Trials of the human heart, a novel. In four volumes. / By Mrs. Rowson, of the New Theatre, Philadelphia, author of Charlotte, Fille de chambre, Inquisitor, &c. &c. ; [Five lines of quotations] ; Vol I[-IV].

TRIALS OF THE HUMAN HEART.

LETTER I. MERIEL HOWARD to CELIA SHELBURNE.

Woodbine Cot, April 20th, 1775.

WILL you believe me, Celia, when I tell you, I wish I was at Bologne again; that I am dissatisfied and unhappy. You are surprised. It is nevertheless certain|ly true. We formed erroneous opinions of the world; we thought it a paradise compar|ed to the solemnity and gloom of our con|vent. Trust me, my dear, I have as yet found nothing, in this gay, busy world, half so

pleasing, as that sweet retirement. But I forget that this is my first letter, and that you naturally wish to know every incident which has happened since our separation. This innocent curiosity shall be gratified, and to begin:

During our journey, Mr. Verdome inform|ed me that the reason of my being sent for home so suddenly, was to attend Mrs. Mir|van, my godmother, who had been for a long time ill, and was supposed to be in a deep decline. "She went to Bristol," con|tinued he, "a few days before I left England; your mother accompanied her, your father and Mrs. Talbot were to follow the ensuing week; we shall, therefore, on our arrival in England, set forward immediately for that place.

"Who is Mrs. Talbot?" said I.

"She is," replied Mr. Verdome, "a wi|dow lady, who, being left in rather indigent circumstances, and being a distant relation of the family, has accepted an asylum in your father's house."

"If she is an amiable woman," said I, "my mother must be happy in having such a com|panion."

"She is sensible, well bred, and good an|tured," he replied—and here the conversa|tion dropped.

I was, as you may easily imagine, too much taken up with the disagreeable sensa|tion of sea-sickness, to be able to reflect much, while crossing the channel: but no sooner was I in the chaise, proceeding toward Bris|tol, than I began to form a thousand differ|ent ideas about meeting my parents, not hav|ing seen either of them since I could remem|ber. I pictured them to myself, as very amiable old people—and, in fancy, felt their embraces and kissed off the tears of joy I saw falling from their eyes. Celia, we children of simplicity form strange enthusiastic no|tions. In thinking of my dear Mrs. Mir|van, I felt more lively sensations; because I was certain if she lived, when I arrived, I should be received by her with heart-felt sa|tisfaction, and should I find her no more, my own heart would experience the most acute anguish. You must remember how much I am indebted to her tenderness and affection, and how very happy I was whenever she vi|sited our convent.

At length we arrived at the end of our journey. I trembled so, that I could scarce|ly support myself. Expectation, hope, fear,

by turns were predominant in my bosom. When we stopped, a handsome man, in ap|pearance about five and thirty or forty years of age, handed me from the chaise, and sa|luting me, said to Mr. Verdome, "faith she is a very fine girl." I saw Mr. Verdome frown; but had not time to make any fur|ther remarks, before I found myself in the chamber of my godmother. Oh Celia! how that dear woman was altered; her face pale, eyes sunk and so reduced that she could not rise to meet me. She faintly smiled when I entered the room, I could not speak. I saw nothing, thought of nothing, but her; and running to her threw my arms round her neck and burst into tears. "Dear creature," said Mrs. Mirvan (embracing me) "we have surprised her. She was not prepared to see me thus, but come, my love, dry your tears; here is another lady, who indeed should have been the first object of your attention." I turned round and beheld the most beautiful woman, you can conceive, bending over me, her eyes full of tears. "My child, my belov|ed Meriel," said she, taking me in her arms; "have you no recollection of your mother?" Whilst I was folded in her maternal embrace the door opened, and my mother continued, "come Mr. Howard welcome your daugh|ter." I raised my head from my dear mo|ther's bosom, and was surprised to see the

same gentleman, who had handed me from the chaise. "Your father, Meriel," said my mother. I bent one knee to the ground and kissed his hand. But shall I confess that whilst in that action, which should have ex|pressed filial respect and love, I felt more of terror than either.

"Rise girl, rise," said he, "I have no taste for these fine romantic scenes. You knelt, because you were told it would be expected, not from any genuine impulse of the heart." My poor mother looked distressed. "I hope," said I, in a faultering voice, "I hope, sir, my conduct will henceforth convince my dear parents, that I am wanting in neither duty nor affection." "We shall see," said he, carelessly. "You women in general talk well, but as to your obedience and submis|sion, when you are put to the trial you al|ways fall far short of your professions." I saw the tears stand in my mother's eyes. Oh! cried the unfeeling man, if you are for a whimpering party, I shall leave you to yourselves, and go and finish my game at piquet with Mrs. Talbot.

When he was gone, I felt myself relieved, and entered into conversation with my mo|ther and Mrs. Mirvan: though I could not but observe the hard struggle my dear pa|rent

had to repress her tears; I dared not notice her distress, least by so doing, I should increase it: besides I judged, that however palpable my father's errors might be, it would be an ungrateful subject to her, espe|cially from the lips of a child.

For the first few days after my arrival, we flattered ourselves, that Mrs. Mirvan was much better; but this enchanting illusion soon vanished. We had been one morning chatting on her evident amendment, and she told me, when able to support the fatigue of a journey, she would go to the south of France, and I should accompany her. She wished my mother to go; but that dear good woman, says she, can never leave your fa|ther for so long a time, (and his fortune be|ing but small will not allow the whole fami|ly to take such a journey.) At dinner time, she eat the wing of a chicken, and seemed to eat with an appetite; after which she drank a glass of Madeira; and in a short time com|plaining of drowsiness, laid down on the so|pha: my mother retired to her own room, and I took up a volume of Pope's Homer, to amuse myself. For some time, her sleep seemed composed, but she soon grew restless, breathed quick, and frequently started, eve|ry now and then fetching a deep sigh, which terminated in a kind of convulsive groan. I

was alarmed and rang the bell, but before any one answered it, I perceived my belov|ed godmother was in strong convulsions; my shrieks brought the whole family to the room; a physician was sent for, but alas! nothing could be done. She was immedi|ately put to bed; but never recovered her senses until a few moments before the final scene closed. In that short interval, she bec|koned my mother towards her, and putting my hand in hers, thus addressed me, though with difficulty. "Meriel, you are the only comfort that dear suffering saint possesses; let mutual friendship cement the bonds of natu|ral affection; my child never forsake your mother, so shall the father of mercies never forsake you." I clasped my arms round my weeping parent, and articulated a vow to heaven, never to let her know a grief or pain, it was in my power to remove. My fortune, my peace of mind, my reputation, my life, every thing but integrity of heart, should be sacrificed to insure her felicity. "Enough, my child," faintly cried Mrs. Mirvan, "the Creator of the universe has heard, and accepts your vow. Oh Meriel!" continued she, after a pause, "let it be thro' life ever present to your memory, that you must one day be as I am now, trembling on the verge of eternity. Love thy Maker above all things, and thy fellow creatures a••

thyself; 'tis that alone can support"—She could articulate no more, but her lips still moved. She clasped her hands earnestly; raised her eyes toward those blissful regions to which her pure soul aspired, and with a placid smile sunk to eternal rest.

"Oh!" said I, as I dropped on my knees by her bed side, "let me live a life of puri|ty, that my death may be like hers." Amen, amen, cried my mother, as she raised me from the ground. We retired to her apart|ment, where clasped in each others arms, we pour'd forth that tribute of affliction, the merits of our lost friend demanded.

IN CONTINUATION.

April 24th.

I was so oppressed by the melancholy sub|ject, that I could not for some time resume it. Pardon me, Celia, I do not mean to tri|fle with your friendly anxiety, I shall, there|fore, pursue my narrative.

When we had attended all that remained of the amiable Mrs. Mirvan to the grave; our family returned to Woodbine Cot. I do not speak of the conduct of my father dur|ing this melancholy period, because it could neither excite my veneration or your esteem.

Mrs. Talbot conducted herself with great propriety, exerted herself to comfort and cheer my mother, tho' I cannot tell why that dear woman did not receive her atten|tions with that grateful sweetness, which she ever manifested to others. I think Mrs. Talbot a most engaging woman. She is not so handsome as my mother, but has a great deal more vivacity. She is tall, well made, and has a very expressive countenance, is affable, conciliating and extremely sensible; she is so kind as to assist and direct my stu|dies. You know I am very fond of natu|ral history. She frequently reads to me, and afterwards we saunter thro' the gar|den, fields and meadows in search of sub|jects to illustrate what we have read. In these rambles my mother accompanies us, but it grieves me to see such a settled me|lancholy impressed upon her countenance. My brother Richard yesterday came from school for a few days. I can percieve he is my father's favourite, indeed my mother is extremely partial to him, tho' it is with pain. I remark many unamiable 〈◊〉〈◊〉 appear evi|dent in his disposition, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 as yet he has seen but thirteen years, being three years younger than myself. His behaviour to me was very ungracious, when we were first in|troduced to each other. Tho' I had never seen him, yet as children of the same parents

I felt my heart drawn toward him by an ir|resistable impulse. I therefore on hearing of his arrival, ran down stairs and was going to welcome him with a cordial embrace, but the frigid coldness that his countenance dis|played repressed my ardour. He advanced, just touched my cheek and bowing profound|ly, wished me joy of my fortune. "Joy,! brother said I, indeed I have not thought of any thing but regret, for the sad occasion of my becoming mistress of this fortune; would to heaven! dear Mrs. Mirvan were still alive to enjoy those few thousands, the acquisition of which cannot compensate to me for the loss of her valuable society." "She was to be sure a good old woman," said he, careless|ly, "but you know sister, she was very infirm, so I think she is much happier out of the world than in it." "Come, come Richard," said my mother with a look, half smiling, half frowning, "I must not hear you speak lightly of an event, which has so highly dis|tressed us all." Master Richard smiled con|temptuously, turned on his heel, hummed a tune and walked out of the room. How happens it, Celia, that the child of a woman possessed of such an excellent heart, and such exquisite sensibility should be so very unfeeling; perhaps you will say he cannot resemble both parents; true, too true, it is a just remark; but oh how superlatively.

happy would be my lot if both those parents resembled each other.

We live very retired, my father's income will not suffer him to associate with the high|er class of inhabitants of the village, and his pride keeps him from those in the middling or lower walks of life. We are, therefore, visited by very few, nor among those few have I seen one, with whom my heart would claim acquaintance. Surely, Celia, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 must be women in the world, and young women too, who are different from any I have seen here. There are two families whom my mother is permitted to visit, and there are daughters in each family: but whenever we meet, which indeed is but seldom; they have so much to tell me concerning their lovers, their dresses and their petty differ|ences with each other, that we have not a moment for rational conversation.

By this account you will naturally sup|pose my time cannot pass in the most agree|able manner. I devote great part of my mornings to reading, drawing, music, and needle work, and had I but my Celia here I could be tolerably easy; though I can ne|ver be happy, while I see my mother op|pressed with sorrow, which I can neither participate nor relieve. I have had little or

no conversation with my father; as he still continues the same indifference towards me which I experienced at our first meeting. I shall continue to write to you my friend, tho' I can foresee my letters will contain but little variety: however it will be the means of keeping alive that friendship, which is to me so valuable, and a time may come when I shall be again happy in your society. Till then believe me in sincerity yours.

MERIEL HOWARD.

LETTER II. MRS. TALBOT to LUCETTA ASKHAM.

May 2d.

MERIEL is returned from the continent, where she has been from a state of in|fancy immured in a gloomy convent. Mrs. Howard did not think her own family a pro|per place for the tuition of a girl. She was right: her husband is by no means a brilli|ant example, and I think, it would be a for|tunate circumstance for young Howard was any thing to happen that might seperate him from his father. Meriel is not what is ge|nerally termed a fine girl; she is rather be|low the middle size, and inclined to on bon point; her face is not regularly pretty, but she has a lovely pair of hazel eyes, through which you may read every emotion of her soul. She is fair, a fine glow of health ani|mates her face, and a smile of good humour plays about her mouth; a luxuriant quanti|ty of chesnut hair hangs in ringlets down

her neck and shades a forehead that is orna|mented with the most beautiful eye-brows I ever beheld. Yet she is not striking at first sight, indeed, you would rather be tempted to say she was plain, but the moment she speaks you must be charmed. I have heard women sing who have fine voices; but I would ra|ther hear Meriel read a pathetic tale than listen to the finest singers in England. The melody of her voice, is so ••oft that she makes the meanest subject interesting; her coun|tenance intelligent, her mind fraught with every gentle, generous virtue, but withall she is the pure child of nature. I could not have believed it possible for a girl of sixteen to be so artless and innocent. An entire stranger to deception, she seeks not to dis|guise one emotion of her heart. She loves neither her father nor her brother. I can|not blame her, their souls are not congeni|al with her own. Yet does she strive by re|spect and attention to attone for the defici|ency. I am so charmed with this dear girl, who is a brilliant model of her mother's vir|tues; with this difference, Mrs. Howard's are passive virtues: Meriel's will prove active ones. I am so captivated with her gentle innocence that I find I can no longer remain in the family: Lucetta aid me to fly from infamy, from shame, from a black train of evils that I see ready to encompass me. You

start, you do not understand; nor can I at present assume sufficient courage to explain my meaning. Oh! my sister, I am not wor|thy of your affection, I cannot pursue the sub|ject. Adieu, I will write again soon.

G. TALBOT.

LETTER III. MERIEL to CELIA.

Woodbine Cot, May 3d, 1775.

CELIA, if you value your own happiness never desire to quit the convent. When I was there, I imagined my father a worthy character. Had I never left it, I had never been undeceived: indeed, it is a sad, sad thing to reflect on, but this man, whom nature, religion, every sacred tie obliges me to respect and love: this very man is a libertine, and an infidel. He came

one Sunday morning into the library, where I was reading. "Well my pretty rose-bud," said he, for he generally calls me by some such unaccountable name; "What are your studies?" "Rowe's letters," I replied. "What do you read such stuff as that for?" cried he, pulling the book out of my hand, "'Tis time enough for you to read such se|rious nonsense some forty or fifty years hence, and here is that stupid fellow Harvey too," continued he, taking up a book that lay up|on the table. "Why child, these ridiculous books are enough to turn your head; they might have done well enough in a convent, but surely you may find something more amusing in this collection." "I read these serious authors by choice, sir," said I. "You have a strange taste for a girl of your age then," he replied, "but I don't believe you speak as you think. Come tell me honestly, Meriel," continued he sitting, down beside me, "did you never get any novels or ro|mances in the convent?" You may suppose I stared at him, for you know we never saw a book of the kind, during the whole time we were together; of this I assured him: to which he replied; "then that easily ac|counted for my taste." He then began to speak of religion, and the sacred writings in a manner that made me tremble. At first, I thought he meant only to try me; but

finding the more I opposed his sentiments, the stronger were the arguments he advanced to confute, as he said, "my foolish bigotry, to a subject which was not worthy the at|tention of any but old women and children." I rose from my seat and bursting into tears, cried, "oh! sir, if these are indeed your sen|timents they shock me to the soul." "Come girl, come don't cry," said he, pulling me toward him; "you must try to get the better of these superstitious notions, and learn to think and act for yourself, unbiased by the prejudices of others." I could not answer for my tears. He took me in his arms and kissed me; but my soul shrunk back from his embrace. My mother just then passing the window, he left me and went in|to the garden to join her. I do not like this Mrs. Talbot, so well as I did at first; I saw my father take a liberty with her yester|day when they thought they were unobserv|ed. There was an impropriety in it, which made me shudder; and a thought darted across my mind which almost stunned my faculties: surely they cannot be so very abandoned. Oh my poor mother! I fear, this too well explains the cause of your tears and dejection.

May 5th.

