception
ally pure, and he was totally free of any despicable
tendency to make his literary fame a stepping-stone
to the favour of the rich and great. On the whole,
his faults seem to have been the faults of a constricted
rather than of a little nature, and no doubt some of
them were due to that strange feminine quality which
permeated his entire outlook as well as his writings,
making his outlook trivial and his writings great.
II.
In dealing with Richardson as a writer, one is con
fronted by a series of paradoxes ; for one has to do
with a novelist who wrote with a high moral purpose
books of very dubious morality, who, regarded to-day
as one of the most delicate-minded and verbally pure
writers of the eighteenth century, was charged in his
own time with bringing blushes to the cheeks of the
young ladies who read and enjoyed Tom Jones, who,
a plain man in every respect, gives us a universe seen
entirely from a woman's point of view. It is further
paradoxical that Richardson should be a paradox.
There is nothing in the least paradoxical on the
io INTRODUCTION
surface of his good, simple, uneventful life, and no
one would have been more astonished at some of the
results of his work than the author himself.
Richardson wrote his novels in the twofold capacity
of moralist and novelist. The first he considered the
most important vocation ; it was the cry of the dis
appointed clergyman in him. For the sake of the first
alone he became the second, but it is only for the sake
of the second that he is tolerated as the first. He is
a moralist by design and a genius by accident, con
sequently he is a far finer genius than moralist.
He is one of the few writers whom one can un
hesitatingly describe as a genius, a word which at once
suggests the spiritual and subconscious. The definition
of genius as " an infinite capacity for taking pains " is
more edifying than appliable. If it were rigorously
enforced, then Shakespeare would appear a poorer
genius than some Grub-Street translator. Genius is
the supernatural in literature. A keen observer, with
a sound idea of his native language and a good control
of his reasoning faculties, has it in his power to produce
a work of any excellence short of genius, but for a
work of genius more indefinite and more spiritual
qualities are required ; it is not merely the case of a
fine imagination or deep powers of intuition, but of
something beyond both and yet akin to both.
Of the two aspects of genius, the imaginative aspect
and the intuitive aspect, Richardson was best endowed
with the second. An imaginative writer always leaves
much to his readers' imagination, but Richardson leaves
nothing. His wonderful knowledge of lives, loves,
INTRODUCTION 1 1
and thoughts, of which he can have had little or no
experience, is due to a typically feminine characteristic
the intuition by means of which the law of compensa
tion has atoned to woman for a poor judgment and a
treacherous imagination. It is this power which is in
a great degree responsible for the feminism of Richard
son's writings. It is no exaggeration to say that each
of his three books might have been written by a woman.
It is not only that his heroines are real women, in
striking contrast to most heroines of man-made fiction,
but he writes about them from a woman's point of
view. His personal character, though far from effe
minate, seems to have been essentially feminine. He
had all a woman's sensitiveness which explains,
though it cannot excuse, his attitude towards Swift,
Sterne, Fielding, and other famous contemporaries ; he
had all a woman's insight into motive, all a woman's
love of detail and the external, all a woman's faultiness
of judgment and lack of true proportion.
It is interesting to compare Richardson's heroines
with those of Fielding, his great rival and antithesis.
Fielding's bouncing, big-hearted heroines are not, pro
perly speaking, women at all. Fanny and Sophia are
unblushingly boys, while Amelia is a woman seen
from the outside, a charming outside it must be owned,
but none the less Amelia, seen from Fielding's point
of view, whereas Pamela is never seen from any point
of view but Pamela's. It seems strange, then, that
while we unhesitatingly add both Sophia and Amelia
to the intimate circle of our friends, we hesitate about
admitting Pamela or Clarissa, Anna Howe or Charlotte
12 INTRODUCTION
Grandison. The reason, Professor Saintsbury sug
gests, is that " even Pamela, even Anna Howe, even
Charlotte Grandison, is not quite flesh and blood to
day." Richardson's women are women, but, para-
'doxically, they are not quite human beings. The
woman is there, but she is so muffled in the frills and
furbelows of hyperbole, and laced up in the stays of
convention, that we lose sight of her humanity, and
find her as out of place in our affections as her clothes
would be in our streets. Sophia and Amelia wore
mittens and paniers ; charming Fanny wore ear-caps
like Pamela, but it is possible to imagine Fanny, Sophia,
and Amelia in the garments of to-day, whereas the
clothes of Richardson's heroines are, so to speak, sewn
on to them, and those who wish to make friends with
Pamela, Clarissa, or Harriet Byron, must not hope to
bring them into this century, but must go boldly to meet
them in their own.
In spite of his freedom from exterior coarseness, a
far deeper knowledge of, and sympathy with, the
eighteenth century is necessary for the reader of
Richardson than for the reader of Fielding, Smollett,
or Sterne. Fielding and Smollett and Sterne give us
an eighteenth-century picture which it is possible to
appreciate from a twentieth-century point of view ;
but in order to enjoy and understand Richardson, one
must transport oneself, outlook and all, to the days of
artificial sentiment and commercial morality. It is
unfair to judge a lamplight drawing by daylight,
neither is it fair to take Richardson out of the groping
righteousness of his time and station and judge him in
INTRODUCTION 13
the light of modern standards. One is repaid by the
fact that a more truly inward knowledge of eighteenth-
century middle-class life and thought is to be found in
Richardson than in any other writer. The fighting
life of the time, the life of the inns, of the pleasure-
gardens, of the ships, the exterior and exceptional life
of adventure, intrigue, and romance, we find magnifi
cently set forth in the pages of Fielding and Smollett ;
but life as it was lived by women in quiet manor-
houses and cottages, the domestic life of the period, the
everyday of yesterday, is given us nowhere with such
minuteness, truth, and sympathy, as in the novels of
Richardson.
In this respect the author's limited and highly
feminine outlook is distinctly an advantage, but in
others it has grave drawbacks. For one thing, it is
responsible for the failure of his male characters.
On the whole, it seems as if he had taken more pains
over them than over his women, and certainly as if he
had found more difficulty in their presentation. They
are more elaborately constructed, more explained, and
there is more art about them than about anything
else in Richardson. But they do not live there
is some fine machinery, but no flesh and blood to
cover it.
They have, also, a far more serious drawback,
which is due not so much to the author's feminism as
to a flaw in his feminism not only do they represent
a woman's outlook, but the outlook of an inferior type
of woman. In this respect it is interesting to compare
Richardson with George Meredith, the greatest and
i 4 INTRODUCTION
most convincing feminist of modern times. Directly
the comparison is made we grasp the reason of
Richardson's failure he does not give us the best in
womanhood. His women are the best of an inferior
type, models of chastity, charity, and submission, but
falling woefully short in the broader virtues of courage
and dignity, spirit and truth. "There is always
something," says Dr. Johnson, " which Clarissa
prefers to truth." Meredith's heroines, on the other
hand, are all women of uprightness of character and
greatness of soul ; though probably they do not come
so near to their author's ideal as Richardson's do to his,
that ideal is infinitely higher, infinitely more catholic.
Diana Warwick belongs altogether to a superior order
of beings to Clarissa Harlowe ; she does not, perhaps,
act up to her principles as loyally as Clarissa, but she
falls short of her aim only because it is the sky,
whereas Richardson's heroines seldom lift their eyes
above the trees of virtue and decorum. We may feel
quite sure that in none of " Antonia's " novels were
there heroes of the type of Lovelace or Sir Charles
Grandison women are generally more short-sighted
in these matters than men, but Diana would at once
have recognized the former as a bounder and the
latter as a prig, whereas by Richardson's heroines they
were regarded as, respectively, a fine gentleman and a
saint. They are women's men, no doubt, but men
beloved of an inferior order of women, the type which
surrounded Richardson as he wrote.
The unfortunate men are further handicapped by
the fact that they are fashioned expressly to deal with
INTRODUCTION 15
certain circumstances, instead of such circumstances
being the logical outcome of their character and
conduct. Lovelace, for instance, has to be made not
only a heartless but a motiveless libertine, and Mr. B.
has to play the double part of villain and hero, with
the further disadvantage that he does not play them
together but consecutively, without even a breathing
space between.
Richardson the novelist undoubtedly suffered
much from Richardson the moralist. " He always
valued himself upon the morality of his pieces," says
Mrs. Barbauld, " much more than upon his invention,
and had partly persuaded himself, and partly been per
suaded by others, into the idea that he was the great
reformer of the age." He liked to class his novels,
not with masterpieces of English fiction, such as
Gulliver's Travels, Tom Jones, or Tristram Shandy, but
with such works as Taylor's Holy Living and Dying,
Nelson's Fasts and Festivals, and The Whole Duty
of Man. His moral purpose, with his enormous length,
is the chief barrier between him and modern readers,
for not only is it constantly obtruding itself to the
point of nauseation, but in more than one instance it is
hopelessly perverted and unhealthy. His morality was
the morality of the eighteenth century- that it was no
worse is proved by the eagerness with which the
eighteenth century welcomed him as a moralist.
Pamela perhaps the greatest ethical monstrosity in
existence was hailed as " the best book ever published
and calculated to do most good," while one of Richard
son's correspondents writes " that if all other books were
1 6 INTRODUCTION
to be burnt, this book, next to the Bible, ought to be
preserved."
Nowadays we have gone to the opposite extreme,
and the attitude of the modern critic is one of amused
contempt. It is dangerous, however, to insist that
Richardson as a moralist is wholly negligible, or to
deny that in some respects he was wiser not only than
his own times, but than ours. He never forces any
crude, half-thought-out problem on his readers' con
sideration ; we may rise from a Richardson sermon
either thoroughly disgusted or irreverently amused, but
never in that state of tingling, unwholesome perplexity
which is the invariable result of contact with raw
doubts or the consideration of a question which the
author frankly begs in the last chapter. Moreover,
Richardson's morality is quite untainted by party spirit or
special pleading ; he is there to recommend goodness
and to condemn evil, not to cry up the goodness of any
special system, or to attack the evils of any particular
class. "We shall probably," says Mrs. Barbauld, "not
find any writings of the class of novels in which virtue
and piety are so strongly and uniformly recommended,
without any party spirit or view to recommend a
particular system."
III.
Richardson's fame undoubtedly suffered from his
popularity. He was once the fashion, and, like every
thing which was once the fashion, in course of time he
became unfashionable, and suffered more dispraise and
neglect than doubtless would have been his lot had he
INTRODUCTION 17
never been worshipped so unquestioningly or extolled so
unblushingly.
Perhaps the novel which has withstood with least
success his collapse as a fashionable writer is Pamela.
As early as 1778, Mrs. Chapone, once one of the
author's most enthusiastic admirers, confesses that " it
appeared somewhat different from what I thought of it
thirty years ago." Nowadays, though we still appre
ciate its literary qualities, we can only marvel that it
was ever received as a work of high morality. Fashions
change in morals as in other things, but the morality of
Pamela is not merely old-fashioned, it is perverted and
pernicious, and the reader sometimes has difficulty not
to sneer at the society which was able to see anything
improving in this farrago of distorted ethics.
That society, cultivated as well as uncultivated, saw
little to cavil at from a moral point of view is evident
from a study of contemporary criticism. Objections
were made, but merely to trivial matters of style and
method. In the " Curious Letters to the Author," pre
fixed to the edition of 1785, the "anonymous gentle
man from the country " has nothing further to suggest
than " that the style ought to be a little raised, at least
as soon as Pamela knows the gentleman's love is
honourable," or " that the passage where the gentleman
is said to span the waist of Pamela with his hands,
is enough to ruin a nation of women by tight-lacing."
All that Aaron Hill can see to object to is "that
mothers and grandmothers in families of affluent
fortune " will have reason to fear " that the example of
so amiable a gentleman as Mr. B. may be followed by
2
1 8 INTRODUCTION
the Jackies their sons." Few seem to have realized
the genuine shortcomings of the novel, except " Conny
Keyber " in his " Apology for the Life of Mrs. Shamela
Andrews, in which the many notorious falsehoods, and
misrepresentations of a Book called Pamela, are exposed
and refuted, and all the matchless arts of that young
Politician set in a true and just light."
" Conny Keyber " is almost certainly Fielding, for
not only is his pseudonym evidently a travesty of the
name of Fielding's chief butt, Colley Cibber, but
Mr. B. becomes Mr. Booby, as in Joseph Andrews,
and the humour of the whole is typical of the author
of Tom Jones. The objections made to Pamela at the
end of this parody show a true grasp of the book's
limitations and anticipate much modern criticism.
"Young gentlemen are here taught that to marry
their mother's chambermaids, and to indulge in the
passion of lust, at the expense of reason and common
sense, is an act of religion, virtue, and honour; and,
indeed, is the surest road to happiness. . . . All
chambermaids are strictly enjoined to look out after
their masters ; they are taught to use little arts to that
purpose, and lastly are countenanced in impertinence
to their superiors and in betraying the secrets of
families."
If it could be stripped of its morality, Pamela would
perhaps be found a greater literary achievement than
Sir Charles Grandison. It possesses to a greater
extent than either Grandison or Clarissa that air of
" pleasing simplicity " to which Richardson owes so
much of his greatness, and Pamela is perhaps the
INTRODUCTION 19
best-drawn character in the three novels. She is an
admirable picture of a little eighteenth-century serving-
maid : good and conscientious ; obsequious, even
grovelling, to her superiors, though sometimes capable
of pertness ; in many ways beautifully innocent, in
others extraordinarily wary and sophisticated.
Richardson's mistake lies in forcing this very human
and faulty little baggage on our attention as a model of
all the virtues, particularly of the virtue in which she
is most lacking. During the earlier letters, when we
see Pamela as a simple, childlike, happy-minded girl,
her suspicions all unaroused, or later, when, though
convinced of her master's evil intentions, she is equally
sure of her own indignation, we are inclined both to
love and to sympathize. It is when we find her stay
ing on in her seducer's house after she is free to leave '
it ; acknowledging a liking for him in spite of his in
sulting grossness ; admitting the odious Mrs. Jewkes to
familiarity and abandoning Mr. Williams, for fear of
offending her master; finally, though steadfastly re
fusing to satisfy his lust in the " uncertificated line,"
both ready and eager to do so under the legal covert of
matrimony then our sense of decency is outraged, and
we are tempted to consign Pamela and her story to the
devil, with whom she dialogues so edifyingly.
The character-drawing in Pamela is not, as a whole,
equal to that in the other two novels. The heroine's
father is the best of minor characters, though he shares
his daughter's tendency to grovel, and Mrs. Jervis,
Longman, and the other servants of Mr. B. are all
well realized servants to the core. But the " high
20 INTRODUCTION
life " characters Lady Davers and Mr. B. himself
must be described as utter failures. Both are the
originals of types found more fully developed in the
other two novels one of Richardson's faults as a writer
is a lack of variety in his characterization Lady
Davers becomes Anna Howe in Clarissa and Lady G.
in Grandison, while in Mr. B. are the crude beginnings
of Lovelace and Sir Hargrave Pollexfen.
Clarissa, the second novel of the trilogy, has been
almost unanimously declared Richardson's masterpiece.
Few would seriously dispute its claims ; not only does
it give us one of the most noble and most touching
figures in English fiction, but the whole scheme of the
story, its progress, its climax, its catastrophe, have
about them a ring of inevitable tragedy, a high
sublimity, a magnetic beauty, which lift them not
only above Pamela and Grandison^ but indeed above
any novel of the eighteenth century, that Golden Age
of novel -writing. Alfred de Musset's well-known
definition of Clarissa as "le premier roman du monde"
is not so uncritical as would at first appear. When
we come to examine the heroine and her story, we
see in them the apotheosis of that hidden and spiritual
gift which had struggled with the bad taste of Pamela
and was to triumph over the moralizings of Grandison.
Clarissa is, indeed, a work of genius. There is no
craft about it, except of the poorest kind ; it is full ot
faults of construction and errors in observation and
judgment ; its situations are connected by a chain of
improbabilities ; its chief male character is absolutely
impossible and yet it triumphs. It is the book into
INTRODUCTION 21
which went all the immense force of the author's
intuition, all his sympathy with and comprehension of
womanhood, all his zeal for virtue, and his pity for the
unfortunate.
Undoubtedly its chief beauty lies in the character
of the heroine. Like Pamela, Clarissa is not quite
what her author intended, but this time it is all to
her advantage. Richardson meant her to be some
thing above the goodness of this world, crowned with
every virtue as she is crowned with every sorrow.
But the divine Clarissa is in many ways beautifully
human. We forget her " needlework and discretion "
when we see her tearing Lovelace's ruffles ; we forget
her advice to the daughters of the poor to "fly the
delusions of men " when we find her blundering so
innocently and helplessly into the snares a man has
spread. There is about her, too, a mingling of
obstinacy and irresolution which is essentially human
and essentially feminine.
If the moral of Pamela is virtue rewarded, the moral
of Clarissa is surely virtue triumphant. Clarissa is a
supremely moral work, far more moral, perhaps, than
its author intended. Richardson's chief end was doubt
less to show " the distresses that may attend the conduct-
both of parents and children in relation to marriage ;"
but, as Mrs. Barbauld beautifully says, "The real
moral of Clarissa is that virtue is triumphant in every
situation ; that in circumstances the most painful and
degrading, in a prison, in a brothel, in grief, in dis
traction, in despair, it is still lovely, still commanding,
still the object of our veneration, of our fondest affec-
22 INTRODUCTION
tion ; that if it is seated on the ground it can still say
with Constance
" ' Here is my throne ; kings come and bow to it.' "
After the contemplation of the heroine and her
victory it is something in the nature of bathos to turn
to the hero or villain Lovelace. On him Richard
son has bestowed far more elaborate efforts with a far
poorer result. Lovelace is the creature of art, whereas
Clarissa, together with the real significance of her story,
is the accident of genius. Lovelace may possibly have
been drawn from life. The author, in a letter to
Aaron Hill, says that he is from the same model as
Mr. B., " made still worse by my mingling the worst
of two other characters, that were as well known to
me, of that gentleman's acquaintance." The gentle
man referred to may possibly be the Duke of Wharton,
with whom Richardson was associated, during his
earlier years, in the publication of The True Briton ;
but Mr. Austin Dobson, in his Life of Richardson,
discounts the idea that he means more than that he
could parallel Lovelace's villainies in real life if he chose.
That though, as he tells us, he had "never spoken to
a licentious woman," he was not unfamiliar with male
scoundrels and their ways, is evident from his friendship
not only with the Duke of Wharton, but with that
infamous old rake, Colley Cibber. If Lovelace were
actually drawn from life, the circumstance does not
say much for Richardson's powers of observation, for
certainly no such man as Lovelace ever existed. " Is
not the Lovelace of Richardson," asks Twining, " more
INTRODUCTION 23
out of nature, more improbable, than the Caliban of
Shakespeare ? The latter is, at least, consistent. I
can imagine such a monster as Caliban; I never could
imagine such a man as Lovelace."
There is little doubt, however, that though Lovelace
has all the improbability inherent in a character made
expressly to fit highly improbable circumstances, he is
richly endowed with charm, even with fascination.
He is certainly not in the least a fine gentleman, and
Hazlitt has gone rather far in speaking of the " regality
of Lovelace," but there is about him all the glamour
of birth and prodigality, and, in addition, a certain
saucy liveliness which makes him essentially a u woman's
villain," just as Sir Charles Grandison is a " woman's
hero." Indeed, the ladies of his time found him so
attractive that Richardson felt in duty bound to give
them a worthier object for their affection. Accordingly,
as soon as it could be written and that was neces
sarily not very soon appeared The History of Sir Charles
Grandison.
This is the most elaborate of all three novels, and
shows, perhaps, the highest literary finish. It would
seem as if at last the fact were dawning on Richardson
that he was a novelist as well as a moralist, and that the
former vocation had its duties and interests as well as
the latter. In Pamela and Clarissa respectively there
are only two characters of real importance the heroine
and Mr. B. in the first, the heroine and Lovelace in
the second. Between those couples the action is
fought out, the other characters being entirely sub
sidiary and comparatively unimportant. In Grandison,
24 INTRODUCTION
however, there is a large number of important characters,
whose fortunes are involved in a multitude of side-
issues and by-plots the whole linked together with
some skill.
The connecting link is the hero. Every incident is
described and every character depicted with a view to
illustrate some perfection of the matchless Sir Charles.
Richardson's first idea was to call the book The Good
Man y and Sir Charles represents his ideal of manly
virtue. As such he has been subjected to a good deal
of rather merciless criticism. Richardson does much
to defeat his own aims by driving home to us his
hero's perfections with such insistence that we become
heartily tired of them, and are inclined to dismiss the
mirror of all the virtues as an unqualified prig. As an
example, moreover, Sir Charles is of little use, owing
to the extreme easiness and pliability of his circum
stances. " It is impossible," says Scott, " that any
very deep lesson can be derived from contemplating a
character which is placed in circumstances of worldly
ease and prosperity that render him entirely superior to
temptation." Everyone admires Sir Charles ; even his
enemies are compelled to do him homage. He knows
nothing of the temptations which arise when " the
just upright man is laughed to scorn." He sails no
tempest ; the little ripples of adversity break under his
ship's keel, and scarcely heave the bows. He owes
far too much to fortune and the fencing-master. It
must have been but a poor help to an eighteenth-
century anti-duellist to be told that if he did not want
to fight, all he had to do was to disarm his rival before
INTRODUCTION 25
he could put in a thrust. Richardson held decided
views on one of the chief scandals of his age, but he
was not brave enough to make his hero bear not only
the glory of the reformer but the shame.
Sir Charles's very virtues are scarcely the kind to
inspire imitation. It is true that he is merciful to his
beast a point strangely neglected by the average
eighteenth-century moralist and refuses to have his
horses' tails docked according to the prevailing fashion ;
but in other matters he is seldom free from conven
tionality, and his qualities are of a stolid, respectable,
uninspiring order, which scarcely makes for beauty or
even for true dignity. He is totally devoid of any
moving, human passion ; he is able with perfect de
corum to love two ladies at once, and is apparently
equally ready to marry either. He represents, as
Leslie Stephen says, " a rather carnal ideal ; he suggests
to us those well-fed, almost beefy and corpulent angels,
whom the contemporary school of painters sometimes
portray. No doubt they are angels, for they have
wings and are seated in the clouds, but there is nothing
ethereal in their whole nature."
It would, however, be grossly unfair to Richardson
to dismiss his hero as a mere prig and failure. In Sir
Charles he has given us his ideal ; conscientiously and
enthusiastically he has built up for us the character of
" a man of religion and virtue," who, if he is too
redolent of his century to be acceptable in ours, repre
sents none the less the highest which that century, as
a century, was able to attain. If we have not a man
righteous beyond his times, we have at least a man
26 INTRODUCTION
righteous to the fullest extent of his times, and the
character of Sir Charles Grandison will help us under
stand those times more thoroughly not by the mere
study of their history, but by the consideration of their
ideals.
Of the two heroines, Clementina is perhaps the
most attractive. Harriet Byron suffers from her voca
tion, as " a model of true female excellence." She is
dutiful, kind-hearted, even generous to a degree, but
she is too communicative for our modern taste, and, at
the same time, is rather quiet and colourless. " Her
character," says Mrs. Barbauld, " has no very prominent
feature, except her love for Sir Charles." Clementina,
however, belongs to a rarely delineated type the
gentle bigot and there is about her a delicate pathos
which at once wins our sympathy. We may not feel
inclined to agree with Dr. Warton, who doubts
" whether the madness of Lear is wrought up and ex
pressed by so many little strokes of nature and passion,"
and declares that " it is absolute pedantry to prefer and
compare the madness of Orestes, in Euripides, to this
of Clementina"; but there is no denying the beauty
and tragedy of the Italian scenes, which, moreover,
have about them a certain air of " largeness " that is
generally lacking in Richardson. They point to an
enlargement of his outlook. Lady Mary Wortley
Montague may swear that he knows nothing of the
Italian aristocracy, but his attempt to portray it shows
a widening of sympathies hitherto confined in rather a
petty sphere.
The immense amount of detail in the last volume,
INTRODUCTION 27
in which Sir Charles's family mansion is described at
truly staggering length, seems to have appealed specially
to Richardson's leisured readers. A rather pathetic
evidence of this is " The History of Sir Charles Grand
son. Spiritualized in part. A Vision with Reflections
thereon. By Theophila" which was published in 1760.
" Perusing last night," says the author in her Intro
duction, " the beginning of the seventh volume of Sir
Charles Grandison, where he introduces his happy
bride to his paternal seat, surrounded by all her con
gratulating friends, I could not help thinking it a
proper representation of the happiness of a pious soul,
who, after many years' conflict with the infirmities
and uncertainties of this present state, finds herself
at once released by death, and put in immediate and
full possession of the joy of her Lord." Perhaps it
would be no exaggeration to say that Richardson was
most appreciated in his own times for the very charac
teristics we most decry in ours.
IV.
As a novelist pure and simple, Richardson fails,
owing to his refusal to regard his novels as more than a
means to an end. Of artistic construction and literary
grace he thought little or nothing, and his achievements
on the purely literary side of his work are as accidental
as they are magnificent. Perhaps it is this very air of
accident which gives him so great a charm. One is
not irritated by conscious straining after effect or
originality, by "fine writing," or precious graces.
28 INTRODUCTION
His style has been immensely discussed, some critics
unhesitatingly condemning it as " heavy, vulgar, and
embarrassed," while others praise it as " a sort of Dutch
painting, of extraordinary minuteness." No doubt it
is neither polished nor effective, but it is the ordinary
conversational style of the eighteenth century, and, as
such, adds to the value of his novels as faithful portraits
of the backwaters of that period. " Richardson's
novels deserve special mention," says Professor Fitz-
edward Hall in his Modern English, "as being a rich
storehouse of the conversational dialect of their author's
age"; and in a very interesting pamphlet, Studies in the
Language of Samuel Richardson, published recently at
Upsala, Wilhelm Uhrstrom proves this assertion by an
exhaustive study of eighteenth-century language of
the colloquial and conversational, as apart from the
literary style showing in the course of it that many
of Richardson's clumsy and seemingly ungrammatical
expressions, such as the Anglo-Saxon comparison and
the omission of the nominative relative, were part of
the common syntax of his times.
It is, however, impossible to deny the truth of Mrs.
Barbauld's criticism, that though " he wrote with
facility, expressions as well as thoughts flowing readily
from his pen, we do not find in his writings either the
ease and elegance of good company, or the polished
period of the finished author. They are not only over
loaded with a redundance of complimentary expression,
which gives a stiffness to the dialogue . . . but they
are blemished with little flippancies of expression, new-
coined words, and sentences involved and ill-con-
INTRODUCTION 29
structed." " Is there not here and there a nursery
phrase ?" diffidently asks one of Richardson's corre
spondents ; and the answer must be, Yes, there cer
tainly is. Throughout the whole of the author's work
one notices an utter lack of culture ; education is un
doubtedly there, but of culture not a vestige. Richard
son may sneer at Fielding as " low," but Fielding
brings more culture and literary flavour into a sponging-
house than Richardson brings into a drawing-room.
In Samuel Richardsons Belesenheit, Dr. Erich Pcetzsche
shows by means of quotations from the novels and the
correspondence, that the author was acquainted with
an enormous mass of English and foreign literature,
and with the best-known classical writers. The quo
tations, however, in many cases do not prove that these
were known to Richardson more than by name. His
profession would make him familiar with the names
and works of his contemporaries, and it is noticeable
that by far the largest number of quotations are either
from the author's contemporaries or from his imme
diate predecessors. A striking and significant gap is
made by the omission of all Elizabethan writers except
Spenser and Shakespeare Richardson had evidently
but little acquaintance with the most educative and
expansive, as well as the most brilliant, period of
English literature. As for the foreign authors, he can
have known their works only through translations, for
he himself confesses that he had no knowledge of any
foreign language, not excepting French, though The
Life of Balbe Berton, translated from the French, by a
Lady, gives notice that it has been " revised by Mr.
30 INTRODUCTION
Richardson." As to the classics, his knowledge was
confined to translations and hackneyed quotations, the
assistance of his friends being required for any ambitious
efforts in the way of pedantry, such as Brand's letter
in Clarissa.
Perhaps the most salient characteristic of Richard
son's style is its enormous prolixity. In this respect
he has hardly escaped from the influence of the
romance-writers he despised. Not that Clarissa is as
long as Le Grand Cyrus^ but it is as long as it could
possibly be made, with the further disadvantage that
not only are incidents detailed at enormous length,
but the same event is often described a second or a
third time, by another letter-writer, from another
point of view. This, however, as various critics have
pointed out, is a method which has its compensations.
To it we undoubtedly owe the intimate terms between
characters and reader which invariably exist during
the actual reading of the novel, though they are often
destroyed by cold criticism when the book is finished.
"With Richardson we slip invisible into the domestic
privacy of his characters," writes Jeffrey, " we feel [for
them] as for our private friends and acquaintance, with
whose whole situation we are familiar." " There is,"
says Mr. Austin Dobson, "an extraordinary quality
about that nerveless, ambling, redundant style of his,
which, to those who persevere, gradually absorbs and
fascinates."
No doubt that even more would have been forgiven
Richardson had he possessed anything remotely
approaching a sense of humour. Some of the letters
INTRODUCTION 31
are amusing, no doubt, and Lovelace occasionally
shows wit as well as liveliness, but the humour is not
a part of the author himself, it is merely a part of his
characters, given them, perhaps, in order to provide the
necessary relief to the serious purpose of their creator.
It also lacks breadth and polish. "The gaiety of
Richardson's characters " again to quote Jeffrey
" is extremely girlish and silly, and is more like the
prattle of spoiled children than the wit and pleasantry
of persons acquainted with the world." It is some
times worse, for it shares the disadvantage of his men
characters, and is not only " girlish," but the wit
beloved of an inferior type of girl. " Anna Howe
and Charlotte Grandison," writes a contemporary
woman-critic, Lady Mary Wortley Montague, "are
recommended as patterns of charming pleasantry, and
applauded by his saintlike dames, who mistake pert
folly for wit and humour and ill-nature for spirit and
fire. . . . Charlotte acts with an ingratitude, I think,
too black for human nature, with such coarse jokes
and low expressions as are only to be heard among the
lowest class of people."
However, a striking quality of Richardson's work is
that one cannot go far in the enumeration of its short
comings without being confronted by one of its most
sterling qualities that it is practically impossible to
criticize it in hot blood. The interest, in spite of long-
windedness, is so excellently maintained, and the
characters, in spite of stiffness and inconsistencies, so
lifelike, that one is carried breathlessly from one
incident to another, and criticism is smothered in
32 INTRODUCTION
emotion. While we read we cannot realize that our
excitement and our horror are ridiculous, that Pamela
is more of a prudent merchant than a modest maiden,
that Clarissa comes sometimes dangerously near a fool,
and that it is not worth while troubling whether so poor
a creature as Harriet Byron will marry Sir Charles
Grandison or not. We are infected by that Inner
most which, pushing aside the wrappers of convention
and the commonplace, grips hold of us and will not
let us go.
" The power of Richardson's painting in his deeper
scenes of tragedy never has been and probably never
will be excelled." Few who have read of the suffer
ings of Pamela and Clarissa will feel inclined to
dispute Scott's verdict. Richardson is at his best in
scenes of assailed and struggling innocence. When
we compare Pamela Andrews and Clarissa Harlowe
with Fielding's Sophia and Fanny under similar
circumstances, we at once grasp one point, at least, in
which Richardson rises infinitely superior to his rival.
Never have we had brought before us so poignantly
the sense of hopeless and helpless terror, of mad
struggling and mad anguish, which make for that
moment the loss of a purely physical chastity the most
awful and hideous calamity possible to poor women.
The scene in which Clarissa implores mercy from
Lovelace on the night of the fire now pleading u in
the anguish of her soul, her streaming eyes lifted up to
my face with supplicating softness, her bosom heaving
with sighs and broken sobs, as if to aid her quivering
lips," now sliding through his arms to lie a quivering
INTRODUCTION 33
heap of agony at his feet, now tearing his ruffles,
transformed by terror from a delicate Miss to a poor
little scratching animal this is surely one of the most
marvellous and most appalling scenes in fiction.
In the writing of such scenes Richardson has some
times been accused of coarseness and an inflaming
realism. "There are many lascivious images in it"
(Pamela), writes the author of Mrs. Shamela Andrews,
"very improper to be laid before the youth of either sex";
while Dr. Watts tells the author that the ladies com
plain that they cannot read certain passages without
blushing. The fact is that a little more verbal coarseness
would have done these passages no harm, for they would
then have become like similar passages in Smollett
crudely repulsive, and far less likely to inflame an
unguarded imagination. Richardson tells us, in his
preface to Pamela, that it is his object to effect the
good ends of the book " without raising a single idea
throughout the whole that shall shock the exactest
purity, even in the warmest of those instances where
purity would be most apprehensive." His mistake
undoubtedly lies in the limiting of purity to external
matters of phrase, and a failure to realize the safeguards
of aesthetic repulsion.
An attempt to appreciate Richardson as a novelist
would be incomplete without a survey of his influence
on the career of the novel, both at home and abroad.
Fielding has been called " the father of the English
novel," but it is doubtful if, had Richardson never
written Pamela, we should have heard of Fielding as
3
34 INTRODUCTION
more than a clever pamphleteer or an indifferent
playwright. Not that Richardson has any claims to
father English fiction. As early as the sixteenth century
Nash wrote The Unfortunate Traveller, the first English
novel, and a little over a hundred years later Defoe pub
lished Moll Flanders, Roxana, and Colonel Jack. These
deal with the lives of plain men and women, as distinct
from the princes and princesses of orthodox romance ;
but they all belong to the picaresque class of novel the
novel of the adventurous and the exceptional. It was
for Richardson to strip fiction of the abnormal, as
Defoe had stripped it of the impossible, to give us not
only men and women, but men and women in ordinary
circumstances.
Richardson was also the founder of the sentimental
school. The word " sentimental " had only just come
into use, and Richardson was both to popularize it and
to immortalize it. Though he would have been horrified
at the idea, it is to him we owe Sterne's Tristram
Shandy, the apotheosis of sentiment, with the saving
grace of humour. His influence on Fanny Burney,
Henry Mackenzie, and Henry Brooke is as easy to
trace and easier to account for. Jane Austen, we
know, was a sincere admirer of Richardson, and though
she is no sentimentalist, we probably owe many of her
inimitable feminine studies to the man who first made
women psychologically interesting in fiction.
On the Continent Richardson's influence is even
more remarkable. In Germany Sir Charles Grandlson
seems to have been the most popular of the novels ; it
certainly has characteristics likely to make special appeal
INTRODUCTION 35
to the Teutonic mind. It is the most slow moving of
the trio, the most substantial, and the most pretentious.
Its popularity is emphasized by Mus^us' parody,
Grandison der Zweite, an edition of which was pub
lished as late as 1803. Much of the German literature
of this period may be traced directly to Richardson
Gellert's Das Leben der Swedischen Grafin von G.,
Hermes' Geschichtc der Miss Fanny Wilkes, Lessing's
Miss Sara Sampson, and later and more indirectly
probably through the medium of La Nouvelle Htloise
the famous Sorrows of Werther.
In France both Pamela and Clarissa were preferred
to Grandison. It was Clarissa which inspired Rous
seau's La Nouvelle Heloise, published in 1760. This
novel is an imitation of Richardson in many respects ;
it is lengthy and sentimental, and departs from the
canons of contemporary romance in the exaltation of
the domestic virtues ; moreover, it is told in a series of
letters. However, in most ways, as was only to be
expected, Rousseau and Richardson are poles apart.
The morality of La Nouvelle Heloise is essentially
Gallic, and shocked the British author past expression.
Rousseau's chief aim did not happen to be " to cultivate
principles of virtue and religion in the youth of both
sexes," and though his novel contains a good deal of
moralizing, this is, so to speak, accidental to it, not, as
is the case with Clarissa, bound up with the very heart
of the story. Above all, Rousseau was a lover of
freedom and a worshipper of Nature. Richardson
cared nothing for the latter. " There is scarcely,"
says Sir Leslie Stephen, " throughout his books one
36 INTRODUCTION
description showing the power of appealing to emotions
through scenery." And the cause of the former was
scarcely advanced by the grovelling class-distinctions he
delighted both to practise and to preach.
The warmest, wildest praise Richardson ever received
undoubtedly comes from Diderot. It can hardly have
been equalled by the most enthusiastic of his female
coterie. The well-known loge in Le *J our nalEtr anger
is almost lyrical in its enthusiasm. ... " O Richard
son, Richardson, first of men in my eyes, you shall be
my reading at all times ! Pursued by pressing need
if my friend should fall into poverty if the limitations
of my fortune should prevent me from giving fit atten
tion to the education of my children I will sell my
books ; but you shall remain on the same shelf as
Moses, Euripides, and Sophocles, and I will read you
by turns."
" Voila ce qui s'appelle louer !"
SHEILA KAYE-SMITH.
CALENDAR OF PRINCIPAL EVENTS
IN RICHARDSON'S LIFE
1689. Born, in Derbyshire.
1706. Sent to London, and apprenticed to John Wilde,
printer.
1719. Started a printing business of his own.
1721. Married Martha, daughter of John Wilde.
1730. Death of his wife.
1740. Published Pamela.
1747-48. Published Clarissa.
1753. Published Sir Charles Grandison.
1754. Elected Master of the Stationers' Company.
1761. July 4, died of apoplexy.
37
APPRECIATIONS FROM GREAT
CRITICS
DR. JOHNSON
An author . . . who has enlarged the knowledge of
human nature, and taught the passions to move at the
command of virtue.
MRS. BARBAULD
The style of Richardson has the property of setting
before the reader, in the most lively manner, every circum
stance of what he means to describe. He has the accuracy
and finish of a Dutch painter . . . he is content to produce
effects by the patient labour of minuteness.
JEFFREY
The great excellence of Richardson's novels consists in
the unparalleled minuteness and copiousness of his descrip
tions, and in the pains he takes to make us thoroughly and
intimately acquainted with every particular in the character
and situation of the personages with whom we are occupied.
HAZLITT
Richardson seemed to spin his material entirely out of his
own brain, as if there had been nothing existing in the world
beyond the little room in which he sat writing. There is an
artificial reality about his work which is nowhere else to be
38
APPRECIATIONS FROM CRITICS 39
met with. . . . This kind of high finishing from imagina
tion is an anomaly in the history of human genius, and
certainly nothing so fine was ever produced by the same
accumulation of minute parts . . . The effect of reading
this work is like an increase of kindred.
SCOTT
The power of Richardson's painting in his deeper scenes
of tragedy never has been and probably never will be ex
celled. . . . The genius of Richardson must ever be
acknowledged to have done honour to the language in
which he wrote.
MACAULAY
Not read Clarissa! It you have once thoroughly entered
on Clarissa, and are infected by it, you can't leave it.
SIR LESLIE STEPHEN
... A sort of Dutch painting of extraordinary minute
ness. The art reminds us of the patient labour of a line-
engraver, who works for days at making out one little bit
of minute stippling and cross-hatching. The characters are
displayed to us step by step and line by line. We are
gradually forced into familiarity with them by a process
resembling that by which we learn to know people in
real life.
MRS. OLIPHANT (OF " CLARISSA ")
No Greek, no Italian, no English poet has painted such
a figure in the great picture gallery which is common to
the world. Neither ancient nor modern woman has ever
stood before us thus pale and splendid in the shame which
is not hers. . . . Almost every other victim shrinks and
burns with the stain of her own fault ; and even Lucretia
40 APPRECIATIONS FROM CRITICS
herself, if more awful, is less womanly, less tender, less
sweet than the maiden creature in whom nature and religion
reassert their right after the first moment of frenzy, who
calls for no vengeance, and can accept no expiation, and
dies smiling, of no external wound, but only by the deadly-
puncture of the shame itself, making all other daggers un
necessary. . . . Not Desdemona, not Imogen, is of herself
a more tender creation. They are so much the more
fortunate that it is immortal verse that clothes them.
Clarissa, for her part, has but a garrulous and pottering
expositor, but in her own person she is divine.
AUSTIN DOBSON
There is an extraordinary quality about that nerveless,
ambling, redundant style of his, which, to those who per
severe, gradually absorbs and fascinates. . . . He was the
pioneer of a new movement ; the first certificated prac
titioner of sentiment. . . . There was something in his
nervous, high-strung constitution a feminine streak, as it
were which made him an unrivalled anatomist of female
character. He seems to have known women more inti
mately and instinctively than any other deceased author
we can recall.
PROFESSOR SAINTSBURY
We owe him much wonderful, if slightly lamp-lit and
lamp-smelling, analysis and description of motive and
conduct. Some altogether admirable scenes, a few perfectly
drawn if not quite vivified characters, a wonderful profusion
of outward detail, an exhibition of the art of evolving story
and personage from the inner consciousness, to which there
is hardly a parallel in point of minute finish.
PAMELA
OR
VIRTUE REWARDED
IN A SERIES OF FAMILIAR LETTERS FROM A
BEAUTIFUL YOUNG DAMSEL TO HER PARENTS !
PUBLISHED IN ORDER TO CULTIVATE PRINCIPLES
OF VIRTUE AND RELIGION IN THE YOUTH OF
BOTH SEXES
A NARRATIVE WHICH HAS ITS FOUNDATION IN
TRUTH ; AND AT THE SAME TIME THAT IT
AGREEABLY ENTERTAINS, BY A VARIETY OF CURIOUS
CALCULATED FOR AMUSEMENT ONLY, TEND TO
INFLAME THE MINDS THEY SHOULD INSTRUCT
PAMELA
OR
VIRTUE REWARDED
PAMELA TO HER FATHER AND MOTHER.
MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER, -I have
great trouble, and some comfort, to acquaint
you with. The trouble is, that my good lady
died of the illness I mention'd to you, and left
us all much griev'd for the loss of her ; for she
was a dear good lady, and kind to all us her
servants. Much I fear'd, that as I was taken
by her ladyship to wait upon her person, 1
should be quite destitute again, and forc'd to
return to you and my poor mother, who have
enough to do to maintain yourselves ; and, as
my lady's goodness had put me to write and cast
accompts, and made me a little expert at my
needle, and otherwise qualify 'd above my degree,
it was not every family that could have found a
place that your poor Pamela was fit for: But
43
44 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
God, whose graciousness to us we have so often
experienc'd, put it into my good lady's heart,
on her death-bed, just an hour before she
expir'd, to recommend to my young master all
her servants, one by one ; and when it came to
my turn to be recommended (for I was sobbing
and crying at her pillow) she could only say
My dear son ! and so broke off a little ; and
then recovering Remember my poor Pamela !
And those were some of her last words ! O
how my eyes overflow ! Don't wonder to see
the paper so blotted !
Well, but God's will must be done ! and so
comes the comfort, that 1 shall not be obliged
to return back to be a burden to my dear
parents ! For my master said I will take care
of you all, my good maidens ; and for you,
Pamela, (and took me by the hand ; yes, he
took my hand before them all) for my dear
mother's sake, I will be a friend to you, and
you shall take care of my linen. God bless
him ! and pray with me, my dear father and
mother, for a blessing upon him : For he has
given mourning and a year's wages to all my
lady's servants ; and I, having no wages as yet,
my lady having said she would do for me as I
deserv'd, ordered the housekeeper to give me
PAMELA 45
mourning with the rest, and gave me with his
own hand four guineas, and some silver, which
were in my lady's pocket when she dy'd ; and
said, if I was a good girl, and faithful and
diligent, he would be a friend to me, for his
mother's sake. And so I send you these four
guineas for your comfort. I formerly sent you
such little matters as arose from my lady's
bounty, loth as you was always to take any thing
from me ; But Providence will not let me want ;
and I have made, in case of sudden occasions, a
little reserve (besides the silver now given me)
that I may not be obliged to borrow, and look
little in the eyes of my fellow-servants: And so
you may pay some old debt with part ; and
keep the other part to comfort you both. If I
get more, I am sure it is my duty, and it shall
be my care, to love and cherish you both ; for
you have lov'd and cherish'd me, when I could
do nothing for myself. I send them by John
our footman, who goes your way ; but he does
not know what he carries ; because I seal them
up in one of the little pill-boxes, which my
lady had, wrapp'd close in paper, that they may
not chink ; and be sure don't open it before
him.
I know, my dear father and mother, I must
46 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
give you both grief and pleasure ; and so I
will only say, pray for your Pamela ; who will
YOUR DUTIFUL DAUGHTER.
I have been scared out of my senses ; for just
now, as I was folding up this letter, in my late
lady's dressing - room, in comes my young
master ! Good sirs ! how I was frightened ! I
went to hide the letter in my bosom, and he,
seeing me tremble, said smiling To whom
have you been writing, Pamela ? I said, in my
confusion Pray, your honour, forgive me !
Only to my father and mother. Well, then,
let me see what a hand you write. He took it
without saying more, and read it quite through,
and then gave it me again ; and I said Pray
your honour, forgive me ! Yet I know not for
what : For he was not undutiful to his parents ;
and why should he be angry that I was dutiful
to mine ! And indeed he was not angry ; for
he took me by the hand, and said You are a
good girl, to be kind to your aged father and
mother. I am not angry with you for writing
such innocent matters as these ; tho you ought
to be wary what tales you send out of a family.
Be faithful and diligent ; and do as you should
do, and I like you the better for this. And
PAMELA 47
then he said Why, Pamela, you write a pretty
hand, and spell very well too. You may look
into any of my mother's books to improve
yourself, so you take care of them.
To be sure I did nothing but curt'sy and cry,
and was all in confusion, at his goodness.
