LETTER XLV.

Oak-hall, June 10th, 1783.

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My little Clementina, is grown the
fine&longs;t girl you can imagine; and I
a&longs;&longs;ure you, grandmamma is not a little
proud of her darling. I wi&longs;hed the dear
little charmer to have been called Frederica,
but I dared not &longs;ay &longs;o, lea&longs;t it &longs;hould be
thought improper. La&longs;t night, my dear
Amelia arrived: her &longs;pirits are greatly depressed
by the death of her excellent mother,
but as &longs;he will be happy in the friend&longs;hip
and protection of Mrs. Rook&longs;by, I hope
&longs;oon to &longs;ee her chearfulne&longs;s re&longs;tored. I have
got &longs;uch a habit of &longs;eizing every lei&longs;ure
moment to &longs;cribble to my Celia, that I often

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take up my pen, when I have really nothing
to &longs;ay. You rejoice, you tell me to find my
happine&longs;s increa&longs;e. Indeed, my dear friend
I experience a much larger &longs;hare than &longs;ome
years &longs;ince, I could have imagined would
have ever fallen to my lot. Mr. Rook&longs;by
is &longs;till the kind, the attentive hu&longs;band, and
the birth of my little girl &longs;eems more strongly
to cement our union.

You cannot think, how &longs;urpri&longs;ed I was
a few days before we left town. Mr. Rooksby
had been out in the morning, and on
his return told me he had met with an old
friend whom he had invited home to dinner.”
He is a man,” &longs;aid he, “with whom
I formed an acquaintance when we were
both boys at the &longs;ame &longs;chool together, I
have not &longs;een him for &longs;ome time, but I always
thought him a worthy fellow, and am
now happy in the renewal of our intimacy.”
He did not mention the name of his friend.
You may judge therefore what was my
a&longs;toni&longs;hment, when ju&longs;t before dinner a
&longs;ervant announced Mr. Belger. I know
not why it was, but I felt my&longs;elf strangely
embarra&longs;&longs;ed while he was paying his compliments.
Mr. Belger too was &longs;urpri&longs;ed,
and looked aba&longs;hed at the unexpected rencounter,
for I had not &longs;een him &longs;ince the
cold wet night when we parted at the

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end of Ken&longs;ington. However, I immediately
acco&longs;ted him by name and turning
to Mr. Rook&longs;by endeavoured at a &longs;mile,
while I &longs;aid, “This is an old acquaintance
of mine too, though I dare &longs;ay Mr. Belger
had not the mo&longs;t di&longs;tant idea of &longs;eeing me
here.” I then enquired after Mrs. Belger
and Emma.

“Emma is abroad in a convent, madam,”
he replied—“and, her mother”—He hesitated,
and I at that moment perceiving he
was dre&longs;&longs;ed in &longs;econd mourning, in&longs;tantly
under&longs;tood his meaning. I felt my eyes fill.
I remembered her gentlene&longs;s and affection,
and I al&longs;o remembered how ill that affection
had been requited.

“And pray, my dear,” &longs;aid Mr. Rook&longs;by,
“where were you acquainted with my friend
Belger?”—“At Ken&longs;ington,” I replied.—

“At Ken&longs;ington!” &longs;aid he with vi&longs;ible emotion
“Did you know many per&longs;ons there.”

“Very few, indeed; for at that time I was
not in a &longs;ituation to receive many vi&longs;itants.”

I did not choo&longs;e, my dear Celia, to mention
having known Mrs. Moreton; as &longs;he was
undoubtedly a woman of light character,

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the being &longs;uppo&longs;ed, an intimate of &longs;uch a
woman, would by no means contribute to
rai&longs;e me in Mr. Rook&longs;by's opinion, I therefore
endeavoured to give the conver&longs;ation a
different turn, and dinner being &longs;oon after
announced, it a&longs;&longs;i&longs;ted my de&longs;ign, and we &longs;poke
afterwards only on indifferent &longs;ubjects.—I
am by no means plea&longs;ed with Belger's being
on an intimate footing in our family, he is
not a proper companion for Rook&longs;by, I am
certain he is of libertine principles, fond of
gaming and di&longs;&longs;ipated in his manners, yet
greatly as I di&longs;like him, I dare not mention
it to Mr. Rook&longs;by, as he &longs;eems extremely
fond of him and places the mo&longs;t implicit
confidence in his honour, and has actually
invited him to pa&longs;s &longs;ome weeks this &longs;ummer
with us here, I am mortified and vexed,
Amelia laughs at me, when I mention my
anxiety and &longs;ays, he will now be fearful of
in&longs;ulting me by any mention of his love.
While I was unprotected he could treat me
with di&longs;re&longs;pect, without fear of being called
to an account, now it is quite a different
affair.—Indeed, Celia, this is not what I
dread, but I think if Mr. Rook&longs;by &longs;hould
by any means hear how intimate we once
were, he would be di&longs;plea&longs;ed, and it might
be the cau&longs;e of great unea&longs;ine&longs;s between us,
I &longs;hall take particular care to avoid all opportunities
of being entertained alone by this

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man, and feel happy in the reflection that
while I am in the country I &longs;hall have Amelia
con&longs;tantly with me.

22d.

Since I began my letter I have been &longs;o
agitated and di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed I found my&longs;elf totally
unequal to the ta&longs;k of fini&longs;hing it. Now I
have &longs;at down for that purpo&longs;e, I hardly
know how to arrange the extraordinary
events that have happened within the&longs;e la&longs;t
twelve days, nor am I certain that you, my
dear Celia, will entirely approve of my conduct;
yet &longs;ure you will not greatly condemn
me: for your gentle heart is benevolence
it&longs;elf. On the evening of the day on which
I began my letter, I could not but ob&longs;erve
that Mr. Rook&longs;by was extremely thoughtful
and grave, a thing with him very uncommon,
as his u&longs;ual demeanor is chearful, and his
conver&longs;ation lively.—Once or twice, I
thought (for I ob&longs;erved him narrowly,)
I &longs;aw the tears &longs;tart in his eyes, he &longs;ighed
deeply and often. His mother remarked his
want of &longs;pirits and inquired if he was well.
His an&longs;wer was, “yes madam, very well, but
rather out of &longs;pirits, I &longs;hall be better to-morrow,
do not pay any attention to it.”—I
thought it was be&longs;t not to &longs;peak, lea&longs;t urgent
inquiries might encrea&longs;e rather than relieve

