<h2> LETTER V </h2>
<h3> MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE JAN. 20 </h3>
<p>I have been hindered from prosecuting my intention. Neither nights nor
mornings have been my own. My mother has been very ill; and would have no
other nurse but me. I have not stirred from her bedside (for she kept her
bed); and two nights I had the honour of sharing it with her.</p>
<p>Her disorder was a very violet colic. The contentions of these fierce,
these masculine spirits, and the apprehension of mischiefs that may arise
from the increasing animosity which all here have against Mr. Lovelace,
and his too well known resenting and intrepid character, she cannot bear.
Then the foundations laid, as she dreads, for jealousy and heart-burnings
in her own family, late so happy and so united, afflict exceedingly a
gentle and sensible mind, which has from the beginning, on all occasions,
sacrificed its own inward satisfaction to outward peace. My brother and
sister, who used very often to jar, are now so entirely one, and are so
much together, (caballing was the word that dropt from my mother's lips,
as if at unawares,) that she is very fearful of the consequences that may
follow;—to my prejudice, perhaps, is her kind concern; since she
sees that they behave to me every hour with more and more shyness and
reserve: yet, would she but exert that authority which the superiority of
her fine talents gives her, all these family feuds might perhaps be
extinguished in their but yet beginnings; especially as she may be assured
that all fitting concessions shall be made by me, not only as my brother
and sister are my elders, but for the sake of so excellent and so
indulgent a mother.</p>
<p>For, if I may say to you, my dear, what I would not to any other person
living, it is my opinion, that had she been of a temper that would have
borne less, she would have had ten times less to bear, than she has had.
No commendation, you'll say, of the generosity of those spirits which can
turn to its own disquiet so much condescending goodness.</p>
<p>Upon my word I am sometimes tempted to think that we may make the world
allow for and respect us as we please, if we can but be sturdy in our
wills, and set out accordingly. It is but being the less beloved for it,
that's all: and if we have power to oblige those we have to do with, it
will not appear to us that we are. Our flatterers will tell us any thing
sooner than our faults, or what they know we do not like to hear.</p>
<p>Were there not truth in this observation, is it possible that my brother
and sister could make their very failings, their vehemences, of such
importance to all the family? 'How will my son, how will my nephew, take
this or that measure? What will he say to it? Let us consult him about
it;' are references always previous to every resolution taken by his
superiors, whose will ought to be his. Well may he expect to be treated
with this deference by every other person, when my father himself,
generally so absolute, constantly pays it to him; and the more since his
godmother's bounty has given independence to a spirit that was before
under too little restraint.—But whither may these reflections lead
me!—I know you do not love any of us but my mother and me; and,
being above all disguises, make me sensible that you do not oftener than I
wish.—Ought I then to add force to your dislikes of those whom I
wish you to like?—of my father especially; for he, alas! has some
excuse for his impatience of contradiction. He is not naturally an
ill-tempered man; and in his person and air, and in his conversation too,
when not under the torture of a gouty paroxysm, every body distinguishes
the gentleman born and educated.</p>
<p>Our sex perhaps must expect to bear a little—uncourtliness shall I
call it?—from the husband whom as the lover they let know the
preference their hearts gave him to all other men.—Say what they
will of generosity being a manly virtue; but upon my word, my dear, I have
ever yet observed, that it is not to be met with in that sex one time in
ten that it is to be found in ours.—But my father was soured by the
cruel distemper I have named; which seized him all at once in the very
prime of life, in so violent a manner as to take from the most active of
minds, as his was, all power of activity, and that in all appearance for
life.—It imprisoned, as I may say, his lively spirits in himself,
and turned the edge of them against his own peace; his extraordinary
prosperity adding to his impatiency. Those, I believe, who want the fewest
earthly blessings, most regret that they want any.</p>
<p>But my brother! What excuse can be made for his haughty and morose temper?
He is really, my dear, I am sorry to have occasion to say it, an
ill-temper'd young man; and treats my mother sometimes—Indeed he is
not dutiful.—But, possessing every thing, he has the vice of age,
mingled with the ambition of youth, and enjoys nothing—but his own
haughtiness and ill-temper, I was going to say.—Yet again am I
adding force to your dislikes of some of us.—Once, my dear, it was
perhaps in your power to have moulded him as you pleased.—Could you
have been my sister!—Then had I friend in a sister.—But no
wonder that he does not love you now; who could nip in the bud, and that
with a disdain, let me say, too much of kin to his haughtiness, a passion
that would not have wanted a fervour worthy of the object; and which
possibly would have made him worthy.</p>
<p>But no more of this. I will prosecute my former intention in my next;
which I will sit down to as soon as breakfast is over; dispatching this by
the messenger whom you have so kindly sent to inquire after us on my
silence. Mean time, I am,</p>
<p>Your most affectionate and obliged friend and servant, CL. HARLOWE.</p>
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