Indeed, he was once thought to be wildish ; but
he is now the best of gentlemen, I think !
But I am making another long letter : So
will only add to it, that I shall ever be Your
dutiful Daughter,
PAMELA ANDREWS.
HER FATHER IN ANSWER.
MY DEAR CHILD, Your letter was indeed a
great trouble, and some comfort, to me, and to
your poor mother. We are troubled, to be
sure, for your good lady's death, who took such
care of you, and gave you learning, and for three
or four years past has always been giving you
clothes and linen, and every thing that a gentle
woman need not be asham'd to appear in. But
our chief trouble is, and indeed a very great
one, for fear you should be brought to any
thing dishonest or wicked, by being set so above
yourself. Every body talks how you are come
48 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
on, and what a genteel girl you are ; and some
say you are very pretty ; and, indeed, when I
saw you last, which is about six months ago, I
should have thought so myself, if you was not
our child. But what avails all this, if you are
to be ruin'd and undone ! Indeed, my dear
Pamela, we begin to be in great fear for you ;
for what signify all the riches in the world,
with a bad conscience, and to be dishonest ?
We are, it is true, very poor, and find it hard
enough to live ; tho once, as you know, // was
better with us. But we would sooner live upon
the water, and, if possible, the clay of the
ditches I contentedly dig, than live better at
the price of our dear child's ruin.
I hope the good squire has no design ; but, as
he was once, as you own, a little wildish, and as
he has given you so much money, and speaks so
kindly to you, and praises your coming on ;
and, oh ! that frightful word, that he would be
kind to you, if you would do as you should do ;
these things make us very fearful for your
virtue.
I have spoken to good old widow Mumford
about it, who, you know, has formerly lived in
good families ; and she gives us some comfort :
for she says it is not unusual when a lady dies,
PAMELA 49
to give what she has about her person to her
waiting-maid, and to such as sit up with her in
illness. But then, why should he smile so kindly
upon you ? Why should he take such a poor
girl as you by the hand, as your letter says he
has done twice ? Why should he deign to read
your letter written to us, and commend your
writing and spelling? Indeed, indeed, my
dearest child, our hearts ake for you ; and then
you seem so full of joy at his goodness, so taken
with his kind expressions (which, truly, are very
great favours, if he means well) that we fear
Yes, my dear child, we fear you should be too
grateful, and reward him with that jewel, your
virtue, which no riches, nor favour, nor any
thing in this life, can make up to you.
I, too, have written a long letter ; but will
say one thing more ; and that is, that in the
midst of our poverty and misfortunes we have
trusted in God's goodness, and been honest,
and doubt not to be happy hereafter, if we con
tinue to be good, tho' our lot is hard here: But
the loss of our dear child's virtue would be a
grief that we could not bear, and would very
soon bring our grey hairs to the grave.
If, then, you love us, if you wish for God's
blessing, and your own future happiness, we
4
50 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
charge you to stand upon your guard ; and, if
you find the least thing that looks like a design
upon your virtue, be sure you leave every thing
behind you, and come away to us! for we had
rather see you all cover'd with rags, and even
follow you to the churchyard, than have it said
a child of ours preferr'd any worldly con
veniences to her virtue.
We accept kindly of your dutiful present ;
but till we are out of our pain, cannot make
use of it, for fear we should partake of the
price of our poor daughter's shame : So have
laid it up in a rag among the thatch, over
the window, for a while, lest we should be
robbed.
With our blessings, and our hearty prayers
for you, we remain, Your careful but loving
Father and Mother,
JOHN and 'E.Liz. ANDREWS.
[Pamela, however, refuses to believe any ill of her
master, though he makes her several presents from
the clothing left by her dead mistress. There is
some talk of her going as waiting-maid to Lady
Davers, Mr. B.'s sister, but no definite plans are
made, and Pamela does not wish to leave her present
situation.]
PAMELA 51
PAMELA TO HER FATHER.
MY DEAR FATHER, Since my last, my master
gave me more fine things. He called me up
to my late lady's closet, and pulling out her
drawers, he gave me two suits of fine Flanders
lac'd head-clothes, three pair of fine silk shoes,
two hardly the worse, and just fit for me (for
my lady had a very little foot), and the other
with wrought silver buckles in them ; and
several ribands and top-knots of all colours ;
four pair of fine white cotton stockings, and
three pair of fine silk ones ; and two pair of
rich stays. Your poor lady, Pamela, said he,
was finely shaped, tho' in years, and very slender.
1 was quite astonished, and unable to speak for
a while ; but yet I was inwardly ashamed to
take the stockings ; for Mrs. Jervis was not
there ; if she had, it would have been nothing.
I believe 1 receiv'd them very awkwardly ; for
he smil'd at my awkwardness, and said Don't
blush, Pamela : dost think I don't know pretty
maids wear shoes and stockings ?
I was so confounded at these words, you
might have beat me down with a feather. For,
you must think, there was no answer to be
made to this. And besides, it was a little odd,
52 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
I thought, and so I thought before, that he
himself should turn over my lady's apparel, and
give me these things with his own hands, rather
than to let Mrs. Jervis give them to me. So,
like a fool, I was ready to cry ; and went away
curt'sying and blushing, I am sure, up to the
ears ; for, tho' there was no harm in what he
said, yet I did not know how to take it. But I
went and told all to Mrs. Jervis, who said, God
put it into his heart to be good to me, and I
must double my diligence. It looked to her,
she said, as if he would fit me in dress for a
waiting-maid's place on Lady Davers's own
person.
But still your fatherly cautions came into
my head, and made all these gifts nothing near
to me what they would have been. But yet, I
hope, there is no reason ; so I will conclude, all
that happens is for our good ; and God bless
you, my dear father and mother ; and I know
you constantly pray for a blessing upon me.
Who am, and shall always be,
YOUR DUTIFUL DAUGHTER.
[Pamela now begins to feel alarmed, especially as her
master definitely decides that she is not to go to Lady
Davers.]
PAMELA 53
PAMELA TO HER MOTHER.
MY DEAR MOTHER, You and my good
father may wonder you have not had a letter
from me in so many weeks : but a sad, sad
scene has been the occasion of it. For, to be
sure, now it is too plain, that all your cautions
were well-grounded. O my dear mother, I am
miserable ! truly miserable ! But yet, don't be
frighted, I am honest ! And I hope God, of
his goodness, will keep me so !
this angel of a master ! this fine gentle
man ! this gracious benefactor to your poor
Pamela ! who was to take care of me at the
prayer of his good dying mother ! who was so
apprehensive for me, lest I should be drawn in
by Lord Davers's nephew, that he would not
let me go to Lady Davers's : This very gentle
man (yes, I must call him gentleman, tho' he
has fallen from the merit of that title) has
degraded himself to offer freedoms to his poor
servant : he has now shewed himself in his true
colours, and, to me, nothing appears so black
and so frightful.
1 have not been idle ; but had writ from time
to time, how he, by sly mean degrees, exposed
his wicked views ; but somebody stole my
54 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
letter, and T know not what is become of it.
It was a very long one. I fear, he that was
mean enough to attempt bad things in one
respect, did not stick at this. But be it as it
will, all the use he can make of it will be, that
he may be ashamed of bis part ; I not of mine :
for he will see I was resolved to be virtuous,
and glory'd in the honesty of my poor parents.
I will tell you all, the next opportunity ; for
I am watched very narrowly ; and he says to
Mrs. Jervis " This girl is always scribbling ;
I think s,he may be better employed." And yet
I work very hard with my needle, upon his
linen, and the fine linen of the family ; and am,
besides, about flowering him a waistcoat. But,
Oh ! my heart's almost broken ; for what am I
likely to have for my reward, but shame and
disgrace, or else ill words, and hard treatment ?
I'll tell you all soon, and hope I shall find my
long letter.
* * # * *
Well, my dear mother, I can't find my letter,
and so I'll try to recollect it all.
All went well enough, in the main, for some
time after my last letter but one. At last, I
saw some reason to be suspicious ; for he would
look upon me, whenever he saw me, in such a
PAMELA 55
manner, as shew'd not well : And one day he
came to me, as 1 was in the summer-house in
the little garden, at work with my needle, and
Mrs. Jervis was just gone from me ; and I
would have gone out ; but he said Don't go,
Pamela ; I have something to say to you ; and
you always fly me, when I come near you, as if
you were afraid of me.
I was much out of countenance you may well
think ; and began to tremble, and the more
when he took me by the hand ; for no soul was
near us.
Lady Davers, said he, (and seem'd, I thought,
to be as much at a loss for words as I) would
have had you live with her ; but she would not
do for you what I am resolved to do, if you
continue faithful and obliging. What say you,
my girl ? said he, with some eagerness ; had
you not rather stay with me than go to Lady
Davers ? He look'd so, as fill'd me with fear ;
I don't know how ; wildly, I thought.
I said, when I could speak Your Honour
will forgive me ; but as you have no lady for
me to wait upon, and my good lady has been
now dead this twelvemonth, I had rather, if it
would not displease you, wait upon Lady
Davers, because
56 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
I was proceeding, and he said a little hastily
Because you are a little fool, and know
not what's good for yourself. I tell you, I will
make a gentlewoman of you, if you are obliging,
and don't stand in your own light. And so
saying, he put his arm about me, and kiss'd me.
Now, you will say, all his wickedness appear'd
plainly. I burst from him, and was getting out
of the summer-house ; but he held me back,
and shut the door.
I would have given my life for a farthing.
And he said, I'll do you no harm, Pamela ;
don't be afraid of me.
I said, I won't stay.
You won't, hussy ! Do you know whom
you speak to ?
I lost all fear, and all respect, and said, Yes,
I do, sir, too well ! Well may I forget that I
am your servant, when you forget what belongs
to a master.
I sobb'd and cry'd most sadly. What a
foolish hussy you are ! said he : Have I done
you any harm ? Yes, sir, said I, the greatest
harm in the world : You have taught me to
forget myself, and what belongs to me ; and
have lessen'd the distance that fortune has
made between us, by demeaning yourself to be
PAMELA 57
so free to a poor servant. Yet, sir, I will be
bold to say, I am honest, tho' poor : And if
you were a prince, I would not be otherwise
than honest.
He was angry, and said, Who, little fool,
would have you otherwise? Cease your blub
bering. I own I have undervalued myself ;
but it was only to try you. If you can keep
this matter secret, you'll give me the better
opinion of your prudence : And here's some
thing, added he, putting some gold in my hand,
to make you amends for the fright I put you
in. Go, take a walk in the garden, and don't
go in till your blubbering is over ; And I charge
you say nothing of what has past, and all shall
be well, and I'll forgive you.
I won't take the money indeed, sir, said I : I
won't take it. And so I put it upon the bench.
And as he seemed vex'd and confounded at
what he had done, I took the opportunity to
open the door, and hurried out of the summer-
house.
He called to me, and said, Be secret, I charge
you, Pamela ; and don't go in yet.
O how poor and mean must those actions be,
and how little must they make the best of
gentlemen look, when they offer such things as
58 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
are unworthy of themselves, and put it into the
power of their inferiors to be greater than they !
I took a turn or two in the garden, but in
sight of the house, for fear of the worst ; and
breathed upon my hand to dry my eyes, because
I would not be too disobedient.
My next shall tell you more.
Pray for me, my dear father and mother ;
and don't be angry, that I have not yet run
away from this house, so late my comfort and
delight, but now my terror and anguish. I am
forc'd to break off hastily.
YOUR DUTIFUL AND HONEST DAUGHTER.
[Mr. B. is so annoyed at her conduct that he declares
she shall leave his service. Pamela is more than
willing to go.]
And now, my dearest father and mother,
expect soon to see your poor daughter, with an
humble and dutiful mind, returned to you :
And don't fear, but I know how to be as happy
with you as ever: For I will lie in the loft, as
I used to do ; and pray let my little bed be got
ready; and I have a small matter or money,
which will buy me a suit of clothes, fitter for
my condition than what I have ; and I will get
Mrs. Mumford to help me to some needle-
PAMELA 59
work ; and fear not, my being a burden to you,
if my health continues. I know I shall be
blessed, if not for my own sake, for both your
sakes, who have, in all your trials and mis
fortunes, preserved so much integrity, as makes
everybody speak well of you. But 1 hope he
will let good Mrs. Jervis give me a character,
for fear it should be thought I was turn'd away
for dishonesty.
I hope Mrs. Jervis is not angry with me.
She has not call'd me to supper ; tho' I could
have eat nothing, if she had. But I make no
doubt I shall sleep purely to-night, and dream
that I am with you, in my dear, dear happy loft
once more.
[She resolves to dress herself in a manner more suitable
to her approaching change of station.]
PAMELA TO HER FATHER AND MOTHER.
I shall write on, as long as I stay, tho' I
should have nothing but sillinesses to write ;
for I know you divert yourselves on nights
with what I write, because it is mine. John
tells me how much you long for my coming ;
but he says, he told you, he hop'd something
would happen to hinder it.
60 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
I am glad you did not tell him the occasion
of my going away ; for if my fellow-servants
were to guess the reason, it were better so than
to have it from you or me. Besides, I really
am concerned that my master should cast away
a thought upon such a poor creature as me ;
for besides the disgrace, his temper is quite
chang'd ; and I begin to believe what Mrs.
Jervis told me, that he likes me, and can't help
it ; and is vex'd he cannot.
Don't think me presumptuous and conceited ;
for it is more my concern than my pride, to see
such a gentleman so much undervalue himself
in the eyes of his servants, on my account.
But I am to tell you of my new dress to-day.
And so, when I had dined, up stairs I went,
and lock'd myself into my little room. There
I trick'd myself up as well as I could in my
new garb, and put on my round-ear'd ordinary
cap ; but with a green knot, however, and my
home-spun gown and petticoat, and plain leather
shoes ; but yet they are what they call Spanish
leather. A plain muslin tucker I put on, and
my black silk necklace, instead of the French
necklace my lady gave me ; and put the ear
rings out of my ears, and when I was quite
equipp'd, I took my straw hat in my hand, with
PAMELA 6 1
its two green strings, and look'd about me in
the glass, as proud as anything. To say truth,
I never lik'd myself so well in my life.
the pleasure of descending with ease,
innocence, and resignation ! Indeed there is
nothing like it ! An humble mind, I plainly
see, cannot meet with any very shocking dis
appointment, let fortune's wheel turn round as
it will.
So I went down to look for Mrs. Jervis, to
see how she liked me.
1 met, as I was upon the stairs, our Rachel,
who is the house-maid ; and she made me a low
court'sy, and I found did not know me. I
smil'd, and went to the housekeeper's parlour :
and there sat good Mrs. Jervis at work. And,
would you believe it, she did not know me at
first ; but rose up, and pull'd off her spectacles ;
and said Do you want me, young woman ? 1
could not help laughing, and said Hey-day ;
Mrs. Jervis, what ! don't you know me ? She
stood all in amaze, and look'd at me from head
to foot Why, you surprise me, said she ;
what, Pamela, thus metamorphosed ! How
came this about ?
As it happen'd in stepp'd my master : and
my back being to him, he thought it was a
62 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
stranger speaking to Mrs. Jervis, and withdrew
again ; and did not hear her ask, if his honour
had any commands for her ?
I told her, I had no clothes suitable to my
condition, when I returned to my father's ; and
so it was better to begin here, as I was soon to
go away, that all my fellow- servants might see 1
knew how to suit myself to the state I was
returning to.
Well, said she, I never knew the like of thee.
But this sad preparation for going away (for
now I see you are quite in earnest) is what I
know not how to get over. O my dear Pamela,
how can I part with you ?
My master rung in the back-parlour, and so
I withdrew, and Mrs. Jervis went to attend
him. It seems he said to her I was coming in
to let you know that I shall go to Lincolnshire,
and perhaps to my Lord Davers's, and be absent
some weeks. But pray, what pretty neat damsel
was that with you ?
She says, she smil'd, and ask'd if his honour
did not know who it was.
No, said he, I never saw her before. Farmer
Nichols, or Farmer Brady, have neither of them
such a tight smart lass for a daughter, have
they ? Tho' I did not see her face neither.
PAMELA 63
If your honour won't be angry, said she, I
will introduce her into your presence ; for I
think she outdoes our Pamela.
That can't be, he was pleased to say : but if
you can find an excuse for it, let the girl come in.
Now I did not thank her for this, as I told
her afterwards ; for it brought a great deal of
trouble upon me, as well as crossness, as you
shall hear.
She then stepp'd to me, and told me, I must
go in with her to my master But, said she, for
goodness sake, let him find you out ; for he
don't know you O fie, Mrs. Jervis, said I,
how could you serve me so? Besides, it looks
too free both in me, and to him.
I tell you, said she, you shall come in ; and
pray don't reveal yourself till he finds you out.
So I went in, foolish creature that I was ! yet
I must have been seen by him another time, if
I had not then. And she would make me take
my straw hat in my hand.
I dropp'd a low court'sy, but said never a
word. I dare say he knew me as soon as he
saw my face; but was as cunning as Lucifer.
He came up to meet me, and took me by the
hand, and said Whose pretty maiden are you ?
I dare say you are Pamela's sister, you are so
64 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
like her ; so neat, so clean, so pretty ! Why,
child, you far surpass your sister Pamela !
I was all confusion, and would have spoken ;
but he took me about the neck Why, said he,
you are very pretty, child : I would not be so
free with your sister, you may believe ; but I
must kiss you.
O sir, said I, as much surpriz'd as vex'd, I
am Pamela. Indeed I am Pamela, her own self!
Impossible ! said he, and kiss'd me, for all 1
could do. You are a lovelier girl by half than
Pamela ; and again would kiss me.
This was a sad trick upon me, and what I
did not expect ; and Mrs. Jervis look'd like a
fool, as much as I, for her officiousness. At
last I disengag'd myself, and ran out of the
parlour, very much vex'd, you may well think.
He talk'd a good deal to Mrs. Jervis, and at
last ordered me to attend him again ; and
insisting on my obedience, I went, but very
unwillingly. As soon as he saw me Come in,
said he, you little villain f (I thought men
only could be call'd villains) ; who is it you put
your tricks upon? I was resolved never again
to honour you with my notice ; and so you must
disguise yourself, to attract me, and yet pretend,
like an hypocrite as you are
PAMELA 65
I beseech you, sir, said I, do not impute
disguise and hypocrisy to me. I have put on
no disguise. What a plague, said he, for that
was his word, do you mean then by this dress ?
I mean, may it please your honour, said I,
one of the honestest things in the world. I
have been in disguise, indeed, ever since my
good lady your mother took me from my poor
parents. I came to my lady so low in garb,
that these clothes I have on are a princely suit,
to those I had then. And her goodness heap'd
upon me rich clothes, and other bounties : and
as I am now returning to my parents, I cannot
wear those good things without being laugh' d
at ; and so have bought what will be more
suitable to my degree.
He then took me in his arms, and presently
push'd me from him. Mrs. Jervis, said he,
take the little witch from me ; I can neither
bear, nor forbear her. (Strange words these !)
But stay ; you shan't go ! Yet begone ! No,
come back again.
I thought he was mad, for my share ; for he
knew not what he would have. I was going,
however ; but he stepp'd after me, and took
hold of my arm, and brought me in again. 1
am sure he made my arm black and blue ; for
5
66 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
the marks are upon it still. Sir, sir, said I, pray
have mercy ; I will, I will come in.
He sat down, and look'd at me, and, as I
thought afterwards, as silly as such a poor girl
as I. At last he said Well, Mrs. Jervis, as I
was telling you, you may permit her to stay a
little longer, till I see if Lady Davers will have
her ; provided she humble herself, and ask this
as a favour, and is sorry for her pertness, and
the liberty she has taken with my character, as
well out of the house as in it.
Your honour indeed told me so, said Mrs.
Jervis.
I was silent and motionless too. What a
thankless creature ! said he. Do you hear,
statue, you may stay a fortnight longer, till I
see Lady Davers. Can you neither speak, nor
be thankful ?
Your honour frights me so, said I, that I can
hardly speak : but I have only to beg, as a
favour, that I may go to my father and mother.
Why, fool, said he, won't you like to go to
wait on Lady Davers ?
Sir, replied I, I was once fond of that honour ;
but you were pleased to say, I might be in danger
from her ladyship's nephew, or he from me.
Impertinence ! said he. Do you hear, Mrs.
PAMELA 67
Jervis, do you hear how she retorts upon me ?
And he look'd very angry, and colour'd.
I then fell a weeping ; for Mrs. Jervis said
Fie, Pamela, fie ! And I said My lot is very
hard, indeed ! I am sure I would hurt nobody :
and I have been, it seems, guilty of indiscretions,
which have cost me my place, and my master's
favour. And when the time is come, that I
should return to my poor parents Good, your
honour, what have I done, that I must be used
worse than if I had robb'd you !
Robb'd me ! said he ; why so you have, girl ;
you have robb'd me.
Who ! I, sir ? said I : have I robb'd you ?
Why then you are a Justice of Peace, and may
send me to gaol, if you please, and bring me to
a trial for my life ! If you can prove that I
have robb'd you, I am sure I ought to die.
Now I was quite ignorant of his meaning ;
though I did not like it when it was afterwards
explained, neither. Well, thought I, at the
instant, what will this come to at last, if the poor
Pamela shall be thought to be a thief? And
how shall I show my face to my honest parents,
if I am but suspected ?
But, sir, said 1, let me ask one question, and
not displease you ; for I don't mean disrespect-
68 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
fully : Why, if I had done amiss, am 1 not left
to be discharged by your house-keeper, as other
maid-servants usually are ? Why should you
so demean yourself to take notice of me ? For
indeed I am not of consequence enough for my
master to concern himself, and be angry, about
such a creature as I am.
Do you hear, Mrs. Jervis, how pertly I am
interrogated ? Why, sauce-box, says he, did not
my good mother desire me to be kind to you?
And have you not been always distinguished
by me, more than a common servant has reason
to expect ? And does your ingratitude upbraid
me for this ?
I said something mutteringly, and he vow'd
he would hear it. I begg'd excuse ; but he
insisted upon it. Why then, replied I, if your
honour must know, I said, That my good lady
did not desire your kindness to extend to the
summer-house and her dressing-room.
Well, this was a little saucy, you'll say !
And he flew into such a passion, that I was
forc'd to run for it ; and Mrs. Jervis said, It
was happy I got out of his way.
[Soon after this Mr. B. makes a brutal and cowardly
assault on her honour. She is saved by Mrs. Jervis,
the housekeeper, and, though he tries to persuade
her to stay, she insists on returning to her parents.]
PAMELA 69
Here it is necessary the reader should know,
that when Mr. B. found Pamela's virtue was
not to be subdued, and he had in vain try'd to
conquer his passion for her, he had ordered his
Lincolnshire coachman to bring his travelling
chariot from thence, in order to prosecute his
base designs upon the innocent virgin ; for he
cared not to trust his Bedfordshire coachman,
who, with the rest of the servants, so greatly
lov'd and honoured the fair damsel. And
having given instructions accordingly, and
prohibited his other servants, on pretence of
resenting Pamela's behaviour, from accompany
ing her any part of the way to her father's, that
coachman drove her five miles on her way ; and
then turning off, crossed the country, and carry'd
her onward towards Mr. B.'s Lincolnshire estate.
It is also to be observed, that the messenger
of her letters to her father, who so often pre
tended business that way, was an implement in
his master's hands, and employ'd by him for
that purpose ; and always gave her letters first
to him, and his master used to open and read
them, and then send them on ; by which means,
as he hints to her, as she observes in one of her
letters, he was no stranger to what she wrote.
Thus every way was the poor virgin beset.
70 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
PAMELA TO HER FATHER AND MOTHER.
O MY DEAREST FATHER AND MOTHER, Let
me write, and bewail my miserable fate, tho' I
have no hope that what I write can be convey'd
to your hands ! I have now nothing to do but
write, and weep, and fear, and pray ! But yet
what can I hope for, when I seem to be devoted
as a victim to the will of a wicked violator of
all the laws of God and man ! But, gracious
Father of all Mercies, forgive me my impatience.
Thou best knowest what is fit for thine hand
maid ! And as Thou sufferest not thy poor
creatures to be tempted above what they can
bear, I will resign myself to thy will. Still, I
hope, desperate as my condition seems, that as
these trials are not the effects either of my
presumption or vanity, I shall be enabled to
overcome them, and in thine own good time be
delivered from them.
Thus do I hourly pray ! And O ! join with
me, my dear parents ! But, alas ! how can you
know, how can I reveal to you, the dreadful
situation of your poor daughter ! The un
happy Pamela may be undone, before you can
know her hard lot !
But now I will tell you what has befallen me.
PAMELA 71
And yet how shall you receive what I write?
Here is no honest John to carry my letters to
you ! And, besides, I am watched in all my
steps ; and no doubt shall be, till my hard fate
ripen his wicked projects for my ruin. I will
every day, however, write my sad state ; and
some way, perhaps, may be opened to send the
melancholy scribble to you. But when you
know it, what will it do but aggravate your
troubles ? For what, alas ! can the abject poor
do against the mighty rich, when they are
determined to oppress ?
The often wish'd-for Thursday morning
came, when I was to set out. I had taken my
leave of my fellow -servants over-night ; and a
mournful leave it was to us all : for men, as
well as women-servants, wept to part with me :
and., for my part, I was overwhelmed with tears
on the affecting instances of their love. They
all would have made me little presents ; but I
would not take anything from the lower servants.
But Mr. Longman would make me accept of
several yards of Holland, and a silver snuff-box,
and a gold ring, which he desired me to keep
for his sake ; and he wept over me : but said
I am sure, so good a maiden God will bless ;
and tho' you return to your poor father again,
72 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
and his low estate, yet Providence will find you
out : remember I tell you so ; and one day,
tho' I may not live to see it, you will be
rewarded.
* # # # *
My master was above stairs, and never ask'd
to see me. I was glad of it in the main ; but,
false heart ! he knew that I was not to be out
of his reach. O preserve me, heaven, from his
power, and from his wickedness !
They were none of them suffered to go with
me one step, as I writ to you before ; for he
stood at the window to see me go. And in the
passage to the gate (out of his sight) there they
stood, all of them, in two rows ; and we could
say nothing on each side, but God bless you !
and God bless you ! But Harry carry'd my
own bundle, my third bundle, as I was used to
call it, to the coach, and some plum-cakes, and
diet-bread, made for me over-night, and some
sweet- meats, and six bottles of Canary wine,
which Mrs. Jervis would make me take in a
basket, to cheer our hearts now and then, when
we got together, as she said. And I kissed all
the maids again, and shook hands with the men
again ; but Mr. Jonathan and Mr. Longman
were not there ; and then I went down steps to
PAMELA 73
the chariot, leaving Mrs. Jervis weeping as if
she would break her heart.
I look'd up when I got to the chariot, and I
saw my master at the window, in his gown ;
and I court'sy'd three times to him very low,
and prayed for him with my hands lifted up ;
for I could not speak ; indeed I was not able.
And he bow'd his head to me, which made me
then very glad he would take such notice of-
me ; and in I stepp'd, and my heart was ready
to burst with grief ; and could only, till Robin
began to drive, wave my white handkerchief to
them, wet with my tears. And at last away he
drove, Jehu-like, as they say, out of the court
yard : and I too soon found I had cause for
greater and deeper grief.
Well, said I to myself, at this rate of driving
I shall soon be with my father and mother ;
and till I had got, as I suppos'd, half way, I
thought of the good friends 1 had left. And
when, on stopping for a little bait to the horses,
Robin told me 1 was near half way, I thought
it was high-time to dry my eyes, and remember
to whom 1 was going ; as then, alas for me I I
thought. So I began with the thoughts of our
happy meeting, and how glad you would both
be, to see me come to you safe and innocent ;
74 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
and I try'd to banish the other gloomy side
from my mind : but yet I sighed now and
then, in remembrance of those I had so lately
left. It would have been ungrateful, you
know, not to love those who shewed so much
love for me.
It was about eight in the morning when I set
out ; and I wonder'd, and wonder'd, as I sat,
and more when I saw it was about two, by a
church-dial in a little village we passed thro',
that I was still more and more out of my
knowledge. Heyday, thought I, to drive at
this strange rate, and to be so long going
little more than twenty miles, it is very odd!
But, to be sure, thought I, Robert knows the
way.
At last he stopp'd, and looked about him, as
if he was at loss for the road ; and I said Mr.
Robert, sure you are out of the way ! I'm
afraid I am, answer'd he : but it can't be much ;
I'll ask the first person I see. Pray do, said I ;
and he gave his horses a little hay ; and I gave
him some cake, and two glasses of Canary wine ;
and he stopp'd about half an hour in all. Then
he drove on very fast again.
I had so much to think of, of the dangers I
now doubted not I had escaped, of the good
PAMELA 75
friends I had left, and my best friends I was
going to, and the many things I had to relate
to you ; that I the less thought of the way, till
I was startled out of my meditations by the sun
beginning to set, and still the man driving on,
and his horses in a foam ; and then I began to
be alarm'd all at once, and call'd to him ; and
he said, he had wretched ill luck, for he had
come several miles out of the way, but was now
right, and should get in still before it was quite
dark. My heart began then to misgive me,
and I was much fatigued ; for I had had very
little sleep for several nights before ; and at last
1 called out to him, and said Lord protect me,
Mr. Robert ; how can this be ? In so few
miles to be so much out ! How can this be ?
He answer'd fretfully, as if he was angry with
himself; and said, he was bewitched, he
thought. There is a town before us, said 1.
What do you call it ? If we are so much out
of the way, we had better put up there ; for
the night comes on a-pace. I am just there,
said he. 'Tis but a mile on one side of the
town before us. Nay, replied I, I may be
mistaken ; for it is a good while since I was
this way ; but I am sure the face of the country
here is nothing like what I remember it.
76 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
He still pretended to be much out of humour
with himself; and at last stopp'd at a farm
house, about two miles beyond the village I had
seen ; and it was then almost dark, and he
alighted, and said We must put up here. I
know the people are very worthy people ; and
I am quite out.
Lord, thought I, be good to the poor Pamela !
And I prayed most fervently for the Divine
protection.
The farmer's wife, and maid, and daughter,
came out ; and the wife said What brings
you this way at this time of night, Mr. Robert ?
And with a gentlewoman too ! Laying then
all circumstances together, the blackest appre
hensions filled my mind, and I fell a crying,
and said God give me patience ! I am undone
for certain ! Pray, mistress, do you know
Squire B. of Bedfordshire?
The wicked coachman would have prevented
her from answering me ; but the daughter said
Know his worship ! yes, surely ! why he is
my father's landlord ! -Then said I, I am
undone, undone for ever ! O wicked wretch !
what have I done to you, said I to the coachman,
to induce you to serve me thus ? Vile tool of
a wicked master! Faith, said the fellow, I'm
PAMELA 77
sorry this task was put upon me : but I could
not help it. But make the best of it now.
These are very civil reputable folks ; and you'll
be safe here, I assure you. Let me get out,
said I, and I'll walk back to the town we came
through, late as it is. For I will not enter this
house.
You will be very well used here, I assure
you, young gentlewoman, said the farmer's wife,
and have better conveniences than any where in
the village. I matter not conveniences, said I :
I am betrayed and undone ! As you have a
daughter of your own, pity me, and let me
know, if your landlord be here ! No, I assure
you, he is not, said she.
And then came the farmer, a good sort of
man, grave, and well-behav'd ; and he spoke to
me in such honest-seeming terms, as a little
pacify'd me ; and seeing no help for it, I went
in ; and the wife immediately conducted me up
stairs to the best apartment, and told me, that
was mine as long as I staid ; and nobody should
come near me, but when I call'd. I threw
myself on the bed in the room, tir'd and
frighten'd to death almost, and gave way to my
grief.
The daughter came up, and said, Mr.
7 8 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
Robert had given her a letter to give me ; and
there it was. I raised myself, and saw it was
the hand and seal of the wicked wretch my
master, directed to Mrs. Pamela Andrews.
This was a little better than to have him here ;
tho', if he had, he must have been brought
through the air ; for I thought / was.
The good woman (for I began to see things
about a little reputable, and no guile appearing
in them, but rather a face of concern for my
grief) offered me a glass of some cordial water,
which I accepted, for I was ready to faint ; and
then I sat up in a chair. And they lighted a
brush-wood fire ; and said, if I called, I should
be waited upon instantly ; and so left me to
ruminate on my sad condition, and to read my
letter, which I was not able to do presently.
After I was a little come to myself, I found it
to contain the following words :
" DEAR PAMELA, The regard I have for
you, and your obstinacy, have constrain'd me
to act by you in a manner that I know will
give you equal surprize and apprehension.
But, by all that is good and holy, I intend
nothing dishonourable by you ! Suffer not
your fears therefore to excite a behaviour in
PAMELA 79
you, that will be disreputable to yourself, as
well as to me, in the eyes of the people of the
house where you will be when you receive this.
They are my tenants, and very honest civil
people.
" You will by this time be far on your way
to the place I have allotted for your abode for
a few weeks, till I have manag'd some particular
affairs ; after which I shall appear to you in a
very different light, from that in which' you
may at present, from your needless appre
hensions, behold me.
" To convince you, mean time, that I intend
to act by you with the utmost honour, I do
assure you, that the house to which you are
going, shall be so much at your command, that
I will not myself approach it without your
leave. Make yourself easy therefore ; be
discreet and prudent ; and a happy event shall
reward your patience.
" I pity you for the fatigue you will have, if
this comes to your hand in the place where I
have directed it to be given you.
" I will write to your father, to satisfy him
that nothing but what is strictly honourable is
intended you by
"YouR TRUE FRIEND."
8o SAMUEL RICHARDSON
I but too well apprehended, that this letter
was written only to pacify me for the present ;
but as my danger was not so immediate as I
had had reason to dread, and as he had promised
to forbear coming to me, and that he would
write to you, my dear father, to quiet your
concern, and that you might contrive some
way to help me, I was a little more easy than
before : and made shift to taste of a boil'd
chicken they had got for me. But the table
was hardly taken away, when the coachman
came (with a look of a hangman, as I thought)
and calling me madam at every word, begged
that I would get ready to pursue my journey by
five in the morning, or else he should be late
in. I was quite griev'd at this ; for I began
not to dislike my company, considering how
things stood, and was in hopes to get a party
among them, by whose connivance I might
throw myself into some worthy protection in
the neighbourhood, and not be obliged to go
forward.
* # # # *
I had very little rest that night ; and next
morning early was obliged to set out. They
were so civil, however, as to suffer their servant-
maid to accompany me five miles onward, as it
PAMELA 8 1
was so early ; and then she was set down, and
walked back.
I was not quite hopeless, that I might yet
find means to escape the plots of this wicked
designer. And as I was on the way in the
chariot, after the maid had left me, I thought of
an expedient which gave me no small comfort.
This it was. I resolved that when we came
into some town to bait, as Robert, I doubted
not, must do for the horses' sake, (for he drove
at a great rate) I would apply myself to the
mistress of the house, and tell her my case, and
refuse to go further.
Having nobody but this wicked coachman to
contend with, I was very full of this project ;
and depended so much on its success, that I
forbore to call out for help, and for rescue, as I
may say, to different persons whom we passed ;
and who, perhaps, would have heard my story,
and taken me out of the hands of a coach
man. Yet two of these were young gentlemen ;
and how did I know but I might have fallen
into difficulties as great as those I wanted to
free myself from ?
After very hard driving, we reached the town
at which this too faithful servant to a wicked
master proposed to put up. And he drove into
6
82 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
an inn of good appearance. But you may
believe, my dear father and mother, that I was
excessively alarmed, when, at my being shewn
a room, I was told that I was expected there,
and that a little entertainment was provided for
me. Yet was neither met nor received at my
alighting by any body who had so provided
for me.
Nevertheless, I was determined to try what
could be done with relation to my project with
the mistress of the inn ; and for fear of the
worst, to lose no time about it. I sent for her
in, therefore, and making her sit down by me I
said I hope, madam, you will excuse me ; but
I must tell you my case, and that before any
body comes in, who may prevent me. I
am a poor unhappy young creature, to
whom it will be great charity to lend your
advice and assistance, as I shall appear to deserve
your pity. And you seem to be a good sort of
gentlewoman, and one who would assist an
oppressed innocent person.
Yes, madam, said she, I hope you guess
right, and I have the happiness to know some
thing of the matter before you speak. Pray,
call my sister Jewkes. Jewkes ! Jewkes !
thought I, I have heard of that name ; for I
PAMELA 83
was too much confounded to have a clear notion
of any thing at the moment.*
Then the wicked creature appeared, whom I
had never seen but once before, and I was frighted
out of my wits. Now, thought I, am I in a
much worse situation than I was at the farmer's.
The naughty woman came up to me with an
air of confidence, and kiss'd me See, sister,
said she, here's a charming creature ! and looked
in such a manner as I never saw a woman look
in my life.
1 was quite silent and confounded. But yet,
when I came a little to myself, I was resolved to
steal away from them, if I could ; and once
being a little faintish, I made that a pretence to
take a turn into the garden for air : but the
wretch would not trust me out of her sight ;
and the people I saw being only those of
the house who, I found, were all under the
horrid Jewkes's direction, and prepossessed by
her, no doubt I was forced, tho' with great
reluctance, to set out with her in the chariot ;
for she came thither on horseback with a man
servant, who rode by us the rest of the way,
leading her horse. And now I gave over all
thoughts of redemption.
* Mrs. Jewkes was Mr. B.'s Lincolnshire housekeeper.
84 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
Here are strange pains, thought I, taken to
ruin a poor innocent, helpless, and even worth
less young creature. This plot is laid too deep,
and has been too long hatching, to be baffled, I
fear. But then, I put up my prayers to God,
who I knew was able to save me, when all
human means should fail : and in him I was
resolved to confide.
You may see (yet, O ! that kills me ; for I
know not whether ever you can see what I now
write, or not) what sort of woman this Mrs.
Jewkes is, compared to good Mrs. Jervis, by
this
Every now and then she would be staring in
my face, in the chariot, and squeezing my hand,
and saying Why, you are very pretty, my
silent dear ! And once she offer'd to kiss me.
But I said I don't like this sort of carriage,
Mrs. Jewkes ; it is not like two persons of one
sex to each other. She fell a laughing very
confidently, and said That's prettily said, I
vow ! Then thou hadst rather be kiss'd by the
other sex ? 'Ifackins, I commend thee for
that!
I was sadly teaz'd with her impertinence, and
bold way ; but no wonder ; she was house
keeper at an inn, before she came to my master.
PAMELA 85
And indeed she made nothing to talk boldly on
twenty occasions in the chariot, and said two or
three times, when she saw the tears trickle down
my cheeks, I was sorely hurt, truly, to have the
handsomest and finest young gentleman in five
counties in love with me !
So I find I am got into the hands of a wicked
procuress, and if I had reason to be apprehensive
with good Mrs. Jervis, and where every body
lov'd me, what a dreadful prospect have I now
before me, in the hands of such a woman as
this!
Lord bless me, what shall I do! What
shall I do !-
About eight at night we enter'd the court
yard of this handsome, large, old, lonely mansion,
that look'd to me then, with all its brown
nodding horrors of lofty elms and pines about
it, as if built for solitude and mischief. And
here, said I to myself, I fear, is to be the scene
of my ruin, unless God protect me, who is all
sufficient.
1 was very ill at entering it, partly
from fatigue, and partly from dejection of
spirits: and Mrs. Jewkes got some mull'd wine,
and seemed mighty officious to welcome me
thither.
86 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
She calls me madam at every word ; paying
that undesired respect to me, as you shall hear,
in the view of its being one day in my power to
serve or dis-serve her, if ever I should be so
vile as to be a madam to the wickedest designer
that ever lived. Poor creatures indeed are such
as will court the favour of wretches who obtain
undue power, by the forfeiture of their honesty!
And such a poor creature is this woman, who
can madam up an inferior fellow- servant, in
such views ; and who yet, at times, is insolent
enough ; for it is her true nature to be insolent.
Pray, Mrs. Jewkes, said I, don't madam me so :
I am but a silly poor girl, set up by the gambol
of fortune, for a may-game ; and now I am to
be something, and now nothing, just as that
thinks fit to sport with me. Let us, therefore,
talk upon a foot together ; and that will be a
favour done me ; for I was at best but a servant
girl ; and now am no more than a discarded
poor desolate creature ; and no better than a
prisoner. God be my deliverer and comforter !
Ay, ay, says she, I understand something of
the matter. You have so great power over my
master, that you will be soon mistress of us all :
and so, I will oblige you, if I can. And I must
and will call you madam ; for I am instructed
PAMELA 87
to shew you all respect, I assure you. See, my
dear father, see what a creature this is?
Who instructed you to do so ? said I. Who!
my master, to be sure, answered she. Why,
said I, how can that be ? You have not seen
him lately. No, that's true ; but I have been
expecting you here some time, [O the deep laid
wickedness ! thought I] and besides, I have a
letter of instructions by Robin ; but, perhaps, I
should not have said so much. If you would
shew me those instructions, said I, I should be
able to judge how far I could, or could not,
expect favour from you, consistent with your
duty. I beg your excuse, fair mistress, for
that, returned she ; I am sufficiently instructed,
and you may depend upon it, I will observe my
orders ; and so far as they will let me, so far
will I oblige you ; and that is saying all in one
word.
You will not, I hope, replied I, do an unlaw
ful or wicked thing, for any master in the
world. Look-ye, said she, he is my master ;
and if he bids me do a thing that I can do, I
think I ought to do it ; and let him, who has
power to command me, look to the lawfulness
of it. Suppose, said I, he should bid you cut
my throat, would you do it ? There's no danger
88 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
of that, replied she ; but to be sure I would not ;
for then I should be hanged ; since that would
be murder. And suppose, said I, he should
resolve to ensnare a poor young creature, and
ruin her, would you assist him in such wicked
ness ? And do you not think, that to rob a
person of her virtue, is worse than cutting her
throat ?
Why now, said she, how strangely you talk !
Are not the two sexes made for each other ?
And is it not natural for a man to love a pretty
woman ? And then the wretch fell a laughing,
and talk'd most impertinently, and shew'd me,
that I had nothing to expect either from her
virtue or compassion. And this gave me the
greater mortification ; as I was once in hopes
of working upon her by degrees.
We ended our argument, as I may call it,
here ; and I desired her to shew me to the
apartment allotted for me. Why, said she, lie
where you list, madam ; I can tell you, I must
sleep with you. But is it in your instruc
tions, that you must be my bed-fellow ? Yes,
indeed, replied she. I am sorry for it, said I.
Why, said she, I am wholesome, and cleanly too,
I'll assure you. I don't doubt that, said I ;
but I love to lie by myself. How so? returned
PAMELA 89
she ; was not Mrs. Jervis your bed-fellow at the
other house?
Well, said I, quite sick of her and my
condition, you must do as you are instructed.
I can't help myself; and am a most miserable
creature.
She repeated her insufferable nonsense
Mighty miserable indeed, to be so well belov'd
by one of the finest gentlemen in England !
[Pamela is kept a close prisoner, but manages to
chronicle the events of each day. She appeals for
help to Mr. B.'s Lincolnshire chaplain, Mr. Williams.
The chaplain falls desperately in love with Pamela,
and declares that the only feasible way of her effecting
her escape is by marriage with him. Mr. B. finds
out about his proposals and Pamela's schemes, has
the curate clapped into prison for debt, and tells
Pamela that, as she has behaved so treacherously, he
no longer considers himself bound by his promise
not to come near her without her consent. Pamela,
in desperation and deprived of all outside help, resolves
to escape alone.]
FROM PAMELA'S JOURNAL.
Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, the 2%th
2 9^> 3^> and %ist days of my distress.
And distress indeed ! For here 1 am still !
And every thing has been worse and worse ! O
90 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
the unhappy Pamela? Without any hope left,
and ruin'd in all my contrivances ! But do you,
my dear parents, rejoice with me, even in this
low plunge of my distress ; for your poor child
has escap'd from an enemy worse than any she
ever met with ; an enemy she never thought of
before, and was hardly able to stand against: I
mean the weakness and presumption, both in
one, of her own mind, which, had not the
Divine Grace interposed, would have sunk her
into everlasting perdition !
I will proceed, as I have opportunity, with
my sad relation : for my pen and ink (in my now
doubly-secur'd closet) is all I have to employ
myself with ; and indeed I have been so weak,
that till yesterday evening, I have not been able
to hold a pen.
I took with me but one shift, besides what I had
on, and two handkerchiefs, and two caps, which
my pocket held (for it was not for me to
encumber myself), and all my stock of money,
which was but five or six shillings, to set out
for I knew not whither ; and got out of the
window, not without some difficulty, sticking a
little at my shoulders and hips ; but I was
resolved to get out, if possible. The distance
from the window to the leads was greater than 1
PAMELA 91
had imagined, and I was afraid I had sprain'd
my ancle ; and the distance from the leads to
the ground was still greater ; but I got no hurt
considerable enough to hinder me from pursuing
my intentions. So, being now in the garden,
I hid my papers under a rose-bush, and cover'd
them over with mould, and there I hope they
still lie. Then I hy'd away to the pond : the
clock struck twelve, just as I got out ; and it
was a dark misty night, and very cold ; but 1
was not then sensible of it.
