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Mentoria, or rather Helena A&longs;kham,
was the only child of a brave &longs;oldier,
who, though born to move in but an humble
&longs;phere, had courage, magnanimity, and fortitude,
that might have become a &longs;taff officer, but he never
ro&longs;e to higher rankthan a &longs;erjeant, in which &longs;tation
he acquitted him&longs;elf with &longs;o much honor, that he
was univer&longs;ally e&longs;teemed by his &longs;uperiors, and beloved
by his equals. He was, at an early age,
married to the daughter of a reputable trade&longs;man,
who preferring the hard&longs;hips of war, to a &longs;eparation
from her hu&longs;band, re&longs;olutely followed him to every
campaign. It was at the &longs;iege of Quebec, that our
gallant veteran was wounded and left dead on the
field: his faithful partner, unable to &longs;upport the
&longs;hocking tidings which were abruptly conveyed to
her, fell into premature labour, and in giving birth
to a female infant, rendered up her own life.

Colonel Dormer was acquainted with the circumstance,
and determined to

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taken, reque&longs;ting &longs;he would permit the little Helena
to be &longs;ent over to be educated with her daughters.
Her lady&longs;hip acquie&longs;ced, and Helena arrived
&longs;afe in England, when only two years old,
and was immediately admitted into the nur&longs;ery among
the little Winworths, and as &longs;he grew up
enjoyed with them the benefit of a polite and
liberal education.

The young Lord Winworth, as he advanced
towards manhood, could not behold the young
orphan without &longs;ome emotions of tenderne&longs;s. Helena
was plea&longs;ing in her per&longs;on, and elegant in
her manners, but &longs;he was endowed with di&longs;cernment
and &longs;en&longs;e far &longs;uperior to the generality of young
women of her age. She po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed &longs;en&longs;ibility enough
to be unable to li&longs;ten with coldne&longs;s and inattention
to the ardent profe&longs;&longs;ions of a young nobleman,
who to the advantages of birth and fortune,
added a prepo&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ing figure, and every polite accomplishment---but
&longs;he knew that he was extremely
young, and that, in all probability, however
eager at that time to enter into indi&longs;&longs;oluble engagements,
he would hereafter repent his precipitancy,
and regret that he had not matched with
one more &longs;uitable in rank and fortune. She al&longs;o
reflected that &longs;he &longs;hould, by accepting him, disappoint
the hopes of his mother, and prove herself
ungrateful to a woman who had ever treated
her with maternal tenderne&longs;s. “And &longs;hall I,”

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&longs;aid &longs;he, “for the gratification of a pa&longs;&longs;ion
“which has perhaps aro&longs;e from childi&longs;h fondne&longs;s,
“and only gains &longs;trength by not being oppo&longs;ed,
“entail on my&longs;elf the anger of my be&longs;t benefac
“tors, and lay my&longs;elf open to the &longs;neers of the
“world, by matching &longs;o far above my expecta
“tions, nay, will not my hu&longs;band be laughed at
“for rai&longs;ing a poor orphan to his rank and title.
“I am determined to &longs;tifle this ri&longs;ing pa&longs;&longs;ion,
“and to inform my Lady of the unfortunate at
“tachment of her &longs;on.”

This judicious re&longs;olution &longs;he immediately put
in execution. Lady Winworth li&longs;tened to her
with a mixture of &longs;urpri&longs;e and admiration. “My
dear Helena,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “you &longs;hall never want
a friend while I exi&longs;t. This generous conduct
has rendered you more amiable than ever. My
&longs;on is but a boy, I will &longs;end him abroad, and
in all human probability a few years &longs;pent at &longs;ome
of the gaye&longs;t Courts in Europe, will entirely eradicate
this youthful penchant.”

When the young gentleman was informed of
his mother's de&longs;ire that he &longs;hould travel, he flew
to Helena, and earne&longs;tly entreated her to con&longs;ent
to a private marriage before his departure. She
laughed at his importunity, though her little heart
was ready to rebel, and &longs;he found to laugh (however
repugnant to her feelings) was the only way

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to avoid an affecting interview. Her mirth piqued
him. “You do not love me, Helena,” &longs;aid he.
“I never told you I did, my Lord.” “But your
looks, your actions, have contributed to make
me think you did.” “Why, my good Lord,”
&longs;aid &longs;he &longs;miling, “I do love you mo&longs;t affectionately,
and wi&longs;h for nothing more than to &longs;ee you happy.”
“Then why not con&longs;ent to our immediate union?”
cried he eagerly.” “Becau&longs;e I love you as a brother,
and hope to &longs;ee you, when you return,
married to &longs;ome lady of birth, merit, and fortune,
and to figure as bride-maid on the occasion.”
“Unaccountable girl,” &longs;aid he, peevishly,
“then only promi&longs;e me to remain &longs;ingle till
my return.” “Indeed I &longs;hall not, my Lord, for
I have no intention to wear a willow garland; and
&longs;ure I am, that &longs;hould I make &longs;uch a promi&longs;e, we
&longs;hould both repent it before the year was out.”
“Nay, Madam,” &longs;aid he, angrily, “if you are
of &longs;o light a di&longs;po&longs;ition-----” “It is even &longs;o,”
cried &longs;he, with affected vivacity, “therefore, as
you are warned, pray beware, and think no more
of &longs;o trifling and incon&longs;tant a character.”

When Helena retired to her own apartment, &longs;he
gave free vent to her feelings; and in order to
avoid the pain of parting, reque&longs;ted permi&longs;&longs;ion of
Lady Winworth, to pay a vi&longs;it to a young lady,
who lived &longs;ome miles from town. The old Lady
&longs;aw the propriety of her reque&longs;t, and immediately

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granted it. She therefore departed the next morning,
leaving only a card, wi&longs;hing his lord&longs;hip
health and much plea&longs;ure in the cour&longs;e of his travels.
So &longs;triking a proof of her indifference increased
his re&longs;entment, and he left England without
any of tho&longs;e pangs which he imagined he
&longs;hould &longs;uffer when &longs;eparated from his Helena.

The event proved that Helena was right; for
when Lord Winworth returned, he brought with
him a bride, lovely, amiable, and his equal in
rank and fortune. When his lord&longs;hip left England,
he took with him a young gentleman, as a
travelling companion; this gentleman did not &longs;ee
Helena previous to his departure, but at his return,
charmed with her innocent vivacity and judicious
conduct, reque&longs;ted permi&longs;&longs;ion to pay his addre&longs;&longs;es;
which was immediately granted, and on their
union he was pre&longs;ented with a po&longs;t under government,
which he enjoyed till his death.

Helena being then left in rather &longs;traitened circumstances,
was reque&longs;ted to become governe&longs;s to
the daughters of Lord Winworth; &longs;he con&longs;ented,
on condition that they might be permitted to retire
with her into the country. His lord&longs;hip purcha&longs;ed
a &longs;mall e&longs;tate in Wales, and thither &longs;he retired
with her young charge.

On the death of his wife, Lord Winworth

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requested her to bring his girls to town, and become
their conductor in public, as &longs;he had been their
in private: but this &longs;he re&longs;olutely refused.

On the &longs;eparation of the young ladies from
their kind, almo&longs;t maternal friend, they reque&longs;ted
a continued corre&longs;pondence might be kept up between
them. Mentoria was the appellation they
had ever given her, and under this name was the
corre&longs;pondence commenced.

As her letters are inter&longs;per&longs;ed with entertaining
tales appo&longs;ite to the &longs;ubjects on which &longs;he
wrote, I have avoided giving any of the young
ladies' letters, as they would only prove an interruption
to the general de&longs;ign.

After being accu&longs;tomed to the &longs;ociety of
my dear Mi&longs;s Winworths for fifteen years,
how &longs;olitary and comfortle&longs;s is my &longs;ituation. I
every day feel my lo&longs;s more &longs;everely. I look at
the and expect my Sophia to come
and practi&longs;e her favorite le&longs;&longs;ons. I take up a
book, and almo&longs;t unknown to my&longs;elf, call on
Emily to read &longs;ome pa&longs;&longs;age that plea&longs;es or

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interests me. I mi&longs;s the dear lively &longs;allies of Gertrude,
and the innocent prattle of Letitia: but
though I &longs;o &longs;everely feel the privation of your
beloved &longs;ociety, I am not &longs;o &longs;elfi&longs;h as to wi&longs;h you
again in the &longs;hades of Cambray. I am certain of
the nece&longs;&longs;ity of your taking a part in the active
&longs;cenes of life, and as your dear mother is now no
more, your father will nece&longs;&longs;arily require the
cheerfulne&longs;s of his children to brighten his solitary
hours, and it was but ju&longs;t that my beloved
girls &longs;hould appear in the &longs;tation they were born
to ornament.