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his evident depre&longs;&longs;ion; and in ca&longs;e any family
affair had occa&longs;ioned his unea&longs;ine&longs;s I was
&longs;en&longs;ible he would not choo&longs;e to mention it
before his mother and Amelia.—I therefore
determined to let it re&longs;t, if he thought it
right that I &longs;hould be informed of the cau&longs;e,
he would the fir&longs;t convenient opportunity
communicate it; if not, it would I naturally
&longs;uppo&longs;ed only increa&longs;e his vexation to be
teized with impertinent inquiries. When
we retired he &longs;poke but little, &longs;eemed
buried in thought, and I am certain, &longs;lept
little all night. This was too much—I felt
my heart partake of his unea&longs;ine&longs;s, though
I was ignorant of its origin. I longed to
lighten his anxiety by participation;—
Yet, feared to be trouble&longs;ome.—After
breakfa&longs;t perceiving his dejection rather increase
than dimini&longs;h, I followed him into
the &longs;hrubbery, and finding him &longs;itting in a
melancholy, mu&longs;ing po&longs;ture, &longs;eated my&longs;elf
be&longs;ide him, and laying my hand on his arm,
&longs;aid with a voice, that evidently &longs;poke my
tender &longs;olicitude—

“I am not, indeed, my dear Meriel, I am
very far from it; but do not let it interrupt
your tranquillity. The cau&longs;e of my pre&longs;ent
dejection will &longs;oon be removed, and then I

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&longs;hall again enjoy with plea&longs;ure the &longs;ociety
of the be&longs;t of wives; but at pre&longs;ent, my
love, I mu&longs;t reque&longs;t you to leave me, as
I am unfit for conver&longs;ation.”

“And can you, Rook&longs;by, think me worthy
of the flattering appelation you ju&longs;t
now gave me, and yet &longs;uppo&longs;e me capable
of pre&longs;erving my tranquillity while I &longs;ee
you unhappy.”

“You know, my &longs;weet girl, I think you
all, that is good and amiable in woman,
and it is for your peace of mind I would
endeavour to hide my unhapine&longs;s.”

“But as you connot hide it from the eye
of affection, then refu&longs;e me not the pleasure,
my dear Rook&longs;by of at lea&longs;t participating.
If I cannot alleviate your anxiety,
&longs;urely you cannot fear to place a confidence
in the cho&longs;en friend of your heart.”

“Oh no! but I know it will give you
no plea&longs;ure to be informed, nay, I fear it
would rather make you unhappy in an eminent
degree.”

“Then it is &longs;omething of great consequence
either to your honour or intere&longs;t,
or perhaps to both: if &longs;o, I mu&longs;t one day

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know it, and &longs;ure the tidings will not give
me &longs;o much pain from you, as from the
lips of another.”

“Oh! my gentle love, do not pre&longs;s me,
you have no idea of what my heart at this
moment &longs;uffers, while I refu&longs;e to gratify
your laudable curio&longs;ity. Yes, my dear Meriel—
I know the only incentive to be thus
pre&longs;&longs;ing, is a generous wi&longs;h to relieve my
anxiety; but believe me, you cannot form
the remote&longs;t idea of the cau&longs;e. If you
could, you would look on me with a mixture
of horror and di&longs;gu&longs;t.”

“Say not &longs;o, Rook&longs;by; do not think &longs;o
meanly of your wife as to &longs;uppo&longs;e her capapable
of thinking of you a moment without
affection, without an ardent wi&longs;h to &longs;ee
you as perfectly happy, as it is po&longs;&longs;ible for
mortal to be.”

“Can, my deare&longs;t-life, think of no incident
that might happen, that would weaken
her affection towards me.”

“None.—Were it po&longs;&longs;ible, (but I know
it not) that forgetful of your vows, you
could prove fal&longs;e to your Meriel &longs;he could
never forget that you had rai&longs;ed her from

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indigence! that you were her hu&longs;band!
and the father of her child!”

“Deare&longs;t, be&longs;t of womankind—fal&longs;e to
thee! No—rather &longs;hould my heart cea&longs;e to
beat. I &longs;ee your heroic &longs;pirit is adequate
to any trial; no longer will I keep you in
&longs;u&longs;pen&longs;e. I have &longs;een Clara.”—

“And, is that all!—fye! Rook&longs;by, fye!
could you think that would give me a moments
pain. Believe me were it in my power
to be of the lea&longs;t &longs;ervice to Mrs. Millar,
I would in&longs;tantly fly to do it.

“Angelic goodne&longs;s! but could you indeed
forgive her.”

“I have no right to call her too account,
my dear Rook&longs;by, for her errors: but tell
me, is &longs;he in di&longs;tre&longs;s. If &longs;o, I know &longs;he
is my fellow creature, and it is my duty to
relieve her.”

“Meriel,” (&longs;aid he catching me in his arms)
while tears of exultation bur&longs;t from his eyes,
“you &longs;urpa&longs;s even the elevated idea I had
formed of your prudence and virtue, Clara
is in di&longs;tre&longs;s, I met her ye&longs;terday, with scarcely
cloaths to &longs;hield her from the inclemency
of the weather. She told me &longs;he had pa&longs;t

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the two la&longs;t nights in the open air, expo&longs;ed
to nocturnal damps; that lovely form that
once was &longs;hielded by a tender hu&longs;band from
even the mo&longs;t trifling inconvenience, had
nought to re&longs;t upon but the cold earth, no
canopy but heaven,—and two days had pa&longs;t
&longs;ince &longs;he had ta&longs;ted food.”—

“Merciful heaven, &longs;aid I, (while my eyes
overflowed,) why have I been kept thus long
in ignorance, were is &longs;he, let us go, my dear
Rook&longs;by, &longs;hall I quietly enjoy the luxuries
of life while poor Clara is in want of even
the nece&longs;&longs;aries.”

“I relieved her at the time, my love. Do
not feel &longs;o acutely, I even promi&longs;ed again to
&longs;ee her; but my heart &longs;mote me, I thought
&longs;hould it reach your ears, you would think
me the be&longs;e&longs;t of mankind.”

I &longs;hould think you &longs;o, indeed, were you
capable of beholding unmoved the mi&longs;eries
of a woman, with whom you once lived on
terms of the greate&longs;t familiarity: but we
are lo&longs;ing time. Let us ha&longs;ten to the poor
&longs;ufferer. Who knows, but we may lead
her back to the paths of virtue? But hold!
you &longs;hall go alone, Rook&longs;by. She may
con&longs;ider my pre&longs;ence as an in&longs;ult.”

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“She mu&longs;t, if &longs;he reflects at all, my dear
Meriel, think it the highe&longs;t conde&longs;cention;
and if you will be &longs;o generous as to vi&longs;it
and promi&longs;e her your protection, I will
write her a note to prepare her for the interview,
and you &longs;hall &longs;ee her in the afternoon.”

“You will accompany me then?”

“No, dear girl, I will not. After what
has pa&longs;t, it is impo&longs;&longs;ible to doubt either
your delicacy or genero&longs;ity. You &longs;hall act
entirely as your own heart directs. I am
&longs;ure by leaving you to its dictates, Clara
will have no rea&longs;on to complain: but let
me intreat you not to mention this affair,
either to my mother or Mi&longs;s Sidney. I am
&longs;ure they would blame the generous ardour
with which you e&longs;pou&longs;e the cau&longs;e of the unfortunate
Clara.”

