Читать книгу Clarissa - Samuel Richardson - Страница 62

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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 instigate by a supposed rivalry.

TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE

I am to tell you, that your mother has begged you off for the morrow: but that you have effectually done your business with her, as well as with every body else.

In your proposals and letter to your brother, you have shewn 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 shew 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 mother 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 which 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 own stubbornness, you have nobody that will receive you but your uncle Antony. Thither you must go 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 assure you. Dr. Lewen 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 man than you have taken him to be. Your two uncles will possibly be there too, to see that the poor, weak, and defenceless 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 mother, 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 she gave me in it, 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 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, by a mother's tear!—She 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, than that you complain of: which cannot, however 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 Miss Howe, your opinion, what I can, what I ought to do. Not what you would do (pushed as I am pushed) in resentment or passion—since, so instigated, you tell me, that you should have been with somebody before now—and steps taken in passion hardly ever fail of giving cause for repentance: but acquaint me with what you think cool judgment, and after-reflection, whatever were to 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 here rest my cause. Have I, or have I not, suffered or borne enough? And if they will still persevere; 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 from all my own 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 of danger is this last measure!—And may not my cousin be set out for England, while I am getting thither?—What can I do?—Tell me, tell me, my dearest Miss Howe, [for I dare not trust myself,] tell me, what I can do.

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 had re-perused the Ode, those 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 finger.

ODE TO WISDOM BY A LADY

I.

The solitary bird of night

Thro' thick shades now wings his flight,

And quits his time-shook tow'r;

Where, shelter'd 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 colour'd dyes,

As in the beam of day.

IV.

O 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 prayer:

Let av'rice, vanity, and pride,

Those envy'd 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 refin'd;

For wealth, the smile 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 wither in the tomb,

Unchang'd 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 drest.

XI.

He bad 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.

Reclaim'd her wild licentious youth,

Confess'd the potent voice of Truth,

And felt its just controul.

The Passions ceas'd 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, unbiass'd 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 thought direct their flight.

Wisdom's thy gift, and all her force

From thee deriv'd, Eternal source

Of Intellectual Light!

XV.

O send her sure, her steady ray,

To regulate my doubtful way,

Thro' life's perplexing road:

The mists of error to controul,

And thro' 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 thro' ev'ry fair disguise,

That all but Virtue's solid joys,

Is vanity and woe.

[Facsimile of the music to "The Ode to Wisdom" (verse 14).]