It is as I suspected, Mrs. Talbot is an un|worthy woman. This morning, I arose ear|lier than common, intending, the weather being sine, to walk into the meadows, before breakfast, passing my mother's chamber door I saw it was partly open; and, looking in, I percieved my dear mother raised upon her elbow in the bed, the tears streaming down her face, and sobbing, as tho' her heart would break. Unable to restrain myself, I rushed into the room and ardently requested to know the cause of her grief. She hastily en|deavoured to dry her tears and compose her countenance, assured me that nothing parti|cular was the matter, but that she often was seized with those involuntary fits of weep|ing, for which she could assign no cause. "Oh! my dear mother," said I, "you cannot thus deceive a child, who loves you as I do. Long have I noticed the anxiety that weighs heavy at your heart, and preys upon your spirits. Can you, do you think your daugh|ter unworthy to be trusted with your sorrows. Believe me I will treasure them in my bo|som as a sacred deposit, and having eased your labouring breast of the painful burthen will pour into it the balm of consolation." "My dear girl, my only comforter, said my mother; seek not to know what will only"

make you unhappy, I cannot be more so than I am already, said I, for how is it possible I can be at peace when you are the victim of concealed anguish? "Oh! my child, said she, I cannot explain to you the nature of my sorrows, without acusing one, whom it is your duty to respect, I must not make my child dispise her father;" "I will not de|spise him, I replied. If he can injure good|ness like your's I will pity and pardon him, and pray to heaven to turn his heart." But where is my father. He has been out all night said my mother. While you were at Mr. Rowley's yesterday, he went out and has not returned since. Just then I heard a chaise drive up to the door and looking out saw my father alight and hand out Mrs Talbot; the mystery is unravelled said I; "go, said my mother, dry your eyes and appear at breakfast as composed as you can; do not let them have the triumph of seeing how much they distress us. I did as I was desired, but when I entered the breakfast parlour, I felt a glow of indignation flush my cheek, and I could hardly give them the compliments of the morning with any steadiness of accent. Mrs. Talbot fixed her penetrating black eyes up|on my face; I darted at her a look of anger, she immediately cast them down, turned pale and seemed much agitated; but whether it was with anger or sensibility I cannot determine.

May 6th, 1775.

This Mrs. Talbot is a wonderful woman: her conduct is an inexplicable riddle; her cha|racter undefinable. With some of the finest sentiments that can elevate human nature, and with the power to act up to those senti|ments', she has sunk herself upon a level the meanest of her sex. I at one and the same moment admire, love, pity and dis|pise her: but I will inform you of the cause of these contradictory sentiments. Yesterday afternoon as my mother, Mrs. Talbot and myself were at tea, my fa|ther came in from a walk and throwing a folded paper into Mrs. Talbot's lap, told her he had met with a travelling pedlar and had brought her a present. She unfolded the paper, and seeing a piece of fine chintz, enquired if there was enough for two gowns. "No," said my father, "I bought but one." "Then certainly, Sir, you did not mean it for me; only your politeness leads you to offer it; permit me to resign it to the pro|per owner," laying it on my mother's knee. "Then, you refuse my present, Kate," said my father sternly. "I do indeed," says she, with firmness, "and am resolved on no ac|count whatever to accept another obligation at your hands. I have too long forgot what was 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to this respectable family, to your honour, and to myself. It is time to amend

and fly from errors, which originated in du|plicity on one side, and weakness on the other. I have wrote to my sister, that I shall leave Woodbine Cot to-morrow, and nothing shall prevent my putting my de|sign in execution." During the time Mrs. Talbot was speaking, my father stood like one petrefied; my mother's colour went and came alternately red and pale. Indeed I was afraid she would have fainted. At length she assumed sufficient courage to ask with tolerable composure, how long she had formed this resolution, which appeared as sudden as it was unexpected. "Oh! my dear madam," said she, "it is not a sudden resolution, I have long had it in my mind, but always wanted fortitude to execute my resolves; it is much easier to rush into guilt, than to recede from it, and I have long learnt to de••est my own vices without mak|ing one attempt to eradicate them. This dear young lady has compleated a reforma|tion, which your gentleness and virtue had begun. Believe me, madam, had I sooner known, how very amiable you were, I should never have injured you; but I was a stran|ger to your goodness till it was too late to recall my error. When Miss Howard re|turned from France, it was impossible to be an inmate in the house with her and not love her. From loving virtue in others we

by degrees wish to possess it ourselves; be|cause we are conscious that without it we cannot be respected or esteemed by the wor|thy part of mankind. I wished to obtain Miss Howard's friendship; but I knew I was unworthy of the blessing. From that mo|ment I determined, if I could not merit her esteem, I would at least avoid her displeasure and contempt; but alas!" continued she; "I am too late; she already despises me; and I feel I have not even a claim to her pity."

"For heaven's sake! what does all this mean," said my father, "who dares treat you with contempt, or insult you with their pity?"

"No one, Mr. Howard," she replied calmly; "I only say it is what I have a right to expect; if you remember I told you a few days since that I was determined no longer to lead a life of infamy; you thought me then in jest; perhaps you may think so still; believe me, 'tis of little consequence to me, what opinion you may form of my conduct; I am anxious only to obtain the pardon of these ladies, of whose merits I could wish you to be sensible, before you have inevita|bly destroyed both their happiness and your own." She then rose from her seat, and

taking one of my mother's hands, and one of mine, pressed them alternately to her lips, and bursting into a fresh flood of tears, left the room. My father followed her, and I heard them speak very high in the adjoining apartment, but could distinguish nothing that past excepting the words, "never whilst I have life," which were pronounced by Mrs. Talbot, as she went up stairs, where she locked herself into her own room. My fa|ther went immediately out, nor was he re|turned while I sat up with my mother, who seemed more melancholy than ever, and not inclined for conversation. This morning when we met at breakfast a heavy cloud hung on my father's brow. Mrs. Talbot was not come down. I went up to call her. The door was open. I went into the room; but found, by a letter which lay on the table, that she had left the house at four o'clock in the morning. The cloaths and other pre|sents, which she had received from my fa|ther, were packed up in a small trunk and directed for me. In her letter to my mo|ther, she takes a long adieu, and says there is not the least probability of our ever meet|ing again, as she should leave England almost immediately. It is impossible to describe the rage of my father, when he found she was really gone. He swore we had treated her ill, or she never would have taken such a re|solution.

In vain we protested our innocence. He vented his rage in the most ungentle|man-like terms, on my dear patient mo|ther, who could return nothing but tears. He is now taking his usual walk. I hope, when he returns, he will be calmer. I am weary, my dear Celia, and can write no more. Farewell. May good angels guard you.

MERIEL.

LETTER IV. MRS. TALBOT to LUCETTA ASKHAM.

Woodbine Cot, May 5th, 1775.

I FOUND myself at the conclusion of my last letter, my dear sister, totally unable to continue the subject, which I just hinted to you. I wished you to conceive the whole without descending to particulars, yet how it that possible. At this moment you think me 〈◊〉〈◊〉

virtuous, but unfortunate woman; you also think Mr. Howard the most benevolent, most disintersted of men: ah! my dear sis|ter, how have you been deceived. But to make you understand more perfectly, I must go back to the time when I lost Mr. Talbot.

A stranger in London, alone unconnected with the world, deprived of the means of support by my husband's death. I was re|volving in my mind what plan to pursue in future; when chance introduced me to Mr. Howard. My dress declared me a widow. He paid me innumerable little attentions, whenever we met at the house of an attorney, with whose lady I was intimate, and at length from having frequently called with my friend, who was employed to settle my late husband's affairs, he assumed the privilege of visiting by himself. To you, who know him so well, I need not describe either the graces of his person, or his insinuating ad|dress. Perfect master of the art of deception: he conceals under the mask of integrity and honour every vice which can disgrace human nature: with that versatality of temper which makes him appear every thing to every bo|dy; with the religious he is grave and so|lemn; with the gay cheerful and affable, with the splenetic he can rail at the vices and

follies of mankind, and with the libertine practice those vices himself: tho' where it is his interest he can appear devout, yet no man ever concieved a more contemptuous opinion of religion, or strove with more diabolical earnestness to corrupt the young and inex|perienced heart. When first I was introduc|ed to him, I was told he was a married man. What was my wonder, then, when after a few visits he professed a passion for me. I combated his sophistical arguments as well as my weak reasoning would permit; but alas! I lost ground in every argument. At length he told me as a secret, which nothing but the most violent passion could have extorted from him, that he never did, nor ever could love his wife; that he had married her solely to oblige his father, who was since dead, and that she was a cold, inanimate woman, fit on|ly for the frigid rules, and solemn rites of a convent. Then with the most solemn asse|verations, he called heaven to witness that I was the only woman he ever loved; and called down the most heavy maledictions on his head, if he should ever forsake me.

Lucetta, I was infatuated; I thought him the tenderest, best of men, and mourn'd a fate which had united him to a woman he could not love. Poverty and distress sur|rounded me. Mr. Howard offered a settle|ment

of fifty pounds a year and to take me into his family, as a relation of his own. My sister, do you now concieve the depth of my shame. I accepted his offer, and a letter was dispatched, to let Mrs. Howard know, he had met with a relation, whose circum|stances were rather embarrassed and whom he had invited home, as he thought she would prove an agreeable addition to their fa|mily. The return of post brought such an answer as might be expected from a woman, whose chief study was to please and render her husband happy. When I arrived at Woodbine Cot, Mrs. Howard recieved me with a mixture of politeness and affection. Never shall I forget the sensations, which pervaded my bosom, when entering a neat parlour, she rose to welcome me. Astonish|ment riveted me to the spot; unable to speak or move, I sunk into the nearest chair, and had nearly fainted. Figure to yourself, my sister, a woman, scarcely thirty years old, ele|gantly formed, with a countenance animated and prepossessing; her fine blue eyes beam|ing tenderness on the cruel betrayer of her peace. Think you hear her in accents soft as the music of the spheres, by turns cheer|ing and comforting the very woman who had robbed her of her husband's affections. And surely then, you will not wonder, if un|able to stifle my emotions, I gave way to a

flood of tears. "You are too much affect|ed, my dear madam," said Mrs. Howard, taking my hand. "Do not I beseech you give way to immoderate grief: when mis|fortunes are irremidiable it is our duty to submit without repining: but I flatter my|self, the united attentions of my dear Mr. Howard, and myself, will by degrees restore your tranquility. In the mean time, I hope you will consider yourself at home, and be assured, we shall think ourselves happy in being able in the least to contribute to your case or felicity." She then led me to an ap|partment, which had been prepared for me, and left me, to that repose which conscious guilt rendered me incapable of enjoying.

The more I knew of this amiable woman, the greater cause I found for admiration and respect. She being naturally of an open disposition, I was in the course of our inti|macy, made acquainted with the most mate|rial circumstances of her life: and from her I learnt that she had brought a very hand|some fortune to Mr. Howard; and that they had married contrary to the advice of their friends on both sides, as they had formed different views for them: but, said she, with a sigh, "We thought love for each other would compensate for the privation of the society of our other friends."

I had not been long in this family, before I discovered, that I was not the only woman, who shared Mr. Howard's attention. He was neither careful to avoid suspicion, nor deli|cate in the choice of his companions, as al|most every female servant in the family, who was not proof against flattering vows and presents of finery, had at some time or other attracted her master's notice. The amiable suffering wife bore all with angelic patience, nor ever once breathed a murmur. I had the satisfaction to find that my remon|strances had some effect, and he became more circumspect in his behaviour. I could also at any time restrain him from the pur|suit of any new amour by threatning to leave him, and I flattered myself, that this in some measure attoned to Mrs. Howard for the in|juries I did her. In this manner I continued in the family near three years, when I found an evident alteration in the conduct of my hostess. Her manner was cold and distant; she often avoided my society and retired to her apartment, where I have surprized her weeping. Conscious guilt would not per|mit me to enquire the cause of her uneasi|ness, as I naturally imagined she had disco|vered my improper intimacy with her hus|band: but one day while we were at Bristol, I overheard a conversation between them which determined me to quit a life, at once

so repugnant to honour, humanity and re|ligion. It was one morning, as I was pre|paring to enter the breakfast room, the door of which was not quite shut, when I heard Mr. Howard in a high key reproaching his wife for not behaving so kindly as formerly to me. I wished to know in what manner Mrs. Howard spoke of me, and therefore de|scended to the meanness of listening. "My dear, Mr. Howard," said she, "how is it possi|ble for me to behave with cordiality to a wo|man who I am well convinced has usurped my place in your affections; and tho' I am wil|ling acknowledge the many amiable traits in her character, I cannot be blind to that one error, which embitters every hour of my life; nor am I mistress of sufficient dissimu|lation, to wear the face of friendship where my heart feels only dislike, nay almost dis|gust. I will not scruple to confess, I once did esteem her: but pardon the expression, if I say, the heart that loves virtue for its own sake, can never form acquaintance with vice. We may pity, but we must despise."

"Hold madam," said he, "or I shall be led to suppose you despise me."

"No, Mr. Howard," said she, with 〈…〉〈…〉 animated voice, "you are the chosen friend of my heart, the father of my chil|dren,

the husband of my affections, I have promised to love, to honour, and obey you, and heaven is my witness, I never have failed in one of those points: to cease to love you is impossible; to obey you is the pleasure of my life: but, pardon me, if your own con|duct has forced me unwillingly to own, I can no longer honour you 〈◊〉〈◊〉 peace has been broken by your ill humour, my fortune dissipated by your extravagance, nay lavished on the most disolute of my sex, until your family is reduced to the most mortifying cir|cumstances: my child, my beloved Meriel obliged to be educated far from me; because her father's morals were too vitiated to be a proper object for the contemplation of a young and innocent mind."

Here she wept, and Mr. Howard not being able to make a just defence, flew into a vio|lent passion, as was his usual custom, swore she was a most unaccountable woman, and wondered at his own patience in bearing with her so long. This undeserved reproach awakened her stifled passion, and she answered with intrepidity.

"No, sir, it is my patience is to be wonder|ed at, but do not irritate 〈◊〉〈◊〉 beyond the possi|bility of submitting any longer, I fear I have been wrong in so long bearing my injuries in

silence; perhaps, you think, because I ap|peared blind to your immoral conduct, I countenanced it. Let me undeceive you. Mrs. Talbot should not so long have remain|ed under the same roof with me, had I not feared, that by depriving her of an asylum, I should injure her reputation and drive her into an inhuman world, where one false step is never forgiven, and she might have sunk into the lowest abyss of vice and infamy. I flattered myself my gentleness might have reclaimed her. I knew, alas! too well, the inconstancy of your nature, and had deter|mined that when forsaken by you, she should not want a friend to snatch her from ever|lasting ruin."

I was so overcome by this generous decla|ration, that I was forced to catch hold of the ballustrade of the stairs, to prevent fall|ing. A sudden sickness came over me, and I could not distinctly hear the remainder of their conversation; but, thank heaven, I profited so much from what I had heard, that I resolved no longer, by my presence, to wound a heart so replete with benevolence toward me. I did not enter the par••our; but returned to my own apartment•• and, sending an apology for not appearing at breakfast, revolved in my own mind a varie|ty of schemes, for my future subsistence; but

could think on nothing that appeared in the least probable of success. That afternoon Miss Howard arrived from France. Had my mind been ever so depraved it must have returned to virtue after an acquaintance with this dear girl; I therefore became more firm in my resolves; and having formed an acquaintance with an elderly lady, of whose sense and goodness of heart I had a very high opinion; I determined to disclose eve|ry particular of my situation to her, and ask her advice in what manner I should proceed. She heard me with attention, and was friend|ly enough not to attempt to paliate my er|rors. She placed my conduct in a proper light and encouraged the remorse which was already awakened in my bosom. She then opened a scene of comfort to my distressed imagination, and having advised me to re|turn with the family to Woodbine Cot, to prevent any ill natured remarks among our acquaintance, and afterwards to pursue the plan which she had laid down. Yet, will you believe it, when I returned to this place I felt my resolution slacken, and found I was relapsing into my former errors; but this morning the dear amiable Meriel has awak|ened my sleeping conscience, and I am de|termined to leave the family immediately. I went into the garden after breakfast and found her weeping in a little arbour. "In

tears, my dear little girl," said I. "Have I not cause for tears," she replied, "is not my beloved mother unhappy?"

"Unhappy!" said I, with an accent of surprise, willing to try if she was acquainted with the cause.

She fixed her expressive eyes on my face, and replied emphatically; "surely I need not tell you, Mrs. Talbot, that she is very unhappy; for you profess yourself her friend, and friendship is quick sighted in discerning the sorrows of the person esteemed: true friendship is also eagerly anxious to remove the cause of grief from the bosom of those they love, though by so doing, they plant a thorn in their own."

I could not answer her; I did not even attempt it; but pressing her hand in silence retired to another part of the garden.

On Tuesday morning, at four o'clock, I shall expect you will send a man and horse for me. I shall come but poorly provided with cash, as I am resolved to leave my set|tlement behind me, as likewise every present of value, which I have received. I will not impoverish the family which I have already irreparably injured. But do not think I shall

come to throw myself on you for support. No, my sister, I have the abilities necessary to earn my subsistence, and they shall be exert|ed. I shall stay only one night with you, and then proceed to my kind friend at Bristol. As to the remainder of my plan, if I succeed to my wish, you shall again hear from me; if not, I shall sink at once into total oblivion. Farewell, my sister, forget my errors; re|member only 〈◊〉〈◊〉 penitence, and let me share your prayers, that it may be sincere and lasting.

C. TALBOT.

LETTER V. MERIEL HOWARD to CELIA SHELBURNE.

Woodbine Cot, May 7th, 1775.