When I came to the pond-side I flung in my
upper coat, as I had designed, and my handker
chief, and a round-ear'd cap, with a knot pinned
upon it ; and then ran to the door, and took
the key out of my pocket, my poor heart
beating all the time, as if it would have forc'd
its way through my stays. But how miserably
was I disappointed, when I found that my key
would not open the lock ! The wretch, as it
proved, had taken off the old lock, and another
was put on ! I try'd and try'd before I was
convinced it was so ; but feeling about found a
padlock on another part of the door : then how
my heart sunk ! I dropped down with grief and
confusion, unable to stir for a while. But my
terror soon awaken'd my resolution ; for I
92 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
knew that my attempt, if I escaped not, would
be sufficient to give a pretence for the most
outrageous insults from the woman ; and for the
cruellest treatment from my master ; and to
bring him down the sooner to put his horrid
purposes in execution. I therefore was resolved,
if possible, to get over the wall ; but that
being high, had no other hope to do it, than by
help of the ledges of the door, which are very
strong and thick. I clamber' d up, therefore,
upon them, and upon the lock, which was a
great wooden one ; and reached the top of the
door with my hands ; which shut not close to
the wall ; and then, little thinking I could
climb so well, I made shift to lay hold on the
top of the wall with my hands : but, alas for
me ! nothing but ill luck ! no escape for poor
Pamela ! The wall being old, the bricks I held
by, gave way, just as I was taking a spring to
get up ; and down came I, and received such a
blow upon my head, with one of the bricks,
that it quite stunn'd me ; and I broke my shins
and my ancle besides, and beat off the heel of
one of my shoes.
In this dreadful way, flat upon the ground, I
lay, for I believe five or six minutes ; and then
trying to get up, I sunk down again two or
PAMELA 93
three times. My left hip and shoulder were
sadly bruised, and pained me much ; and
besides my head bled quite down into my neck,
as I could feel, and ak'd grievously with the
blow I had with the brick. Yet these hurts I
valued not ; but crept a good way upon my
knees and hands, in search of a ladder I just
recollected to have seen against the wall two
days before, on which the gardener was nailing
a nectarine branch, that was loosen'd from the
wall : but no ladder could I find. What, now,
thought I, must become of the miserable Pamela ?
Then I began to wish myself again in my closet,
and to repent of my attempt, which I now
confessed as rash ; but that was because it did
not succeed.
God forgive me ! but a sad thought came just
then into my head ! I tremble to think of it !
Indeed my apprehensions of the usage I should
meet with, had like to have made me miserable
for ever! O my dear, dear parents, forgive
your poor child ! But being then quite
desperate, I crept along, till I could raise
myself on my staggering feet ; and away limped
I ! What to do, but to throw myself into the
pond, and so put a period to all my terrors in
this world ! But, oh ! to find them infinitely
94 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
aggravated in a miserable eternity ! had I not by
the 'Divine Grace been withheld.
It was well for me, as I have since thought,
that I was so bruised as I was ; for this made
me the longer before I got to the water ; and
gave time for a little reflection, for a ray of
grace to dart in upon my benighted mind ; and
so, when I came to the pond-side, I sat myself
down on the sloping bank, and began to ponder
my wretched condition ; and thus I reasoned
with myself:
" Pause here a little, Pamela, on what thou
art about, before thou takest the dreadful leap ;
and consider whether there be no way yet left,
no hope, if not to escape from this wicked
house, yet from the mischiefs threatened thee
in it ?"
I then consider'd, and after I had cast about
in my mind, every thing that could make me
hope, and saw no probability ; a wicked woman,
devoid of all compassion ! a horrid abettor just
arrived in this dreadful Colbrand !* an angry and
resenting master, who now hated me, and
threaten'd me with the most dreadful evils ! and
that I should, in all probability, be soon depriv'd
even of the opportunity I now had before me
* Mr. B.'s Swiss manservant.
PAMELA 95
to free myself of all their persecutions !
a What hast thou to do, distressed creature,
said I to myself, but to throw thyself upon a
merciful God, (who knows how innocently thou
sufferest) to avoid the merciless wickedness
of those who are determined on thy ruin ?"
" And then," thought I, (and O, that thought
was surely of the devil's instigation ; for it was
very soothing and powerful with me) " these
wicked wretches, who now have no remorse, no
pity on me, will then be moved to lament their
mis-doings ; and when they see the dead corpse
of the miserable Pamela dragg'd out to these
dewy banks, and lying breathless at their feet,
they will find that remorse to soften their
obdurate hearts, which, now, has no place in
them ! And my master, my angry master, will
then forget his resentments, and say, Alas ! and
it may be, wring his hands This is the
unhappy Pamela ! whom I have so causelessly
persecuted and destroyed ! Now do I see she
preferr'd her honesty to her life. She, poor
girl ! was no hypocrite, no deceiver ; but really
was the innocent creature she pretended to be !
" Then," thought I, " will he, perhaps, shed a
few tears over the corpse of his persecuted
servant ; and, though, he may give out, it was
96 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
disappointment, and (in order to hide his own
guilt) love for poor Mr. Williams ; yet will he
be inwardly grieved, and order me a decent
funeral, and save me, or rather this part of me,
from the dreadful stake, and the highway
interment : and the young men and maidens in
my father's neighbourhood will pity poor
Pamela ! But yet I hope I shall not be the
subject of their ballads and their elegies, but
that my memory, for the sake of my dear
father and mother, may quickly slide into
oblivion !"
I was once rising, so indulgent was I to this
sad way of thinking, to throw myself in : but
again my bruises made me slow ; and I thought
" What art thou about to do, wretched
Pamela ? How knowest thou, tho' the
prospect be all dark to thy short-sighted eye,
what God may do for thee, even when all
human hearts fail ? God Almighty would not
lay me under these sore afflictions, if he had
not given me strength to grapple with them, if
I will exert it as I ought : and who knows, but
that the very presence I so much dread, of my
angry and designing master, (for he has had me
in his power before, and yet I have escaped)
may be better for me, than these persecuting
PAMELA 97
emissaries of his, who, for his money, are true
to their wicked trust, and are harden'd by that,
and a long habit of wickedness, against com
punction of heart ? God can touch his heart in
an instant : and if this should not be done, I
can then but put an end to my life by some
other means, if I am so resolved.
" But how do I know," thought I, " on the
other hand, that even these bruises and maims
that I have got, while I pursued only the
laudable escape I had meditated, may not
have been the means of furnishing me with the
kind opportunity I now have of surrendering
up my life, spotless and unguilty, to that
merciful Being who gave it ?"
But then recollecting u Who gave thee,"
said I to myself, " presumptuous as thou art, a
power over thy life ? Who authoris'd thee to
put an end to it ? Is it not the weakness of thy
mind that suggests to thee that there is no way
to preserve it with honour? How knowest
thou what purposes God may have to serve, by
the trials with which thou art now exercised ?
Art thou. to put a bound to the Divine Will
and to say 'Thus much will 1 bear, and no
more? And wilt thou dare to say That if
the trial be augmented and continued, thou wilt
7
98 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
sooner die than bear it? Was not Joseph's
exaltation owing to his unjust imprisonment?
" What then, presumptuous Pamela, dost
thou here?" thought I : "quit with speed these
perilous banks, and fly from these dashing
waters, that seem in their meaning murmurs,
this still night, to reproach thy rashness !
Tempt not God's goodness on the mossy
banks, which have been witnesses of thy guilty
purpose ; and while thou hast power left thee,
avoid the temptation, lest thy grand enemy,
now, by Divine Grace, repuls'd, return to the
assault with a force that thy weakness may not
be able to resist ! And lest thou in one rash
moment destroy all the convictions, which now
have awed thy rebellious mind into duty and
resignation to the Divine Will !"
And so saying, I arose ; but was so stiff with
my hurts, so cold with the dew of the night,
and the wet grass on which I had sat, as also
with the damps arising from so large a piece of
water, that with great pain I got from this pond,
which now I think of with terror ; and bending
my limping steps towards the house, took
refuge in the corner of an out-house, where
wood and coals were laid up for family use.
There, behind a pile of fire-wood, I crept, and
PAMELA 99
lay down, as you may imagine, with a heart just
broken ; expecting to be soon found out by cruel
keepers, and to be worse treated than ever I yet
had been.
It seems Mrs. Jewkes awaked not till day
break ; and not finding me in bed, she called
out for me ; and no answer being return'd,
arose and ran to my closet. Finding me not
there, she search'd under bed, and in another
closet ; having before examined the chamber-
door, and found it as she had left it, quite fast,
and the key, as usual, about her wrist. For if
I could have stole that from her, in her deep
sleep, and got out at the chamber-door, there
were two or three passages, and doors to them
all, double-lock'd and barr'd, to go thro', into
the great garden ; so that there was no way to
escape but out of the window ; and out of
that window I dropped from, because of the
summer parlour under it ; the other windows
being a great way from the ground.
She says, she was excessively alarmed. She
instantly rais'd the two maids, who lay not far
off, and then the Swiss ; and finding every door
fast, she said, 1 must be carry'd away, as St.
Peter was, out of prison, by some angel. It is
a wonder she had not a worse thought.
ioo SAMUEL RICHARDSON
She says, she wept, wrung her hands, and
ran about like a mad woman, little thinking
1 could have got out of the closet-window,
between the iron bars ; and indeed I don't
know whether I could do so again. But at
last, finding that casement open, they concluded
it must be so ; and ran out into the garden,
and found my footsteps in the mould of the bed
which I dropp'd down upon from the leads ;
and so speeded away all of them, that is to say,
Mrs. Jewkes, Colbrand, Nan, and the gardener,
who by that time had joined them, towards
the back door, to see if that was fast, while
the cook was sent to the out-offices to raise the
men-servants, and make them get horses ready,
to take each a several way to pursue me.
But it seems, finding that door double-locked
and padlock'd, and the heel of my shoe, and the
broken bricks, they verily concluded I was got
away by some means over the wall ; and then,
they say, Mrs. Jewkes seem'd like a distracted
woman ; till at last Nan had the thought to go
towards the pond, and there seeing my coat,
and cap and handkerchief, in the water, cast
almost to the banks by the motion of the
waves, she thought it was me, and screaming
out, ran to Mrs. Jewkes, and said O madam,
PAMELA 10 1
madam ! here's a piteous thing ! Mrs. Pamela
lies drown'd in the pond !
Thither they all ran ; and finding my clothes,
doubted not but I was at the bottom ; and then
they all, Swiss among the rest, beat their
breasts, and made most dismal lamentations ;
and Mrs. Jewkes sent Nan to the men, to bid
them get the drag-net ready, and leave the
horses, and come to try to find the poor
innocent, as she, it seems, then call'd me,
beating her breast, and lamenting my hard hap ;
but most what would become of them, and
what account they should give to my master.
While everyone was thus differently employ'd,
some weeping and wailing, some running here
and there, Nan came into the wood-house ; and
there lay poor I, so weak, so low, and so
dejected, and withal so stiff with my bruises,
that 1 could not stir nor help myself to get
upon my feet. And I said, with a low voice,
(for I could hardly speak) Mrs. Ann, Mrs. Ann !
The creature was sadly frighted, but was
taking up a billet to knock me on the head,
believing I was some thief, as she said ; but I
cry'd out O Mrs. Ann, Mrs. Ann ! help me,
for pity's sake, to Mrs. Jewkes ! for I cannot
get up. Bless me ! said she, what ! you,
102 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
madam ! Why our hearts are almost broken,
and we were going to drag the pond for you,
believing you had drown'd yourself. Now,
said she, shall we be all alive again !
Without staying to help me, she ran away to
the pond, and brought all the crew to the wood-
house. The wicked woman, as she entered,
said Where is she ? Plague of her spells, and
her witchcrafts ! She shall dearly repent of this
trick, if my name be Jewkes ; and coming to
me, took hold of my arm so roughly, and gave
me such a pull, as made me scream out (my
shoulder being bruis'd on that side) and drew
me on my face. O cruel creature ! said I, if
you knew what I have suffer'd, it would move
you to pity me !
Even Colbrand seem'd to be concern'd, and
said Fie, madam, fie ! you see she is almost
dead ! You must not be so rough with her.
The coachman Robin seem'd to be sorry for me
too, and said, with sobs What a scene is here !
Don't you see she is all bloody in her head, and
cannot stir ? Curse of her contrivances ! said
the horrid creature ; she has frighted me out of
my wits, I'm sure. How the d 1 came you
here ? O, said I, ask me now no questions,
but let the maids carry me up to my prison ;
PAMELA 103
and there let me die decently, and in peace !
Indeed I thought I could not live two hours.
I suppose, said the tygress, you want
Mr. Williams to pray by you, don't you?
Well, I'll send for my master this minute !
Let him come and watch you himself, for me ;
for there's no such thing as a woman's holding
you, I'm sure.
The maids took me up between them, and
carry'd me to my chamber ; and when the
wretch saw how bad I was, she began a little to
relent.
I was so weak, that I fainted away, as soon
as they got me up stairs ; and they undress'd
me, and got me to bed, and Mrs. Jewkes order'd
Nan to bathe my shoulder, and arm, and ancle,
with some old rum warm'd ; and they cut from
the back part of my head, a little of the hair,
for it was clotted with blood ; and put a family
plaster to the gash, which was pretty long, but
not deep. If this woman has any good quality,
it is, it seems, in a readiness and skill to manage
in cases where sudden accidents happen in a
family.
After this, 1 fell into a pretty sound and
refreshing sleep, and lay till nearly twelve
o'clock, tolerably easy, yet was feverish, and
io 4 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
aguishly inclined. The wretch took a great
deal of care of me : but for what end ? Why,
to fit me to undergo more troubles ; for that is
the sad case.
[Mr. B. arrives at Brandon Hall, and makes Pamela
certain proposals in writing, which she indignantly
rejects. On the following Sunday she watches
her master set out to visit a friend at Stamford.
" To be sure, he is a handsome, fine gentleman !
Why can't I hate him ?" He sends word that he
will not return that night, and Pamela rejoices in
the sense of at least temporary security.]
For the future, I will always mistrust most,
when appearances look fairest. O your poor
daughter, what has she not suffer'd since
Sunday night, the time of her worst trial, and
fearfullest danger !
O how I shudder to write you an account of
this wicked interval of time ! For, my dear
parents, will you not be too much frighten'd
and affected with my distress, when 1 tell you,
that his journey to Stamford was all abominable
pretence ?
The maid Nan is fond of liquor, if she can
get at it ; and Mrs. Jewkes happened or design'd,
as is too probable, to leave a bottle of cherry-
brandy in her way, and the wench drank more
PAMELA 105
of it than she should ; and when she came to
lay the cloth, Mrs. Jewkes perceiv'd it, and
rated at her most sadly. The wretch has too
many faults of her own to suffer any of the
like sort in any body else, if she can help it :
and she bade her get out of her sight, when we
had supp'd, and go to bed, to sleep off her
liquor, before we came to bed. And so the
poor maid went muttering upstairs.
About two hours after, which was near eleven
o'clock, Mrs. Jewkes and I went up to go to
bed ; I pleasing myself with what a charming
night I should have. We lock'd both doors,
and saw poor Nan,* as I thought, sitting fast
asleep, in an elbow-chair, in a dark corner of
the room, with her apron thrown over her head
and neck. But oh ! it was my abominable
master, as you shall hear by and by. And
Mrs. Jewkes said There is that beast of a
wench fast asleep ! I knew she had taken a
fine dose. I will wake her, said I. Let her
sleep on, answered she, we shall lie better
without her. So we shall, said I ; but won't
she get cold ?
1 hope, said the vile woman, you have no
* Ever since Pamela's attempted escape, she had had Nan to
sleep with her as well as Mrs. Jewkes.
106 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
writing to-night. No, replied I, I will go to
bed when you go, Mrs. Jewkes. That's right,
answered she ; indeed I wonder what you can
find to write about so continually. I am sure
you have better conveniences of that kind, and
more paper than I am aware of. Indeed I had
intended to rummage you, if my master had
not come down ; for I spy'd a broken tea-cup
with ink ; which gave me a suspicion : but as he
is come, let him look after you, if he will. If
you deceive him, it will be his own fault.
All this time we were undressing ; and I
fetching a deep sigh What do you sigh for?
said she. I am thinking, Mrs. Jewkes, answered
I, what a sad life I live, and how hard is my
lot. I am sure the thief that has robb'd is
much better off than I, bating the guilt ; and I
should, I think, take it for a mercy to be hang'd
out of the way, rather than live in these cruel
apprehensions. So, being not sleepy, and in a
prattling vein, I began to give a little history
of myself, in this manner :
" My poor honest parents," said I, cc in the
first place, took care to instil good principles
into my mind, till I was almost twelve years
of age ; and taught me to prefer goodness and
poverty, if they could not be separated, to the
PAMELA 107
highest condition ; and they confirmed their
lessons by their own practice ; for they were
of late years remarkably poor, and always as
remarkably honest, even to a proverb ; for, As
honest as Good-man ANDREWS, was a bye-word.
l< Well, then comes my late dear good lady,
and takes a fancy to me, and said she would be
the making of me, if I was a good girl : and
she put me to sing, to dance, to play on the
harpsichord, in order to divert her melancholy
hours ; and also taught me all manner of fine
needle-works ; but still this was her lesson
My good Pamela, be virtuous, and keep the men
at a distance. Well, so I did ; and yet, tho' I
say it, they all respected me ; and would do
any thing for me, as if 1 were a gentlewoman.
" But then, what comes next ? Why, it
pleased God to take my good lady ; and then
comes my master : and what says he ? Why,
in effect, it is Be not virtuous, Pamela.
" So here have I lived above sixteen years
in virtue and reputation ; and, all at once,
when I come to know what is good, and what
is evil, I must renounce all the good, all the
whole sixteen years' innocence, which, next to
God's grace, I owed chiefly to my parents and
to my lady's good lessons and examples, and
io8 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
chuse the evil ; and so, in a moment's time,
become the vilest of creatures ! And all this,
for what, I pray ? Why, truly, for a pair of
diamond earrings, a solitaire, a necklace, and
a diamond ring for my finger ; which would
not become me ; for a few paltry fine clothes ;
which, when I wore them, would make but my
former poverty more ridiculous to every body
that saw me ; especially when they knew the
base terms I wore them upon. But, indeed, I
was to have a great parcel of guineas beside ;
I forget how many ; for had there been ten
times more, they would not have been so much
to me, as the honest six guineas you trick'd me
out of, Mrs. Jewkes.
" Well, but then 1 was to have I know not
how many pounds a year for my life ; and my
poor father (fine encouragement indeed!) was
to be the manager for the abandon'd prostitute,
his daughter : and then (there was the jest of
it!) my kind, forgiving, virtuous master would
pardon me all my misdeeds.
" And what, pray, are all these violent mis
deeds? Why, they are, for daring to adhere
to the good lessons that were taught me ; for
not being contented, when I was run away with,
in order to be ruin'd ; but contriving, if my
PAMELA 109
poor wits had been able, to get out of danger,
and preserve myself honest.
"Then was he once jealous of poor John,
tho' he knew John was his own creature, and
helped to deceive me.
" Then was he outrageous against poor
Mr. Williams ; and him has this good,
merciful master thrown into gaol ! and for
what? Why, truly, for that being a divine,
and a good man, he was willing to forego all
his expectations of interest, and assist a poor
creature, whom he believed innocent!
"But, to be sure, I must be, forward, bold,
saucy, and what not, to dare to attempt an
escape from certain ruin, and an unjust con
finement. Poor Mr. Williams! how was he
drawn in to make marriage proposals to me ?
O Mrs. Jewkes ! what a trick was that ! The
honest gentleman would have had but a poor
catch of me, had I consented to be his wife ;
but he, and you too, know I did not want to
marry any body. I only wanted to go to my
poor parents, and not to be laid under an
unlawful restraint, and which would not have
been attempted, but only that I am a poor
destitute young creature, and have no friend
that is able to right me.
no SAMUEL RICHARDSON
" So here, Mrs. Jewkes," said I, " have I
given my history in brief. I am very unhappy :
and whence my unhappiness? Why, because
my master sees something in my person that
takes his present fancy ; and because I would
not be ruined ; why, therefore, to chuse, I must,
and I shall be ruined ! And this is all the
reason that can be given !"
She heard me run on all this time, while 1
was undressing, without any interruption ; and
I said Well, I must go to the two closets,
ever since an affair of the closet at the other
house, tho' he is so far off. And I have a good
mind to wake this poor maid. No, don't, said
she, I charge you. I am very angry with her,
and she'll get no harm there ; and if she wakes,
she will find her way to bed well enough, as
there is a candle in the chimney.
So I looked into the closets ; and kneeled
down in my own, as I used to do, to say my
prayers, and this with my underclothes in my
hand ; and passed by the supposed sleeping
wench, in my return. But little did I think,
it was my wicked, wicked master in a gown and
petticoat of hers, and her apron over his face
and shoulders.
Mrs. Jewkes by this time was got to bed, on
PAMELA 1 1 1
the further side, as she used to do. Where are
the keys ? said I, and yet I am not so much
afraid to-night. In less than a quarter of an
hour, hearing the supposed maid in motion
Poor Nan is awake, said I ; I hear her stir.
Let us go to sleep, reply'd she, and not mind
her : -she'll come to bed, when she's quite awake.
Poor soul ! said I, I'll warrant she will have
the head-ache finely to-morrow for this. Be
silent, answered she, and go to sleep ; you keep
me awake. I never found you in so talkative
a humour in my life. Don't chide me, said I ;
I will say but one thing more : do you think
Nan could hear me talk of my master's offers ?
No, no, reply'd she, she was dead asleep. I
am glad of that, said I ; because I would not
expose my master to his common servants ; and
I knew you were no stranger to his fine articles.
I think they were fine articles, replied she,
and you were bewitch'd you did not close with
them : but let us go to sleep.
So I was silent : and the pretended Nan (O
wicked, base, villainous designer ! what a plot,
what an unexpected plot was this !) seem'd to
be awaking ; and Mrs. Jewkes, abhorred
creature ! said Mrs. Pamela is in a talking fit,
and won't go to sleep one while. At that, the
ii2 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
pretended she came to the bedside, sitting down
in a chair concealed by the curtain. Poor Mrs.
Ann, said I, I warrant your head aches most
sadly ! How do you do ? No answer was
returned. But he kissed me with frightful
vehemence ; and then his voice broke upon me
like a clap of thunder. I screamed out for
help ; but there was no body to help me.
O sir, exclaimed I, leave me, do but leave me,
and I will do any thing I ought to do. Swear
then to me, said he, that you will accept my
proposals !
With terror, I quite fainted away, and did
not come to myself soon ; so that they both
thought me dying. And I remember no more,
than that, when, with great difficulty, they
brought me to myself, she was sitting on one
side of the bed, with her clothes on ; and he on
the other, in his gown and slippers. I talked
quite wild, and knew not what ; for I was on
the point of distraction.
He most solemnly, and with a bitter im
precation, vow'd, that he was frightened at the
terrible manner I was taken with the fit ; and
begg'd but to see me easy and quiet, and
he would leave me directly. O then, said I,
take with you this most wicked woman, this vile
PAMELA 1 1 3
Mrs. Jewkes, as an earnest that I may believe
you !
I fainted away once more ; and when I came
a little to myself, I saw him sit there, and the
maid Nan holding a smelling-bottle to my nose,
and no Mrs. Jewkes.
He said, taking my hand Now will I vow
to you, my dear Pamela, that I will leave you
the moment I see you better, and pacify'd.
Here's Nan knows, and will tell you, my con
cern for you. And since I found Mrs. Jewkes
so offensive to you, I have sent her to the
maid's bed. The maid only shall stay with you
to-night ; and but promise me, that you will
compose yourself, and I will leave you. But,
said I, will not Nan let you come in again ?
He swore that he would not return that night.
Nan, said he, do you go to bed to the dear
creature, and say all you can to comfort her :
and now, Pamela, give me but your hand, and
say you forgive me, and I will leave you to
your repose.
I held out my trembling hand, which he
vouchsafed to kiss ; and again demanding my
forgiveness God forgive you, sir, said I, as
you will be just to what you promise! And
he withdrew, with a countenance of remorse, as
8
ii 4 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
I hoped ; and Nan shut the doors, and, at my
request, brought the keys to bed.
This, O my dear parents ! was a most dreadful
trial. I tremble still to think of it.
[Soon afterwards Mr. B. tells her that her artless prattle
which he overheard that Sunday night has softened
his heart towards her. He is in a relenting mood,
and talks almost as if he were inclined to marry her.
Pamela falls at his feet and embraces his knees, but
he repulses her. " Indeed, I cannot marry !" Soon
afterwards he discovers part of her Journal, and
insists on her showing him the rest.]
He took the parcel, and broke the seal
instantly. I was walking away. Whither now ?
said he. I was going in, sir, that you might
read them (since you will read them) without
interruption. He put them into his pocket,
and said You have more than these, I am sure
you have. Tell me truth. I have, sir, I own.
But you know as well as /all that they contain.
But I don't know, said he, the light you
represent things in. Give them to me, therefore,
if you have not a mind that I should search for
them myself. Why then, unkind sir, if it must
be so, here they are.
And so I gave him, out of my pocket, the
second parcel, seal'd up, as the former, with this
PAMELA 115
superscription : From the wicked articles^ down,
thro vile attempts, to Thursday the ^.ind day of my
imprisonment. This is last Thursday, is it?
Yes, sir ; but now that you seem determined to
see every thing I write, I will find some other
way to employ my time.
I would have you, said he, continue writing
by all means ; and I assure you, in the mind I
am in, I will not ask you for any papers after
these ; except something very extraordinary
happens. And if you send for those from your
father, and let me read them, I may very
probably give them all back again to you. I
desire therefore that you will.
This hope a little encourages me to continue
my scribbling ; but, for fear of the worst, I
will, when they come to any bulk, contrive some
way to hide them, that I may protest I have
them not about me, which, before, I could not
say of a truth.
He led me then to the side of the pond ; and
sitting down on the slope, made me sit by him.
Come, said he, this being the scene of part of
your project, and where you so artfully threw
in some of your clothes, I will just look upon
that part of your relation here. Sir, said I, let
me then walk about at a little distance ; for
n6 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
I cannot bear the thought of it. Don't go far,
said he.
When he came, as I suppose, to the place
where I mention'd the bricks falling upon me,
he got up, and walk'd to the door, and look'd
upon the broken part of the wall ; for it had
not been mended ; and reading on to himself,
came towards me ; and took my hand, and put
it under his arm.
Why this, said he, my girl, is a very moving
tale. It was a very desperate attempt, and had
you got out, you might have been in great danger;
for you had a very bad and lonely way ; and
I had taken such measures, that let you have
been where you would, I should have had you.
All I ventured, and all I suffered, was nothing,
sir, to what I apprehended. You will be so good
from hence to judge Romantic girl! interrupted
he, I know what you'd say, and read on.
He was very serious at my reflections, on
what God enabled me to escape. And when he
came to my reasonings, about throwing myself
into the water, he said Walk gently before ;
and seem'd so mov'd, that he turn'd away his
face from me ; and I bless'd this good sign, and
began not so much to repent his seeing this
mournful part of my story.
PAMELA 117
He put the papers in his pocket, when he had
read my reflections, and my thanks for escaping
from myself '; and said, taking me about the
waist O my dear girl ! you have touch'd me
sensibly with your mournful tale, and your
reflections upon it. I should truly have been
very miserable had that happen'd which might
have happened. I see you have been us'd too
roughly ; and it is a mercy you stood proof in
that dangerous moment.
Then he most kindly folded me in his arms.
Let us, say I, my Pamela, walk from this
accursed piece of water ; for 1 shall never look
upon it again with pleasure. I thought, added
he, of terrifying you to my will, since I could
not move you by love ; and Mrs. Jewkes too
well obey'd me, when the effect had like to have
been so fatal to my girl.
O sir, said I, I have reason to bless my dear
parents, and my good lady, for giving me
a religious education ; since but for that, I
should, upon more occasions than one, have
attempted a desperate act : and 1 the less
wonder how poor creatures, who have not the
fear of God before their eyes, and give way to
despondency, cast themselves into perdition.
Give me a kiss, my dear girl, said he, and
n8 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
tell me you forgive me, for plunging you into
so much danger and distress. If my mind hold,
and I can see these former papers of yours, and
that these in my pocket give me no cause to
alter my opinion, I will endeavour to defy the
world, and the world's censures, and, if it be in
the power of my whole life, make my Pamela
amends for all the hardships she has undergone
by my means.
1 could hardly suppress my joyful emotions
on this occasion. But fears will ever mingle
with one's hopes, where a great and unexpected,
yet uncertain good opens to one's view. O sir,
said I, what do you bid me look up to? Your
poor servant can never wish to create envy to
herself, and discredit to you ? Therefore, sir,
permit me to return to my parents, and that is
all I have to ask.
He flew into a violent passion. And is it
thus, said he, in my fond conceding moments,
that I am to be answered ? Precise, perverse,
unseasonable Pamela ! begone from my sight,
and know as well how to behave in a hopeful
prospect, as in a distressed state ; and then, and
not till then, shalt thou attract the shadow of
my notice.
I was startled, and would have spoken : but
PAMELA 119
he stamp' d with his foot, and said Begone, I
tell you. I cannot bear this romantic, this
stupid folly.
One word, said I ; but one word, I beseech
you, sir.
He turn'd from me in great wrath, and took
down another alley, and I went in with a very
heavy heart. I fear I was indeed foolishly
unseasonable : but if it was a piece of art of
his side, as I apprehended, I think I was not so
much to blame.
1 went up to my closet ; and wrote thus far.
He walk'd about till dinner was ready ; and is
now set down to it. Mrs. Jewkes tells me he
is very thoughtful, and out of humour ; and
ask'd, what I had done to him ?
Now, again, I dread to see him ! When will
my fears be over?
[Still angry, he orders his chariot to be brought round,
and Pamela is driven off, she has no idea whither.
On her journey a letter is handed to her telling her
that she is being sent back to her parents. But
Mr. B. cannot live without her, and sends another
letter begging her to return as his affianced bride.
Full of mingled dread and ecstasy, Pamela returns,
and soon after is married to her erstwhile seducer in
the chapel at Brandon Hall. She is in great anxiety
as to how the news of his marriage will be taken by
his relatives, particularly by Lady Davers, his aristo-
120 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
cratic sister. She is terrified when, on the temporary
absence of her husband at a neighbour's house, she
hears that Lady Davers has arrived, and demands
her presence.]
I followed her woman down ; my gloves on,
and my fan in my hand, that I might be ready
to step into the chariot, when I could get away.
I had hoped, that the occasion for all my
tremblings had been over ; but I trembled
sadly ; yet resolv'd to put on as easy an air
as possible : and entering the parlour, and
making a very low curt'sy Your servant, my
good lady, said I. And your servant, again,
said she, my lady ; for I think you are dressed
out like one.
A charming girl tho' ! said her rakish nephew,
and swore a great oath : dear madam, forgive
me, but I must kiss her. And came up to me.
Forbear, uncivil gentleman, said I ; I won't
be us'd with freedom.
Jackey, said my lady, sit down, and don't
touch the creature : she's proud enough already.
There's a great difference in her air, as well as
in her dress, I assure you, since 1 saw her last.
Well, child, said she, sneeringly, how dost
find thyself? Thou'rt mightily come on of
late ! I hear strange reports about thee !
PAMELA 121
Thou'rt got into a fool's paradise, I doubt ;
but wilt find thyself terribly mistaken, in a
little while, if thou thinkest my brother will dis
grace his family for the sake of thy baby-face !
I see, said I, sadly vex'd, (her woman and
nephew smiling by) your ladyship has no
particular commands for me, and I beg leave to
withdraw.
Wordon, said she to her woman, shut the
door ; my young lady and I must not part so
soon.
Where's your well-manner'd deceiver gone,
child ? said she.
When your ladyship is pleased to speak
intelligibly, replied I, I shall know how to
answer.
Well, but my dear child, said she in drollery,
don't be too pert neither. Thou wilt not find
thy master's sister half so ready as thy mannerly
master is, to bear with thy freedoms. A little
more of that modesty and humility, therefore,
which my mother's waiting-wench used to shew,
will become thee better than the airs thou givest
thyself.
Her nephew, who swears like a fine gentle
man at every word, rapp'd out an oath, and
said, drolling I think, Mrs. Pamela, if I may
122 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
be so bold as to say so, you should know you
are speaking to Lady Davers I I hope, sir,
replied I (vexed at what my lady said, and at
his sneering), that as there was no need of your
information, you don't expect my thanks for it ;
and I am sorry you seem to think it wants an oath.
He look'd more foolish than I, if possible,
not expecting such a reprimand. At last-
Why, Mrs. Pamela, said he, you put me half
out of countenance with your witty reproof.
Sir, said I, you seem quite a fine gentleman.
I hope, however, that you can be out of
countenance.
How now, Pert-one, said my lady, do you
know to whom you talk?
I beg pardon, madam ! But lest I should
still further forget myself
And then I made a low curtsey, and was going.
But she arose, and gave me a push, and pull'd
the chair, and setting the back against the door,
sat down in it.
Well, said I, I can bear any thing at your
ladyship's hands.
Yet I was ready to cry. And I went and
sat down, and fann'd myself, at the other end
of the room.
Her woman, who stood all the time, said
PAMELA 123
softly Mrs. Pamela, you should not sit in my
lady's presence. My lady, tho' she did not
hear her^ said You shall sit down, child, in
the room where I am, when I give you leave.
I stood up, and said When your ladyship
will hardly permit me to stand, I might be
allowed to sit.
But I ask'd you, said she Whither your
master is gone ?
To one Mr. Carlton's, madam, about sixteen
miles off, who is very ill.
And when does he come home?
This evening, madam.
And whither are you going ?
To a gentleman's house in town, madam.
And how were you to go?
In a chariot, madam.
Why, you must be a lady in time, to be
sure ! I believe you'd become a chariot mighty
well, child ! Were you ever out in it, with
your master ?
I beseech you, madam, said I, very much
nettled, to ask half a dozen such questions
together ; because one answer may do for all !
Why, Bold- face, said she, you'll forget your
distance and bring me to your level before my
time.
i2 4 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
I could no longer refrain tears, but said
Pray your ladyship, let me ask. What I have
done to be thus severely treated? If you think
I am deceived, as you were pleased to hint,
ought I not rather to be entitled to your pity,
than to your anger?
****#
Jackey, said my lady, come, let us go to
dinner. Do you, Word on, (to her woman)
assist the girl in waiting on us. We will have
no men-fellows. Come, my young lady, shall
I help you off with your white gloves ?
I have not, madam, deserv'd this at your
ladyship's hands.
Mrs. Jewkes coming in with the first dish,
she said Do you expect any body else,
Mrs. Jewkes, that the cloth is laid for three ?
I hoped your ladyship and madam, replied
Mrs. Jewkes, would have been so well reconcil'd,
that she would have sat down too.
What means the clownish woman ? said my
lady, in great disdain : could you think the
creature should sit down with me ?
She does, and please your ladyship, with my
master.
So ! said she, the wench has got thee over I
Come, my little dear, pull off thy gloves, I say ;
PAMELA 125
and off she pull'd my left glove herself, and
spy'd my ring. O my dear God ! said she, if
the wench has not got a ring ! Well ! this is a
pretty piece of foolery, indeed ! Dost know,
my friend, that thou art miserably trick'd ?
And so, poor innocent ! thou hast made a fine
exchange, hast thou not ? Thy honesty for
this bauble ! And, I'll warrant, my little dear
has topp'd her part, and paraded it like any
real wife ; and so mimicks still the condition !
Why, said she, and turn'd me round, thou
art as mincing as any bride ! No wonder thou
art thus trick'd out, and talkest of thy pre-
engagements / Pr'ythee, child, walk before me
to that glass : survey thyself, and come back to
me, that I may see how finely thou canst act
the theatrical part given thee.
I was then resolved to try to be silent ; altho
exceedingly vex'd. I went to the window, and
sat down in it, and she took her place at the
table ; and her saucy nephew, fleering at me
most provokingly, sat down by her.
Her ladyship eat some soup, as did her
kinsman ; and then, as she was cutting up
a chicken, said, with as little decency as good
ness If thou longest, my little dear, I will help
thee to a pinion, or breast.
126 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
Pamela, said my lady, help me to a glass of
wine. No, Wordon, you shan't; for she was
offering to do it. I will have my Lady Bride
confer that honour upon me ; and then I shall
see if she can stand up. I was silent, and
stirr'd not.
Dost hear, Chastity ? said she : wilt thou
help me to a glass of wine, when I bid thee ?
What ! not stir ! Then I'll come and help thee
to one.
Still, I mov'd not ; but, fanning myself,
continued silent.
When I have ask'd thee, Meek-one, half a
dozen questions together, said she, I suppose thou
wilt answer them all at once. Canst thou not
find one word for me r Canst thou not find
thy feet ?
I was so vex'd, I bit out a piece of my
fan, not knowing what I did ; but still I
said nothing, only fluttering it, and fanning
myself.
I believe, said she, my next question will
make up half a dozen ; and then, Modest-one,
I shall be entitled to an answer.
# * # * *
When the cloth was taken away, I said I
suppose I may not depart your presence, madam ?
PAMELA 127
I suppose not, said she. Why, I'll lay thee
a wager, child, thy stomach's too full to eat,
and so thou mayest fast till thy mannerly
master comes home.
I offered to go out, but her kinsman again
set his back against the door, and put his hand
to his sword, and said I should not go, till
Lady Davers permitted it. He drew it half
way, and I was so terrified, that I cry'd out
O the sword ! the sword ! And, not knowing
what 1 did, ran to my lady, and clasp'd my
arms about her, forgetting, just then, how
much she was my enemy ; and said, sinking
on my knees Defend me, good your ladyship !
The sword! the sword! Mrs. Jewkes said
My lady will fall into fits. But Lady
Davers was herself so startled at the matter
being carry'd so far, that she did not mind her
words, and said Jackey, don't draw your
sword ! You see, violent as her spirit is, she
is but a coward.
Come, said she. be comforted : I will try to
overcome my anger, and will pity you. So,
wench, rise up, and don't be foolish. Mrs.
Jewkes held her salts to my nose. I did not
faint. And my lady said Jewkes, if you wish
to be forgiven, leave Pamela and me by our-
128 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
selves ; and, Jackey, do you withdraw ; only
you, Wordon, stay.
I sat down in the window, trembling like
a coward, as her ladyship called me, and as
I am.
You should not sit in my lady's presence,
Mrs. Pamela, again said her woman.
Yes, let her sit, till she is a little recover'd,
replied my lady. She sat down over against
me. To be sure, Pamela, said she, you have
been very provoking with your tongue, to be
sure you have, as well to my nephew (who is a
man of quality too), as to me. And, palliating
her cruel usage, conscious she had carry'd the
matter too far, she wanted to lay the fault upon
me : Own, said she, you have been very saucy,
and beg my pardon, and beg Jackey 's pardon ;
and I will try to pity you : for you would have
been a sweet girl, after all, if you had but kept
your innocence.
I arose from the window, and walking to the
other end of the room Beat me again, if you
please, said I : but I must tell your ladyship, I
scorn your words, and am as much marry'd as
your ladyship !
At that she ran to me, but her woman inter
posed again Let the vain creature go from
PAMELA 129
your presence, madam, said she. She is not
worthy to be in it. She will but vex your
ladyship.
Stand away, Wordon, said my lady. That
is an assertion that I would not take from my
brother. I can't bear it. As much marry 'd as
I ! Is that to be borne ?
Mrs. Jewkes coming nearer me, and my lady
walking about the room, being then at the end,
I whisper 'd Let Robert stay at the elms ; I'll
have a struggle for't by-and-by.
As much marry' d as I ! repeated she. The
insolence of the creature ! Talking to herself,
to her woman, and now and then to me, as she
walked ; but seeing I could not please her, I
thought I had better be silent.
And then it was Am I not worthy of an
answer ?
If I speak, replied I, your ladyship is angry
with me, tho' it be ever so respectfully. Would
to Heaven I knew how to please your lady
ship !
I was quite sick at heart, at all this passionate
extravagance, and the more as I was afraid of
incurring displeasure, by not being where I was
expected : and seeing it was no hard matter to
get out of the window, into the front-yard, the
9
130 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
parlour floor being almost even with the yard,
I resolv'd to attempt it ; and to have a fair run
for it. Accordingly, having seen my lady at
the other end of the room, in her walks back
ward and forward, and having not pulled down
the sash, which I put up when I spoke to
Mrs. Jewkes, I got upon the seat, and whipp'd
out in a moment, and ran away as fast as I
could ; my lady at one window, and her woman
at another, calling after me to return.
Two of her servants appeared at her crying
out ; and she bidding them stop me, I said-
Touch me at your peril, fellows ! But their
lady's commands would have prevailed, had not
Mr. Colbrand, who, it seems, had been order'd
by Mrs. Jewkes, when she saw how I was
treated, to be within call, come up, and put on
one of his deadly fierce looks, the only time, I
thought, it ever became him, and said He
would chine the man (that was his word) who
offer'd to touch his lady ; and so he ran along
side of me ; and I heard my lady say The
creature flies like a bird. Indeed, Mr. Colbrand,
with his huge strides, could hardly keep pace
with me. I never stopp'd till I got to the
chariot. Robert had got down from his seat,
seeing me running at a distance, and held the
PAMELA 131
door in his hand, with the step ready down ;
and in I jump'd, without touching the step,
saying Drive me, drive me, as fast as you can,
out of my lady's reach ! He mounted his seat,
and Colbrand said Don't be frighten'd, madam ;
nobody shall hurt you. He shut the door, and
away Robert drove ; but I was quite out of
breath, and did not recover it, and my fright,
all the way.
[Pamela returns with her husband to Bedfordshire, and
makes an excellent impression on the local squire
archy. The rest of the novel is taken up with the
account of her triumphs and her virtues as Mrs. B.
The following extract shows her attitude towards a
past fault of her husband's.]
Prepare, my dear parents, to hear something
very particular. We set out at about half an
hour after six, in the morning ; and got to the
truly neat house I mentioned in my former, by
half an hour after eight.
We were prettily received and entertain'd
here, by the good woman, and her daughter ;
and an elegancy ran through every thing,
persons as well as furniture, yet all plain. And
my master said to the good housewife Do
your young boarding-school ladies still at times
continue their visits to you, Mrs. Dobson ?
1 32 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
Yes, sir, said she ; I expect three or four of
them every minute.
There is, my dear, said he, within three
miles of this farm, a very good boarding-school
for ladies. The governess of it keeps a chaise
and pair, which is to be made a double chaise
at pleasure ; and in summer-time, when the
misses perform their tasks well, she favours
them with an airing to this place, three or four
at a time, to breakfast : and this serves both for
a reward, and for exercise. The young ladies
who have this favour, are not a little proud of
it ; and it brings them forward in their respec
tive tasks.
A very good method, sir, said I. And just
as we were talking, the chaise came in with
four misses, all pretty much of a size, and a
maid-servant to attend them. They were shewn
another little neat apartment, that went thro'
ours ; and made their honours very prettily as
they pass'd by us. I went into the room to
them, and asked them questions about their
work, and their lessons ; and what they had
done to deserve such a fine airing and break
fasting. They all answered me very prettily.
And pray, little ladies, said I, what may I call
your names ? One was called Miss BurdofF,
PAMELA 133
one Miss Nugent, one Miss Booth, and the
fourth Miss Goodwin. I don't know which,
said I, is the prettiest ; but you are all best,
my little dears ; and you have a very good
governess, to indulge you with such a fine
airing, and such delicate cream, and bread and
butter. I hope you think so.
My master came in. He kissed each of
them ; but look'd more wistfully on Miss
Goodwin, than on any of the others ; but
I thought nothing just then : had she been
called Miss Godfrey, I had hit upon it in
a trice.
When we returned to our own room, he said
-Which do you think the prettiest of those
children ? Really, sir, reply'd I, it is hard to
say : Miss Booth is a pretty brown girl, and has
a fine eye. Miss Burdoff has a great deal of
sweetness in her countenance, but her features
are not so regular. Miss Nugent has a fine
complexion : and Miss Goodwin has a fine
black eye, and is, besides, I think, the genteelest-
shap'd child. But they are all pretty.
Their maid led them into the garden, to shew
them the bee-hives ; and Miss Goodwin made
a particular fine curtsey to my master. And I
said I believe miss knows you, sir. And
134 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
taking her by the hand Do you know this
gentleman, my pretty dear? Yes, madam, said
she ; he is my own uncle. I clasp'd her in my
arms : O, why did you not tell me, sir, said I,
that you had a niece among these little ladies ?
And I kiss'd her, and away she tript after the
others.
But pray, sir, said I, how can this be ? You
have no sister nor brother, but Lady Davers.
How can this be ?
He smiled ; and then I said O, my dearest
sir, tell me now of a truth, does not this pretty
miss stand in a nearer relation to you, than that
of a niece ? 1 know she does ! I know she
does!
'Tis even so, my dear, reply'd he ; and you
remember my sister's good-natur'd hint of Miss
Sally Godfrey 1 do, sir, answer'd I : but
this young lady is Miss Goodwin, not Godfrey.
Her mother chose that name for her,
answered he, because she would not have her
called by her own. You must excuse me, sir,
said I ; I must go and prattle with her. I will
send for her in again, reply'd he. He did ;
and in she came, in a moment. I took her in
my arms, and said Will you love me, my
charming dear ? Will you let me be your
PAMELA 135
aunt? Yes, madam, answer'd she ; and I will
love you. dearly : but I must not love my uncle.
Why so ? asked Mr. B. Because, reply'd
she, you would not speak to me at first ! And
because you would not let me call you uncle
(for it seems she was bid not, that I might not
guess at her presently) ; and yet, said the pretty
dear, I had not seen you a great while so
I had not.
