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Last night, having &longs;pent the evening
with my father and mother, at my uncle's;
when we were coming home Mr. Rainsforth
put a letter into my hand as he handed
me into the coach: I could not well return
it or I would, &longs;o was obliged to put it in my
pocket; however, I re&longs;olved not to open it
till I had fir&longs;t &longs;hewn it to my mother. When
we got home, it was late, and all immediately
retired to bed. I will confe&longs;s it co&longs;t me
no little trouble to &longs;tiflle the curio&longs;ity that
prompted me to open the letter. I put it in
a drawer and turned the key; but, ju&longs;t then
recollecting that I wanted &longs;omething that was
in that identical drawer, I unlocked it again,
took up the letter, read the addre&longs;s, looked
attentively if the wafer was dry; and, after
viewing it on every &longs;ide near a dozen times,

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re&longs;olution at length repelled curio&longs;ity, I returned
it to the drawer and locked it again,
without once recollecting why I had opened
it the &longs;econd time.

In the morning I waited till we had done
breakfa&longs;t, and then putting the letter into my
mother's hand, &longs;aid, “I hope, my dear madam,
this will convince you I would not willingly
be guilty of an impropriety, or have a
concealment of this nature from my be&longs;t
friend.” She took it with a cold look of suspicion,
and having read it, &longs;aid “I &longs;uppo&longs;e
you know the contents.” “Indeed I do not,”
was the reply. “You can gue&longs;s, I imagine,”
&longs;aid &longs;he; “no gentleman would have had
the temerity to put a letter into a young lady's
hand in &longs;uch a clande&longs;tine manner, had
he not been pretty certain that it would not
be refu&longs;ed.” “Good heavens!” &longs;aid I,
bur&longs;ting into tears, “&longs;hall I never regain
your confidence? Mu&longs;t every action, however
innocent, be mi&longs;con&longs;trued or liable to
&longs;u&longs;picion.” “Why Meriel,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “will
you endeavour to per&longs;uade me, Mr. Rainsforth
has never entertained you on the subject
of love.” “If I may be believed madam,”
&longs;aid I, with a firm voice, “he never
uttered a &longs;yllable to me that could be construed
into more than common politene&longs;s.”
“Well, child, read the letter then, and tell

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me your opinion of the contents.” I felt my
face glow as I ca&longs;t my eye over the letter,
which contained a profe&longs;&longs;ion of ardent affection
and an offer of his hand, if my father
approved the union.

“You a&longs;k my opinion, dear mother,”
&longs;aid I, “and I will candidly give it; I think
Mr. Rainsforth a very amiable young man,
from what little I have &longs;een, but it is impossible
that I can form any ju&longs;t idea of his character,
from &longs;o &longs;hort an acquaintance; If
when upon a greater intimacy, I &longs;hould find
him in reality po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed of tho&longs;e valuable
qualifications, honour and benevolence, and
my father and your&longs;elf have no objection,
I will not he&longs;itate to confe&longs;s, I could give
him my hand, not only without reluctance,
but with plea&longs;ure.”

“But &longs;uppo&longs;e, Meriel, your father &longs;hould
object.” “If you, madam, &longs;hould al&longs;o disapprove,
I hope I know my duty too well
to complain; &longs;ince your knowledge of mankind
in general, mu&longs;t make you a much better
judge of what will be really conducive to
my happine&longs;s, than I can po&longs;&longs;ibly be my&longs;elf;
however, madam, if &longs;uch objections &longs;hould
ari&longs;e, I hope you will inform me &longs;oon, that I
may early begin to teach my heart a le&longs;&longs;on
which, &longs;ome little time hence, I may find a

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difficulty in making it obey.” My mother
made no an&longs;wer, and &longs;oon after I left the
room; in the afternoon Mr. Rainsforth called;
I felt the colour flu&longs;h to my face: when
he entered he glanced his eyes toward me;
but I believe they brought him no intelligence
concerning the reception his letter
had met with. He had not been &longs;eated
above ten minutes before my mother made
&longs;ome excu&longs;e to &longs;end me out of the room; I
under&longs;tood her perfectly, and was not in
ha&longs;te to return; in about an hour I was &longs;ent
for to make tea, but it was the mo&longs;t un&longs;ocial
meal I had ever partaken of, when Rainsforth
was pre&longs;ent: he was &longs;ilent; I was
embarra&longs;&longs;ed, and my father and mother,
as is in general the ca&longs;e, &longs;poke to each other
but little. When tea was over he took his
leave, when my father acquainted me I had
his permi&longs;&longs;ion to recieve his addre&longs;&longs;es; &longs;aid
he believed him a man of honour, and, if his
friends rai&longs;ed no objection to the union, he
thought the &longs;ooner it was compleated the
better. Does not this eagerne&longs;s to di&longs;po&longs;e
of me, &longs;hew how painful my pre&longs;ence is to
him? Indeed I do not wonder at it, we seldom
like to be much in company with tho&longs;e
per&longs;ons whom we are con&longs;cious of having
injured.

