LETTER XXXV. MERIEL to CELIA.
London, March 12th, 1781.
Celia, my beloved Celia, when is my
heart to be at re&longs;t, when &longs;hall I &longs;ay,
“peace dwells in my bo&longs;om, its anxieties are
hu&longs;hed, doubt, fear, and incertitude, are no
more.” Alas! I fear Meriel will never feel
that heavenly &longs;atisfaction, 'till &longs;huddering on
the verge of eternity, &longs;he fixes her hope on
the verge of eternity, &longs;he &longs;ixes her hope on
things immortal, immutable and unchangeable.
But forgive me my friend, when I took
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up my pen, I meant not to complain, indeed
I did not, I am fully &longs;en&longs;ible if my ble&longs;&longs;ings
were mea&longs;ured only according to my demerits,
I &longs;hould be poor indeed, but our
heavenly father, portions out our comforts
according to the mea&longs;ure of his love. Alas!
if our de&longs;erts were only con&longs;idered, who
would dare abide the deci&longs;ion; friend&longs;hip is
his choice&longs;t be&longs;t gift, and have I not found
that pure and un-alloyed in the brea&longs;ts of
Celia and Amleia. As to love;
It is an empty &longs;ound,
The haughty fair one's je&longs;t
On earth un&longs;een or only found
To warm the turtles ne&longs;t.
Oh yes there is love on earth; &longs;incere,
tender, affectionate, faithful, ardent hearts,
but they were not formed for me, Celia; and
I mu&longs;t learn &longs;ubmi&longs;&longs;ion without repining, you
wonder what all this means, I cannot tell you
ju&longs;t now; when I am more compo&longs;ed I will
re&longs;ume my pen. How &longs;trange does it appear
that I &longs;hould be an object of malice or envy
to others, who never harboured a wi&longs;h to the
prejudice, or envied the good fortune of any
one.
The morning after I &longs;ent off my la&longs;t, my
dear Celia, I dre&longs;&longs;ed my&longs;elf neat but very
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plain, and at ten o'clock found my&longs;elf at the
door of Mr. Kingly, in Golden &longs;quare, the
&longs;ervant, who opened it, told me his lady was
not come down: he begged I would wait
in a parlour, where there was a fire, and
brought me a new&longs;paper to amu&longs;e me. In
about twenty minutes, he returned and defired
me to walk up &longs;tairs. I followed him
into a back drawing room, where an elegant
woman &longs;at preparing to make tea, and a
nur&longs;e was in the room with a very young
child. The lady aro&longs;e and received me with
every mark of politene&longs;s; but I was &longs;carcely
&longs;eated before a voice &longs;truck my ears, which
vibrated to my throbbing heart, I felt my face
glow, but had not a moment for thought,
before the door opened, and Rainsforth entered
the room holding a boy about twelve
months old in his arms. Surpri&longs;e threw me
entirely off my guard, I gave a &longs;udden &longs;hriek
and fainted.
What pa&longs;&longs;ed during my indi&longs;po&longs;ition I
cannot tell, but when I recovered, I found
the lady &longs;itting be&longs;ide me on the &longs;opha,
applying volatiles to my no&longs;e and temples,
while a maid &longs;ervant &longs;tood by with water,
but neither Rainsforth or the children were
in the room. “Are you &longs;ubject to the&longs;e
ill turns, my dear mi&longs;s?” &longs;aid the lady. “No
madam,” &longs;aid I, “but &longs;udden &longs;urpri&longs;e will
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&longs;ometimes &longs;erve me thus.” “Do you know
Mr. Kingly? Was it his pre&longs;ence that
cau&longs;ed &longs;uch violent emotions?” “Only that
you call him Kingly, madam, I &longs;hould &longs;ay the
gentleman who came in ju&longs;t now was a Mr.
Rainsforth, of Plymouth.” “Is your name
Howard?” &longs;aid the lady vi&longs;ibly agitated.
I an&longs;wered in the affirmative. “Then,” &longs;aid
&longs;he, “I can account for the exclamation
with which he left the room. You are right
in your conjectures Mi&longs;s Howard, Rainsforth
and Kingly are one and the &longs;ame person.
He took my name on our union, of
which I &longs;uppo&longs;e you were unacquainted. “I
was indeed, a &longs;tranger to it, madam, or I
&longs;hould not have pre&longs;umed to have intruded
here; pardon the involuntary confu&longs;ion I
have occa&longs;ioned, and permit me to retire.”