Well, Pamela, said he, now can you allow
me to love this little innocent? Allow you,
sir ! reply'd I ; you would be very barbarous,
if you did not ; and I should be more so, if
I did not promote it all I could, and love the
little innocent myself, for your sake, and for her
own sake, and in compassion to her poor
mother, tho' unknown to me. Tears stood in
my eyes.
Why, my love, said he, are your words so
kind, and your countenance so sad ? I drew
to the window, from the child, he following me ;
and said Sad it is not, sir ; but I have a
strange grief and pleasure mingled at once in my
breast, on this occasion : it is indeed a twofold
grief and a twofold pleasure. As how, my dear ?
Why, sir, I cannot help being grieved for the
poor mother of this sweet babe, to think, if she
136 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
be living, that she must call her chiefest delight
her shame : if she be no more, that she must
have had sad remorse on her mind, when she
came to leave the world, and her little babe :
and, in the second place, I grieve, that it must
be thought a kindness to the dear little soul,
not to let her know how near the dearest
relation she has in the world is to her. Forgive
me, sir ; I say not this in the least to reproach
you : indeed, I do not. And I have a twofold
cause of joy. First, that I have had the grace
to escape the misfortune of this poor lady ; and
next, that this discovery has given me an oppor
tunity to shew the sincerity of my grateful
affection for you, sir, in the love I will always
bear to this dear child.
I then stepp'd to her again, and kissed her ;
and said Join with me, my pretty love, to beg
your uncle to let you come and live with your
new aunt : indeed, my precious, I will love you
dearly.
Will you, sir ? said the little charmer, will
you let me go and live with my aunt?
You are very good, my Pamela, said he. I
have not been once deceived in the hopes my
fond heart had cntertain'd of your prudence.
But will you, sir, said I, will you grant me this
PAMELA 137
favour ? I shall most sincerely love the little
charmer ; and she shall be entitled to all I am
capable of doing for her, both by example and
affection. My dearest sir, added I, oblige me
in this thing ! I think already my heart is set
upon it ! What a sweet employment and com
panion shall I have !
We will talk of this some other time, reply'd
he ; but I must, in prudence, put some bounds
to your amiable generosity. I had always
intended to surprise you into this discovery ;
but my sister led the way to it, out of a poor
ness in her spite, that I could hardly forgive.
You have obliged me beyond expression, yet
I cannot say, that you have gone much beyond
.my expectation on this occasion. For I have
such a high opinion of you, that I think nothing
could have shaken it, but a contrary conduct to
this you have shewn on so tender a circumstance.
Well, sir, said the dear little miss, then you
will not let me go home with my aunt, will
you ? She will be my pretty aunt ; and I am
sure she will love me. When you break up
next, my dear, said he, if you are a good girl,
you shall pay your new aunt a visit. She made
a low curtsey Thank you, sir. Yes, my dear,
said I, and 1 will get you some pretty picture
138 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
books against the time. You love reading,
I dare say? Indeed I do. I would have
brought some now, said I, had I known I should
have seen my pretty love. Thank you, madam,
returned she.
I ask'd him, how old she was? He said-
Bet ween six and seven. Was she ever, sir, at
your house ? My sister, reply'd he, brought her
thither once, as a little relation of her lord's. I
remember, sir, said I, a little miss, once brought
thither by Lady Davers ; and Mrs. Jervis and I
took her to be a relation of Lord Davers.
My sister, returned he, knew the whole
secret from the beginning : and it made her
a great merit with me, that she kept it from the
knowledge of my father, who was then living,
and of my mother, to her dying day ; altho'
she descended so low, in her passion, as to hint
the matter to you.
The little misses took their leaves soon after.
I know not how, but I am strangely taken with
this dear child. I wish Mr. B. would let me
have her home. It would be a great pleasure
to have such a fine opportunity, oblig'd as I am,
to shew my love for him, in my fondness for
this dear miss.
*,*,*,*,*
CLARISSA
OR
THE HISTORY OF A YOUNG
LADY
COMPREHENDING THE MOST IMPORTANT CONCERNS
OF PRIVATE LIFE, AND PARTICULARLY SHOWING
THE DISTRESSES THAT MAY ATTEND THE MIS
CONDUCT BOTH OF PARENTS AND CHILDREN IN
RELATION TO MARRIAGE
THE HISTORY
OF
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
Miss HOWE TO Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE.
I AM much concerned, my dearest friend, at the
disturbances that have happened in your family,
and long to have the particulars from yourself
of the usage you have received on an accident
you could not help, in which the sufferer was
the aggressor.
The surgeon whom I sent for after the
rencontre to inquire how your brother was, told
me there was no danger from the wound. . . .
They say that Mr. Lovelace could not avoid
drawing his sword, and that your brother's
passion or unskilfulness left him from the first
pass at his mercy. . . . Everybody pities
you. . . . My mother and all of us talk of
no one else. Write me, my dear, the whole of
141
1 42 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
your story from the time Mr. Lovelace was
introduced to your family.
Some have it that the younger sister has
stolen the lover from the elder. If anything
unhappy should fall out, your account of all
things previous will be your justification.
Pardon me yet why should I say pardon
when your concerns and honour are mine?
when I love you as never woman loved another?
Your affectionate
A. HOWE.
CLARISSA TO Miss HOWE.
January 1 5.
THE moment, my dear, that Mr. Lovelace's
visits were mentioned to my brother on his
arrival from Scotland, he expressed his dis
approbation, justifying his inveteracy by declar
ing that he had ever hated him since he had
known him at college, and would never own
me for a sister if I married him.
* * * * *
He found my sister ready to join him in his
resentment against the man he hated. She
utterly disclaimed all manner of regard for him.
" Never liked him at all. His estate was
CLARISSA 143
encumbered. He kept no house no equipage.
The reason was easy to guess at." And then
did she boast of, and my brother praised her
for, refusing him. Both joined on all occasions
to depreciate him.
Now and then when their vehemence carried
them beyond all bounds, I thought it just to
put in a word for him. This subjected me to
reproach, so that when I could not change the
subject I retired.
Their behaviour to him when they could not
help seeing him was very disobliging, and at
last they gave such loose to their passion that
instead of withdrawing when he came, they
threw themselves in his way to affront him.
Mr. Lovelace you may believe ill brooked
this, but contented himself by complaining
to me, adding that, but for my sake, my
brother's treatment of him was not to be
borne.
I was sorry for the merit this gave him, in
his own opinion, and the more so as some of
the affronts he received were too flagrant to be
excused. But I told him that I was determined
not to fall out with my brother if I could help
it ; and, since they could not see one another
with temper, should be glad that he would not
i 4 4 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
throw himself in my brother's way. He, I was
sure, would not seek him.
He was nettled at my answer, but said he
must bear his affronts if I must have it so. He
hoped to show on this occasion that he had a
command of his passions, and doubted not it
would be attributed to a proper motive by a
person of my generosity.
I must observe in his disfavour, that notwith
standing the merit he wanted to make of his
patience upon my brother's ill treatment, I
owed him no compliment for trying to conciliate
with him. He showed such a contempt of my
brother and sister, especially my brother, as
was construed into a defiance of them, and I
doubted not that, having so little encourage
ment from anybody, his pride would soon take
fire.
But my brother's antipathy would not permit
him to wait for such an event ; and after
several excesses, which Mr. Lovelace still
returned with a haughtiness too much like that
of the aggressor, my brother took upon himself
to fill up the doorway once, when he came, as
if to oppose his entrance ; and, upon his asking
for me, demanded what his business was with
his sister.
CLARISSA 145
The other, with a challenging air, told him
he would answer a gentleman any question ;
but he wished that Mr. James Harlowe, who
had of late given himself high airs, would
remember that he was not now at college.
Just then the good Dr. Lewin, who had
parted with me in my own parlour, came to
the door, and, hearing the words, interposed
between both gentlemen, having their hands
upon their swords, and, telling Mr. Lovelace
where I was, the latter burst by my brother to
come to me, leaving him chafing, he said, like a
hunted boar at bay.
After this, my father was pleased to hint that
Mr. Lovelace's visits should be discontinued,
and I, by his command, spoke a great deal
plainer ; but Mr. Lovelace is a man not easily
brought to give up his purpose, especially on a
point wherein he protests his heart is so much
engaged ; and no absolute prohibition having
been given, things went on for a while as before,
till my brother again took occasion to insult
Mr. Lovelace, when that unhappy rencontre
followed, in which, as you have heard, my
brother was wounded and disarmed, and on
being brought home and giving us ground to
suppose he was worse hurt than he was, and a
10
146 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
fever ensuing, every one flamed out, and all
was laid at my door.
Mr. Lovelace sent twice a day to inquire
after my brother, and on the fourth day came in
person, and received great incivilities from my
two uncles, who happened to be there. My
papa also was held from going to him with his
sword in his hand, although he had the gout.
I fainted away with terror, seeing every one
so violent ; hearing his voice swearing he would
not depart without seeing me, my mamma
struggling with my papa, and my sister insulting
me. When he was told how ill I was, he
departed, vowing revenge.
He was ever a favourite with our domestics ;
and on this occasion they privately blamed
everybody else, and reported his behaviour in
such favourable terms, that those reports, and
my apprehensions of the consequences, induced
me to read a letter he sent me that night, it
being written in the most respectful terms,
offering to submit the whole to my decision, to
answer it some days after.
To this unhappy necessity is owing our
renewed correspondence ; meantime I am ex
tremely concerned to find that I am become
the public talk. Your kind regard for my fame
CLARISSA 147
is so like the warm friend I have ever found
you, that with redoubled obligation you bind
me to be
Your ever grateful
CLARISSA.
[Clarissa's troubles are increased by her family's decision
that she is to marry a certain Mr. Solmes, a man
abhorrent to her. She steadfastly refuses to do so.]
CLARISSA TO Miss HOWE.
March yd.
Oh my dear friend, trial upon trial ! I went
down this morning to breakfast with an uneasy
heart, wishing for an opportunity to appeal to
my mamma when she retired afterwards to her
own room ; but unluckily there was the odious
Solmes with assurance in his looks !
The creature must needs rise from his seat
and take one that was next mine. I removed
mine to a distance, and then down I sat abruptly
enough.
He took the removed chair and drew it so
near me that in sitting down he pressed upon
my hoop, at which I was so offended that I
removed to another. I own I had too little
command of myself, but I could not help it ;
I knew not what I did. I saw my papa was
148 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
excessively displeased. When angry, no man's
countenance ever shows it so much as my papa's.
" Clarissa Harlowe," said he with a big voice,
and there he stopp'd ! " Sir !" said I, and
curtsied. I trembled and put my chair nearer
the wretch. I felt my face all in a glow.
" Sit by me, love," said my kind mamma,
" and make tea."
I removed to her side with pleasure, and
being thus indulgently put into employment,
soon recovered myself, and in course of breakfast
asked some questions of Mr. Solmes, which I
would not have done, but to make up with my
papa. " Proud spirits may be brought to"
whispered my sister to me with an air of
triumph and scorn.
My mamma was all kindness and condescen
sion. I asked her if she were pleased with the
tea, she said " yes," softly, calling me dear ;
told me she was pleased with all I did. I was
very proud of this encouraging goodness, and
all blew over, as I hoped, between my papa and
me, for he spoke kindly to me two or three
times.
Before breakfast was over my papa withdrew
with my mamma, telling her he wanted to
speak to her. My brother gave himself some
CLARISSA 149
airs, which I understood well enough. But at
last he rose and went away, my sister following
him.
I saw what all this was for ; so I stood up to
go also, the man hemming up for a speech,
rising and beginning to set his splay feet in an
approaching posture. I curtsied " Your servant,
Sir/ 7 The man cried " Madam " twice, and
looked like a fool. But away I went to find
my brother. He was gone to walk in the
garden with my sister.
I had just got to my room, and began to
think of sending Hannah to beg an audience of
my mamma, when Shorey, her woman, brought
me her commands to attend her in her closet.
My papa, Hannah told me, had just gone out
of it with a positive angry countenance. Then
I as much dreaded the audience, as I had wished
for it before.
I went down ; but approached her trembling,
and my heart in visible palpitations.
She saw my concern. Holding out her kind
arms, " Come kiss me, my dear," said she, with
a smile like a sunbeam breaking through the
cloud that overshadowed her benign aspect.
" Why flutters my jewel so ?"
This sweetness, with her goodness just before,
1 50 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
confirmed my apprehensions. My mamma saw
the bitter pill wanted gilding.
"O my mamma!" was all I could say ; and
I clasped my arms round her neck, and my face
sunk into her bosom.
" My child ! restrain your feelings," said she;
" I dare not trust myself with you." And my
tears trickled down her bosom, as hers bedewed
my neck.
Oh the words of kindness all to be expressed
in vain that fell from her lips !
" Lift up your sweet face, my best child, my
own Clarissa. Oh my daughter ! best beloved
of my heart, lift up a face ever precious to me.
Why these sobs ? Is an apprehended duty so
affecting a thing that before I can speak you
can guess at what I have to say to you ? I am
glad then that I am spared the pains of breaking
to you what has been made a reluctant task
to me."
And drawing her chair near mine, she put
her arms round my neck, and my cheek wet
with tears next her own.
<c You know, my dear," she said, " what I
undergo every day for peace. Your papa is a
good man, but will neither be controlled nor
persuaded. You are a good child," she was
CLARISSA [51
pleased to say, " you would not wilfully break
that peace, which it costs me so much to pre
serve. Obedience is better than sacrifice. Oh,
my Clary! I see your perplexity (loosing her
arm and rising, not willing I should see how
much she herself was affected). I will leave
you a moment. Answer me not (for I was
essaying to speak, and had, as soon as she took
her dear cheek from mine, dropped down on
my knees, my hands clasped and lifted up in a
supplicating manner) : I am not prepared for
your expostulations. I will leave you to recover
from your agitation. And I charge you, on my
blessing, that all this my truly maternal tender
ness be not thrown away upon you."
And then she withdrew into the next apart
ment ; wiping her eyes as she went : mine
overflowed.
She returned, having recovered more steadi
ness.
Still on my knees, I had thrown my face
across her chair.
" Look up to me, my dear Clary. No
sullenness, I hope?"
" No, indeed, my revered mamma." And
I rose. I bent my knee.
She raised me. " No kneeling to me but
152 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
with knees of duty and compliance. Your
heart must bend. It is absolutely determined.
Prepare yourself therefore to receive your papa,
when he visits you by-and-by. On this quarter
of an hour depends the peace of my future life,
the satisfaction of the family, and your own
security from a man of violence ; and I charge
you besides, on my blessing, that you think
of being Mrs. Solmes."
There went the dagger to my heart, and down
I sunk. When I recovered, I found myself in
the arms of my Hannah, my sister's Betty
holding open my palm, my linen scented with
hartshorn, and my mamma gone. Had I been
less kindly treated, I had stood it all with less
visible emotion, but to be bid on the blessing of
a mother so dearly beloved to think of being
Mrs. Solmes, what a denunciation was that !
Shorey came in with a message, delivered in
her solemn way. " Your mamma, Miss, is
concerned for your disorder, she expects you
down in an hour, and bid me say that she then
hopes everything from your duty."
Within that time my mamma came up to me.
" Come, my dear/' she said, " we will go into
your library.''
She took my hand, led the way, made me sit
CLARISSA 153
down by her, and after she had inquired how
I did, began in a strain as if she supposed I had
made use of the intervening space to overcome
all my objections. She was pleased to tell me
that my papa and she, in order to spare me, had
taken the whole affair upon themselves.
Just then came my papa, with a sternness in
his looks that made me tremble. He took two
or three turns about my chamber, and then said
to my mamma, who was silent as soon as she
saw him, " My dear, dinner is near ready, let
us have you soon down, your daughter in your
hand, if worthy of the name." And down he
went, casting his eyes upon me with a look so
stern that I was unable to say one word to him.
My mamma called me her good child, and
kissed me, told me my papa should not know
that I had made such opposition. " Come,
my dear, shall we go down?" and took my
hand.
This made me start. " What, madam, go
down, to let it be supposed we were talking of
preparation. O my beloved mamma, command
me not upon such a supposition."
" And do you design not to give me hope.
Perverse girl !" rising and flinging from me.
" When I see you next, let me know what
154 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
blame I have to cast upon myself for my indul
gence to you."
She made a little stop at the chamber door.
" O madam," cried I, " whose favour can
I hope for, if I lose my mamma's ?"
As I must write as I have opportunity, the
formality of super and .inscription will be
excused, for I need not say how much I am
Your sincere and affectionate
CL. HARLOWE.
[Clarissa is after this kept a close prisoner, and is told
that, if she refuses to marry Solmes of her free will,
she will be compelled to do so by force. In her
desperation she listens to certain proposals made by
Lovelace that she shall take refuge with his relations.]
MR. LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
March i ^th.
In vain dost thou* press me to go to town,
while I am in such an uncertainty with this
proud beauty. All the ground I have hitherto
gained with her is entirely owing to her concern
for the safety of people whom I have reason to
hate.
* These gentlemen affected what they called the Roman style
to wit, "Thee" and "Thou" and it was an agreed rule
with them to take in good part whatever freedoms they treated
each other with.
CLARISSA 155
The lady's malevolent brother has now, as I
told thee at M. Hall, introduced another man
the most unpromising in his person and
qualities, the most formidable in his offers, that
has yet appeared.
This man has captivated every soul of the
Harlowes. Soul! did I say? There is not a
soul among them but my charmer's and she is
actually confined and otherwise maltreated, by
a father the most gloomy and positive, at the
instigation of a brother the most arrogant and
selfish. But thou knowest their characters.
Is it not a confounded thing to be in love
with one who is the daughter the sister the
niece of a family I despise? That love
increasing with her what shall I call it ?
'Tis not scorn, 'tis not pride, 'tis not the
insolence of an adored beauty ; but 'tis to
virtue^ it seems, that my difficulties are owing.
But what a mind must that be, which,
though not virtuous itself, admires not virtue
in another ? My visit to Arabella was owing
to a mistake of the sisters into which, as thou
hast heard me say, I was led by a blundering
uncle who was to introduce me (but lately come
from abroad) to the Divinity, as I thought ;
but, instead of her, carried me to a mere mortal.
156 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
And much difficulty had I with so fond and so
forward a mortal, to get off without forfeiting
all with a family that I intended should give me
a goddess.
I have boasted that I was once in love before.
It was in my early manhood, with that Quality
jilt whose infidelity I have vowed to revenge
upon the sex. . . . But now I am indeed in
love. I can think of nothing but the divine
Clarissa. . . . And with revenge I glow ; for
dost thou think I can bear the insults of this
stupid family?
* * # * #
And what my motive, dost thou ask? No
less than this. That my beloved shall find no
protection out of my family ; for, if I know
hers, fly she must, or have the man she hates.
This, therefore, if I take my measures right, and
my familiar fail me not, will secure her mine in
spite of them all ; in spite of her own inflexible
heart ; mine without condition, without refor
mation promises. Then shall I have all the
rascally members of the family come creeping to
me, I prescribing to them and bringing that
sordidly-imperious brother to kneel at the foot
stool of my throne.
All my fear arises from the little hold I have in
CLARISSA 157
the heart of this charming frost-piece. Such a
constant glow upon her lovely features, eyes so
sparkling, limbs so divinely turned ; youth so
blooming, air so animated, to have a heart so
impenetrable. And / the hitherto successful
Lovelace, the suitor. How can it be? Yet
there are people and I have talked with some of
them, who remember that she was born. Her
nurse boasts of her maternal offices in her
earliest infancy, so that there is full proof that
she came not from above all at once an angel !
How then can she be so impenetrable !
" Perdition catch my soul, but I do love her."
Else, could I bear the revilings of her
implacable family ? Else, could I basely creep
about not her proud father's house but his
paddock and garden- walls ? E!se y should I
think myself amply repaid if the fourth, fifth,
or sixth midnight stroll, through unfrequented
paths and over briary inclosures afford me a few
cold lines, the purport only to let me know
that she values the most worthless person of
her very worthless family more than she values
me, and that she would not write at all but to
induce me to bear insults which un-man me to
bear ! My lodging in the intermediate way at
158 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
a wretched ale-house disguised like an inmate
of it.
Was ever hero in romance called upon to
harder trials ? fortune, family, reversionary
grandeur, on my side such a wretched fellow
for my competitor ! Must I not be deplorably
in love that can go through these difficulties,
encounter these contempts? By my soul I am
half ashamed of myself !
Yet is it not a glory to love her whom every
one who sees her loves and reveres ?
Thou art curious to know if it be possible
that such a universal lover as I can be confined
to one object. Thou knowest nothing of this
charming creature that can put such a question
to me. All that is excellent in her sex is in
this lady ! . . . Taking together person,
mind, and behaviour, should we not acknow
ledge in the words of Shakespear the justice of
the universal voice in her favour :
" For sev'ral virtues
Have I liked sev'ral women. Never any
With so full soul, but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed,
And put it to the foil. But She ! Oh She !
So perfect and so peerless, is created
Of ev'ry creature's best."
Then are so many stimulatives to such a
spirit as mine in this affair besides love, such a
CLARISSA 159
field for stratagem and contrivance which thou
knowest to be the delight of my heart. Then
the rewarding end of all, to carry off such a
girl as this, in spite of all her watchful and
implacable friends ; and in spite of a prudence
and reserve that I never met with in any of the
sex. What a triumph ! what a triumph over
the whole sex ! And then such a revenge to
gratify, which is only at present politically
reined-in, eventually to break forth with the
greater fury. Is it possible, thinkest thou,
that there can be room for a thought that is not
of her, and devoted to her ?
[Clarissa, of course, is quite ignorant of Lovelace's real
aims and motives. She is still not without hope of
persuading her family to release her from Solmes,
though, so far, there is no sign of their relenting.
She corresponds secretly both with Lovelace and
Miss Howe. From the latter she receives the follow
ing characteristic letter.]
Miss HOWE TO CLARISSA.
March ^^nd t
My cousin, Jenny Fynnet, is here ; she is all
prate, you know, and loves to set me a prating ;
yet comes upon a very grave occasion to
procure my mother to go to her grandmother
i6o SAMUEL RICHARDSON
Larkin, who is bed-ridden ; and has taken it
into her head that she is mortal and should
make her will, but on condition that my mother
who is her relation will go and advise as to the
particulars of it, for she has a high opinion of
my mother's judgment in all notable affairs.
Mrs. Larkin lives seventeen miles off, and as
my mother cannot endure to lie out of her
own house she proposes to set out in the
morning, and get back at night. So to-morrow
I shall be at your service ; nor will I be at
home to anybody.
As to the impertinent Hickman,* I have put
him upon escorting the two ladies, in order
to attend my mother home at night. Such
expeditions as these, and to give us women a
little air at public places, is all I know these
dangling fellows are good for.
Here I was interrupted on the honest man's
account. He has been here these two hours,
and was now going. His horses at the door.
My mother sent for me down, pretending to
want to say something to me.
Something she said when I came that signified
nothing evidently for no reason called me but
she wished to give me an opportunity to see
* Miss Howe's accepted lover.
CLARISSA 161
what a fine bow her man could make. She
knows I am not over- ready to oblige him with
my company, if I happen to be otherwise
engaged. I could not help showing a fretful
air when I saw her intention.
She smiled off the visible fretfulness, that the
man might go away in good humour with
himself.
He bowed to the ground, and would have
taken my hand, his whip in the other, but
I would not have it, and withdrew my hand.
"A mad girl," said my mother.
He was quite put out, took his horse's bridle,
bowing back till he ran against his servant.
He mounted his horse I mounted up-stairs,
after a lecture.
Hickman is a sort of fiddling, busy, yet, to
borrow a word from you, unbusy man, has a
great deal to do, and seems to me to dispatch
nothing. Irresolute and changeable in every
thing but in teazing me.
The man however is honest, has a good
estate, and may one day be a baronet, an't so
please you. He is humane, benevolent, and,
people say, generous. I cannot but confess
that now I like anybody better, whatever I did
once.
ii
1 62 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
He is no fox-hunter. He keeps a pack,
indeed, but prefers not his hounds to his fellow-
creatures. No bad sign for a wife, I own. He
loves his horse, but dislikes racing in a gaming
way, as well as all sorts of gaming. Then he
is sober, modest, they say virtuous in short,
has qualities that mothers would be fond of in
a husband for their daughters, and for which
perhaps their daughters would be the happier
could they judge for themselves.
Strange that these sober fellows cannot have
a decent sprightliness, a modest assurance with
them. Something debonnaire, which need not
be separated from their awe and reverence,
when they address a woman. You and I have
often retrospected the faces and minds of grown
people, that is, have formed images, from
their present appearances, as far as they would
justify us, what sort of figures they made when
boys and girls. And I'll tell you the lights in
which Hickman, Solmes, and Lovelace, our
three heroes, have appeared to me, supposing
them boys at school.
Solmes I have imagined to be a little sordid
rogue, who would purloin and beg every boy's
bread and butter from him.
Hickman, an overgrown, lank-haired, chubby
CLARISSA 163
boy, who would be punched by everybody, and
go home and tell his mother.
Lovelace, a curl-pated villain, full of fire,
fancy, and mischief ; an orchard robber, a wall
climber, a horse rider without saddle or bridle
neck or nothing. A sturdy rogue, who
would kick and cuff, and do no right, and take
no wrong of anybody, would get his head
broke, then a plaster for it, while he went on to
do more mischief. And the same dispositions
have grown up with them, and distinguish them
as men.
As this letter is whimsical, I will not send it
till I can accompany it with something better
suited to your unhappy circumstances. To
morrow will be wholly my own, and therefore
? urs - Adieu till then,
A. H.
Tuesday Morning, 7 o'clock.
My mother and cousin are already gone off in
our chariot-and-four, attended by their doughty
squire on horseback, and he by two of his own
servants, and one of my mother's. They both
love parade when they go abroad, at least in
compliment to one another, which shows, that
each thinks the other does.
1 64 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
I must now acquaint you that Mr. Hickman,
when in London, found an opportunity to
inquire after Mr. Lovelace's town life. At the
" Cocoa Tree," in Pall Mall, he fell in with two
of his intimates, Belton and Mowbray both
very free of speech. But the waiters paid them
great respect, and on Mr. Hickman's inquiry
after their characters, called them men of
fortune and honour.
They began to talk of Mr. Lovelace of their
own accord ; and upon some gentlemen in the
room asking, when they expected him in town,
answered, that very day. Mr. Hickman, as
they both went on praising Lovelace, said,
he had indeed heard, that Mr. Lovelace was
a very fine gentleman and was proceeding,
when one of them, interrupting him, said,
" Only, sir, the finest gentleman in the world ;
that's all."
And so he led them on to expatiate more
particularly on his qualities, which they were
very fond of doing, but said not one single
word in behalf of his morals Mind that also, I
say, in your uncle's style.
Mr. Hickman said, that Mr. Lovelace was
very happy, as he understood, in the esteem of
the ladies, and, smiling, to make them believe
CLARISSA 165
he did not think amiss of it, that he pushed his
good fortune as far as it would go.
" No doubt of it," replied one of them ; and
out came an oath, with a " who would not?"
That he did as every young fellow would do.
<; Very true !" said my mother's Puritan,
"but I hear he is in treaty with a fine lady "
11 So he was," Mr. Belton said " The devil
fetch her, vile brute ! for she engrossed all his time
but that the lady's family might dearly repent
their usage of a man of his family and merit."
"Perhaps they may think him too wild,"
said Mr. Hickman ; " theirs is a very sober
family."
" Sober !" said one. " A good honest word.
Where the devil has it lain all this time ? I have
not heard it since I was at college, and then we
bandied it about as obsolete."
These, my dear, are Mr. Lovelace's com
panions. Be pleased to take notice of that.
Mr. Hickman, upon the whole, professed to
me that he had no reason to think well of Mr.
Lovelace's morals, from what he heard of him
in town. Yet his two intimates talked of his
being more regular than he used to be: that he
had made a good resolution, viz., that he would
never give a challenge, nor refuse one, that, in
1 66 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
short, he was a very brave fellow, and the most
agreeable companion in the world, and would
one day make a great figure in his country,
since there was nothing he was not capable of.
I am afraid that this last assertion is too true.
Is it not enough to determine such a mind as
yours, if not already determined ?
Yet it must be said too, that if there be a
woman in the world that can reclaim him it is
you. And if you are to be his, but no more
of that ; he cannot, after all, deserve you.
Your affectionate,
A. H.
[In'spite of her knowledge of his profligate character,
poor Clarissa is driven to such straits that she sees
no hope except in flight with Lovelace. She does
not really love him, but she thinks, in her innocence,
that if she accepts his offer of protection she can
marry him or not as she pleases, and that if the
marriage does not take place she will find a refuge
with his uncle, Lord M., or with his aunts, the
Ladies Betty and Sarah.]
CLARISSA TO Miss HOWE.
April %th.
Whether you will blame me or not I cannot
tell. 1 have deposited a letter to Mr. Lovelace
confirming my resolution to leave this house on
CLARISSA 167
Monday next. I tell him I shall not bring any
clothes than those I have on, lest I be suspected.
That I must expect to be denied possession of
my estate ; that it will be best to go to a private
lodging near Lady Betty Lawrance's, that it may
not appear to the world I have refuged myself
with his family, that he shall instantly leave
me nor come near me but by my leave and that
if I find myself in danger of being discovered and
carried back by violence, I will throw myself
into the protection of Lady Betty or Lady Sarah.
O, my dear, what a sad thing is the necessity
forced upon me for all this contrivance !
[Soon after this Miss Howe hears that Clarissa has left
Harlowe Place.]
CLARISSA TO Miss HOWE.
Tuesday Night.
I think myself obliged to thank you, my
dear Miss Howe, for your condescension in
taking notice of a creature who has occasioned
you so much scandal.
# * * # #
After I had deposited my letter to you,
written down to the last hour, as I may say, I
returned to the Ivy Summer-house.
1 68 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
When the bell rang to call the servants to
dinner, Betty came to me and asked if I had
any commands before she went to hers.
I asked her some questions about the cascade,
and expressed a curiosity to see how it played,
in order to induce her how cunning to cheat
myself, as it proved ! to go thither if she
found me not where she left me, it being at
a part of the garden most distant from the Ivy
Summer-house.
She could have hardly got into the house
when I heard the first signal O how my heart
fluttered ! But no time was to be lost. I
stepped to the garden-door, and seeing a clear
coast, unbolted the already unlocked door
and there was he, all impatience, waiting
for me.
A panic next to fainting seized me when
I saw him. My heart seemed convulsed, and
I trembled so I could hardly have kept my
feet, had he not supported me.
" Fear nothing, dearest creature," said he ;
"let us hasten away the chariot is at hand
and, by this sweet condescension, you have
obliged me beyond expression/'
Recovering my spirits a little as he kept
drawing me after him ; "O Mr. Lovelace," said
CLARISSA 169
I, u I cannot go with you indeed I cannot I
wrote you word so let go my hand, and you
shall see my letter. It has lain there from
yesterday morning till within this half-hour.
I bid you watch to the last for a letter from
me, lest I should be obliged to revoke the
appointment, and, had you followed the direc
tion, you would have found it/'
" I have been watched, my dearest life," said
he, "and my trusty servant has been watched
too, and dared not come near your wall. Here,
we shall be discovered in a moment, speed
away, my charmer ! If you neglect this oppor
tunity, you may never have another."
" What is it you mean, sir ? Let go my
hand ! I tell you," struggling, u I would
rather die than go with you."
" Good God !" said he, " what is it I hear ?
but," still drawing me on, " it is no time to
argue. To leave you now would be to lose
you for ever."
u As you value me, Mr. Lovelace, urge me
no further. Let me give you the letter 1 had
written."
u Nothing, madam, will convince me ; I will
not leave you. . . . All my friends expect
you. All your own are against you. Wednes-
170 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
day next is perhaps the fatal day. Would you
stay to be Solmes's wife ?"
*****
I wept. I could not help it.
He threw himself upon his knees at my feet.
" Who can bear," said he, with an ardour that
could not be feigned, his own eyes glistening,
" who can bear to behold such sweet emotion ?
O charmer of my heart," and, respectfully still
kneeling, he took my hand with both his,
pressing it to his lips, " command me with you,
command me from you ; in every way I am all
implicit obedience.
" The chariot ready : my friends with im
patience expecting the result of your own
appointment. A man whose will shall be
entirely your will, imploring you thus, on his
knees, imploring you to be your own mistress ;
that is all. Nor will I ask for your favour, but
as upon full proof I shall appear to deserve it.
O my beloved creature !" pressing my hand
once more to his lips, a let not such an oppor
tunity slip. You never, never will have such
another."
My apprehensions I told him grew too
strong for my heart. I should think very
hardly of him, if he sought to detain me longer.
CLARISSA 171
But his acquiescence should engage my grati
tude.
And then stooping to take up the key to let
myself into the garden, he started, and looked
as if he had heard somebody near the door, on
the inside, clapping his hand on his sword.
This frighted me so that I thought I should
have sunk down at his feet. But he instantly
reassured me ; he thought, he said, he had
heard a rustling against the door. But had it
been so the noise would have been stronger.
It was only the effect of his apprehension
for me.
And then taking up the key, he presented it
to me. " If you will go, madam, I must enter
the garden with you. Forgive me, but I must
enter the garden with you."
" I have no patience," said I at last, taking
courage, " to be thus constrained," and then
freeing my hand I put the key in the lock,
when with a voice of alarm loud whispering,
and as if out of breath, <c They are at the door^ my
beloved creature /" And taking the key from
me, he fluttered with it, as if he would double-
lock it. And instantly a voice from within
cried out, bursting against the door, as if to
break it open, " Are you there ? Come up
172 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
this moment ! this moment ! Here they are
Here they are both together ! Your pistol
this moment !" Then another push. He at
the same moment drew his sword, and clapping
it naked under his arm took both my trembling
hands in his, and drawing me swiftly after him,
" Fly, fly, my charmer ; this moment is all you
have for it," said he. " Your brother ! or
Solmes ! will instantly burst the door. Fly, my
dearest life, if you would not be more cruelly
used than ever. If you would not see two or
three murders committed at your feet, fly, fly,
I beseech you."
c< O Lord ! help," cried I, like a fool, all in
amaze and confusion, frighted beyond the power
of control.
Now behind me, now before me, now on
this side, now on that, turned I my affrighted
face in the same moment ; expecting a furious
brother here, armed servants there, an enraged
sister screaming, and a father armed with terror
in his countenance more dreadful than even the
drawn sword which I saw or those I apprehended.
I ran as fast as he, yet knew not that I ran, my
fears adding wings to my feet.
Thus terrified, I was out of sight of the door
in a few minutes, and then putting my arm
CLARISSA 173
under his, his drawn sword in the other hand,
he hurried me on, my voice contradicting my
action, crying, " No, no," and straining my eyes
to look back, till he brought me to the chariot,
where attending were two armed servants of
his own and two of Lord M.'s, on horseback. . . .
O that I were again in my father's house !
[Clarissa is taken first of all to St. Albans, but Lovelace
persuades her that she will be safer in London. He
manages matters so artfully that he makes her of her
own accord decide not to go to his relatives; he
also, while ostensibly she has made her own choice,
manages to convey her, once in London, to a house
of ill-fame. Gradually, however, her suspicions are
aroused, for Lovelace insists that it is necessary for
her safety that she should masquerade as his wife,
and takes lodgings in the same house. She also
realizes that, though he continually speaks of marriage,
he never comes to the point. One night her sus
picions are justified.]
LOVELACE TO BELFORD.
At a little after two, when the whole house
was still, my Clarissa fast asleep, I was alarmed
by a buzz of voices, some scolding, some little
sort of screaming, and soon down ran Dorcas to
my door, and in hoarse accents cried out " Fire,
fire !" She the more alarmed me as I saw she
endeavoured to cry louder, but could not.
174 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
My pen, its last scrawl a benediction on my
beloved, dropped from my hands, and starting
up, I made but three steps to the door, exclaim
ing, " Where, where ?" almost as much terrified
as the wench, while she, unable to speak,
pointed upstairs.
I was there in a moment, and found all owing
to the carelessness of Mrs. Sinclair's cook- maid,
who had set fire to an old window-curtain.
She had had the presence of mind, however,
to tear it down and thrust it into the chimney,
where it was blazing when I went up, but all
danger over.
Meanwhile Dorcas, after she had directed me
upstairs, not knowing the worst was over, and
expecting every minute the house would be in
a blaze, out of tender regard for her lady (/
shall for ever love the wench for it), ran to her
door, and rapping loudly at it, in a recovered
voice cried out, " Fire ! fire ! The house is on
fire ! Rise, madam this instant rise if you
would not be burnt in your bed !"
No sooner had she made this dreadful outcry,
but I heard her lady's door, with hasty violence,
unbar, unbolt, unlock, and open, and my
charmer's voice sounding like that of one going
into a fit.
CLARISSA 175
Thou mayest believe that I was greatly
affected. I trembled with concern for her, and
hastened down faster than the alarm of fire had
made me run up, in order to satisfy her that all
the danger was over.
When I had flown down to her chamber-
door, there I beheld the most charming creature
in the world, supporting herself on the arm of
the gasping Dorcas, sighing, trembling, ready
to faint, and half-undressed, her feet just slipped
into her shoes. As soon as she saw me she
panted, and struggled to speak, but could only
say, " O Mr. Lovelace !" and down was ready
to sink.
I clasped her in my arms. " My dearest
life ! fear nothing. The danger is over ; the
fire is got under ! And how, fool (to Dorcas),
could you thus, by your hideous yell, alarm and
frighten my angel !"
O Jack ! how I could distinguish the dear
heart flutter against my own as I held her,
fearing she would go into fits.
Lifting her up, I endeavoured, with the
utmost tenderness of action, as well as of
expression, to dissipate her terrors.
But what did I get by this my generous care
of her, and by my successful endeavours to
176 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
bring her to herself? Nothing ungrateful as
she was but the most passionate exclama
tions. . . . Far from being affected, as I
wished, by an address so fervent (although from
a man for whom she had so lately owned a
regard, and with whom, but an hour or two
before, she had parted with so much satisfac
tion), I never saw a more moving grief, when
she came fully to herself.
She appealed to Heaven against my treachery ',
as she called it, while I, by the most solemn
vows, pleaded my own equal fright, and the
reality of the danger that had alarmed us both.
She did not believe one word, but conjured me,
in the most solemn and affecting manner, by
turns threatening and soothing, to quit her
apartment, and permit her to hide herself from
the light, and from every human eye.
I besought her pardon ; yet could not avoid
offending ; and repeatedly vowed that the next
morning's sun should witness our espousals.
But taking, I suppose, all my protestations of
this kind as an indication of evil, she would
hear nothing that I said ; but, redoubling her
struggles to get free from me, in broken
accents, and exclamations the most vehement,
she protested that she would not survive what
CLARISSA 177
she called a treatment so disgraceful and
villainous ; and, looking all wildly round her,
and espying a pair of sharp-pointed scissors on
a chair by the bedside, she endeavoured to
catch them up, with design to make her words
good on the spot.
Seeing her desperation, I begged her to be
pacified ; that she would hear me speak but
one word, declaring that I intended no wrong.
And having seized the scissors, I threw them
into the chimney, and she still insisting ve
hemently upon my distance, I permitted her to
take a chair.
But, O the sweet discomposure !
* * * * *
When I again would have cast my arms
about her, to save her from fainting, I could
not prevent her sliding through them to fall
upon her knees which she did at my feet.
And there, in the anguish of her soul, her
streaming eyes lifted up to my face with
supplicating softness, hands folded, dishevelled
hair for her night head-dress having fallen off
in her struggling, her charming tresses fell
down in naturally shining ringlets, her bosom
heaving with sighs and broken sobs, as if to aid
her quivering lips in pleading for her. In this
12
178 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
manner, but when her grief gave way to
her speech, in v/ords pronounced with that
propriety which distinguishes this admirable
creature from all the women I ever heard
speak, did she implore my compassion and my
honour.
" Consider me, dear Lovelace " (dear was her
charming word), " on my knees I beg you to
consider me as a poor creature who has no
protector but you who has no defence but
your honour. By that honour by your
humanity by all you have vowed I conjure
you not to make me abhor myself ! not to
make me vile in my own eyes !"
I mentioned the morrow as the happiest day
of my life.
"Tell me not of to-morrow! If, indeed,
you mean me honourably Now this very
instant NOW ! You must show it, and be
gone."
*****
Wicked wretch ! insolent villain ! Yes, she
called me insolent villain, although so much in
my power ! And for what ? only for kissing
her beautiful lips, her cheeks, her forehead, and
her streaming eyes, as she continued kneeling
at my feet as I sat.
CLARISSA 179
" If I am a villain, madam " and then my
grasping but trembling hand
*****
She tore my ruffles, and shrank from me
with amazing force, as with my other arm I
would have supported her. . . . Again 1 was
her dear Lovelace. ... " Kill me, kill me !"
she cried ; " I am odious enough in your sight
to deserve this treatment ; too long has my life
been a burden to me." On looking wildly
round her " Give me but the means, and I
will instantly convince you that my honour is
dearer to me than my life !"
Then with folded hands and streaming eyes,
again I was " her blessed Lovelace," and " she
would thank me with her latest breath, if I
would permit her to make that preference, or
free her from further indignity."
I sat suspended for a moment. By my soul,
I thought 'tis an angel, and no woman, this !
and still, as I raised her to my heart in my
encircling arms, she slid through them. . . .
" Good God, that I should live to see this
hour ! See, Mr. Lovelace, at your feet, a poor
creature imploring your pity, who, for your
sake, is abandoned by all the world ! Let not
my father's curse be thus dreadfully fulfilled !
i8o SAMUEL RICHARDSON
But spare me, I beseech you, spare me ! For
how have I deserved this treatment from you ?
For your own sake, if not for my sake, and as
you would that God Almighty in your last hour
should have mercy upon you, spare me !"
What heart but must have been penetrated ?
I would again have raised the dear suppliant
from her knees ; but she would not be raised,
till my softened mind, she said, had yielded
to her prayer, and bid her rise to be innocent.
*' Rise then, my angel ! Only pronounce me
pardon for what has passed, and tell me you
will continue to look upon me with that eye of
favour and serenity which I have been blessed
with for some days past, and I will submit
to my beloved conqueress, whose power never
was at so great an height with me, as now."
" God Almighty," said she, " hear your
prayers in your most arduous moments, as
you have heard mine ! And now, this moment,
leave me to my own recollection. In that you
will leave me to misery enough, and more than
you ought to wish to your bitterest enemy."
" Impute not everything, my best beloved, to
design ; for design it was not."
O Mr. Lovelace !"
" Upon my soul, madam, the fire was real."
CLARISSA 181
(And so it was, Jack.) "The house, my dearest
life, might have been consumed by it, as you
will be convinced in the morning by ocular
demonstration."
O Mr. Lovelace !"
" Let my passion for you, madam "
*****
" No more, no more ! Leave me, I beseech
you !" And, looking upon herself, and around
her, in sweet confusion " Begone ! begone !"
*****
" Impossible, my dearest life, till you pro
nounce my pardon."
" I beseech you begone, that I may think
what I can do, and what I ought to do."
I clasped her in my arms, hoping she would
not forgive me.
*****
" I do I do forgive you !"
" Heartily ?"
- Heartily !"
" And freely ?"
" Freely !"
" And will you look on me to-morrow as
if nothing had passed ?"
"Yes! yes!"
" I cannot take these peevish affirmatives, so
1 82 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
much like negatives ! Say you will, upon your
honour."
" Upon my honour, then ; O now, begone !
begone ! And never never "
u What, never, my angel ! Is this forgive
ness ?"
" Never," said she, u let what has passed be
remembered more !"
I insisted upon one kiss to seal my pardon,
and retired like a woman's fool, as I was !
Couldst thou have believed it ?
But I had no sooner entered my own apart
ment, than reflecting upon the ridicule I should
meet with below upon a weakness so much out
of my usual character, I repented, and hastened
back.
But I was justly punished, for her door was
fast ; and, hearing her sigh and sob as if her
heart would burst, " My beloved creature,"
said I, rapping gently her sobs ceasing " I
want but to say three words to you, which
must be the most acceptable you ever heard
from me. Let me see you but for one
moment."
I thought I heard her coming to the door,
and my heart leaped ; but it was only to draw
another bolt, to make it still faster ; and she
CLARISSA 183
either could not or would not answer me, but
retired to the further end of her apartment to
her closet probably. And, more like a fool
than before, again I sneaked away.
[Clarissa is now thoroughly frightened, and decides to
make her escape ; but, in her ignorance and simplicity,
she takes refuge at Hampstead, where she had been
before with Lovelace. Her persecutor soon discovers
her whereabouts, but she refuses to return. In order
to convince her of his honour, he procures a licence,
and promises her that his aunt and cousin shall visit
her at Hampstead.]
LOVELACE TO BELFORD.
Monday, June \tth.
Didst ever see a license, Jack ? " Edmund,
by divine permission, Lord Bishop of London, to
our well-beloved in Christ, Robert Lovelace."
Your servant, my good lord ! What have
I done to merit so much goodness, who never
saw your lordship in my life ?
*****
A good whimsical instrument, take it all
altogether ! But what, thinkest thou, are the
arms to this matrimonial harbinger? Why, in
the first place, two crossed swords, to show that
marriage is a. state of offence as well as defence ;
1 84 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
three lions, to denote that those who enter into
the state, ought to have a triple proportion of
courage.
# % * $- #
Now my plot thickens.
::- X - & :!:-
I am preparing, with Lady Betty and Lady
Montague, to wait upon my beloved with
a coach-and-four, for Lady Betty will not stir
out with a pair, and this is a well-known part
of her character.
