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"Indeed, madam," said I, "guilty, abomin- a young creature who had his happiness in her ably guilty, as he is in all the rest, he is inno-view, and in her wish, even beyond this life; cent of this last wicked outrage.'

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"Well, and so I wish him to be.-That evil, heavy as it was, is one of the slightest evils I have suffered. But hence you'll observe, Mrs. Lovick (for you seemed this morning curious to know if I were not a wife), that I never was married.-You, Mr. Belford, no doubt, knew before that I am no wife: and now I never will be one. Yet I bless God that I am not a guilty creature!

"As to my parentage, I am of no mean family; I have in my own right, by the intended favour of my grandfather, a fortune not contemptible: independent of my father, if I had pleased; but I never will please.

'My father is very rich. I went by another name when I came to you first: but that was to avoid being discovered to the perfidious man: who now engages, by this gentleman, not to molest me.

"My real name you now know to be Harlowe: Clarissa Harlowe. I am not yet twenty

years of age.

"I have an excellent mother, as well as father; a woman of family, and fine senseworthy of a better child!-They both

upon me.

and who was believed to be of rank, and fortune, and expectations, considerable enough to make it the interest of any gentleman in England to be faithful to his vows to her. But I cannot expect that my parents will forgive me: my refuge must be death; the most painful kind of which I would suffer rather than be the wife of one who could act by me as the man has acted upon whose birth, education, and honour, I had so much reason to found better expectations.

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"I see," continued she, "that I, who once was every one's delight, am now the cause of grief to every onee-You, that are strangers to me, are moved for me!-'Tis kind!-But 'tis time to stop. Your compassionate hearts, Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Lovick, are too much touched."-[For the women sobbed, and the man was also affected. "It is barbarous in me, with my woes, thus to sadden your wedding-day." Then turning to Mr. and Mrs. Smith- May you see many happy ones, honest, good couple!-How agreeable is it to see you both join so kindly to celebrate it, after many years are gone over you!-I once doated-But no more!-All my prospects of felicity, as to this life, are at an end. My hopes, like opening buds or blossoms in an over-forward spring, have been nipped by a severe frost!— blighted by an eastern wind-But I can but once die; and if life be spared me but till I am discharged from a heavy malediction, which my father in his wrath laid upon me, and which is fulfilled literally in every article relating to this world; that, and a last blessing, are all I have to wish for; and death will be welcomer to me than rest to the most wearied traveller that ever reached his journey's end."

"I have two good uncles: men of great fortunes; jealous of the honour of their family, which I have wounded.

"I was the joy of their hearts; and, with theirs and my father's, I had three houses to call my own; for they used to have me with them by turns, and almost kindly to quarrel for me: so that I was two months in the year with the one; two months with the other; six months at my father's; and two at the houses of others of my dear friends, who thought themselves happy in me: and whenever I was at any one's, I was crowded upon with letters by all the rest, who longed for my return to them.

"In short, I was beloved by everybody. The poor-I used to make glad their hearts: I never shut my hand to any distress, wherever I was-But now I am poor myself!

"So, Mrs. Smith-so, Mrs. Lovick-I am not married. It is but just to tell you so. And I am now, as I ought to be, in a state of humiliation and penitence for the rash step which has been followed by so much evil. God, I hope, will forgive me, as I am endeavouring to bring my mind to forgive all the world, even the man who has ungratefully, and by dreadful perjuries [Poor wretch! he thought all his wickedness to be wit!], reduced to this

And then she sunk her head against the back of her chair, and, hiding her face with her handkerchief, endeavoured to conceal her

tears from us.

Not a soul of us could speak a word. Thy presence, perhaps, thou hardened wretch, might have made us ashamed of a weakness which perhaps thou wilt deride me in particular for, when thou readest this!

She retired to her chamber soon after, and was forced, it seems, to lie down. We all went down together: and, for an hour and half, dwelt upon her praises; Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Lovick repeatedly expressing their astonishment that there could be a man in the world capable of offending, much more of wilfully injuring, such a lady; and repeating, that they had an angel in their house.-I thought

they had; and that as assuredly as there is a devil under the roof of good Lord M.

I hate thee heartily!-By my faith I do! Every hour I hate thee more than the former! J. BELFORD.

THURSDAY NIGHT.

I may as well try to write; since, were I to go to bed, I shall 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 hush and still; the family retired; but not one of them, and least of all her poor cousin, I daresay, 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 woful 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 woman 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," eried 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 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, "O! 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!

"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 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.

After a short silence, "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 proceeding "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 displeasure, 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?" [The words I remember to have heard in the burial service read over my uncle and poor Belton.] And after a pause

"It 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," 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 applauded

ber Christian, her divine frame, though 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!"