“You are not as yet &longs;ufficiently recovered,”
&longs;aid &longs;he, “to venture out. Pray, &longs;top, and
compo&longs;e your&longs;elf, and if it will not occa&longs;ion
a return of your di&longs;order, we will &longs;end for
Mr. Kingly to take his breakfa&longs;t.” I was
beginning to apologize for the di&longs;agreeable
interruption I had given, but &longs;he &longs;topped me.
“I &longs;hall not li&longs;ten to a &longs;yllable of excu&longs;e. I
am &longs;ure it was unintentional, but I will not
forgive it on any other terms than its never
being mentioned in future.”
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Kingly, as I mu&longs;t henceforth call him,
was now &longs;ummoned to breakfa&longs;t, I endeavoured
to command my countenance; but
I fear to little effect; I attempted to ri&longs;e,
when he entered the room, but my limbs refused
their office. He bowed and took his
&longs;eat in &longs;ilence, a cup of tea was handed
him: his hand trembled &longs;o he could not
rai&longs;e it to his mouth. I did not dare lift
my eyes, lea&longs;t I &longs;hould encounter his, I felt
my face alternately red and pale; and it
was with difficulty I could re&longs;train my tears.
We were all &longs;ilent for near five minutes.
Mrs. Kingly &longs;eemed the lea&longs;t embarra&longs;&longs;ed of
the three, and at length ventured to &longs;ay,
“my dear Kingly you forget your politene&longs;s
to day, pray help Mi&longs;s Howard to &longs;ome
muffin.” “I believe,” &longs;aid he, “it is by
&longs;ome other name we mu&longs;t addre&longs;s this lady
now.” Surpri&longs;e at what he uttered tempted
me to rai&longs;e my eyes with a kind of inqui&longs;itive
look.” “My name is &longs;till Howard,” &longs;aid
I, “nor have the lea&longs;t intention of altering
it.” “Were you not on the point of being
married about two years &longs;ince?” I was
more a&longs;toni&longs;hed than ever at this que&longs;tion.
I knew not what to an&longs;wer: to have mentioned
any thing of my intended union with
Kingly before his wife, would perhaps have
only &longs;erved to make her unhappy. At length
I an&longs;wered, I was, it is true, near being
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married about that time, but I had every rea&longs;on
to &longs;uppo&longs;e you, as well as the re&longs;t of my acquaintance,
knew the cau&longs;e of the match
being broke off. I have never had a thought
&longs;ince of altering my condition. “It is very
&longs;trange,” &longs;aid he, and the conver&longs;ation dropped.
I then began to recollect the rea&longs;on
which had brought me to the hou&longs;e of a
man whom I wi&longs;hed, of all others, mo&longs;t to
avoid, and turning to Mrs. Kingly made the
nece&longs;&longs;ary enquiries concerning the place I
wanted to engage for. Having received answers
greatly to my &longs;atisfaction, I aro&longs;e to
take my leave, referring her to Mrs. Sidney
for my character. “I dare &longs;ay there will be
no nece&longs;&longs;ity to make tho&longs;e enquiries,” &longs;aid
&longs;he, “but if you will mention any day when
you will favour me with your company to
dinner, I will introduce you to my aunt, who
is fortunately now in town.”
I told her if &longs;he would favour me &longs;o far, as
to give me a line to Mrs. Rook&longs;by, I would
wait on that lady at any time &longs;he would plea&longs;e
to appoint, but mu&longs;t beg leave to decline the
propo&longs;ed honour of dining with her, as I
feared it would not be po&longs;&longs;ible to di&longs;engage
my&longs;elf from the kind friends with whom I at
pre&longs;ent re&longs;ided, till an ab&longs;olute &longs;ettlement
obliged me to leave them. Indeed, my dear
Celia, I felt there would be a great
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impropriety in endeavouring to cultivate an intimacy
with Mrs. Kingly, for &longs;hould &longs;he not have
been acquainted with the connection that
formerly &longs;ub&longs;i&longs;ted between her hu&longs;band and
my&longs;elf, and &longs;hould by any means hereafter
hear of it, &longs;he might naturally &longs;uppo&longs;e I cultivated
her acquaintance, that I might the
more ea&longs;ily enjoy her hu&longs;band's &longs;ociety; and
if, as I &longs;u&longs;pect, &longs;he already knows how near
we were being united by the tendere&longs;t
ties, &longs;he would certainly approve a conduct,
which would &longs;hew how much her happine&longs;s
was preferred to my own gratification. I
will con&longs;e&longs;s I wi&longs;hed for nothing more than
a conver&longs;ation with Kingly, for I plainly perceived
&longs;ome my&longs;tery couched beneath the
few &longs;entences that pa&longs;&longs;ed, while we were at
breakfa&longs;t: But this wi&longs;h I was &longs;en&longs;ible would
be both improper and imprudent to &longs;eek to
gratify. Mrs. Kingly having therefore named
a day, when &longs;he thought it would be convenient
for her aunt to &longs;ee me, and mentioned
an hour when &longs;he would call and take
me to her, I took my leave. I &longs;lightly regarded
Kingly's countenance, as I wi&longs;hed
him good morning, and di&longs;covered in it
&longs;trong traits of wonder and impatience.