I highly commend the prudence of your father,
in taking Mrs. Clairville into his family, to
be your chaperone on your fir&longs;t entrance into
fa&longs;hionable circles. She is a woman who has &longs;een
a great deal of polite life, has ever retained an
unblemi&longs;hed reputation, and though reduced by
misfortune to be glad to accept the &longs;ituation your
father offered her, has ever been received as a
gue&longs;t who&longs;e pre&longs;ence conferred an obligation, by
&longs;ome of the fir&longs;t families in England.

Though &longs;eparated from you, I &longs;hall, as you
de&longs;ire, &longs;till continue your preceptre&longs;s, and &longs;hall
not at any time &longs;cruple to tell you of your faults;
for partial as I am to your virtues, I am by no
means blind to tho&longs;e errors to which human nature
is &longs;ubject, and which, if not timely

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eradicated, will gain an a&longs;cendancy over your mind,
and entirely hide tho&longs;e amiable qualities, which
at pre&longs;ent form the mo&longs;t &longs;triking traits in your
character.

And to begin---I feel my&longs;elf greatly hurt and
offended by the letter I received from Gertrude,
&longs;ince your arrival in London. When it was fir&longs;t
delivered into my hands, a joyful &longs;en&longs;ation diffused
it&longs;elf over my heart, and while reading the
tender expre&longs;&longs;ions of grateful affection that &longs;eemed
to flow &longs;pontaneous from your pen, it expanded
with plea&longs;ure; but when I came to the&longs;e words,
“My father received us with great affection, and
has been very bountiful in pre&longs;ents, cloaths,
pocket-money, &c. but yet for all that, my dear
Madam, I cannot feel that perfect affection for
him, which I know I ought. He has a great many
peculiarities, &longs;ome of them by no means pleasing;
and my &longs;i&longs;ters all agree, he is very much of
the Ba&longs;haw.”

Good Heavens! &longs;aid I, and is this all the fruit I
am likely to reap from the pains I have taken
to in&longs;til into the minds of tho&longs;e dear girls a ju&longs;t
idea of what is meant by the words, Filial Duty.
That the very fir&longs;t letter I receive &longs;hould point
at the little foibles of a parent, who they acknowledge
received them with affection, and has
been extremely bountiful to them. Believe me,

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my dear children, if you wi&longs;h to pa&longs;s through
life with any degree of plea&longs;ure to your&longs;elves,
you mu&longs;t early learn to &longs;ubmit, without murmuring,
to the will of your father; be blind to his
errors, or if they are &longs;o glaring that you cannot
avoid &longs;eeing them, never expo&longs;e them, or
&longs;uffer others to &longs;peak di&longs;re&longs;pectfully of him in
your pre&longs;ence.

You mu&longs;t &longs;acrifice your own wi&longs;hes to his,
you mu&longs;t &longs;tudy his happine&longs;s and ea&longs;e, and
in &longs;o doing will mo&longs;t promote your
own.

You no doubt remember the amiable Mrs.
Railton, who favored me with her company for
a few weeks la&longs;t &longs;ummer. I ye&longs;terday received
news of her death, and as I am certain example
is ever more efficacious than precept, I will give
you a &longs;light &longs;ketch of her hi&longs;tory, as a model by
which every young woman who wi&longs;hes to promote
her own felicity, will regulate her conduct.

Mr. George Campbell was the &longs;on
of a wealthy baronet, who having &longs;everal livings
in his gift, be&longs;ides good intere&longs;t at Court, brought
him up to the church, with the &longs;anguine expectation
of one day &longs;eeing him a bi&longs;hop.

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Unfortunately for George, before he had attained
his twenty-third year he became attached
to a young lady, who had every requi&longs;ite to
render the married &longs;tate happy, but money---
and money being the old gentleman's darling
idol, he con&longs;equently thought &longs;he po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed no
requi&longs;ite worthy the wife of his &longs;on; but George
was too far engaged to retreat with honor, he
therefore told his father, he was re&longs;olved upon
the union, and in a few days pre&longs;ented his beloved
Loui&longs;a to entreat his ble&longs;&longs;ing.

When Sir James found they were really married,
he thought it was in vain to fly in a pa&longs;&longs;ion,
he received them cordially, and gave them an
univer&longs;al invitation to his hou&longs;e, but in his heart
he never forgave them. The livings were disposed
of to other people, and at his death he
left the whole of his e&longs;tates to his elde&longs;t &longs;on.

Mr. Campbell had only a curacy of about
eighty pounds a year, and as regular as the year
came round, his wife pre&longs;ented him with a child.
Poverty took up her habitation among them, and
he bitterly regretted having, by an act of disobedience,
not only brought on him&longs;elf his father's
di&longs;plea&longs;ure, but involved an amiable woman,
whom he loved, in a &longs;cene of penury and di&longs;tre&longs;s.
The&longs;e reflections four'd his di&longs;po&longs;ition, he became
peevi&longs;h and moro&longs;e, nay &longs;ometimes went &longs;o far, as

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to reproach his wife as the cau&longs;e of his abject situation.

Mrs. Campbell took great care to in&longs;til into
the minds of her children the re&longs;pect and affection
due from them to their father. “My dear
children,” &longs;he would often &longs;ay, “be a&longs;&longs;ured, a
breach of filial duty is ever attended with regret,
and in general with misfortune.”

Loui&longs;a was the elde&longs;t of five children, &longs;he was
mild, meek, and affectionate. She attentively
li&longs;tened to the precepts of her mother, and laid
them up in her heart as an ine&longs;timable trea&longs;ure.
Mr. Campbell's temper grew &longs;o extremely bad,
that not only his wife, but his children came in
for a &longs;hare of his ill-humour. Loui&longs;a, in particular,
was &longs;ure to be wrong, in whatever &longs;he &longs;aid
or did, and it was &longs;eldom &longs;he was favoured with a
kind or affectionate word, yet her manners were
&longs;o amiable and her form &longs;o lovely, that though
&longs;he laboured under the di&longs;advantages of a narrow
education and extreme poverty, her company was
courted by &longs;ome of the genteele&longs;t families in the
village, but in compliance with her father's ill-humour,
&longs;he was &longs;eldom allowed to &longs;tir from
home.

When Loui&longs;a had reached her &longs;eventeenth year,
Lady Mary Campbell, a di&longs;tant relation of her

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father's, came on a vi&longs;it to a family who re&longs;ided
in the &longs;ame village. Loui&longs;a's good qualities were
re&longs;ounded to Lady Mary from every mouth, and
all unanimou&longs;ly agreed it was a pity &longs;o lovely a
girl &longs;hould be buried in ob&longs;curity, and lo&longs;t for want
of a proper education.

Lady Mary was naturally of a humane disposition,
&longs;he expre&longs;&longs;ed a de&longs;ire to &longs;ee Mi&longs;s Campbell,
and when introduced to her, finding her even superior
to what &longs;he had been taught to expect, made
her an offer of going with her to London.

This was a propo&longs;al too much to Loui&longs;a's advantage
to be refu&longs;ed; the invitation was accepted,
and the vi&longs;it prolonged for three years, during
which time Loui&longs;a had an opportunity of improving
her&longs;elf in the ornamental as well as useful
branches of education.

Mrs. Campbell, who had for many years laboured
under an evident decline, was now summoned
home by that power, who had been plea&longs;ed
in this life to try her with long and heavy afflictions.
Lady Mary carried Loui&longs;a to receive the
dying ble&longs;&longs;ing, and pay the la&longs;t duties to her amiable
mother.—That fini&longs;hed, &longs;he propo&longs;ed her
return to London. The lovely girl, penetrated
with gratitude for the many favours &longs;he had received
and tenderly attached to her generous

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benefactress, with difficulty re&longs;trained her tears,
while &longs;he thus addre&longs;&longs;ed her—

“Think me not ungrateful, dear Madam, if I
beg to remain with my father; my brothers and
&longs;i&longs;ters are engaged in learning occupations which
may enable them to pa&longs;s through life with industry
and without reproach. I cannot leave my
father in this &longs;olitude after &longs;o recent an affliction:
he has been for many years u&longs;ed to the unremitting
attention and tenderne&longs;s of my excellent
mother, I mu&longs;t not &longs;uffer him too &longs;everely to feel
her lo&longs;s, but endeavour, as far as in my power,
by affection and affiduity, to &longs;upply her place.”