She paused again, her breath growing shorter; and, after a few minutes, "And now, my dearest cousin, give me your hand-Nearerstill nearer-' drawing it 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 an heavenly crown hereafter; and such assurances of it as I have, through the all-satisfying merits of my blessed Redeemer."

Her sweet voice and broken periods methinks still fill my ears, and never will be out of my

memory.

the instant; as seemed to manifest her eternal happiness already begun.

O, Lovelace!-But I can write no more.

resume my pen to add a few lines. While warm, though pulseless, we pressed each her hand with our lips; and then retired into the next room.

We looked at each other with intent to speak: but, as if one motion governed, as one cause affected both, we turned away silent.

The colonel sighed as if his heart would burst: at last, his face and hands uplifted, his back towards me, "Good Heaven!" said he to himself, "support me! And is it thus, 0 flower of nature!" Then pausing—“And must we no more- Never more!-My blessed, blessed cousin!" uttering some other words, which his sighs made inarticulate:-And then, as if recollecting himself "Forgive me, sir!

-Excuse me, Mr. Belford!" And, sliding by me, "Anon I hope to see you, sir.”—And down stairs he went, and out of the house, leaving me a statue.

When I recovered I was ready to repine at what I then called an unequal dispensation; forgetting her happy preparation, and still happier departure; and that she had but drawn a common lot; triumphing in it, and leaving behind her every one less assured of happiness, though equally certain that the lot would one day be their own.

She departed exactly at forty minutes after six o'clock, as by her watch on the table.

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 then gone; and each and watchful prudence; nor hardly her equal gave way to a violent burst of grief.

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 six several times, as we have since recollected, as if distinguishing 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!"

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And with these words, the last but half pronounced, expired :—such a smile, such a charming serenity overspreading her sweet face at

And thus died Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, in the blossom of her youth and beauty: and who, her tender years considered, has not left behind her her superior in extensive knowledge

for unblemished virtue, exemplary piety, sweetness of manners, discreet generosity, and true Christian charity: and these all set off by the most graceful modesty and humility; yet on all proper occasions manifesting a noble presence of mind, and true magnanimity: so that she may be said to have been not only an ornament to her sex, but to human nature.

A better pen than mine may do her fuller justice. Thine, I mean, O Lovelace! For well dost thou know how much she excelled in the graces both of mind and person, natural and acquired, all that is woman. And thou also canst best account for the causes of her immature death, through those calamities which in so short a space of time, from the highest pitch of felicity (every one in a manner adoring her), brought her to an exit so happy for herself, but, that it was so early, so much to be

deplored by all who had the honour of her blood, the colonel said, "Sir, I believe you acquaintance. have enough."

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I have melancholy news to inform you of, by order of the Chevalier Lovelace. He showed me his letter to you before he sealed it; signifying, that he was to meet the Chevalier Morden on the 15th. Wherefore, as the occasion of the meeting is so well known to you, I shall say nothing of it here.

I had taken care to have ready within a little distance a surgeon and his assistant, to whom, ander an oath of secrecy, I had revealed the matter (though I did not own it to the two gentlemen); so that they were prepared with bandages, and all things proper. For well was I acquainted with the bravery and skill of my chevalier; and had heard the character of the other; and knew the animosity of both. A post-chaise was ready, with each of their footmen, at a little distance.

The two chevaliers came exactly at their time: they were attended by Monsieur Margate the colonel's gentleman) and myself. They had given orders over-night, and now repeated them in each other's presence, that we should observe a strict impartiality between them: and that if one fell, each of us should look upon himself, as to any needful help or retreat, as the servant of the survivor, and take his commands accordingly.

After a few compliments both the gentlemen, with the greatest presence of mind that ever I beheld in men, stripped to their shirts, and drew.

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 on the fleshy part of the ribs of his right side; which part the sword tore out, being on the extremity of the body: but before my chevalier could recover himself, the colonel, in return, pushed him into the inside of the left arm, near the shoulder: and the sword (raking his breast as it passed) being followed by a great effusion of

My chevalier swore

my

he was not hurt: 'twas a pin's point: and so 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, sirbeloved Clarissa!-Now art thou-" Inwardly he spoke three or four words more. 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 to the surgeons, who instantly came up.

Colonel Morden, I found, was too well used to the bloody work; for he was as cool as if nothing extraordinary had happened, assisting the surgeons, though his own wound bled much. But my dear chevalier fainted away two or three times running, and vomited blood besides.

However, they stopped the bleeding for the present; and we helped him into the voiture; and then the colonel suffered his own wound to be dressed; and appeared concerned that my chevalier was between whiles (when he could speak and struggle) extremely outrageous.-Poor gentleman! he had made quite sure of victory!

