LETTER XI. MERIEL to CELIA.

I HAVE not had a moment to devote to my dear Celia since I dispatched the last, but as I know your friendly heart shares all the sufferings of your Meriel, I will now con|tinue my narrative.

When Mr. Sutten appeared, he was great|ly surprised to see me at Litchfield, and when I told him of my visit to Mr. Leeson, he ap|peared very angry and said, "with his good will, I should not pay a farthing, and at any rate I should not have the money, till I was of age; for I might, if I attempted to extri|cate my father from his present difficulites, soon be reduced to beggary, and leave my|self without the power of assisting my mo|ther; who was far more deserving my af|fection and duty."

Page  94 "It is on her account, sir," said I, "that I am thus anxious. Her happiness is bound up with my father's, and while he is under confinement she will be miserable; besides, Mr. Sutten, she does not think I love her, does not think me capable of doing a wor|thy action. Oh! sir, give me the power to convince her, that my own interest and hap|piness is of little value when put in compe|tition with her's."

"My dear miss Howard," said he, "you must confess appearances have been strange|ly against you. I will acknowledge I myself have had my doubts concerning the recti|tude of your heart."

"Oh! I know," said I, "there is a fatal mystery involves my conduct, a mystery which I never can reveal."

"Nor will I desire it," replied the humane Mr. Sutten, "I see at this moment such traits of genuine goodness, such proofs of a mind, impressed with a just sense of its du|ty, that I shall always think you had some ve|ry just cause for your past conduct, nor will I believe it possible for a heart capable of con|ceiving such noble, 〈…〉, to harbour inclinations derogatory 〈◊〉 the honour and dignity of a virtuous woman."

Page  95 I thanked him for his good opinion, and he proceeded: "You must consider, Miss Howard, that you are young, very young; you know but little of the world, of conse|quence can form no just value of that inde|pendence, which, believe me, can alone secure you friends. Beauty and merit, my dear girl, are oftener a prejudice than a benefit to the posessors; it is an object of envy to your own sex; and, sorry I am to add, in general excites no other ideas in the bosom of ours, than to lead them to endeavour to vitiate those principles they pretend to adore; let me in|treat you, therefore, to set a just value on that independence, with which it has pleased heaven to bless you; assist your parents as far as you can, without hurting yourself, and remember, that to secure the friendship of others you must not need their assistance."

This, my dear Celia, was arguing like a cold philosopher, and a man of the world; but it was not speaking with the spirit of christianity, or with the enthusiasm of a heart that glows with benevolence to all its fellow creatures. The dear lessons which I imbibed at Bologne taught me to regard my|self but in a secondary light, when any thing praise-worthy was to be performed, and to remember only the 〈…〉 us to do as we would be done by Page  96 and, like the good Samaritan to pour oil and wine into the wounds of our suffering fel|low creatures; but to proceed:

Mr. Sutten refused to advance a shilling, and I was forced to return to my mother, disappointed, dejected, and weary.

Two days after, an execution was sent to Woodbine Cot; my poor mother and my|self were obliged to remove to Litchfield, where we took a small lodging near the house where my father was, where we remained till the estate was sold and all paid away to the last farthing, nor was even that enough to answer all the demands that were continually pouring in from all quarters; besides, when the estate came to be sold, it was found so en|cumbered with mortgages, &c. that it would not sell for above half its value. When all was settled, and my father at liberty, it was de|termined that we should set forward to Lon|don, where my father insisted we could live much cheaper than in the country, where we were so well known. There was still the interest of my four thousand pounds, which as it was at my own disposal, I deter|mined to devote to the support of the family. All our servants were discharged, poor De|borah too; you cannot think, Celia, what I suffered on being separated from this faith|ful Page  97 woman. She offered to stay with us without being paid; but my mother would not consent to reeicve an obligation from an inferior. I thought the resolution savoured of pride; but we all have our failings, and perhaps pride in some degree, is laudable.

