Celia, if you value your own happine&longs;s
never de&longs;ire 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
&longs;ad, &longs;ad thing to reflect on, but this man,
whom nature, religion, every &longs;acred tie
obliges me to re&longs;pect and love: this very
man is a libertine, and an infidel. He came

[figure description] Page 016.[end figure description]

one Sunday morning into the library, where
I was reading. “Well my pretty ro&longs;e-bud,”
&longs;aid he, for he generally calls me by &longs;ome
&longs;uch unaccountable name; “What are
your &longs;tudies?” “Rowe's letters,” I replied.
“What do you read &longs;uch &longs;tuff as that for?”
cried he, pulling the book out of my hand,
“ 'Tis time enough for you to read &longs;uch serious
non&longs;en&longs;e &longs;ome forty or fifty years hence,
and here is that “&longs;tupid fellow Harvey too,”
continued he, taking up a book that lay upon
the table. “Why child, the&longs;e ridiculous
books are enough to turn your head; they
might have done well enough in a convent,
but &longs;urely you may find &longs;omething more
amu&longs;ing in this collection.” “I read the&longs;e
&longs;erious authors by choice, &longs;ir,” &longs;aid I. “You
have a &longs;trange ta&longs;te for a girl of your age
then,” he replied, “but I don't believe you
&longs;peak as you think. Come tell me hone&longs;tly,
Meriel,” continued he &longs;itting, down be&longs;ide
me, “did you never get any novels or romances
in the convent?” You may &longs;uppo&longs;e
I &longs;tared at him, for you know we never &longs;aw a
book of the kind, during the whole time we
were together; of this I a&longs;&longs;ured him: to
which he replied; “then that ea&longs;ily accounted
for my ta&longs;te.” He then began to
&longs;peak of religion, and the &longs;acred writings in
a manner that made me tremble. At fir&longs;t,
I thought he meant only to try me; but

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finding the more I oppo&longs;ed his &longs;entiments, the
&longs;tronger were the arguments he advanced
to confute, as he &longs;aid, “my fooli&longs;h bigotry,
to a &longs;ubject which was not worthy the attention
of any but old women and children.”
I ro&longs;e from my &longs;eat and bur&longs;ting into tears,
cried, “oh! &longs;ir, if the&longs;e are indeed your sentiments
they &longs;hock me to the &longs;oul.” “Come
girl, come don't cry,” &longs;aid he, pulling me
toward him; “you mu&longs;t try to get the
better of the&longs;e &longs;uper&longs;titious notions, and
learn to think and act for your&longs;elf, unbia&longs;ed
by the prejudices of others.” I could not
an&longs;wer for my tears. He took me in his
arms and ki&longs;&longs;ed me; but my &longs;oul &longs;hrunk back
from his embrace. My mother ju&longs;t then
pa&longs;&longs;ing the window, he left me and went into
the garden to join her. I do not like
this Mrs. Talbot, &longs;o well as I did at fir&longs;t; I
&longs;aw my father take a liberty with her yesterday
when they thought they were unobserved.
There was an impropriety in it, which
made me &longs;hudder; and a thought darted
acro&longs;s my mind which almo&longs;t &longs;tunned my
faculties: &longs;urely they cannot be &longs;o very
abandoned. Oh my poor mother! I fear,
this too well explains the cau&longs;e of your
tears and dejection.

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May 5th.