“I promi&longs;ed &longs;ilence, and we returned to
the hou&longs;e, Rook&longs;by all life, &longs;pirit and tenderness;
and I planing fifty different
&longs;chemes for Clara's future &longs;upport. At
dinner Mrs. Rook&longs;by was quite happy to
&longs;ee Clement's chearfulne&longs;s returned; and
Mi&longs;s Sidney was too delicate and considerate
to a&longs;k any que&longs;tions concerning his late
dejection and ab&longs;ence of mind.

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About five o'clock the chariot came to the
door, and Rook&longs;by handed me in, telling me
the coachman knew where to drive, I cannot
&longs;ay but during my little ride, I underwent
great agitation of &longs;pirits, I am certainly
doing right, thought I, in offering my protection
to the unfortunate Clara, and did not humanity
point out my duty, &longs;elf-intere&longs;t would
urge me to a performance of it, for &longs;hould I not
prove a friend to Clara, Rook&longs;by undoubtedly
would; and &longs;en&longs;ible, as I was, of the undue
influence &longs;he once had over him, I could not
but fear, that influence might again be exerted
to his ruin: Be&longs;ides, &longs;aid I, who knows
but Clara, had &longs;he been ble&longs;t with friends
to direct her, and coun&longs;el her aright might at
this moment have been a &longs;hining member of
&longs;ociety. Alas, it might have been my fate
to wander forlorn and unprotected thro' the
world, had it not been for the interpo&longs;ition
of providence, who &longs;o wonderfully inclined
the heart of the friendly Mr. Welldon to grant
me &longs;uccour and relief; and &longs;hall I who have
experienced &longs;uch ble&longs;&longs;ings and &longs;upport from
an All Governing power, refu&longs;e my feeble
a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tance to rai&longs;e from &longs;orrow and infamy, a
poor fallen &longs;i&longs;ter. Oh no! That &longs;ame benignant
Power has pointed out my duty in
the cleare&longs;t manner, and I tru&longs;t will not suffer
me to be backward in the performance

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of it.—Fully occupied by the&longs;e and &longs;imilar
reflections, I hardly perceived what route the
carriage had taken, till it &longs;topped at the
door of a &longs;mall neat cottage. A whole&longs;ome
looking young woman pre&longs;ented her&longs;elf. I
enquired for Mrs. Millar and was &longs;hewn into
a parlour and informed &longs;he would wait on
me immediately. I was &longs;carcely &longs;eated when
the door opened, and (judge if po&longs;&longs;ible my
&longs;urprize,) Mrs. Moreton entered.—An
exclamation of wonder e&longs;caped me. Oh!
Madam, &longs;aid &longs;he, and unable to articulate
more, &longs;unk on the neare&longs;t chair, covered her
face with her hands and bur&longs;t into tears.

“Be not alarmed,” &longs;aid I, in the gentle&longs;t
accent I could a&longs;&longs;ume, “you have nothing to
fear from me. But tell me do you live in
this hou&longs;e, and are you any ways connected
with the unfortunante Mrs. Millar.”

“Oh! dear lady,” &longs;aid &longs;he, (&longs;inking on her
knees and rai&longs;ing her &longs;treaming eyes to my
face) “I am that unhappy wretch, I am that
ungrateful mon&longs;ter who have injured (though
Heaven knows involuntarily,) the very woman,
who now generou&longs;ly comes to &longs;ave me
from de&longs;pair.”

I was greatly affected, my dear Celia, I
rai&longs;ed the afflicted penitent, and bade her
be comforted.

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“Comfort!” exclaimed &longs;he vehemently,
“Alas! where can a wretch, who&longs;e crimes
are &longs;o multiplied as mine, find it?”

“It is never denied to the truly penitent:
and I hope you will experience its benign
influence.”

“I &longs;hall! I begin to feel it already dawn
on my benighted &longs;oul. It comes adminitered
by an angel's hand.”

I then made &longs;ome enquiries concerning
her pre&longs;ent &longs;ituation, and reque&longs;ted to be
informed, in what manner I could render
her &longs;ervice which would be mo&longs;t acceptable.

“You cannot, my dear Madam,” &longs;aid
&longs;he, “judge how far I am worthy your compassion,
unle&longs;s you will permit me to acquaint
you with the chief incidents of my pa&longs;t life.
I know at this moment, I appear to you an
unworthy unprincipled wretch. When I
think of the &longs;ituation, in which I left you
at Ken&longs;ington, I cannot but reflect how little
I &longs;hould expect from your hands. Nay
that my very life is in your power, but when
I &longs;hall inform how much I &longs;uffered for the
unintentional injury I did you, I flatter myself
you will pity and forgive me.”

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“But I mu&longs;t in&longs;i&longs;t,” &longs;aid I, “that you
do not enter upon this detail till your situation
is rendered more comfortable than it is
at pre&longs;ent.”

“Permit me,” &longs;aid &longs;he, interrupting me,
“to remain at this cottage a few days. In
that time, I will endeavour to commit to
your peru&longs;al a written account of my miserable
life, from the earlie&longs;t period of recollection
till now. I am &longs;en&longs;ible you will find
much to blame—but, alas! you will find
much more to awaken your compa&longs;&longs;ion.—
My crimes, though many, have not been
my own: but my afflictions are. I have
neither friend or relation to con&longs;ole, comfort,
or alleviate my angui&longs;h.”

The agony her countenance expre&longs;&longs;ed, as
&longs;he uttered this, is not to be de&longs;cribed. I
felt her &longs;olitary, forlorn &longs;ituation, and while
the tear of &longs;ympathy trembled in my eye, I
breathed forth the accents of conn&longs;olation.—
When &longs;he grew more compo&longs;ed, I aro&longs;e to
take my leave;—but was &longs;adly at a lo&longs;s
how to offer the a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tance I was &longs;en&longs;ible &longs;he
wanted, without hurting her feelings. At
length I ventured to draw forth my pur&longs;e.
She laid her hand on my arm—“That is
entirely needle&longs;s,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “Mr. Rooksby
has been very liberal. Let me not be

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thus oppre&longs;&longs;ed with obligation, till &longs;ome
way is pointed out for me in &longs;ome mea&longs;ure
to &longs;how my gratitude.”—“Call it not an obligation,”
&longs;aid I, “It is only a debt due from
the happy to the unfortunate.” “I have one
reque&longs;t to make, dear madam,” &longs;aid &longs;he,
“&longs;uffer me then to decline this offered favour
in hopes you will grant me the one nearer
my heart.”—“Name it,” &longs;aid I.—“It is,”
&longs;he replied, “that you will forbear mentioning
the circum&longs;tances that pa&longs;t at Kensington
to Mr. Rook&longs;by, till you have received
my letter. After that you will think
of me with more clemency than you do at
pre&longs;ent.”