On our arrival in town, we took a small lodging and hired a young woman to do the most laborious part of our domestic business; the rest' it is my province to perform; and, believe me, I do it chearfully. It employs my mind, prevents my taking melancholy retrospects, and I think contributes to im|prove both my health and spirits. We have paid a visit to my father's eldest sister. She is married to a counsellor, who has made a genteel independence by his profession. My aunt is a woman whose character I do not well know how to develope. She is in ge|neral affable, condescending, and chearful; and in conversation, gives evident proofs of a genteel education, and a brilliant under|standing; but, with all is so tinctured with va|nity, and tho' upwards of forty, still posses|ses that spirit of coquetry, that in a great mea|sure obscures her good qualities. Her daugh|ters, Hester and Susan, have had, what is termed a fashionable education, that is, they can daub a fan mount, jumble the keys of the harpsichord, and jabber an unintelligible Page  98 jargon, which they call French. They are realy lovely girls. Hester, in particular, seems calculated to inspire love and respect, wherever she appears. Susan is more vola|tile, but, with all can make herself extremely agreeable. They are both spoilt by the mo|ther, who, having taken it into her head, that their beauty will certainly recommend them to men of rank and fortune, is conti|nually filling the poor girls' minds with that kind of vanity, and eager desire of con|quest, that in general fails of the desired effect, and repels the admiration, which it is designed to attract. Their naturally good dispositions are by these means totally pre|verted, and instead of being the engaging, innoecnt, unaffected girls, which nature form'd them, they appear, in a mixed com|pany, a combination of pride, vanity, and self-conceit.

Mr. Mosop, their father, is haughty, dis|tant, and forbidding in his manner, posesses a great deal, of what is called family pride: has little feeling and less good nature, yet on the whole is deemed a respectable cha|racter. He is strictly honest in his princi|ples, pays every one their due to the utmost farthing, but will not bestow the least trifle in charity, because he considers constantly paying the poor rate to be a sufficient dis|charge Page  99 of that duty. The query with me, is, whether he would pay that sum yearly if not obliged to it; if not, where is the merit of paying it now. Oh! Celia, how do I hate those luke-warm hearts. You may remember I always shewed a dislike to the cool doctrines of philosophy. I could never have a good opinion of a person who regards every surrounding object with the stoical eye of apathy. I am sure they must possess hearts, rendered impenetrable by na|ture to those fine feelings, which, tho' at some moments they may distress, in general ele|vate and expand the soul. For my own part, Celia, I am as weak as an infant, whenever a scene of distress or happiness meets my eye, I have a tear of sympathy for the one, and a smile of gratulation for the other; and the smile and the tear, mingle so sweetly with each other, that every faculty is harmonized by the union, and I am at a loss to tell which sensation is the most exquisitely delightful. Then let the unfeeling boast the philosophic calmness of their tempers. I will not scru|ple to aver, that tho' they may escape many an acute pang, that wrings the heart of sensi|bility, they know not what true pleasure is. But I am strangely digressing from my sub|ject. You will wonder perhaps, how I so soon comprehended the character of my un|cle's family: believe me, Celia, it was not Page  100 by my own penetration that I discovered them. From my own observations, I should have supposed Mr. Mossop an agreeable man, his wife a charming, amiable woman, and the two young ladies the sweetest, most en|gaging girls in the world; nay, at this very moment, I feel so inclined to love the whole family, that I think the disagreeable traits in their characters have been exaggerated. It was to a Mr. Rainsforth, that I was indebted for this minute delineation of them. This Mr. Rainsforth is an agreeable young man, whom I have frequently seen at my uncle's, and at first thought he was partial to my cousin Hester, but I find I was mistaken in this supposition, as his intimacy in the family proceeds from his having been school-fellow with young Mossop, whom I have as yet seen but little of.

Rainsforth is the son of a merchant, in Plymouth. His mother died when he was an infant, and his father has, within these few years, married a woman many years younger than himself, by whom he has a young family. Frederic has a small fortune independent of his father, and is besides a lieutenant in the navy. My father seems very partial to him; that, you will say, is no great recommendation; but I flatter my|self, Celia, this unhappy father begins to see Page  101 his errors, and will, in future atone for them. I think, tho' our income is circumscribed, and our situation greatly altered, my dear mother is much happier than I ever saw her. I cannot boast of much happiness myself; re|membrance, painful rembrance, damps every little pleasure or amusement that is offered to my notice; yet, when I look round me, and behold many who are perhaps my supe|riors in worth and virtue, perishing for want of the common necessaries of life; oppressed with sickness; surrounded with children, who look up to them for that support, which they have not to bestow: when I see these things, my friend, I lift up my heart in hum|ble gratitude to that Providence, who has, thro' life, given a portion into my hand, the over plus of which may, in some little degree, serve to cheer the sons and daughters of mi|sery. You smile to hear me talk of having any to spare from my little income. Oh! my dear girl, had I but a shilling in my poc|ket, I could not call it my own, if I saw a fellow creature whose heart would be in the least lightened by sharing it with me.

My aunt has promised to take me to a play. I am fond reading dramatic works, and form great expectations of amusement from seeing a performance. I will certainly give you Page  102 some account of my entertainment when|ever I go. Till then, and ever, believe me affectionately your's.