It is as I &longs;u&longs;pected, Mrs. Talbot is an unworthy
woman. This morning, I aro&longs;e earlier
than common, intending, the weather
being &longs;ine, to walk into the meadows, before
breakfa&longs;t, pa&longs;&longs;ing my mother's chamber door
I &longs;aw it was partly open; and, looking in, I
percieved my dear mother rai&longs;ed upon her
elbow in the bed, the tears &longs;treaming down
her face, and &longs;obbing, as tho' her heart would
break. Unable to re&longs;train my&longs;elf, I ru&longs;hed
into the room and ardently reque&longs;ted to
know the cau&longs;e of her grief. She ha&longs;tily endeavoured
to dry her tears and compo&longs;e her
countenance, a&longs;&longs;ured me that nothing particular
was the matter, but that &longs;he often was
&longs;eized with tho&longs;e involuntary fits of weeping,
for which &longs;he could a&longs;&longs;ign no cau&longs;e. “Oh! my dear mother,” &longs;aid 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
&longs;pirits. Can you, do you think your daughter
unworthy to be tru&longs;ted with your &longs;orrows.
Believe me I will trea&longs;ure them in my bosom
as a &longs;acred depo&longs;it, and having ea&longs;ed
your labouring brea&longs;t of the painful burthen
will pour into it the balm of con&longs;olation.”
“My dear girl, my only comforter, &longs;aid my
mother; &longs;eek not to know what will only

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make you unhappy, I cannot be more &longs;o than
I am already, &longs;aid I, for how is it po&longs;&longs;ible I
can be at peace when you are the victim of
concealed angui&longs;h? “Oh! my child, &longs;aid
&longs;he, I cannot explain to you the nature of
my &longs;orrows, without acu&longs;ing one, whom it
is your duty to re&longs;pect, I mu&longs;t not make my
child di&longs;pi&longs;e her father;” “I will not despise
him, I replied. If he can injure goodness
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
&longs;aid my mother. While you were at Mr.
Rowley's ye&longs;terday, he went out and has not
returned &longs;ince. Ju&longs;t then I heard a chai&longs;e
drive up to the door and looking out &longs;aw my
father alight and hand out Mrs Talbot; the
my&longs;tery is unravelled &longs;aid I; “go, &longs;aid my
mother, dry your eyes and appear at breakfa&longs;t
as compo&longs;ed as you can; do not let them
have the triumph of &longs;eeing how much they
di&longs;tre&longs;s us. I did as I was de&longs;ired, but when
I entered the breakfa&longs;t parlour, I felt a glow
of indignation flu&longs;h my cheek, and I could
hardly give them the compliments of the
morning with any &longs;teadine&longs;s of accent. Mrs.
Talbot fixed her penetrating black eyes upon
my face; I darted at her a look of anger,
&longs;he immediately ca&longs;t them down, turned pale
and &longs;eemed much agitated; but whether it was
with anger or &longs;en&longs;ibility I cannot determine.

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May 6th, 1775.

This Mrs. Talbot is a wonderful woman:
her conduct is an inexplicable riddle; her character
undefinable. With &longs;ome of the fine&longs;t
&longs;entiments that can elevate human nature,
and with the power to act up to tho&longs;e sentiments,
&longs;he has &longs;unk her&longs;elf upon a level
the meane&longs;t of her &longs;ex. I at one and the
&longs;ame moment admire, love, pity and dispise
her: but I will inform you of the
cau&longs;e of the&longs;e contradictory &longs;entiments.
Ye&longs;terday afternoon as my mother, Mrs.
Talbot and my&longs;elf were at tea, my father
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 pre&longs;ent. She unfolded
the paper, and &longs;eeing a piece of fine chintz,
enquired if there was enough for two gowns.
“No,” &longs;aid my father, “I bought but one.”
“Then certainly, Sir, you did not mean it
for me; only your politene&longs;s leads you to
offer it; permit me to re&longs;ign it to the proper
owner,” laying it on my mother's knee.
“Then, you refu&longs;e my pre&longs;ent, Kate,” &longs;aid
my father &longs;ternly. “I do indeed,” &longs;ays &longs;he,
with firmne&longs;s, “and am re&longs;olved on no account
whatever to accept another obligation
at your hands. I have too long forgot what
was due to this re&longs;pectable family, to your
honour, and to my&longs;elf. It is time to amend

