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And am I indeed fallen &longs;o low,” &longs;aid Charlotte,
“as to be only pitied? Will the
voice of approbation no more meet my ear? and
&longs;hall I never again po&longs;&longs;e&longs;s a friend, who&longs;e face will
wear a &longs;inile of joy whenever I approach? Alas!
how thoughtle&longs;s, how dreadfully imprudent have
I been! I know not which is mo&longs;t painful to endure,
the &longs;neer of contempt, or the glance of compa&longs;&longs;ion,
which is depicted in the various countenances of
my own &longs;ex: they are both equally humiliating.
Ah! my dear parents, could you now &longs;ee the child
of your affections, the daughter whom you &longs;o dearly
loved, a poor &longs;olitary being, without &longs;ociety,
here wearing out her heavy hours in deep regret
and angui&longs;h of heart, no kind friend of her own &longs;ex
to whom &longs;he can unbo&longs;om her griefs, no beloved
mother, no woman of character will appear in my
company, and low as your Charlotte is fallen, &longs;he
cannot a&longs;&longs;ociate with infamy.”

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The&longs;e were the painful reflections which occupied
the mind of Charlotte. Montraville had
placed her in a &longs;mall hou&longs;e a few miles from New-York:
he gave her one female attendant, and
&longs;upplied her with what money &longs;he wanted; but
bu&longs;ine&longs;s and plea&longs;ure &longs;o entirely occupied his time,
that he had little to devote to the woman whom
he had brought from all her connections, and robbed
of innocence. Sometimes, indeed, he would
&longs;teal out at the clo&longs;e of evening, and pa&longs;s a few
hours with her; and then &longs;o much was &longs;he attached
to him, that all her &longs;orrows were forgotten while
ble&longs;t with his &longs;ociety: &longs;he would enjoy a walk by
moonlight, or &longs;it by him in a little arbour at the
bottom of the garden, and play on the harp, accompanying
it with her plaintive, harmonious
voice. But often, very often, did he promi&longs;e
to renew his vi&longs;its, and, forgetful of his promi&longs;e,
leave her to mourn her di&longs;appointment. What
painful hours of expectation would &longs;he pa&longs;s! &longs;he
would &longs;it at a window which looked toward a field
he u&longs;ed to cro&longs;s, counting the minutes, and straining
her eyes to catch the fir&longs;t glimp&longs;e of his per&longs;on,
till blinded with tears of di&longs;appointment, &longs;he would
lean her head on her hands, and give free vent to
her &longs;orrows: then catching at &longs;ome new hope, &longs;he
would again renew her watchful po&longs;ition, till the
&longs;hades of evening enveloped every object in a du&longs;ky
cloud: &longs;he would then renew her complaints, and,

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with a heart bur&longs;ting with di&longs;appointed love and
wounded &longs;en&longs;ibility, retire to a bed which remor&longs;e
had &longs;trewed with thorns, and court in vain that
comforter of weary nature (who &longs;eldom vi&longs;its the
unhappy) to come and &longs;teep her &longs;en&longs;es in oblivion.

Who can form an adequate idea of the &longs;orrow
that preyed upon the mind of Charlotte? The
wife, who&longs;e brea&longs;t glows with affection to her
hu&longs;band, and who in return meets only indifference,
can but faintly conceive her angui&longs;h.
Dreadfully painful is the &longs;ituation of &longs;uch a woman,
but &longs;he has many comforts of which our poor
Charlotte was deprived. The duteous, faithful
wife though treated with indifference, has one
&longs;olid plea&longs;ure within her own bo&longs;om, &longs;he can
reflect that &longs;he has not de&longs;erved neglect—that &longs;he
has ever fulfilled the duties of her &longs;tation with the
&longs;tricte&longs;t exactne&longs;s; &longs;he may hope, by con&longs;tant
a&longs;&longs;iduity and unremitted attention, to recall her
wanderer, and be doubly happy in his returning
affection; &longs;he knows he cannot leave her to unite
him&longs;elf to another: he cannot ca&longs;t her out to poverty
and contempt; &longs;he looks around her, and
&longs;ees the &longs;mile of friendly welcome, or the tear of
affectionate con&longs;olation, on the face of every person
whom &longs;he favours with her e&longs;teem; and from
all the&longs;e circum&longs;tances &longs;he gathers comfort: but
the poor girl by thoughtle&longs;s pa&longs;&longs;ion led a&longs;tray, who,
in parting with her honour, has for&longs;eited the