MY father is more composed, than I could imagine possible in the absence of Mrs. Talbot; but he is still gloomy and unsocial with my mother; however, I cannot but flatter myself that time, and her unweari|ed assiduities, will regain his affections; and was that to be the happy result of her pati|ence and forbearance, how great would be our felicity.

Miss Dolly Pringle has just called to soli|cit my mother's leave for my drinking tea with her. It is but seldom I am permitted to go without the boundaries of our garden, except to accompany my father or mother in a retired walk; but for a wonder, I am this afternoon to be trusted unaccompanied by either. I cannot think what my father is afraid of, that he should be so averse in

my taking any kind of innocent recreation. I am sure, if I know my own heart, I have no improper wishes lurking there; yet he is always saying such strange things about love and lovers that it seems he would be angry if a man was only to speak civil to me. Dolly knew this odd way of his, and so did not tell him that her brother was expected to come from London for a few days, and most likely would arrive this afternoon. "I am sure," said she to me, "you will like Harry vastly, and if he is not smitten, I shall be surprised. Pray Miss," continued she, "were you never in love?"

"In love," said I; "really I don't right|ly comprehend what you mean by the word."

"La! that is vastly odd; but never mind my dear; half an hour's conversation with my brother will explain it better than I could in a whole day."

"But why Miss Pringle, must your bro|ther talk to me of love; I should suppose there were many more interesting subjects."

"La! Miss," she replied something tart|ly, "you talk like a child I think; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 what should a gallant young man say to a

beautiful young lady, but that he adored her; or when did you ever read of a young gentleman being left to entertain a lady, for half an hour, but he fell at her feet, called her a divinity, and vowed to love her while the vital fluid warmed his heart."

"Bless me!" said I, "I declare I never read such a thing in my life."

"Surely then," she replied with a look of surprise; "you never read the divine history of lady Frances and lady Caroline, or the loves of Edward and Harriet?" "No, in|deed," said I, "I have never even heard of them."

"Oh! my dear girl, then," cried she, in a sort of extasy; "you have a pleasure to come, of which at present you can form no idea: I will lend you the books; but you must not let your father see them."

And that you may believe me Celia, I shall not; for he is always ready enough to abridge me of any thing that can afford me pleasure. As to my dear mother, I am sure she will gratify every laudable wish of my heart; and sure if Miss Pringle has reciev|ed so much pleasure in the perusal of them, they cannot be improper books; at any rate,

when one hears a great deal about a thing, one naturally longs to see it. But after all it appears to me very odd that a man and▪ woman cannot converse together without making love: I think it is a very foolish 〈◊〉〈◊〉, and in my opinion a very fallacious one; for now I remember, Mr. Verdome travelled all the way from Bologne with me, and ne|ver said a syllable about love or adoration. To be sure Mr. Verdome is almost fifty years old; but I should not suppose that would make any great difference.

May 8th.

Well, to be sure I do begin to be a little better pleased with the society of our neigh|bours than I was at first; indeed I feel my heart much lighter since Mrs. Talbot left us, for I see my dear mother looks happier; and if she is happy I shall be so too. I spent a very agreeable evening at Mrs. Pringle's, whose son arrived, just as we had sat down to tea; I thought him a very pleasing young man. He is an ensign in the army, and has a military, manly countenance. I know not how it was, but whether from what Dolly had said in the morning, or whe|ther from my not being accustomed to the society of men; yet I felt myself awkward and embarressed; however, as Mr. Pringle

did not say any thing particular, I soon re|covered myself, tho' when Mrs. Pringle and her daughter left the room for a few mo|ments, I was frightened to death lest he should make love to me, and you know, if he had I should not have known what to say to him. This fear, I am sure, made me look like a fool; for I felt my face glow like scarlet. I dare say he thought me an idiot; well, it is of little consequence to me what he thought: only you know one don't like strangers to form an unjust opinion of our mental faculties.

Miss Pringle lent me the books which she promised: I did not dare to read any be|fore I went to bed, as my father often walks round the house to see if all the lights are out; and if he had caught me reading, he would have immediately taken the books from me, for he has lately taken it into his head that I read too much, and that I shall be good for nothing, if I am suffered to pore so much over a parcel of musty old au|thors. So, I locked up my new acquisitions in my closet, and arose two hours earlier this morning to peruse it. Re••ly, Celia, these young ladies who write so much, and so prettily to each other, must be very amiable and lovely, for you must know the whole book is 〈◊〉〈◊〉 letters, it is indeed a charming

history; you cannot think how much I cried whilst I was reading. Surely, said I, at one time, it must be a sad thing to be in love; and yet unhappy as it makes many, every body seems to be affected with this strange passion; it appears to be their whole business. But my father is gone to walk and my mother retired to her apartment, which she does almost every afternoon; so, I may now snatch an hour or two to read a little more.

May 9th.

Well, Celia, would you believe it, after having cried myself almost blind about the the distresses of the dear ladies, whose histo|ry I have been reading, I was agreeably sur|prised to find, in the end, all parties were made happy. I declare I was very much de|lighted, and cannot say but I should like to go into more company, and see a little more of life; for then perhaps I should meet with some such charming women as lady Frances and lady Caroline. Celia, I might also be admired by some fine gentleman, as they were; for I find country girls are as much engaged with love and lovers as the great ladies. I wish I could convey these books to you; or that you could get some just like them. Perhaps these were the kind my fa|ther

meant, when he talked about romances and novels; but yet that cannot be, as this is a real history, the characters drawn from life. Miss Pringle has promised to lend me some more of the same sort, and some plays; so I think I shall pass my time much more agreeably than before; tho' do not think I mean to neglect those authors our dear sister Constance so strenuously recom|mended to my notice. No, no, my friend, I will not neglect the useful studies of history, geography, and far more neces|sary duty of public and private devotion; and now I am on the subject of devotion, I must just mention something in my father's cha|racter, which is to me unaccountable. Tho' he talked to me in the profane stile I have related in a former letter, yet to my mother and the families who visit us, he pretends to have a high veneration for religion and reli|gious subjects, and as we live a considerable distance from the church, he makes a prac|tice of reading the morning service to the fa|mily; tho' perhaps the moment he has closed the prayer book, should the most trifling thing happen to ruffle his temper, he will burst in|to fits of ungovernable rage, and swear in such a horrible manner, that I shudder to hear him. There is a little boy, whom he has taken into the family, and whom he takes great pains to teach his catechism, &c.

I have seen him whip the poor lad unmerci|fully for innocently humming a song tune on a Sunday morning, when he himself lives in the constant breach of almost every duty the christian religion lays days down for our ob|servation and direction. Are not these in|consistencies, Celia? Surely the father of children, the master of a family, should set a good example, or he can never expect others to attend to duties he so evidently appears to disregard.

My dear old nurse, Deborah, arrived yes|terday, from a visit she has been paying her friends ever since our return from the con|tinent. She enquired when I had heard from you; desires you will not forget her. Of this I assured her, she need not be afraid. Her return is another source of comfort to me, as my mother says she shall continue in the family as long as she pleases, and you know the affection I have contracted for her, from her attendance on me the whole time I was abroad, indeed I consider her almost in a maternal light, her fidelity and attach|ment to our family has been ever unshaken.

Miss Pringle called this afternoon, and we walked in the garden together near an hour, during which time she told me her brother was greatly struck with my person,

and that he had told his mother, if he thought I would return his passion, he should immediately relinquish the idea he had formed of marrying a woman, to whom the whole family had the greatest dislike, as she was ignorant, low born and without for|tune. "How happy shall I 〈◊〉〈◊〉 my dear Miss Howard," said she, "to call you sister."

"Bless me," said I, "how can you talk so, you know I must not think of listening to a lover without my father's permission."

"Your father indeed," cried she laughing, "I wonder what your dear little simple head will fancy next: why child, he would forbid me the house if he only suspected such a thing; and you know my dear Meriel," (she continned in a soft soothing accent) "you know, we are bosom friends and sworn sisters and it would be very hard, you know, to be separated, perhaps forever."

"Indeed Miss Pringle," said I, "my heart feels grateful for the friendship you profess for me, and I should be very sorry to be deprived of your society."

"Well, then my dear," said she, "take this letter and don't let either your father or your mother see it." I would have refused

the letter, as I feared it would be improper to take it; but my father just then entering the garden, I dreaded his anger which is awakened at the most insignificant trifles, and is always impetuous: so I hastily put it in my pocket.

When we returned to the house and Miss Pringle was gone, he cried pettishly to my another; "what does that girl do so often here? I shall have Meriel spoiled by her nonsensical chatter; besides I will lay a gui|nea there is an intrigue of some sort contriving between them; I never knew two girls al|lowed to be so much together but they hatched mischief." "If you do not like Dolly Pringle," replied my mother, "we will try to drop her acquaintance, but you must consider, Mr. Howard, Meriel must have some society." "Why, pray what so|ciety would she have," said he, "are not you always with her, and has she not plenty of needle work to do? let her stick close to that, and she won't want to be gadding and gossiping: she is at present a stranger to the world, and the less she knows of it the bet|ter." This unkindness does not grieve me as it would if I loved him; but it gives me pain to see how much it affects my mother. I sat down to supper in silence, and when it was finished, retired as usual to my own

room, where I haistily broke the seal of my letter, and found it wrote in such a charm|ing style, so tender, so lively, I read it over half a dozen times, but could not determine whether to answer it or not. Good night Celia, it is eleven o'clock, and I dare not write a moment longer.

MERIEL.

LETTER VI. MERIEL HOWARD to CELIA SHELBURNE.

Woodbine Cot, June 17th.

I HAVE been very unhappy, Celia, since I wrote last; indeed I did not know whe|ther I should be permitted to write to you again: nor could I now enjoy that satisfac|tion if good Deborah had not procured 〈◊〉〈◊〉 pens, ink, and some paper; which she 〈◊〉〈◊〉 on conditions of seeing all I wrote; and 〈◊〉〈◊〉

have left my bed at the early hour of four, to pour forth my complaints to my dear Celia. In my last I told you I had reciev|ed a letter from Mr. Pringle, declaring him|self my lover: I will own I was very much pleased with it. Tho' at first I hesitated to answer it, yet, when I read a few more books, which Miss Dolly Pringle sent me by means of our dairy maid, and I found that none of the young ladies mentioned in them ever hesitated at answering their lover's letters; I ventured to write a few lines in reply to one which he sent me requesting me to meet him one night after the family were in bed, and in which he told me, Lettice the maid would come and let me know, when all was quiet in the house, and that she would go with me to the place he had appointed for our meeting. Indeed, Celia, I did not think any harm; so I wrote and told him if his sis|ter would come with him, I would meet him, for I wished very much to see Dolly, and I knew I should not have another opportunity very soon.

When we met, his manner was so tender, his language so pathetic, and the tender at|tentions of his sister so like what I had read, that I could not help confessing that I pitied him, and that if it would in the least alleviate his suffering, I would meet him there again.

We went on thus for some time, when over|powered one evening by his entreaties, I con|sented to go with him to London, where he promised to marry me. Dear, dear, Celia, I tremble even now, when I think of what fol|lowed. The next day we had just done break|fast, when an elderly gentleman who has a great regard for my father and mother called, and telling the latter he had something very particular to say to her, they walked to|gether into the garden. When they returned, I saw my dear mother, oh! I shall never for|get it, I saw her look extremely angry, her eyes darted at me such indignant glances, that my very soul felt humbled within me, I could have fallen at her feet and intreated to know the cause of her anger: for indeed, Celia, I did not think, if she had even dis|covered my correspondence with young Prin|gle, that she would have been so very much offended, especially as I could appeal for a precedent, to the conduct of so many amiable young ladies of even rank and fortune. But the moment Mr. Sutten was gone, she asked me in a tone that rent my very heart, how I dared either to receive or write letters with|out her knowledge. Her anger overpowered me; something rose in my throat and pre|vented my speaking, I thought I should have died with sorrow, when she thus continued, "Unkind, ungenerous Meriel, thus to 〈◊〉〈◊〉

the confidence your mother had placed in you. How, degenerate girl, have you dared to violate the laws of female delicacy, by openly avowing a passion for a man to whom you are almost a stranger, and even to make yourself ridiculous by writing such letters to him as renders you the jest of the whole village." "Oh! my dear mother," said I in a voice almost choaked with sobs; "indeed I did not think any harm." "Perhaps, Meri|el," said she, "had you stopped here, I might have forgiven you: but know, false disem|bling girl, I have discovered all your illicit plans, you have left your father's house at hours, when modesty would have shrunk to venture out, without a proper protector: and, to compleat your imprudence, this very night you had designed to quit a mother, whom you have pretended to love and re|spect, and to throw yourself intirely into the power of a wretch, who regards you only as a vehicle, thro' which he may come at the possession of your fortune."

I fell at her feet and would have taken her hand; but she snatched it from me, and and rising from her seat left me weeping on the ground.

"Unworthy girl," said she, as she left the room, "go hide yourself from my sight, for

you are become odious to me. Never, never, child, can you regain the confidence you have lost. I had flattered myself with find|ing in you a comforter and tender filial friend; but you have added another wound to a heart already lacerated by many sor|rows."

When my mother was gone, I laid my head upon a chair and continued weeping. In this position my father found me. "So, Miss," said he, sternly, "I find you were for providing a husband for yourself; you were resolved to lose no time; but pray what will you say when I tell you this fine lover of your's is already married and has been so these two years."

"Married, sir" cried I, raising my head.

"Yes child, married, though his friends were unacquainted with it, but this morning I hear his wife is arrived from London, with one child, to solicit that support which he has inhumanly refused her." I made no answer, but returning my head to its reclin|ing posture, continued weeping without in|termission. "Ah! my poor little Meriel," said he, in a tone of voice more soft than usual, "I am afraid this naughty man has made great havock with your heart; but,

come, come, you shall not wear the willow long, we will find another lover for you soon."

"Indeed, sir, you mistake the cause of my tears," said I. "It is not the loss of all the lovers in the world would grieve me half so much as the fear of having forever for|feited my dear mother's affection."

"Well, well," he replied, "don't let that vex you; if she is unkind, I will endea|vour to attone for it. To be sure, she is ve|ry rigid in her notions, but I dare say, when she sees you heartily repent your fault, she will overlook it and love you as well as ever."

He then left me, and I retired to my apartment, where Deborah told me my mo|ther had been, and had carried all my pens, ink and paper away with her. Ever since she has been cold, distant, nay almost un|kind. Oh! my dear friend, what shall I do to regain her affection, and convince her my repentance is sincere. Indeed, she is to me the dearest object upon earth, and her hap|piness shall henceforth be my only study.

My father, when my mother is present, treats me with equal rigour; but, when we

are alone, he is more gentle. Once or twice he has come to my apartment when she was out, and even brought me some books; among which were some French novels. Even my brother has heard of my impru|dence, and has wrote to my mother, enquir|ing the truth of the report; but he does not write as if he wished it false. I do not think he loves me; he had expected a legacy from Mrs. Mirvan, but the whole of her fortune being left to me, has created envy and jea|lousy in a bosom, which I had once flattered myself I should find warm with friendly and fraternal love: and yet, Celia, if he did but know my heart, he would see he had no cause to envy me, except he should envy those delightful sensations which I shall feel when I come to the possession of my fortune, in saying, brother, it is equally your's, com|mand it to its utmost extent.

Deborah has promised me to get this let|ter conveyed to the nearest post town. When you write, direct under cover to Mrs. Debo|rah Ellis, to remain at the office till called for, I dare not let my mother know I corres|pond with any one, least she should discover by what means I got the materials for writ|ing, and poor Deborah would suffer for her affectionate indulgence. I have no employ|ment, no amusement, half so agreeable as

scribling to my Celia, so do not be impatient at the length of my letters.

MERIEL.

LETTER VII. DEBORAH ELLIS to CELIA SHELBURNE.

Woodbine Cot, July 24th, 1775.