"But as to the arms and crest upon the
coach and trappings?"
Blunt * must supply her while her own is
new-lining and repairing. Liveries nearly Lady
Bettys.
Thou hast seen Lady Betty Lawrance several
times, hast thou not, Belford ?
" No, never in my life."
But thou hast. Knowest thou not Lady
Betty's other name?
" Other name! has she two?"
She has, and what thinkest thou of Lady
Bab Wallis ?
Oh, the devil !"
* The fashionable coachmaker of the day.
CLARISSA 185
Now thou hast it. Lady Barbara, thou
knowest, lifted up in circumstances, never
appears herself but on occasions special ; to pass
for a duchess, or countess at least. She has
always been admired for a grandeur in her air
that few women of quality can come up to, and
never was supposed to be other than what she
passed for.
And who, thinkest thou, is my cousin Char
lotte Montague ?
" Nay, how should I know ?"
How, indeed! Why, my little Johanetta
Golding. A lively, yet modest-looking girl is
my cousin Montague.
There, Belford, is an aunt ! there's a cousin !
Both have wit at will. Both are accustomed to
ape quality.
And how dost think I dress them out? I'll
tell thee.
Lady Betty in gold tissue, with jewels of
high price.
My cousin Montague in pale pink, standing
on end with silver flowers, not quite so richly
jewelled as Lady Betty, but ear-rings and
solitaire very valuable and infinitely becoming.
Johanetta, thou knowest, has a good com
plexion, a fine neck, and ears remarkably fine ;
1 86 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
so has Charlotte. She is nearly of Charlotte's
stature too.
Laces both, the richest that could be procured.
Thou canst not imagine what a sum the loan
of the jewels cost me, though but for three days.
This sweet girl will half ruin me. But seest
thou not by this time that her reign is short ?
Mrs. Sinclair has prepared everything for her
reception once more.
*****
Here come the ladies, attended by Susan
Morrison, a tenant-farmer's daughter, as Lady
Betty's woman, with her hands before her, and
thoroughly instructed.
How dress advantages women, especially
those who have naturally a genteel air and turn,
and have had education.
Hadst thou seen how they paraded it :
"cousin," and "cousin," and " nephew," at
every word, Lady Betty looking haughtily
condescending ; Charlotte gallanting her fan and
swimming over the floor without touching it.
" How I long to see my niece-elect !" cries
one, for they are told that we art not married.
" How I long to see my dear cousin that is
to be !" the other.
" Your la'ship," and " Your la'ship," and an
CLARISSA 187
awkward curtsey at every address, prim Susan
Morrison.
" Top your parts, ye villains ! My charmer
is as cool and as distinguishing as I am. Your
commonly-assumed dignity won't do for me
now. Airs of superiority, as if born to rank.
But no over-do."
11 A little graver, Lady Betty."
"That's the air. Charmingly hit. You
have it."
" Now for your part, cousin Charlotte."
" Pretty well. But a little too frolicky that
air. Yet have I prepared my beloved to expect
in you both great vivacity and quality- freedom."
" Sprightly, but not confident, cousin Char
lotte."
" Suppose me to be my charmer. Now you
are to encounter my examining eye, and my
doubting heart."
" Charming ! Perfectly right !"
" Pretty well, cousin Charlotte, for a young
country lady ! You must not be supposed to
have forgot your boarding school airs."
"Too low, too low, Lady Betty, for your
years and your quality."
" Graceful ease, conscious dignity, like that
of my charmer. O how hard to hit !"
1 88 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
"Both together now."
" Charming ! That's the air, Lady Betty !
That's the cue, cousin Charlotte."
And now we are gone.
[By the help of this imposture, Lovelace succeeds in
bringing Clarissa back to Mrs. Sinclair's house. As
he has given up in despair the hope of corrupting
her virtue, he cruelly betrays her.]
MR. LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
Tuesday Morning, June i^th.
And now, Belford, I can go no farther.
Clarissa lives. And I am your humble servant,
R. LOVELACE.
[As the result of her sufferings, Clarissa loses her reason.
She writes and tears up several incoherent letters to
her friends and family. One letter she asks Dorcas,
one of the women of the house, to give to Lovelace.]
To MR. LOVELACE.
" I never intended to write another line to
you. I would not see you if I could help it.
O that I never had !
" But tell me of a truth, is Miss Howe really
ill ? very ill ? And is not her illness poison ?
and don't you know who gave it her ?
CLARISSA 189
" What you, or Mrs. Sinclair, or I cannot
tell who, have done to my poor head, you best
know ; but I shall never be what I was. My
head is gone. I have wept away all my brain,
I believe, for I can weep no more. I have had
my full share ; so it is no matter.
" But, Lovelace, don't set Mrs. Sinclair upon
me again. I never did her any harm. She so
affrights me when I see her ! She may be a
good woman. She was the wife of a man of
honour very likely though forced to let
lodgings. Poor gentlewoman ! Let her know
I pity her ; but don't let her come near me
again pray don't !
" Yet she may be a very good woman.
" I forget what I was going to say.
" O Lovelace, you are Satan himself, or he
helps you out in everything ; and that's as bad !
u But have you really and truly sold yourself
to him ? And for how long ?
" Poor man ! the contract will be out ; and
then what will be your fate !
" O Lovelace ! if you could be sorry for
yourself, I would be sorry too. But when all
my doors are fast, and nothing but the keyhole
open, and the key of late put into that, to be
where you are, in a manner without opening
1 90 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
any of them. O wretched, wretched Clarissa
Harlowe !
" For I never will be Lovelace's.
" Well, but now I remember what I was
going to say. It is for your good not mine.
For nothing can do me good now ! O thou
hated Lovelace !
" But Mrs. Sinclair may be a good woman.
But don't let her bluster to me again ! O she
is a frightful woman ! If she be a woman ! She
needed not to put on that fearful mask to scare
me out of my poor wits. But don't tell her what
I say ; I have no hatred to her. It is only foolish
fear, that's all. She may not be a bad woman.
" Alas, you have killed my head ! God
forgive you. But had it not been better to
have put me out of your way at once ? You
might safely have done it, for nobody would
require me at your hands, except, indeed. Miss
Howe would have said, when she should see
you, 'What, Lovelace, have you done with
Clarissa Harlowe?' and then you could have
given any gay answer. ' Sent her beyond sea,'
or c She has run away from me,' and this would
have been easily credited.
" But this is nothing to what I wanted to say."
CLARISSA 191
[Gradually Clarissa recovers her intellect. Lovelace,
horror-struck at all he has brought upon her, offers
her marriage ; but, in the presence of Mrs. Sinclair
and the other women of the house, she indignantly
refuses him.]
LOVELACE TO BELFORD.
She would have spoken, but could not,
looking down my guilt into confusion. A
mouse might have been heard passing over
the floor : her own light feet and rustling silks
could not have prevented it ; for she seemed to
tread on air, to be all soul. She passed back
wards and forwards, now towards me, now
towards the door several times, before speech
could get the better of indignation ; and at last,
" O thou contemptible and abandoned Lovelace,
thinkest thou that I see not through this poor
villainous plot of thine, and of these thy wicked
accomplices ?
" Ye vile women, who perhaps have been the
ruin, body and soul, of hundreds of innocents
(you show me how, in full assembly) know that
I am not married. Ruined, as I am, by your
help, I bless God, I am not married to this
miscreant ; and I have friends that will demand
my honour at your hands ! And to whose
authority I will apply ; for none has this man
192 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
over me. Look to it, then, what further insults
you offer me. I am a person, though thus
vilely betrayed, of rank and fortune. I never
will be his ; and, to your utter ruin, will find
friends to pursue you ; and now I have this
full proof of your detestable wickedness, will
have no mercy upon you."
Lord ! how every one, conscience-shaken,
trembled !
*****
" Madam," said I and was advancing
towards her with a fierce aspect, cursedly vexed.
" Stop where thou art, O vilest and most
abandoned of men ! nor offer to touch me, if
thou wouldst not see a corpse at thy feet !"
To my astonishment she held forth a pen
knife in her hand, the point to her own bosom,
grasping resolutely so that there was no offering
to take it from her.
" I offer no mischief to anybody but myself.
You, sir and ye women are safe from every
violence of mine. The LAW shall be all my
resource the LAW !" and she spoke the word
with emphasis ; " The LAW !" that to such
people carries natural terror with it, and struck
a panic into them.
" The LAW only shall be my refuge !"
CLARISSA 193
The infamous mother whispered me that it
were better to make terms with this strange lady.
Sally, notwithstanding all her impudent
bravery at other times, said, " If Mr. Lovelace
had told them, what was not true of her being
his wife "
" That is not now a matter to be disputed,"
cried I ; " you and I know, madam "
a We do," said she; "and I thank God I
am not thine. Once more, I thank God for it:
from my heart I despise thee, thou very poor
Lovelace ! How canst thou stand in my
presence !"
" Madam, madam, madam these are insults
not to be borne !" and was approaching her.
She withdrew to the door, and set her back
against it, holding the pointed knife to her
heaving bosom ; while the women held me,
beseeching me not to provoke the violent lady,
for their house's sake ; and all three hung upon
me, while the truly heroic lady braved me at
that distance.
" Approach me, Lovelace, if thou wilt. I
dare die. It is in defence of my honour. God
will be merciful to my poor soul ! I expect no
mercy from thee ! Two steps nearer me, and
thou shalt see what I dare do !"
13
194 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
" Leave me, women, to myself, and to my
angel !" They retired at a distance. " O my
beloved creature, how you terrify me !"
holding out my arms. " I am the blackest of
villains.'*
Unawares I had moved to my angel.
" And dost thou still move towards me ?
Dost thou ! dost thou ?" And her hand was
extended. " I dare I dare. My heart abhors
the act which thou makest necessary ! God, in
thy mercy !" Lifting up her eyes and hands.
" God, in thy mercy !"
I threw myself to the farther end of the
room. Her cheeks, that were all in a glow
before, turned pale, as if terrified at her own
purpose ; and lifting up her eyes, " Thank
God !- thank God !" said the angel, " Delivered
for the present from myself! Keep, sir, keep
that distance." Looking towards me, prostrate,
my heart pierced as with a hundred daggers.
" That distance has saved a life ; to what
reserved, the Almighty only knows."
Then taking one of the lights, she turned
from us, and went away unmolested.
[Lovelace has to visit his uncle, Lord M., who is
dangerously ill. While he is away Clarissa manages
once more to escape, and finds refuge at a Mrs. Smith's
CLARISSA 195
in King Street, Covent Garden. While there she
gives a detailed account of her sufferings in a letter
to Miss Howe.]
CLARISSA TO Miss HOWE.
He had found me out at Hampstead. I am
at a loss to know by what means.
Mr. Lovelace, finding all he could say
ineffectual to prevail upon me to forgive him,
rested his hopes on a visit to be paid me by
Lady Betty Lawrance and Miss Montague.
With my prospects all so dark, I knew not
to whom I might be obliged to have recourse,
and as those ladies had the best of characters,
I thought I would not shun an interview with
them though I would not seek it.
On the 1 2th of June these pretended ladies
came to Hampstead, and I was presented to
them by their kinsman.
They were richly dressed, and came in a
coach-and-four, hired while their own was
repairing in town ; a pretence, I find, lest
I should guess at the imposture by the want of
the real lady's arms upon it.
I had heard that Lady Betty was a fine
woman, and Miss Montague beautiful and full
of vivacity. Such were these impostors. I
196 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
had not the least suspicion that they were not
the ladies they personated.
I am ashamed to repeat to you, my dear, now
I know what wretches they are, the tender,
obliging things I said to them.
They engaged me in agreeable conversation,
declaring that they would directly interest
themselves to bring about a reconciliation
between the two families.
Could I help, my dear, being pleased with
them ?
*****
In the midst of agreeablenesses, the coach
came to the door. Lady Betty besought me
to give them my company. I desired to be
excused, yet suspected nothing.
I objected to my dress.
Mr. Lovelace, wicked deceiver, seeing, as he
said, my dislike to go, desired her ladyship not
to insist upon it.
She begged me to oblige her ; in short, was
so very urgent, that my feet complied, and
being, in a manner, led to the coach by her, and
made to step in first, she followed with her pre
tended niece and the wretch, and away it drove.
Nothing but the height of affectionate com
plaisance passed all the way, over and over.
CLARISSA 197
Though not pleased, I was then thoughtless
of danger ; but think, my dear, what a dreadful
turn all had upon me, when, through several
streets 1 knew nothing of, the coach came
within sight of the dreadful house.
"Lord be good unto me!" cried the poor
fool, looking out of the coach. "Mr. Lovelace,
Madam," turning to the pretended Lady Betty.
" Madam," turning to the niece, my hands and
eyes lifted up.
"What, what, my dear?"
He pulled the string.
" What need to have come this way ?" said
he; "but since we are, I will but ask a
question."
The coachman stopped, his servant alighted.
" Ask," said he, if I have any letters ?"
My heart then misgave me ; I was ready to
faint.
" Why this terror, my life? You shall not
stir out of the coach. But one question, now
the fellow has drove us this way."
" Your lady will faint," cried the execrable
Lady Betty, turning to him. " My dearest
niece, we must alight. Only for water and
hartshorn."
" No, no, no ; I am quite well. Won't the
198 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
man drive on? Man^ drive on," putting my
head out of the coach, though my voice was too
low to be heard.
The coach stopped at the door. How
I trembled !
Dorcas came.
" My dearest creature," said the vile man,
gasping, as it were for breath, " you shall not
alight. Any letters for me, Dorcas ?"
" There are two, sir. Mr. Belton is waiting
for you."
" I'll just speak to him. You shan't step out,
my dear."
I sighed, as if my heart would burst.
" But we must step out, nephew. You will
faint, child ; you must step out, my dear."
" Madam," said the vile seducer, " my dearest
love must not be moved in this point against
her will."
# * * * *
He stepped out.
" The coach may go on, madam," said 1.
" The coach shall go on, my dear life," said
he. But he gave no orders that it should.
The old creature came to the door. " A
thousand pardons, dear madam," stepping to
the coach side. " Be pleased, ladies to alight."
CLARISSA 199
I still refused to go out. " Man ! man !"
cried I, gasping, " drive on !"
My heart misgave me ; still I did not suspect
these women. The sight of the old creature
made me like a distracted person.
The hartshorn and water was brought. The
pretended Lady Betty made me drink it.
Heaven knows if there were anything else in it!
" Besides," said she, whisperingly, " I must
see what sort of creatures the nieces are. You
could not, my dear, have this aversion to re-
enter a house, in our company, in which you
lodged and boarded several weeks, unless these
women could be so presumptuously vile, as my
nephew ought not to know.'*
Out stepped the pretended lady ; the servant
having opened the door.
A crowd by this time was gathered about us:
but I was too much affected to mind that.
The pretended Miss Montague urged me to
go. " Lord, my dear," said she, " who can
bear this crowd? What will people think ?"
And thus pressed and gazed at, the women
so richly dressed, people whispering, in an evil
moment out stepped I, trembling, forced to
lean on the pretended Lady Betty's arm. O
that I had dropped down dead !
200 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
" We shall stay but a few minutes, my dear!"
said the specious jilt.
" Come, Mrs. Sinclair, I think your name is,
show us the way-^ " leading me. " I am
very thirsty. I must have tea, if it can be got
in a moment. We must return to Hampstead
this night."
"It shall be ready in a moment," cried the
wretch.
" Come, my dear, to me. Lean upon me
how you tremble! Dearest niece Lovelace"
(the old wretch being in hearing), "we'll be
gone in a minute."
And thus she led the poor sacrifice into the
too well-known parlour.
The tea was ready presently.
There was no Mr. Belton, I believe ; for the
wretch went not to anybody, unless it were
while we were parleying in the coach.
I was made to drink two dishes, urged by the
pretended ladies. I was stupid to their hands,
and could hardly swallow.
I thought that the tea had an odd taste.
I have no doubt that my two dishes were
prepared for me.
Nevertheless, at the pretended ladies' notion,
I went upstairs, attended by Dorcas, and set
CLARISSA 201
about taking out some of my clothes, ordering
what should be sent after me.
While I was thus employed, up came the
pretended Lady Betty, in a hurrying way
" My dear, you won't be long before you are
ready. My nephew is answering his letters ;
I'll just whip away, and change my dress, and
call upon you in an instant."
" O, madam ! I am now ready ! You must
not leave me here." And down I sunk,
affrighted, into a chair.
" This instant I will return."
And away she hurried before 1 could speak.
Her pretended niece went with her.
Recovering my stupefied spirits as well as
I could, I wondered to Dorcas what ailed me ;
rubbing my eyes, and taking some of her snuff,
to little purpose, I pursued my employment ;
but, when that was over, I had nothing to do
but to think. I shut myself into the chamber
that had been mine ; I prayed, yet know not
what I prayed for ; then ran out again ; it was
almost dark, I said. Where, where was Mr.
Lovelace ?
He came to me, taking no notice at first of
my consternation and wildness (what they had
given me made me incoherent and wild).
202 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
I demanded his aunt ! I demanded his cousin !
The evening was closing ! My head was very,
very bad ; and it grew worse and worse.
But terror kept up my spirits ; and I insisted
upon his going to hasten them.
He raved at the sex for their delay.
He terrified me with his looks as he gazed
upon me. He snatched my hand with vehe
mence : speaking tender words ; his manner
carrying the appearance of convulsed passion !
O, my dear! what mischiefs was he not then
meditating !
I complained of thirst and called for water ;
some table-beer was brought me ; being ex
tremely thirsty, I drank it, and instantly found
myself much worse than before.
Then came one of the pretended Lady Betty's
servants, with a letter for Mr. Lovelace.
He sent it up to me. I read it ; and then it
was I thought myself lost ; it being to put off
her going to Hampstead that night, on account
of fits which Miss Montague was seized with.
Then immediately came into my head his vile
attempts in this house ; and the revenge my
flight might have inspired. His very looks
were dreadful to me. All crowding together
in my mind, I fell into a kind of frenzy.
CLARISSA 203
I have no remembrance for the time it lasted ;
but I know that in my first agitations, I pulled
off my head-dress, and tore my ruffles in twenty
tatters, and ran to find him out.
When a little recovered, I insisted upon the
hint he had given of their coach. But he said
that it was sent to fetch a physician.
*****
All impatient with grief and apprehension, I
declared myself resolved not to stay in that
house till morning. All I had in the world,
my rings, my watch, my little money, for a
coach ; or, if one were not to be got, I would
go on foot to Hampstead that night, though I
walked by myself.
A coach was hereupon pretended to be sent
for. None was to be got.
But let me now cut short the rest. I grew
worse and worse in my head, now stupid, now
raving, now senseless. The vilest of vile
women was brought to frighten me. Never
was there so horrible a creature as she appeared
to me at the time.
I remember, I pleaded for mercy. I remem
ber that I said I would be his indeed I would
be to obtain his mercy but no mercy found I
my strength, my intellect failed me ! then
20 4 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
such scenes followed O, my dear, such dread
ful scenes ! fits upon fits (faintly indeed and
imperfectly remembered) procuring me no
compassion but death was withheld from me.
That would have been too great a mercy.
Thus was I tricked and deluded ! I was so
senseless that I dare not aver that the horrid
creatures of the house were personally aiding
and abetting. But some visionary remem
brances I have of female figures, flitting as I
may say before my eyes, the wretched woman's
particularly. I never saw the personating
wretches afterwards.
[Clarissa is not long left in peace at Smith's. Mrs.
Sinclair discovers her whereabouts, and, thinking to
do Lovelace a service, has her arrested for the rent
owing for her former lodgings. Lovelace, however,
is indignant, and, as he cannot go to town himself,
sends Belford to her release. Belford has always
been a well-wisher of Clarissa's, and has done what
he could short of actual interference to dissuade
Lovelace from his evil purposes. He remains in
town in order to protect and cheer Clarissa, whose
family obstinately refuses, in spite of entreaties, to
be reconciled to her. Clarissa's health has suffered
terribly from all she has been through, but she is
kindly nursed by Mrs. Smith and by a friend of the
latter, Mrs. Lovick. She refuses steadfastly to see
CLARISSA 205
Lovelace, who, on the recovery of his uncle, clamours
to be allowed to visit her. He is so persistent that
she becomes alarmed. At last, however, he receives
a letter which gives him intense pleasure.]
LOVELACE TO BELFORD.
Wednesday Morning, August i^ra.
Alive, Jack, and in ecstasy ; likely to be once
more a happy man, for I have received a letter
from my beloved Miss Harlowe, and am
setting out for Berks directly, to show the
contents to my Lord M., and to receive the
congratulations of all my kindred upon it.
I went last night, as I intended, to Smith's,
but the dear creature was not returned at near
ten o'clock ; and, lighting upon Tourville, I
took him home with me, and made him sing me
out of my megrims. I went to bed tolerably
easy at two, and at eight this morning, as I was
dressing, I had this letter brought to me by a
chairman.
" Tuesday Night, 1 i o'clock,
" August ZZfld.
" SIR, I have good news to tell you. 1 am
setting out with all diligence for my father's
house. I am bid to hope that he will receive
his poor penitent with a goodness peculiar to
himself, for I am overjoyed with the assurance
206 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
of a thorough reconciliation, through the inter
position of a dear blessed friend, whom I always
loved and honoured. I am so taken up with
my preparation for this joyful and long wished-
for journey that I cannot spare one moment for
any other business, having several matters of
the last importance to settle first. So pray, sir,
don't disturb or interrupt me I beseech you
don't. You may possibly in time see me at
my father's, at least if it be not your own
fault.
"I will write a letter, which shall be sent you
when I am got thither and received, till when
I am, &c., <c CLARISSA HARLOWE."
I despatched instantly a letter to the dear
creature, assuring her with the most thankful
joy that I would directly set out for Berks and
wait the issue of the happy reconciliation, and
the charming hopes she had filled me with. I
declared it should be the study of my life to
merit such transcendent goodness, and that
there was nothing which her father or friends
should require at my hands that I would not
for her sake comply with, in order to promote
and complete so desirable a reconciliation.
CLARISSA 207
BELFORD TO LOVELACE.
Tuesday, August ^^th.
I was at Smith's at half an hour after seven.
They told me that the lady was gone in a chair
to St. Dunstan's, but was better than she had
been on either of the two preceding days.
* *
She returned immediately after prayers.
* * *
a Pray, sir, let me ask you," said she, cc if you
think I may promise myself that 1 shall be no
more molested by your friend?"
1 hesitated ; for how could I answer for such
a man ?
" What shall I do if he comes again ? You
see how I am. I cannot fly from him now.
If he has any pity left for the poor creature
whom he has thus reduced, let him not come.
But have you heard from him lately? And
will he come?"
" I hope not, madam. I have not heard from
him since Thursday last, that he went out of
town rejoicing in the hopes your letter gave
him of a reconciliation between your friends
and you, and -that he might in good time see
208 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
you at your father's ; and he is gone down to
give all his friends joy of the news, and is in
high spirits upon it."
<c Alas for me ! I shall then surely have him
come up to persecute me again ! As soon as
he discovers that that was only a stratagem to
keep him away, he will come, and who knows
but even now he is upon the road ? I thought
I was so bad, that I should have been out of his
and everybody's way before now; for I expected
not that this contrivance would serve me above
two or three days ; and by this time he must
have found out that I am not so happy as to
have any hope of a reconciliation with my
family ; and then he will come, if it be only in
revenge for what he will think a deceit ; not, I
hope, a wicked one."
I believe I looked surprised to hear her
confess that her letter was a stratagem only ;
for she said, " You wonder, Mr. Belford, I
observe, that I could be guilty of such an artifice.
I doubt it is not right, it was done in a hurry of
spirits. How could I see a man who had so
mortally injured me ; yet pretending sorrow for
his crimes, and wanting to see me, could behave
with so much shocking levity, as he did, to the
honest people of the house ? Yet, 'tis strange
CLARISSA 209
too, that neither you nor he found out my
meaning on perusal of my letter. You have
seen what I wrote, no doubt ?
" I have, madam." And then I began to
account for it as an innocent artifice.
" Thus far, indeed, sir, it is innocent, that I
meant him no hurt, and had a right to the effect
I hoped for from it ; and he had none to invade
me. But have you, sir, that letter of his, in
which he gives you (as I suppose he does) the
copy of mine ?"
" I have, madam ;" and pulled it out of my
letter-case, but hesitating.
" Nay, sir," said she, " be pleased to read my
letter to yourself I desire not to see his and
see if you can be longer a stranger to a meaning
so obvious."
I read it to myself.
" Indeed, madam, I can find nothing but that
you are going down to Harlowe Place, to be
reconciled to your father, and other friends ;
and Mr. Lovelace presumed that a letter from
your sister, which he saw brought when he was
at Mr. Smith's, gave you the welcome news
of it."
She then explained all to me. She said,
"A religious meaning is couched under it;"
14
2io SAMUEL RICHARDSON
and that's the reason neither you nor I could
find it out.
" Read but for my father s house, Heaven"
said she ; " and for the interposition of my dear
blessed friend, suppose the mediation of my
Saviour (which I humbly rely upon), and all
the rest of the letter will be accounted for. I
hope," repeated she, " that it is a pardonable
artifice. But I am afraid it is not strictly
right."
I read it so, and stood astonished for a minute
at her invention, her piety, her charity, and
at thine and mine own stupidity, to be thus
taken in.
And now, thou vile Lovelace, what hast thou
to do, no hopes left for thee but to hang, drown,
or shoot thyself, for an outwitted boaster?
[Clarissa grows worse and worse, till at last no hope is
entertained of her recovery. Belford chronicles her
gradual decline to Lovelace, now mad with remorse.]
BELFORD TO LOVELACE.
Thursday Night, August 3 i sf.
When I concluded my last, I hoped that my
next attendance upon this surprising lady would
furnish me with some particulars as agreeable as
CLARISSA 2ii
now could be hoped for from the declining way
she is in, by reason of the welcome letter she
had received from her cousin Morden. But it
proved quite otherwise to me, though not to
herself, for I think I never was more shocked
in my life than on the occasion I shall mention
presently.
When I attended her about seven in the
evening, she told me that she found herself in
a very petulant way, after I had left her.
" Strange," said she, " that the pleasure I
received from my cousin's letter should have
such an effect upon me. But I could not help
giving way to a comparative humour, as I may
call it, and to think it very hard, that my nearer
relations did not take the methods which my
cousin Morden kindly took, by inquiring into
my merit or demerit, and giving my cause a
fair audit before they proceeded to condemna
tion."
She had hardly said this, when she started,
and a blush overspread her sweet face on hear
ing, as I also did, a sort of lumbering noise
upon the stairs, as if a large trunk were bringing
up between two people, and looking upon me
with an eye of concern, " Blunderers !" said she,
"they have brought in something two hours
212 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
before the time. Don't be surprised, sir, it is
all to save you trouble."
Before I could speak, in came Mrs. Smith.
"O, madam," said she, "what have you
done ?"
Mrs. Lovick, entering, made the same
exclamation.
"Lord have mercy upon me, madam," cried
I, " what have you done ?" for, she stepping at
the instant to the door, the women told me it
was a coffin. O Lovelace ! that thou hadst
been there at the moment ! Thou, the causer
of all these shocking scenes ! surely thou couldst
not have been less affected than I, who have no
guilt, as to her, to answer for.
With an intrepidity of a piece with the
preparation, having directed them to carry it
into her bed-chamber, she returned to us.
" They were not to have brought it in till after
dark," said she. " Pray excuse me, Mr. Bel-
ford ; and don't you, Mrs. Lovick, be con
cerned ; nor you, Mrs. Smith. Why should
you ? There is nothing more in it than the
unusualness of the thing. Why may we not
be as reasonably shocked at going to the church
where are the monuments of our ancestors,
with whose dust we even hope our dust shall be
CLARISSA 213
one day mingled, as to be moved at such a sight
as this."
We all remained silent, the women having
their aprons at their eyes. " Why this concern
for nothing at all !" said she ; " if I am to be
blamed for anything, it is for showing too much
solicitude, as it may be thought, for this earthly
part. I love to do everything for myself that
I can do. I ever did. Every other material
point is so far done, and taken care of, that I
have had leisure for things of lesser moment.
Minutenesses may be observed where greater
articles are not neglected for them. I might
have had this to order, perhaps, when less fit
to order it. I have no mother, no sister, no
Mrs. Norton,* no Miss Howe near me. Some
of you must have seen this in a few days, if not
now ; perhaps have had the friendly trouble of
directing it. And what is the difference of a
few days to you, when / am gratified, rather
than discomposed by it ? I shall not die the
sooner for such a preparation. Should not
everybody that has anything to bequeath make
their will ? And who, that makes a will, should
be afraid of a coffin ? My dear friends," to the
women, " I have considered these things ; do
* Clarissa's old governess.
214 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
not, with such an object before you as you have
had in me for weeks, give me reason to think
you have not."
How reasonable was all this ! It showed,
indeed, that she herself had well considered it.
But yet we could not help being shocked at the
thoughts of the coffin thus brought in ; the
lovely person before our eyes who is in all
likelihood so soon to fill it.
We were all silent still, the women in grief,
I in a manner stunned. She would not ask me,
she said ; but would be glad, since it had thus
earlier than she had intended been brought in,
that her two good friends would walk in and
look upon it. They would be less shocked
when it was made more familiar to their eyes.
"Don't you lead back," said she, " a starting steed
to the object he is apt to start at, in order to
familiarize him to it, and cure his starting?
The same reason will hold in this case. Come,
my good friends, I will lead you in."
I took my leave, telling her she had done
wrong, very wrong ; and ought not, by any
means, to have such an object before her.
The women followed her in. 'Tis a strange sex !
Nothing is too shocking for them to look upon, or
see acted, that has but novelty and curiosity in it.
CLARISSA 215
Down I posted, got a chair, and was carried
home extremely shocked and discomposed ; yet
weighing the lady's arguments, I know not why
I was so affected except, as she said, at the
unusualness of the thing.
While I waited for a chair, Mrs. Smith came
down and told me that there were devices and
inscriptions upon the lid. Lord bless me ! is a
coffin a proper subject to display fancy upon ?
But these great minds cannot avoid doing
extraordinary things !
* # * # #
I was prevailed upon by Mrs. Smith, and her
nurse Shelburne, Mrs. Lovick being abroad
with her, to go up and look at the devices.
Mrs. Lovick has since shown me a copy of the
draught by which all was ordered. And I will
give thee a sketch of the symbols.
The principal device, neatly etched on a plate
of white metal, is a crowned serpent, with its
tail in its mouth, forming a ring, the emblem
of eternity : and in the circle made by it is this
inscription :
CLARISSA HARLOWE.
APRIL X.
[Then the year.]
JETAT. XIX.
216 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
For ornaments At top, an hourglass winged.
At bottom, an urn.
Under the hourglass, on another plate, this
inscription :
" Here the wicked cease from troubling : And here
the weary be at rest." Job iii. 17.
Over the urn, near the bottom :
" Turn again unto thy rest, O my soul ! For the
Lord hath rewarded thee : And why ? Thou hast
delivered my soul from death ; mine eyes from tears ;
and my feet from falling. *' Psalm ciii. 7, 8.
Over this text is the head of a white lily
snapped short off, and just falling from the
stalk ; and this inscription over that, between
the principal plate and the lily :
" The days of man are but as grass. For he
flourisheth as a flower of the field : For, as soon as the
wind goeth over it, it is gone : and the place thereof
shall know it no more." Psalm ciii. 15, 16.
She excused herself to the women, on the
score of her youth, and being used to draw for
her needleworks, for having shown more fancy
than would perhaps be thought suitable on
so solemn an occasion.
The date, April loth, she accounted for,
as not being able to tell what her closing-day
would be ; and as that was the fatal day of her
leaving her father's house.
CLARISSA 217
She discharged the undertaker's bill after
I went away, with as much cheerfulness as
she could ever have paid for the clothes she
sold, to purchase this her palace : for such she
called it ; reflecting upon herself for the expen-
siveness of it, saying, that they might observe
in her, that pride left not poor mortals to the
last. But indeed she did not know but her
father would permit it, when furnished, to be
carried down to be deposited with her ancestors ;
and, in that case, she ought not to discredit
those ancestors in her appearance amongst them.
It is covered with fine black cloth, and lined
with white satin soon, she said, to be tarnished
by viler earth than any it could be covered by.
The burial-dress was brought home with it.
The women had curiosity enough, I suppose, to
see her open that, if she did open it. And
perhaps thou wouldst have been glad to have
been present, to have admired it too.
Mrs. Lovick said, she took the liberty to
blame her ; and wished the removal of such an
object from her bed-chamber^ at least. And
was so affected with the noble answer she made
upon it, that she entered it down the moment
she left her.
"To persons in health," said she, "this sight
218 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
may be shocking, and the preparation, and my
unconcernedness in it, may appear affected ;
but to me, who have had so gradual a weaning-
time from the world, and so much reason not to
love it, I must say I dwell on, I indulge, and,
strictly speaking, I enjoy, the thoughts of death.
For, believe me " looking steadfastly at the
awful receptacle " believe what at this instant
I feel to be most true, that there is such a vast
superiority of weight and importance in the
thought of death, and its hoped for happy
consequences, that it in a manner annihilates all
other considerations and concerns. Believe me,
my good friends, it does what nothing else can
do. It teaches me, by strengthening in me the
force of the divinest example, to forgive the
injuries I have received, and shuts out the
remembrance of past evils from my soul."
[Clarissa persists in her refusal to see Lovelace. Various
attempts are made to reconcile her with her family,
but all fail. Her cousin, Colonel Morden, however,
is on her side, and, on his return from abroad, comes
to see her at Mrs. Smith's.]
The Colonel begged, if not improper, that he
might see her though sleeping. He said, that
his impatience would not let him stay till she
awaked. Yet he would not have her disturbed ;
CLARISSA 219
and should be glad to contemplate her sweet
features, when she saw not him ; and asked
if she thought he could not go in and come out
without disturbing her ?
She believed he might, she answered ; for
her chair's back was towards the door.
He said, he would take care to withdraw
if she awoke, that his sudden appearance might
not surprise her.
Mrs. Smith, stepping up before us, bid Mrs.
Lovick and the nurse not stir, when we
entered. And then we went up softly together.
We beheld the lady in a charming attitude.
Dressed, as I told you before, in her virgin
white, she was sitting in her elbow-chair, Mrs.
Lovick close by her, in another chair, with her
left arm round her neck, supporting her, for it
seems the lady had bid her do so, saying she
had been a mother to her, and she would
delight herself in thinking she was in her
mamma's arms, for she found herself drowsy.
Perhaps, she said, for the last time she should
ever be so.
One faded cheek rested upon the good
woman's bosom, the kindly warmth of which
had overspread it with a faint but charming
flush ! the other paler and hollow, as if already
220 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
iced over by death. Her hands white as the
lily, with her meandering veins more trans
parently blue than ever I had seen even hers
(veins so soon, alas ! to be choked up by the
congealment of that purple stream which already
creeps rather than flows through them) ; her
hands hanging lifelessly, one before her, the
other grasped by the right hand of the kind
widow, whose tears bedewed the sweet face
which her motherly bosom supported, though
unfelt by the fair sleeper ; and, either insensibly
to the good woman, or what she would not
disturb her to wipe off, or to change her
posture. Her aspect was sweetly calm and
serene ; and though she started now and then,
yet her sleep seemed easy ; her breath, indeed,
short and quick, but tolerably free, and not
like that of a dying person.
In this heart-moving attitude she appeared to
us when we approached her, and came to have
her lovely face before us.
The Colonel, sighing often, gazed upon her
with his arms folded, and with the most
profound and affectionate attention, till at last,
on her starting, and fetching her breath with
greater difficulty than before, he retired to a
screen that was drawn before her house^ as she
CLARISSA 221
calls it, which, as I have heretofore observed,
stands under one of the windows. This screen
was placed there at the time she found herself
obliged to take to her chamber ; and in the
depth of our concern, and the fulness of other
discourse at our first interview, I had forgotten
to apprise the Colonel of what he would
probably see.
Retiring thither, he drew out his hand
kerchief, and, overwhelmed with grief, seemed
unable to speak. But, on casting his eye
behind the screen, he soon broke silence ;
for, struck with the shape of the coffin, he lifted
up a purplish-coloured cloth that was spread
over it, and, starting back, "Good God," said
he, " what's here ?"
Mrs. Smith, standing next him. " Why,"
said he, with great emotion, " is my cousin
suffered to indulge her sad reflections with such
an object before her ?"
" Alas ! sir," replied the good woman, " who
should control her ? We are all strangers
about her, in a manner ; and yet we have
expostulated with her upon this sad occasion."
" I ought," said I, stepping softly up to him
the lady again falling into a doze, " to have
apprised you of this. I was here when it was
222 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
brought in, and never was so shocked in my
life. But she had none of her friends about
her, and no reason to hope for any of them
to come near her ; and, assured she should not
recover, she was resolved to leave as little as
possible, especially as to what related to her
person, to her executor. But it is not a
shocking object to her, though it be to every
body else."
" Curse upon the hard-heartedness of those,"
said he, " who occasioned her to make so sad a
provision for herself! What must her reflec
tions have been, all the time she was thinking
of it, and giving orders about it ? And what
must they be, every time she turns her head
towards it ? These uncommon geniuses but
indeed she should have been controlled in it,
had I been here."
The lady fetched a profound sigh, and
starting, it broke off our talk, and the Colonel
then withdrew farther behind the screen, that
his sudden appearance might not surprise her.
" Where am I ?" said she. " How drowsy I
am ! How long have I dozed ? Don't go,
sir " (for I was retiring). " I am very stupid,
and shall be more and more so, I suppose."
She then offered to raise herself ; but, being
CLARISSA 223
ready to faint through weakness, was forced to
sit down again, reclining her head on her chair
back ; and, after a few moments, " I believe
now, my good friends," said she, " all your
kind trouble will soon be over. I have slept,
but am not refreshed, and my fingers* ends
seem numbed have no feeling " (holding them
up). " Tis time to send the letter to my good
Norton."
# # * * *
" If, madam, your cousin Morden should
come, you would be glad to see him, I
presume?"
" I am too weak to wish to see my cousin
now. It would but discompose me, and him
too. Yet, if he come while I can see, I will
see him, were it but to thank him for former
favours, and for his present kind intentions
to me. Has anybody been here from him?"
" He has called, and will be here, madam,
in half an hour, but he feared to surprise
you."
" Nothing can surprise me now, except my
mamma were to favour me with her last
blessing in person. That would be a welcome
surprise to me even yet. But did my cousin
come purposely to town to see me ?"
224 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
" Yes, madam. I took the liberty to let
him know by a line last Monday how ill you
were."
" You are very kind, sir. 1 am, and have
been, greatly obliged to you. But 1 think
I shall be pained to see him now, because he
will be concerned to see me. And yet, as I am
not so ill as I shall presently be, the sooner he
comes the better. But if he come, what shall I
do about that screen ? He will chide me, very
probably ; and I cannot bear chiding now.
Perhaps," leaning upon Mrs. Lovick and
Mrs. Smith, " I can walk into the next apart
ment to receive him."
She motioned to rise, but was ready to faint
again, and forced to sit still.
The Colonel was in a perfect agitation behind
the screen to hear this discourse, and twice,
unseen by his cousin, was coming from it
towards her, but retreated for fear of surprising
her too much.
I stepped to him, and favoured his retreat,
she only saying, " Are you going, Mr. Belford ?
Are you sent for down ? Is my cousin come ?"
for she heard somebody step softly across the
room, and thought it to be me, her hearing
being more perfect than her sight.
CLARISSA 225
I told her I believed he was, and she said,
" We must make the best of it, Mrs. Lovick
and Mrs. Smith. I shall otherwise most
grievously shock my poor cousin, for he loved
me dearly once. Pray give me a few of the
doctor's last drops in water to keep up my
spirits for this one interview ; and that is all, I
believe, that can concern me now."
The Colonel, who heard all this, sent in his
name ; and I, pretending to go down to him,
introduced the afflicted gentleman, she having
first ordered the screen to be put as close to the
window as possible that he might not see what
was behind it, while he, having heard what she
had said about it, was determined to take no
notice of it.
He folded the angel in his arms as she sat,
dropping down on one knee, for, supporting
herself upon the two elbows of the chair, she
attempted to rise, but could not.
"Excuse, my dear cousin," said she, "excuse
me, that I cannot stand up. I did not expect
this favour now But I am glad of this
opportunity to thank you for all your generous
goodness to me."
" I never, my best beloved and dearest
cousin," said he, with eyes running over, " shall
15
226 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
forgive myself that I did not attend you sooner.
Little did I think you were so ill, nor do any
of your friends believe it. If they did "
" If they did" repeated she, interrupting him,
<c I should have had more compassion from
:hem. I am sure I should. But pray, sir, how
did you leave them ? Are you reconciled to
them ? If you are not, I beg, if you love your
poor Clarissa, that you will, for every widened
difference augments but my fault, since that is
the foundation of all."
[As Clarissa grows worse, Lovelace becomes more and
more desperate. Belford asks two of his friends,
Tourville and Mowbray, to stay with Lovelace at
Uxbridge, so that he may not be alone when he
hears the worst.]
BELFORD TO LOVELACE.
Thursday Evening, 7 o'clock,
September jth.
I have only to say at present, thou wilt do
well to take a tour to Paris ; or wherever else
thy destiny shall lead thee ! ! !
JOHN BELFORD.
CLARISSA 227
MR. MOWBRAY TO BELFORD.
OXBRIDGE,
September jth, between 1 1
and 1 2 at night.
DEAR JACK,
I send, by poor Lovelace's desire, for
particulars of the fatal breviate thou sentest
him this night. He cannot bear to set pen to
paper, yet wants to know every minute passage
of Miss Harlowe's departure. Yet why he
should, I cannot see ; for if she is gone, she is
gone ; and who can help it ?
I never heard of such a woman in my life.
What great matters has she suffered, that grief
should kill her thus ?
I wish the poor fellow had never known her.
From first to last, what trouble has she cost him !
The charming fellow has been half lost to us ever
since he pursued her. And what is there in one
woman more than another, for matter of that ?
It was well we were with him when your
note came. You showed your true friendship in
your foresight. Why, Jack, the poor fellow
was quite beside himself mad as any man ever
was in Bedlam.
Will brought him the letter just after we had
joined him at the <c Bohemia Head ;" where
228 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
he had left word at the "Rose," at Knights-
bridge, he should be ; for he had been saunter
ing up and down, backwards and forwards,
expecting us, and his fellow. Will, as soon as
he delivered it, got out of his way ; and when
he opened it, never was such a piece of scenery.
He trembled like a devil at receiving it fum
bled at the seal, his fingers in a palsy, like Tom
Doleman's ; his hand shake, shake, shake, that
he tore the letter in two before he could come
at the contents. And when he had read them,
off went his hat to one corner of the room, his
wig to the other. " Damnation seize the
world !" and a whole volley of such-like
execrations wishes ; running up and down the
room, and throwing up the sash, and pulling it
down, and smiting his forehead with his double
fist, and stamping and tearing, that the landlord
ran in, and faster out again. And this was the
distraction-scene for some time.
In vain was all Jemmy or I could say to him.
I offered once to take hold of his hands, because
he was going to do himself a mischief, as I
believed, looking about for his pistols, which he
had laid upon the table, but which Will, unseen,
had taken out with him. A faithful, honest dog
that Will. I shall for ever love the fellow for
CLARISSA 229
it and he hit me a blow that made my nose
bleed. 'Twas well 'twas he ; for I hardly knew
how to take it.
Jemmy raved at him, and told him how
wicked it was in him to be so brutish to abuse a
friend, and run mad for a woman. And then
he said he was sorry for it ; and then Will
ventured in with water and a towel ; and the
dog rejoiced, as I could see by his looks, that I
had it rather than he.
And so, by degrees, we brought him a little
to his reason, and he promised to behave more
like a man. And so I forgave him. And we
rode on in the dark to here at Doleman's ; and
we all tried to shame him out of his mad
ungovernable foolishness ; for we told him as
how she was but a woman, and an obstinate
perverse woman too: and how could he help it ?
And you know, Jack (as we told him,
moreover), that it was a shame for a man like
him to give himself such obstropulous airs
because she would die ; . . . and then what
was there in one woman more than another ?
And thus we comforted him and advised him.
But yet he runs upon this lady as much now
she's dead as he did when she was living. For
I suppose, Jack, it is no joke ; she is certainly
230 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
and bond fide dead, isn't she ? If not thou
deservest to be damned for thy fooling, I tell
thee that. So he will have me write for
particulars of her departure.
He won't bear the word dead on any account.
A squeamish puppy ! How love unmans and
softens ! And such a noble fellow as this too !
I have no patience with the foolish dog upon
my soul I have not !
So send the account, and let him howl over
it, as I suppose he will.
But he must and shall go abroad. And in a
month or two Jemmy and you and I will join
him, and he'll soon get the better of this
chicken-hearted folly, never fear, and will then
be ashamed of himself. And then we'll not spare
him; though now, poor fellow, it were pity to
lay on him so thick as he deserves. And do thou,
till then, spare all reflections upon him ; for, it
seems, thou hast worried him unmercifully.
I was willing to give thee some account of
the hand we have had with the tearing fellow,
who had certainly been a lost man, had we not
been with him ; or he would have killed some
body or other. And now he is but very
middling ; curses and swears, and is confounded
gloomy ; and creeps into holes and corners, like
CLARISSA 23 T
an old hedgehog. . . . And so adieu. Jack.
Tourville and all of us wish for thee ; for no
one has the influence upon him that thou hast.