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e&longs;teem of the very man to whom &longs;he has &longs;acrificed
every thing dear and valuable in life, feels his
indifference in the fruit of her own folly, and laments
her want of power to recall his lo&longs;t affection:
&longs;he knows there is no tie but honour, and that,
in a man who has been guilty of &longs;eduction, is but
very feeble: he may leave her in a moment to
&longs;hame and want; he may marry and for&longs;ake her for
ever; and &longs;hould he, &longs;he has no redre&longs;s, no friendly
&longs;oothing companion to pour into her wounded
mind the balm of con&longs;olation, no benevolent hand
to lead her back to the path of rectitude; &longs;he has
di&longs;graced her friends, forfeited the good opinion of
the world, and undone her&longs;elf; &longs;he feels her&longs;elf a
poor &longs;olitary being in the mid&longs;t of &longs;urrounding multitudes;
&longs;hame bows her to the earth, remor&longs;e tears
her di&longs;tracted mind, and guilt, poverty, and di&longs;ea&longs;e
clo&longs;e the dreadful &longs;cene: &longs;he &longs;inks unnoticed to oblivion.
The finger of contempt may point out to &longs;ome
pa&longs;&longs;ing daughter of youthful mirth, the humble bed
where lies this frail &longs;i&longs;ter of mortality; and will &longs;he,
in the unbounded gaity of her heart, exult in her own
unblemi&longs;hed fame, and triumph over the &longs;ilent a&longs;hes
of the dead? Oh no! has &longs;he a heart of &longs;en&longs;ibility,
&longs;he will &longs;top, and thus addre&longs;s the unhappy victim
of folly—

“Thou had'&longs;t thy faults, but &longs;ure thy sufferings
have expiated them: thy errors brought
thee to an early grave; but thou wert a

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fellowcreature—thou ha&longs;t been unhappy—then be tho&longs;e
errors forgotten.”

Then, as &longs;he &longs;toops to pluck the noxious weed
from off the &longs;od, a tear will fall and con&longs;ecrate the
&longs;pot to Charity.

For ever honoured be the &longs;acred drop of humanity:
the angel of mercy &longs;hall record its &longs;ource, and
the &longs;oul from whence it &longs;prang &longs;hall be immortal.

My dear Madam contract not your brow into a
frown of di&longs;approbation. I mean not to extenuate
the faults of tho&longs;e unhappy women who fall victims
to guilt and folly; but &longs;urely, when we reflect
how many errors we are our&longs;elves &longs;ubject to, how
many &longs;ecret faults lie hid in the rece&longs;&longs;es of our
hearts, which we &longs;hould blu&longs;h to have brought into
open day (and yet tho&longs;e faults require the lenity
and pity of a benevolent judge, or awful would be
our pro&longs;pect of futurity) I &longs;ay my dear Madam,
when we con&longs;ider this, we &longs;urely may pity the faults
of others.

Believe me, many an unfortunate female, who
has once &longs;trayed into the thorny paths of vice,
would gladly return to virtue, was any generous
friend to endeavour to rai&longs;e and re-a&longs;&longs;ure her; but
alas! it cannot be, you &longs;ay; the world would deride
and &longs;coff. Then let me tell you, Madam,
'tis a very unfeeling world, and does not de&longs;erve
half the ble&longs;&longs;ings which a bountiful Providence showers
upon it.

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Oh, thon benevolent giver of all good! how &longs;hall
we erring mortals dare to look up to thy mercy in
the great day of retribution, if we now uncharitably
refu&longs;e to overlook the errors, or alleviate the miseries,
of our fellow-creatures.