DEAR MISS,

I HOPE, you will pardon this freedom in a poor old woman, who is almost bro|ken hearted, at an accident which has dis|tracted the whole family. I hardly know how to tell you, because I know you loved and valued my dear young lady; and so indeed must every one who knew her merits, tho' since she has returned from France, I have heard her ridiculed for virtues which

few, if any, endeavoured to imitate; and have seen her drawn into errors, by those who, envying the superior qualities of her heart, endeavoured to bring her more on a level with themselves. She shewed me the last letter she wrote to you; for it was only on condition of seeing all she wrote, that I supplied her with the means of following her favourite amusement. The sternness of her mother still continued; and the poor young lady was abridged of the pleasure of even walking beyond the limits of her fa|ther's garden. Mr. Howard's conduct, towards the dear girl, was altogether un|accountable, sometimes harsh, unfeelingly reproaching her for her intended error; a method, in my poor humble opinion, by no means calculated to lead her to renounce the attachment, which hurried her to so impro|per a step. At other times, he turned the whole affair into ridicule, and conversed with his daughter in a gay familiar manner; but tho' she trembled at his anger, she never ex|pressed any satisfaction in his company when good humoured; but rather wished to in|dulge in solitude and study. About ten days since my mistress was sent for, into Essex, to a relation, who was extremely ill. Mr. Howard did not accompany her: she set off in the afternoon, and he having procured a chaise took Miss Meriel out for a ride, an

indulgence she had never experienced since her residence at this place. When she re|turned she seemed very melancholy, and said her spirits were much oppressed, and her mind harrassed with terrors, for which she could by no means account. She supped with her father and retired at her usual hour. Mr. Howard sat up much later than common, and to my great surprise, when I carried in his candle, he seemed intoxicated, tho' he had been alone and seldom gave way to excessive drinking, unless he had been led into it by company. I heard him go in|to his apartment, and then went to bed my|self, where the fatigue of the day soon made me fall asleep. About two o'clock I was awakened by Miss Howard, who in a shiver|ing voice asked me if I had not heard a noise in her chamber, said, she was greatly frightened, and would, if I pleased, stay the remainder of the night with me. I helped her into bed; she was cold as death, trem|bled excessivly, and soonfell into a convulsive hysteric fit. Greatly alarmed, I called up one of my fellow servants, and by repeated applications of hartshorn, vinegar, &c. brought her to herself; she would give no account of the cause of her fright; but seem|ed to mourn some heavy misfortune, and re|peatedly wished herself with you in the con|vent again. She rested but little all night,

and the next morning was so indisposed as to be unable to rise, and was confined to her room for several succeeding days. One day after she had ventured down stairs; I asked leave to go a few miles, on some par|ticular business, where I was detained all night, by reason of a violent storm. Rising early in the morning, and walking home be|fore any of the family but the house maids was stirring, I went up immediately to see how my dear Miss Meriel was, for I had been very uneasy about her all night, know|ing she was terrified at thunder, and would not dare to express her fears to her father, who would only have ridiculed them. On entering the room I was alarmed to find the bed in great disorder; many of her cloaths laying about the floor, the window open, and my beloved Miss Howard gone. Ob|serving the sheets fastened to the bed-post, I naturally imagined she must have slid by them into the garden, and looking out at the window I saw one of her shoes lay on the ground. Convinced now, of what be|fore I had only conjectured, I gave a scream of terror which alarmed my master, who came half dressed, pale and trembling into the room, exclaiming, "for God's sake what is the noise about." "My young lady, sir," said I, pointing to the window. "Elop|ed," said he, "with that villain, Pringle; 〈◊〉〈◊〉

here I sware never again to suffer"—"Oh, sir!" cried I eagerly, "do not sware to re|nounce her; I'd venture my life upon her innocence; I am sure some vile means have been used to draw her thus from her duty."

"She is a little hypocrite, nurse," said he, "and will make herself friends wherever she goes, till she is found out. I suppose she will trump up some fine story about ill usage, or some devilish thing or other. I 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to my soul she had never left the convent; this will go near to break her mother's heart."

About noon Mrs. Howard returned. It is impossible to describe her anguish when in|formed of her daughter's absence (I will not say elopement) because I am sure, if the truth was known, it would not deserve so harsh an appellation. She sent immediately to Mrs. Pringle's, where she heard that the young gentleman went away, as he said, to join his regiment the afternoon before. Thus does this unlucky circumstance tend to make it universally believed, that Miss Howard and Mr. Pringle are together; but, indeed Miss, I do not think that is the case; for, certain I am, that a purer heart never inhabited a hu|man bosom, and that she never would have thought of eloping with a married man: be|sides, I am convinced she was not greatly at|tached to him. He was the first man who had

ever addressed her; she is the pure child of un|disguised nature, and being pleased with his attentions which had the charm of novelty to recommend them; she fancied herself in love; but after her conduct had been placed in a proper light, by her mother, she seemed perfectly convinced of her error, and often used to say, she wondered how she could imagine she loved a man, of whom she knew so little. "I should think, nurse," said she one day, "that this unfortunate affair in the end would be greatly beneficial to me, as it will make me, in future, distrust the emotions of my heart, and be upon my guard against its deceptions; but I fear it has irreparably in|jured me in the opinion of my mother; but I must endeavour, by my future conduct, to regain her confidence, and in the mean time, submit with patience to that displeasure I am certain I have in a great measure deserved." Such sentiments as these, madam, do not ar|gue a depravity of heart. Oh! no, my sweet Meriel is at this moment as free from guilt as an angel. Three days are now elapsed since her departure, during which time no tidings can be gained concerning her. Oh! Miss, I fear we shall never see the dear creature again: some dreadful mystery is certainly concealed by her thus abruptly leaving her father's house. Would to hea|ven I had the means of clearing it up, 〈◊〉〈◊〉

at the same time removing the cloud which at present obscures the reputation of the most innocent young lady that ever existed. I will not finish this letter till to-morrow. If we hear no tidings then, I shall give her up as lost forever.

July 25th.

I just snatch up my pen to inform you, dear Miss, that Miss Howard is found, and is at present in her father's house; but in such a situation that we have little hope of her ever recovering her senses sufficient to give any regular account of the cause of her flight, of this we are certain, she was not with Mr. Pringle.

July 28th.

I am now sitting by my poor young lady's bed side, who is just fallen into a sweet re|freshing sleep, and shall seize this opportu|nity to inform you, in what manner she was discovered and conducted home. A farmer who lives about five miles from hence, at the skirt of a wood, having occasion for his horse to be brought from pasture early in the morning, ordered a lad who lived as a ser|vant with him, to go by four o'clock and fetch it: the lad's way lay thro' the wood, and when he returned he declared he had been

frightened almost to death by an apparition of a woman, dressed all in white, whom he saw sitting at the foot of a tree as he went; that he heard her sigh and groan, and said he supposed it was the spirit of Fanny Summers, who hung herself there last autumn, and he was the more positive of this, as at his return, he saw her walking too and fro with a child in her arms and heard her talk to it. The farmer laughed at the lad's tale, and rode away without paying any farther attention to it, but a young gentleman who has a lodg|ings at the farmers, on account of an ill state of health, having over heard the boy's story, determined to rise immediately and go to the wood to investigate the matter farther, as he supposed it might be some unfortunate human creature, rather than a supernatural being; and determined, if in his power, to rescue her from misery, and, what ap|peared more than probable, a horrid and un|timely end. He had not penetrated far into the wood before he discovered, at the foot of an old oak, a female form stretched on the ground, and by her side a little spaniel, whose head lay on the woman's arm, and who at frequent intervals seemed to make most pi|tious moans. He approached and found the unfortunate female was in a fit, he gently raised her from the ground, supporting her in his arms whilst he chaffed her temples with

volatiles, which, on account of his own weak constitution, he always carried in his pocket. While he was thus employed, the dog fawn|ed upon him licked his hand and shewed every token of gratitude in his power; at length the lady began to move, and her pre|server hearing the voices of labourers passing through the wood, hallowed to the•••• for as|sistance. When they came near, the dog flew from his mistress to one of them, leaping, bounding and howling for joy. What Lu|bin, said the clown, how come you here, then drawing nearer to help support the lady; he started back and cried, body o'me, 'tis Miss Meriel, poor dear soul, how could she get here, as sure as any thing she has been robbed and murdered. Almost smiling at the fellow's stupidity, the young gentleman bid him cease his wonder and as|sist in bearing her to the farm which was the nearest house. The dear creaure never spoke during the whole time, indeed she seemed totally incapable of uttering a word, when they got her to the house she drank a few spoonfulls of milk, which somewhat revived her, but her voice was still so weak they were unable to distinguish what she said, and her eyes too plainly indicated that her mind was disturbed, the good woman of the house had her put immediately to bed, and Isaac the labourer came home to let his master and

mistress know were their daughter was. When he told the melancholy tale, Mrs. Howard clasped her hands and cried, my child deprived of her senses! she had not time for more, for Mr. Howard had fallen on the floor in a fit. I cannot account for this violent emotion in a man, who had ne|ver shewn any great degree of tenderness towards his child, but I think I never saw the fondest parent more affected.

When the family became tolerably com|posed, it was proposed that I should take a chaise and proceed to the farm, when if Miss Howard was able to bear the motion of the carriage, I was to conduct her home; if not, to remain with her; and her mother would come to her in the morning. When I arrived at the farm, and was shewn into the room where my dear young lady was; my agitation was so great I thought I should have died; she had on being first put to bed fallen into a little doze, but soon started and awoke in great terror, and finding herself undressed, screamed out, "oh heavens! I am betrayed, I am lost, he is here; I know he is here, and I will not stay another mo|ment." She then insisted on being dressed. The neighbouring apothecary had been pre|viously sent for; he felt her pulse and de|clared that the disorder lay entirely on her

spirits; that every nerve seemed convulsed, and she also appeared to be greatly weaken|ed for want of proper sustenance. She was prevailed on to eat a bit of bread, and drink a little weak wine and water; after which she became a little more composed, and had sunk into a profound sleep on the side of the bed. In this situation I found her; the faithful Lubin laying on a chair that stood by the bed side, his head stretched out to the pillow of his mistress, whom he had not quitted for a moment since her entrance into the house. This dog had been missing ever since Miss Howard's absence, but our minds had been occupied by thoughts of so much more distressing a nature that Lubin was hardly remembered; he was greatly at|tached to her from her first return, and she remarkably fond of him. I sat down silent|ly on the side of the bed, and looked at her dear countenance which so lately wore the bloom of youth and the smile of innocent chearfulness: alas! how changed, deadly pale where her cheeks and lips, and only that I percieved she breathed, I should have thought she was no longer an inhabitant of this world; my tears flowed plentifully. Her sleep, tho' apparantly sound, was not of long continuance; she shrieked, awoke, and immediately started off the bed; I caught her hand, she turned hastily round. "Oh! it is

you 〈◊〉〈◊〉 is it, well now we will go. If you will accompany me, say so at once, if not I must go without you; for I cannot stay here another moment. But where is he now," looking wildly round her, "Who are you talking of my dear," said I, tender|ly. "Ah! there is the thing now, I thought you would want to know his name, but I cannot tell you nurse, so do not ask me; I have made a vow, a solemn sacred vow, ne|ver to wound the peace of my dear, adored, mother." "But my dear creature you have almost broken her heart by thus flying from her protection and your father." "Father," said she, "have I a father? Oh! that I had never been born." She then began to rave in a most incoherent manner, and de|clared she would not stay another moment in the house. I took this opportunity with the permission of the apothecary to convey her home: when the chaise stopped at the door she looked out, and clapping her hand to her forehead, cried "yes I see how it is, well, well, it will not be long before I am released, and till then, I must be patient." I assisted her in alighting, she leaned on my arm and walked slowly into the house; Mrs. Howard was so overcome she was unable to rise from her seat. Meriel looked for a moment at her attentively, then shaking her head in a most sorrowful manner, she

cried, "oh! I see I have afflicted you, but, alas! my own heart is overwhelmed with sorrow; and then when I think for a moment, there are some remembrances which must be ever buried in my heart, that torture me so, my brain seems on fire." Mrs. Howard attempt|ed to speak, but unequal to the task, she clasped her hands in an agony, and sobbed aloud: Meriel sunk on her knees before her, took both her hands, put them first to her head and then to her heart; and breath|ing a deep sigh, fell lifeless on the floor. We had her immediately conveyed to bed, where she soon recovered; but a violent fever come on, and she continued raving all night. Mr. Howard has not yet seen her, he says if the girl's spirits are in such perturbation, the sight of him, whom she must be conscious she has offended, would only irritate them more, when she is better I will see her, said he, and forgive her, that will calm and com|fort her.

A physician was sent for; he said quiet and tenderness from those about her are the chief things requisite to restore her. In the mean time, my dear madam, said he, I will send her a composing draught; if when she recovers the use of her reason, you can pre|vail with her to unburthen her mind, which, I am certain labours with some painful se|cret,

it would greatly assist and hasten her recovery.

Thus far, my dear Miss, have I given you an account of this mysterious affair. What to think of her sudden departure, and being found in such a shocking situation, we are all totally at a loss. It appears she has been terrified and extremely ill used by somebody; but even in the most violent paroxisms of her delirium, she has never mentioned his name. I have one thought that haunts me continually; but that is so horrible I dare not commit it to paper. Indeed, it is too dreadful, too shocking to human nature, to wear even the face of probability.

The medicines prescribed have taken the desired effect, and she has been in a composed sleep above three hours. I will not conclude till I can inform you how she appears on awaking, as I know your affection for her will make you extremely anxious.

She awoke tolerably calm, instantly recol|lected where she was, but did not seem to retain any idea of the late unhappy events. "It is late, nurse," said she, addressing her|self to me "is it not time to get up," then pausing a moment, "I have had such a hor|rid dream. Oh! I would not pass such an|other

night:" she then attempted to rise; but finding herself extremely weak, she con|tinued, "what is the matter; have I been ill?" "Yes, my love," said I, "you have been very ill, and are far from well now." "Then perhaps it was not a dream," said she, putting her hand to her forehead, as if try|ing to recollect; she was silent for a few mo|ments, then caught hold my hand, and bursting into tears, she cried, "alas! it was all a reality."

I did not attempt to stop her tears, as I thought they would relieve her. She asked for her mother; seemed pleased to see her, but was too weak to talk much. The physician has just seen her, and declares her in a fair way to do well. I hope, Miss, you will excuse all errors in this long letter, as I thought you would be anxious to know all the particulars, I have dwelt on the sub|ject more than perhaps was necessary, but will now no longer intrude.

I am, dear Miss, Your very humble servant, DEBORAH ELLIS.

LETTER VIII. MERIEL to CELIA.

Woodbine Cot, Sept. 10th, 1775.

ONCE more, my beloved Celia, I am permitted to address you; but I will not address you in the voice of complaint, because I might have been far more wretch|ed than I am. Much gratitude is therefore due to that benignant power, who has pro|tected me through many dangers, and saved me from an evil which I could hardly have endured and lived. My senses too are re|stored, my life preserved by almost a mira|cle; and shall I, surrounded by these marvel|ous blessings, dare to repine because I do not enjoy that tranquility of heart which young women of my age and fortune in general pos|sess. I do not repine; I submit to the chas|tening hand of heaven, I hope with that pa|tience, which is the Christian's duty. I do not even presume to enquire, why these things are permitted; but yet my heart bleeds with my recent afflictions, and would fain

seek ease by pouring forth its sorrows to that dear friendly girl, who will pity and sooth them. You must, long ere this, have re|ceived Deborah's letter, which has no doubt filled you with amazement. It is my sad task to explain to you the mystery that inve|lopes my conduct. To no other person breathing will I unfold my labouring heart: no, not even to kind hearted Deborah, or my my dear suffering mother: but to you, Celia, to you whose thoughts are detached from the world, to you who will consider this con|fidence as sacred: to you I will venture to disclose a scene, the remembrance of which, even at this moment, chills the vital tide that nourishes my heart. But you, my gentle friend, well I know, tho' struck with horror at the tale I shall unfold, will join with me in offering to the throne of grace, fervent prayers for the author of my sorrows. "Oh thou Father, creator of the universe, look down upon him, pardon his manifold of|fences, touch his heart that he may see his errors, and oh! of thy infinite mercy, blot this last transgression from the book of life." This is my daily prayer—but to proceed in my sad task:

The day my mother went into Essex I felt my spirits unusually oppressed, I rode out in the afternoon with my father, he

was extremely gay in his conversation, in|deed, I thought too much so, as he treated some subjects with a levity which greatly shocked me, and some expressions escaped him which wounded my delicacy, but this did not so much surprise me as he had fre|quently indulged himself in very improper conversation, not only before me, but other young women, who visited at the house, for which my mother always reproved him, but he in general turned it off with a laugh. However, as I had no person with me in the chaise, his manner was extremely embaras|sing, nay even distressing, for he saluted me several times, told me he was afraid of shew|ing much affection to me before my mother, who in her heart hates me; but, that if I was a good girl, he would not care for my mother, but shew me every kindness in his power; that I should go where I pleased, and do whatever my inclinations led me to. As|tonished at this conversation, I hardly knew what to answer, and was extremely glad when we got home. I would have retired immediately to my appartment, but he in|sisted on my staying to sup with him, saying he had ordered a chicken on purpose for me. I reluctantly complied. During supper he drank very freely and would have had me drink several glasses of wine; which as I was unaccustomed to I resolutely refused. When

I had supped he would have me play him a tune, after which he sung a song more adapt|ed to the taste of a libertine than the chaste ears of a daughter. At ten o'clock I retired, and, tho' greatly surprized at my father's con|duct, yet having nothing particularly heavy on my mind, I soon fell asleep, I never had been used to lock my door, and you may imagine my terror when being awoke by a noise in the room, I felt a man's hand take hold of mine; I gave a faint scream, fright deprived me of much power, but how were my fears increased, when I heard my father say, "hush! don't make a noise, it is only me." "You, sir," I replied, starting up, "and what can be the cause of your coming here." I cannot remember his answer, Celia, but I know he caught me in his arms. I sprang from 〈◊〉〈◊〉 with a violent effort, and quitting the bed, the darkness of the night befriended me and I rushed out of the room into Deborah's chamber. After this I kept my apartment for several days, nor did I intend to have left it again till my mother's return, pretending indisposition; but he wrote me a letter, in which he asserted that he had mistaken my chamber for the house|maid's, with whom he confessed he had an intrigue. Oh Celia! what a humaliating con|fession from a father to a child, sure none but an unprincipled rake could have brought

himself to make it. He begged I would not mention the circumstance to my mother, and promised amendment in future. Alas! I was deceived by this letter and again ven|tured down to my meals. The day Deborah had leave to go out I spent the chief part be|low, he was remarkably reserved in his be|haviour, and seemed even indifferent and inattentive to me, scarcely speaking the whole day. At supper I drank as usual one glass of wine and then retired; I felt an unaccount|able drowsiness come over me; but it had been a storm all the evening, and the almost incessant flashes of lightning, with distant rumbling thunder, prevented my indulging it. I had partly undressed myself and was sitting on the side of the bed endeavouring to compose myself, (for I am greatly terri|fied at lightning,) when the door opened, and my father entered; he immediately shut the door and turned the key. To describe my horror is impossible, or to give you the most distant idea of the scene that ensued; but never to the latest hour I have to breathe, will it be erased from my memory. My re|peated screams were of no avail. Deborah was from home, and the other maids slept too far off to hear me. Oh! how often did I wish that the vivid lightning, which every moment illumined the room, would strike me dead. At length a most tremendous clap

of thunder burst as it were directly over us. It ennerved, even the arm of hardened guilt, but it encouraged me. I seized the oppor|tunity to fling open the window and declare, if he did not instantly quit my chamber, I would throw myself out, and seeing a pen|knife lay on the window seat, I snatched it up: "come not near me, sir," said I, "for the moment you lay your hand upon me, this shall put an end to your existence." my fury which had wrought me almost to a state of frenzy, intimidated him. "Be pati|ent, Meriel," said he, "shut the window and get into bed, you will catch your death with cold." "Better be dead," said I, "than live with dishonour." "I swear," he replied, "by all that is sacred, if you will go quietly to bed I will quit the room immediately."