“And can you, my dear Loui&longs;a, &longs;aid her Ladyship,
&longs;o ea&longs;ily forego the ea&longs;e and plenty you
have enjoyed with me, to live a life of penury
and labour, and that for a man, who, though he is
your father, I mu&longs;t &longs;ay, does not de&longs;erve &longs;uch attention—
did he not always treat you with unmerited
har&longs;hne&longs;s?”

“Hold, my dear Madam,” &longs;aid Loui&longs;a; “if,
as you think, my father has not behaved to me
with the kindne&longs;s of a parent, it by no means releases
me from my duty to him; had he a thousand
errors he is my father &longs;till; as &longs;uch I am
called upon by nature and religion to do every

[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]

thing in my power to render his life comfortable;
it my endeavours to plea&longs;e can awaken his affection
I &longs;hall think my&longs;elf amply repaid; if not,
the con&longs;ciou&longs;ne&longs;s of having performed my duty,
will give me a &longs;atisfaction which no future event
can ever rob me of.”

It was in vain Lady Mary urged her to return---
the lovely, elegant, accompli&longs;hed Loui&longs;a, preferred
a low roofed man&longs;ion, &longs;canty meals, and
attendance on a &longs;ick peevi&longs;h father, to the lofty
apartments, plenteous table, and variety of amusements
&longs;he might have enjoyed with Lady Mary.
She attended him to the la&longs;t, and by her tender solicitude
and affection &longs;moothed the down-hill of his
life, and cheared and comforted him in the mo&longs;t
painful illne&longs;s by her unaffected piety; he was
moved by her filial duty, all the father ru&longs;hed upon
his &longs;oul, he ble&longs;&longs;ed her with his parting breath,
and expired in her arms.

You may, perhaps, enquire, what benefit Louisa
reaped from this rigid performance of her duty?
The que&longs;tion is ea&longs;ily an&longs;wered. She gained a
contented happy mind, &longs;erenity dwelt in her heart
and chearfulne&longs;s beamed from her eyes.

She had a genteel competency left her at Lady
Mary's death, married a de&longs;erving man, and

[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]

&longs;hone as con&longs;picuou&longs;ly in the characters of a wife
and mother, as &longs;he had done as a daughter---&longs;he
lived beloved by all and died univer&longs;ally regretted.

Be wife, my dear children, follow Loui&longs;a's example,
&longs;o &longs;hall your lives be happy and your la&longs;t
moments peace.

I am &longs;orry, my dear ladies to be under the disagreeable
nece&longs;&longs;ity of again taking up my pen
to reprove.

Your letters to me of late, have arrived &longs;o seldom,
and when they do arrive, are &longs;o &longs;hort, &longs;o
filled with dre&longs;s, vi&longs;its, and parties of plea&longs;ure,
that I almo&longs;t doubt whether &longs;ome demon has not
imitated your hand-writing, to impo&longs;e upon me;
for I can find no ve&longs;tige of tho&longs;e &longs;entiments I &longs;o
anxiou&longs;ly &longs;trove to inculcate in your minds while
in the &longs;hades of Cambray: from the tenor of your
letters, I &longs;hould imagine you live entirely in a
crowd, if &longs;o, you certainly have no time to attend
to tho&longs;e improvements I &longs;o &longs;trongly recommended
to you not to neglect.

[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]

You &longs;eem al&longs;o to have taken an unaccountable
di&longs;like to Mrs. Clairville. You &longs;ay your father
is a great deal too partial to her; this appears to
me the evident effect of envy or jealou&longs;y; your
father being perfectly &longs;en&longs;ible of that lady's merit,
and con&longs;cious that her &longs;ituation in his family is
rather humiliating, by treating her with uncommon
re&longs;pect, &longs;hews the goodne&longs;s of his heart, and
&longs;ets an example which I &longs;hould rejoice to find my
dear girls would follow.

Another thing which &longs;eriou&longs;ly alarms me for
your future happine&longs;s is, to find you have your
friends and &longs;ecrets, and form little cotteries, of
which neither your father nor Mrs. Clairville
have any knowledge; believe me, you cannot be
too cautious in the choice of your intimates, many
a girl, who&longs;e intentions have been perfectly innocent,
has lo&longs;t her reputation, by a&longs;&longs;ociating with
women who&longs;e levity has rendered their characters
&longs;u&longs;picious. You cannot find in the whole circle
of your acquaintance, a friend &longs;o &longs;incere as your
natural parent, to him you may without re&longs;erve,
communicate every wi&longs;h of your hearts, for tru&longs;t
me, when I &longs;ay, every thought you would he&longs;itate
to reveal to a parent, mu&longs;t be totally improper to
be harboured in your bo&longs;om. Perhaps you will
tell me, that having no mother, there are &longs;ome emotions
of the heart, which the natural timidity and
delicacy of your &longs;ex would render it extremely
painful to communicate to a father.

[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]

As I am &longs;en&longs;ible of the truth of this a&longs;&longs;ertion, I
mu&longs;t recommend to you to chu&longs;e a friend from
among tho&longs;e mo&longs;t e&longs;teemed by your father, let her
be &longs;ome years older than your&longs;elf, (for age, in general,
learn experience in the arts of the world)
and by her advice, &longs;he may, in &longs;ome mea&longs;ure
guard you from &longs;alling a prey to the di&longs;&longs;imulation
of many pretenders to love or friend&longs;hip, who
will a&longs;&longs;ume the &longs;emblance of attachment, to draw
the un&longs;u&longs;pecting youthful heart into improper connections,
which too often terminate in their ruin.

A numerous acquaintance is, in general, of
dangerous con&longs;equence to young women, as it is
impo&longs;&longs;ible but in a multiplicity of characters there
may be &longs;ome, who&longs;e conver&longs;ation and example it
would be improper to follow, and &longs;uch is the frail
&longs;tate of human nature, that bad habits are ea&longs;ily
contracted, and can &longs;eldom if ever be eradicated.
A girl ju&longs;t entering the &longs;tate of womanhood, especially
if &longs;he is po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed of any per&longs;onal or mental
accompli&longs;hments, and of an open ingenuous
temper is &longs;urrounded with innumerable dangers;
her reputation is of as delicate a texture, and may
be as ea&longs;ily injured, as the faire&longs;t blo&longs;&longs;om; the
malignant whi&longs;perings of envy, or the pe&longs;ti&longs;erous
breath of &longs;lander, may in an in&longs;tant bla&longs;t it; it
will droop under the keen eye of &longs;u&longs;picion, and
too often tho&longs;e who mo&longs;t pretend to admire its
&longs;weets, will rudely pluck it from its parent &longs;talk,

[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]

deprive it of all its beauties, then throw it from
them like a loath&longs;ome weed, leave it to peri&longs;h
unpitied and unregarded, and to be trod to
the earth by every unfeeling pa&longs;&longs;enger, who may
perhaps ca&longs;t on it a look of contempt, and cry,
“Behold the once lovely.”

There are many women in the world lovely
in their per&longs;ons, elegant and engaging in their
manners, who are yet very improper connections
for girls, who wi&longs;h to pre&longs;erve their reputation
un&longs;ullied; of this de&longs;cription I greatly fear your
favorite Matilda is----the &longs;trong di&longs;like &longs;he expresses
at the idea of your bringing either your
father or Mrs. Clairville to &longs;ee her, convinces me
there mu&longs;t be &longs;omething in her character which
&longs;he would not like to have di&longs;covered. Remember
it was at a public ball you fir&longs;t formed an
acquaintance with her; that a gentleman introduced
her to you, and chance afterwards led you
in a morning excur&longs;ion to ride by her little
chateau; you confe&longs;s &longs;he lives in an elegant manner,
that &longs;he is highly accompli&longs;hed, and yet is
always by her&longs;elf. Would any woman of character
and fortune, do you think, live thus recluse,
have no female friends to a&longs;&longs;ociate with,
no little chearful parties to enliven her &longs;olitude,
and when &longs;he went into public, would &longs;he go only
accompanied by gentlemen? You &longs;ay there is an
air of my&longs;tery about her; and, believe me, if

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

that my&longs;tery was developed, it would di&longs;cover
nothing to her advantage. Let me intreat my
dear girls to drop the acquaintance, or inform
your father of it: if after a proper enquiry concerning
her character, he &longs;hould approve the continuation
of your vi&longs;its, I &longs;hall be happy to find
you have &longs;o agreeable a member added to your
&longs;ociety, and &longs;everely blame my&longs;elf for having
judged &longs;o har&longs;hly.

I &longs;hould not have &longs;o many fears concerning
your intimacy with Matilda, had I not, &longs;ome years
ago, known a very amiable girl, who entirely
forfeited her good name, and in the end her
life, by a&longs;&longs;ociating with a woman of light character.