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And now, my dear Celia, you will perhaps
wonder at my &longs;o readily li&longs;tening to
an offer of marriage from a man with whom
I have &longs;o &longs;mall an acquaintance, but indeed
my &longs;ituation at home is far from being agreeable.
My mother's affections &longs;eem totally
alienated from me, and lavi&longs;hed with redoubled
tenderne&longs;s on my brother, who, I am &longs;orry
to &longs;ay, repays it with ingratitude and disrespect.
He is continually teizing her for
money, and tho' he is con&longs;cious there is no
&longs;ource from whence that money can proceed,
except from me, yet he is continually
tormenting me by &longs;ome ill natured trick or
other. If we are in a mixed company, every
word I utter is turned into ridicule. If I
&longs;it &longs;ilent, then &longs;i&longs;ter is &longs;tudying &longs;omething clever
to &longs;ay; if I deliver my &longs;entiments on any
&longs;ubject that excites my &longs;en&longs;ibility or veneration,
then &longs;i&longs;ter is going to turn a sentimental
actre&longs;s, or a methodi&longs;t preacher; even
the re&longs;pect I pay to my religious duties is an
object of ridicule, in which my pretty cou&longs;ins
always join. If I expre&longs;s my di&longs;like of cards,
gadding, and its attendant &longs;candal, and my
love of retirement, &longs;tudy and dome&longs;tic employment,
then he wonders what Mrs. Mirvan
could mean by leaving me a fortune,
who could be &longs;o well content with

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“—pounds three-&longs;core,
For meat and books, nor a&longs;k for more.”
To which my aunt often replies, aye, Meriel
would make an excellent poor man's wife;
and the&longs;e expre&longs;&longs;ions often e&longs;cape them before
people, who think it degrading to be
able to perform, for them&longs;elves, any of the
nece&longs;&longs;ary offices of life; and would blu&longs;h to
death were they &longs;uppo&longs;ed to know how to
make or mend their own linen; for my
own part, I cannot help thinking, if tho&longs;e
fine ladies had a little more u&longs;eful employment
on their hands, they would not have
&longs;o much time to inve&longs;tigate and expo&longs;e the
actions of their neighbours.

You mu&longs;t imagine, my dear girl, that I
lead but an uncomfortable kind of life; and
Mr. Rainsforth always &longs;hews that attention
to me, and takes my part, with &longs;uch delicacy
as mu&longs;t unavoidably awaken my gratitude,
if not my affection; and believe me, I now
begin to feel the difference between a real
attachment and the illu&longs;ive wanderings of
the heart. I know how to value the virtues of
my lover, at the &longs;ame time I feel a much
&longs;tronger inclination to act in all things with
that propriety as may render me re&longs;pected.
I feel now the true value of reputation, honour
and virtue, becau&longs;e I entertain a hope of

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being one day united to a man, who&longs;e character
would be injured by my want of either:
and, oh! my Celia, what a blu&longs;h of confu&longs;ion
often &longs;preads my cheeks, when I reflect on
the letters I wrote to Pringle; how do I
&longs;hudder at the bare po&longs;&longs;ibility of tho&longs;e letters
one day coming to the eye of Mr. Rainsforth.
Wrote, as they were, at a time when my
imagination was &longs;o &longs;trongly tinctured with
the &longs;tyle of the books I had been reading,
that I almo&longs;t involuntarily wrote the very
&longs;entiments which I had ju&longs;t embibed, with
all the enthu&longs;ia&longs;m of romantic affection.
Ah! Celia, tho&longs;e books drew very deceitful
pictures of human life, their fal&longs;e colouring
had rai&longs;ed my expectations and exalted my
ideas, of love and friend&longs;hip, far above any
thing I can find in the little circle of acquaintance
I have formed. Perhaps tho&longs;e
elevated &longs;entiments and actions may be confined
to people of an elevated &longs;phere of life,
for I never remember meeting with any hero
or heroine of a &longs;tory, but either were at fir&longs;t,
or afterwards proved to be per&longs;ons of rank
and fortune: but tho&longs;e are people &longs;o far
above me, I can never hope to form any
acquaintance with them. I &longs;ee them daily
pa&longs;s me in their carriages, &longs;urrounded with affluence,
attended with re&longs;pect; yet &longs;urely
if I know my own heart, I do not envy them,
except, when I think of the power they

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possess to cheer the poor wretch humbled by
affliction, and to cau&longs;e the broken heart to
rejoice. Envy, did I &longs;ay, oh! no, it is not
envy, it is a &longs;entiment I cannot find a name
for, it is a wi&longs;h to enjoy tho&longs;e tran&longs;porting
feelings my&longs;elf, without taking from their
felicity; it is an earne&longs;t de&longs;ire to promote,
not decrea&longs;e, the happine&longs;s of every human
being.

You, my Celia, &longs;ecluded from the world,
in devout retirement, can form but a faint
idea of the many mi&longs;eries with which this
variegated world abounds. Yes, my friend,
and there are plea&longs;ures too, but they are not
in general &longs;uited to my ta&longs;te. I hate a crowd;
it may for a moment dazzle the &longs;en&longs;es, but
it leaves no impre&longs;&longs;ion on the heart. In my
opinion, we cannot experience real plea&longs;ure,
if we are devoid of happine&longs;s; and of this I
am certain, happine&longs;s can &longs;eldom be drawn
from external objects, but is &longs;ure to dwell
in the heart, con&longs;cious of performing its
duty. That &longs;uch happine&longs;s, may ever be
your's and mine, prays your

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