I bade her be quite ea&longs;y in that re&longs;pect,
and leaving the pur&longs;e on the table returned
to the Hall, where I found Mrs. Rook&longs;by
and Amelia wonderfully curious to know
where I had been. “To keep a particular
appointment I a&longs;&longs;ure you,” &longs;aid Clement,
“and as I am the only con&longs;ident, that is
tru&longs;ted in the affair, I beg you will not be
inqui&longs;itive concerning it; for I have promised
&longs;ecrecy.”

He did not make any enquiry of what
had pa&longs;&longs;ed at our interview, but pointedly
avoided the &longs;ubject. The next morning he
pre&longs;ented me with two hundred pounds,

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saying, “My dear Meriel's expences may at
this time be greater than u&longs;ual. Make u&longs;e
of this my love, and &longs;hould you require
more, you know where to apply.” This
&longs;um I &longs;hall look upon as the property of
Clara, and when we have &longs;ettled &longs;ome plan
for her future &longs;upport, it &longs;hall be appropriated
entirely to her u&longs;e. I was very impatient
for the promi&longs;ed letter, as I imagined it almo&longs;t
impo&longs;&longs;ible for her to extenuate a conduct &longs;o
unju&longs;t and cruel as hers had been toward me;
but re&longs;olved at all events to judge as candidly
as po&longs;&longs;ible, and extend toward her a friendship,
which may awaken in her mind a ju&longs;t
&longs;en&longs;e of her pa&longs;t errors, and lead her imperceptibly
to the love and practice of virtue.
At length the long expected packet arrived.
I &longs;end a copy for my dear Celia's perusal.
Oh! my friend, when you have
peru&longs;ed it, you will like me, &longs;hed tears of
&longs;ympathy over poor Clara's &longs;ufferings, till
her offences are blotted from your remembrance.—
Farewell, my Celia. Everyaffectionate
wi&longs;h for your happine&longs;s, flows from
the heart of your

eaf328v3.n1

[1] Between this and the preceding letter, &longs;everal
are omited, as they contained only the common
events of life. During this time Mrs. Rook&longs;by informs
her friend &longs;he is become the mother of a daughter.
The reader may therefore &longs;uppo&longs;e, more than a
year and a half has clap&longs;ed, &longs;ince the marriage of our
heroine.

LETTER XLVI. CLARA to MRS. ROOKSBY.

June 20th, 1783.

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Though I have taken up my pen to address
the mo&longs;t benevolent woman on
earth, I &longs;hudder to think in what a de&longs;picable
light I &longs;hall appear.—Oh! Madam, the heart
not entirely rendered callous by guilt, &longs;hrinks
from the &longs;crutinizing eye of &longs;uperior virtue,
yet painful as the ta&longs;k is, I feel it is a duty I
owe, to you, to my&longs;elf, and to my dear forsaken
children.—I am not, madam, as my
&longs;i&longs;ter-in-law repre&longs;ented to Mr. Rook&longs;by,
the daughter of a decayed officer; Alas! my
friend&longs;hip with this cruel &longs;i&longs;ter, has been the
chief cau&longs;e of all my guilt and mi&longs;ery. My
father was a gentleman of genteel fortune,
and un&longs;ullied reputation. I was his only
child, and at the age of thirteen having lo&longs;t
my mother was placed at a boarding &longs;chool
near Oxford, where I received a genteel education;
and to my utter regret formed an
acquaintance with Eleanor Ram&longs;ay, &longs;he was

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five years older than my&longs;elf and was a teacher
in this &longs;chool, &longs;he had an expen&longs;ive ta&longs;te for
dre&longs;s, and was pa&longs;&longs;ionately fond of gaiety and
plea&longs;ure. My father made me a liberal allowance
for my pocket expen&longs;es. Eleanor
was not &longs;o amply &longs;upplied, &longs;he told me that
her father had been dead for &longs;ome years and
her mother's income was extremely confined
tho' &longs;he &longs;trained it to the utmo&longs;t in order
that her&longs;elf and brother might have the
benefit of a liberal education.—Young Ramsay
was a genteel engaging youth, and at
that time employed in the &longs;tudy of the law.
He frequently came to vi&longs;it his &longs;i&longs;ter, and
&longs;ometimes took her to places of public entertainment,
in which excur&longs;ions I was imprudently
allowed to accompany them. Ram&longs;ay
pretended to be &longs;truck with my per&longs;on; but
I have &longs;ince been convinced the fortune my
father po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed and of which I was &longs;uppo&longs;ed
heire&longs;s, was the chief incentive to the pa&longs;&longs;ion
he &longs;o ardently pro&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed. Eleanor was plain
in her per&longs;on, but artful and in&longs;inuating in
her manner. She con&longs;tantly contrived parties
of plea&longs;ure, in which I was included: and
in return I &longs;upplied her with money to purchase
any article of finery which her own
narrow allowance would not afford.—

In this manner we proceeded till I reached
my &longs;ixteenth year, when on receiving a

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summons from my father to prepare to quit &longs;chool
entirely, Ram&longs;ay and his &longs;i&longs;ter &longs;hewed &longs;uch
marks of affliction at our approaching separation,
the former declaring his exi&longs;tence
depended on my con&longs;tancy and affection;
that giddy, thoughtle&longs;s, and ea&longs;ily per&longs;uaded,
I con&longs;ented to an elopement and accompanied
the&longs;e fal&longs;e friends to Scotland, where
I &longs;ealed my&longs;elf the mo&longs;t wretched of womankind,
by uniting my&longs;elf to an unprincipled
wretch, in who&longs;e whole family there was
not one atom of honour or genero&longs;ity.—On
our return we ha&longs;tened to my father and
humbly reque&longs;ted his pardon and ble&longs;&longs;ing.—
Alas! I had forfeited all claim to both. He
&longs;purned me from him, and declared he
would never &longs;ee my face again. Overwhelmed
with afflicton, I had now no cour&longs;e
to take, but to repair with my hu&longs;band to London
to his mother and &longs;i&longs;ter, who, I thought,
received me very coldly, con&longs;idering how eagerly
they had &longs;trove to promote the union.
Even Ram&longs;ay him&longs;elf was much altered in his
manner and I began to perceive, that they considered
me as a burthen. I wrote a mo&longs;t penetential
letter to my father, reque&longs;ting to be
received, and offering to quit a man, whom
I found my heart was by no means attached
to; but the an&longs;wer I received was, that as
I had voluntarily quitted his protection for
that of a hu&longs;band, and taken the liberty to