"You shall quit it instantly," said I, in a menacing accent; "am I not your child, and do you dare invade the virtue it is your duty to protect?" Celia, I felt at that moment as tho' I could have encountered almost any thing; that I could have bared my bosom to the stroke of death, and even met the blow with thankfulness; he saw my increasing frenzy, and trembling unlocked the door and left the room. The moment he was gone I locked myself in, and over|come with horror and distress, fell almost life|less

on the bed: how long I continued in this state of torpor I cannot tell; but the first use I made of my returning senses was to think of escaping from the house, and in this I was resolutely determined, when I heard him again at the door demanding ad|mission: the candle was now gone out, and the window still open; the thought was mo|mentary: I formed no plan for support, nor even thought of a place where to seek an asylum; but, starting up, I pulled the sheets off the bed, and, undressed as I was, slipped by them into the garden. How I es|caped, unhurt, heaven alone can tell: the moment I felt myself on the ground I thank|ed God for my deliverance, and going out of the back garden gate, ran as fast as my strength would permit, as I imagined, to|ward a neighbouring villages but as the day began to dawn, I found I had taken a wrong road, and was at the entrance of a large wood; I was afraid to return, lest I should meet my father; therefore, forcing my way into the thickest part, I found a little hovel, which had been made by some unfortunate wanderer, of branches and dry leaves: into this poor shelter I crept, and here first discovered that my faithful Lubin was with me. The little affectionate animal crept close up to me, licking my hands and face, as tho' 〈◊〉〈◊〉 wished to comfort me; in

this situation, my cloaths wet, my spirits harrassed, and nature overcome, I sunk into a slumber. But here I must drop my pen, for memory no longer bears any traces of the ensuing scenes, till I awoke in my own bed and saw Deborah weeping by my side. Farewell, I will write again soon.

MERIEL,

LETTER IX. MERIEL to CELIA.

Woodbine Cot, Sept. 20th, 1775.

MY lot is hard, Celia, very hard; but I endeavour to keep up my spirits, as well as I am able, and conduct myself in such a manner as my own heart may acquit me.

When I was quite recovered from my ill|ness, my mother called me one day into her

dressing-room and assured me, she would par|don my elopement, on condition I would in|form her of the cause, and by what means I came in the shocking situation already de|scribed. You may be certain I felt myself greatly agitated, as I knew I could not give this dear parent the satisfaction she required, without planting a dagger in her heart. In|deed, my friend, I cannot but feel thankful, that in my frenzy I did not discover the whole horrid secret, as it would have only involv|ed us all in much greater distress than we experience at present.

I remained silent to my mother's question, but could not restrain my tears. She repeat|ed it; conjuring me, in the most solemn manner, not to trifle with her, but to tell her what urged me to desert my home and friends.

"Oh! my dear mother," said I, "do not ask, indeed I cannot tell you. Suffer me to be silent on this subject; and, in every fu|ture action of my life, I will implicitly obey you." "I fear, Meriel," said my mother, "you have some unworthy reasons for this concealment: tell me, then, who advised you to this imprudent step, and who accompanied you in your flight?" "No one," said I, "the resolution was hastily formed, and as ha|stily

executed; but I had no adviser, no com|panion, nor do I think I ever went farther than the wood, where I was discovered."

"Meriel! Meriel!" said my mother, "I cannot believe you. It appears altogether improbable, that a young woman, without any apparent cause, should form a hasty re|solution of running away; that she should chuse a tempestuous night to make her escape, without a companion, and hide herself in a wood with a design to starve herself to death. Tell me, child, and tell me sincere|ly, did you not once love Pringle?" "I thought I did, but it was a mistake of the heart."

"I fear, Meriel, that mistake has led to your ruin: he certainly accompanied you in your flight, and my child is lost to honour and to virtue. Is not this the cause of your obstinate silence: do you not fear that the villain, whom in your heart you still love, should be brought to answer for his inhu|man desertion of you."

"Oh! no my dear mother," said I, re|doubling my tears, "indeed you wrong me, I never entertained a thought that I should blush to own, and if it was my last moment, I could, with safety to my conscience, de|clare

that neither Mr. Pringle, nor any of his family knew of my going away."

"Strange infatuation," said she, angrily, "to assert such falsehoods. Oh Meriel! I had hoped better from you; but I am sorry to say, in this instance, I can place no confi|dence in your veracity." Here my father entered the room, and would you believe it possible, Celia, he repeated to me every ques|tion which my mother had asked before. Asto|nishment riveted my tongue. I could not answer. My silence was accounted obstina|cy, and my dear mother left me with these cruel words: "Dissembling, obstinate girl, I can never love you as I once did, though I will strive to forgive you."

My father scarcely now ever speaks to me, and seems in his heart to hate me, as he takes every opportunity in his power of mortifying me; construes my most innocent actions into faults, and is continually com|plaining to my mother of my indolence, and sulkiness, as he inhumanely terms that want of vivacity, for which he so well knows how to account. This ill humour I could bear patiently, but my mother's unkindness is worse than a dagger to my heart. I live in greater solitude than ever; I never go out, and when any company comes to the family,

I in general retire to my own room; for my feelings are often hurt by the ignorant, I had almost said inhuman questions, that are asked me by people who have no other inte|rest in my fate, than as it serves to gratify their curiosity. Next week I expect my bro|ther home from school; he does not return again, but is to be articled apprentice to a merchant in London. I shall not be sorry when he is gone, for I expect to suffer great|ly from his unfeeling taunts. Oh! Celia, heaven and you know how little I deserve them; and that thought shall be my comfort and support. Adieu my friend.

MERIEL.

LETTER X. MERIEL to CELIA.

London, December 19th, 1775.

YOU are, no doubt surprized to see from whence this letter is dated, and you will be much more so, when I inform you of the great change that has taken place in our circumstances, some little time after I last wrote to you, as I was sitting in my own room, indulging the most painful ideas, I heard a great confusion below, and, among the rest, my mother's voice repeatedly screaming for help. I ran down stairs into the parlour, from whence the noise proceed|ed, and on entering saw two ill looking men, one of which had seized my father by the collar, and the other was assisting to drag him away. "What is the matter," said I, to the men, "what are you doing with my father?" "Oh! we will do him no harm," said one of them: "he must only come away with us to my house, at Litchfield, till he has

paid five hundred pounds." "Five hun|dred pounds," said I, "why, dear madam," turning to my mother, "to whom does my father owe so much money." "Oh child!" said he, "your mother knows nothing about the affair, I not only owe that, but three times the sum; we are inevitably ru|ined, and all by my own folly. I have been bound for a friend of mine, a young man, at Litchfield, who is gone off, and I shall have all his debts to discharge." My poor mother sat weeping; and, on hearing this account, lifted up her eyes in speechless agony. I could not bear to see her distress. "It is a large sum to be sure gentlemen," said I, "but it shall be paid, so let my father remain, and do you go away for to night; to-morrow we will send you the money." Alas! Celia, how very little I knew of the world. The inhuman men laughed at me, and asked me, "when I ever heard of bailiffs letting go their prisoner on the bare word of a girl." "If you will not take my word," said I, "leave my fahter and take me, for it will break my dear mother's heart to have him carried to prison; but, as to me, it matters not what becomes of me." "That won't do neither, Miss," said they, "we must either have the money or take the gentle|man away." Alas!" said I, turning to my mother, "what can I do? they will not re|lease

him." No my child," said my mother, with more affection in her voice than I had heard for some time, "we must submit as patiently as we can till to-morrow, and then see what can be done. My father went away cursing his evil genius. Why will peo|ple, Celia, when they bring misfortune on their own heads, rail at fate; yet you will find it always the case, and the more egre|grious have been their errors, the more ve|hement their compalints.

When they were gone, I exerted myself to console my mother, but her only answer was, "Ah Meriel! what will become of us, I see ruin approaching; I know of no way to avoide it, and my poor boy, what will he do." "Let me intreat you my dear mo|ther," said I, "not to let this accident thus distress you: can you suppose, that while I have the means of living in ease and comfort, I would suffer my parent or my brother to feel any embarrassment, which it is in my pow|er to remove. Did I not solemnly promise the dear departed saint, who made me thus independant, never to forsake you?"

"But alas! Meriel, have you not already broke that vow?" "Dear, dear madam, for|give, forget, that involuntary transgression; and believe me, there never was a heart that

glowed with more filial love, or greatful ten|derness, than mine does towards you. My fortune is your's, I will share it with you and my brother to the last shilling; nay to con|vince you of my sincerity, I would freely re|nounce it all, and depend on my labour for support." My mother was affected, but it was only for a moment, she again assumed a look of coldness, and told 〈◊〉〈◊〉 she feared I often suffered the warmth of my imagina|tion to hurry me into expressions and pro|mises, the nature of which I did not duly consider. She then bid me good night and left me.

Grieved to be thought so very unwor|thy, by the person on earth I most loved, most wished to see happy, I could take no rest all night. As soon as day-light appear|ed I arose, and dressing myself as plain as possible, borrowing a black bonnet of De|borah, I determined to set out for Litchfield on foot; but, fearing my mother might be alarmed at my absence, I left a note inform|ing her, in a few words, that I was gone to endeavour to prove myself worthy of her love. During my walk I revolved in my mind what steps to pursue. Mr. Sutten was joint guardian with my father: I had no doubt he had been sent for on account of the arrest, and hoped to prevail on him to

advance sufficient money to make my poor mother easy in her mind. I therefore deter|mined to go immediately to the house of the bailiff, and learn at whose suit my father had been arrested. From thence I would go to the creditor and endeavour to prevail with him to take half the money now, and the rest when I became my own mistress, which, according to Mrs. Mirvan's will, was to be at eighteen years old. Here busy reflection arose, and told me how very unworthy of my attention my father was, but he is my father still, said I, and tho' he has forgotten his duty towards me, it does not follow that I am to neglect mine to him: besides, reli|gion teaches us to reward evil with good; and surely, if there is any way of awakening the person who injures us, to a sense of their guilt, it is by shewing them an example of christian charity, and good will; besides, my mother and brother have not injured me, and why should they suffer for the vices of my father? Occupied by these reflections, I entered Litchfield, and went directly to the bailiff's house. My father was not up; in|deed I did not wish to see him if he had, so I only made the necessary enquiries, learnt who the creditor was, and proceeded direct|ly to the street where he lived. Mr. Leeson is a man, who, for many years, served a no|bleman in London, as I have been told, tho'

in what capacity, I never heard. In his ser|vice, he accumulated a considerable fortune, and married a lady, a particular friend of his lordship's. Soon after he procured a pen|sion, with which he came down to Litchfield, the place of his lady's birth, where he is now reckoned a very great man. This was the person who had occasioned my father's impri|sonment. On knocking at the door a servant appeared yawning, and examining my dress with a scrutinizing eye, asked what I wanted. "I wish too see Mr. Leeson," said I, "on particular business." "Humph," said the fellow, standing with his back against the wall, his hands in his breeches pockets, "you must wait a good while before you can see him, for he is not up yet." "Pray friend," said I, "give me leave to go in and sit down till your master does get up." "You may go down stairs," said he, "if you will, and when master is stirring, I will let you know."

Humiliating, as it was, I went down stairs, sat down by the kitchen fire and dried my feet, which were wet, some rain having fal|len in the night; my petticoat was also plashed with dirt. About nine o'clock, a spruce young woman, in a long white bed|gown, came into the kitchen, and looking at me with a sort of contemptuous sneer,

cries, "servant ma'am, pray who may you want?" Imagining, from her appearance, and the manner in which she put the ques|tion, that she might be some relation of the family, I rose from my seat, and an|swered I had business of much importance with Mr. Leeson. "Aye Mrs. Bridget," cried a footman, who was cleaning some sil|ver candlesticks, at the dresser; "when my lady's bell rings, you must let master know, this here young body has been waiting here ever since eight o'clock." A young lass, in appearance a menial servant, now appeared, and spreading a fine napkin on the table, brought the breakfast things, toasted some oat cakes, and Mrs. Bridget and Mr. James sat very comfortably down to breakfast; but during their repast, neither asked me if I would partake, tho' they endeavoured to gratify their curiosity, by asking, how far I had walked, if I had been long in the country, and many other questions, equally imperti|nent and insignificant; to all which I an|swered in little more than monosyllables. At length the bell rang, and Mrs. Bridget making a hasty finish of her breakfast, ran up stairs: soon after, the footman having equip'd himself as a valet, went out of the kitchen. I was now once more lest to my|self, but had not indulged reflection long, before the girl, who had prepared the break|fast,

came and sat down, in order to eat her own. She pour'd out two cups of tea, got up and held the oat cake (which was almost cold) to the sire, then casting a look, first at me, then at the table, in a mild accent, as tho' fearful of giving offence, said, "I am afraid you have not breakfasted ma'am; pray eat a bit, and take this cup of tea," hoiding the plate and tea towards me. "Mrs. Bridget is very proud ma'am, and Mr. James does nothing but what he thinks she will like; but I thinks your London folks are all proud; they serves only to make places uncomfortable. Do ma'am take it; I wish it was hotter and better." "It is very good," said I, taking a bit; for the poor girl's goodness of heart was so conspi|cuous that I could not mortify her by a re|fusal. She smiled, began drinking her own tea, and continued: "Mr. James was quite a different sort of a body, I assures you ma'am before he went to London last summer with my mistress; dear heart, he and I were so comfortable and happy, but when they came home my lady brought Mrs. Bridget with her, and ever since"—She paused; I saw her eyes glisten. Poor girl, thought I, James is false hearted, he has forsaken thee for Bridget; and yet, if he had but discern|ment to perceive the difference between the two hearts, how gladly would he return to

one so gentle and tender. Here I was in|terrupted by Mr. James himself, who told me his master desired me to walk up. I bade the kind hearted girl good morning, and followed James into the presence of his master.

"Well, young woman," said Mr. Lee|son, who was standing with his back to the fire, and his hands behind him. (Celia I must here digress to give you some small idea of his person and manner.) A person rather above the middle size, a face, the fea|tures of which, might have been termed regular, and even pleasing, had benevolence, good humour or politeness been any way discernable in it, instead of which there was an insolent pertness, a supercilious, self-ap|proving smile, that to my idea portrayed nothing but ignorance, pride and conceit.

"Well, young woman," said he, "what may be your commands with me."

"You are sir, I understand, the person who has caused Mr. Howard to be arrested." He answered in the affirmative.