Harriet Harding had the misfortune to lo&longs;e her
mother when very young, and at a very early age
took upon her&longs;elf the choice of her own acquaintance.
She had been at the play one night, when
a lady in the &longs;ame box had &longs;hewn her many civilities,
and at parting gave her a card, and begged
to have the honour of &longs;eeing her.

Mr. Harding had remarked what pa&longs;&longs;ed, and
on returning home, warned his daughter again&longs;t
forming any acquaintance with her, as &longs;he was a
woman publicly kept by a man of fa&longs;hion.

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

Harriet was giddy, thoughtle&longs;s and fond of
plea&longs;ure; chance threw her again in the way
of Amelia, and &longs;he entirely forgot her father's
injunction. A &longs;trict intimacy en&longs;ued, &longs;he
was frequent in her vi&longs;its to Amelia, often went
with her into public, and was charmed with the
incen&longs;e of flattery that was offered to her by the
men. Mr. Harding had bu&longs;ine&longs;s which called
him to a di&longs;tant part of England, Harriet was left
mi&longs;tre&longs;s of her own actions, and cho&longs;e this opportunity
to go with Amelia on an excur&longs;ion in
the country; in this excur&longs;ion they were attended
by the gentleman who kept Amelia, and one of
his friends, who was particular in his attentions
to Harriet; the time flew on the wings of pleasure,
and when they returned to town, (Mr.
Harding being &longs;till ab&longs;ent) it was propo&longs;ed &longs;he
&longs;hould accompany the party to a ma&longs;querade.

Harriet was a &longs;tranger to this &longs;ort of amu&longs;ement,
her &longs;pirits were exhilerated—&longs;he did not think of
leaving it till a late hour, and when &longs;he mentioned
going home Amelia was not to be found. The
gentleman who had been her protector all the
evening, begged permi&longs;&longs;ion to &longs;ee her home, &longs;he
con&longs;ented, and at the hour of five in the morning
arrived at her father's hou&longs;e; a &longs;ervant who
had aro&longs;e early to perform &longs;ome particular work
let her in, and the gentleman followed her up
&longs;tairs. She was &longs;urpri&longs;ed, but could not be &longs;o

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

rude as to tell him to leave the hou&longs;e; but how
was her &longs;urpri&longs;e increa&longs;ed, when throwing a&longs;ide
his ma&longs;k and domino, he proceeded to take liberties
&longs;he had ever been u&longs;ed to think of with
abhorrence. Unable to defend her&longs;elf from his
in&longs;ults, &longs;he &longs;hrieked aloud, and in a moment
her father, who had returned the evening before,
bur&longs;t into the room---her &longs;hame and terror overcame
her, and &longs;he fainted; an explanation ensued
between the father and the gentleman who
had in&longs;ulted her, who &longs;hocked at the impropriety
of his behaviour a&longs;ked Mr. Harding's pardon, and
&longs;taying till Harriet was recovered, gave her this
advice at parting.

“I tru&longs;t, my dear young lady, this will be a
warning to you in future, how you choo&longs;e your
intimates. Amelia is a woman &longs;o publicly known,
that it was next to impo&longs;&longs;ible for you not to have
been acquainted with the lightne&longs;s of her character,
I am now fully convinced that you are a woman
of &longs;trict honour, but, believe me, till this
day I always thought you a girl who had either no
reputation to lo&longs;e, or paid very little attention to
&longs;o material a concern. I am &longs;orry to &longs;ay there are
numbers of per&longs;ons, of both &longs;exes, who have &longs;een
you with Amelia, who think the &longs;ame, and
whom it will be a very difficult matter to convince
to the contrary; let me beg of you to break off
a connection &longs;o derogatory to your honor, and

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

by the future propriety of your conduct regain
that reputation, which your intimacy with &longs;o infamous
a woman has con&longs;iderably injured.”

Harriet could an&longs;wer only with her tears, which
flowed plenteou&longs;ly, not only at hearing the&longs;e disagreeable
truths, but from the reflection, that
when the &longs;tranger was gone &longs;he had &longs;till her father's
anger to endure; had this been all, Harriet
might have thought her&longs;elf happy, as by her future
behaviour &longs;he might have hoped to regain his
confidence and favour, but the heedle&longs;s girl too
&longs;oon found, that not only her father watched her
actions with a &longs;u&longs;picious eye, but all her female
friends received her vi&longs;its with coldne&longs;s, forbore
to return them, and in a &longs;hort time entirely
dropped her acquaintance; to add to her mortification,
a young gentleman who had for &longs;ome
time addre&longs;&longs;ed her on an honourable &longs;core, broke
off the connection, and &longs;he found her&longs;elf as solitary
and as much neglected as though &longs;he lived
in a de&longs;ert.”

“The con&longs;equence was, that on her father's
decea&longs;e, which happened &longs;oon after, finding herself
without &longs;ociety, &longs;he renewed her intimacy
with Amelia, and from being accu&longs;tomed to an
intimate acquaintance with vice in others, &longs;he
&longs;unk &longs;o low as to practi&longs;e it her&longs;elf, without
compunction or remor&longs;e; till overtaken by

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

disease and want (the &longs;ure attendants on riot and
intemperance) &longs;he &longs;unk to an early grave, a
victim to her own folly.”

You &longs;ee, my dear girls, Harriet was not naturally
of a depraved inclination, &longs;he &longs;hrunk with
horror from the fir&longs;t approach of vice; her attachment
to Amelia was founded on a love of pleasure,
&longs;he enjoyed every luxury while with her,
led a life of indolence, and was continually receiving
pre&longs;ents of &longs;omething to decorate her person;
the&longs;e were indulgences &longs;he could not enjoy
at home, for though Mr. Harding was a very
&longs;ub&longs;tantial trade&longs;man, he would by no means allow
his daughter to launch into extravagance, either
in her hou&longs;ekeeping, dre&longs;s, or plea&longs;ure---he
wi&longs;hed to &longs;ee every hour u&longs;efully employed, and
as youth in general are much more fond of pleasure
than employment, Harriet was delighted
with the acquaintance of a woman in who&longs;e society
&longs;he could enjoy the one in its utmo&longs;t extent,
without ever hearing of the other.

I know my dear girls will tell me, there is no
danger of Matilda drawing them into any improper
&longs;cenes, by gratifying their de&longs;ire of dissipation,
&longs;ince their father indulgently allows them
to enjoy every plea&longs;urable amu&longs;ement the metropolis
affords. But you are totally unacquainted
with the world, there are a thou&longs;and ways by which

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

an artful woman may &longs;teal upon the unde&longs;igning
heart, a thou&longs;and ways by which &longs;he may lead
them to de&longs;truction. Be wife then, my &longs;weet
young friends, and drop this acquaintance, before
you feel any of its di&longs;agreeable con&longs;equences.

I &longs;hall in &longs;ome future letter give you a few hints
concerning the proper u&longs;e of time, certain that
however har&longs;h you may for a moment think my
reproofs, the native goodne&longs;s of your hearts, will
convince you they are meant &longs;olely for your good,
and that you have not a more affectionate friend
than

My Dear Girls,

In my la&longs;t I gave you a &longs;triking in&longs;tance of the
dangerous tendency of improper acquaintance;
be a&longs;&longs;ured, there are more women led into errors
by the bad precepts and examples of their own
&longs;ex, than you would be apt to imagine, not only
in for&longs;eiting their good name, but every pretension
to happine&longs;s. I do not know how otherwi&longs;e

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

to account for &longs;o many lovely, amiable women
entailing mi&longs;ery upon them&longs;elves and their posterity,
than by the romantic ideas they entertain of
love and friend&longs;hip.

Love, my dear children, is a noble, generous
pa&longs;&longs;ion, and when kept under the guidance of reason,
exalts and elevates the human &longs;oul; but the
juvenile mind is apt to mi&longs;take a tran&longs;ient likeing,
or a &longs;udden impul&longs;e of gratified vanity, for
love; and many a girl from at fir&longs;t being plea&longs;ed
with the company of tho&longs;e who indi&longs;criminately
offer the incen&longs;e of adulation to every young female
begins to fancy one more particular than the
re&longs;t, and that one is undoubtedly de&longs;igned to be
her hu&longs;band. From the moment this idea takes
place, Mi&longs;s is mo&longs;t violently in love, &longs;leeping or
waking the dear youth is continnally in her
thoughts, &longs;he lives but in his pre&longs;ence, when he is
ab&longs;ent &longs;he only exi&longs;ts. She unbo&longs;oms her&longs;elf to
&longs;ome dear girl nearly of her own age, and &longs;he being
her friend and confidant, the &longs;ecret is to be kept
inviolable. For want of &longs;ome laudable pur&longs;uit to
employ her time and engage her attention, &longs;he
indulges her fooli&longs;h penchant, which originated
fir&longs;t in vanity and was afterwards nur&longs;ed by
fancy, till at length &longs;he is in reality attached to a
man, who perhaps never entertained a &longs;erious
thought of her; he marries &longs;ome other woman,
and Mi&longs;s is left to &longs;igh at her hard fate,

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

complain of the perfidy of mankind, and indulge in
a luxury of delicate ideal mi&longs;ery. Nor is this
all, her dear and faithful friend betrays her secret
to all the Mi&longs;&longs;es of her acquaintance, who
(though perhaps guilty of the &longs;ame foliy themselves)
will not &longs;cruple to laugh at what they will
term, her indi&longs;creet and fooli&longs;h conduct.

