Clarissa Harlowe, Samuel Richardson [black authors fiction .txt] 📗

readily our sense and cogency. Some pragmatical people have said, that an author who doth a great deal of this, either calleth his readers fools, or tacitly condemneth his own style, as supposing his meaning would be dark without it, or that all of his force lay in words. But all of those with whom I have conversed in a learned way, think as I think. And to give a very pretty, though familiar illustration, I have considered a page distinguished by different characters, as a verdant field overspread with butter-flowers and daisies, and other summer-flowers. These the poets liken to enamelling⁠—have you not read in the poets of enamelled meads, and so forth? Letter 469 Mr. Brand, to John Harlowe, Esq.

Sat. Night, Sept. 2

Worthy Sir,

I am under no small concern, that I should (unhappily) be the occasion (I am sure I intended nothing like it) of widening differences by light misreport, when it is the duty of one of my function (and no less consisting with my inclination) to heal and reconcile.

I have received two letters to set me right: one from a particular acquaintance, (whom I set to inquire of Mr. Belford’s character); and that came on Tuesday last, informing me, that your unhappy niece was greatly injured in the account I had had of her; (for I had told him of it, and that with very great concern, I am sure, apprehending it to be true). So I then set about writing to you, to acknowledge the error. And had gone a good way in it, when the second letter came (a very handsome one it is, both in style and penmanship) from my friend Mr. Walton, (though I am sure it cannot be his inditing), expressing his sorrow, and his wife’s, and his sister-in-law’s likewise, for having been the cause of misleading me, in the account I gave of the said young lady; whom they now say (upon further inquiry) they find to be the most unblameable, and most prudent, and (it seems) the most pious young lady, that ever (once) committed a great error; as (to be sure) hers was, in leaving such worthy parents and relations for so vile a man as Mr. Lovelace; but what shall we say?⁠—Why, the divine Virgil tells us,

Improbe amor, quid non mortalia pectora cogis?

For my part, I was but too much afraid (for we have great opportunities), you are sensible, Sir, at the University, of knowing human nature from books, the calm result of the wise man’s wisdom, as I may say,

(Haurit aquam cribro, qui discere vult sine libro)

uninterrupted by the noise and vanities that will mingle with personal conversation, which (in the turbulent world) is not to be enjoyed but over a bottle, where you have an hundred foolish things pass to one that deserveth to be remembered; I was but too much afraid I say, that so great a slip might be attended with still greater and worse: for your Horace, and my Horace, the most charming writer that ever lived among the Pagans (for the lyric kind of poetry, I mean; for, the be sure, Homer and Virgil would otherwise be first named in their way) well observeth (and who understood human nature better than he?)

Nec vera virtus, cum semel excidit,
Curat reponi deterioribus.

And Ovid no less wisely observeth:

Et mala sunt vicina bonis. Errore sub illo
Pro vitio virtus crimina saepe tulit.

Who, that can draw knowledge from its fountainhead, the works of the sages of antiquity, (improved by the comments of the moderns), but would prefer to all others the silent quiet life, which contemplative men lead in the seats of learning, were they not called out (according to their dedication) to the service and instruction of the world?

Now, Sir, another favourite poet of mine (and not the less a favourite for being a Christian) telleth us, that ill is the custom of some, when in a fault, to throw the blame upon the backs of others,

⸺⁠Hominum quoque mos est,
Quae nos cunque premunt, alieno imponere tergo.

Mant.

But I, though (in this case) misled, (well intendedly, nevertheless, both in the misleaders and misled, and therefore entitled to lay hold of that plea, if anybody is so entitled), will not however, be classed among such extenuators; but (contrarily) will always keep in mind that verse, which comforteth in mistake, as well as instructeth; and which I quoted in my last letter;

Errare est hominis, sed non persistere⁠—

And will own, that I was very rash to take up with conjectures and consequences drawn from probabilites, where (especially) the character of so fine a lady was concerned.

Credere fallacy gravis est dementia famae.

Mant.

Notwithstanding, Miss Clarissa Harlowe (I must be bold to say) is the only young lady, that ever I heard of (or indeed read of) that, having made such a false step, so soon (of her own accord, as I may say) recovered herself, and conquered her love of the deceiver; (a great conquest indeed!) and who flieth him, and resolveth to die, rather than to be his; which now, to her never-dying honour (I am well assured) is the case⁠—and, in justice to her, I am now ready to take to myself (with no small vexation) that of Ovid,

Heu! patior telis vulnera facta meis.

But yet I do insist upon it, that all that part of my information, which I took upon mine own personal inquiry, which is what relates to Mr. Belford and his character, is literally true; for there is not anywhere to be met with a man of a more libertine character as to women, Mr. Lovelace excepted, than he beareth.

And so, Sir, I must desire of you, that you will not let any blame lie upon my intention; since you see how ready I am to accuse myself of too lightly giving ear to a rash information (not knowing