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Rowson, Mrs., 1762-1824 [1795], Trials of the human heart, volume 1 ('printed for the author, by Wrigley & Berriman', Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf328v1].
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LETTER XII. MERIEL to CELIA. London, March 3d, 1776.

I never &longs;hall get u&longs;ed to the ways of
London, and I am always bringing myself
into difficulties, and fooli&longs;h embarrasments,
through my ignorance; then my
mother is angry, and what in reality proceeds
from &longs;implicity of my nature, is construed
into art or levity.

I have been fretting the&longs;e two hours
about a circum&longs;tance that has highly

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offended my dear mother; and, I am &longs;ure,
Celia, I did it without a thought of harm.
I had been out a little way ye&longs;terday, and
was returning in the clo&longs;e of the evening,
when I heard a very genteel looking elderly
gentleman enquiring the way to a &longs;treet
which lay in my way home; the per&longs;on
whom he addre&longs;&longs;ed could not direct him,
and I, uncon&longs;cious of any impropriety, stepped
forward and told him, as it lay in my
way, I would &longs;hew him the place he enquired
for: he &longs;eemed much obliged to me, and
&longs;aid, “as we were going the &longs;ame way I
might as well take hold of his arm;” but
this, as he was quite a &longs;tranger, I refu&longs;ed to
do; however, I could not help an&longs;wering
&longs;ome civil que&longs;tions, which he a&longs;ked, and
when we arrived at the &longs;treet he had mentioned,
he in&longs;i&longs;ted on &longs;eeing me &longs;afe home:
this I remon&longs;trated again&longs;t, &longs;aying, besides
giving him unnece&longs;&longs;ary trouble, it
would make my mother very angry with
me. At this he declared he knew my mother
very well, and he was not at all afraid
of her anger, as he was certain it lay in his
power to appea&longs;e it. I was &longs;urpri&longs;ed, you
may imagine, and indeed very unea&longs;y all the
re&longs;t of the way, as I knew how offended
my mother would be, at &longs;eeing a &longs;tranger
come home with me. When the &longs;ervant
opened the door he walked in without any

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ceremony, and going into the parlour which
was occupied by the gentlewoman who
keeps the hou&longs;e, he thus addre&longs;&longs;ed her,
“Servant, my good madam, your lovely
daughter here, having kindly given me an
invitation home, I flatter my&longs;elf we &longs;hall
&longs;pend a chearful evening, and you and I,
my good mother, &longs;hall not di&longs;agree, I warrant.”
Mrs. Fermor &longs;tared, and I felt ready
to &longs;ink into the earth.

“You are under a mi&longs;take, &longs;ir,” &longs;aid I,
“pray leave me.” “What, leave you,
my little dove, when you have been &longs;o very
kind, no, no! hardly &longs;uch a fool as that;
come mother, what &longs;hall I order in for supper,
and what wine will you drink?” “Mi&longs;s
Howard,” &longs;aid Mrs. Fermor, “I am overwhelmed
with a&longs;toni&longs;hment; how have you
dared to bring this gentleman here to insult
me?” “Indeed madam,” I replied, terrified
beyond mea&longs;ure, “I am innocent of
any intention to offend you; this gentleman”—
“Why, I can tell the tale as well
as you my pretty one,” &longs;aid he, interrupting
me: “you mu&longs;t know, madam, I was
coming into We&longs;tmin&longs;ter, and did not rightly
know my way, &longs;o, this pretty, kind hearted
dam&longs;el was &longs;o good as to &longs;hew me, that
is all, ma'am, and &longs;o in return, I am only
grateful, and would willingly treat you with

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a good &longs;upper, and as far as ten guineas
would go.”

At this moment my father came in, and
&longs;eeing me &longs;tand trembling in the parlour, a
fre&longs;h &longs;cene of confu&longs;ion in&longs;ued, 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 indi&longs;creet frolic. You may &longs;uppo&longs;e how
rigorous my mother was, how angry my father;
for tho' in his heart, he has not the
lea&longs;t regard for real virtue, he always pretends
great attention to my conduct, and this
evening declared he would rather follow me
to the grave than &longs;ee me lo&longs;t to honour.

Oh! Celia, how my &longs;oul dete&longs;ts his hypocrisy.
It gives me great unea&longs;ine&longs;s to find
ju&longs;t as my mother began to have a better
opinion of me, I have again lo&longs;t her considence;
am again abridged of my walks, and
at home &longs;ee only the frown of di&longs;plea&longs;ure,
&longs;it on that face which once beamed on me
the &longs;mile of maternal tenderne&longs;s.