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choo&longs;e for my&longs;elf, without con&longs;ulting him
on the propriety of my choice, I mu&longs;t take
the con&longs;equence of my precipitancy: but,
he feared, if I paid as little regard to the
duties of a wife, as I had done to tho&longs;e of a
daughter, my hu&longs;band would &longs;oon have reason
to repent our union. He enclo&longs;ed me a
note for two hundred pounds, declaring it
was all I mu&longs;t ever expect, as he had made
his will in favour of a &longs;i&longs;ter's &longs;on then abroad
in the navy. This money proved a seasonable
relief, as Mrs. Ram&longs;ay's affairs were
greatly deranged; but it was &longs;oon expended,
and I was again reduced to bear the illnature
of all the family; for Ram&longs;ay never
entertained a thought of giving me even an
apartment to my&longs;elf, nor indeed was it in
his power, as he had no employment by
which we could hope to be &longs;upported. We
had been married about a twelve-month,
when he received an offer of accompanying
a young gentleman abroad. This he eagerly
accepted, and I was left with Mrs. Ramsay.
My &longs;ituation was as uncomfortable as
you can po&longs;&longs;ibly imagine, I had not money
even for nece&longs;&longs;ary expences, and I could not
help perceiving, that even my food was
grudged by my mother-in-law. I thought
once more of making a per&longs;onal application
to my father, but to my great affliction,
he at that time died &longs;uddenly, and all his

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property devolved to the relation I have already
mentioned. Though Mrs. Ram&longs;ay's
finances were very confined, &longs;he lived in an
expen&longs;ive manner, kept a good deal of company
and went frequently into public. One
night being with her at the play, we were
acco&longs;ted by an elderly gentleman, who &longs;at
in the box with us, &longs;hewed us many civilities
during the evening, and when the entertainment
was ended, in&longs;i&longs;ted on &longs;etting us down
at our own door in his carriage, I thought
there was an impropriety in accepting the&longs;e
civilities from a perfect &longs;tranger; but as my
mother and &longs;i&longs;ter acquie&longs;ced, I knew it would
only be deemed prudery in me to re&longs;i&longs;t.—I,
therefore, followed their example, and steped
into the carriage. When we arrived at
home, the gentleman a&longs;ked permi&longs;&longs;ion to
enquire after our health the en&longs;uing morning,
which was granted. On our entering the
hou&longs;e I began to rally Eleanor on the conquest
&longs;he had made, as I naturally imagined
the&longs;e civilities were intended for her, but
Mrs. Ram&longs;ay cried with more good humour
than I had heard her &longs;peak for &longs;ome time.&longs;
“No, no! my dear, Eleanor has no right
to the glory of the conque&longs;t, I fancy it is
you, my pretty Clara, who have attracted
the old gentleman's notice; Eleanor's per&longs;on
is not adapted for making conque&longs;ts.—“I
hope you are mi&longs;taken, madam,” I replied;

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“for I &longs;hould greatly rejoice in any good
fortune which may happen to my &longs;i&longs;ter. For
my own part, my lot is ca&longs;t.”

The next morning, Mr. Millar (for it was
he, who had acco&longs;ted us the night before)
called, and after chatting &longs;ome time on indifferent
&longs;ubjects, offered to take us that
evening to Ranelagh. From this time an intimacy
commenced, and I &longs;oon really understood,
that my unfortunate per&longs;on had
been the object of his pur&longs;uit. It was in
vain I remon&longs;trated on the impropriety of a
married woman li&longs;tening to overtures of love.
Mrs. Ram&longs;ay treated the remon&longs;trance as
folly and romance. What &longs;hall I &longs;ay, my
dear madam, ill treated at home, di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed
in my circum&longs;tances, no friend near to whom
I could apply for advice or a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tance. I insensibly
gave way to the delu&longs;ions of &longs;plendor
and affluence, and one evening at a masquerade
con&longs;ented to my ruin.—A few days after
this fatal night, I went with Mr. Millar
to Oxford, which was the place of his residence.
Eleanor accompanied me and I assumed
the name of Millar. As I had not
received a line from my hu&longs;band &longs;ince his
departure from England, I imagined he had
totally forgot me and would be as happy to
be relea&longs;ed from the burthen of maintaining

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me, as he once pretended he &longs;hould be in
obtaining my hand.

Mr. Millar was extremely fond of me, I
endeavoured as much as was in my power
to return this affection with gratitude; but
alas! madam, I was far from happy. Conscious
guilt had fixed her fangs in my bo&longs;om
and knowing my&longs;elf unworthy the attentions
I daily received from the virtuous part of my
&longs;ex. I began to envy a &longs;uperiority, the
con&longs;ciou&longs;ne&longs;s of which had given me &longs;o
much pain; but though I was far from happy
I had not yet ta&longs;ted the mi&longs;ery of loving
one object, while I felt my&longs;elf bound to
another. That &longs;uperlative exce&longs;s of angui&longs;h
was re&longs;erved for me, 'till accident introduced
Mr. Millar to Mr. Rook&longs;by. I will not
repeat the &longs;teps I took, (tears of contrition
bathe my cheeks while I write it) to deceive
the worthy Mr. Millar, and indulge my tenderness
for Rook&longs;by. Suffice it to &longs;ay I
gave a loo&longs;e to love, and experienced its
effects with more violence, as it was the
fir&longs;t time my heart had ever been &longs;en&longs;ible of
the pa&longs;&longs;ion; and certain it is, when we have
taken one &longs;tep in guilt we never pau&longs;e at a second
or a third, when either intere&longs;t or pleasure
urges our pur&longs;uit. You have no doubt
been informed of my leaving Mr. Millar
and following Mr. Rock&longs;by to town; I

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&longs;hall therefore pa&longs;s over every circum&longs;tance
that en&longs;ued until my acquaintance with you,
(then Mi&longs;s Howard) at Mrs. La Cours, and
your &longs;ub&longs;equent removal to Ken&longs;ington. At
that time I had relinqui&longs;hed the name of
Millar; but as I had an invincible aver&longs;ion
to that of Ram&longs;ay, and Mr. Rook&longs;by refused
me his, I a&longs;&longs;umed my own maiden name
of Moreton. While I re&longs;ided at Kensington,
I received Mr. Rook&longs;by's vi&longs;its very
privately, as he was anxious for me to preserve
my character, and I wi&longs;hed to appear
to you in the light of an amiable woman.
I &longs;aw you regarded me with e&longs;teem, and I
knew your heart too well to &longs;uppo&longs;e that
e&longs;teem would be continued, if you knew
I was a &longs;lave to guilty pa&longs;&longs;ion.—Believe me,
deare&longs;t, be&longs;t of womankind, I never entertained
an idea to your di&longs;advantage. I wished
from my &longs;oul to promote your welfare,
and have taught my heart to rejoice in your
pro&longs;perity, though that pro&longs;perity has torn
from my agonized heart every earthly good:
but to proceed—The day before I called on
you and be&longs;poke the linen for my &longs;i&longs;ter Eleanor,
I had received a note from Mrs. Ramsay
informing me that a particular relation
was come to town, and as they were unacquainted
with my connection with Mr. Millar,
&c. and &longs;till regarded me as the wife
of her &longs;on, &longs;he wi&longs;hed me to come to town

