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CAERMARTHEN, APRIL 11.

How shall I, in fit manner, inscribe my letter to the loveliest of women!  I don’t mean because of your loveliness; but whether as daughter or not, as you did me the honour to call yourself.  Really, and truly, I must say, that I had rather call you by another name, though a little more remote as to consanguinity.  Lord have mercy upon me, how have I talked of you!  How many of our fine Caermarthen girls have I filled with envy of your peerless perfections!

Here am I settled to my heart’s content, could I but obtain—­You know whom I mean.—­A town of gentry:  A fine country round us—­A fine estate of our own.  Esteemed, nay, for that matter, beloved, by all our neighbours and tenants.  Who so happy as Rowland Meredith, if his poor boy could be happy!—­Ah, madam!—­And can’t it be so?  I am afraid of asking.  Yet I understand, that, notwithstanding all the jack-a-dandies that have been fluttering about you, you are what you were when I lest town.  Some whispers have gone out of a fine gentleman, indeed, who had a great kindness for you; but yet that something was in the way between you.  The Lord bless and prosper my dear daughter, as I must then call you, and not niece, if you have any kindness for him.  And if as how you have, it would be wonderfully gracious if you would but give half a hint of it to my nephew, or if so be you will not to him, to me, your father you know, under your own precious hand.  The Lord be good unto me!  But I shall never see the she that will strike my fancy, as you have done.  But what a dreadful thing would it be, if you, who are so much courted and admired by many fine gallants, should at last be taken with a man who could not be yours!  God forbid that such a disastrous thing should happen!  I profess to you, madam, that a tear or two have strayed down my cheeks at the thoughts of it.  For why?  Because you played no tricks with any man:  you never were a coquette, as they call them.  You dealt plainly, sincerely, and tenderly too, to all men; of which my nephew and I can bear witness.

Well, but what now is the end of my writing?—­Lord love you, cannot, cannot you at last give comfort to two honest hearts?  Honester you never knew!  And yet, if you could, I dare say you would.  Well, then, and if you can’t, we must sit down as contented as we can; that’s all we have for it.—­But, poor young man!  Look at him, if you read this before him.  Strangely altered!  Poor young man!—­And if as how you cannot, why then, God bless my daughter; that’s all.  And I do assure you, that you have our prayers every Lord’s day, from the bottom of our hearts.

And now, if you will keep a secret, I will tell it you; and yet, when I began, I did not intend it:  the poor youth must not know it.  It is done in the singleness of our hearts; and if you think we mean to gain your love for us by it, I do assure you, that you wrong us.—­My nephew declares, that he never will marry, if it be not somebody:  and he has made his will, and so have I his uncle; and, let me tell you, that if as how I cannot have a niece, my daughter shall be the better for having known, and treated as kindly, as power was lent her,