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and fly from errors, which originated in duplicity
on one &longs;ide, and weakne&longs;s on the
other. I have wrote to my &longs;i&longs;ter, that I
&longs;hall leave Woodbine Cot to-morrow, and
nothing &longs;hall prevent my putting my design
in execution.” During the time Mrs.
Talbot was &longs;peaking, my father &longs;tood like
one petrefied; my mother's colour went
and came alternately red and pale. Indeed
I was afraid &longs;he would have fainted. At
length &longs;he a&longs;&longs;umed &longs;ufficient courage to a&longs;k
with tolerable compo&longs;ure, how long &longs;he had
formed this re&longs;olution, which appeared as
&longs;udden as it was unexpected. “Oh! my
dear madam,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “it is not a &longs;udden
re&longs;olution, I have long had it in my mind,
but always wanted fortitude to execute my
re&longs;olves; it is much ea&longs;ier to ru&longs;h into guilt,
than to recede from it, and I have long
learnt to dete&longs;t my own vices without making
one attempt to eradicate them. This
dear young lady has compleated a reformation,
which your gentlene&longs;s and virtue had
begun. Believe me, madam, had I &longs;ooner
known, how very amiable you were, I &longs;hould
never have injured you; but I was a stranger
to your goodne&longs;s till it was too late to
recall my error. When Mi&longs;s Howard returned
from France, it was impo&longs;&longs;ible to be
an inmate in the hou&longs;e with her and not
love her. From loving virtue in others we

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by degrees wi&longs;h to po&longs;&longs;e&longs;s it our&longs;elves; because
we are con&longs;cious that without it we
cannot be re&longs;pected or e&longs;teemed by the worthy
part of mankind. I wi&longs;hed to obtain
Mi&longs;s Howard's friend&longs;hip; but I knew I was
unworthy of the ble&longs;&longs;ing. From that moment
I determined, if I could not merit her
e&longs;teem, I would at lea&longs;t avoid her di&longs;plea&longs;ure
and contempt; but alas!” continued &longs;he,
“I am too late; &longs;he already de&longs;pi&longs;es me,
and I feel I have not even a claim to her
pity.”

“For heaven's &longs;ake! what does all this
mean,” &longs;aid my father, “who dares treat
you with contempt, or in&longs;ult you with their
pity?”

“No one, Mr. Howard,” &longs;he replied
calmly; “I only &longs;ay it is what I have a right
to expect; if you remember I told you a few
days &longs;ince that I was determined no longer
to lead a life of infamy; you thought me
then in je&longs;t; perhaps you may think &longs;o &longs;till;
believe me, 'tis of little con&longs;equence to me,
what opinion you may form of my conduct;
I am anxious only to obtain the pardon of
the&longs;e ladies, of who&longs;e merits I could wi&longs;h
you to be &longs;en&longs;ible, before you have inevitably
de&longs;troyed both their happine&longs;s and your
own.” She then ro&longs;e from her &longs;eat, and

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taking one of my mother's hands, and one of
mine, pre&longs;&longs;ed them alternately to her lips,
and bur&longs;ting into a fre&longs;h flood of tears, left
the room. My father followed her, and I
heard them &longs;peak very high in the adjoining
apartment, but could di&longs;tingui&longs;h nothing
that pa&longs;t excepting the words, “never whil&longs;t
I have life,” which were pronounced by Mrs.
Talbot, as &longs;he went up &longs;tairs, where &longs;he
locked her&longs;elf into her own room. My father
went immediately out, nor was he returned
while I &longs;at up with my mother, who
&longs;eemed more melancholy than ever, and not
inclined for conver&longs;ation. This morning
when we met at breakfa&longs;t 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 &longs;he had left the hou&longs;e at four o'clock in
the morning. The cloaths and other presents,
which &longs;he had received from my father,
were packed up in a &longs;mall trunk and
directed for me. In her letter to my mother,
&longs;he takes a long adieu, and &longs;ays there
is not the lea&longs;t probability of our ever meeting
again, as &longs;he &longs;hould leave England almo&longs;t
immediately. It is impo&longs;&longs;ible to de&longs;cribe the
rage of my father, when he found &longs;he was
really gone. He &longs;wore we had treated her
ill, or &longs;he never would have taken &longs;uch a

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resolution. In vain we prote&longs;ted our innocence.
He vented his rage in the mo&longs;t ungentleman-like
terms, on my dear patient mother,
who could return nothing but tears.
He is now taking his u&longs;ual 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.