Though &longs;uch a &longs;ituation is certainly &longs;ufficiently
mortifying, yet it is by no means the wor&longs;t that
may happen. A girl who imagines &longs;he mu&longs;t be
in love with the fir&longs;t man who &longs;ays a few civil
things to her, lays her&longs;elf open to the de&longs;igns of
the object of her ideal pa&longs;&longs;ion, who if he &longs;hould
happen to be an artful man, may take advantage
of her partiality and credulity, to draw her into
indi&longs;&longs;oluble engagements, which is in general
the ca&longs;e when there is a fortune in the way, or
where that charm is wanting, to plunge her
into infamy.

I once knew a girl, who, po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed of every
advantage which could be derived from wealth,
beauty, honorable relations, and a polite liberal
education, at the early age of eighteen fell a
victim to a romantic pa&longs;&longs;ion, and in the very moment
when &longs;he &longs;acrificed the regard of her friends,
the hopes of future advancement in life, in &longs;hort,
every thing that was valuable, &longs;he fancied &longs;he had
done a prai&longs;e-worthy action, by evincing her

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

con&longs;tancy and di&longs;intere&longs;ted attachment to the object
of her fir&longs;t love.

Belinda Dormer went to the &longs;ame &longs;chool with
me, we contracted a great friend&longs;hip for each
other, and when the holidays &longs;eparated us, by
calling each to her re&longs;pective home, we treasured
up every little incident in our memories,
whether of pain or plea&longs;ure, that when we met
we might exchange confidence, and live over our
plea&longs;ures, or &longs;oothe the remembrance of our little
unea&longs;ine&longs;&longs;es by participation.

Bell was a lovely brown girl, elegant in her
form, accompli&longs;hed in her manners, and lively
in her di&longs;po&longs;ition; her heart was tender and affectionate,
without the lea&longs;t tincture of art or
affectation, good-natured, ea&longs;y, and credulous.
She left &longs;chool at the age of &longs;eventeen, and was
u&longs;hered into the world, prepared to admire her,
for &longs;he was reputed heire&longs;s to an immen&longs;e fortune.
The Chri&longs;tmas before &longs;he was taken home,
during the holidays, her father gave a ball in
honor of her birth-day, a young officer, who&longs;e
only recommendation was an hand&longs;ome per&longs;on
and polite addre&longs;s, and who depended on Mr.
Dormer for farther advancement in the army,
reque&longs;ted the honor of her hand, and in the
cour&longs;e of the evening danced him&longs;elf &longs;o far into
her e&longs;teem, that &longs;he implicitly believed him,

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

when he told her &longs;he was the lovelie&longs;t creature
in the world, and that he &longs;hould be mi&longs;erable if
&longs;he did not &longs;uffer him to hope he was not altogether
indifferent to her.

Mr. Dormer had placed great confidence in
this young man, he had taken him from a &longs;tate of
abject penury, placed him at a genteel academy,
and when he imagined him capable of discharging
his duty, as became a man of honor and a
&longs;oldier, purcha&longs;ed him an en&longs;ign's commi&longs;&longs;ion in
a regiment going to America, where he rai&longs;ed
him&longs;elf to the rank of captain, and was now ju&longs;t
returned to England. Mr. Dormer ever intended
to be the friend and patron of young Horton,
but never dreamt of his a&longs;piring to his daughter,
he therefore gave him a general invitation to his
hou&longs;e, nor once thought but that his gratitude and
honor would be &longs;ufficient to prevent his forming
any improper de&longs;igns on the per&longs;on or fortune
of Belinda, be&longs;ides he was near ten years older
than Mi&longs;s Dormer, and therefore there was no
fear of an attachment taking place between
them.

But Horton was an artful ambitious man, he
long had wi&longs;hed to enjoy the benefits of an independent
fortune, and looked on Belinda as
the per&longs;on by who&longs;e a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tance he could obtain
&longs;o de&longs;irable an acqui&longs;ition. He had always been

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

&longs;ucce&longs;sful with the ladies, but the true &longs;tate of
his finances being generally known, he found it
impo&longs;&longs;ible to &longs;ucceed in any matrimonial &longs;cheme,
except it was with the innocent and un&longs;u&longs;picious,
and Belinda was exactly &longs;uited for his purpo&longs;e.
He flattered, &longs;wore, knelt, wept, and acted every
extravagance, till the &longs;imple girl made &longs;ome
confe&longs;&longs;ions in his favor, he then prevailed on
her to keep her partiality a &longs;ecret from her mother,
for he knew that her parents de&longs;igned her
for the bride of a young nobleman, who was at
at that time abroad. He expatiated on the folly
and cruelty of parents choo&longs;ing partners for
their children, and launched out in prai&longs;e of disinterested
love, talked of the union of &longs;ouls, and a
deal of &longs;oft &longs;entimental non&longs;en&longs;e, about a life of
uninterruped felicity with the object of her own
choice, though &longs;he was to live in the meane&longs;t
cottage.

When Belinda returned to &longs;chool, &longs;he fancied
her&longs;elf as much in love as it was po&longs;&longs;ible for any
&longs;entimental heroine to be, and declared, for her
&longs;weet Horton &longs;he would be content to relinqui&longs;h
all the elegancies and indulgencies to which &longs;he
had ever been accu&longs;tomed, and live upon the
coar&longs;e&longs;t viands, in an ob&longs;cure man&longs;ion. It was
in vain I endeavoured to argue my young friend
out of the&longs;e ridiculous notions, &longs;he remained

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

fixed in her determination, to marry Horton or
not marry at all.

Unfortunately for Belinda, at that time I had
as chimerical ideas of friend&longs;hip as &longs;he had of
love, and &longs;hould have &longs;uppo&longs;ed it an inexcusable
breach of confidence, to di&longs;cover her designs
to her mother, though it would have been
the be&longs;t proof of real friend&longs;hip I could possibly
have given her.

She was taken from &longs;chool with a de&longs;ign
of being introduced to Lord Gaymore; &longs;he
went home one day, had a meeting with Horton
the next, and the third morning by five
o'clock &longs;et off in a chai&longs;e and four to Scotland,
without having even &longs;een the per&longs;on her parents
&longs;o earne&longs;tly wi&longs;hed her to be united with.

When they returned, Mr. Dormer, though
highly offended at the ra&longs;h conduct of Belinda,
and the black ingratitude of Horton, forgave
them, and &longs;ettled an hand&longs;ome annuity on her,
but told them the bulk of his fortune was entailed
on Lord Gaymore, (who was the neare&longs;t
male relation) in ca&longs;e of her refu&longs;al of him.

Belinda was &longs;oon &longs;ettled, and I took an early
opportunity to vi&longs;it her; I found her, according
to her own words, &longs;uperlatively happy! her

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

Horton was the kinde&longs;t be&longs;t of hu&longs;bands, her
home was a paradi&longs;e, &longs;he would not be Lady
Gaymore for the world! What was affluence?
Nothing when put in competition with love and
Horton.” But this was the language of romance.

I called on her again in about &longs;ix months. I
found her &longs;itting in extreme di&longs;habille, her face
was pale, her eyes &longs;unk, and as &longs;he pen&longs;ively
leaned her head upon her hand, a tear now and
then &longs;tole down her cheek. I a&longs;ked tenderly the
cau&longs;e of her &longs;orrow. “Oh! my friend,” &longs;aid
&longs;he, “I have undone my&longs;elf! Horton is no
longer the attentive tender hu&longs;band.” I, &longs;miling,
told her, that &longs;he mu&longs;t not expect the &longs;olicitude of
the lover to la&longs;t for life, but be content with the
more calm and la&longs;ting e&longs;teem of a friend.