R. MOWBRAY.
As I promised him that I would write for the
particulars abovesaid, I write this after all are
gone to bed ; and the fellow is to set out with
it by daybreak.
BELFORD TO LOVELACE.
Thursday Night.
I may as well try to write ; since, were I go
to bed, I should not sleep. I never had such a
weight of grief upon my mind in my life, as
upon the demise of this admirable woman,
whose soul is now rejoicing in the regions of
light.
You may be glad to know the particulars of
her happy exit. I will try to proceed, for all is
hushed and still ; the family retired, but not
one of them, and least of all her poor cousin, I
dare say, to rest.
At four o'clock, as I mentioned in my last, I
was sent for down ; and, as thou usedst to like
my descriptions, I will give thee the woeful
232 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
scene that presented itself to me as I approached
the bed.
The Colonel was the first that took my
attention, kneeling on the side of the bed, the
lady's right hand in both his, which his face
covered, bathing it with his tears ; although she
had been comforting him, as the women since
told me, in elevated strains but broken accents.
On the other side of the bed sat the good
widow, her face overwhelmed with tears,
leaning her head against the bed's head in
a most disconsolate manner ; and turning her
face to me as soon as she saw me, " O, Mr.
Belford," cried she, with folded hands, " the
dear lady " A heavy sob permitted her not to
say more.
Mrs. Smith, with clasped fingers and uplifted
eyes, as if imploring help from the only Power
which could give it, was kneeling down at the
bed's feet, tears in large drops trickling down
her cheeks.
Her nurse was kneeling between the widow
and Mrs. Smith, her arms extended. In one
hand she held an ineffectual cordial, which she
had just been offering to her dying mistress.
Her face was swollen with weeping, though
used to such scenes as this, and she turned her
CLARISSA 233
eyes towards me, as if she called upon me by
them to join in the helpless sorrow, a fresh
stream bursting from them as I approached
the bed.
The maid of the house, with her face upon
her folded arms, as she stood leaning against
the wainscot, more audibly expressed her grief
than any of the others.
The lady had been silent a few minutes, and
speechless, as they thought, moving her lips
without uttering a word ; one hand, as I said,
in her cousin's. But when Mrs. Lovick on
my approach pronounced my name, " Oh !
Mr. Belford," said she, with a faint inward
voice, but very distinct nevertheless " Now !
Now ! [in broken periods she spoke] I bless
God for his mercies to his poor creature will
all soon be over A few a very few moments
will end this strife and I shall be happy !"
u Comfort here, sir," turning her head to the
Colonel ; " comfort my cousin, see ! the
blame able kindness he would not wish
me to be happy so soon!"
Here she stopped for two or three minutes,
earnestly looking upon him. Then resuming,
" My dearest cousin," said she, " be comforted
what is dying but the common lot ? The
234 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
mortal frame may seem to labour, but that is
all ! It is not so hard to die as I believed it to
be ! The preparation is the difficulty I bless
God I have had time for that the rest is worse
to beholders than to me ! I am all blessed hope
hope itself!"
She looked what she said, a sweet smile
beaming over her countenance.
* # # # #
" Once more, my dear cousin," said she, but
still in broken accents, " commend me most
dutifully to my father and mother " there she
stopped and then preceding, " to my sister,
to my brother, to my uncles, and tell them I
bless them with my parting breath for all
their goodness to me even for their dis
pleasure I bless them most happy has been
to me my punishment here ! Happy indeed !"
* # * * #
She was silent for a few moments, lifting up
her eyes, and the hand her cousin held not
between his. Then, " O death /" said she,
"where is thy sting /" And after a pause, " //
is good for me that I was afflicted /" Words of
Scripture, I suppose.
Then turning towards us, who were lost in
speechless sorrow. " O dear, dear gentlemen,"
CLARISSA 235
said she, " you know not what foretastes, what
assurances And there she again stopped
and looked up, as if in a thankful rapture,
sweetly smiling.
Then turning her head towards me, " Do
you, sir, tell your friend that I forgive him !
and I pray to God to forgive him !" Again
pausing, and lifting up her eyes as if praying
that He would. " Let him know how happily
I die and that such as my own, I wish to be
his last hour."
She was again silent for a few moments ;
and then resuming, " My sight fails me !
Your voices only " for we both spoke
together of her Christian, her divine frame, in
accents as broken as her own ; and the voice
of grief is alike in all. " Is not this Mr.
Morden's hand ?" pressing one of his with that
he had just let go. " Which is Mr. Belford's ?"
holding out the other. I gave her mine.
" God Almighty bless you both," said she,
"and make you both, in your last hour, for
you must come to this, happy as I am."
* # * * #
Her breath grew shorter. . . . After a few
minutes, " And now, my dearest cousin, give
me your hand, nearer, still nearer," drawing it
236 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
towards her ; and she pressed it with her dying
lips. " God protect you, dear, dear sir, and
once more, receive my best and most grateful
thanks ; and tell my dear Miss Howe, and
vouchsafe to see, and to tell my worthy Norton
she will be one day, I fear not, though now
lowly in her fortunes, a saint in heaven. . . .
Tell them both that I remember them with
thankful blessings in my last moments! And
pray God to give them happiness here for many,
many years, for the sake of their friends and
lovers ; and a heavenly crown hereafter ; and
such assurance of it as I have, through the all-
satisfying merits of my blessed Redeemer."
^ # * * *
Her sweet voice and broken periods me-
thinks still fill my ears, and never will be out
of my memory.
After a short silence, in a more broken and
faint accent, " And you, Mr. Belford," pressing
my hand, " may God preserve you, and make
you sensible of all your errors. You see in me
how all ends, may you be " . . . And
down sunk her head upon her pillow, she
fainting away, and drawing from us her hands.
We thought she was gone ; and each gave
way to a violent burst of grief.
CLARISSA 237
But soon showing signs of returning life, our
attention was again engaged ; and I besought
her, when a little recovered, to complete in my
favour her half -pronounced blessing. She
waved her hand to us both, and bowed her
head several times, evidently desirous to
distinguish every person present, not forgetting
the nurse and the maid-servant ; the latter
having approached the bed, weeping, as if
crowding in for the divine lady's last blessing ;
and she spoke faltering and inwardly. " Bless
bless bless you all. And now and now"
holding up her almost lifeless hands for the
last time " come O come Blessed Lord
JESUS !"
And with these words, the last but a whisper,
expired ; such a smile, such a charming serenity
overspreading her sweet face at the instant,
as seemed to manifest her eternal happiness,
already begun.
Oh, Lovelace ; but I can write no more !
[Hardly is Clarissa dead than letters arrive from her
family, who, realizing at last how seriously ill she
is, write to offer their love and forgiveness. Belford
sorrowfully reflects that their goodness comes too
late. All that the Harlowes can now do is to have
Clarissa's body brought home for burial. She is
given a most solemn funeral, made additionally im-
2 3 8 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
pressive by the presence of the numberless poor
whom Clarissa had helped during her lifetime.
Meanwhile, Lovelace has fled to France, and
Colonel Morden follows him to avenge the honour
of the family. They arrange a duel, and soon
afterwards Belford receives the following letter from
Lovelace's second, the Chevalier de la Tour.]
TRANSLATION OF A LETTER FROM
F. J. DE LA TOUR.
To JOHN BELFORD, ESQ., NEAR SOHO SQUARE,
LONDON.
TRENT,
December i%th, N.S.
SIR,
I have melancholy news to inform you of
by order of the Chevalier Lovelace.
I had taken care to have ready, within a
little distance, a surgeon and his assistant, to
whom I had revealed the matter. A post-
chaise was ready, with each of their footmen, at
a distance.
The two chevaliers were attended by
Monsieur Margate (the Colonel's gentleman)
and myself
After a few compliments, both the gentle
men, with the greatest presence of mind I ever
beheld, stripped to their shirts and drew.
CLARISSA 239
They parried with equal judgment several
passes. My chevalier drew the first blood,
making a desperate push, which, by a sudden
turn of his antagonist, missed going clear
through him, and wounded him in his right
side. But before my chevalier could recover
himself, the Colonel, in return, pushed him
in the left arm, near the shoulder, and this
being followed by a great effusion of blood,
the Colonel said, <c Sir, I believe you have
enough."
My chevalier swore by G d he was not
hurt, and made another pass at his antagonist,
which he, with a surprising dexterity, received
under his arm, and run my dear Chevalier into
the body, who immediately fell, saying, " The
luck is yours, sir, O my beloved Clarissa !
Now art thou " His sword dropped from
his hand. Mr. Morden threw his down, and
ran to him, saying in French, " Ah ! Monsieur,
you are a dead man. Call to God for mercy !"
We gave the signal agreed upon to the
footmen, and they and the surgeons instantly
came up.
Colonel Morden was as cool as if nothing
so extraordinary had happened, assisting the
surgeons, though his own wound bled much.
2 4 o SAMUEL RICHARDSON
But my dear chevalier fainted away two or
three times.
We helped him into the voiture, and then
the Colonel suffered his own wound to be
dressed, and appeared concerned that my
chevalier was (when he could speak) extremely
outrageous. Poor gentleman ! he had made
quite sure of victory !
The Colonel, against the surgeons' advice,
would mount on horseback to pass into the
Venetian territories, and generously gave me a
purse of gold to pay them, desiring me to make
a present to the footman, and to accept of
the remainder as a mark of his satisfaction
in my conduct, and in my care and tenderness
of my master.
The surgeons told him that my chevalier
could not live over the day.
When the Colonel took leave of him, Mr.
Lovelace said, " You have well revenged the
dear creature."
" Sir," said the Colonel, with the piety of
a confessor (wringing Mr. Lovelace's hand),
" snatch these few fleeting moments, and com
mend yourself to God."
And so he rode off
We brought my chevalier alive to the nearest
CLARISSA 241
cottage, and he gave orders to me to dispatch
to you the packet I herewith send sealed up ;
and bid me write to you the particulars of this
most unhappy affair, and give you thanks, in
his name, for all your favours and friendship to
him.
He lived over the night, but suffered much.
He seemed very unwilling to die.
He was delirious the two last hours, and
several times cried out, as if he had seen some
frightful spectre. " Take her away ! take her
away !" And sometimes praised some lady
(that Clarissa, I suppose, whom he had invoked
when he received his death-wound), calling her
divine creature ! fair sufferer ! And once he
said, " Look down, blessed spirit, look down !"
His few last words I must not omit, as they
show composure which may administer some
consolation to his honourable friends.
" Blessed" said he, addressing himself no
doubt to Heaven, for his dying eyes were lifted
up ; and with great fervour (lifting up his eyes
and hands) again pronounced the word Blessed.
At the last he distinctly uttered these three
words,
LET THIS EXPIATE !
16
THE HISTORY
OF
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON
IN A
SERIES OF LETTERS
PUBLISHED FROM THE ORIGINALS
BY THE
EDITOR OF " PAMELA " AND CLARISSA "
THE HISTORY
OF
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON, BART.
Miss LUCY SELBY TO Miss HARRIET BYRON.
ASHBY CANNONS,
January loth.
YOUR resolution to accompany Mrs. Reeves to
London has greatly alarmed your three lovers :
and two of them, at least, will let you know
that it has.
Mr. Greville, in his usual resolute way,
threatens to follow you to London ; and there,
he says, he will watch the motions of every
man who approaches you ; and, if he finds
reason for it, will early let such man know his
pretensions, and the danger he may run into if
he pretend to be his competitor. Mr. Fenwick,
in a less determined manner, declares that he
will follow you to town, if you stay there
above one fortnight. The gentle Orme sighs
245
246 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
his apprehensions, and wishes you would change
your purpose.
If you hold your resolution, and my cousin
Reeves's their time of setting out, pray let me
know, and I will attend you at my uncle
Selby's, to wish you a good journey, much
pleasure in town, and a return with a safe
and sound heart. My sister, who, poor dear
girl, continues extremely weak and low, will
spare me for a purpose so indispensable. I
will not have you come to us. I know it
would grieve you to see her in the way she
is in.
Mr. Greville has just left us. He dropped
in upon us as we were going to dinner. My
grandmother Selby, you know, is always
pleased with his rattling. She prevailed on
him to alight, and sit down with us. All his
talk was of you. He repeated his former
ihreatenings (as I called them to him) on your
going to town. After dinner, he read us a
letter from Lady Frampton relating to you.
He read us also some passages from the copy
of his answer, with design, I believe, that I
should ask him to leave it behind him. I did
ask him. He pretended to make a scruple of
your seeing, but it was a faint one.
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 247
Send me a line by the bearer, to tell me if
your resolution holds as to the day.
Adieu, my dearest Harriet. May angels
protect and guide you whithersoever you go !
LUCY SELBY.
MR. GREVILLE TO LADY FRAMPTON,
INCLOSED IN THE PRECEDING.
NORTHAMPTON,
January 6th.
Your ladyship demands a description of the
person of the celebrated Miss Byron in our
neighbourhood ; and to know whether, as
report tells you, love has listed me in the
number of her particular admirers ?
No man living has a greater passion for
beauty than I have. Till I knew Miss Byron,
I was one of those who regarded nothing else
in the sex. Indeed, I considered all intellectual
attainments as either useless or impertinent in
women. Your ladyship knows what were my
free notions on this head, and has rebuked me
for them. A wise, a learned lady, I considered
as a very unnatural character. I wanted
women to be all love, and nothing else. A
very little prudence allowed I to enter into
their composition ; just enough to distinguish
248 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
the man of sense from the fool ; and that for
my own sake.
Sweetness of temper must make plain features
glow ; what an effect must it then have upon
fine ones ? Never was there a sweeter
tempered woman. She is just turned of
twenty, but looks not more than seventeen.
Her beauty, hardly yet in its full blow, will
last longer, I imagine, than in an earlier
blossom.
Yet with all this reigning good-nature visible
in her face and manner, there is such a native
dignity in all she says, in all she does (though
mingled with a frankness that shows her mind's
superiority to the minds of almost all other
women), that it damps and suppresses, in
the most audacious, all imaginations of bold
familiarity.
And now will your ladyship doubt of an
affirmative answer to your second question,
Whether love has listed me in the number of
her particular admirers ?
He has ; and the devil take me if I can help
myself: and yet I have no encouragement
Nor anybody else : that's my consolation.
Fenwick is deeper in, if possible, than I. We
had at our first acquaintance, as you have
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 249
heard, a tilting-bout on the occasion : but are
sworn friends now ; each having agreed to try
his fortune by patience and perseverance ; and
being assured that the one has no more of her
favour to boast of, than the other.
# * * * *
But now to the description of her person.
Let me die, if I know where to begin. Her
stature ; shall I begin with her stature ? She
cannot be said to be tall, but yet is something
above the middling.
Her complexion is admirably fair and clear.
I have sat admiring her complexion, till I have
imagined I have seen the life-blood flowing
with equal course through her translucent veins.
Her forehead, so nobly free and open, shows
dignity and modesty, and strikes into one a
kind of awe, singly contemplated, that I know
not how to describe. Every single feature, in
short, will bear the nicest examination ; and
her face, and neck so admirably set on her
finely proportioned shoulders let me perish,
if, taking her all together, I do not hold her to
be the most unexceptionable beauty I ever
beheld. But what still is her particular
excellence, and distinguishes her from all
other women, is the grace which we call
^50 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
expression : Had not her features and her
complexion been so fine as they are, that
grace alone, that soul shining out in her lovely
aspect, joined with the ease and gracefulness of
her motion, would have made her as many
admirers as beholders.
After this, shall I descend to a more par
ticular description ? No and yet her mouth,
her nose, her eyes, her hair, her arm, on my
soul, madam, I have not words eloquent enough
to describe them !
Her hands, too, are extremely fine. Such
fingers ! and they accustomed to the pen, to
the needle, to the harpsichord ; excelling in all
O madam, women have souls ! I now am
convinced they have, though I dare own to
your ladyship that once I doubted it. And
have I not seen her dance ! Have I not heard
her sing! But, indeed, mind and person, she
is all harmony.
Then for reading, for acquired knowledge,
what lady so young equals her ? But you
know the character of her grandfather Shirley.
He was a man of universal learning, and, from
his public employments abroad, as polite as
learned. This girl, from seven years of age,
when he came to settle in England, to fourteen,
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 251
when she lost him, was his delight, and her
education and instruction the amusement of his
vacant hours. The dead languages he aimed
not to teach her, lest he should overload her
young mind ; but in the Italian and French he
made her an adept.
Nor were the advantages common ones
which she received from his lady, her grand
mother, and from her aunt Selby, her father's
sister, a woman of equal worthiness. Her
grandmother particularly is one of the most
pious, yet most cheerful of women. She will
not permit her daughter Byron, she says, to
live with her for both their sakes, for the
girl's sake, because there is a greater resort of
company at Mr. Selby's than at Shirley Manor;
and she is afraid, as her grandchild has a serious
turn, that her own contemplative life may make
her more grave than she wishes so young a
woman to be. "Youth/' she says, "is the
season for cheerfulness." For her own sake,
because she looks upon her Harriet's company
as a cordial too rich to be always at hand ; and
when she has a mind to regale, she will either
send for her, fetch her, or visit her at Mrs.
Selby's. " One happy day with our child, the
true child of the united minds of her late
52 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
excellent parents, will, I hope, effect the cure ;
if it do not, you must spare her to me two'"
Did I not tell you, madam, that it was very
difficult to describe the person only of this
admirable young lady ? But I stop here. A
horrid apprehension comes across me! How
do I know but I am praising another man's
future wife, and not my own ? Here is a
cousin of hers, a Mrs. Reeves, a fine lady from
London, come down, under the cursed influence
of my evil stars, to carry this Harriet away
with her into the gay world. Woman!
woman ! I beg your ladyship's pardon ; but
what angel of twenty is proof against vanity ?
The first hour she appears, she will be a toast :
stars and titles will crowd about her ; and who
knows how far a paltry coronet may dazzle her
who deserves an imperial crown ? But woe to
the man, whoever he be, whose pretensions
dare to interfere (and have any assurance
of success) with those of your ladyship's
most obedient and faithful servant,
JOHN GREVILLE.
[Miss Byron is greatly admired in London society, and
the already large number of her suitors is increased.
Among others, she receives the addresses of Sir
Hargrave Pollexfen, of whom, however, she has
heard no good.]
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 253
Miss BYRON TO Miss LUCY SELBY.
Wednesday Night.
Sir Hargrave came before six o'clock. He
was richly dressed. He asked for my cousin
Reeves. I was in my closet writing. He was
not likely to be the better received for the
character Sir John Allestree gave of him. He
excused himself for coming so early on the score
of his impatience, and that he might have a
little discourse with them, if I should be engaged
before tea-time.
Shall I give you, from my cousins, an account
of the conversation before I went down ? You
know Mrs. Reeves is a nice observer. He had
had, he told my cousins, a most uneasy time of
it ever since he saw me. The devil fetch him,
if he had had one hour's rest. He never saw a
woman before whom he could love as he loved
me. By his soul, he had no view but what was
strictly honourable. He sometimes sat down,
sometimes walked about the room, strutting,
and now and then adjusting something in his
dress. He gloried in the happy prospects
before him : not but he knew I had a little
army of admirers ; but as none of them had
met encouragement from me, he hoped there
4 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
was room for him to flatter himself that he might
be the happy man.
"I told you, Mr. Reeves," said he, " that
I will give you carte blanche as to settlements.
What I do for so prudent a woman will be
doing for myself. I am not used, Mr. Reeves,
to boast of my fortune. But I will lay before
you, or before any of Miss Byron's friends
Mr. Deane, if she pleases my rent-rolls.
There never was a better conditioned estate.
She shall live in town, or in the country, as
she thinks fit ; and, in the latter, at which of
my seats she pleases. I know I shall have
no will but hers. I doubt not your friend
ship. Mrs. Reeves, I hope for yours, madam.
I shall have great pleasure in the alliance I have
in view with every individual of your family."
As if he would satisfy them of his friendship,
in the near relation, as the only matter that
could bear a doubt.
On a message that tea was near ready, I went
down. On my entering the room, he addressed
me with an air of kindness and freedom. I took
my seat and endeavoured to look easy and free,
as usual ; finding something to say to my
cousins and to him. He begged that tea might
be postponed for half an hour ; and that,
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 255
before the servants were admitted, I would
hear him relate the substance of the conver
sation that had passed between him and Mr.
and Mrs. Reeves.
Had not Sir Hargrave intended me an
honour, and had he not a very high opinion
of the efficacy of eight thousand pounds a year
in an address of this kind, I dare say, he would
have supposed a little more prefacing neces
sary; but after he had told me in few words
how much he was attracted by my character
before he saw me, he thought fit directly to
refer himself to the declaration he had made at
Lady Betty Williams's, both to Mr. Reeves
and myself, and then talked of large settle
ments, boasted of his violent passion, and
besought my favour with the utmost earnest
ness.
I would have played a little female trifling
upon him, and affected to take his profession
only for polite raillery, which men call making
love to young women, who perhaps are
frequently but too willing to take in earnest
what the wretches mean but in jest ; but the
fervour with which he renewed (as he called it)
his declaration admitted not of fooling. As
therefore I could not think of encouraging his
256 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
addresses, I thought it best to answer him with
openness and unreserve.
" To seem to question the sincerity of such
professions as you make. Sir Hargrave, might
appear to you as if I wanted to be assured;
but be pleased to know that you are directing
your discourse to one of the plainest -hearted
women in England ; and you may therefore
expect from me nothing but the simplest
truth. I thank you, sir, for your good
opinion of me, but I cannot encourage your
addresses/'
" You cannot, madam, encourage my addresses !
And express yourself so seriously. Good
Heaven ! I have been assured, madam,"
recovering from his surprise, " that your
affections are not engaged. But surely it must
be a mistake. Some happy man
" Is it," interrupted I, " a necessary con
sequence that the woman who cannot receive
the addresses of Sir Hargrave Pollexfen must
be engaged?"
" Why, madam, as to that I know not
what to say. But a man of my fortune, and
I hope not absolutely disagreeable either in
person or temper ; of some rank in life-
He paused ; then resuming, " What, madam, if
SIR CHARLES GRAND1SON 257
you are as much in earnest as you seem, can be
your objection? Be so good as to name it,
that I may know whether I can be so happy as
to get over it ?"
" We do not, we cannot, all like the same
person. Women, I have heard say, are very
capricious. Perhaps I am so. But there is a
something (we cannot always say what) that
attracts or disgusts us."
" Disgusts ! madam. Disgusts ! Miss
Byron."
" 1 spoke in general, sir. I daresay nineteen
women out of twenty would think themselves
favoured in the addresses of Sir Hargrave Pol-
lexfen."
" But you, madam, are the twentieth that
I must love ; and be so good as to let me
know"
" Pray, sir, ask me not a reason for a
peculiarity. Do you not yourself show a peculi
arity in making me the twentieth ?"
" Tour merit, madam
" It would be vanity in me, sir," interrupted
I, " to allow a force to that plea. You, sir,
may have more merit than perhaps the man
I may happen to approve of better. But
shall I say ? (pardon me, sir) you do not
*7
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
you do not," hesitated I, "hit my fancy.
Pardon me, sir."
" If pardon depends upon my breath, let me
die if I do ! Not hit your fancy, madam !"
[And then he looked upon himself all round.]
a Not hit your fancy, madam !"
I told you, sir, that you must not expect
anything from me but the simplest truth. You
do me an honour in your good opinion ; and if
my own heart were not in this case a very
determined one, I would answer you with more
politeness. But, sir, on such an occasion as this
I think it would not be honourable, it would
not be just, to keep a man in an hour's suspense
when I am in none myself."
" Confound me ! and yet I am enough
confounded ! but I will not take an answer so
contrary to my hopes. Tell me, madam, by
the sincerity which you boast, are you engaged
in your affections?"
u I am a free person, Sir Hargrave. It is no
impeachment of sincerity if a free person answers
not every question that may be put to her by
those to whom she is not accountable."
tc Very true, madam. But as it is no im
peachment of your freedom to answer this
question either negatively or affirmatively, and
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 259
as you glory in your frankness, let me beseech
you to answer it. Are you, madam, or are you
not, disengaged in your affections?"
" Excuse me, Sir Hargrave. I don't think
you are entitled to an answer to this question.
Nor, perhaps, would you be determined by the
answer I should make to it, whether negative or
affirmative."
" Give me leave to say, madam, that 1 have
some little knowledge of Mr. Fenwick and Mr.
Greville, and of their addresses. They have
both owned that no hopes have you given them,
yet declare that they will hope. Have you,
madam, been as explicit to them as you are
to me ?"
" I have, sir."
" Then they are not the men I have to fear
Mr. Or me, madam
u Is a good man, sir."
" Ah, madam ! But why then will you not
say that you are engaged ?"
" If I own I am, perhaps it will not avail
me. It will still much less if 1 say I am not"
" Avail you ! dear Miss Byron ! I have
pride, madam. If I had not I should not
aspire to your favour. But give me leave to
say " [and he reddened with anger] " that my
260 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
fortune, my descent, and my ardent affection
for you considered, it may not ^//j-avail you.
Your relations will at least think so, if I may
have the honour of your consent for applying to
them."
" May your fortune, Sir Hargrave, be a
blessing to you. It will, in proportion as you
do good with it. But were it twice as much,
that alone would have no charms for me. My
duties would be increased with my power. My
fortune is an humble one ; but were it less it
would satisfy my ambition while I am single ;
and if I marry I shall not desire to live beyond
the estate of the man I choose."
<c Upon my soul, madam, you must be mine.
Every word you speak adds a rivet to my
chains."
u Then> sir, let us say no more upon this
subject."
" But you will allow of my visits to your
cousin, madam ?"
u Not on my account, sir."
" You will not withdraw if I come ? You
will not refuse seeing me?"
u As you will be no visitor of mine, I must
be allowed to act accordingly. Had I the least
thought of encouraging your addresses, I would
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 261
deal with you as openly as is consistent with my
notions of modesty and decorum."
" Perhaps, madam, from my gay behaviour
at Lady Betty Williams' s, you think me too airy
a man. You have doubts of my sincerity.
You question my honour."
"That, sir, would be to injure myself."
" Your objections then, dear madam ? Give
me, I beseech you, some one material objection. "
" Why, sir, should you urge me thus ?
When I have no doubt^ it is unnecessary to look
into my own mind for the particular reasons
that move me to disapprove of the addresses
of a gentleman whose professions of regard for
me, notwithstanding, entitle him to civility and
acknowledgment. "
" By my soul, madam, this is very comical,
" I do not like thee, Dr. Fell :
The reason why, I cannot tell
But I don't like thee, Dr. Fell.'
Such, madam, seem to me to be your reasons."
" You are very pleasant, sir. But let me say,
that if you are in earnest in your professions, you
could not have quoted anything more against you
than these humorous lines."
" I was not aware of that," replied he.
" Excuse me, cousin, " said I, turning to
,2 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
Mrs. Reeves ; " but I believe I have talked
away the tea-time."
u The devil fly away with the tea-kettle,"
said Sir Hargrave ; "let it not have entrance
here till I have said what I have further to say.
And let me tell you, Miss Byron, that though
you may not have a dying lover, you shall have
a resolute one ; for I will not cease pursuing
you till you are mine, or till you are the wife of
some other man/'
I thought it was staying to be insulted. All
that Sir John Allestree had said of him came
into my head ; and, making a low courtesy, I
withdrew in haste. He besought me to return,
and followed me to the stairs foot.
He showed his pride, and his ill-nature too,
before my cousins when I was gone. He bit
his lip ; he walked about the room ; then sitting
down he lamented, defended, accused, and rede-
fended himself ; and yet besought their interest
with me.
He was greatly disturbed, he owned, that with
such honourable intentions, with so much POWER
to make me happy, and such a WILL to do so,
he should be refused ; and this without my
assigning one reason for it. My proud
repulse had stung him, he owned. He
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 263
begged that they would send for me down
in their names. They liked not the humour
he seemed to be in well enough to comply with
his request, and he sent up in his own name.
But I returned my compliments ; I was busy
in writing : [and so I was to you, my Lucy]
I hoped Sir Hargrave and my cousins would
excuse me. I put them in to soften my refusal.
This still more displeased him. He besought
their pardon ; but he would haunt me like a
ghost. In spite of man and devil, I should be
his, he had the presumption to repeat ; and
went away with a flaming face. Don't you
think, my dear, that my cousin Reeves was a
little too mild in his own house, as I am under
his guardianship? But perhaps he was the
more patient for that very reason ; and he is
one of the best-natured men in England.
And then 8000 a year! Yet why should a
man of my cousin's independent fortune But
grandeur will have its charms. Thus did Sir
Hargrave confirm all that Sir John Allestree
had said of his bad qualities : and I think I am
more afraid of him than ever I was of any man
before. I remember that mischievous is one of
the bad qualities Sir John attributed to him ;
and revengeful another. Upon my word, \
264 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
would not, of all the men I have ever seen, be
the wife of Sir Hargrave Pollexfen. And so
much for this first visit of his. I wish his
pride may be enough piqued to make it the last.
[Soon afterwards Harriet goes to a masquerade, whence,
to the horror of her relatives, she does not return,
though her chair was seen to leave the door. Sus
picion falls on a servant who had accompanied her.
A few days later Mr. Reeves receives a letter from
Sir Charles Grandison telling him that Miss Byron
is safe at the house of his sister, Lady L. As soon
as she is well enough for she is ill some days with
fright and exhaustion she returns to the Reeves'
house, and writes the following account of her
adventures to Lucy Selby.]
Miss BYRON TO Miss SELBY.
Monday, February zotk.
Is it again given me to write to you, my Lucy !
and in you to all my revered friends ! To
write with cheerfulness ! To call upon you all
to rejoice with me God be praised ! With
what wretched levity did I conclude my last
letter ! Giddy creature that I was, vain and
foolish ! But let me begin my sad story.
Only let me premise, that gaily as I boasted,
when I wrote to you so conceitedly, of my
dress, and of conquests, and I know not what
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 265
nonsense, I took no pleasure at the place, in the
shoals of fools that swam after me. I despised
myself and them. Two Lucifers were among
them ; but the worst, the very worst Lucifer of
all, appeared in a harlequin dress. He hopped,
and skipped, and played the fool about me ;
and at last told me he knew Miss Byron,
and that he was, as he called himself, the
despised, the rejected, Sir Hargrave Pollexfen.
He behaved, however, with complaisance ; and
I had no apprehension of what I was to suffer
from his villany. Mr. Reeves has told you
everything about the chair and the chairman.
How can I describe the misgivings of my heart
when I first began to suspect treachery ! But
when I undrew the curtains, and found myself
further deluded by another false heart, whose
help I implored, and in the midst of fields,
and soon after the lights put out, I pierced the
night air with my screams, till I could scream
no more. I was taken out in fits ; and when
I came a little to my senses, I found myself on
a bed, three women about me ; one at my head,
holding a bottle to my nose, my nostrils sore
with hartshorn, and a strong smell of burnt
feathers ; but no man near me. " Where am
1 ? Who are you, madam ? And who are
266 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
you ? Where am I ?" were the questions I
first asked.
The women were a mother and two
daughters. The mother answered, " You are
not in bad hands. No harm is intended you ;
only to make you one of the happiest of
women. We would not be concerned in a bad
action."
"I hope not ; I hope not. Let me engage
your pity, madam. You seem to be a mother.
These young gentlewomen, I presume, are your
daughters. Save me from ruin, I beseech you,
madam : save me from ruin, as you would
your daughters."
" These young women are my daughters.
They are sober and modest women. No ruin
is intended you. One of the richest and
noblest men in England is your admirer. He
dies for you ; he assures me that he intends
honourable marriage to you. You are not
engaged, he says ; and you must, and you shall
be his. You may save murder, madam, if you
consent. He resolves to be the death of any
lover whom you encourage."
"This must be the vile contrivance of Sir
Hargrave Pollexfen," immediately cried I out :
" Is it not ? Is it not ? Tell me ; I beg of
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 267
you to tell me ?" I arose, and sat on the
bedside ; and at that moment in came the vile,
vile Sir Hargrave. I screamed out. He threw
himself at my feet. I reclined my head on the
bosom of the elderly person, and by hartshorn
and water they had much ado to keep me
out of a fit. Had he not withdrawn, had
he kept in my sight, I should certainly have
fainted. But holding up my head, and seeing
only the women, I revived, and began to pray,
to beg, to offer rewards, if they would facilitate
my escape, or procure my safety ; but then
came in again the hated man.
" I beg of you, Miss Byron," said he, with
an air of greater haughtiness than before, " to
make yourself easy, and hear what I have to
say. It is in your own choice, in your power,
to be what you please, and to make me what
you please. Do not, therefore, needlessly
terrify yourself. You see I am a determined
man. Ladies, you may withdraw "
" Not and leave me here !" And as they
went out, I pushed by the mother, and between
the daughters, and followed the foremost into
the parlour, and then sunk down on my knees,
wrapping my arms about her. "Oh save me !
save me !" said I. The vile wretch entered.
268 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
I left her, and kneeled to him. I knew not
what I did. I remember I said, wringing my
hands, " If you have mercy ; if you have
compassion, let me now, now, I beseech you,
sir, this moment, experience your mercy." He
gave them some motion, I suppose to withdraw,
for by that time the widow and the other
daughter were in the parlour, and they all
retired.
" I have besought you, madam, and on my
knees too, to show me mercy ; but none would
you show me, inexorable Miss Byron ! Kneel,
if you will ; in your turn kneel, supplicate,
pray ; you cannot be more in earnest than
I was. Now are the tables turned."
"Barbarous man!" said I, rising from my
knees. My spirit was raised, but it as instantly
subsided. "Be not, I beseech you, Sir Har-
grave, cruel to me. I never was cruel to
anybody. You know I was civil to you ; I
was very civil "
" Yes, yes, and very determined. You called
me no names. I call you none, Miss Byron.
You were very civil. Hitherto / have not
been uncivil. But remember, madam But,
sweet, and ever-adorable creature," and he
clasped his arms about me, " your very terror is
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 269
beautiful ! 1 can enjoy your terror, madam."
And the savage would have kissed me. My
averted head frustrated his intention ; and at
his feet I besought him not to treat the poor
creature, whom he had so vilely betrayed, with
indignity.
" / dont hit your fancy, madam !"
" Can you be a malicious man, Sir Har-
grave ?"
" You dont like my morals, madam !"
"And is this the way, Sir Hargrave, are
these the means you take to convince me that I
ought to like them ?"
" Well, madam, you shall prove the mercy
in me you would not show. You shall see
that I cannot be a malicious man ; a revengeful
man ; and yet you have raised my pride. You
shall find me a moral man."
" Then, Sir Hargrave, will I bless you from
the bottom of my heart !"
" But you know what will justify me in
every eye for the steps I have taken. Be mine,
madam : be legally mine. I offer you my
honest hand. Consent to be Lady Pollexfen."
"What, sir! justify by so poor, so very
poor, a compliance, steps that you have so
basely taken ! Take my life, sir ! But my
270 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
hand and my heart are my own : they never
shall be separated." I arose from my knees,
trembling, and threw myself upon the window-
seat, and wept bitterly. He came to me. I
looked on this side, and on that, wishing to
avoid him.
"You cannot fly, madam. You are securely
mine ; and mine still more securely you shall
be. Don't provoke me ; don't make me
desperate. By all that's good and holy-
He threw himself at my feet, and embraced
my knees with his odious arms. I was terrified.
I screamed. In ran one of her daughters.
Her mother followed her in " Sir, sir ! in
my house " Thank God, thought I, the
people here are better than I had reason to
apprehend they were.
Miss BYRON. IN CONTINUATION.
" What a plague," said the wretch to the
women, " do you come in for ? I thought you
knew your own sex better than to mind a
woman's squalling."
" Dear, blessed, blessed woman !" exclaimed
I. " Protect me ! Save me ? Be my advocate !
Indeed I have not deserved this treacherous
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 271
treatment. All my friends love me ; they will
break their hearts if any mishap befall me ;
they are all good people ; Sir Hargrave may
have better and richer wives than I. Pray
prevail upon him to spare me to my friends,
for their sake. I will forgive him for all he
has done."
" Nay, dear lady, if Sir Hargrave will make
you his lawful and true wife, there can be no
harm done, surely."
" I will, I will, Mrs. Awberry," said he ; " 1
have promised, and I will perform. But if
she stand in her own light she expects nothing
from my morals if she stand in her own
light ;" and looked fiercely.
" God protect me !" said I ; u God protect
me!"
" The gentleman is without, sir," said the
woman.
And instantly entered the most horrible-
looking clergyman that I ever beheld. This,
as near as I can recollect, is his description A
vas tall, big-boned, splay-footed man. A
shabby gown ; as shabby a wig ; a huge red
face ; and a nose that hid half of it when he
looked on one side, and he seldom looked fore-
right when I saw him. He had a dog's-eared
272 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
Common Prayer Book in his hand, which once
had been gilt ; opened, horrid sight ! at the
page of matrimony ! Yet I was so intent upon
making a friend, when a man, a clergyman,
appeared, that I heeded not at his entrance his
frightful visage, as I did afterwards. I pushed
by Sir Hargrave, turning him half round with
my vehemence, and made Mrs. Awberry totter ;
and throwing myself at the clergyman's feet,
" Man of God !" said I, my hands clasped, and
held up; "Man of God! gentleman! worthy
man ! a good clergyman must be all this ! If
ever you had children, save a poor creature !
basely tricked away from all her friends !
innocent ! thinking no harm to anybody ! I
would not hurt a worm ! I love everybody !
Save me from violence ! Give not your aid to
sanctify a base action."
The man snuffled his answer through his
'nose. When he opened his mouth, the tobacco
/ming about his great yellow teeth. He squinted
upon me, and took my clasped hands, which
were buried in his huge hand.
" Rise, madam. Kneel not to me. No
harm is intended you. One question only :
Who is that gentleman before me, in silver-
laced clothes ? What is his name?"
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 273
" He is Sir Hargrave Pollexfen, sir : a
wicked, a very wicked man ! "
The vile wretch stood smiling, and enjoying
my distress.
" Oh, madam ! A very hon-our-able man !"
bowing, like a sycophant, to Sir Hargrave.
" And who, pray, madam, are you ? What
is your name ?"
" Harriet Byron, sir ; a poor innocent
creature " (looking at my dress), " though I
make such a vile appearance. Good sir, your
pity !" And I sunk down again at his feet.
" Of Northamptonshire, madam ? You are
a single woman ? Your uncle's name "
" Is Selby, sir. A very good man. I will
reward you, sir, as the most grateful heart "
" All is fair ; all is above-board ; all is as it
was represented. I am above bribes, madam.
You will be the happiest of women before
daybreak. Good people /" The three women
advanced.
Sir Hargrave advanced. Sir Hargrave took
my struggling hand ; and then I saw another
ill-looking man enter the room, who, I suppose,
was to give me to the hated man.
" Dearly beloved" began to read the snuffling
monster.
18
274 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
I was again like one frantic. u Read no
more !" said I ; and, in my frenzy, dashed the
book out of the minister's hand, if a minister
he was.
" Proceed, proceed," said Sir Hargrave, taking
my hand by force ; " virago as she is, I will
own her for my wife. Are you the gentle,
the civil Miss Byron, madam?" looking sneer-
ingly in my face.
" Dearly beloved," again snuffled the wretch.
Oh, my Lucy, I shall never love these words.
Sir Hargrave still retained my struggling hand.
I stamped, and threw myself to the length of
my arm, as he held my hand. " No dearly
beloved's" said I. I was just beside myself.
(What to say, what to do, I knew not. The
cruel wretch laughed at me. " No dearly
beloved's,' 1 repeated he. " Very comical, 'faith,"
and laughed again ; ce but proceed, proceed,
doctor."
" We are gathered together here in the sight of
God" read he on. This affected me still more.
" I adjure you, sir," to the minister, " by that
God in whose sight you read, c We are gathered
together,' that you proceed no further. I adjure
you, Sir Hargrave, in the same tremendous
name, that you stop further proceedings. My
SIR CHARLES GRAND1SON 275
life take ; with all my heart take my life ; but
my hand never, never, will I join with yours."
" Proceed, doctor ! doctor, pray proceed !"
said the vile Sir Hargrave.
" Proceed at your peril, sir," said I. " If
you are really and truly a minister of that God
whose presence what you have read supposes,
do not proceed ; do not make me desperate.
Madam," turning to the widow, " you are a
mother, and have given me room to hope you
are a good woman. Look upon me as if I
were one of those daughters, whom I see before
me : could you see one of them thus treated ?
Dear young women," turning to each, "can
you unconcernedly look on, and see a poor
creature tricked, betrayed, and thus violently,
basely treated, and not make my case your own ?
Speak for me ! plead for me ! be my advocates !
Each of you, if ye are women, plead for me, as you
would yourselves wish to be pleaded for in my
circumstances, and were thus barbarously used !"
The young women wept. The mother was
moved. I wonder I kept my senses. My
brain was on fire. Still, still, the unmoved Sir
Hargrave cried out, " Proceed, proceed, doctor."
The man who stood aloof came nearer. " To
the question, doctor, and to my part, if you
276 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
please. Am not I her father ? To the question,
doctor, if you please ! The gentlewomen will
prepare her for what is to follow."
" Will you see this violence done to a poor
young creature ?" exclaimed I. " A soul, gentle
women, you may have to answer for. I can
die. Never, never, will I be his."
" Let us women talk to the lady by ourselves,
Sir Hargrave." " Ay, ay, ay," said the parson,
" by all means, let the ladies talk to one another,
sir. She may be brought to consider/'
He let go my hand. The widow took it.
" Come, Sally, come, Deb, let us women go out
together."
They led me into a little room adjoining to
the parlour ; and then, my spirits subsiding, I
thought I should have fainted away. I had
more hartshorn and water poured down my
throat. When they had brought me a little to
myself, they pleaded with me Sir Hargrave's
great estate. " What are riches to me ? I
hate them. They cannot purchase peace of
mind. I want not riches." They pleaded his
honourable love I, my invincible aversion.
He was a handsome man The most odious
in my eyes of the human species. Never, never
should my consent be had to signify such a
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 277
baseness. My danger ! and that they should
not be able to save me from worse treatment.
" How ! not able ! Ladies, madam, is not
this your own house ? Cannot you raise a
neighbourhood ? Have you no neighbours ?
A thousand pounds will I order to be paid into
your hands for a present before the week is out ;
I pledge my honour for the payment ; if you
will but save me. A thousand pounds ! Dear
ladies ! only to save me, and see me safe to
my friends !"
The wretches in the next room no doubt
heard all that passed. In at that moment came
Sir Hargrave. " Mrs. Awberry," said he, with
a visage swelled with malice, " pray retire to
your rest ; leave me to talk with this perverse
woman. She is mine."
" Pray, Sir Hargrave ~ said Mrs.
Awberry.
" Leave her to me, I say. "
" Madam, pray, madam," said the widow to
me, " consider what you are about, and whom
you refuse. Can you have a handsomer man ?
Can you have a man of a greater fortune ? Sir
Hargrave means nothing but what is honourable.
You are in his power."
u In his power, madam !" returned I. " I am
278 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
in yours. You are mistress of this house. I
claim the protection of it. Have you not
neighbours ? Tour protection I put myself
under." Then clasping my arms about her
"Lock me from him till you can have help to
secure to you the privilege of your own house :
and deliver me safe to my friends, and I will
share my fortune with your two daughters."
The wicked man took the mother and the
youngest daughter each by her hand, after he
had disengaged the former from my clasping
arms, and led them to the door. The elder
followed them of her own accord. They none
of them struggled against going. I begged,
prayed, besought them not to go ; and when
they did, would have thrust myself out with
them ; but the wretch, in shutting them out,
squeezed my arm dreadfully, as I was half in,
half out ; and my nose gushed out with blood.
I screamed : he seemed frighted. I was out of
breath ; one of my arms was bruised. I have
the marks still ; for he clapt to the door with
violence ; not knowing, to do him justice, that
I was so forward in the door-way. I was in
dreadful pain. I talked half wildly, I remember.
I threw myself in a chair. My head swam ;
my eyes failed me ; and I fainted quite away.
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 279
Miss BYRON. IN CONTINUATION.
I understood afterwards that he was in the
most dreadful consternation. He had fastened
the door upon me and himself ; and for a few
moments was not enough present to himself
to open it. Yet crying out upon his God to
have mercy upon him, and running about the
room, the women hastily rapped at the door.
Then he ran to it, opened it, cursed himself,
and besought them to recover me, if possible.
They said I had death in my face ; they
lamented over me.
" Oh, gentlemen !" cried the wretch, tc nothing
can be done to-night. Take this " (and gave
them money). "The lady is in a fit. I wish
you well home." The younger daughter re
ported this to me afterwards. When I came
a little to myself, I found the three women
only with me. I was in a cold sweat, all over
shivering. There was no fire in that room.
They led me into the parlour, which the two
men had quitted, and sat me down in an elbow-
chair ; for I could hardly stand, or support
myself; and chafed my temples with Hungary-
water. The mother and elder sister left me
soon after, and went to Sir Hargrave. The
280 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
younger sister, with compassionate frankness,
answered all my questions, and let me know all
the above particulars. Yet she wondered I
could refuse so handsome and so rich a man
as Sir Hargrave. She boasted much of their
reputation. Her mother would not do an ill
thing, she said, for the world ; and she had
a brother who had a place in the Custom House,
and was as honest a man, though she said it,
as any in it. She owned that she knew my new
vile servant ; and praised his fidelity to the
masters he had served in such high terms, as
if she thought all duties were comprised in
that one, of obeying his principals, right or
wrong.
