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You are, no doubt &longs;urprized to &longs;ee
from whence this letter is dated, and
you will be much more &longs;o, when I inform
you of the great change that has taken place
in our circum&longs;tances, &longs;ome little time after
I la&longs;t wrote to you, as I was &longs;itting in my
own room, indulging the mo&longs;t painful ideas,
I heard a great confu&longs;ion below, and, among
the re&longs;t, my mother's voice repeatedly
&longs;creaming for help. I ran down &longs;tairs into
the parlour, from whence the noi&longs;e proceeded,
and on entering &longs;aw two ill looking men,
one of which had &longs;eized my father by the
collar, and the other was a&longs;&longs;i&longs;ting to drag
him away. “What is the matter,” &longs;aid I,
to the men, “what are you doing with my
father?” “Oh! we will do him no harm,”
&longs;aid one of them; “he mu&longs;t only come away
with us to my hou&longs;e, at Litchfield, till he has

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paid five hundred pounds.” “Five hundred
pounds,” &longs;aid I, “why, dear madam,”
turning to my mother, “to whom does my
father owe &longs;o much money.” “Oh child!”
&longs;aid he, “your mother knows nothing
about the affair, I not only owe that, but
three times the &longs;um; we are inevitably ruined,
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 &longs;hall have
all his debts to di&longs;charge.” My poor mother
&longs;at weeping; and, on hearing this account,
lifted up her eyes in &longs;peechle&longs;s agony. I
could not bear to &longs;ee her di&longs;tre&longs;s. “It is a
large &longs;um to be &longs;ure gentlemen,” &longs;aid I, “but
it &longs;hall be paid, &longs;o let my father remain, and
do you go away for to night; to-morrow we
will &longs;end you the money.” Alas! Celia,
how very little I knew of the world. The
inhuman men laughed at me, and a&longs;ked me,
“when I ever heard of bailiffs letting go
their pri&longs;oner on the bare word of a girl.”
“If you will not take my word,” &longs;aid I,
“leave my fahter and take me, for it will
break my dear mother's heart to have him
carried to pri&longs;on; but, as to me, it matters
not what becomes of me.” “That won't
do neither, Mi&longs;s,” &longs;aid they, “we mu&longs;t
either have the money or take the gentleman
away.” Alas!” &longs;aid I, turning to my
mother, “what can I do? they will not

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release him.” No my child,” &longs;aid my mother,
with more affection in her voice than I had
heard for &longs;ome time, “we mu&longs;t &longs;ubmit as
patiently as we can till to-morrow, and then
&longs;ee what can be done.” My father went
away cur&longs;ing his evil genius. Why will people,
Celia, when they bring misfortune on
their own heads, rail at fate; yet you will
find it always the ca&longs;e, and the more egregrious
have been their errors, the more vehement
their compalints.

When they were gone, I exerted my&longs;elf
to con&longs;ole my mother, but her only an&longs;wer
was, “Ah Meriel! what will become of us,
I &longs;ee ruin approaching; I know of no way
to avoide it, and my poor boy, what will he
do.” “Let me intreat you my dear mother,”
&longs;aid I, “not to let this accident thus
di&longs;tre&longs;s you: can you &longs;uppo&longs;e, that while I
have the means of living in ea&longs;e and comfort,
I would &longs;uffer my parent or my brother to
feel any embarra&longs;&longs;ment, which it is in my power
to remove. Did I not &longs;olemnly promi&longs;e
the dear departed &longs;aint, who made me thus
independant, never to for&longs;ake you?”

“But alas! Meriel, have you not already
broke that vow?” “Dear, dear madam, forgive,
forget, that involuntary tran&longs;gre&longs;&longs;ion;
and believe me, there never was a heart that

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glowed with more filial love, or greatful tenderness,
than mine does towards you. My
fortune is your's, I will &longs;hare it with you and
my brother to the la&longs;t &longs;hilling; nay to convince
you of my &longs;incerity, I would freely renounce
it all, and depend on my labour for
&longs;upport.” My mother was affected, but it
was only for a moment, &longs;he again a&longs;&longs;umed a
look of coldne&longs;s, and told me &longs;he feared I
often &longs;uffered the warmth of my imagination
to hurry me into expre&longs;&longs;ions and promises,
the nature of which I did not duly
con&longs;ider. She then bid me good night and
left me.