The colonel, against the surgeon's advice, would mount on horseback to pass into the Venetian territories; and generously gave me a purse of gold to pay the surgeons; 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.'

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"I have, sir," said Mr. Morden: "and perhaps shall be sorry that you called upon me to this work, while I was balancing whether to obey or disobey the dear angel."

"There is a fate in it!" replied my chevalier "a cursed fate!-or this could not have been-But be ye all witnesses, that I have provoked my destiny, and acknowledge that I fall by a man of honour."

"Sir," said the colonel, with the piety of a confessor (wringing Mr. Lovelace's hand), "snatch these few fleeting moments, and commend yourself to God."

And so he rode off.

The voiture proceeded slowly with my che

valier; yet the motion set both his wounds THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION. bleeding afresh; and it was with difficulty they again stopped the blood.

We brought him alive to the nearest cottage; and he gave orders to me to despatch 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 friendships to him. Contrary to all expectation, he lived over the night: but suffered much, as well from his impatience and disappointment, as from his wounds; for he seemed very unwilling to die.

He was delirious, at times, in the two last hours; and then several times cried out, as if he had seen some frightful spectre, "Take her away! take her away!" but named nobody. And sometimes praised some lady (that Clarissa, I suppose, whom he had invoked when he received his death's wound), calling her, "Sweet excellence! Divine creature! Fair sufferer!"and once he said, "Look down, blessed spirit, look down!"-and there stopped-his lips, however, moving.

At nine in the morning he was seized with convulsions, and fainted away; and it was a quarter of an hour before he came out of them.

His few last words I must not omit, as they show an ultimate 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-a strong convulsion prevented him for a few moments saying more-but recovering, he again with great fervour (lifting up his eyes, and his spread hands) pronounced the word "blessed:" then, in a seeming ejaculation, he spoke inwardly so as not to be understood: at last he distinctly pronounced these three words, "LET THIS EXPIATE."

And then, his head sinking on his pillow, he expired, at about half an hour after ten.

He little thought, poor gentleman! his end so near: so had given no direction about his body. I have caused it to be embowelled, and deposited in a vault, till I have orders from England.

[Mark Akenside, M.D, born at Newcastle-on-Tyne, 9th November, 1721; died in London, 23d June, 1770.

He wrote a

Educated in Edinburgh and at Leyden. Whilst still a
youth he contributed to the Gentleman's Magazine.
His principal poem, The Pleasures of Imagination, first
appeared in 1744, and won for the author a distinguished
position amongst the poets of the day.
number of odes and short pieces, the most notable of
which are the lines To Curio, a satire; To the Country
Gentlemen of England; Hymn to the Naiads; and The
Cuckoo. The Rev. Alexander Dyce said of The Pleasures
of Imagination, from which our extract is taken—“If
some passages are not lighted up with poetic fire, they
glow with rhetorical beauty; while ingenious illustra
tion and brilliant imagery enliven and adorn the
whole."]

Oh! blest of Heaven, whom not the languid songs Of Luxury, the Siren! not the bribes

Of sordid Wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils
Of pageant Honour can seduce to leave
Those ever-blooming sweets, which, from the store
Of Nature, fair Imagination culls,

To charm the enlivened soul! What tho' not all
Of mortal offspring can attain the heights
Of envied life; though only few possess
Patrician treasures or imperial state;
Yet Nature's care, to all her children just,
With richer treasures and an ampler state,
Endows at large whatever happy man
Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp,
The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns
The princely dome, the column and the arch,
The breathing marbles and the sculptured gold,
Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim,
His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the Spring
Distils her dews, and from the silken gem
Its lucid leaves unfolds; for him, the hand
Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch
With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn.
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings;
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk,
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze
Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes
The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain
From all the tenants of the warbling shade
Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake
Fresh pleasure, unreproved. Nor thence partakes
Fresh pleasure only: for the attentive mind,
By this harmonious action on her powers,

1 In private life Akenside's manners were somewhat

This is a favour that was procured with difficulty; and would have been refused had stiff: "when he walked in the streets he looked for all

he not been an Englishman of rank, a nation with reason respected in every Austrian government-for he had refused ghostly attendance, and the sacraments in the Catholic way. his soul be happy, I pray God!

May

F. J. DE LA TOUR.

the world like one of his own alexandrines set upright," He disliked rewas a saying of the actor Henderson. ference to his parentage, because his father was a butcher. Smollett took the poet as his model for the pedantic doctor, whose dinner after the manner of the ancients is so humorously described in Peregrine Pickle. Casquet, page 96, vol. iii.

See

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