When I teturned to Mrs. Sidney's, Amelia
di&longs;covered by my looks the agitation of my
mind. I thought it would be wrong to have
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any concealments from &longs;uch worthy friends,
I therefore briefly related all that concerned
Rainsforth, and my unfortunate rencounter
with him that morning. “Upon my word,
Meriel,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “every word you utter
excites fre&longs;h wonder. I remember hearing
of the affair you mention, but it was always
&longs;poken of in &longs;uch a ludicrous &longs;train, that I
have my&longs;elf frequently joined in the laugh
again&longs;t you, con&longs;idering you as a poor, fond
girl, who fancied every man who but &longs;poke
a civil word was in love with you, and returned
this imaginary pa&longs;&longs;ion with all the enthusiastic
ardor of romantic affection.” I
made Mi&longs;s Sidney no an&longs;wer, but going to
my trunk, returned with all the letters which
had pa&longs;&longs;ed between Rainsforth and my&longs;elf.
“This proof of your fortitude and magnanimity,”
&longs;aid &longs;he, when &longs;he had peru&longs;ed
them, “was only wanting to complete my
e&longs;teem for your character; for, it is from
the&longs;e letters only, that I have learnt in what
manner you di&longs;po&longs;ed of your fortune. Generous,
noble &longs;pirited girl, it is only for &longs;uch
hearts as yours to be tried in the ordeal of affliction;
but &longs;urely heaven has &longs;ome future
reward in &longs;tore, that will amply compen&longs;ate
the &longs;ufferings you are ordained to endure.”
“Oh! my dear Amelia,” &longs;aid I, “have
I not already an ample compen&longs;ation in your
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friend&longs;hip and affection. Prai&longs;es from your
lips are balm to my wounded heart: may I
never forfeit your e&longs;teem.” “That I am
&longs;ure you never will. I only blu&longs;h to think
how long I remained a &longs;tranger to your merits;
but the real diamond is always enveloped
in a cru&longs;t, thro' which it is only on
near in&longs;pection, we can di&longs;cover its intrin&longs;ic
value.” “Ah! flatterer,” &longs;aid I, &longs;miling,
while the tear of grateful affection &longs;tole from
my eye. Oh! Celia, when I forget the
friend&longs;hip of Amelia Sidney, the benefits received
from her hands, the mi&longs;ery from
which &longs;he &longs;natched me, may I be forgot by
that Providence to whom we can only look
for &longs;upport. Ble&longs;s her, all-bounteous heaven;
make her felicity as boundle&longs;s as the
benevolence of her heart; let her comforts
be many, and her afflictions few: and when
this tran&longs;itory &longs;cene is pa&longs;t, &longs;oft and gentle
be her pa&longs;&longs;age to the grave. May &longs;he
“Peaceful &longs;leep out the &longs;abbath of the
tomb,
“And wake to raptures in a life to come.”
Pope.
And may you, my dear Celia, &longs;hare the
&longs;ame envied fate. For me, I was born to
bu&longs;tle on a &longs;ea of trouble; and &longs;o as the busfetting
waves do not deprive me of the
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&longs;upport held out by the heavenly cherub
Hope, I have &longs;till a comfort remaining, that
will bear me up under all my troubles, and
lead me to a harbour of eternal re&longs;t. Adieu,
my friend, I will continue my narrative in a
few days.
MERIEL.
Rowson, Mrs., 1762-1824 [1795], Trials of the human heart, volume 2 ('printed for the author, by Wrigley & Berriman', Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf328v2].