The ways of Providence are unsearchable.  Various are the means made use of by it, to bring poor sinners to a sense of their duty.  Some are drawn by love, others are driven by terrors, to their divine refuge.  I had for eighteen years out of nineteen, rejoiced in the favour and affection of every one.  No trouble came near to my heart, I seemed to be one of those designed to be drawn by the silken cords of love.—­But, perhaps, I was too apt to value myself upon the love and favour of every one:  the merit of the good I delighted to do, and of the inclinations which were given me, and which I could not help having, I was, perhaps, too ready to attribute to myself; and now, being led to account for the cause of my temporary calamities, find I had a secret pride to be punished for, which I had not fathomed:  and it was necessary, perhaps, that some sore and terrible misfortunes should befall me, in order to mortify that my pride, and that my vanity.

Temptations were accordingly sent.  I shrunk in the day of trial.  My discretion, which had been so cried up, was found wanting when it came to be weighed in an equal balance.  I was betrayed, fell, and became the by-word of my companions, and a disgrace to my family, which had prided itself in me perhaps too much.  But as my fault was not that of a culpable will, when my pride was sufficiently mortified, I was not suffered (although surrounded by dangers, and entangled in snares) to be totally lost:  but, purified by sufferings, I was fitted for the change I have now, at the time you will receive this, so newly, and, as I humbly hope, so happily experienced.

Rejoice with me, then, dear Sirs, that I have weathered so great a storm.  Nor let it be matter of concern, that I am cut off in the bloom of youth.  ‘There is no inquisition in the grave,’ says the wise man, ’whether we lived ten or a hundred years; and the day of death is better than the day of our birth.’

Once more, dear Sirs, accept my grateful thanks for all your goodness to me, from my early childhood to the day, the unhappy day, of my error!  Forgive that error!—­And God give us a happy meeting in a blessed eternity; prays

Your most dutiful and obliged kinswoman,
Clarissa Harlowe.

Mr. Belford gives the Lady’s posthumous letters to Mrs. Hervey, Miss
      Howe, and Mrs. Norton, at length likewise:  but, although every
      letter varies in style as well as matter from the others; yet, as
      they are written on the same subject, and are pretty long, it is
      thought proper to abstract them.