"I waited on you, sir, to make some pro|posal concerning this affair, in hopes of be|ing the means of his obtaining his liberty."

"What, do you belong to Mrs. Bel|mour?"

"Belong to who sir?" in an accent of surprize.

"To Mrs. Belmour; the woman for whom Howard has thus involved him|self."

"I understood, sir, that he was bound for a friend."

"Well child, she was his friend, my friend, any body's friend: why sure you know her."

"Indeed, sir, I never heard of her be|fore: I am Mr. Howards daughter."

"Bless my soul! Mr. Howard's daugh|ter, are you; well I have often heard of you, tho' I never had the pleasure of seeing you before. I remember hearing of that strange affair of your running away after En|sign Pringle, and when he refused to have any thing to say to you, being afraid to go home again, you hid yourself in a wood, and went out of your senses."

Celia, can you for a moment suppose what, at that instant, were my feelings; un|able any longer to support myself I sunk in|to the nearest chair, (for I had been kept standing) and burst into tears.

"'Pon honour, Miss," said he, "I beg pardon, I did not mean to make you uneasy; but when one hears such strange stories, one likes, you know, to come at the truth: 'pon my soul I wish I had been in Pringles place, I should not have driven such a pretty little kind soul to dispair."

During this speech he had drawn nearer to me and had taken one of my hands, which I drew from him with disdain. "Sir," said I, with as much composure as I could assume, "you have been totally misinformed about that unhappy affair; and, pardon me, if I say, that it can be no business of your's, to enquire, what were the motives of a conduct, which, I find, has cast a fatal shade upon my reputation; I do not think myself accounta|ble for my actions, to you or any other in|different person: it is sufficient that heaven and my own heart acquits me of evil. I came here, Mr. Leeson, to consult about the liberation of my father; let me know on what terms that can be obtained, and I am ready to comply with them.

"He cannot be liberated Miss, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 "without the debts being discharg•• costs of suit being paid." "Well, to how much does that amount."

"To five hundred and twenty po 〈◊〉〈◊〉

"Well, sir, if I pay you three 〈◊〉〈◊〉 now, and bind myself by the most 〈◊〉〈◊〉 engagement to pay the other when eighteen, will you set Mr. Howard at 〈◊〉〈◊〉."

"There is the interest of the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Miss, and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the hazard, this money 〈◊〉〈◊〉 all 〈◊〉〈◊〉 out of my own 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Miss, and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 only a minor you 〈◊〉〈◊〉

"I find, sir," said I, rising from my 〈◊〉〈◊〉 "that I am totally unfit to talk on these 〈◊〉〈◊〉, being but little acquainted with 〈◊〉〈◊〉 world, or what is daily acting in it; I 〈◊〉〈◊〉 therefore take my leave, for the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and return in about two hours with 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Sutten, my guardian, who will better un|derstand how to settle the affair."

I now returned to the bailiff's house where I learnt Mr. Sutten was with my fa|ther. I desired that he might be informed I was there, and wished to speak with him; but

I must give you the result of our conversation in my next, as I have many things to attend to besides writing to my Celia. Ah! my dear girl, times are strangely altered, but, I thank heaven, I have health and more spirits than could be well expected after the painful scenes I have gone through; but no doubt I may have many more trials yet to endure. Pray for me, my friend, that I may have strength of mind to bear them as I ought, so as not to disgrace the religion of which I am a professor; and be assured, that every kind wish of my heart is daily offered up for your felicity; and that the remembrance of the happy, happy hours we have spent together, is ever present to the mind of your

MERIEL.

LETTER XI. MERIEL to CELIA.

London, January 3d, 1776.

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."

"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."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

some account of my entertainment when|ever I go. Till then, and ever, believe me affectionately your's.

MERIEL.

LETTER XII. MERIEL to CELIA.

London, March 3d, 1776.

I NEVER shall get used to the ways of London, and I am always bringing my|self into difficulties, and foolish embarras|ments, through my ignorance; then my mother is angry, and what in reality pro|ceeds from simplicity of my nature, is con|strued into art or levity.

I have been fretting these two hours about a circumstance that has highly of|fended

my dear mother; and, I am sure, Celia, I did it without a thought of harm. I had been out a little way yesterday, and was returning in the close of the evening, when I heard a very genteel looking elderly gentleman enquiring the way to a street which lay in my way home; the person whom he addressed could not direct him, and I, unconscious of any impropriety, step|ped forward and told him, as it lay in my way, I would shew him the place he enquir|ed for: he seemed much obliged to me, and said, "as we were going the same way I might as well take hold of his arm;" but this, as he was quite a stranger, I refused to do; however, I could not help answering some civil questions, which he asked, and when we arrived at the street he had men|tioned, he insisted on seeing me safe home: this I remonstrated against, saying, be|sides giving him unnecessary trouble, it would make my mother very angry with me. At this he declared he knew my mo|ther very well, and he was not at all afraid of her anger, as he was certain it lay 〈◊〉〈◊〉 his power to appease it. I was surprised, you may imagine, and indeed very uneasy all the rest of the way, as I knew how offended my mother would be, at seeing a stranger come home with me. When the servant opened the door he walked in without any

ceremony, and going into the parlour which was occupied by the gentlewoman who keeps the house, he thus addressed her, "Servant, my good madam, your lovely daughter here, having kindly given me an invitation home, I flatter myself we shall spend a chearful evening, and you and I, my good mother, shall not disagree, I war|rant." Mrs. Fermor stared, and I felt rea|dy to fink into the earth.

"You are under a mistake, sir," said I, "pray leave me." "What, leave you, my little dove, when you have been so very kind, no, no! hardly such a fool as that; come mother, what shall I order in for sup|per, and what wine will you drink?" "Miss Howard," said Mrs. Fermor, "I am over|whelmed with astonishment; how have you dared to bring this gentleman here to in|sult me?" "Indeed madam," I replied, ter|rified beyond measure, "I am innocent of any intention to offend you; this gentle|man"—"Why, I can tell the tale as well as you my pretty one," said he, interrupt|ing me: "you must know, madam, I was coming into Westminster, and did not right|ly know my way, so, this pretty, kind heart|ed damsel was so good as to shew me, that is all, ma'am and so in return, I am only grateful, and would willingly treat you with

good supper, and as far as ten guineas would go."

At this moment my father came in, and seeing me stand trembling in the parlour, a fresh scene of confusion insued, which ended in the whole family believing I had invited the old gentleman home with me, merely out of levity, and as Mrs. Fermor called it, an indiscreet frolic. You may suppose how rigorous my mother was, how angry my fa|ther; for tho' in his heart, he has not the least regard for real virtue he always pre|tends great attention to my conduct, and this evening declared he would rather follow me to the grave than see me lost to honour.

Oh! Celia, how my soul detests his hy|pocrisy. It gives me great uneasiness to find just as my mother began to have a better opinion of me, I have again lost her confi|dence; am again abridged of my walks, and at home see only the frown of displeasure, sit on that face which once beamed on me the smile of maternal tenderness.

My brother is at length settled in an emi|nent merchants counting-house; I have en|gaged myself to pay the necessary 〈◊〉〈◊〉 when I am put in possession of my fortune, and, to tell you the truth, Celia I am resolved to

stay in my father's family no longer than that time; but, by some genteel employment' endeavour to earn subsistence for myself as I am determined not to deprive my mo|ther of support, by taking the money into my own hands.

March 5th.

My aunt has just called, and after a great deal of persuasion, has prevailed with my mother to let me go to the play to-morrow evening; I am to go out this afternoon with my cousins, to purchase some few articles of dress necessary to my appearing at a public place, as my aunt always takes my cousins to the most conspicuous part of the theatre. Well, it will be of little consequence to me, where we sit; I go to see and not to be seen, I wish to be amused myself, but have not the least ambition to be the amusement of others, either from my person, dress or manner.

Well, Celia, had I ever been vain of my person, I should now be perfectly cured of so ridiculous a vanity; but it is happy for me, that I never thought my face more than passable; and as to my shape, I knew it had not the smallest pretentions to either grace or elegance; and, by having this humble opinion, I have escaped a severe mortifica|tion;

for you know, my Celia, the severest reflections loose their force, when we can listen to them with good humour, and re|turn an answer with a smile.

I accompanied my aunt and cousins to a milliner's; Mr. Rainsforth and young Mos|sop were of the party. I am astonished how young men can suffer themselves to be dragged as it were to such places, and have the patience to listen to a tedious deserta|tion on gauzes, ribbons, lace and a hundred other trifles, almost below the notice of a ra|tional being. But, if I was surprised at that, how much more was I to see a parcel of powdered effeminate animals, for I will not call them men, stuck up behind a counter, measuring a peny-worth of tape or a smaller quantity perhaps; telling you with the gra|vity of a philosopher, that such a ribond become your delicate complexion; such a cap set off your features to advantage, &c. And, will you believe it possible, that one morning being in a perfumer's shop, I saw an officer in the army, purchasing chicken gloves, violet powder and cold cream, aye, and for his own use too, for the master in|formed me he had neither wife nor sister, to whom such things might have been of use.

Well, to the milliner's we went, where Hester and Susan having chosen their caps. I was pleased with the choice of the fomer, and said I would have one like it. "Lord, my dear," said my aunt, "how can you think of such a thing, pretty women you know may wear any thing, but those that are plain should study what will most be|come them." "Aye," cried young Mos|sop, "my cousin to be sure should not wear any thing that atrtacts general notice." "Here," said Susan, "here Meriel, is a ve|ry pretty cap, I think it will become you vastly." It was etremely plain, having no ornament but a knott of white sattin ribbon.

"You are quite right, cousin," said I, "this cap will certainly suit me best. I never love to be fine, and what will be becoming on you, will only appear an af|fectation of finery on me." I said this with a smile, as I tried on the cap. Mr. Rains|forth told my aunt he thought true beauty required few ornaments. "Come, come, you rally," said she, "you can't think Me|riel handsome." He made no answer, but smiling, sung the following stanza, which, as it contained a delicate compliment, you will pardon me if I here repeat it.

She is not fair, but yet I swear, To me she has ev'ry grace, Her lovely mind I always find, Depicted in her face.

But, my Celia will say my letters begin to be very insipid, when I can find no other theme than the repetition of my own praise. Forgive me, dear girl, this time, I will be careful how I offend again.

March 7th.

My entertainment last night, exceeded my most sanguine expectations; the house, the lights, the brilliant and numerous audi|ence, on my first entrance, filled me with silent astonishment; but my cousins declare they never will go to the play with me again, for at the pathetic and interesting parts, I could not conceal my emotion. It was Jane Shore. Long did I struggle to suppress my tears; the effort was vain, and when in the last scene, they drag the just reconciled husband from the arms of his dying wife, the half smothered sobs burst forth, and I fell back in an hysteric. You cannot think, how I was laughed at, and my cousins declare they were so shocked at my behaviour, that they shall be ashamed to shew their faces at the play|house again this season. "One would think

child," said my aunt, in a peevish tone, as I began to recover, "you never had seen a play in your life before." "Well, you know I never did," said I, aloud. This compleat|ed my disgrace, and my aunt turning toward the stage, noticed me no more the whole evening.

I think if I were to go again, I should like to sit in some unnoticed corner, where I could give sensibility the reins, and whilst I wept the woes of those whose sorrows now rest in the silent grave, I would so mould my heart, as it should be ever ready to par|take and alleviate the afflictions of those who still move on the busy stage of life.

One thing, my cousins informed me of, which considerably damped my pleasure during the evening. They said, that many of the beautiful, elegant women, whom I saw in the boxes, were the slaves of vice, and purchased the gaudy trappings, by which they were adorned, by the wages of guilt; and that (but I can hardly think it possible) some of them are so lost to every sense of vir|tue, that they come to those public places with no other view than to attract new lovers; and what is still worse, that in a few years; nay, perhaps even in a few months, I may see those lovely blooming women walking the streets,

subject to the insults of every brutal passenger, and sinking into an untimely grave, under the complicated evils of poverty, sickness and disgrace. I felt my eyes fill as Hester con|cluded; and do you not pity them, said I: "La! cousin," said she, "you are the strang|est girl; you make one laugh to see you now, with that long dismal face, talking about pity for such wretches." "Perhaps," said I, "they had no friend to teach them better, and surely, tho' we may shudder with detestation at their vices, humanity still leads us to pity their sufferings." "You are as old fashioned in your notions, Meriel," said my aunt, who had overheard as, "as you are in your dress and manner. You will know better child when you have seen a lit|tle more of the world." I must now quit my pen to assist in some necessary domestic business. Believe me, Celia, there is no pleasure so agreeable as writing to you.

MERIEL.

LETTER XIII. MERIEL to CELIA.

London, March 30th, 1776.

LAST night, having spent the evening with my father and mother, at my un|cle's; when we were coming home Mr. Rains|forth put a letter into my hand as he handed me into the coach: I could not well return it or I would, so was obliged to put it in my pocket; however, I resolved not to open it till I had first shewn it to my mother. When we got home, it was late, and all immediate|ly retired to bed. I will confess it cost me no little trouble to stiflle the curiosity that prompted me to open the letter. I put it in a drawer and turned the key; but, just then recollecting that I wanted something that was in that identical drawer, I unlocked it again, took up the letter, read the address, looked attentively if the wafer was dry; and after viewing it on every side near a dozen times,

resolution at length repelled curiosity, I re|turned it to the drawer and locked it again, without once recollecting why I had opened it the second time.

In the morning I waited till we had done breakfast, and then putting the letter into my mother's hand, said, "I hope, my dear ma|dam, this will convince you I would not wil|lingly be guilty of an impropriety, or have a concealment of this nature from my best friend." She took it with a cold look of sus|picion, and having read it, said "I suppose you know the contents." "Indeed I do not," was the reply. "You can guess, I imagine," said she; "no gentleman would have had the temerity to put a letter into a young la|dy's hand in such a clandestine manner, had he not been pretty certain that it would not be refused." "Good heavens!" said I, bursting into tears, "shall I never regain your confidence? Must every action, howe|ver innocent, be misconstrued or liable to suspicion." "Why Meriel," said she, "will you endeavour to persuade me, Mr. Rains|forth has never entertained you on the sub|ject of love." "If I may be believed ma|dam," said I, with a firm voice, "he never uttered a syllable to me that could be con|strued into more than common politeness." "Well, child, read the letter then, and tell

me your opinion of the contents." I fe•• my face glow as I cast my eye over the letter, which contained a profession of ardent affec|tion and an offer of his hand, if my father approved the union.

"You ask my opinion, dear mother," said I, "and I will candidly give it; I think Mr. Rainsforth a very amiable young man, from what little I have seen, but it is impos|sible that I can form any just idea of his cha|racter, from so short an acquaintance; If when upon a greater intimacy, I should find him in reality possessed of those valuable qualifications, honour and benevolence, and my father and yourself have no objection, I will not hesitate to confess, I could give him my hand, not only without reluctance, but with pleasure."

"But suppose, Meriel, your father should object." "If you, madam, should also dis|approve, I hope I know my duty too well to complain; since your knowledge of man|kind in general, must make you a much better judge of what will be really conducive to my happiness, than I can possibly be myself; however, madam, if such objections should arise, I hope you will inform me soon, that I may early begin to teach my heart a lesson which, some little time hence, I may find a

difficulty in making it obey." My mother made no answer, and soon after I left the room; in the afternoon Mr. Rainsforth cal|led; I felt the colour flush to my face: when he entered he glanced his eyes toward me; but I believe they brought him no intelli|gence concerning the reception his letter had met with. He had not been seated above ten minutes before my mother made some excuse to send me out of the room; I understood her perfectly, and was not in haste to return; in about an hour I was sent for to make tea, but it was the most unsocial meal I had ever partaken of, when Rains|forth was present: he was silent; I was embarrassed, and my father and mother, as is in general the case, spoke to each other but little. When tea was over he took his leave, when my father acquainted me I had his permission to recieve his addresses; said he believed him a man of honour, and, if his friends raised no objection to the union, he thought the sooner it was compleated the better. Does not this eagerness to dispose of me, shew how painful my presence is to him? Indeed I do not wonder at it, we sel|dom like to be much in company with those persons whom we are conscious of having injured.

And now, my dear Celia, you will per|haps wonder at my so readily listening to an offer of marriage from a man with whom I have so small an acquaintance, but indeed my situation at home is far from being agree|able. My mother's affections seem totally alienated from me, and lavished with redoub|led tenderness on my brother, who, I am sorry to say, repays it with ingratitude and disre|spect. He is continually teizing her for money, and tho' he is conscious there is no source from whence that money can pro|ceed, except from me, yet he is continually tormenting me by some ill natured trick or other. If we are in a mixed company, every word I utter is turned into ridicule. If I sit silent, then sister is studying something cle|ver to say; if I deliver my sentiments on any subject that excites my sensibility or venera|tion, then sister is going to turn a sentimen|tal actress, or a methodist preacher; even the respect I pay to my religious duties is an object of ridicule, in which my pretty cousins always join. If I express my dislike of cards, gadding, and its attendant scandal, and my love of retirement, study and domestic em|ployment, then he wonders what Mrs. Mir|van could mean by leaving me a fortune, who could be so well content with

— pounds three-score, For meat and books, nor ask for more.