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and make them a vi&longs;it, taking the elde&longs;t
child with me. On the morning preceding
the day on which this vi&longs;it was to be paid, Eleanor
let my watch fall, and without acquainting
me with the circum&longs;tance &longs;ent it to
have the damage repaired. You know
what followed. I went to town; but, alas!
on my arrival at my mother's, who &longs;hould
I meet but my unworthy hu&longs;band. I now
too late di&longs;covered that my &longs;i&longs;ter had been
in the plot to betray me. He in&longs;tantly
claimed me, as his lawful wife, and in&longs;i&longs;ted
on my accompanying him abroad, from
whence, he &longs;aid, he had only returned to
fetch me; as he had through the intere&longs;t of
his friend, obtained a very re&longs;pectable place
under the French government. It was in
vain to remon&longs;trate. I was was obliged to
comply, and early the next morning we &longs;et
off for Dover, leaving the children with
Mrs. Ram&longs;ay. On our arrival in that place,
it was too late to think of cro&longs;&longs;ing the channel
that night. We therefore be&longs;poke a
pa&longs;&longs;age on board a packet, and as it was to
&longs;ail by five o'clock the next morning, we
retired early to bed. But judge, dear madam,
if po&longs;&longs;ible, my angui&longs;h and &longs;urprize,
when awaking about &longs;even o'clock, I found
my hu&longs;band and &longs;i&longs;ter had left me, and taken
with them my trunks containing all my
clothes, jewels, money, &c. leaving me

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nothing but about &longs;ix guineas which I had
in my pocket.

I aro&longs;e with a heavy heart, and ordered
&longs;ome breakfa&longs;t. While I was taking my
&longs;olitary meal, I thought I heard a voice that
was familiar to my ears, and inquiring of
the maid who attended what company was
then in the hou&longs;e, I learnt that Mr. Rook&longs;by
was there on his way to France, and that
the packet he had taken for him&longs;elf and servants
did not &longs;ail till the next ride. I then
remembered his informing me at his la&longs;t
vi&longs;it, that he &longs;hould be obliged to vi&longs;it the
continent before he could &longs;ee me again, and
overjoyed to find him in the &longs;ame hou&longs;e
with me, con&longs;idered the treatment I had
&longs;uffered from my hu&longs;band as a fortunate circumctance,
as it would probably procure me
the plea&longs;ure of accompanying my adored
Rook&longs;by abroad. Pardon, madam, the&longs;e
involuntary expre&longs;&longs;ions of affection, I will
&longs;trive to re&longs;train my pen: but when the
heart has once been &longs;trongly attached, it is
hard to break it of its u&longs;ual effu&longs;ions of
tenderne&longs;s. I bid the &longs;ervent &longs;hew me to
the room where he was, and ru&longs;hing into it,
overcome with the various emotions, which
agitated my bo&longs;om, I fainted in his arms.
It will be needle&longs;s to repeat our conversation.
I mu&longs;t only remark, that as I had

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never informed him of my unfortunate marriage
with Ram&longs;ay, and, as he had always
&longs;uppo&longs;ed me the wife of Mr. Millar,
I did not dare explain to him the real cau&longs;e
of my abrupt appearance at Dover. He attributed
it &longs;olely to my affection to him&longs;elf,
and I ble&longs;t the chance which had led me to
him.

On our return from the continent, I made
many enquiries concerning my dear Mi&longs;s
Howard, for whom I had &longs;uffered many an
anxious hour; but could not by any means
learn where you had taken refuge after
the inhuman treatment you had experienced
at Ken&longs;ington. I make no doubt, madam,
but you are acquainted with every
circum&longs;tance, preceding the time in which
I had hoped to be united to Mr. Rook&longs;by.
I had previou&longs;ly wrote to Mrs. Ram&longs;ay, requesting,
&longs;he would u&longs;e her intere&longs;t with her
&longs;on to relinqui&longs;h all claim to me as his wife,
and indeed, I had been informed I could
refute that claim by pleading infancy at the
time of my imprudent elopement. To the&longs;e
letters I received the mo&longs;t &longs;atisfactory answers,
&longs;igned by both Ram&longs;ay and his mother,
declaring they were heartily weary of
the connection and would gladly renounce it,
on condition of my paying a &longs;tipulated &longs;um of
money, to which I readily agreed, and began

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to look forward with hope to days of future
happine&longs;s, and let me add innocence, for I felt
my heart &longs;o firmly attached to the generous
Rook&longs;by, as to render it impo&longs;&longs;ible for me
ever to injure him even in thought. But, ah!
my dear madam, how &longs;oon were the&longs;e bright
pro&longs;pects overclouded, how quickly was this
charming hope &longs;natched from me, and, my
bo&longs;om left a chearle&longs;s and de&longs;olate chaos,
which peace or joy can never more enliven.
When I endeavour to retrace this mo&longs;t heart
rending period of my life: &longs;uch agonizing
feelings overpower me, that my tears flow in
&longs;calding torrents down my cheeks; and &longs;ighs
of acute angui&longs;h rend my bo&longs;om. I cannot
at pre&longs;ent proceed in my recital.—Oh! heavens,
that one who knows &longs;o well the ju&longs;t
value of virtue, &longs;hould be irre&longs;i&longs;tibly impelled
to actions from which her &longs;oul &longs;hrinks
with horror. The innocent may pity, but
they cannot have the remote&longs;t idea of my
&longs;ufferings.

IN CONTINUATION.

My heart is more at ea&longs;e, tears are a &longs;weet
relief to the unfortunate, and when I remembered
the words of con&longs;olation which I had

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li&longs;tened to from the lips of angelic purity,
when the benevolent Mrs. Rook&longs;by cheared
me with her pre&longs;ence, a &longs;oothing reflection,
&longs;omething like hope, pervaded my bo&longs;om,
and though tears &longs;till continued to fall, they
fell without pain. I will now proceed in my
narrative.

On the evening preceding the day on
which I flattered my&longs;elf with becoming the
happie&longs;t of my &longs;ex, I expected Mrs. Ram&longs;ay
to receive the money which I had promi&longs;ed
to pay her, and therefore, de&longs;ired the &longs;ervants
to deny me, even to the cho&longs;en ma&longs;ter of my
affections. Unfortunate hour, of what &longs;cenes
of mi&longs;ery wert thou the harbinger, but I will
not complain, I acknowledge I de&longs;erved it all,
for had I not deceived the be&longs;t the worhie&longs;t
of mankind, by daring to accept his honourable
offers, when I knew my&longs;elf already
&longs;acrificed(I will not &longs;ay united) to a villain.
But what will not a woman do, who loves,
who doats to madne&longs;s and fears to be separated
forever from the object of her adoration,
what errors will not the heart involuntarily
commit when under the influence of hood-winked
pa&longs;&longs;ion?—

It was about nine o'clock as I was &longs;itting
in the nur&longs;ery, with my two dear boys, that
a &longs;ervant informed me the per&longs;on whom I