Mr. William, she said, was a pretty man,
a genteel man, and she believed he was worth
money ; and she was sure would make an
excellent husband. I soon found that this
simple girl was in love with this vile, this
specious fellow. She could not bear to hear
me hint anything in his disfavour, as, by way
of warning to her, I would have done. We
were broke in upon, as I was intending to ask
more questions, and instantly came in Sir
Hargrave. He took a chair, and sat down
by me, biting his lips, looking at me, then
SIR CHARLES GRAND1SON 281
from me, then at me again, five or six times,
as in malice. At last I broke silence. I
thought I would be as mild as I could, and
not provoke him to do me further mischief.
" Well have you done, Sir Hargrave (have you
not ?) to commit such a violence upon a poor
young creature, that never did nor thought
you evil !" I paused. He was silent. " What
distraction have you given to my poor cousin
Reeves's ! How my heart bleeds for them !"
I stopped. He was silent. " I hope, sir, you
are sorry for the mischief you have done me ;
and for the pain you have given to my friends !
I hope, sir "
Then up he started. " Miss Byron," said
he, u you are a woman, a true woman," and
held up his hand, clenched. " You are the
most consummate hypocrite that I ever knew
in my life : and yet I thought that the best of
you all could fall into fits and swoonings when
ever you pleased."
I was now silent. I trembled.
" Damn'd fool ! ass ! blockhead ! woman's
fool ! I ought to be d n'd for my credulous
folly ! 1 tell you, Miss Byron " Then he
looked at me as if he were crazy, and walked
two or three times about the room.
282 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
" To be dying one half hour, and the next to
look so provoking !"
I was still silent.
" I could curse myself for sending away the
parson. I thought I had known something of
women's tricks. But yet your arts, your hypoc
risy, shall not serve you, madam. What I failed
in here, shall be done elsewhere. By the great
God of heaven it shall !"
I wept. I could not then speak.
" Can't you go into fits again ? Can't you ?"
said the barbarian, with an air of a piece with
his words, and using other words of the lowest
reproach.
" God deliver me/' prayed I to myself, " from
the hands of this madman."
" Your fate is determined^ Miss Byron."
Just then came in a servant maid with a
capuchin, who whispered something to him ;
to which he answered, " That's well."
He took the capuchin ; the maid withdrew ;
and approached me with it. I was ready to
faint, and caught hold of the back of the elbow
chair.
" Tour fate is determined, madam," repeated
the savage. " Here, put this on. Now fall
into fits again. Put this on."
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 283
" Pray, Sir Hargrave "
" And pray, Miss Byron, what has not been
completed here shall be completed in a safer
place, and that in my own way. Put this on,
I tell you. Your compliance may yet befriend
you."
" Where are the gentlewomen ? Where
are "
" Gone to rest, madam. John ! Frank !"
called he out. In came two men servants.
I cried out, " Mrs. , I forget your name
Miss , and t'other Miss ; I forget
your names. If you are good creatures, as I
hoped you were " I called as loud as my
fears would let me. At last came in the elder
sister. " Oh, madam ! Good young gentle
woman ! I am glad you are come," said I.
" And so am I," said the wicked man.
" Pray, Miss Sally, put on this lady's capuchin."
I would not permit her to put it on, as she
would have done. The savage then wrapped
his arms about mine, and made me so very
sensible, by his force, of the pain I had had
by the squeeze of the door, that I could not
help crying out. The young woman put on
the capuchin, whether I would or not.
" Now, Miss Byron," said he, " make yourself
284 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
easy. Miss Sally, give orders." She ran out
with the candle. " Frank, give me the cloak,"
said Sir Hargrave. The fellow had a red cloak
on his arm. His barbarous master took it from
him. " To your posts," said he. The two
men withdrew in haste. He threw the cloak
about me. I begged, prayed, would have
kneeled to him ; but all was in vain. He
muffled me up in it, and by force carried me
through a long entry to the fore- door. There
was ready a chariot and six ; and that Sally was
at the door with a lighted candle. I called out
to her. I called out for her mother, for the
other sister. I besought him to let me say but
six words to the widow. But no widow was to
appear ; no younger sister ; she was, perhaps,
more tender-hearted than the elder: and, in
spite of all my struggles, prayers, resistance, he
lifted me into the chariot. Men on horseback
were about it. I thought that Wilson was one
of them ! and so it proved. Sir Hargrave said
to that fellow, " You know what tale to tell, if
you meet with impertinents." And in he came
himself. I screamed. " Scream on, my dear,"
upbraidingly, said he ; and barbarously mocked
me ; imitating, low wretch ! the bleating of a
sheep. [Could you not have killed him for
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 285
this, my Lucy ?] Then rearing himself up,
" Now am I lord of Miss Byron !" exulted he.
Still I screamed for help ; and he put his
hand before my mouth, though vowing honour,
and such sort of stuff : and with his unmanly
roughness made me bite my lip. And away
lashed the coachman with your poor Harriet.
Miss BYRON. IN CONTINUATION.
As the chariot drove by houses, I cried out for
help. But, under pretence of preventing my
taking cold, he tied a handkerchief over my
face, head, and mouth, having first muffled me
up in the cloak ; and with his right arm thrown
round me, kept me fast on the seat : and,
except that now and then my struggling head
gave me a little opening, I was blinded.
On the road, just after I had screamed, and
made another effort to get my hands free, I
heard voices ; and immediately the chariot
stopped. Then how my heart was filled with
hope ! But, alas ! it was momentary. I heard
one of his men say " The best of husbands,
I assure you, sir ; and she is the worst of
wives." I screamed again. " Aye, scream
and be d d ! Poor gentleman, I pity him
286 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
with all my heart." And immediately the
coachman drove on again. The vile wretch
laughed.
I was ready to faint several times. I begged
for air ; and when we were in an open road,
and I suppose there was nobody in sight, he
vouchsafed to pull down the blinding handker
chief, but kept it over my mouth ; so that,
except now and then, that I struggled it aside
with my head (and my neck is very stiff with
my efforts to free my face), I could only make
a murmuring kind of noise. The curtain of
the fore-glass was pulled down, and generally
the canvas on both sides drawn up. But I was
sure to be made acquainted when we came near
houses, by his care again to blind and stifle me
up. A little before we were met by my deliverer,
I had, by getting one hand free, unmuffled
myself so far as to see (as I had guessed once
or twice before, by the stone pavements) that
we were going through a town ; and then I
again vehemently screamed ; but he had the
cruelty to thrust a handkerchief into my mouth,
so that I was almost strangled, and my mouth
was hurt, and is still sore.
At one place the chariot drove out of the
road, over rough ways, and little hillocks, as I
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 287
thought, by its rocking ; and then, its stopping,
he let go my hands, and endeavoured to soothe
me. He begged 1 would be pacified, and
offered, if I would forbear crying out for help,
to leave my eyes unmuffled all the rest of the
way. But I would not, I told him, give such
a sanction to his barbarous violence. On the
chariot's stopping, one of his men came up, and
put a handkerchief into his master's hands, in
which were some cakes and sweetmeats, and
gave him also a bottle of sack, with a glass.
Sir Hargrave was very urgent with me to take
some of the sweetmeats and to drink a glass of
the wine ; but I had neither stomach nor will
to touch either. He eat himself very cordially.
God forgive me ! I wished in my heart there
were pins and needles in every bit he put into
his mouth. He drank two glasses of the wine.
Again he urged me. I said I hoped I had eat
and drank my last.
I saw that I was upon a large, wild, heath-
like place, between two roads, as it seemed. I
asked nothing about my journey's end. All I
had to hope for as to an escape (though then
I began to despair of it) was upon the road, or
in some town. My journey's end, I knew,
must be the beginning of new trials ; for I
288 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
was resolved to suffer death rather than to
marry him.
The chariot had not many minutes got into
the great road again, over the like rough, and
sometimes plashy ground, when it stopped on a
dispute between the coachman and the coach
man of another chariot and six, as it proved.
Sir Hargrave looked out of his chariot to see
the occasion of this stop ; and then I found
means to disengage one hand. I heard a
gentleman's voice directing his own coachman
to give way. I then pushed up the handker
chief with my disengaged hand from my mouth,
and pulled it down from over my eyes, and
cried out for help " Help, for God's sake !"
A man's voice (it was my deliverer's, as it
happily proved) bid Sir Hargrave's coachman
proceed at his peril. Sir Hargrave, with
terrible oaths and curses, ordered him to
proceed, and to drive through all opposition.
The gentleman called Sir Hargrave by his
name, and charged him with being upon a bad
design. The vile wretch said he had only
secured a runaway wife, eloped to, and intend
ing to elope from, a masquerade, to her
adulterer : [horrid !] He put aside the cloak,
and appealed to my dress. The gentleman
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 289
would not be satisfied with Sir Hargrave's
story. He would speak to me, and asked me,
with an air that promised deliverance, if I were
Sir Hargrave's wife ?
" No, no, no, no !" I could only say.
For my own part, I could have no scruple,
distressed as I was, and made desperate, to
throw myself into the protection, and even into
the arms of my deliverer, though a very fine
young gentleman. But you may better con
ceive than I can express the terror I was in
when Sir Hargrave drew his sword and pushed
at the gentleman, with such words as denoted
(for I could not look that way) he had done
him mischief. But when I found my oppressor
pulled out of the chariot by the brave, the
gallant man (which was done with such force
as made the chariot rock), and my protector
safe, I was as near fainting with joy as before I
had been with terror. I had shaken off the
cloak, and untied the handkerchief. He carried
me in his arms (I could not walk) to his own
chariot. I heard Sir Hargrave curse, swear,
and threaten. I was glad, however, he was not
dead.
" Mind him not, madam fear him not !"
said Sir Charles Grandison. [You know his
19
2 9 o SAMUEL RICHARDSON
noble name, my Lucy.] " Coachman, drive
not over your master : take care of your
master !" or some such words he said, as he
lifted me into his own chariot. He just
surveyed, as it were, the spot, and bid a
servant let Sir Hargrave know who he was ;
and 'then came back to me. He ordered his
coachman to drive back to Colnebrook. In
accents of kindness he told me that he had
there at present the most virtuous and prudent
of sisters, to whose care he would commit me,
and then proceed on his journey to town.
How irresistibly welcome to me was his
supporting arm, thrown round me, as we flew
back, compared to that of the vile Sir Hargrave !
Mr. Reeves has given you an account from the
angelic sister. Oh ! my Lucy, they are a pair
of angels ! I have written a long, long letter,
or rather five letters in one, of my distresses,
of my deliverance ; and, when my heart is
stronger, I will say more of the persons, as
well as minds, of this excellent brother and
sister.
[Harriet has many opportunities of seeing Sir Charles
and his sisters at his town house ; also his ward,
Emily Jervois. She sends the following description
of Charlotte and Charles Grandison to Lucy Selby.]
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 291
Miss Grandison is about twenty-four ; of a
fine stature. She has dignity in her aspect,
and a very penetrating black eye, with which
she does what she pleases. Her hair is black,
very fine, and naturally curls. She is not fair ;
but her complexion is delicate and clear, and
promises a long duration to her loveliness.
Her features are generally regular ; her nose
is a little aquiline ; but that is so far from
being a blemish, that it gives a kind of majesty
to her other features. Her teeth are white
and even, her mouth is perfectly lovely, and
a modest archness appears in her smiles that
makes one both love and fear her, when she
begins to speak. She is finely shaped ; and,
in her air and whole appearance, perfectly
genteel.
She has charming spirits. I daresay she
sings well, from the airs she now and then
warbles in the gaiety of her heart. She is
very polite ; yet has a vein of raillery, that,
were she not polite, would give one too much
apprehension for one's ease : but I am sure she
is frank, easy, and good-humoured. She says
she has but lately taken a very great liking to
reading. She pretends that she was too
volatile, too gay, too airy, to be confined to
292 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
sedentary amusements. Her father, however,
according to the genteelest and most laudable
modern education for women, had given her
a master who taught her history and geography,
in both which she acknowledges she made some
progress. In music she owns she has skill ;
but I am told by her maid, who attended me
by her young lady's direction, and who delights
to praise her mistress, that she reads and speaks
French and Italian ; that she writes finely ; and
is greatly admired for her wit, prudence, and
obligingness. " Nobody," said Jenny (who is a
sensible young woman, a clergyman's daughter,
well-educated, and very obliging), " can stand
against her good-natured raillery." Her brother,
she says, is not spared ; but he takes delight in
her vivacity, and gives way to it, when it is
easy to see that he could take her down if he
pleased. " And then," added this good young
woman, " she is an excellent manager in a
family, finely as she is educated. She knows
everything, and how to direct what should be
done, from the private family dinner to a
sumptuous entertainment ; and every day in
spects, and approves, or alters, the bill of fare."
By the way, my Lucy, she is an early riser do
you mind that ? and so can do everything
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 293
with ease, pleasure, and without hurry and
confusion ; for all her servants are early risers
of course.
Yet this fine lady loves to go to the public
places ; and often goes, and makes a brilliant
figure there. She has time for them, and earns
her pleasures by her early rising. Miss Grandi-
son, Jenny tells me, has two humble servants ;
[I wonder she has not two-and-twenty !] one is
Sir Walter Watkins, a man of a large estate in
Somersetshire ; the other is Lord G., son of
the Earl of G., but neither of them highly
approved by her : yet, Jenny says, they are
both of them handsome men, and admired by
the ladies. This makes me afraid that they are
modern men, and pay their court by the
exterior appearance, rather than by interior
worth. Who, my Lucy, that has heard what
my late grandfather has said, and my grand
mamma still says of the men in their youthful
days, will not say that we have our lots cast in
an age of petit maitres and insignificants ? Such
an amiable woman is Miss Charlotte Grandison
May 1 be found, on further acquaintance,
but half as lovely in her eyes as she is in mine !
But now for her brother my deliverer !
Sir Charles Grandison, in his person, is really
294 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
a very fine man. He is tall, rather slender
than full ; his face, in shape, is a fine oval ; he
seems to have florid health health confirmed
by exercise. His complexion seems to have
been naturally too fine for a man ; but, as if
he were above being regardful of it, his face is
overspread with a manly sunniness [I want a
word], that shows he has been in warmer
climates than England : and so it seems he
has, since the tour of Europe has not contented
him. He has visited some parts of Asia, and
even of Africa, Egypt particularly.
I wonder what business a man has for such
fine teeth, and for so fine a mouth as Sir Charles
Grandison might boast of, were he vain.
In his aspect there is something great and
noble, that shows him to be of rank. Were
kings to be chosen for beauty and majesty of
person, Sir Charles Grandison would have few
competitors. His eye Indeed, my Lucy,
his eye shows, if possible, more of sparkling
intelligence than that of his sister.
What is beauty in a man to me ? You all
know that I never thought beauty a qualifica
tion in a man. And yet, this grandeur in his
person and air is accompanied with so much
ease and freedom of manners, as engages one's
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 295
love with one's reverence. His good breeding
renders him very accessible. In a word, he has
such an easy, yet manly politeness, as well in
his dress as in his address, that were he not a
fine figure of a man, but were even plain and
hard-featured, he would be thought very
agreeable.
Sir Charles Grandison, my dear, has travelled,
we may say, to some purpose. Well might his
sister tell Mr. Reeves that whenever he married
he would break half a score hearts.
The good sense of this real fine gentleman is
not, as I can find, rusted over by sourness, by
moroseness : he is above quarrelling with the
world for trifles ; but he is still more above
making such compliances with it as would im
peach either his honour or conscience. Once
Miss Grandison, speaking of her brother, said
" My brother is valued by those who know
him best, not so much for being a handsome
man ; not so much for his birth and fortune ;
nor for this or that single worthiness, as for
being, in the great and yet comprehensive sense
of the word, a good man." And at another
time she said, that he lived to himself, and to
his own heart, and though he had the happiness
to please everybody, yet he made the judgment
296 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
or approbation of the world matter but of
second consideration. " In a word," added
she, " Sir Charles Grandison, my brother " (and
when she looks proud, it is when she says my
brother)^ " is not to be misled either by false
glory or false shame, which he calls the great
snares of virtue."
But let me tell you, my dear, that Sir Charles
does not look to be so great a self-denier as his
sister seems to think him, when she says he
lives to himself, and to his own heart, rather
than to the opinion of the world. He dresses
to the fashion, rather richly, 'tis true, than
gaudily ; but still richly : so that he gives his
fine person its full consideration. He has a
great deal of vivacity in his whole aspect, as
well as in his eye. Mrs. Jenny says that he is
a great admirer of handsome women. His
equipage is perfectly in taste, though not so
much to the glare of taste, as if he aimed either
to inspire or show emulation. He seldom
travels without a set, and suitable attendants ;
and, what I think seems a little to savour of
singularity, his horses are not docked ; their
tails are only tied up when they are on the road.
This I took notice of when we came to town.
But if he be of opinion that the tails of these
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 297
noble animals are not only a natural ornament,
but are of real use to defend them from the
vexatious insects that in summer are so apt to
annoy them (as Jenny just now told me was
thought to be his reason for not depriving his
cattle of a defence which nature gave them),
how far from a dispraise is this humane con
sideration ! And how, in the more minute as well
as, we may suppose, in the greater instances,
does he deserve the character of the man of
mercy, who will be merciful to his beast !
[Sir Hargrave Pollexfen challenges Sir Charles to a
duel ; but the latter disapproves of duelling, and
refuses to fight. He behaves so generously and
spiritedly on the occasion of the challenge that
Bagenhall, Sir Hargrave's emissary, is deeply im
pressed. Sir Hargrave, however, insists on fighting,
and, when he finds Sir Charles still obdurate, he
draws on him. Sir Charles manages to disarm him
without striking a blow, and Sir Hargrave's friends
all do homage to Grandison's courage and mag
nanimity.
Miss Byron becomes on very intimate terms with
Charlotte Grandison, and is invited to stay at the
Grandisons' house at Colnebrook. She has fallen
hopelessly in love with Sir Charles, and all his
relatives and hers have made up their minds that he
will marry her. However, though always courteous
and affable, he never mentions the subject of marriage.
Sir Charles has numberless adorers, among them his
ward, Emily Jervois.]
298 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
Miss BYRON TO Miss SELBY.
Monday, March zotk.
After we had taken leave of one another for
the night, I tapped at Emily's chamber-door,
which being immediately opened by her maid
" Is it you, my dear Miss Byron ?" said she,
running to me, " How good this is !"
" I am come, my dear, late as it is, to pass an
agreeable half hour with you, if it will not be
unseasonable."
" That it can never be."
" You must then let your Anne go to bed,"
said I ; " else, as her time is not her own, I
shall shorten my visit. I will assist you in
any little services myself. I have dismissed
Jenny/'
" God bless you, madam," said she ; a you
consider everybody." And then she sighed in
voluntarily.
tc Why sighs my dear young friend ? Why
sighs my Emily ?"
<c That's good of you to call me your Emily.
My guardian calls me his Emily. I don't know
why I sigh ; but 1 have lately got a trick of
sighing, I think. Will it do me harm : Anne
tells me it will, and says I must break myself of
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 299
it. She says it is not pretty in a young lady to
sigh ; but where is the un-prettiness of it?"
u Sighing is said to be a sign of being in love ;
and young ladies
" Ah ! madam ! And yet you sigh very
often." 1 felt myself blush.
" I often catch myself sighing, my dear,"
said I. u It is a trick, as you call it, which I
would not have you learn."
" But I have reason for sighing, madam,
which you have not. Such a mother ! A
mother that I wanted to be good, not so much
to me as to herself : a mother so unhappy that
one must be glad to run away from her. My
poor papa ! so good as he was to everybody, and
even to her, yet had his heart broken. Oh,
madam ! have I not cause to sigh ?"
" Dear girl," said I, my heart overflowing with
compassion for her.
"Ah, madam! you will one day be the happiest
of all women. And so you deserve to be."
" What means my Emily ?"
<c Don't I see, don't 1 hear, what is designed
to be brought about by Lord and Lady L. and
Miss Grandison ; and don't I hear from my
Anne what everybody expects and wishes for?"
" And does everybody expect and wish, my
300 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
Emily " I stopped. She went on c< And
don't I see that my guardian himself loves you ?"
" Do you think so, Emily?"
" You have not observed his eyes so much as
I have done, when he is in your company. I
have watched your eyes, too ; but have not
seen that you mind him quite so much as he
does you. Indeed, he loves you dearly. But
tell me now, dear madam, tell me ; don't you
love my guardian ?"
" Everybody does. You, my Emily, love
him."
"And so I do. But you love him, madam,
with a hope that no one else will have reason to
entertain. Dear now, place a little confidence in
your Emily. My guardian shall never know it
from me, by the least hint. I beg you will
own it."
u I will be sincere with my Emily. But you
must not let any one living know what I say to
you of this nature. I would prefer your
guardian, my dear, to a king in all his glory."
" And so, madam, would I, if I were you."
And again she sighed.
u Why then sighed my Emily ?"
u I wish my guardian to be the happiest man
in the world I wish you, madam, to be the
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 301
happiest woman : and how can either be so, but
in one another? But 1 am grieved, I believe,
that there seems to be something in the way of
your mutual happiness. I don't know whether
that is all, neither. I don't know what it is.
If I did I would tell you."
" Go on, my dear."
" Now, if anybody were to run upstairs in a
hurry, and to say, c Miss, miss, miss, your
guardian is come !' I should be in such a flutter !
I should sit down as much out of breath as if I
had run down a high hill. And, for half an hour,
may be, so tremble, that I should not be able to
see the dear guardian that perhaps I wanted to
see. And to hear him with a voice of gentleness
don't you think he has a sweet voice ?"
" My dear Emily ! These are symptoms, I
doubt "
" Symptoms of what, madam ?"
" It would be love, I doubt. That sort of
love that would make you uneasy."
" No ; that cannot be, surely. Upon my word,
I wish no one in the world, but you, to be Lady
Grandison. I have but one fear."
" And what's that ?"
" That my guardian won't continue to love me
so well."
302 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
" My dear, you are now almost a woman. He
will, if he remain a single man, soon draw back
into his heart that kindness and love for you,
which, while you are a girl, he suffers to dwell
upon his lips. You must expect this change of
behaviour soon, from his prudence. You your
self, my love, will set him the example ; you
will grow more reserved in your outward be
haviour than hitherto there was reason to be/'
" Then, I think, I shan't desire to live to see
the time. Why, madam, all the comfort I have
to set against my unhappiness from my mother,
is, that so good, so virtuous, and so prudent a
man as Sir Charles Grandison loves me as his
child. Would you, madam, were you Lady
Grandison, (now tell me, would you) grudge me
these instances of his favour and affection ? And
would you permit me to live with you ?
Now it is out will you permit me to live with
my guardian and you ? This is a question I
wanted to put to you ; but was both ashamed
and afraid, till you thus kindly emboldened
me."
" Indeed I would if your guardian had no
objection."
" That don't satisfy me, madam. Would you
be my earnest, my sincere advocate, and plead
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 303
for me ? He would not deny you anything.
And would you (come, madam, I will put you
to it would you), say, ' Look you here, Sir
Charles Grandison ; this girl, this Emily, is a
good sort of girl : she has a great fortune.
Snares may be laid for her ; she has no
father but you, poor thing ! no mother ; or is
more unhappy than if she had none. Where
can you dispose of her so properly, as to let her
be with us ? I will be her protectress, her
friend, her mother. I insist upon it, Sir Charles.
It will make the poor girl's heart easy.' Dear
dear, madam ! you are moved in my favour "
[Who, Lucy, could have forborne being
affected ?] She threw her arms about me :
" I see you are moved in my favour ! and I will
be your attendant ; I will be your waiting-maid ;
I will help to adorn you, and to make you more
and more lovely in the eyes of my guardian."
I could not bear this. I folded her to my heart
as she hung about my neck.
" I grieve you. I would not, for the world,
grieve you," said she.
" I must leave you, Emily."
" Say, then, ' my Emily/ "
" I must leave you, my, and more than my Emily.
You have cured me of sleepiness for this night'*
304 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
" Oh, then I am sorry."
" No ; don't be sorry. I thank God, my
love, that there is in my knowledge so worthy
a young heart as yours."
u Now, how good this is ! and will you
go?"
" I must, I must, my dear ! But take this
assurance, that my Emily shall have a first
place in my heart for ever."
" Then I am sure I shall live with my
guardian and you for ever, as I may say ; and
God grant," and down on her knees she
dropped, with her arms wrapped about mine
"that you may be the happiest of women,
and that soon, for my sake, as well as your
own, in marriage with the best of men, my
guardian." I struggled from her. " Oh, my
sweet girl! I cannot bear you!" I kissed her
once, twice, thrice, with fervour ; and away she
tripped ; but stopped at the door, curtseying
low, as I looked after her. Ruminating in my
retirement, on all the dear girl had said, and
on what might be my fate, so many different
thoughts came into my head that I could not
close my eyes. I therefore arose before day ;
and, while my thoughts were agitated with
the affecting subject, had recourse to my pen.
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 305
[Sir Charles, though still exceedingly attentive, makes
no mention of marriage. He has had, Miss Byron
knows, a prior attachment, made while he was
travelling in Italy. While Harriet is still at Colne-
brook, a message arrives summoning him to Bologna.
Harriet's worst fears are aroused. Sir Charles gives
her an account of the circumstances that take him
to Italy. Miss Byron repeats his narrative.]
Miss BYRON TO Miss SELBY.
Sir Charles gave us his company at breakfast.
He entered with a kind of benign solemnity in
his countenance ; but the benignity increased,
and the solemnity went off, after a little while.
After breakfast, having asked me for the
promised conference, he conducted me to my
lord's library. How I struggled with myself
for presence of mind ! What a mixture was
there of tenderness and respect in his counten
ance and air ! He seated me ; then took his
place over against me.
*****
" I do not intend, madam, to trouble you
with the history of all that part of my life
which I was obliged to pass abroad from about
the seventeenth, to near the twenty-fifth year of
my age ; though perhaps it has been as busy
a period as could well be in the life of a man
20
306 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
so young, and who never sought to tread in
oblique or crooked paths. After this entrance
into it, Dr^Bartlett* shall be at liberty to
satisfy your curiosity in a more particular
manner ; for he and I have corresponded for
years, with an intimacy that has few examples
between a youth and a man in advanced life.
Thus, madam, was Dr. Bartlett in the place of
a second conscience to me. And many a good
thing did I do, many a bad one did I avoid, for
having set up such a monitor over my conduct.
And it was the more necessary that I should, as
I am naturally passionate, proud, ambitious, and
as I had the honour of being early distinguished
by a sex, of which no man was ever a greater
admirer. Nor is it so much to be wondered at
that I had advantages which every one who
travels has not. Residing for some time at the
principal courts, and often visiting the same
places, in the length of time I was abroad, I was
considered, in a manner, as a native, at the
same time that I was treated with the respect
that is generally paid to travellers of figure,
as well in France as Italy. I should not,
madam, have been thus lavish in my own
praise, but to account to you for the favour
* Sir Charles's chaplain.
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 307
I stood in with several families of the first rank,
and to suggest an excuse for more than one of
them, who thought it no disgrace to wish me to
be allied with them."
I endeavoured to assume all my courage, and
ordered him to proceed, but held by the arm of
my chair, to steady me, lest my little tremblings
should increase. He proceeded.
" At Bologna, and in the neighbourhood
of Urbino, are seated two branches of a noble
family, marquisses and counts of Porretta,
which boasts its pedigree from Roman princes,
and has given to the church two cardinals ; one
in the latter age, the other in the beginning
of this. The Marchese della Porretta, who
resides in Bologna, is a nobleman of great
merit : his lady is illustrious by descent, and
still more so for her goodness of heart, sweet
ness of temper, and prudence. They have
three sons and a daughter."
[ Ah, that daughter !" thought I.]
" The eldest of the sons is a general officer in
the service of the King of the Two Sicilies ;
a man of equal honour and bravery, but pas
sionate and haughty, valuing himself on his
descent. The second is devoted to the church,
and is already a bishop. The interest of his
308 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
family, and his own merits, it is not doubted,
will one day, if he lives, give him a place in the
Sacred College. The third, Signer Jeronymo
(or, as he is sometimes called, the Barone) della
Porretta, has a regiment in the service of the
King of Sardinia. The sister is the favourite
of them all. She is lovely in her person, gentle
in her manners, and has high, but just, notions
of the nobility of her descent, of the honour
of her sex, and of what is due to her own
character. She is pious, charitable, beneficent.
Her three brothers preferred her interests to
their own. Her father used to call her ' The
pride of his life ; her mother, c Her other self ;
her own Clementina. 1 '
[" CLEMENTINA !" Ah, Lucy ! what a pretty
name is Clementina !]
" I became intimate with Signor Jeronymo at
Rome, near two years before I had the honour
to be known to the rest of his family. He was
master of many fine qualities ; but had con
tracted friendship with a set of dissolute young
men of rank, with whom he was very earnest to
make me acquainted. I allowed myself to be
often in their company, in hopes, by degrees, to
draw him from them ; but a love of pleasure
had got fast hold of him ; and his other com-
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 309
panions prevailed over his good nature. We
parted, nor held a correspondence in absence ;
but afterwards meeting, by accident, at Padua,
and Jeronymo having, in the interim, been led
into inconveniences, he avowed a change of
principles, and the friendship was renewed. It
however held not many months. A lady, less
celebrated for virtue than beauty, obtained an
influence over him. On being expostulated
with, and his promise claimed, he resented
the friendly freedom. He was passionate ;
and, on this occasion, less polite than it was
natural for him to be : he even defied his
friend. The result was, we parted, resolving
never more to see each other.
"Jeronymo pursued the adventure which
had occasioned the difference ; and one of the
lady's admirers envying him his supposed
success, hired Brescian bravoes to assassinate
him. The attempt was made in the Cre-
monese. They had got him into their toils
in a little thicket at some distance from the
road. I, attended by two servants, happened
to be passing, when a frighted horse ran across
the way, his bridle broken and his saddle
bloody. This making me apprehend some
mischief to the rider, I drove down the opening
3 io SAMUEL RICHARDSON
he came from, and soon beheld a man strug
gling on the ground with two ruffians, one
of whom was just stopping his mouth, the
other stabbing him. I leaped out of the post-
chaise, and drew my sword, running towards
them as fast as I could, and calling to my
servants to follow me. On this they fled ; and
I heard them say, * Let us make off ; we have
done his business.' Incensed at the villany,
I pursued them, and came up with one of
them, who turned upon me. I beat down his
trombone, a kind of blunderbuss, just as he
presented it at me, and had wounded and
thrown him on the ground ; but seeing the
other ruffian turning back to help his fellow,
and on a sudden two others appearing with
their horses, I thought it best to retreat, though
I would fain have secured one of them. My
servants then seeing my danger, hastened,
shouting, towards me, and the bravoes seemed
as glad to get off with their rescued companion
as I was to retire. I hastened then to the
unhappy man ; but how much was I surprised
when I found him to be the Barone della
Porretta. He gave signs of life. I instantly
despatched one of my servants to Cremona for
a surgeon : I bound up, meantime, as well as I
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 311
could, two of his wounds one in his shoulder,
the other in his breast. He had one in his
hip-joint, which disabled him from helping
himself, and which I found beyond my skill
to do anything with, only endeavouring with
my handkerchief to stop its bleeding. I helped
him into my chaise, stepped in with him, and
held him up in it, till one of my men told me
they had in another part of the thicket found
his servant bound and wounded, his horse lying
dead by his side. I then alighted, and put the
poor fellow into the chaise, he being stiff with
his hurts, and unable to stand. I walked by
the side of it ; and in this manner moved
towards Cremona, in order to shorten the way
of the expected surgeon. My servant soon
returned with one. Jeronymo had fainted
away. The surgeon dressed him, and pro
ceeded with him to Cremona. Then it was,
that opening his eyes, he beheld, and knew me :
and being told by the surgeon that he owed
his preservation to me, c Oh, Grandison !' said
he, ' that I had followed your advice ! that I
had kept my promise with you ! Can my
deliverer forgive me ? You shall be the
director of my future life, if it please God to
restore me.' His wounds proved not mortal ;
312 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
but he never will be the man he was. Excuse
this particularity, madam. The subject requires
it ; and Signer Jeronymo now deserves it, and
all your pity.
" I attended him at Cremona till he was fit
to remove. He was visited there by his whole
family from Bologna. There never was a family
more affectionate to one another. The suffer
ing of one is the suffering of everyone. The
barone was exceedingly beloved by his father,
mother, sister, for the sweetness of his manners,
his affectionate heart, and a wit so delightfully
gay and lively, that his company was sought by
everybody. You will easily believe, madam,
how acceptable to the whole family the service
was which I had been so happy as to render
their Jeronymo. They all joined to bless me ;
and the more, when they came to know that I
was the person whom their Jeronymo, in the
days of our intimacy, had highly extolled in his
letters home ; and who now related, by word
of mouth, the occasion of the coolness that
had passed between us, with circumstances as
honourable for me as the contrary for him
self.
"He now, as I attended by his bed or his
couch side, frequently called for a repetition of
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 313
those arguments which he had till now derided.
He besought me to forgive him for treating
them before with levity, and he begged his
family to consider me, not only as the preserver
of his life, but as the restorer of his morals.
This gave the whole family the highest opinion
of mine.
" Never was there a more grateful family.
The noble father was uneasy, because he knew
not how to acknowledge to a man in genteel
circumstances the obligation laid upon them all.
The mother, with a freedom more amiably
great than the Italian ladies are accustomed to
express, bid her Clementina regard as her fourth
brother the preserver of the third. The barone
declared that he should never rest nor recover
till he had got me rewarded in such manner as
all the world should think 1 had honour done
me in it. When the barone was removed to
Bologna, the whole family were studious to
make occasions to get me among them. The
general made me promise, when my relations, as
he was pleased to express himself, at Bologna,
could part with me, to give him my company
at Naples. The bishop, who passed all the
time he had to spare from his diocese at Bologna,
and who is a learned man, would have me
314 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
initiate him into the knowledge of the English
tongue.
" Our Milton has deservedly a name among
them. The friendship that there was between
him and a learned nobleman of their country
endeared his memory to them. Milton, there
fore, was a principal author with us. Our
lectures were usually held in the chamber of
the wounded brother, in order to divert him ;
he also became my scholar. The father and
mother were often present ; and, at such times,
their Clementina was seldom absent. She also
called me her tutor, and made a greater pro
ficiency than either of her brothers. The
father, as well as the bishop, is learned ; the
mother well read. She had had the benefit of
a French education, being brought up by her
uncle, who resided many years at Paris, in a
public character ; and her daughter had, under
her own eye, advantages in her education which
are hardly ever allowed or sought after by the
Italian ladies. In such company, you may
believe, madam, that I, who was kept abroad
against my wishes, passed my time very
agreeably. I was particularly honoured with
the confidence of the marchioness, who opened
h,er heart to me, and consulted me on every
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 315
material occurrence. Her lord, who is one of
the politest of men, was never better pleased
than when he found us together ; and not
seldom, though we were not engaged in
lectures, the fair Clementina claimed a right
to be where her mother was. About this time
the young Count of Belvedere returned to
Parma, in order to settle in his native country.
His father was a favourite in the court of the
Princess of Parma, and attended that lady to
Madrid, on her marriage with the late King of
Spain, where he held a very considerable post,
and lately died there, immensely rich. On a
visit to this noble family, the young lord saw
and loved Clementina. The Count of Belve
dere is a handsome, a gallant, a sensible man ;
his fortune is very great : such an alliance was
not to be slighted. The marquis gave his
countenance to it : the marchioness favoured
me with several conversations upon the subject.
She was of opinion, perhaps, that it was necessary
to know my thoughts on this occasion ; for the
younger brother, unknown to me, declared that
he thought there was no way of rewarding my
merits to the family but by giving me a relation
to it.
" For my own part, it was impossible (dis-
3i 6 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
tinguished as I was by every individual of this
noble family, and lovely as is this daughter of
it) that my vanity should not sometimes be
awakened, and a wish arise, that there might be
a possibility of obtaining such a prize : but I
checked the vanity the moment I could find it
begin to play about and warm my heart. To
have attempted to recommend myself to the
young lady's favour, though but by looks, by
assiduities, I should have thought an infamous
breach of the trust and confidence they all
reposed in me. ' The pride of a family so
illustrious in its descent ; their fortunes un
usually high for the country which, by the
goodness of their hearts, they adorned ; the
relation they bore to the church ; my foreign
extraction and interest ; the lady's exalted
merits, which made her of consequence to the
hearts of several illustrious youths, before the
Count of Belvedere made known his passion
for her ; none of which the fond family thought
worthy of their Clementina, nor any of whom
could engage her heart: but, above all, the
difference in religion ; the young lady so
remarkably stedfast in hers, that it was with
the utmost difficulty they could restrain her
from assuming the veil ; and who once declared
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 317
in anger, on hearing me, when called upon,
avow my principles, that she grudged to a
heretic the glory of having saved the Barone
della Porretta ; all these considerations out
weighed any hopes that might otherwise have
arisen in a bosom so sensible of the favours
they were continually heaping upon me.
" About the same time the troubles, now so
happily appeased, broke out in Scotland ; hardly
anything else was talked of in Italy but the
progress, and supposed certainty of success, of
the young invader. I was often obliged to
stand the triumphs and exaltations of persons
of rank and figure, being known to be warm in
the interest of my own country. I had a good
deal of this kind of spirit to contend with, even
in this more moderate Italian family ; and this
frequently brought on debates which I would
gladly have avoided holding ; but it was im
possible. Every new advice from England
revived the disagreeable subject; for the success
of the rebels, it was not doubted, would be
attended with the restoration of what they
called the Catholic religion : and Clementina
particularly pleased herself that then her heretic
tutor would take refuge in the bosom of his
holy mother, the Church ; and she delighted
3i 8 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
to say things of this nature in the language I
was teaching her, and which, by this time, she
spoke very intelligibly.
" I took a resolution, hereupon, to leave
Italy for a while, and to retire to Vienna, or
to some one of the German courts that was less
interested than they were in Italy in the success
of the chevalier's undertaking ; and I was the
more desirous to do so, as the displeasure of
Olivia against me began to grow serious, and to
be talked of, even by herself, with less discretion
than was consistent with her high spirit, her
noble birth, and ample fortune. I communi
cated my intention to the marchioness first, the
noble lady expressed her concern at the thought
of my quitting Italy, and engaged me to put
off my departure for some weeks ; but, at the
same time, hinted to me, with an explicitness
that is peculiar to her, her apprehensions, and
her lord's, that I was in love with her Clemen
tina. I convinced her of my honour in this
particular, and she so well satisfied the marquis
in this respect, that, on their daughter's absolute
refusal of the Count of Belvedere, they confided
in me to talk to her in favour of that nobleman.
The young lady and I had a conference upon
the subject. The father and mother, unknown
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 319
to us both, had placed themselves in a closet
adjoining to the room we were in, and which
communicated to another, as well as to that :
they had no reason to be dissatisfied with what
they heard me say to their daughter.
" The time of my departure from Italy
drawing near, and the young lady repeatedly
refusing the Count of Belvedere, the younger
brother (still unknown to me, for he doubted
not but I should rejoice at the honour he
hoped to prevail upon them to do me) declared
in my favour. They objected the more obvious
difficulties in relation to religion and my
country : he desired to be commissioned to talk
to me on those subjects, and to his sister on her
motives for refusing the Count of Belvedere ;
but they would not hear of his speaking to me
on this subject ; the marchioness undertaking
herself to talk to her daughter, and to demand
of her her reasons for rejecting every proposal
that had been made her.
" She accordingly closeted her Clementina.
She could get nothing from her but tears :
a silence, without the least appearance of sullen-
ness, had for some days before shown that a
deep melancholy had begun to lay hold of her
heart : she was, however, offended when love
320 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
was attributed to her ; yet her mother told me
that she could not but suspect that she was under
dominion of that passion without knowing it ;
and the rather, as she was never cheerful but
when she was taking lessons for learning a
tongue which never, as the marchioness said,
was likely to be of use to her. The melancholy
increased. Her tutor, as he was called, was
desired to talk to her. He did. It was ob
served that she generally assumed a cheerful
air while she was with him, but said little, yet
seemed pleased with everything he said to her ;
and the little she did answer, though he spoke
in Italian or French, was in her newly-acquired
language : but the moment he was gone her
countenance fell, and she was studious to find
opportunities to get from company. Her
parents were in the deepest affliction. They
consulted physicians, who all pronounced her
malady to be love. She was taxed with it, and
all the indulgence promised her that her heart
could wish as to the object ; but still she could
not with patience bear the imputation. Once
she asked her woman, who told her that she
was certainly in love, c Would you have me
hate myself?' Her mother talked to her of the
passion in favourable terms, and as laudable :
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 321
she heard her with attention, but made no
answer.
u The evening before the day 1 was to set out
for Germany, the family made a sumptuous
entertainment, in honour of a guest on whom
they had conferred so many favours. They
had brought themselves to approve of my
departure the more readily, as they were willing
to see whether my absence would affect their
Clementina ; and, if it did, in what manner.
" They left it to her choice, whether she
would appear at table or not. She chose to be
there. They all rejoiced at her recovered
spirits. She was exceedingly cheerful : she
supported her part of the conversation during
the whole evening with her usual vivacity and
good sense, insomuch that I wished to myself I
had departed sooner. When acknowledgments
were made to me of the pleasure I had given to
the whole family, she joined in them : when my
health and happiness were wished, she added
her wishes by cheerful bows as she sat : when
they wished to see me again before I went to
England, she did the same. So that my heart
was dilated ; I was overjoyed to see such a
happy alteration. When I took leave of them,
she stood forward to receive my compliments
21
322 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
with a polite French freedom. I offered to
press her hand with my lips : ' My brother's
deliverer,' said she, ' must not affect this distance,'
and, in a manner, offered her cheek ; adding
' God preserve my tutor wherever he sets his
foot !' and, in English ' God convert you too,
chevalier ! May you never want such an
agreeable friend as you have been to us !'
" Signer Jeronymo was not able to be with
us. I went up to take leave of him : ' Oh, my
Grandison P said he, and flung his arms about
my neck ; ' and will you go ? Blessings attend
you!'
" ' You will rejoice me, 'replied I, 'if you will
favour me with a few lines, by a servant whom
1 shall leave behind me for three or four days,
and who will find me at Inspruck, to let me
know how you all do, and whether your sister's
health continues.'
" c She must, she shall be yours/ said he, ' if
I can manage it. Why, why will you leave us ?'
u I was surprised to hear him say this : he
had never before been so particular. c That
cannot, cannot be/ said I. c There are a
thousand obstacles '
" ' All of which,' rejoined he, 'I doubt not to
overcome.'
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 323
We agreed upon a correspondence, and I
took leave of one of the most grateful of men.
But how much was I afflicted when I received
at Inspruck the expected letter, which acquainted
me that this sunshine lasted no longer than the
next day ! The young lady's malady returned
with redoubled force. Shall I, madam, briefly
relate to you the manner in which, as her brother
wrote, it operated upon her ? She shut herself
up in her chamber, not seeming to regard or
know that her woman was in it ; but, setting
her chair with its back towards her, over against
a closet in the room, after a profound silence,
she bent forwards, and in a low voice seemed to
be communing with a person in the closet
1 And you say he is actually gone ? Gone for
ever ? No, not for ever !'
u< Who gone, madam?' said her woman.
* To whom do you direct your discourse ?'
" ' We were all obliged to him, no doubt.
So bravely to rescue my brother, and to pursue
the bravoes ; and, as my brother says, to put
him in his own chaise, and walk on foot by the
side of it. Why, as you say, assassins might
have murdered him ; the horses might have
trampled him under their feet.' Still looking as
if she were speaking to somebody in the closet.
3 2 4 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
Her woman stepped to the closet and opened
the door, and left it open, to take off her atten
tion to the place, and to turn the course of her
ideas ; but still she bent forward towards it,
and talked calmly, as if to somebody in it ; then
breaking into a faint laugh c In love ! that is
such a silly notion ; and yet I love everybody
better than I love myself.'
" Her mother came into the room just then.
The young lady arose in haste and shut the
closet door, as if she had somebody hid there ;
and, throwing herself at her mother's feet ' My
dear, my ever-honoured mamma,' said she,
' forgive me for all the trouble I have caused
you. But I will, I must, you can't deny me ;
I will be God's child as well as yours. I will
go into a nunnery.'
" It came out afterwards that her confessor,
taking advantage of confessions extorted from
her of regard for her tutor, had filled her tender
mind with terrors, that had thus affected her
head. She is, as I have told you, madam, a
young lady of exemplary piety. I will not
dwell on a scene so melancholy. How I afflict
your tender heart, my good Miss Byron !"
[Do you think, Lucy, I did not weep ? In
deed I did.] " Pray, sir, proceed," said I.
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 325
" All that medicine could do was tried, but
her confessor, who, however, is an honest, a
worthy man, kept up her fears and terrors. He
saw the favour her tutor was in with the whole
family ; he knew that the younger brother had
declared for rewarding him in a very high
manner ; he had more than once put this
favoured man upon an avowal of his principles;
and betwixt her piety and her gratitude, had
raised such a conflict in her mind, as her tender
nature could not bear.