“Alas!” replied Belinda, “I have no friend,
I find, too late, my violent attachment to Horton
was the romantic whim of a lively imagination;
and that the union of &longs;ouls, the &longs;imilarity
of &longs;entiment, which I had vainly thought would
make the &longs;etters of Hymen ea&longs;y, and even delightful,
exi&longs;ted only in my ideas. Horton has neither
&longs;en&longs;e, good nature, or politene&longs;s at home,
though he appears to po&longs;&longs;e&longs;s tho&longs;e amiable qualities
&longs;o eminently abroad. He is extravagant,
vain, and too &longs;ond of his own per&longs;on, to be long

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

attached to any woman, except his pa&longs;&longs;ion is
excited by intere&longs;ted motives; he has not scrupled
to own, it was the hope of po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ing my fortune
alone induced him to addre&longs;s me, and that
had he known the e&longs;tate was entailed on Lord
Gaymore, he never would have troubled him&longs;elf
to make love to a puny, baby-faced girl, when
there were &longs;o many fine women who would have
thought them&longs;elves honoured by his notice. Indeed,
continued &longs;he, redoubling her tears, he
&longs;eldom comes home but I am in&longs;ulted with a recital
of the many women of fa&longs;hion who make
him advances, and I am debarred of every innocent
amu&longs;ement, &longs;tinted in my dre&longs;s, and almo&longs;t
kept without pocket-money, that he may appear
with elegance in company, and have plenty of
money to lavi&longs;h in expen&longs;ive plea&longs;ures.

I was greatly chagrined to find my dear young
friend had really &longs;uch ju&longs;t cau&longs;e for complaint,
but endeavoured to comfort her, and lead her to
hope, that by con&longs;tant affection, attention, and
good-humour, &longs;he might recal her wanderer, and
awaken in his bo&longs;om reciprocal tenderne&longs;s. But
I found by her reply, the&longs;e were fallacious
hopes.

She had been to vi&longs;it her parents, and had
there formed an acquaintance with Lord Gaymore.
Unfortunately the ill-fated Belinda

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

discovered this once dreaded nobleman to be possessed
of every real virtue, of which Horton had
a&longs;&longs;umed the &longs;emblance; his per&longs;on was handsome,
without being effeminate, his heart glowed
with humanity and benevolence; he was a man
of refined &longs;en&longs;e and &longs;trict honor, with a mind
enlightened and expanded by a liberal education
and a thorough knowledge of the world. Belinda
&longs;aw him, and acknowledged the full value of the
happine&longs;s &longs;he had voluntarily ca&longs;t from her.

I warned her again&longs;t making compari&longs;ons to
the di&longs;paragement of her hu&longs;band; and hinted
the folly and danger of &longs;uffering any other person
to &longs;tand higher in her e&longs;teem. She acknowledged
the truth of my remarks, &longs;aid &longs;he would endeavour
to be patient and content, but &longs;he greatly
feared &longs;he had lo&longs;t &longs;ight of happine&longs;s for ever.
And &longs;o indeed it proved, for though at the death
of her father &longs;he received a very hand&longs;ome legacy,
&longs;o great was Horton's extravagance that it was
pre&longs;ently gone, lavi&longs;hed away on the wor&longs;t of women
for the mo&longs;t infamous purpo&longs;es.

Belinda had children very fa&longs;t, and before &longs;he
was thirty years old was left a widow with eight
helple&longs;s children, to &longs;truggle with the accumulated
evils of poverty, contempt, and a broken heart---
Horton's extravagance having obliged her to &longs;ell
her annuity, &longs;he had no re&longs;ource but to accept a

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

&longs;mall yearly allowance from Lord Gaymore,
who was then married, and allowed her a hundred
pounds a year, for the education of her elde&longs;t boy,
to whom he was god-father.

I will leave you my dear girls to imagine the
pain and mortification of &longs;uch a dependence, and
while you pity Belinda's misfortune, cautiou&longs;ly
avoid her errors! I &longs;hall renew the &longs;ubject next
po&longs;t, till when and ever believe me your friend,

As my &longs;ubject is love, my dear children may
perhaps for once think an old woman entertaining;
but when they find my intention is only
to expo&longs;e the dangers which are attendant on that
pa&longs;&longs;ion, in&longs;tead of following the example of more
juvenile &longs;cribblers, by expatiating on its pleasures,
you will throw down my letter in a pet.
But I &longs;hall not let this deter me from following
my intended plan, and endeavouring to convince
you that there cannot be a more critical period in
the whole cour&longs;e of your lives, than that in which
you are &longs;urrounded by lovers; nor can there be
any thing of more dangerous tendency than a
young woman &longs;uffering a lover to approach her

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

in a clande&longs;tine manner, or encourage addre&longs;&longs;es
which &longs;he has any rea&longs;on to think her parents or
friends would di&longs;approve; &longs;uch a conduct is generally
attended with di&longs;agreeable con&longs;equences.

I have a collection of letters in my po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion,
which I think might well be termed a &longs;chool
for lovers, and will, I am certain, be of more effect
in convincing you of the impropriety of clandestine
marriages, than a whole &longs;heet of dull
precepts. I have &longs;ent them for your peru&longs;al, and
by way of preface, &longs;hall give you an account of
the means by which I became po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed of them.

A favourite &longs;ervant of your grand-mother's who
had been my nur&longs;e, had married a reputable
trade&longs;man, but, through unavoidable misfortunes,
they were reduced, and the hu&longs;band thrown into
pri&longs;on. Martha lived in an ob&longs;cure lodging, and
had been for &longs;ome months extremely ill. My
lady encouraged me in going to &longs;ee her, and carrying
her little pre&longs;ents.

One day my lady was gone out to dinner, the
&longs;ervants were all in the kitchen, and I took that
opportunity of going out unob&longs;erved to vi&longs;it Martha.
Charmed with the idea of going by my&longs;elf
(for I u&longs;ually had a &longs;ervant with me) I tripped
nimbly along, in my way laying out my whole
&longs;tock of pocket money, which amounted to five

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

&longs;hillings, in tea, &longs;ugar and bi&longs;cuits, for my nur&longs;e.
As I went up &longs;tairs to Martha's apartment, I observed
in a &longs;mall back room, the door of which
was taken off the hinges, a tall well-made man,
in an old ru&longs;ty black coat, his face pale and
meagre, his arms folded upon his bo&longs;om, his eyes
fixed &longs;eemingly on the floor, but in&longs;tead of the
vacant inanimate &longs;tare, there was a mixture of horror
and de&longs;pair depicted in them. Curio&longs;ity
prompted me to draw near the door of the room;
at the farther end, on a bundle of &longs;traw, the only
furniture the wretched apartment afforded, &longs;at a
woman, who&longs;e features told &longs;he had once been
lovely; on her lap lay an infant a&longs;leep, be&longs;ide her
&longs;at a fine boy, who, with a piteous accent was
a&longs;king for bread; the woman paid no attention
to his entreaties, but with her eyes fixed on the
younge&longs;t child, appeared like mi&longs;ery per&longs;onified.
Young as I was, I felt my heart greatly afflicted
at this &longs;cene, and running ha&longs;tily up &longs;tairs into
Martha's room, unable to articulate a word, I
bur&longs;t into tears. Martha a&longs;toni&longs;hed at the agony
I was in, tenderly inquired the cau&longs;e. I told her
what I had &longs;een. “Alas! my dear child,” &longs;aid
&longs;he, “tho&longs;e people are in more di&longs;tre&longs;s than it
is po&longs;&longs;ible for you to conceive; they have lodged
in this hou&longs;e about &longs;ix weeks, in which time I am
certain they have had nothing to &longs;upport themselves
and children but what they could rai&longs;e from
the &longs;ale of a few cloaths; they are now a fortnight

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

in arrears for rent, and the inhuman landlord has
taken the door off the hinges, and the windows
out of the frames, to oblige them to quit the apartment.
Alas, poor &longs;ouls, they have no means of
procuring another &longs;helter from nocturnal dews,
when they relingui&longs;h this. I have not &longs;een him
&longs;tir out the&longs;e two days pa&longs;t, and am apt to think in
that time they have had no food except a &longs;lice of
bread and meat which I gave the elde&longs;t child
ye&longs;terday.

How at that moment did I regret my money being
all &longs;pent, five &longs;hillings appeared to me a fortune,
which might pre&longs;erve the&longs;e unfortunate people;
however, I had not even a &longs;ingle halfpenny,
nor could I bear the thought of taking from Martha
any part of what I had given her. I therefore
ha&longs;tily bade her good bye, and flew rather
than walked home, inquired for the hou&longs;e-keeper,
related the afflicting &longs;ituation of the family, and
reque&longs;ted the loan of half a guinea. The house-keeper
was an unfeeling, mercenary woman, &longs;he
never heard a tale of di&longs;tre&longs;s but &longs;he imagined it
fictitious, nor would &longs;he ever be&longs;tow any relief,
left the object relieved &longs;hould be an impo&longs;tor.
She refu&longs;ed my reque&longs;t. I then had recour&longs;e to
the nur&longs;ery maid, but could borrow no more
than one &longs;hilling.