Grieved to be thought &longs;o very unworthy,
by the per&longs;on on earth I mo&longs;t loved,
mo&longs;t wi&longs;hed to &longs;ee happy, I could take no
re&longs;t all night. As &longs;oon as day-light appeared
I aro&longs;e, and dre&longs;&longs;ing my&longs;elf as plain as
po&longs;&longs;ible, borrowing a black bonnet of Deborah,
I determined to &longs;et out for Litchfield
on foot; but, fearing my mother might be
alarmed at my ab&longs;ence, I left a note informing
her, in a few words, that I was gone to
endeavour to prove my&longs;elf worthy of her
love. During my walk I revolved in my
mind what &longs;teps to pur&longs;ue. Mr. Sutten was
joint guardian with my father: I had no
doubt he had been &longs;ent for on account of
the arre&longs;t, and hoped to prevail on him to

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advance &longs;ufficient money to make my poor
mother ea&longs;y in her mind. I therefore determined
to go immediately to the hou&longs;e of the
bailiff, and learn at who&longs;e &longs;uit my father had
been arre&longs;ted. From thence I would go to
the creditor and endeavour to prevail with
him to take half the money now, and the
re&longs;t when I became my own mi&longs;tre&longs;s, which,
according to Mrs. Mirvan's will, was to be at
eighteen years old. Here bu&longs;y reflection
aro&longs;e, and told me how very unworthy of
my attention my father was, but he is my
father &longs;till, &longs;aid I, and tho' he has forgotten
his duty towards me, it does not follow that
I am to neglect mine to him: be&longs;ides, religion
teaches us to reward evil with good;
and &longs;urely, if there is any way of awakening
the per&longs;on who injures us, to a &longs;en&longs;e of their
guilt, it is by &longs;hewing them an example of
chri&longs;tian charity, and good will; be&longs;ides,
my mother and brother have not injured me,
and why &longs;hould they &longs;uffer for the vices of
my father? Occupied by the&longs;e reflections, I
entered Litchfield, and went directly to the
bailiff's hou&longs;e. My father was not up; indeed
I did not wi&longs;h to &longs;ee him if he had, &longs;o I
only made the nece&longs;&longs;ary enquiries, learnt
who the creditor was, and proceeded directly
to the &longs;treet where he lived. Mr. Lee&longs;on
is a man, who, for many years, &longs;erved a nobleman
in London, as I have been told, tho'

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in what capacity, I never heard. In his service,
he accumulated a con&longs;iderable fortune,
and married a lady, a particular friend of his
lord&longs;hip's. Soon after he procured a pension,
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
per&longs;on who had occa&longs;ioned my father's imprisonment.
On knocking at the door a &longs;ervant
appeared yawning, and examining my dre&longs;s
with a &longs;crutinizing eye, a&longs;ked what I wanted.
“I wi&longs;h too &longs;ee Mr. Lee&longs;on,” &longs;aid I, “on
particular bu&longs;ine&longs;s.” “Humph,” &longs;aid the
fellow, &longs;tanding with his back again&longs;t the
wall, his hands in his breeches pockets,
“you mu&longs;t wait a good while before you
can &longs;ee him, for he is not up yet.” “Pray
friend,” &longs;aid I, “give me leave to go in and
&longs;it down till your ma&longs;ter does get up.” “You
may go down &longs;tairs,” &longs;aid he, “if you will,
and when ma&longs;ter is &longs;tirring, I will let you
know.”