" At Florence lives a family of high rank and
honour, the ladies of which have with them a
friend noted for the excellency of her heart and
her genius ; and who, having been robbed of
her fortune early in life by an uncle to whose
care she was committed by her dying father, was
received, both as a companion and a blessing,
by the ladies of the family she has now for
many years lived with. She is an English
woman, and a Protestant, but so very discreet,
that her being so, though at first they hoped to
proselyte her, gives them not a less value for
her, and yet they are all zealous Roman
Catholics. These two ladies, and this their
companion, were visiting one day at the Mar-
chese della Porretta's, and there the distressed
326 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
mother told them the mournful tale ; the ladies,
who think nothing that is within the compass
of human prudence impossible to their Mrs.
Beaumont, wished that the young lady might
be entrusted for a week to her care, at their
own house at Florence.
" It was consented to as soon as proposed,
and Signora Clementina was as willing to go,
there having always been an intimacy between
the families, and she (as everybody else)
having a high opinion of Mrs. Beaumont. Mrs.
Beaumont went to the bottom of the malady ;
she gave her advice to the family upon it.
They were resolved (Signor Jeronymo supported
her advice) to be governed by it. The young
lady was told that she should be indulged in all
her wishes. She then acknowledged what those
were, and was the easier for the acknowledg
ment, and for the advice of such a prudent
friend, and returned to Bologna much more
composed than when she left it. I was sent for
by common consent, for there had been a con
vention of the whole family, the Urbino branch,
as well as the general, being present. In that,
the terms to be proposed were settled, but
they were not to be mentioned to me till after I
had seen the lady ; a wrong policy, surely.
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 327
u I was then at Vienna. Signer Jeronymo,
in his letter, congratulated me in high terms, as
a man whom he had it now at last in his power
to reward ; and he hinted, in general, that the
conditions would be such, as it was impossible I
could object to, as to fortune, to be sure, he
meant. I could not but be affected with the
news ; yet, knowing the lady and the family, was
afraid that the articles of residence and religion
would not be easily compromised between
them. I arrived at Bologna. I was permitted
to pay my compliments to Lady Clementina in
her mother's presence. How agreeable, how
nobly frank, was the reception both from
mother and daughter ! How high ran the
congratulations of Jeronymo ! He called me
brother. The marquis was ready to recognize
the fourth son in me. A great fortune addi
tional to an estate bequeathed her by her two
grandfathers was proposed. My father was
to be invited over to grace the nuptials by his
presence.
" But let me cut short the rest. The terms
could not be complied with. For I was to make
a formal renunciation of my religion, and to
settle in Italy ; only once in two or three years
was allowed, if I pleased, for two or three
328 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
months, to go to England ; and as a visit of
curiosity, once in her life, if their daughter
desired it, to carry her thither, for a time to be
limited by them.
" What must be my grief, to be obliged to
disappoint such expectations as were raised by
persons who had so sincere a value for me !
You cannot, madam, imagine my distress : so
little as could be expected to be allowed by
them to the principles of a man whom they
supposed to be in an error that would in
evitably cast him into perdition ! But when
the friendly brother implored my compliance ;
when the excellent mother, in effect, besought
me to have pity on her heart, and on her child's
reason ; and when the tender, the amiable
Clementina, putting herself out of the question,
urged me, for my soul's sake, to embrace the
doctrines of her holy mother, the church
What, madam But how I grieve you !" He
stopped. We both wept.
" And what, and what, sir," sobbing, " was
the result ? Could you, could you resist ?"
" Satisfied in my own faith ; entirely satisfied !
Having insuperable objections to that I was
wished to embrace! A lover of my native
country too But I laboured, I studied, for a
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 329
compromise. I must have been unjust to
Clementina's merit, and to my own character,
had she not been dear to me. And indeed I
beheld graces in her fhen y that I had before
resolved to shut my eyes against ; her rank
next to princely ; her fortune high as her rank ;
religion ; country ; all so many obstacles that
had appeared to me insuperable, removed by
themselves ; and no apprehension left of a
breach of the laws of hospitality, which had till
now made me struggle to behold one of the
most amiable and noble-minded of women with
indifference. I offered to live one year in Italy,
one in England, by turns, if their dear Clemen
tina would live with me there ; if not, I would
content myself with passing only three months
in every year in my native country. I proposed
to leave her entirely at her liberty in the article
of religion ; and, in case of children by the
marriage, the daughters to be educated by her,
the sons by me ; a condition to which his
holiness himself, it was presumed, would not
refuse his sanction, as there were precedents for
it. This, madam, was a great sacrifice to
compassion, to love. What could I more !"
c< And would not, sir, would not Clementina
consent to this compromise?"
330 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
" Ah, the unhappy lady ! It is this reflection
that strengthens my grief. She would have
consented : she was earnest to procure the
consent of her friends upon these terms. This
her earnestness in my favour, devoted as she
was to her religion, excites my compassion, and
calls for my gratitude.
" What scenes, what distressful scenes fol
lowed ! The noble father forgot his promised
indulgence ; the mother indeed seemed in a
manner neutral ; the youngest brother was stil^
however, firm in my cause ; but the marquis,
the general, the bishop, and the whole Urbino
branch of the family, were not to be moved ;
and the less, because they considered the
alliance as derogatory to their own honour,
in the same proportion as they thought it
honourable to me ; a private, an obscure man,
as now they began to call me. In short, I was
allowed, I was desired, to depart from Bologna ;
and not suffered to take leave of the unhappy
Clementina, though on her knees she begged to
be allowed a parting interview. And what was
the consequence ? Unhappy Clementina !
Now they wish me to make them one more
visit to Bologna Unhappy Clementina ! To
what purpose ?"
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 331
I saw his noble heart was too much affected
to answer questions, had I had voice to ask
any. But, oh my friends ! you see how it is !
Can I be so unhappy as he is ? As his Clem
entina is? Well might Dr. Bartlett say that
this excellent man is not happy. Well might
he himself say, that he has suffered greatly,
even from good women. Well might he
complain of sleepless nights. " Unhappy Clem
entina !" let me repeat after him ; and not
happy Sir Charles Grandison ! And who, my
dear, is happy ? Not, I am sure, your
HARRIET BYRON.
[Before starting for Italy, Sir Charles arranges a marriage
between his sister Charlotte and the son of the Earl
of G. Soon after its celebration, he leaves England.
He sends an account of his doings in Italy to his
chaplain, Dr. Bartlett.]
BOLOGNA,
July jth-\%th.
It was late last night before I arrived at this
place. I sent my compliments to the family.
In the morning I went to their palace, and was
immediately conducted to the chamber of
Signor Jeronymo. Everybody, he told me,
was amended both in health and spirits.
Camilla came in soon after, congratulating me
332 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
on my arrival in the name of her young lady.
She let me know that in less than a quarter
of an hour she would be ready to receive my
visit.
" O sir/' said the good woman, " miracles !
miracles! we are all joy and hope!" At going
out, she whispered as she passed (I was then at
the window) <c My young lady is dressing
in colours to receive you. She will no more
appear to you, she says, in black. Now, sir,
will you soon reap the reward of all your
goodness." The marquis, the marchioness, the
count, Father Marescotti, all severally made me
the highest compliments. The count, particu
larly, taking my hand, said " From us,
chevalier, nothing will be wanting to make you
happy : from you there can be but one thing
wanting to make us so.''
I was overwhelmed with gratitude on a
reception so very generous and unreserved.
Camilla came in seasonably with a message
from the young lady, inviting my attendance
on her in her dressing-room. The marchioness
withdrew just before. I followed Camilla.
She told me as we went that she thought her
not quite so sedate as she had been for some
days past, which she supposed owing to her
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 333
hurrying in dressing, and to her expectation
of me. The mother and daughter were to
gether. They were talking when I entered.
" Dear, fanciful girl !" I heard the mother say,
disposing otherwise some flowers that she had
in her bosom.
Clementina, when her mind was sound, used
to be all unaffected elegance. I never saw but
one woman who equalled her in that respect.
Miss Byron seems conscious that she may trust
to her native charms, yet betrays no pride in
her consciousness. Who ever spoke of her
jewels that beheld her face? Clementina ap
peared exceedingly lovely ; but her fancifulness
in the disposition of her ornaments, and the
unusual lustre of her eyes, showed an imagina
tion more disordered than I hoped to see,
and gave me pain at my entrance.
" The chevalier, my love !" (said the mar
chioness, turning round to me). " Clementina,
receive your friend."
She stood up, dignity and sweetness in her
air. I approached her : she refused not her
hand. "The general, madam, and his lady,
salute you by me."
" They received you, I am sure, as the friend
of our family."
334 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
11 Mrs. Beaumont, madam," said I, " sends
you her compliments."
" Were you at Florence ? Mrs. Beaumont,
said you ! Were you at Florence ?" Then,
running to her mother, she threw her arms
about her neck, hiding her face in her bosom.
" O madam ! conceal me ! conceal me from
myself ! I am not well."
<c Be comforted, my best love," wrapping her
maternal arms about her, and kissing her
forehead ; " you will be better presently."
I made a motion to withdraw. The mar
chioness, by her head, approving, I went into
the next apartment. She soon inquired for
me, and, on notice from Camilla, I returned.
She sat with her head leaning on her mother's
shoulder. She raised it. "Excuse me, sir,"
said she : " I cannot be well, I see but no
matter ! I am better, and I am worse, than
I was worse, because I am sensible of my
calamity." Her eyes had then lost all that
lustre which had shown a too raised imagina
tion, but they were swimming in tears.
I took her hand. "Be not disheartened,
madam. You will be soon well. These are usual
terms of the malady you seem to be so sensible
of, when it is changing to perfect health."
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 335
" God grant it ! O chevalier ! What trouble
have I given my friends ! My mamma here !
You, sir ! everybody ! O that naughty
Laurana ! * But for her ! But tell me is
she dead ? Poor, cruel creature ! Is she no
more?"
" Would you have her to be no more, my
love ?" said her mother.
" O no ! no ! I would have had her to live,
and to repent. Was she not the companion of
my childhood ? She loved me once. I always
loved her. Say, chevalier, is she living?"
I looked at the marchioness, as asking if I
should tell her she was ; and receiving her
approving nod " She is living, madam,"
answered I; "and I hope will repent."
"Is she, is she, indeed, my mamma?" inter
rupted she.
" She is, my dear."
" Thank God !" rising from her seat, clasping
her hands, and standing more erect than usual.
" Then have I a triumph to come," said the
noble creature. " Excuse my pride ! I will
show her that I can forgive her. But I will
talk of her when I am better. You say, sir,
* Clementina's cousin, who had behaved very cruelly to her
during her illness.
336 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
I shall be better." Then with eyes and hands
lifted up "Great and good God Almighty!
heal, heal, I beseech thee, my wounded mind,
that I may be enabled to restore to the most
indulgent of parents the happiness I have
robbed them of. Join your prayers with mine,
sir."
Her mother comforted her, and raised her
dejected heart. And then Clementina looked
down, a blush overspreading her face, and
standing motionless, as if considering of some
thing "What is in my child's thoughts ?"
said the marchioness, taking her hand. " What
is my love thinking of ?"
" Why, madam," in a low but audible voice,
"I should be glad to talk with the chevalier
alone, methinks. He is a good man. But if
you think I ought not, I will not desire it. In
everything I will be governed by you : yet I
am ashamed. What can I have to say that my
mother may not hear? Nothing, nothing.
Your Clementina's heart, madam, is a part of
yours."
" My love shall be indulged in everything.
You and I, Camilla, will retire." Clementina
was silent, and both withdrew. She com
manded me to sit down by her. I obeyed.
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 337
"The mind of Lady Clementina," said I,
" seems to have something upon it that she
wishes to communicate. You have not,
madam, a more sincere, a more faithful, friend
than the man before you. Your happiness and
that of my Jeronymo engrosses all my cares.
Honour me with your confidence."
" I had something to say I had many
questions to ask. But pity me, sir, my
memory is gone. I have lost it all. But this
I know : that we are all under obligations to
you, which we never can return ; and I am
uneasy under the sense of them."
" What, madam, have I done, but answered
to the call of friendship, which, in the like
situation, not anyone of your family but would
have obeyed ?"
" This generous way of thinking adds to the
obligation. Say but, sir, in what way we can
express our gratitude ; in what way I, in
particular, can, and I shall be easy. Till we
have done it, I never shall."
" And can you, madam, think that I am not
highly rewarded in the prospect of that success
which opens to all our wishes ?"
" It may be so in your opinion ; but this
leaves the debt still heavier upon us."
22
338 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
" If, madam," answered I, " you will suppose
yourselves under obligations to me, and will
not be easy till you have acknowledged them,
the return must be a family act. Let me refer
myself to your father, mother, brothers, and to
yourself: what you and they determine upon
must be right."
After a short silence " Well, sir, I believe
you have put the matter upon a right footing.
But here is my difficulty. You cannot be
rewarded. / cannot reward you. But, sir, the
subject begins to be too much for me. I have
high notions My duty to God and to my
parents, my gratitude to you. But I have
begun to write down all that has occurred to
me on this important subject. I wish to act
greatly. You, sir, have set me the example.
I will continue to write down my thoughts.
I cannot trust to my memory no, nor yet
to my heart. But no more on this subject
at present. I will talk to my mother upon
it first ; but not just now, though I will ask
for the honour of her presence."
She then went from me into the next room,
and instantly returned, leading in the mar
chioness. " Don't, dear madam, be angry with
me. I had many things to say to the chevalier,
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 339
which I thought I could best say when I was
alone with him ; but I forget what they were.
Indeed, I ought not to remember them, if
they were such as I could not say before my
mother."
" My child cannot do anything that can
make me displeased with her. The chevalier's
generosity, and my Clementina's goodness of
heart, can neither of them be doubted."
" O madam ! what a deep sense have I of
yours and of my father's indulgence to me.
How shall I requite it ? How unworthy
should I be of that returning reason, which
sometimes seems to enliven my hope, if I
were not to resolve that it shall be wholly
employed in my duty to God, and to you both.
But even then, my gratitude to that generous
man will leave a burden upon my heart that
never can be removed." She withdrew with
precipitation, leaving the marchioness and me
in silence, looking upon each other.
" What can be done with this dear creature,
chevalier?"
" She seems, madam, to have something on
her mind that she has a difficulty to reveal.
When she has revealed it, she will be easier.
You will prevail upon her, madam, to com-
340 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
municate it to you. Allow me to withdraw to
Signor Jeronymo. Lady Clementina will ac
quaint you with what passed between her
and me."
"I heard it all," replied she, "and you are
the most honourable of men. What man
would, what man could, have acted as you acted,
with regard to her, with regard to us ; yet not
slight the dear creature's manifest meaning, but
refer it to us, and to her, to make it a family
act? A family act it must, it shall be. Only,
sir, let me be assured that my child's malady
will not lessen your love for her, and permit
her to be a Catholic. These are all the terms
I, for my part, have to make with you. The
rest of us still wish that you would be so,
though but in appearance, for the sake of
our alliances. But I will not expect an answer
to the last. As to the first, you cannot be
ungenerous to one who has suffered so much
for love of you."
The marquis and the bishop entering the
room "I leave it to you, madam," said I, "to
acquaint their lordships with what has passed.
I will attend Signor Jeronymo for a few
moments." On my way thither Camilla met
me. It was evident to her, she said, that
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 341
she would be well when the marriage was
solemnized. "They are all," said she, "in
close conference together, I believe, upon that
subject. My young lady is endeavouring to
compose herself in her closet. The marchioness
hopes you will stay and dine here." I excused
myself from dining, and desired her to tell her
Jady that I would attend them in the evening.
[Thenceforward matters progress satisfactorily. Clem
entina gradually grows better, and her parents declare
themselves willing to grant her anything which will
secure her recovery. It seems practically certain that
she will marry Sir Charles, and, away in England,
Harriet Byron makes up her mind to lose him.
However, when Clementina is recovered, her religious
prejudices reassert themselves she cannot bring
herself to marry a heretic, and at last she gives
Sir Charles his freedom.
On his return to England he begins to pay court
to Harriet Byron. The course of their love this
time runs smoothly, and he and Harriet are married.
Lady G. and Miss Selby write a joint letter to
Lady L., who was unable to be present at the
festivities through ill-health.]
LADY G. AND Miss SELBY TO LADY L.
Thursday Morning, November i6th.
You shall find me, my dear sister, as minute as
you wish. Lucy is a charming girl. For the
342 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
humour's sake, as well as to forward each
other, on the joyful occasion, we shall write by
turns.
It would look as if we had determined upon
a public day, in the very face of it, were we to
appear in full dresses : the contrary, therefore,
was agreed upon yesterday. But everyone,
however, intends to be dressed as elegantly as
morning dresses can make them. Harriet, as
you shall hear, is the least showy all in virgin
white. She looks, she moves, an angel, I
must go to the dear girl. " Lucy, where are
you ?"
" Here, madam ; but how can one write
when one's thoughts "
" Write as I bid you. Have not I given
you your cue?"
[Lucy, TAKING UP THE PEN.] Dear Lady L.,
I am in a vast hurry. Lord W., Lady W., and
Mr. Beauchamp are come. Sir Charles, Mr.
Deane, Mr. and Mrs. Reeves, have been here
this half-hour. Has Lady G. dated ? No, I
protest! We women are above such little
exactnesses. Dear Lady L., the gentlemen and
ladies are all come. They say the churchyard
is crowded with more of the living than of the
dead, and there is hardly room for a spade.
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 343
What an image, on such a day ! We are all
out of our wits between joy and hurry. My
cousin is not well ; her heart misgives her.
Foolish girl ! She is with her grandmamma
and my grandmamma Selby. One gives her
hartshorn, another salts. " Lady G., Lady G.,
I must attend my dear Miss Byron : in an
hour's time that will be her name no longer."
[LADY G.] Here, here, child : our Harriet's
better, and ashamed of herself. Sir Charles
was sent for up, by her grandmother and aunt,
to soothe her. Charming man ! Tenderness
and love are indeed tenderness and love in the
brave and manly heart. Emily will not be
married, on any consideration. There is terror,
and not joy, she says, in the attending circum
stances. Good Emily ! continue to harden thy
thoughts against love and thoughts of wedlock
for two years to come ; and then change thy
mind, for Beauchamp's sake.
" Dear Lucy, a line or two more. Your
uncle ; I hear his voice, summoning " The
man's mad ; mad, indeed, Lady L. in such a
hurry ! " Lucy, they are not yet all ready."
" Nor I," says the raptured, saucy face, " to
take up the pen. Not a line more can I, will I,
write, till the knot is tied."
344 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
Nor I, my dear Lady L., till 1 can give you
joy upon it. I fib, for this hurrying soul him
self, in driving everybody else, has forgot to be
quite ready. But we are in very good time.
Emily was very earnest to be bridemaid,
though advised to the contrary. Mr. Beau-
champ was a brideman, at his own request
also.
I will go back to the early part of the morn
ing. We were each of us serenaded, as I may
say, by direction of this joyful man, uncle
Selby (awakened, as he called it, to music), by
James Selby playing at each person's door an air
or two, the words from an epithalamium (whose,
I know not)
" The day is come, you wished so long ;
Love pick'd it out amidst the throng:
He destines to himself the sun,
And takes the reins, and drives it on."
It is indeed a fine day. The sun seemed to
reproach some of us ; but Harriet slept not
a wink. No wonder.
I hastened up to salute her. She was ready
dressed. " Charming readiness, my love !"
said I.
" I took the opportunity while I was able,"
answered she.
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 345
Lucy, Nancy, were with her, both dressed, as
she, for the day, that they might have nothing
to do but attend her. What joy in their
faces ! What sweet carefulness in the lovely
Harriet's ! " And will this day," said she, in a
low voice, to me, " give me to the lord of my
heart ? Let not grief come near it ; joy can be
enough painful."
The ceremony is happily over ; and I am
returned to oblige my Caroline. When every
thing was ready, Mr. Selby thought fit to call
us down in order into the great hall, marshal
ling his fours ; and great pride and pleasure did
he take in his office. At his first summons,
down came the angel and the four young ladies,
and each of the four had her partner assigned
her.
Emily seemed, between the novelty and the
parade, to be wholly engaged.
Harriet, the moment she came down, flew to
her grandmamma, and kneeled to her, Sir
Charles supporting her as she kneeled, and as
she arose. A tender and sweet sight !
The old lady threw her arms about her, and
twice or thrice kissed her forehead, her voice
faltering, " God bless, bless, sustain my child !"
Her aunt, kissing her cheek, " Now, now,
346 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
my dearest love," whispered she, "I call upon
you for fortitude."
She visibly struggled for resolution ; but she
passed me with such a sweet confusion.
" Charming girl !" said I, taking her hand
as she passed, and giving way to her quick
motions, for fear restraint should disconcert her.
When her uncle gave the word for moving,
and approached to take her hand, she in her
hurry, forgetting her cue, put it into Sir
Charles's. "Hold, hold," said her uncle,
sweeping his bosom with his chin, in his arch
way, " that must not yet be." My brother,
kissing her hand, presented it, in a very gallant
manner, to her uncle. " I yield it to you, sir,"
said he, " as a precious trust ; in an hour's
time to be confirmed mine by Divine as well as
human sanctions."
Mr. Selby led the lovely creature to the
coach, but stopped at the door with her, for
Mrs. Shirley's going in first ; the servants at a
distance all admiring, and blessing, and praying
for their beloved young lady.
Sir Charles took the good Mrs. Shirley's
hand in one of his, and put the other arm
round her waist to support her. " What
honour you do me, sir," said she. " I think
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 347
I may throw away this :" (meaning her ebony
crutch-stick) "do I ail anything?" Her feet,
however, seconded not her spirits. My brother
lifted her into the coach. It was so natural to
him to be polite, that he offered his hand to his
beloved Harriet ; but was checked by her uncle
(in his usual pleasant manner). " Stay your
time, too ready sir," said he. "Thank God it
will not be so long before both hands will be
yours."
We all followed, very exactly, the order that
had been, with so much proud parade, prescribed
by Earl Marshal Selby.
The coach-way was lined with spectators.
Mr. Selby, it seems, bowed all the way, in
return to the salutes of his acquaintance. Have
you never, Lady L., called for the attention of
your company, in your coach, to something
that has passed in the streets, or on the road,
and at the same time thrust your head through
the window so that nobody could see but your
self? So it was with Mr. Selby, I doubt not.
He wanted every one to look in at the happy
pair ; but took care that hardly anybody but
himself should be seen. I asked him after
wards if it were not so ? He knew not, he
said, but it might.
348 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
cc Lucy, my dear girl, take the pen. You
don't know, you say, what I wrote last read
it, my girl you have it take the pen ; I want
to be among them."
[Lucy.] Lady G. says I must give an account
of the procession, and she will conduct them
into the church ; I out of it. I cannot, she
says, be too minute. Every woman's heart
leaps, she says, when a wedding is described,
and wishes to know all, how and about it.
Your ladyship will know, that these words are
Lady G.'s own ; but what can I say of the
procession ?
The poor Harriet Fie upon me The rich
Harriet, was not sorry, I believe, that her
uncle's head, now on this side, now On the
other, in a manner, filled the coach ; but when
it stopped at the churchyard, an enclosed one,
whose walls kept off coaches near a stone's
throw from the church porch, then was my
lovely cousin put to it ; especially as my
grandmother walked so slow. We were all
out of our coaches before the father and the
bride entered the porch. I should tell your
ladyship that the passage from the entrance
of the churchyard to the church is railed in.
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 349
Every Sunday the crowd (gathered to see the
gentry go in and come out) are accustomed to
be bounded by these rails ; and were the more
contentedly so now : the whole churchyard
seemed one mass (but for that separating
passage) of living matter, distinguished only by
separate heads ; not a hat on the men's ; pulled
off, perhaps, by general consent, for the con
venience of seeing, more than from designed
regard in that particular. But, in the main,
never was there such silent respect shown, on
the like occasion, by mortal mob. We all of
us, Lady L., have the happiness of being be
loved by high and low.
But one pretty spectacle it is impossible to
pass by. Four girls, tenants' daughters, the
eldest not above thirteen, appeared with neat
wicker baskets in their hands, rilled with flowers
of the season. Cheerful way was made for
them. As soon as the bride, and father, and
Sir Charles, and Mrs. Shirley, alighted, these
pretty little Floras, all dressed in white, chaplets
of flowers for head-dresses, large nosegays in
their bosoms, white ribbons adorning their stays
and their baskets ; some streaming down,
others tied round the handles in true lover's
knots ; attended the company ; two going
350 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
before, the two others here and there, and
everywhere, all strewing flowers : a pretty
thought of the tenants among themselves. Sir
Charles seemed much pleased with them :
" Pretty dears," he called them, to one of them.
a God bless you!" and " God bless you !" was
echoed from many mouths. Your brother's
attention was chiefly employed on Mrs. Shirley,
because of her age and lameness. Here my
good Lady G. perhaps would stop to remark
upon the worthy nature of the English populace,
when good characters attract their admiration ;
for even the populace took notice, how right a
thing it was for the finest young gentleman
their eyes ever beheld, to take such care of so
good an old lady. He deserved to live to be
old himself, one said ; they would warrant,
others said, that he was a sweet-tempered man ;
and others, that he had a good heart. In the
procession one of us picked up one praise,
another, another. Though Lady G., Lady W.,
and the four bridemaids, as well as the lords,
might have claimed high notice, yet not any of
them received more than commendation ; we
were all considered but as satellites to the
planets that passed before us. What, indeed,
were we more? But let me say that Mrs.
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 351
Shirley had her share in reverence, as the
lovely couple had theirs in admiration.
The churchwardens themselves were so com
plaisant as to stand at the church door, and
opened it on the approach of the bride and her
nuptial father. But all the pews near the altar
were, however, filled (one or two excepted,
which seemed to be left for the company) with
ladies and well-dressed women of the neighbour
hood : and though they seemed to intend to
shut the doors after we had all got in, the church
was full of people. Mr. Selby was displeased,
for his niece's sake ; who, trembling, could
hardly walk up to the altar. Sir Charles seated
his venerable charge on a covered bench on the
left side of the altar ; and by her, and on
another covered bench on the right side, with
out the rails, we all, but the bridemaids and
their partners, took our seats. They stood, the
men on the bridegroom's side ; the maids on
Harriet's. Never
[LADY G.] "Are you within the church,
Lucy ? You are, 1 protest. Let me read what
you have done. Come, pretty well, pretty well.
You were going to praise my brother, leave
that to me, I have an excellent knack at it."
Never was man so much, and so deservedly
352 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
admired. He saw his Harriet wanted support
and encouragement. The minister stood sus
pended a few moments, as doubting whether
she would not faint.
" My dearest love," whispered Sir Charles,
" remember you are doing honour to the happy,
thrice happy, man of your choice : show that
he is your choice in the face of this congrega
tion."
" Pardon me, sir, I will endeavour to be all
you wish me."
Sir Charles bowed to the minister to begin
the sacred office. Mr. Selby, with all his
bravery, trembled, and, overcome by the
solemnity of the preparation, looked now pale,
now red. The whole congregation were hushed
and silent, as if nobody were in the church but
persons immediately concerned to be there.
Emily changed colour frequently. She had her
handkerchief in her hand; and (pretty enough!)
her sister bridemaids, little thinking that Emily
had a reason for her emotion which none of
them had, pulled out their handkerchiefs too,
and permitted a gentle tear or two to steal down
their glowing cheeks. I fixed my eyes on
Emily, sitting outward, to keep her in order.
The doctor began "Dearly beloved " "Ah,
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 353
Harriet !" thought I, " thou art much quieter,
now, than once thou wert at these words."*
No impediments were confessed by either of the
parties, when they were referred to by the
minister on this head. I suppose this reference
would have been omitted by Sir Hargrave's
snuffling parson. To the question, to my
brother, " Wilt thou have" &c., he cheerfully
answered, "/ will" Harriet did not say, I will
not. " Who giveth this woman" &c. " I, I, I,"
said uncle Selby; and he owns that he had
much ado to refrain saying, " With all my heart
and soul !" Sir Charles seemed to have the office
by heart ; Harriet, in her heart ; for, before the
minister could take the right hand of the good
girl to put it into that of my brother, his hand
knew its office ; nor did her trembling hand
decline the favour. Then followed the words
of acceptance : " /, Charles, take thee y Harriet"
&c., on his part, which he audibly, and with
apparent joy and reverence in his countenance,
repeated after the minister. But not quite so
alert was Harriet, in her turn : her hand was
rather taken than offered. Her lips, however,
moved after the minister ; nor seemed to
* When Sir Hargrave Pollexfen would have compelled her to
be his.
23
354 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
hesitate at the little word obey, which, I remem
ber, gave a qualm to my poor heart, on the like
occasion. The ring was presented. The
doctor gave it to Sir Charles ; who, with his
usual grace, put it on the finger of the most
charming woman in England ; repeating after
the minister, audibly, tc With this ring I thee
wed," &c. She brightened up, when the
minister, joining their right hands, read, "Those
whom God hath joined together let no man put
asunder" And the minister's address to the
company, declaring the marriage, and pronounc
ing them man and wife, in the name of the Holy
Trinity, and his blessing them, swelled, she
owns, her grateful heart ready to bursting. In
the responses, I could not but observe that the
congregation generally joined, as if they were
interested in the celebration.
Sir Charles, with a joy that lighted up a
more charming flush than usual on his face, his
lively soul looking out at his fine eyes, yet
with an air as modest as respectful, did credit
to our sex before the applauding multitude, by
bending his knee to his sweet bride, on taking
her hand, and saluting her, on the conclusion of
the ceremony. " May God, my dearest life,"
said he, audibly, "be gracious to your Grandison,
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 355
as he will be good to his Harriet, now no more
Byron !" She curtsied low, and with so
modest a grace, that every soul bJessed her, and
pronounced her the loveliest of women, and him
the most graceful and polite of men.
He invited Dr. Curtis to the wedding dinner,
and led his bride into the vestry.
She was followed by her virgin-train ; they
by their partners. She threw herself, the
moment she beheld her grandmother, at her
feet. " Bless, madam, your happy, happy
child."
" God for ever bless the darling of my
heart !"
Sir Charles bent his knee to the venerable
lady with such a condescending dignity, if I may
so express myself " Receive and bless also
your son, my Harriet's reverend parent and
mine."
The dear lady was affected. She slid off her
seat on her knees, and with uplifted hands and
eyes, tears trickling on her cheeks, " Thou
Almighty, bless the dear son of my wishes !"
He raised her with pious tenderness, and
saluted her. He was affected. Everybody
was. And having seated the old lady, he
turned to Mrs. Selby, " Words are poor,"
356 SAMUEL RICHARDSON,
said he ; " my actions, my behaviour, shall
speak the grateful sense I have of your good
ness," saluting her. " Of yours, madam," to
Mrs. Shirley ; u and of yours, my dearest life,"
addressing himself to his lovely bride, who
seemed hardly able to sustain her joy, on so
respectful a recognition of relation to persons so
dear to her. " Let me once more," added he,
" bless the hand that has blessed me !"
She cheerfully offered it. " I give you, sir,
my hand," said she, u and with it a poor heart
a poor heart, indeed ! But it is a grateful
one ! It is all your own!"
He bowed upon her hand. He spoke not.
He seemed as if he could not speak.
Joy, joy, joy ! was wished the happy pair
from every mouth.
But here comes Lucy. " My dear girl, take
the pen ; I am too sentimental. The French
only are proud of sentiments at this day ; the
English cannot bear them : story, story, story,
is what they hunt after, whether sense or
nonsense, probable or improbable."
[Lucv.] " Bless me. Lady G. ! you have
written a great deal in a little time. What am
I to do ?"
[LADY G.] " You brought the happy pair
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 357
into the church. I have told Lady L. what
was done there. You are to carry them
>
out.
[Lucy.] u And so I will. ' " My dearest
love," said her charming man to my cousin, who
had a little panic on the thoughts of going
back through so great a crowd, "imagine as you
walk that you see nobody but the happy man
whom you have honoured with your hand.
Everybody will praise and admire the loveliest
of women. Nobody, I hope, will blame your
choice."
" Oh, sir ! how charmingly do you strengthen
my mind ! I will show the world that my
choice is my glory."
Everybody being ready, she gave her hand to
the beloved of her heart.
The bells were set a-ringing the moment the
solemnity was concluded ; and Sir Charles
Grandison, the esteemed of every heart, led his
graceful bride, through a lane of applauding and
decent behaving spectators, down through the
church ; and still more thronging multitudes in
the churchyard ; the four little Floras again
strewing flowers at their feet as they passed.
" My sweet girls," said he to two of them,
" I charge you, complete the honour you have
358 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
done us by your presence at Selby House.
You will bring your companions with you, my
loves."
My uncle looked around him as he led Mrs.
Shirley, so proud ! and so stately ! By some
undesigned change, Mr. Beauchamp led Miss
Jervois. She seemed pleased and happy, for he
whispered to her, all the way, praises of her
guardian. " My guardian !" twice or thrice,
occasionally repeated she aloud, as if she
boasted of standing in some relation to him.
The bride and bridegroom stopped for
Mrs. Shirley a little while at the coach-side, a
very grateful accident to the spectators. He
led them both in, with a politeness that attends
him in all he does. The coach wheeled off, to
give way to the next ; and we came back in the
order we went.
"Now, my dear Lady G., you who never
were from the side of your dear new sister for
the rest of the day, resume the pen."
[LADY G.] " I will, my dear ; but in a new
letter. This four sheet is written down to the
very edge. Caroline will be impatient ; I will
send away this."
Joy to my sister ! Joy to my aunt ! Joy to
the earl ! To Lady Gertrude ! To our dear
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 359
Dr. Bartlett ! To every one on an event so
happy, and so long wished for by us all !
" Sign Lucy, sign."
" After your ladyship."
" There then^ CHARLOTTE G.
" And there then" LUCY SELBY.
[Harriet Grandison leaves with her husband for Gran-
dison Hall as soon as all the festivities are over.
She sends her grandmother, Mrs. Shirley, a detailed
account of her new home. The last volume recounts
the happiness of her married life and the beneficence
of Sir Charles. Clementina arrives in England to
escape a forced marriage, and finds a refuge at
Grandison Hall, where Harriet treats her with the
utmost goodness. Her family follow her to England,
and, finding her so desperate, come to terms with
her. She and they depart, but the reader is given
to understand that she may some day soon accept
the Count of Belvedere. The book ends with the
death of Sir Hargrave Pollexfen.]
LADY GRANDISON TO MRS. SHIRLEY.
Sunday Afternoon.
A new engagement, and of a melancholy kind,
calls Sir Charles away from me again. In how
many ways may a good man be serviceable to
his fellow creatures !
About two hours ago a near relation of
Sir Hargrave Pollexfen came hither, in Sir
360 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
Hargrave's chariot and six (the horses smoking),
to beg he would set out with him. if possible,
to the unhappy man's house on the forest,
where he has been for a fortnight past, resigned
to his last hope (and usually the physicians* last
prescription), the air. The gentleman's name
is Pollexfen. He will, if the poor man die
childless, enjoy the greatest part of his large
estate. Mr. Pollexfen is a worthy man, I
believe, notwithstanding Sir Hargrave's former
disregard to him, and jealousies ; for, after he
had delivered his message from his cousin,
which was to beseech the comfort of Sir
Charles's presence, and to declare that he could
not die in peace, unless he saw him ; he
seconded Sir Hargrave's request with tears
in his eyes, and an earnestness that had both
honesty and compassion in it. Sir Charles
wanted not this to induce him to go, for he
looks upon visiting the sick, in such urgent
cases, as an indispensable duty ; and, waiting
but till the horses had baited, he set out with
Mr. Pollexfen with the utmost cheerfulness.
Mr. Merceda, Mr. Bagenhall, and now
Sir Hargrave Pollexfen, in the prime of their
youth ! So lately revelling in full health, even
to wantonness ! Companions in iniquity ! In
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 361
so few months ! Thou, Almighty, comfort
the poor man in his last agonies ! and receive
him!
Having filled my paper with the journal of
near a week, I will conclude here, my dear
grandmamma, with every tender wish and
fervent prayer for the health and happiness
of all my dear friends in Northamptonshire,
who so kindly partake in that of their and your
HARRIET GRANDISON.
LADY GRANDISON TO MRS. SHIRLEY.
Wednesday, July ^th.
Ah, my grandmamma ! The poor Sir Har-
grave !
Sir Charles returned but this morning. He
found him sensible. He rejoiced to see him.
He instantly begged his prayers. He wrung
his hands ; wept ; lamented his past free life.
" Fain," said he, " would I have been intrusted
with a few years' trial of my penitence. I have
wearied heaven with my prayers to this purpose.
1 deserved not, perhaps, that they should be
heard. My conscience cruelly told me, that I
had neglected a multitude of opportunities!
slighted a multitude of warnings! Oh, Sir
362 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
Charles Grandison ! It is a hard, hard thing
to die ! In the prime of youth, too ! Such
noble possessions !"
Sir Charles, at his request, sat up with him
all night : he endeavoured to administer com
fort to him ; and called out for mercy for him,
when the poor man could only, by expressive
looks, join in the solemn invocation. Sir
Hargrave had begged he would close his
eyes. He did ; he stayed to the last painful
moment.
Poor Sir Hargrave Pollexfen ! May he have
met with mercy from the All-merciful !
He gave his will into Sir Charles's hands,
soon after he came down. He has made him
his sole executor. Have you not been told
that Sir Charles had heretofore reconciled him
to his relations and heirs-at-law ? He had the
pleasure of finding the reconciliation sincere.
The poor man spoke kindly to them all. They
were tenderly careful of him. He acknowledged
their care.
I cannot write for tears. The poor man, in
the last solemn act of his life, has been intendedly
kind, but really cruel to me. I should have
been a sincere mourner for him, without this
act of regard for me. He has left me, as a
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON 363
small atonement, he calls it, for the terrors he
once gave me, a very large legacy in money
(Sir Charles has not yet told me what), and his
jewels and plate ; and he has left Sir Charles a
noble one besides. He died immensely rich.
Sir Charles is grieved at both legacies ; and the
more, as he cannot give them back to his heirs,
for they declare that he bound them under a
solemn oath not to accept back, either from
Sir Charles or me, the large bequests he told
them he had made us ; and they assured
Sir Charles that they would be religiously
bound by it.
Many unhappy objects will be the better for
these bequests. Sir Charles tells me that he
will not interfere, no not so much as by his
advice, in the disposal of mine. You, madam,
and my aunt Selby, must direct me, when it
comes into my hands. Sir Charles intends
that the poor man's memory shall receive true
honour from the disposition of his legacy to
him. He is pleased with his Harriet for the
concern she expressed for this unhappy man.
The most indulgent of husbands finds out some
reason to praise her for everything she says and
does. But could HE be otherwise than the best
of HUSBANDS, who was the most dutiful of
364 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
SONS ; who is the most affectionate of BROTHERS ;
the most faithful of FRIENDS ; who is good upon
principle in every relation of life !
What, my dear grandmamma, is the boasted
character of most of those who are called
HEROES, to the unostentatious merit of a TRULY
GOOD MAN ! In what a variety of amiable
lights does such a one appear ! In how many
ways is he a blessing and a joy. to his fellow-
creatures !
And this blessing, this joy, your Harriet can
call more peculiarly her own !
My single heart, methinks, is not big enough
to contain the gratitude which such a lot
demands. Let the overflowings of your pious
joy, my dearest grandmamma, join with my
thankfulness, in paying part of the immense
debt for your undeservedly happy
HARRIET GRANDISON.
THE END
A SHORT BIBLIOGRAPHY
ENGLISH
THE NOVELS OF SAMUEL RICHARDSON. To which is pre
fixed a Memoir of the author by Sir Walter Scott.
The Novelists' Library. Vols. vi.-viii.
THE WORKS OF SAMUEL RICHARDSON. With a prefatory
chapter of biographical criticism by Leslie Stephen.
London, 1883.
yEsop's FABLES ; With Instructive Morals and Reflections
abstracted from all Party Considerations, adapted
to all Capacities, and designed to promote Religion,
Morality, and Universal Benevolence. London,
1740 (probably by Richardson).
CASE OF SAMUEL RICHARDSON OF LONDON, PRINTER ; with
regard to the invasion of his property in the History
of Sir Charles Grandison, before publication, by
certain booksellers in Dublin. London, 1753.
CLARISSA HARLOWE ; or, The History of a Young Lady.
-Published by the Editor of Pamela. London, 1748.
COLLECTION OF MORAL AND INSTRUCTIVE SENTIMENTS . .
CONTAINED IN THE HISTORIES OF PAMELA, CLARISSA,
AND SIR CHARLES GRANDISON ... to which are sub
joined two letters from the editor of those works.
London, 1755.
CORRESPONDENCE OF SAMUEL RICHARDSON, author of Pamela,
etc. Selected from the original manuscripts, to
which are prefixed a biographical account of that
author and observations on his writings, by A. L.
Barbauld. London, 1804.
365
366 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
THE HISTORY OF SIR CHARLES GRANDISON. In a series
of letters published from the originals, by the Editor
of Pamela and Clarissa. London, 1754.
HISTORY OF SIR WILLIAM HARRINGTON. . . . Revised by
Mr. Richardson.
LETTERS FROM SIR CHARLES GRANDISON. Selected, with a
biographical introduction and connecting notes, by
G. Saintsbury. London, 1895.
LIFE OF BALBE BERTON, CHEVALIER DE GRILLON (sic). From
the French by a lady, and revised by Mr. Richardson.
1760.
NEGOTIATIONS OF SIR THOMAS ROE IN HIS EMBASSY TO THE
OTTOMAN PORTE. Edited by Samuel Richardson.
1740.
ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-THREE LETTERS WRITTEN FOR
PARTICULAR FRIENDS ON THE MOST IMPORTANT
OCCASIONS. By the late Mr. Richardson, author
of Clarissa and Sir Charles Grandison.
PAMELA ; or, Virtue Rewarded. In a series of familiar
letters from a beautiful young damsel to her parents.
London, 1740.
PAMELA ; a comedy founded on Richardson's novel. By
James Love.
PAMELA'S CONDUCT IN HIGH LIFE (a sequel to Richardson's
Pamela). London, 1741.
TOUR . . . THROUGH GREAT BRITAIN (begun by Defoe).
With very great additions, improvements, and con
nections, by Samuel Richardson. London, 1742.
MORE THAN EIGHT HUNDRED LETTERS, written by Richard
son and his correspondents, in the Forster Library
at the South Kensington Museum.
CANDID EXAMINATION OF THE HISTORY OF SIR CHARLES
GRANDISON. London, 1754.
Dobson, Austin. Eighteenth -century vignettes. Second
series : RICHARDSON AT HOME.
SAMUEL RICHARDSON (English Men of Letters).
London, 1902.
Hazlitt, W. C. : ENGLISH COMIC WRITERS. Lecture vi.
A SHORT BIBLIOGRAPHY 367
Jeffrey: SAMUEL RICHARDSON (Biographical Sketch), 1856.
"KEYBER, CONNY"; an apology for the Life of Mrs. Shamela
Andrews, in which the many notorious falsehoods
and misrepresentations of a book called Pamela are
exposed and refuted, and all the matchless arts of that
young politician set in a true and just light. London,
1741.
Oliphant, Mrs. : HISTORICAL SKETCHES IN THE REIGN OF
GEORGE II. Chap. x. London, 1869.
Povey, C. : THE VIRGIN IN EDEN. . . . To which are
added Pamela's Letters, proved to be immodest
romances. London, 1741.
REMARKS ON CLARISSA, addressed to the author. London,
1749.
THEOPHILA ; the History of Sir Charles Grandison spiritualized
in part. 1760.
Thomson, C. L. : SAMUEL RICHARDSON ; a biographical and
critical study. London, 1900.
Uhrstrom, W. : STUDIES IN THE LANGUAGE OF SAMUEL
RICHARDSON. Upsala, 1907.
FOREIGN
CLARISSA HARLOWE. Traduit sur 1'edition originale par
1'Abbe Prevost. Paris, 1845-6.
ISTORIA DI Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE. Lettere inglesi di
Richardson per la prima volta recerte in Italiano.
CLARISSA ; ein . . . Trauerspiel . . . nach Anleitung der
bekannten Geschichte. 1765.
NOUVELLES LETTRES ANGLAISES, ou Histoire du Chevalier
Grandisson (Traduit par A. F. Prevost d'Exiles).
NUOVK LETTERE INGLESI ORVERO STORIA DKL CAVALIER
GRANDISSON. Venice, 1784-9.
HISTORIA DE CABALLERO CARLO GRANDISSON . . . puerta en
Castellano par E.T.D.T. Madrid, 1798:
GRANDISON DER ZWEITE, oder Geschichte der Herr von
N . In Briefen entworfen. Eisenach, 1760-2.
368 SAMUEL RICHARDSON
PAMELA ; ou la.Vertu Recorapensee. Traduit de 1'anglais
par A. F. Prevost d'Exiles.
HANES PAMELA ; neu Dbiweirdeb wedi ei wobrwyo,
Cserfyddin, 1818.
PAMELA NUBILE. Fava in Musica. Padua (?), 1810.
PAMELA. Nova comedia intitulata : A mais heroica virtude
ou a virtusa Pamella. Lisbon, 1766.
Diderot : ELOGE DE RICHARDSON. Works, v.
Donner, J. O. E. : RICHARDSON IN DER DEUTSCHHN ROMANTIK
Janin, Jules : CLARISSE HARLOWE . . . precedee d'un essai
sur la vie et les ouvrages de 1'auteur. Bruxelles, 1 846.
Poetzsche, Erich : SAMUEL RICHARDSONS BELESENHEIT.
Kiel, 1908.
Texte : JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU ET LES ORIGINES DU
COSMOPOLITISMS LlTTERAIRE. Palis, 1895,
BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUJLDFORD
Kaye-Srnith, Sheila
3666 Samuel Richardson
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