With this trifle I eagerly returned to the poor

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

&longs;ufferers, entered the apartment, and under pretence
of ki&longs;&longs;ing the infant, dropped the &longs;hilling
into the mother's lap. The exclamation which
broke from her, when &longs;he &longs;aw the money, convinced
me &longs;he was a foreigner; and the demeanour
of the man was va&longs;tly above the common rank
of people.

Unfortunately my Lady did not return from
her vi&longs;it till after &longs;upper, &longs;o that I was not permitted
to &longs;et up to &longs;ee her; but though I retired to
bed I could not &longs;leep, my mind had been too much
agitated, and the &longs;tarving family had left &longs;uch
an impre&longs;&longs;ion on it, that the moment I clo&longs;ed my
eyes they were pre&longs;ent to my imagination.
Early in the morning I &longs;tole to Lady Winworth's
chamber, told my little &longs;tory, and on my knees
intreated &longs;ome money to carry to them.

Her Lady&longs;hip, though from infancy nur&longs;ed in
the lap of ca&longs;e and affluence, had an heart overflowing
with compa&longs;&longs;ion towards her &longs;uffering fellow-creatures;
&longs;he gave me two guineas, and ordered
the footman immediately to attend me.

I cannot de&longs;cribe the joy that expanded my
heart as I proceeded to G—Street. The
ma&longs;ter of the hou&longs;e was ju&longs;t ri&longs;en, and was opening
his &longs;hop. I a&longs;ked for the foreign gentleman.
Gentleman, returned he with a &longs;neer, the French

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

beggar I &longs;uppo&longs;e you mean, I don't know where
he is, I turned them out la&longs;t night; people who
cannot afford to pay for their lodgings, mu&longs;t
lay where and how they can. Cruel inhuman
wretch, &longs;aid I, and turned from him with every
mark of abhorrence.

It was yet early, the morning was inviting,
and I thought a walk in the fields might cheer
me after my recent di&longs;appointment; however, I
previou&longs;ly determined every inquiry &longs;hould be
made after the poor foreigner and his family.

Cro&longs;&longs;ing a field in the vicinity of Mary-lebon,
the voice of a child crying caught my ear, I
turned my head, and &longs;aw at a little di&longs;tance, &longs;eated
on a log of wood, the very per&longs;on I had been
&longs;eeking, one child was in his arms, the other
&longs;tood by him, his wife lay on the ground. I ran
to him, &longs;poke to him, bade him take hope, and
put the two guineas in his hand—he looked at
the money, then at me. Angel of mercy, &longs;aid he,
with a deep &longs;igh, it is too late, my Agnes has
left me. I &longs;aw his intellects were di&longs;ordered
and &longs;huddered with horror. Thinking the wife
would be better able to take care of the money,
I &longs;tooped in order to awaken her---I called her,
&longs;he moved not---I took hold of her hand, it was
dreadfully cold; &longs;he is in a fit, &longs;aid I, and rai&longs;ed
her head upon my knee. Never, oh! never,

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

my beloved girls, will the &longs;pectacle that pre&longs;ented
it&longs;elf to my eyes, be bani&longs;hed from my memory.
Her eyes were partly clo&longs;ed, her mouth half
open, her lips black---Death had that night released
her from a world of mi&longs;ery. I &longs;hrieked
and fainted. When I recovered I found my&longs;elf
in my dear Lady's arms, who told me, the body
of the poor young woman was taken care of,
that the man was quite di&longs;tracted and entirely unable
to give any account of him&longs;elf, though from
an unfini&longs;hed letter, addre&longs;&longs;ed to the Marchione&longs;s
Savillion, which was found in the woman's pocket
they had rea&longs;on to &longs;uppo&longs;e they were of a good
family.

The man &longs;urvived his wife but a few days,
my Lady took care of the children.

About &longs;ix months after I was &longs;ent to a convent
near Paris, in order to fini&longs;h my education, and
perfect my&longs;elf in the French language. Among
a number of boarders who re&longs;ided at the convent,
I was particularly noticed by one, who was distinguished
by the title of St. Augu&longs;tina; &longs;he
was of a weakly con&longs;titution, and often confined
to her bed, when &longs;he was always plea&longs;ed if I
would work or read be&longs;ide her. One day &longs;he
gave me her keys, and de&longs;ired me to unlock a
cabinet and take out a curious piece of needle-
work which &longs;he &longs;aid had been executed by a once

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

loved friend. As I took the work from the
drawer, a miniature picture attracted my notice;
methought I knew the features; I took it up to
examine it more minutely, and immediately recollected
the intere&longs;ting countenance of the unfortunate
Agnes. Upon inquiry I found I was
right in my conjecture; St. Augu&longs;tina was the
Marchione&longs;s Savillion, whom Lady Winworth
had made numerous fruitle&longs;s inquiries after. She
had been the friend and companion of Agnes,
but had married and left the convent where they
both boarded ju&longs;t before that young lady, and
her la&longs;t pathetic letters never reached her till it
was too late to admini&longs;ter relief; the Marchioness
had &longs;ince lo&longs;t her hu&longs;band and two fine
children, by fire, which accident had &longs;o impaired
her health and depre&longs;&longs;ed her &longs;pirits, that &longs;he had
retired from the world, and meant to &longs;pend the
remainder of her days in the convent where &longs;he
had pa&longs;&longs;ed her youth. She &longs;hewed me all Agnes's
letters, and before I left France &longs;uffered me
to take copies of them.

`Why have you left me, my Augu&longs;tina, why
are you away at the moment I mo&longs;t want
your advice?—Selfi&longs;h Agnes, methinks I hear

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

you &longs;ay, to regret the happine&longs;s of your friend,
becau&longs;e it interferes with your own. Oh! no,
I do not regret your felicity, my &longs;weet friend,
I rejoice, I exult in the reflection that you are
for ever exempt from the pangs which at pre&longs;ent
rive the heart of the wretched Agnes.

You ever knew the aver&longs;ion and horror that
&longs;eized my heart when I reflected on the intended
union between my&longs;elf and the Count de la Rue.
Alas! my Augu&longs;tina, the time approaches when
that aver&longs;ion will become a crime, and yet I
feel it every day increa&longs;e. Shall I own to the
&longs;ympathizing bo&longs;om of friend&longs;hip, that my heart
has made its election, and that election has not
fallen on the man for whom my parents have designed
me. I know you will blame me, I know
you will bid me endeavour to conquer my growing
pa&longs;&longs;ion, and call in rea&longs;on to my a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tance.
Alas! what power has rea&longs;on over the heart
torn by contending pa&longs;&longs;ions? Duty bids me &longs;tifle
my &longs;ighs, and bend my thoughts and wi&longs;hes towards
the Count, love triumphs over duty, and I
can only think of Vieurville.

The day after you left our convent, Madamoiselle
Vieurville reque&longs;ted me to attend her to the
parlour, where her brother and lover waited to
&longs;ee her. “You mu&longs;t go, Agnes, &longs;aid &longs;he, or
my brother will be quite at a lo&longs;s how to amu&longs;e

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

him&longs;elf, while I conver&longs;e with Montro&longs;e.” I was
ea&longs;ily per&longs;uaded, and on entering the parlour,
was &longs;truck with the noble mein and elegant manner
of young Vieurville; we chatted for &longs;ome time
on indifferent &longs;ubjects, his vivacity and wit,
(through which it was ea&longs;y to di&longs;cover a fund of
good &longs;en&longs;e) delighted me, and when I retired with
Mademoi&longs;elle, I could not help expre&longs;&longs;ing my admiration;
he is a charming young man indeed,
&longs;aid &longs;he, and had I not known that you were on
the point of marriage, I &longs;hould not have ventured
to introduce him to you, for fear you might lo&longs;e
your heart; for you mu&longs;t know (continued &longs;he,
paying no regard to the vi&longs;ible emotion which I
am certain agitated my features) that Louis is to
be married the &longs;ame day that I am, to a beautiful
Spani&longs;h lady, who is expected in Paris next
month. Has he ever &longs;een his intended bride
&longs;aid I, affecting indifference. Oh! no, &longs;he replied,
but if Donna Clara be but half as lovely as
her picture repre&longs;ents her, he mu&longs;t inevitably fall
in love. It is odd, &longs;aid I, that he &longs;hould con&longs;ent
to marry a woman he has never &longs;een. I dare &longs;ay
it appears &longs;o to you, replied Mademoi&longs;elle, but
when I &longs;hall tell you how it came about, your
wonder will cea&longs;e.