My brother is at length &longs;ettled in an eminent
merchants counting-hou&longs;e; I have engaged
my&longs;elf to pay the nece&longs;&longs;ary &longs;um, when
I am put in po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion of my fortune; and,
to tell you the truth, Celia, I am re&longs;olved to

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&longs;tay in my father's family no longer than that
time; but, by &longs;ome genteel employment,
endeavour to earn &longs;ub&longs;i&longs;tence for my&longs;elf,
as I am determined not to deprive my mother
of &longs;upport, by taking the money into
my own hands.

March 5th.

My aunt has ju&longs;t called, and after a great
deal of per&longs;ua&longs;ion, has prevailed with my
mother to let me go to the play to-morrow
evening; I am to go out this afternoon with
my cou&longs;ins, to purcha&longs;e &longs;ome few articles of
dre&longs;s nece&longs;&longs;ary to my appearing at a public
place, as my aunt always takes my cou&longs;ins
to the mo&longs;t con&longs;picuous part of the theatre.
Well, it will be of little con&longs;equence to me,
where we &longs;it; I go to &longs;ee and not to be &longs;een,
I wi&longs;h to be amu&longs;ed my&longs;elf, but have not the
lea&longs;t ambition to be the amu&longs;ement of others,
either from my per&longs;on, dre&longs;s or manner.

Well, Celia, had I ever been vain of my
per&longs;on, I &longs;hould now be perfectly cured of
&longs;o ridiculous a vanity; but it is happy for
me, that I never thought my face more than
pa&longs;&longs;able; and as to my &longs;hape, I knew it had
not the &longs;malle&longs;t pretentions to either grace
or elegance; and, by having this humble
opinion, I have e&longs;caped a &longs;evere

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mortification; for you know, my Celia, the &longs;evere&longs;t
reflections loo&longs;e their force, when we can
li&longs;ten to them with good humour, and return
an an&longs;wer with a &longs;mile.

I accompanied my aunt and cou&longs;ins to a
milliner's; Mr. Rainsforth and young Mossop
were of the party. I am a&longs;toni&longs;hed how
young men can &longs;uffer them&longs;elves to be
dragged as it were to &longs;uch places, and have
the patience to li&longs;ten to a tedious desertation
on gauzes, ribbons, lace and a hundred
other trifles, almo&longs;t below the notice of a rational
being. But, if I was &longs;urpri&longs;ed at that,
how much more was I to &longs;ee a parcel of
powdered effeminate animals, for I will not
call them men, &longs;tuck up behind a counter,
mea&longs;uring a peny-worth of tape or a &longs;maller
quantity perhaps; telling you with the gravity
of a philo&longs;opher, that &longs;uch a ribond
become your delicate complexion; &longs;uch a
cap &longs;et off your features to advantage, &c.
And, will you believe it po&longs;&longs;ible, that one
morning being in a perfumer's &longs;hop, I &longs;aw
an officer in the army, purcha&longs;ing chicken
gloves, violet powder and cold cream, aye,
and for his own u&longs;e too, for the ma&longs;ter informed
me he had neither wife nor &longs;i&longs;ter,
to whom &longs;uch things might have been of u&longs;e.

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Well, to the milliner's we went, where
He&longs;ter and Su&longs;an having cho&longs;en their caps.
I was plea&longs;ed with the choice of the fomer,
and &longs;aid I would have one like it. “Lord,
my dear,” &longs;aid my aunt, “how can you
think of &longs;uch a thing, pretty women you
know may wear any thing, but tho&longs;e that
are plain &longs;hould &longs;tudy what will mo&longs;t become
them.” “Aye,” cried young Mossop,
“my cou&longs;in to be &longs;ure &longs;hould not wear
any thing that atrtacts general notice.”
“Here,” &longs;aid Su&longs;an, “here Meriel, is a very
pretty cap, I think it will become you
va&longs;tly.” It was etremely plain, having no
ornament but a knott of white &longs;attin ribbon.

“You are quite right, cou&longs;in,” &longs;aid I,
“this cap will certainly &longs;uit me be&longs;t. I
never love to be fine, and what will be
becoming on you, will only appear an affectation
of finery on me.” I &longs;aid this with
a &longs;mile, as I tried on the cap. Mr. Rainsforth
told my aunt he thought true beauty
required few ornaments. “Come, come,
you rally,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “you can't think Meriel
hand&longs;ome.” He made no an&longs;wer, but
&longs;miling, &longs;ung the following &longs;tanza, which,
as it contained a delicate compliment, you
will pardon me if I here repeat it.