To which my aunt often replies, aye, Meriel would make an excellent poor man's wife; and these expressions often escape them be|fore people, who think it degrading to be able to perform, for themselves, any of the necessary offices of life; and would blush to death were they supposed to know how to make or mend their own linen; for my own part, I cannot help thinking, if those fine ladies had a little more useful employ|ment on their hands, they would not have so much time to investigate and expose the actions of their neighbours.

You must imagine, my dear girl, that I lead but an uncomfortable kind of life; and Mr. Rainsforth always shews that attention to me, and takes my part, with such delicacy as must unavoidably awaken my gratitude, if not my affection; and believe me I now begin to feel the difference between a real attachment and the illusive wanderings of the heart. I know how to value the virtues of my lover, at the same time I feel a much stronger inclination to act in all things with that propriety as may render me respected. I feel now the true value of reputation, ho|nour and virtue, because I entertain a hope of

being one day united to a man, whose charac|ter would be injured by my want of either: and, oh! my Celia, what a blush of confusion often spreads my cheeks, when I reflect on the letters I wrote to Pringle; how do I shudder at the bare possibility of those letters one day coming to the eye of Mr. Rainsforth. Wrote, as they were, at a time when my imagination was so strongly tinctured with the style of the books I had been reading, that I almost involuntarily wrote the very sentiments which I had just embibed, with all the enthusiasm of romantic affection. Ah! Celia, those books drew very deceitful pictures of human life, their false colouring had raised my expectations and exalted my ideas, of love and friendship, far above any thing I can find in the little circle ac|quaintance I have formed. Perhaps those elevated sentiments and actions may be con|fined to people of an elevated sphere of life, for I never remember meeting with any hero or heroine of a story, but either were at first, or afterwards proved to be persons of rank and fortune: but those are people so far above me, I can never hope to form any acquaintance with them. I see them daily pass me in their carriages, surrounded with af|fluence, attended with respect; yet surely if I know my own heart, I do not envy them, except, when I think of the power they pos|sess

to cheer the poor wretch humbled by affliction, and to cause the broken heart to rejoice. Envy, did I say, oh! no, it is not envy, it is a sentiment I cannot find a name for, it is a wish to enjoy those transporting feelings myself, without taking from their felicity; it is an earnest desire to promote, not decrease, the happiness of every human being.

You, my Celia, secluded from the world, in devout retirement, can form but a faint idea of the many miseries with which this variegated world abounds. Yes, my friend, and there are pleasures too, but they are not in general suited to my taste. I hate a crowd; it may for a moment dazzle the senses, but it leaves no impression on the heart. In my opinion, we cannot experience real pleasure, if we are devoid of happiness; and of this I am certain, happiness can seldom be drawn from external objects, but is sure to dwell in the heart, conscious of performing its duty. That such happiness, may ever be your's and mine, prays your

MERIEL.

LETTER XIV. MERIEL to CELIA.

London, May 17th, 1776.

SINCE my last, few incidents have hap|pened, worthy the notice of my Celia, except that Mr. Rainsforth, being my de|clared lover, has astonished all my uncle's family. My mother says she is sure Hester and Susan are ready to burst with envy; I cannot think it. That dear woman has met with so many painful incidents, in her way thro' life, that her naturally amiable temper, is soured, and she views every thing with a jaundiced eye. My cousins seem highly delighted with the idea of an approaching wedding, and declare they will be my bride maids. They are mistaken in thinking the wedding will be so soon, Mr. Rainsforth be|ing obliged to join his ship, which belongs to the grand sleet at Spithead, and I rather wish to remain single till this summer's cruise

is past. If he returns safe, I need not tell you with what joy I shall fulfill my engagements: if not; if it be his fate to fall in the defence of his country, I will come to you my be|loved Celia, and become a pensioner in the convent for life. My religion will not per|mit me to take the veil; but my vow of celibacy will be as sincere, breathed from my own heart to the great Judge of all our actions, as tho' I made at the foot of the al|tar, surrounded by all the pomp of monkish superstition. Pardon me, my beloved friend, I mean no reflection on the religion you pro|fess. I think that it is not the form but the heart that is an acceptable sacrifice: and the soul that humbles itself before its Maker, and cries "pardon my numerous transgressions, I am but a worm before thee, the creature of thy infinite power: if thou shouldest for|sake me, who will dare to be my friend; dis|pose of me as in thy wisdom thou shalt think fit; I will not complain, but will take the lot appointed, with submission." That soul, my Celia, let its form of worship be what it may, will one day shine resplendent in the mansion of its Creator. Oh! with what rapture can we approach the throne of mercy, when with a heart overflowing with gratitude, we can say, in the words of our admired Pope:

Teach me to feel another's woe, To hide the fault I see; That mercy I to others show, That mercy shew to me.

But I know my Celia is as void of bigotry as she is of every other error.

As Mr. Rainsforth is now, I will not deny, the first object of my esteem, I must inform you of the reasons which have by degrees conspired to raise him thus in my opinion. The day after that mentioned in my last let|ter, I received one from him, a copy of which I have enclosed for your perusal, also my an|swer, and his second letter. After you have read them, I think you will not blame my partiality.

MERIEL.

LETTER XV. MR. RAINSFORTH to MISS HOWARD, (Enclosed in the foregoing.)

MADAM,

FROM a conversation I had lately with Mr. Howard, I find you have made your parents the confidants of a passion, which I hardly dared venture to disclose, even to the dear object who had excited it; and pardon me, if I say some peculiarities in the manner of both Mr. and Mrs. Howard, has been the cause of my not applying to them for leave to address their lovely daughter; nor in|deed, did I think it quite consonant with the idea of female delicacy, to apply for the pa|rents approbation, before I could flatter my|self that approbation would be entirely agree|able to the person, whose good will I am most solicitous to obtain.

I thank you a thousand times, dear, ami|able young lady, for the sweet hope you have authorised your father to give me; your conduct has, if possible, raised you in my esteem; and I look forward with a cer|tainty of felicity to the moment that shall unite us by indissoluble ties; for sure a wo|man who has so high a sense of filial duty, must ever retain a proper idea of the equally incumbent duties which will arise from the married state; her husband's honour will be safe in her hands; her children will look up to her as their friend, and blessings will at|tend her footsteps wherever she appears. Oh! beloved Miss Howard, my heart, that perfectly understands your virtues, exults in paying them the homage due. The simplici|ty of your manner first charmed me, and par|don me if I say, I saw not the charms of your person, till I had learnt to adore the good|ness of your heart; to guard that heart from every approaching evil, shall henceforth be my study: if you will favour me with a few lines from your own hand, to say you do not refuse me so charming a guardianship, and to confirm me in the hope of being not quite indifferent to you, it will be acknowledged as the highest obligation, by your faithful

FREDERIC RAINSFORTH.

LETTER XVI. MISS HOWARD to MR. RAINSFORTH.

SIR,

GRATITUDE will not suffer me long to remain silent or inattentive, to a letter, the contents of which, seem to breath only the spirit of sincerity; nor will I hesi|tate to confess, that the liberty my parents have granted is perfectly consonant with the feelings of my own heart. Every one who is honoured with the acquaintance of Mr. Rainsforth, must be sensible of his worth, and to find oneself the object of the tender|est esteem, to a truely worthy man, must cer|tainly awaken a degree of laudable pride, in a bosom not devoid of sensibility. Accept my sincerest thanks for the many obliging sentiments you have expressed in my favour, and give me leave to mention a few circum|stances with which you may be unacquainted,

but which, I think it highly proper, you should be informed of.

It is in general reported that I have four thousand pounds for my fortune. This re|port is false. I have only a fourth part of the sum. My godmother, Mrs. Mirvan, made the will in my favour, but with these restrictions; that I should never suffer my fa|mily to feel the necessities of life. At that time, Mr. Rainsforth, there was no prospect of their ever being reduced from a state of competency, to a dependence on their child; but such is the fluctuating state of human affairs, that this is exactly now the case. This state of depedence is extremely painful to me, and I am sure must be so to them. It is, therefore, my fixed determination, when I am of age, to settle the moiety of my for|tune on my mother. I am under engage|ments for my father at present to the amount of five hundred pounds, and the other five hundred must be appropriated to the use of my brother, during his clerkship, and to help him forward a little when that is ex|pired.

This disposition of my little fortune, may make a material difference in your plans of life for the future, and I thought it but right to inform you, that no interest of my

own, shall ever induce me to alter my reso|lution. If you think me still worthy of your attentions, I am your's. Do not smile at my frankness, I have not yet learnt to disguise the feelings of my heart. Do not hesitate to give a candid answer. If the union is not equally eligible with one, as it would have been with four thousand pounds, seek not to excuse yourself for withdrawing your addresses, I will not even require an apology for a conduct, to which I am certain, no|thing but the most powerful reasons, could have forced you.

I am, Sir, your friend and humble servant, MERIEL HOWARD.

LETTER XVII. MR. RAINSFORTH to MISS HOWARD.

SHALL I not chide you, my dear Miss Howard; shall I not tell you what I felt at the reception of your dear unkind let|ter. Dear it will ever be to my fond bosom, because in the sincerity of your language, I could read the affection of your heart. "Smile at your frankness;" how could you think of such a thing. No, I adore you for it, and surely the man who could despise a heart for its sincerity, deserves not to pos|sess so invaluable a blessing. May Miss How|ard never learn to disguise feelings which, chastened as they are, by honour and femi|nine delicacy, become an honour to the heart; but still I must chide. What could you think, when you say, "if the union is not equally eligible with one, as it would have been with four thousand pounds." Unkind Meriel, do you suppose millions could increase my love, or could they make

you more valuable. No, they could not; therefore, dispose of your fortune in any manner you shall think fit, give me only yourself, and I shall think I possess a jewel, which worlds could not purchase.

I am every day expecting orders to join the fleet. Will you, my dear Miss Howard, par|don my impatience, if I wish to call you mine before these orders arrive. I shall have a thousand doubts and fears if I leave you be|fore we are irrevocably united. Perhaps some one more worthy; Oh! forgive my suspicions, but who can love and not fear to lose the object of their fondest hopes. Me|thinks could I once call you mine, the thought would inspire me with courage. Should I be called into action against the ene|my of my country, honour, ambition, thirst of fame should all give way to love. For you alone would I fight, for your sake alone wish to conquer, and your love should be the reward of all my toils.

I will spend an hour with you to-morrow evening. Oh! my sweet friend, let your mild eyes tell me, at meeting, you cannot re|fuse the ardent prayer of your ever faithful

FREDERIC RAINSFORTH.

LETTER XVIII. MERIEL to CELIA, (in continuation.)

BUT I did refuse him, Celia, tho' my little rebellious heart would have fain played the traitor. Be still little fool, said I, Meriel will learn to be thy mistress: think not, by thy flutterings and throbings, to counteract resolutions which reason tells me are right and laudable. So, my dear girl, I persevered in the determination of not giv|ing Rainsforth my hand, till the summer's cruise was over, and he was obliged to sub|mit with as good a grace as he could, tho' I assure you, he looked quite blank upon it. And now, my dear girl, I will give you my reasons for thus obstinately opposing the pro|posed union. You know I shall be eighteen in September, when being mistress of my for|tune, I may dispose of it as I have already designed, without being answerable to any one. Now, if I marry first, I certainly make my husband master, not only of myself, but

of all I possess; and how do I know what ob|jections may arise on his part in the course of a few months. I do not mean, that I doubt Rainsforth's generosity; but a change of circumstances produces a change of ideas, and I think it is best not to trust too much to the firmness of our own hearts.

My aunt laughed the other day, and said she questioned if I should ever be married, for absence and salt water are in general a cure for love. It may prove so with some, but I do not much fear the constancy of a man who braves even the shaft of ridicule, by openly avowing me the woman of his choice; for I can see many a sneering smile, glance from my aunt to her son, whenever they are witness to his attention to your Meriel. My father and mother seem totally regard|less, whether I am married now, or when he returns; and I believe, if the truth was known, and very little concerned about my future welfare. But yet, Celia, my bosom cannot forget its natural affections, or divest itself of those strong sensations of duty, love and veneration, which ever have warmed it, since my infant tongue first lisp'd the tender name of mother. As to my father, I cannot say I feel any emotions in his favour, nor can it be expected I should, after the scenes which I have imparted to you, the horrors

of which will never be removed from my mind. Alas! they often recur to my ima|gination and cast a gloom over every rising pleasure. Yet, as a man whose happiness is nearly connected with my mother's; as the man whom nature requires me to regard, I will pay him every necessary respect, and as sar as the narrow limits of my power will permit, will promote his interest and felicity.

May 19th.

Celia, he is gone; I have this moment bade him farewell. I feel there are moments when all the fortitude, we boast, sinks into nothing opposed to the struggles of nature; would you believe it, at the moment when I saw him step into the chaise, I would have given worlds, had I possessed them, to have been his wife, that I might have gone with him, beheld him to the very last moment of embarkation, and even then have stood on the shore to catch a last look at the expand|ed sails which bore him from me, till by de|grees they lessened to my view, and at length were lost in the vast horizon.

My aunt and cousins where with us drinking tea; Rainsforth came in, when I instantly saw something was the matter. The order is at length arrived, said I, men|tally,

and he comes to bid me adieu; I hand|ed him a cup of tea, he put it to his lips but did not taste it. "I am come Miss Howard," said he, "to take my leave; the fleet sails in a few days." "Do you go this evening," said my mother. "In a few moments, ma|dam," said he, "I just recieved the letter, and accidently met with two brother officers, who were going in a chaise, and gladly ac|cepted me as a third; we mean to take two stages to night, and shall be in Portsmouth by to-morrow noon." At that moment the chaise stopped at the door. Rainsforth rose, bowed to my aunt and cousins, thanked them for all civilities, wished my father and mother health, and then turned toward me. My heart was full, so was his; we nei|ther of us spoke; he pressed my hands to his lips, bowed low to hide his emotions, and was in the chaise in an instant. I knew sensibility would be deemed weakness by those who were witness to our parting; I therefore struggled to suppress my rising tears, offered up a silent prayer for his safe return, and endeavoured at a look of com|posure, that was very foreign to my heart.

What may be his fate, heaven alone can tell; yet sure if worth is its peculiar care, he will not only be protected in this, but in every other danger. But alas! Celia, how

often do we see merit cut off in its full prime, whilst the unworthy are spared.

Surely, when the brave and good fall in their country's cause, it must be that their virtues merit such rewards as only heaven can give. They are suffered to appear on the vast theatre of life, to act a little while bright shining parts, and then are called home to receive the glorious mead of hea|venly and unceasing joys. My mind dwell|ing on this subject the other evening, (you know I am fond of indulging in little effu|sions of poetry,) and painting to myself the situation of a soldier's wife, who has follow|ed her husband to the very scene of battle, and in the morn, sending him forth to brave the hostile foe, at night sees him covered with wounds and in the agonies of death; I for a moment fancied myself in her situation, and wrote the following trifle. I send it to my Celia without an apology, because tri|fles become valuable when they proceed from the friend we love.

MERIEL.

ANNA. (Enclosed in the foregoing.)

THE day was past, the ensanguin'd plain, O'erspread with many a valiant hero slain; When Anna to her breast her infant caught, And 'mongst the slaughter'd heaps her Henry sought. The pale moon shed a feeble ray of light, Which added to the horrors of the night.

Trembling with anguish and despair, To heaven she thus address'd her pray'r.

Just power, who saw my Henry fall, Conduct me where he lies, And let me bath his wounds in tears, And let me seal his eyes. This morn, when he went forth, I pray'd No evil might betide him, But since he fell, oh guide me where, And let me die beside him.

Henry tho' dying knew his Anna's voice, Cried, "dry those tears, my Anna and re|joice; For tho' I'm lost to thee, yet future story, Shall tell, thy Henry liv'd and died with glory.

And teach my boy the road to fame," he cried, "Farewell!" then faintly graspt her hand and died. Weeping she knelt and kissed the breathless clay, And vow'd his last injunctions to obey.

Yes matchless youth, tho' lost to me, By hope inspir'd, in thought I see On glory's wings thy spirit rise, And angles waft it to the skies.

I'll tell my son his father's deeds, And tho' my heart with anguish bleeds, I'll teach his soul, like thine to soar, And mark the path thou'st trod before. Then tho' like thee, he yields his breath, I'll glory in my hero's death.

LETTER XIX. MERIEL to CELIA.

