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<h2> LETTER XXX </h2>
<h3> MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE SATURDAY, APRIL 2. </h3>
<p>I ought yesterday to have acknowledged the receipt of your parcel. Robin
tells me, that the Joseph Leman, whom you mention as the traitor, saw him.
He was in the poultry-yard, and spoke to Robin over the bank which divides
that from the green-lane. 'What brings you hither, Mr. Robert?—But I
can tell. Hie away, as fast as you can.'</p>
<p>No doubt but their dependence upon this fellow's vigilance, and upon
Betty's, leaves you more at liberty in your airings, than you would
otherwise be. But you are the only person I ever heard of, who in such
circumstances had not some faithful servant to trust little offices to. A
poet, my dear, would not have gone to work for an Angelica, without giving
her her Violetta, her Cleante, her Clelia, or some such pretty-named
confidant—an old nurse at the least.</p>
<p>I read to my mother several passages of your letters. But your last
paragraph, in your yesterday's quite charmed her. You have won her heart
by it, she told me. And while her fit of gratitude for it lasted, I was
thinking to make my proposal, and to press it with all the earnestness I
could give it, when Hickman came in, making his legs, and stroking his
cravat and ruffles.</p>
<p>I could most freely have ruffled him for it. As it was—Sir, said I,
saw you not some of the servants?—Could not one of them have come in
before you?</p>
<p>He begged pardon: looked as if he knew not whether he had best keep his
ground, or withdraw:—Till my mother, his fast friend, interposed—Why,
Nancy, we are not upon particulars.—Pray, Mr. Hickman, sit down.</p>
<p>By your le—ave, good Madam, to me. You know his drawl, when his
muscles give him the respectful hesitation.—</p>
<p>Ay, ay, pray sit down, honest man, if you are weary—but by mamma, if
you please. I desire my hoop may have its full circumference. All they're
good for, that I know, is to clean dirty shoes, and to keep fellows at a
distance.</p>
<p>Strange girl! cried my mother, displeased; but with a milder turn, ay, ay,
Mr. Hickman, sit down by me: I have no such forbidding folly in my dress.</p>
<p>I looked serious; and in my heart was glad this speech of hers was not
made to your uncle Antony.</p>
<p>My mother, with the true widow's freedom, would mighty prudently have led
into the subject we had been upon; and would have had read to him, I
question not, that very paragraph in your letter which is so much in his
favour. He was highly obliged to dear Miss Harlowe, she would assure him;
that she did say—</p>
<p>But I asked him, if he had any news by his last letters from London?—A
question which he always understands to be a subject changer; for
otherwise I never put it. And so if he be but silent, I am not angry with
him that he answers it not.</p>
<p>I choose not to mention my proposal before him, till I know how it will be
relished by my mother. If it be not well received, perhaps I may employ
him on the occasion. Yet I don't like to owe him an obligation, if I could
help it. For men who have his views in their heads, do so parade it, so
strut about, if a woman condescend to employ them in her affairs, that one
has no patience with them.</p>
<p>However, if I find not an opportunity this day, I will make one to-morrow.</p>
<p>I shall not open either of your sealed-up parcels, but in your presence.
There is no need. Your conduct is out of all question with me: and by the
extracts you have given me from his letters and your own, I know all that
relates to the present situation of things between you.</p>
<p>I was going to give you a little flippant hint or two. But since you wish
to be thought superior to all our sex in the command of yourself; and
since indeed you deserve to be thought so; I will spare you. You are,
however, at times, more than half inclined to speak out. That you do not,
is only owing to a little bashful struggle between you and yourself, as I
may say. When that is quite got over, I know you will favour me
undisguisedly with the result.</p>
<p>I cannot forgive your taking upon me (at so extravagant a rate too) to pay
my mother's servants. Indeed I am, and I will be, angry with you for it. A
year's wages at once well nigh! only as, unknown to my mother, I make it
better for the servants according to their merits—how it made the
man stare!—And it may be his ruin too, as far as I know. If he
should buy a ring, and marry a sorry body in the neighbourhood with the
money, one would be loth, a twelvemonth hence, that the poor old fellow
should think he had reason to wish the bounty never conferred.</p>
<p>I MUST give you your way in these things, you say.—And I know there
is no contradicting you: for you were ever putting too great a value upon
little offices done for you, and too little upon the great ones you do for
others. The satisfaction you have in doing so, I grant it, repays you. But
why should you, by the nobleness of your mind, throw reproaches upon the
rest of the world? particularly, upon your own family—and upon ours
too?</p>
<p>If, as I have heard you say, it is a good rule to give WORDS the hearing,
but to form our judgment of men and things by DEEDS ONLY; what shall we
think of one, who seeks to find palliatives in words, for narrowness of
heart in the very persons her deeds so silently, yet so forcibly, reflect
upon? Why blush you not, my dear friend, to be thus singular?—When
you meet with another person whose mind is like your own, then display
your excellencies as you please: but till then, for pity's sake, let your
heart and your spirit suffer a little contradiction.</p>
<p>I intended to write but a few lines; chiefly to let you know your parcels
are come safe. And accordingly I began in a large hand; and I am already
come to the end of my second sheet. But I could write a quire without
hesitation upon a subject so copious and so beloved as is your praise. Not
for this single instance of your generosity; since I am really angry with
you for it; but for the benevolence exemplified in the whole tenor of your
life and action; of which this is but a common instance. Heaven direct
you, in your own arduous trials, is all I have room to add; and make you
as happy, as you think to be</p>
<p>Your own ANNA HOWE.</p>
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