Letter 54: Miss Clarissa Harlowe To Miss Howe [commentary]
Friday night, March 24
I have a most provoking letter from my sister- I might have supposed she would resent the contempt she brought upon herself in my chamber. Her conduct, surely, can only be accounted for by the rage of a supposed rivalry.
[Letter 54.I: Arabella Harlowe] to Miss Clarissa Harlowe
I AM to tell you that your mamma has begged you off for the morrow- but that you have effectually done your business with her, as well as with everybody else.
In your proposals and letter to your brother, you have showed yourself so silly and so wise, so young and so old, so gentle and so obstinate, so meek and so violent, that never was there so mixed a character.
We all know of whom you have borrowed this new spirit. And yet the seeds of it must be in your heart, or it could not all at once show itself so rampant. It would be doing Mr. Solmes a spite to wish him such a shy, un-shy girl; another of your contradictory qualities – I leave you to make out what I mean by it.
Here, miss, your mamma will not let you remain: she cannot have any peace of mind while such a rebel of a child is so near her. Your aunt Hervey will not take a charge all the family put together cannot manage. Your uncle Harlowe will not see you at his house till you are married. So, thanks to your stubbornness, you have nobody that will receive you but your uncle Antony: thither you must go on in a very few days, and when there, your brother will settle with you, in my presence, all that relates to your modest challenge: for it is accepted, I will assure you. Dr Lewin will possibly be there, since you make choice of him; another gentleman likewise, were it but to convince you that he is another sort of a man than you have taken him to be: your two uncles will possibly be there too, to see that the poor, weak, and defenseless sister has fair play. So, you see, miss, what company your smart challenge will draw together.
Prepare for the day. You’ll soon be called upon.
Adieu, mamma Norton’s sweet child!
ARAB. HARLOWE
I transcribed this letter and sent it to my mamma, with these lines.
A very few words, my ever-honoured mamma!
IF my sister wrote the enclosed by my father’s direction, or yours, I must submit to the usage, with this only observation, that it is short of the personal treatment I have received from her. If it be of her own head—why then, madam—But I knew, that when I was banished from your presence—Yet, till I know if she has or has not authority for this usage, I will only write further, that I am
Your very unhappy child,
CL. HARLOWE
This answer I have received in an open slip of paper, but it was wet in one place. I kissed the place; for I am sure it was blistered, as I may say, with a mother’s tear!—The dear lady must ( I hope she must) have [written] it reluctantly.
To apply for protection where authority is defied is bold!—Your sister who would not in your circumstances have been guilty of your perverseness may, allowably, be angry at you for it—However, we have told her to moderate her zeal for our insulted authority. See if you can deserve another behaviour more than that which cannot be so grievous to you, as the cause of it is to
Your more unhappy mother
How often must I forbid you any address to me!
GIVE me, my dearest friend, your opinion, what I can, what I ought to do. Not what you would do (pushed as I am pushed) in resentment or passion—for in that spirit you tell me you should have been with somebody before now. And steps made in passion hardly ever fail of leading to repentance: but acquaint me with what you think cool judgement and after-reflection, whatever be the event, will justify.
I doubt not your sympathizing love: but yet you cannot possibly feel indignity and persecution so very sensibly as the immediate sufferer feels them: are fitter therefore to advise me, than I am myself.
I will rest my cause. Have I, or have I not, suffered or borne enough? And if they will still preserve; if that strange persister against an antipathy so strongly avowed, will still persist, say, what can I do?—what course pursue?—Shall I fly to London, and endeavour to hide myself from Lovelace as well as all my relations, till my cousin Morden arrives? Or shall I embark for Leghorn in my way to my cousin? Yet my sex, my youth considered, how full danger is that!—And may not my cousin be set out for England while I am getting thither?—What can I do? Tell me- my dearest Miss Howe; for I dare not trust myself!—
Eleven o’clock at night
I HAVE been forced to try to compose my angry passions at my harpsichord; having first shut close my doors and windows, that I might not be heard below. As I was closing the shutters of the windows, the distant whooting of the bird of Minerva as from the often-visited woodhouse gave the subject in that charming ODE TO WISDOM, which does honour to our sex, as it was written by one of it. I made an essay, a week ago, to set the three last stanzas of it, as not unsuitable to my unhappy situation; and after I re-pursued the ode, those three were my lesson: and I am sure in the solemn address they contain to the all-wise and all-powerful Deity, my heart went with my fingers.