London, July 20th, 1776.

THIS brother of mine is a sad lad. He will not be content to remain where he has been placed, but has taken it into his wise head that he must go to sea; no|thing else will suit him, he cannot, he says, be confined to the drudgery of a counting|house, where a person may toil all their lives and rise to nothing above mediocrity. He will go to sea, where, with one bold push, it often happens that a man gains both honour and fortune. The lad seems to be possessed of the spirit of ambition, yet not that lauda|ble ambition which acts as a stimulus to actions great and praise worthy. It is pow|er and wealth he aims at, and be the steps ever so dirty, by which he must arrive at the desired eminence, I much fear he would not hesitate to wade thro' thick and thin.

However, as that is his fixed determination, I must e'en be content with the loss of the apprentice fee, tho' here is a fresh source of expense in fitting him out as a midshipman, for in that situation I find he can be ad|mitted on board the ship where Rainsforth is lieutenant. I wish to my soul an intimate acquaintance with this worthy man, may be of service to him, for we often insensibly imbibe the sentiments of those with whom we associate.

My father, I fear, is running into his old errors; he has formed an acquaintance with a Mr. Dell, which in my opinion bodes no good. Dell appears much of the gentleman in his manner, but young Mossop says he is a professed gambler, and I am rather inclin|ed to believe this assertion, as my father is frequently out with him till three or four in the morning, and has drained us so of mo|ney, that we have not a single guinea for house expences; this will occasion our get|ting into debt, and I am afraid my father has already borrowed money on the strength of my promise, in regard to my fortune; if so all my endeavours to preserve my mother from want will be ineffectual. This Dell has a wife, whom he once brought to spend an afternoon with us; I do not like her; there was something in her dress and man|ner,

bold, forward and disgusting; she has been pretty, and is vain enough to think she is so now. My mother does not admire her any more than myself, and only that she thinks it would highly disoblige my father, she would by no means either recieve or re|turn her visits.

Another source of unhappiness to this dear suffering woman is my father's giving way to a habit of drinking, for he is almost continually intoxicated, and so extremely captious and ill natured that it is next to im|possible to say or do any thing to please him. Poor dear mother how my heart bleeds for your afflictions; how many years have you past wherein you can scarcely say, you have seen one happy hour; and could I, but lead you to repose your sorrows on the bosom of your child! but no, you think that child unworthy of your love, unworthy your con|fidence; and she dares not clear herself, lest by endeavouring to remove one sorrow from your heart, she should throw another on it that would crush you with its weight.

I have heard from Rainsforth but once since the fleet sailed. Oh! Celia, should he one day afflict my heart, by harshness, cru|elty or infidelity; ah! my friend, if the thought thus wrings my bosom, what would

the reality do; and yet, I would endeavour to bear it with the meekness of a wife, and the fortitude of a christian; but me thinks I would wish to sink at once under the dread|ful certainty; doubt and suspicion would torture me to the very utmost of my strength to bear, but to be convinced I had out lived his affection, must, I am convinced, be in|stant death or madness.

My letters have now nothing interesting in them; Indeed, Celia, I begin to think every thing insipid and tiresome, that is not concerning Rainsforth; even reading no more amuses. If I read of a worthy charac|ter, such a one I cry is my Frederic; then I drop the book to muse upon his virtues, and if I take up my pen I can write but an invocation to heaven for his safety. The on|ly relief I find is in constant employment, and therefore, I seldom pass an idle hour, my needle, my pencil, and my domestic con|cerns, pleasingly variegate the scene, and prevent my complaining of lassitude. I go out but little, and see but few visitors, my cousins indeed frequently call, but as I do not mix in the same gay circles they do, I can join but little in their conversation; they tell me many lively anecdotes that amuse me; I listen to their account of a ball, a concert, or any other fashionable amusement

with a smile, because it gives me pleasure to see them happy. My mother says they give me these accounts only to mor••••fy me; if so, they greatly miss their aim; I 〈◊〉〈◊〉 no in|clination to mix in the giddy throng of the votaries to pleasure. Nature never designed me for dress, bustle, and parade, my high|est wish is to steal thro' life unnoticed, but by the friends I love, and to die before I know their loss or the privation of their es|teem. Adieu, my Celia. In your prayers re|member the beloved of your

MERIEL.

LETTER XX. MERIEL to CELIA.

London, November 17th, 1776.

CELIA, you are happy. You never form|ed a wish beyond the narrow bounds prescribed by your monastic rules. Your heart never vibrated with love, with hope, with sensations undescribably pleasing, when the object of that love returned in safety from the boisterous elements, and still more dread|ful fury of enemies. And is it, do you ask, a happiness to be deprived of those sweet sen|sations? Yes, my friend it is; for then you cannot suffer the keen pang, which at this mo|ment rends the heart of your friend. Read the enclosed, which I have just received, and tell me if you do not pity your

MERIEL.

LETTER XXI. MR. RAINSFORTH to MISS HOWARD, (Enclosed in the preceding.)

Plymouth, November 13th, 1776.

WILL my dear Meriel believe that it is with pain I take up my pen to ad|dress her; that I am at loss for words, yet ardently long to pour out my soul before her. I have braved the perils of the sea, my love, I am safe arrived at my destined port, but not within sight of happiness. Alas! that golden dream which has buoyed me up, and cheer|ed me whilst absent from all my soul held dear, is vanished. The lovely prize which I thought would have rewarded all my hard|ships, is wrested from me. Oh! beloved Meriel, I am lost, forlorn, and wretched. You never can be mine, Meriel: never! Oh my heart, yet hold a little, burst not till I have told my gentle love, how much this re|signation

costs me. But I am a beggar, and shall I marry thee, my dearest girl, and bring a wretched race of innocents into a life of pe|nury and woe. Shall I lead my gentle Me|riel to the altar, when I am certain our only patrimony will be want and misery. Oh no! humanity! honor! love! forbid it.

My father is a bankrupt, nor has he saved enough from the wreck of his fortune to sup|port even for a few months, his wife and three small children: and shall not I, who receiv|ed from him life, education, every valuable gift: shall not I prefer his happiness to my own? Yes, my adored Meriel, I will, dear as thou art to this fond doating heart; I will re|nounce even thee, and devote my little in|come to the support of my father and his fa|mily.

Adieu my sweet love, may balmy peace, with healing 〈◊〉〈◊〉 her wing descend to thy lovely bosom, mayest thou, (for it will be necessary to thy peace) banish the hapless Rainsforth from my mind; or think only of him as one lost to thee, the world, and to him|self. And may you, with some happier, wor|thier youth, find every blessing, every earth|ly comfort: but be assured, whilst I retain the least trace of memory, you, and you on|ly, shall possess the affections of my heart.

Whilst life remains you will be the dearest ob|ject of my fond wishes; and when called from this transitory scene, my last breath will be spent in a prayer for your happiness. Adieu, dear amiable Miss Howard: may the choic|est gifts of heaven be showered on you. Oh! how my heart bleeds while I write. Belov|ed of my soul, farewell forever.

FREDERIC RAINSFORTH.

LETTER XXII. MISS HOWARD TO MR. RAINSFORTH.

London, November 16th, 1776.

"ADIEU, forever," did you say: no, Rainsforth, no! we shall yet meet many times, our souls are congenial; they

were animated the by same spark of intel|lectual fire, and tho' we cannot claim a near|er tie, we shall be friends to the latest hour of our existence.

My generous, noble friend, I do not blush to say my esteem, (nay call it love, if you will) is increased by this proof of your mag|nanimity; call it not a resignation, I am your's I will never be another's; unless I can find one your superior in every virtue, that can exalt and dignify human nature, and in saying that, I think I am irrevocably bound to you. There may be men who possess equal goodness of heart, but there can be none who can boast a superiority.

I am sensibly affected at your father's mis|fortunes; would to heaven it was in my power to remove every affliction far from him. Not so much from the idea that his troubles have interrupted my happiness; but that I am certain your feeling heart suf|fers those misfortunes doubly, in seeing them inflicted on one so deservedly dear to you. But let us look forward my friend; the prospect is not so dark, but that the sun of prosperity may yet brake forth to enliven it; you may yet live to see your father reinstat|ed in the afluence, from which he is at pre|sent removed by an all-wise Providence, on|ly

to teach him the value of past blessings. We never know rightly, how to prize a be|nefit, till we have known what it is to lose it; I write feelingly Rainsforth, for, I knew not half your worth till the very moment that I saw an insuperable barrier placed between us, and now I wish I had listened to your solicita|tions, for then at this moment I might have administered comfort to your drooping spi|rits, and assisted in the delightful task of soothing the sorrows of your parents. But why should I be so selfish, the pleasure would have been all my own; for sure I knew your generous heart too well, to suppose it would not have suffered from the idea of my sharing in afflictions, which could not have been prevented, and hardly admit of any aleviation. To say I felt nothing when I read your pathetic letter, would be to pro|nounce myself insensible. Believe me, I felt all; nay, perhaps more than you could have wished; however, of this be assured, that nothing but a total change in you can occa|tion any alteration in my sentiments. If it will be more conducive to your happiness; here let the correspondence cease, and should you hereafter meet a woman, whose merits and fortune render her worthy your attach|ment; may you be as happy in the union

as the lot of mortallity will allow. Adieu, every kind wish of my heart is your's.

MERIEL HOWARD.

LETTER XXIII.* 1.1 MERIEL to CELIA.

London, May 6th, 1778.

IT is in vain to strive against fate. My father is resolved not to pause in his ca|reer of folly, till we are all involved in ruin.

The money I presented to my mother, when I took possession of my fortune, is all mould|ered away, and even the little capital I had reserved for myfelf, broke in upon. I know you will say I am pursuing my notions of filial duty now to imprudence; I fear I am, and yet, my dear Celia, were you situ|ated as I am, I so well know your heart, that I am certain you would have conducted yourself exactly in the same manner.

About three days since, a gentleman cal|led and presented a bill for payment, drawn by my brother, who had given my mother notice of his design; but she, fearful of mentioning it, as she had no means of an|swering the demand, had kept it to herself. It was for an hundred pounds. Ungenerous lad! when he knew how narrow our circum|stances were, and how much his inconsistent conduct had embarrassed us. When the man brought the bill, my poor mother turn|ed pale as ashes. "What is the matter, madam," said I. She called me into the next room, and putting the bill into my hand, (for it was some days after sight) she said, "what must I do." "Indeed my dear madam," I replied, "I cannot tell. It is not in my power to do any more, the bill must be protested, and I hope it will teach him frugality in future. I am sure he must

have been very extravagant, or he never could have wanted money so soon, consider|ing the sum he took with him." She made me no answer, but bursting into tears cried, "then all is over, my poor Richard." I ne|ver can see my mother in affliction, but my heart yearns spontaniously to fly to her re|lief. How then could I behold her tears unmoved, how hold back that comfort she required, when she thus continued to address me. "I know, Meriel, we have almost re|duced you to beggary, I am fully sensible how much we owe to your generosity." "Dear, dear mother, talk not so," said I, throwing my arms about her, "I have done nothing but my duty, and I think it still my duty to preserve the remainder of my for|tune, to comfort you in your declining age." "But think of your brother, Meriel," cried she eagerly, "think my dear girl, what straits he may reduced to in a foreign land. If this bill is not paid, my poor boy will be thrown into prison, and be lost for want of a friend to comfort him. Oh! Meriel, re|fuse not your mother this one request." And ah! my Celia, may I never meet such ano|ther trial. The dear woman knelt; yes, my mother knelt to me before I had the time or power to prevent her. "Good heavens!" said I, "this is too much, take me, dear mother, do with me and mine as

you think proper, only I beseech you do not let me be thus humiliated. 'Tis I should have knelt to you, oh! rise, and do not thus distress me. I will pay the bill."

The next day I took up money sufficient for that purpose, and also to discharge some few debts in the neighbourhood, so that our income is now so reduced that I must be obliged to turn my thoughts towards some genteel employment, however repugnant it is to my father and mother's inclinations. In my opinion, the person who has talents, health and spirits to earn a subsistence, is in all respects independent, and there is no|thing to me would be more painful, than to eat the bread of indolence. Pride may teach another lesson, but then it is not the pride which elevates the human heart. It shall be ever my pride to keep free from ob|ligation. It is always a painful sense, but more especially when we have no power to return it. Let my habitation be ever so humble, and my fare ever so coarse, if they are the fruits of my own industry, they will be sweeter, more comfortable by far, than the greatest luxuries purchased by the cringe of servility.

May 7th.

Rejoice with me, my dear Celia, the pros|pect once more brightens. I yesterday re|ceived the following letter from Rainsforth.

TO MISS HOWARD.

MY ever loved, my constant Meriel will, I am certain, rejoice to hear that my father is again restored to affluence. A distant relation, lately dead, has bequeathed the whole of his wealth, which is very conside|rable, to our family. To me he has given five thousand pounds. Then let me hasten to bid my beloved Meriel be prepared to see me; for this day week, I will come to de|mand her long promised hand, and seal my|self before the altar, her's eternally.

FREDERIC RAINSFORTH.

And shall I now ever dare to complain of past trials, my Celia? has not this proof of his love and constancy endeared him more than ever to my heart? Oh my friend, my spirits are so agitated, I cannot write or speak with any coherence, I must throw aside my pen and endeavour to compose my thoughts.

My cousin Hester has just left me. I shew|ed her Rainsforth's 〈◊〉〈◊〉 in the fullness of

my heart, and claimed her promise of being bride maid. I thought she did not look pleased and hurried away very soon after she had read the letter. I shall make but little preparation against his arrival. I know he regards me only for myself, and alas! that is all I now have to bestow.

Two days more and I shall see him; think me not weak, if I tell you I shall count the hours with impatience. After a seperation of near two years, how pleasing to meet a friend whom we know to be so worthy, and whom we had given up as lost. Farewell, my dear Celia, your pleasures are all of the calm un|russled kind, like the smooth stream that glides beneath a lofty bank, by which it is defended from the rude blasts of wind. It continues one gentle unvaried course, and its charms can neither be increased or dimi|nished.

MERIEL.

LETTER XXIV. MERIEL to CELIA.

London, May 19th, 1778.

I HAVE expected morning after morning with hope, and each day as it arrived brought with it only disappointment. I will decieve myself no longer, nothing but death, or extreme illness could have kept him from me, tho' I have been told that he meant from the first to decieve me, and that my easy fondness has been a theme for ridcule for him and his gay companions. But I cannot believe it, Celia, if he is false, where shall we find a man worthy to be esteemed. No, Rainsforth, there certainly must be some very urgent cause for this absence, this, I had almost said, cruel silence; but I will not give up the opinion I have formed of your integrity.

May 20th.

Celia, I am ill, very ill, my heart has re|cieved a shock it will never recover; Rains|forth

is married! married to another, and within a fortnight after the day appointed to unite him to me.

My cousin Hester called on me yesterday to take a walk; we called on a lady of her acquaintance who has a sister married at Plymouth, for Hester suggested that through her means we might gain some intelligence concerning Rainsforth. After the usual ce|remonies, when we were seated, Hester en|quired when she had heard from her sister, "I had a letter yesterday," she replied, "Kitty has been very gay, I assure you, they have had great doings at Plymouth, Miss Kingly, the great heiress, was married last Monday, and Kitty was at the wedding." "And pray who is she married to?" said Hester. "A young officer in the navy," she replied, "whom she has been fond of for some time; I really forget his name, but there is the letter, you may read the whole account."

I do not know how I supported my|self, while I cast my eye over the letter, as my cousin held it in her hand, but I caught the name of Rainsforth; my head grew giddy, I turned cold and faint; but by the exertion of my resolution avoided making myself ridiculous. "Upon my word," cou|sin,

said Hester without any regard to my feelings, in exposing me to a stranger, "up|on my word, this is very unaccountable." "Why pray," said the lady, "is it the Mr. Rainsforth I have seen so often with you Miss Mossop?" "The very same, and will you believe it, he was under a promise of marriage to my cousin here; do you not think it very scandalous behaviour?" "Scan|dalous indeed: if I was in Miss Howard's place I would sue him for half his wife's for|tune."

"I shall not give either myself or him that trouble, madam, (I replied with as much composure as I could assume,) I think since he has proved himself of so fickle a nature, he has done me a favour rather than an injury, as it would have been much more painful to me to lose the affection of a husband than a lover. Pride my dear ma|dam added I with a forced smile) keeps up our spirits on these occasions."

I returned home from this visit with a heavy heart, but still flattered myself there might be some mistake; but the receipt of the letter I inclose for your perusal has re|moved every doubt.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Between this and the foregoing letter, there are se|veral omitted, which passed between Miss Howard and her friend. As they contained nothing but complaints of Mr. Howard's behaviour, and an account of young Howard's going to India, on a three year's station. This occasions a space of eighteen months.