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She is not fair, but yet I &longs;wear,
To me &longs;he has ev'ry grace,
Her lovely mind I always find,
Depicted in her face.

But, my Celia will &longs;ay my letters begin to
be very in&longs;ipid, when I can find no other
theme than the repetition of my own prai&longs;e.
Forgive me, dear girl, this time, I will be
careful how I offend again.

March 7th.

My entertainment la&longs;t night, exceeded
my mo&longs;t &longs;anguine expectations; the hou&longs;e,
the lights, the brilliant and numerous audience,
on my fir&longs;t entrance, filled me with
&longs;ilent a&longs;toni&longs;hment; but my cou&longs;ins declare
they never will go to the play with me again,
for at the pathetic and intere&longs;ting parts, I
could not conceal my emotion. It was Jane
Shore. Long did I &longs;truggle to &longs;uppre&longs;s my
tears; the effort was vain, and when in the la&longs;t
&longs;cene, they drag the ju&longs;t reconciled hu&longs;band
from the arms of his dying wife, the half
&longs;mothered &longs;obs bur&longs;t forth, and I fell back
in an hy&longs;teric. You cannot think, how I was
laughed at, and my cou&longs;ins declare they were
&longs;o &longs;hocked at my behaviour, that they &longs;hall
be a&longs;hamed to &longs;hew their faces at the playhouse
again this &longs;ea&longs;on. “One would think

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child,” &longs;aid my aunt, in a peevi&longs;h tone, as
I began to recover, “you never had &longs;een a
play in your life before.” “Well, you know
I never did,” &longs;aid I, aloud. This compleated
my di&longs;grace, and my aunt turning toward
the &longs;tage, noticed me no more the whole
evening.

I think if I were to go again, I &longs;hould like
to &longs;it in &longs;ome unnoticed corner, where I
could give &longs;en&longs;ibility the reins, and whil&longs;t I
wept the woes of tho&longs;e who&longs;e &longs;orrows now
re&longs;t in the &longs;ilent grave, I would &longs;o mould
my heart, as it &longs;hould be ever ready to partake
and alleviate the afflictions of tho&longs;e who
&longs;till move on the bu&longs;y &longs;tage of life.

One thing, my cou&longs;ins informed me of,
which con&longs;iderably damped my plea&longs;ure
during the evening. They &longs;aid, that many
of the beautiful, elegant women, whom I
&longs;aw in the boxes, were the &longs;laves of vice, and
purcha&longs;ed the gaudy trappings, by which
they were adorned, by the wages of guilt;
and that (but I can hardly think it po&longs;&longs;ible)
&longs;ome of them are &longs;o lo&longs;t to every &longs;en&longs;e of virtue,
that they come to tho&longs;e public places with
no other view than to attract new lovers; and
what is &longs;till wor&longs;e, that in a few years; nay,
perhaps even in a few months, I may &longs;ee tho&longs;e
lovely blooming women walking the &longs;treets,

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&longs;ubject to the in&longs;ults of every brutal pa&longs;&longs;enger,
and &longs;inking into an untimely grave, under
the complicated evils of poverty, &longs;ickne&longs;s and
di&longs;grace. I felt my eyes fill as He&longs;ter concluded;
and do you not pity them, &longs;aid I:
“La! cou&longs;in,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “you are the strangest
girl; you make one laugh to &longs;ee you
now, with that long di&longs;mal face, talking
about pity for &longs;uch wretches.” “Perhaps,”
&longs;aid I, “they had no friend to teach them
better, and &longs;urely, tho' we may &longs;hudder with
dete&longs;tation at their vices, humanity &longs;till leads
us to pity their &longs;ufferings.” “You are as
old fa&longs;hioned in your notions, Meriel,” &longs;aid
my aunt, who had overheard us, “as you
are in your dre&longs;s and manner. You will
know better child when you have &longs;een a little
more of the world.” I mu&longs;t now quit
my pen to a&longs;&longs;i&longs;t in &longs;ome nece&longs;&longs;ary dome&longs;tic
bu&longs;ine&longs;s. Believe me, Celia, there is no
plea&longs;ure &longs;o agreeable as writing to you.

MERIEL.

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Rowson, Mrs., 1762-1824 [1795], Trials of the human heart, volume 1 ('printed for the author, by Wrigley & Berriman', Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf328v1].
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