I enclose the ode and my effort with it. The subject is solemn: my circumstances are affecting; and I flatter myself that I have not been quite unhappy in the performance. If it obtain your approbation, I shall be out of doubt: and should be still more assured could I hear it tried by your voice and by your finger.
ODE to WISDOM
By a Lady
I
The solitary bird of night
Through the thick shade now wings his flight,
And quits his time-shook tow’r;
Where sheltered from the blaze of day,
In philosophic gloom he lay,
Beneath his ivy bow’r
II
With joy I hear the solemn sound,
Which midnight echoes waft around,
And sighing gales repeat.
Fav’rite of PALLAS! I attend,
And, faithful to thy summons, bend
At WISDOM’s awful seat.
III
She loves the cool, the silent eve,
Where no false shows of life deceive,
Beneath the lunar ray.
Here folly drops each vain disguise,
Nor sport her gaily-couloured dyes,
As in the beam of day.
IV
Oh PALLAS! Queen of ev’ry art,
That glads the sense, and mends the heart,
Blest source of purer joys!
In ev’ry form of beauty bright,
That captivates the mental sight
With pleasure and surprise;
V
To thy unspotted shrine I bow:
Attend thy modest suppliant’s vow,
That breathes no wild desires;
But taught by thy unerring rules,
To shun the fruitless wish of fools,
To nobler views aspires.
VI
Not FORTUNE’s gem, AMBITION’s plume,
Nor CYTHEREA’s fading bloom,
Be objects of my pray’r:
Let avarice, vanity, and pride,
Those envied glitt’ring toys divide,
The dull rewards of care.
VII
To me thy better gifts impart,
Each moral beauty of the heart,
By studious thought refined;
For WEALTH, the smiles of glad content,
For POW’R, its amplest, best extent,
An empire o’er my mind.
VIII
When Fortune drops her gay parade,
When Pleasure’s transient roses fade,
And whither in the tomb,
Unchanged is thy immortal prize;
Thy ever-verdant laurels rise
In undecaying bloom.
IX
By Thee protected, I defy
The coxcomb’s sneer, the stupid lie
Of ignorance and spite:
Alike contemn the leaden fool,
And all the pointed ridicule
Of undiscerning wit.
X
From envy, hurry, noise, and strife,
The dull impertinence of life,
In thy retreat I rest:
Pursue thee to the peaceful groves,
Where PLATO’s sacred spirit roves,
In all thy beauties dressed.
XI
He bade Ilyssus’ tuneful stream
Convey thy philosophic theme
Of PERFECT, FAIR, and GOOD:
Attentive Athens caught the sound,
And all her list’ning sons around
In awful silence stood:
XII
Reclaimed her wild, licentious youth,
Confessed the potent voice of TRUTH,
And felt its just control.
The Passions ceased their loud alarms,
And Virtue’s soft persuasive charms
O’er all their senses stole.
XIII
Thy breath inspires the POET’s song,
The PATRIOT’s free, inbiased tongue,
The HERO’s gen’rous strife;
Thine are RETIREMENT’s silent joys,
And all the sweet engaging ties
Of still, domestic life.
XIV
No more to fabled names confin’d;
To thee! Supreme all-perfect mind,
My thoughts direct their flight.
Wisdom’s thy gift, and all her force
From thee deriv’d, eternal source
Of intellect light!
XV
Oh send her sure, her steady ray,
To regulate my doubtful way,
Through life’s perplexing road:
The mists of error to control,
And through its gloom direct my soul
To happiness and good.
XVI
Beneath her clear discerning eye
The visionary shadows fly
Of folly’s painted show.
She sees through ev’ry fair disguise,
That all, but VIRTUE’s solid joys,
Is vanity and woe.