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expected was below, I ki&longs;&longs;ed my &longs;weet cherubs
bade them good night and repaired to the
parlour, which I had appointed to receive
Mrs. Ram&longs;ay in; but how great was my
a&longs;toni&longs;hment on entering the room to &longs;ee my
inexorable tormenter and his &longs;i&longs;ter Eleanor,
with their mother. I gave a &longs;hriek and
&longs;unk trembling on the neare&longs;t chair. Ram&longs;ay
approached me with feigned tenderne&longs;s—
“why the&longs;e alarms, my dear Clara,” &longs;aid
he “why &longs;hould you &longs;tart thus to behold the
man who adores you, and who though you
have cruelly de&longs;erted and injured, is ready
again to receive you to his arms, and willing
to forget all that is pa&longs;t.”—“would to heaven”
&longs;aid I, “that every pa&longs;t action of my life
could be buried in eternal oblivion, particularly
that to which I was artfully led by you
and your in&longs;inuating &longs;i&longs;ter, of giving you my
hand, when a moment's reflection would
have convinced me you had no &longs;hare in my
heart.”—

“It is well, madam,” &longs;aid he, “you have
made a frank confe&longs;&longs;ion; but know it is amply
in my power to revenge the repeated in&longs;ults
and injuries I have received from you.—You
flatter your&longs;elf it is in your power to annual
a marriage contracted in your minority, but
it is not; and unle&longs;s you con&longs;ent to make me
ma&longs;ter of all the money and jewels at pre&longs;ent

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in your po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion, and leaving this hou&longs;e accompany
me wherever I choo&longs;e to go, I
will to-morrow follow you to the Church
and in the face of the whole congregation
expo&longs;e your infamous conduct, and claim my
prior right not only to your per&longs;on, but to
all the wealth your infatuated lover has heaped
upon you.”—What were my &longs;ufferings
at this horrid moment. Turn either way,
infamy &longs;tared me in the face. I was unable
to determine what plan to pur&longs;ue. To remain
in London was impo&longs;&longs;ible, after what
had pa&longs;t as I &longs;hould undoubtedly have been
the je&longs;t even of my own &longs;ervants. At length
I concluded, whatever might be my fate, the
generous Rook&longs;by &longs;hould not be involved in
the &longs;hame that would con&longs;equently en&longs;ue on
a public expo&longs;ure of my guilt, I therefore
told Ram&longs;ay I was ready to accompany him
wherever he plea&longs;ed; but as to the pre&longs;ents
I had received from Mr. Rook&longs;by, I did not
conceive I had any right to take them with
me.—

This was not what the wretch wanted
Horrible menaces and threats were u&longs;ed to
prevail on me to give him my ca&longs;h and jewels,
I was intirely in the power of the&longs;e three
wretches, nor did I dare even to call for the
a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tance of my &longs;ervants, as they all declared
my life &longs;hould pay the forfeit of &longs;uch an

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attempt: and when they had gained their
point, and I attempted to go up &longs;tairs to fetch
the jewels, both Mrs. Rain&longs;ay and Eleanor
accompanied me. On returning to the parlour,
they de&longs;ired me to &longs;end for a Hackney
Coach.—Then it was, dear madam that my
innocent infants darted acro&longs;s my memory.
“I mu&longs;t have my children,” &longs;aid I.—“Indeed,
&longs;aid the unfeeling Ram&longs;ay, but you
will not. The brats are none of mine; leave
them then to him who has a right to maintain
them.”

To de&longs;cribe my angui&longs;h at this cruel &longs;peech
is impo&longs;&longs;ible.—You, madam, are a mother,
and it is only a mother can conceive my sufferings.
I knelt, I bathed his feet with tears,
and embraced his knees, but in vain. Too
much under the dominion of fear to exert
my&longs;elf to in&longs;i&longs;t on their being taken with
me, I &longs;uffered my&longs;elf to be led more dead
than alive to the coach; and that very night
we all &longs;et out for Cornwall. What arts they
made u&longs;e of to deceive my &longs;ervant, I know
not; but before our departure from London
my trunks were brought to Mrs. Ramsay's,
and one &longs;mall one containing every
nece&longs;&longs;ary for travelling was opened that I
might dre&longs;s my&longs;elf in a proper manner for
&longs;o long a journey. I never could learn how
they had contrived this, but am rather led

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to imagine they had bribed my own woman
to their intere&longs;t.—During my comfortle&longs;s
journey, all my thoughts were occupied by
my beloved children, who were left entirely
to the humanity of a man, whom I had deceived
and injured in the gro&longs;&longs;e&longs;t manner,
and who might avenge the mother's crimes
by de&longs;erting her offspring. I was &longs;en&longs;ible
Rook&longs;by po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed a benevolent heart, but
when I remembered the provocations I had
given him—I trembled for the fate of my
poor infants, who&longs;e only birth-rights were
poverty, &longs;hame, and the contempt of the
world. It is impo&longs;&longs;ibe for any one, who has
not been in the &longs;ame &longs;ituation to judge of my
di&longs;tre&longs;s. The anxiety of my mind affected
my health, and before we arrived at our
journey's end I was in a high fever. We
&longs;topped at a village near Salta&longs;h, where my
di&longs;order increa&longs;ed to &longs;uch a degree that it
was dangerous to think of removing me. A
delirium en&longs;ued and I raved (as I have been
&longs;ince informed) ince&longs;&longs;antly for Rook&longs;by and
my children. At length, youth and a good
con&longs;titution combated the &longs;trength of my
di&longs;order; and after a profound &longs;leep of many
hours, I awoke to perfect rea&longs;on; but
Gracious Heaven! what were my feelings,
to learn when I enquired for Ram&longs;ay and
Eleanor, that they were gone, and with them
all my property. The clergyman of the

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parish a humane &longs;en&longs;ible man had frequently
vi&longs;ited me, during my illne&longs;s, and now entered
the room with an intent to &longs;ee if I yet
lived. It was to him I had been indebted
for all the attentions that had been &longs;hewn
me: and when he found me capable of reading,
he put into my hands a letter which he
&longs;aid my brother had left for me. At the
word brother I expre&longs;&longs;ed &longs;ome a&longs;toni&longs;hment:
but my curio&longs;ity and impatience to read the
letter would not then permit an explanation.
This was the letter

TO MRS. MORETON.

In your attempts to dupe others you have
been effectually duped your&longs;elf. Vain, foolish
woman, who thought your boa&longs;ted beauty
would in&longs;ure you admirers in all who beheld
you. Ram&longs;ay is not your hu&longs;band. He
was mine long before he &longs;aw you. From
the fir&longs;t moment he beheld you, I &longs;aw you
had &longs;upplanted me in his affections, and
therefore determined on revenge. I have
(thank my kind genius) amply effected it,
and reduced you to the lowe&longs;t aby&longs;s of infamy
and &longs;hame. My mother exults in your
deba&longs;ement, and bids you go vaunt your
fancied &longs;uperiority, and &longs;ee if it will regain
the reputation you have lo&longs;t.