Humiliating, as it was, I went down &longs;tairs,
&longs;at down by the kitchen fire and dried my
feet, which were wet, &longs;ome rain having fallen
in the night; my petticoat was al&longs;o
pla&longs;hed with dirt. About nine o'clock, a
&longs;pruce young woman, in a long white bedgown,
came into the kitchen, and looking
at me with a &longs;ort of contemptuous &longs;neer,

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cries, “&longs;ervant ma'am, pray who may you
want?” Imagining, from her appearance,
and the manner in which &longs;he put the question,
that &longs;he might be &longs;ome relation of
the family, I ro&longs;e from my &longs;eat, and answered
I had bu&longs;ine&longs;s of much importance
with Mr. Lee&longs;on. “Aye Mrs. Bridget,”
cried a footman, who was cleaning &longs;ome silver
candle&longs;ticks, at the dre&longs;&longs;er; “when my
lady's bell rings, you mu&longs;t let ma&longs;ter know,
this here young body has been waiting here
ever &longs;ince eight o'clock.” A young la&longs;s, in
appearance a menial &longs;ervant, now appeared,
and &longs;preading a fine napkin on the table,
brought the breakfa&longs;t things, toa&longs;ted &longs;ome
oat cakes, and Mrs. Bridget and Mr. James
&longs;at very comfortably down to breakfa&longs;t; but
during their repa&longs;t, neither a&longs;ked me if I would
partake, tho' they endeavoured to gratify
their curio&longs;ity, by a&longs;king, how far I had
walked, if I had been long in the country,
and many other que&longs;tions, equally impertinent
and in&longs;ignificant; to all which I answered
in little more than mono&longs;yllables.
At length the bell rang, and Mrs. Bridget
making a ha&longs;ty fini&longs;h of her breakfa&longs;t, ran
up &longs;tairs: &longs;oon after, the footman having
equip'd him&longs;elf as a valet, went out of the
kitchen. I was now once more left to myself,
but had not indulged reflection long,
before the girl, who had prepared the

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breakfast, came and &longs;at down, in order to eat her
own. She pour'd out two cups of tea, got
up and held the oat cake (which was almo&longs;t
cold) to the fire, then ca&longs;ting a look, fir&longs;t
at me, then at the table, in a mild accent,
as tho' fearful of giving offence, &longs;aid, “I am
afraid you have not breakfa&longs;ted 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
&longs;he will like; but I thinks your London
folks are all proud; they &longs;erves only to
make places uncomfortable. Do ma'am take
it; I wi&longs;h it was hotter and better.” “It is
very good,” &longs;aid I, taking a bit; for the
poor girl's goodne&longs;s of heart was &longs;o conspicuous
that I could not mortify her by a refusal.
She &longs;miled, began drinking her own
tea, and continued: “Mr. James was quite
a different &longs;ort of a body, I a&longs;&longs;ures you ma'am
before he went to London la&longs;t &longs;ummer with
my mi&longs;tre&longs;s; dear heart, he and I were &longs;o
comfortable and happy, but when they
came home my lady brought Mrs. Bridget
with her, and ever &longs;ince”—She pau&longs;ed; I
&longs;aw her eyes gli&longs;ten. Poor girl, thought I,
James is fal&longs;e hearted, he has for&longs;aken thee
for Bridget; and yet, if he had but discernment
to perceive the difference between the
two hearts, how gladly would he return to

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one &longs;o gentle and tender. Here I was interrupted
by Mr. James him&longs;elf, who told
me his ma&longs;ter de&longs;ired me to walk up. I
bade the kind hearted girl good morning,
and followed James into the pre&longs;ence of his
ma&longs;ter.

“Well, young woman,” &longs;aid Mr. Leeson,
who was &longs;tanding with his back to the
&longs;ire, and his hands behind him. (Celia I
mu&longs;t here digre&longs;s to give you &longs;ome &longs;mall
idea of his per&longs;on and manner.) A per&longs;on
rather above the middle &longs;ize, a face, the features
of which, might have been termed regular,
and even plea&longs;ing, had benevolence,
good humour or politene&longs;s been any way
di&longs;cernable in it, in&longs;tead of which there was
an in&longs;olent pertne&longs;s, a &longs;upercilious, self-approving
&longs;mile, that to my idea portrayed
nothing but ignorance, pride and conceit.

“Well, young woman,” &longs;aid he, “what
may be your commands with me.”

“You are &longs;ir, I under&longs;tand, the per&longs;on
who has cau&longs;ed Mr. Howard to be arre&longs;ted.”
He an&longs;wered in the a&longs;&longs;irmative.

“I waited on you, &longs;ir, to make &longs;ome proposal
concerning this affair, in hopes of being
the means of his obtaining his liberty.”

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