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You have no right to the name of Ramsay,
nor indeed, to any but that of Moreton,
which you have &longs;hamefully di&longs;graced.
Ram&longs;ay, was my maiden name, and as my
marriage was a private one, my hu&longs;band
when vi&longs;iting me always cho&longs;e to a&longs;&longs;ume
that, and pa&longs;s for my brother. I enclo&longs;e
you ten pounds, if you live it will be of &longs;ome
&longs;ervice to you, if not, whoever opens this
may make u&longs;e of it for pa&longs;t expences. I
&longs;incerely, and from my &longs;oul, wi&longs;h your recovery,
as my triumph will not be complete,
unle&longs;s I know you have felt the misery,
in which I glory to have involved you.

Before I had fini&longs;hed this inhuman letter,
I fell into &longs;trong convul&longs;ions, which occasioned
a relap&longs;e of my di&longs;order, and I was
again reduced to in&longs;anity.

The humane clergyman had me removed
to his own hou&longs;e, and by the kind attentions
of him&longs;elf and a daughter, I was in
time re&longs;tored to health and a keen &longs;en&longs;e of
my deplorable &longs;ituation.

As my &longs;trength returned, my afflictions
recurred to my mind with greater force—
My dear de&longs;erted infants peri&longs;hing for want,

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or expo&longs;ed to the har&longs;h u&longs;age experienced
by children left to the pari&longs;h, were constantly
before my eyes, and I re&longs;olved at
all events to return to London and learn
their fate. Ill as my benevolent ho&longs;t could
afford it, he lent me three guineas to help
me on my journey, and gave me a letter to
a poor woman, a late pari&longs;hioner of his,
who was married and &longs;ettled in London, requesting
her to render me every &longs;ervice in
her power. With this &longs;lender &longs;um, I &longs;at
forward and after a weari&longs;ome journey, sometimes
riding, &longs;ometimes walking, I arrived
&longs;afe in town, and took up my abode with
the per&longs;on ju&longs;t mentioned. From the enquiries
I made (for I had the temerity to
venture to Mr. Rook&longs;by's hou&longs;e) I learnt
his happy marriage with the amiable Mi&longs;s
Howard, and inwardly rejoiced to think
that in &longs;uch a union, his future happine&longs;s
mu&longs;t be &longs;ecure. I al&longs;o learnt, that my children
were in Devon&longs;hire. The maternal
heart will yearn to pour forth its affection.
I had determined to walk to the environs of
Oak-hall and endeavour to gain a &longs;ight of
my beloved little ones, when a mo&longs;t untoward
accident prevented my putting my
de&longs;igns in execution. This was my kind
landlady falling ill, and as &longs;he kept a &longs;hop,
her hu&longs;band earne&longs;tly entreated me to remain
with them till her recovery; to which

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as I was under many obligations to them, I
could not but a&longs;&longs;ent. Her illne&longs;s was painful
and lingering, and in the end terminated
her life. Soon after her decea&longs;e, I proposed
removing from the hou&longs;e, when the very
man, who had &longs;o earne&longs;tly entreated my
&longs;tay, now demanded payment for my board
and lodging. I had neither money nor
friends. What could I do? I thought once
of applying to Mr. Rook&longs;by; but the fear
of giving you pain prevented me. I submitted
to my hard fate in &longs;ilence and was
conveyed to pri&longs;on. Three months did
I linger in this wretched place, huddled
among the mo&longs;t abject and mi&longs;erable of the
human race; and barely exi&longs;ting on the &longs;canty
pittance allowed me, and the charity of the
benevolent. At length, I was one day recognized
by a trade&longs;man, with whom I had
dealt in my days of affluence. He commiserated
my condition, generou&longs;ly paid the
&longs;um for which I had been confined, and
gave me two guineas in my pocket. No
&longs;ooner was I at liberty, than I re&longs;umed my
wi&longs;h of going to my children. I &longs;et forward
and almo&longs;t begged my way to this place;
but alas! when here, what could I do for
&longs;upport, what door would open to receive
a poor wretch like me? I wandered every
day round the environs of the hall, and
once had the extatic plea&longs;ure of catching a

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glance of my children: but I dared not
&longs;peak to them, though I longed to fold
them to my maternal heart. My little &longs;tock
of money was &longs;oon exhau&longs;ted, though I
lived almo&longs;t upon bread and water, and at
night, re&longs;ted my weary limbs on the damp
ground. But con&longs;cience told me it was all
right, and only a ju&longs;t puni&longs;hment for my
errors; &longs;o I bore it without complaint, and
watered my cold pillow with tears of unfeigned
repentance. One afternoon, as I
was wandering in the adjacent fields, overcome
by hunger and di&longs;tre&longs;s, I &longs;at down
be&longs;ide a brook that ran along the wood&longs;ide
and after reflecting a few moments on the
horrors of my &longs;ituation, I conceived the impious
idea of putting a period to my existence.
I aro&longs;e from my &longs;eat to put my design
in execution, when hearing a ru&longs;tling
on the other &longs;ide the hedge, I &longs;tarted; and
in a moment &longs;aw Mr. Rook&longs;by come acro&longs;s
a &longs;tile into the field where I was. I gave a
faint &longs;cream and &longs;unk to the ground oppressed
by unde&longs;cribable emotions. Urged by
humanity, he approached and rai&longs;ed me
from the earth. I opened my eyes; but
dared not look at him.

“Poor &longs;oul,” &longs;aid he, in the accent of
benevolence, “you &longs;eem ill. Where &longs;hall
I lead you, or what can I do to &longs;erve you.”

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“Leave me,” I replied, with a look and
voice of de&longs;traction—“Leave me Rook&longs;by
to the fate I merit.”—“Gracious heaven!”
&longs;aid he, “is it po&longs;&longs;ible, or do my &longs;en&longs;es deceive
me?”—“Oh!” &longs;aid I, cla&longs;ping my
hands, “pity the wretched Clara, and leave
her to die in peace.”

“Clara,” cried he, &longs;lackening the arm
that had &longs;upported me, “poor infatuated woman,
how came you thus reduced?”—

I need not repeat what an&longs;wer I made—
&longs;uffice it to &longs;ay, I &longs;aw the tear of compa&longs;&longs;ion
&longs;parkle in his eye, and heard him declare, I
&longs;hould be permitted to &longs;ee my children.—
He gave me relief with a liberal hand, and
at parting, de&longs;ired I would let him know
where to find me, that I might not be again
reduced to &longs;uch mi&longs;ery.

Thus, madam, have I retraced a life of
complicated guilt and &longs;orrow. I am fully
&longs;en&longs;ible of the benevolence and candor of
your heart, and I tru&longs;t my unfeigned penitence
joined to my &longs;ufferings will expunge
from your memory my faults. Teach me,
dear madam, how to convince you of my
gratitude for your great conde&longs;cen&longs;ion in
intere&longs;ting your&longs;elf in the fate of &longs;o worthle&longs;s
a being as I am, and whatever plan your

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goodne&longs;s &longs;hall &longs;trike out, I will invaribly pursue,
in hopes that my future life will convince
you, with what abhorrence I reflect on my
pa&longs;t mi&longs;conduct. I have the honour to be,
&c. &c.