My mother was the only daughter of an ancient
wealthy Spani&longs;h family, and eloped with my

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

father from a convent, where &longs;he was placed for
education. The match was very unequal; her
father was irreconcilably offended, and would
never &longs;uffer her to be named in his pre&longs;ence.

My mother was tenderly beloved by her brother,
who, at the old nobleman's decea&longs;e, paid her
a hand&longs;ome fortune, and vowed their families
&longs;hould ever live in the &longs;tricte&longs;t amity.

My uncle was married to a woman of whom he
was pa&longs;&longs;ionately fond, and when, in giving birth
to Donna Clara, &longs;he departed this world, he took
a &longs;olemn oath that no other woman &longs;hould ever
&longs;upply her place, but that the whole of his future
life &longs;hould be devoted to the care of his daughter.
My mother at that time lying in of a &longs;on, the two
infants were contracted to each other, and my
brother, at his uncle's decea&longs;e, is to inherit the
e&longs;tate and titles devolving to him from his grandfather.
My uncle is expected to bring his daughter
to Paris this winter, when the marriage is to
be completed, and I &longs;hall be delivered from this
horrid convent.

I cannot de&longs;cribe my feelings during Mademoiselle's
recital. I know not what could be the
cau&longs;e of my agitation, but I could hardly re&longs;train
my tears, while I remained in her apartment.
When I retired, I began to take my heart to talk,

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

and determined to repel a ri&longs;ing pa&longs;&longs;ion, which
had thus &longs;uddenly taken po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion of it. I forebore
making any compari&longs;on between my intended
Lord and young Vieurville, and determined
never to &longs;ee the latter again; but the next morning
vanqui&longs;hed the&longs;e good re&longs;olutions.

I was but ju&longs;t ari&longs;en, when one of the lay-&longs;i&longs;ters
informed me a gentleman reque&longs;ted a few moments
conver&longs;ation. Imagining it to be either
the Count, or &longs;ome me&longs;&longs;enger from my father,
I repaired without he&longs;itation to the parlour. Judge
of my &longs;urpri&longs;e when I found my&longs;elf in the pre&longs;ence
of Mon&longs;ieur Vieurville. Suppo&longs;ing the nun had
made a mi&longs;take in calling me in&longs;tead of Mademoiselle,
his &longs;i&longs;ter, I was going to retire, when
he intreated me to &longs;top, a&longs;&longs;ured me there was no
mi&longs;take, and taking my hand, led me to a chair,
and &longs;eated him&longs;elf be&longs;ide me.

I come, deare&longs;t Madam, &longs;aid he, to entreat
a few moments &longs;erious attention from you, and
a candid an&longs;wer to a que&longs;tion, which though
abrupt in its nature, yet from the circum&longs;tances
which we both at pre&longs;ent are in, demands an explicit
reply. My &longs;i&longs;ter has informed me, that
your parents de&longs;ign you for the wife of Count de
la Rue; however pre&longs;umptuous the &longs;uppo&longs;ition
may be, I cannot imagine your heart has any interest
in the intended union. My heart, Sir,

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

replied I, will ever follow the dictates of duty,
and rejoice in ratifying any engagement which
I am certain will give my parents &longs;o much pleasure.

But was that heart left to make its free choice,
would it then have &longs;elected the Count as the object
of its deare&longs;t affection?

I know not, Mon&longs;ieur, what authority you have
to make the&longs;e enquiries, nor do I think my&longs;elf
obliged to an&longs;wer them.

I ro&longs;e to quit the parlour---lovely Agnes, &longs;aid
he, catching my hand, I know I have been abrupt,
but let my &longs;ituation plead my excu&longs;e. You
no doubt have heard from my &longs;i&longs;ter, that I am
de&longs;igned the hu&longs;band of a woman I have never
&longs;een; till ye&longs;terday I ever believed my heart unsusceptible
of the power of beauty, and imagined
I might be as happy with Donna Clara as any
other woman, but I am now convinced, that indifference
only proceeded from the want of a proper
object to call forth the affections of my heart. I
have &longs;een the lovely object who has that power,
I feel my bo&longs;om glow with new and unutterable sensations,
and though I would have married Clara
had I continued in a &longs;tate of indifference; I will
never wed her now, my heart is firmly attached
to another. You, adorable Agnes, are the only

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

woman who ever gave my heart a &longs;ingle pain, or
taught it to throb with rapture; if your affections
are already engaged, I will condemn my&longs;elf to
eternal &longs;ilence, but if you will grant me one ray
of hope that you are not altogether indifferent to
my &longs;uit, the world &longs;hall not tempt me to enter
into any engagement with Donna Clara.

Oh! my beloved Augu&longs;tina, at that moment
rea&longs;on, honour, fortitude, for&longs;ook me, enchanted
with the convincing proof he offered to give me
of inviolable attachment, I &longs;uffered him to perceive
my partiality. I thought not on the irreparable
injury I &longs;hould do Vieurville's family, I forgot
the duty I owed my parents, the re&longs;pect I
owed my&longs;elf, and confe&longs;&longs;ed that he alone was the
ma&longs;ter of my affections.

I &longs;ee your anger, my dear friend, I hear you
blame my imprudence; &longs;hall I lo&longs;e your friendship,
Augu&longs;tina, will you cha&longs;e the imprudent
Agnes from your bo&longs;om! Alas! If you do, where
will &longs;he find another re&longs;ting place? The thought
overpowers me, I can write no more.

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

I acknowledge your reproof, I &longs;ee my
error, but I have not power to renounce it.
You bid me exert my fortitude; I have no fortitude,
my friend, it all for&longs;ook me when I was
parted from Augu&longs;tina, what little I ever po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed
was but a gentle &longs;park of virtue caught from her
bo&longs;om. I am nothing of my&longs;elf, a &longs;eather, an
atom of thi&longs;tledown is heavy when weighed against
the &longs;tability of Agnes. Donna Clara is arrived,
and Vieurville has refu&longs;ed to fulfil the
engagements his father had entered into; his &longs;i&longs;ter
&longs;u&longs;pects the cau&longs;e, I have lo&longs;t her friend&longs;hip, I
have endured her reproaches; yes, my friend
Agnes de Romani has &longs;ubjected her&longs;elf to reproach,
and con&longs;cious that &longs;he de&longs;erved it, received
it in pa&longs;&longs;ive &longs;ilence, nor dared to vent her
full heart in aught but tears. Oh! Augustina,
how am I fallen! I have this morning
received a &longs;ummons to return home; to-morrow
I leave the convent, to-morrow I bid adieu
to Vieurville. I am expected to receive the
hand of the Count---'tis a vain hope, I am determined
to refu&longs;e him---I cannot be the wife of
Vieurville, I will never be the wife of another---
my grave would be a welcomer bridal bed, than

[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

to &longs;hare a diadem with De la Rue. Augu&longs;tina, pity
me, but do not hate me.

I have refu&longs;ed him. I have borne a father's
anger, a mother's tears, but &longs;till continue
re&longs;olute. Alas! Augu&longs;tina, how ea&longs;y is
it to a&longs;&longs;ume courage and fortitude when the
heart is intere&longs;ted. Methinks for Vieurville I
could bear, without complaining, the heavie&longs;t
ills to which human nature is &longs;ubject.

My father has ju&longs;t left me, he has offered
the Count my younger &longs;i&longs;ter Theodora, he has
accepted her, and I am to take the veil, and
give up my fortune in return for this condescension,
I have con&longs;ented with alacrity. Oh Vieurville,
what a &longs;acrifice I make for you. To-morrow
I return to the convent, and enter on my
novitiate. Augu&longs;tina, pity me, pray for me,
and, if you can forget her errors, &longs;till love your

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Eight months of my novitiate is pa&longs;t, and
I have never heard of Vieurville. But what
is Vieurville to me? Am I not going to renounce
the world and all its plea&longs;ures; am I not
going to devote my future life to my maker?
Augu&longs;tina, are not my thoughts free, and
though my body is immured within the walls of a
cloi&longs;ter, may not my fancy wander, free as air,
to Vieurville. Oh! the tortures of &longs;u&longs;pence!
Could I but know where he was, could I but be
&longs;atisfied he &longs;till remembers Agnes, methinks I
could be content. Write to me, my friend, endeavour
to calm my mind; tell me, Augu&longs;tina,
when I have thrown off the trappings which
mark a child of vanity, will not &longs;weet peace inhabit
my bo&longs;om, when &longs;implicity has attired my
per&longs;on? And when the irrevocable vow has pa&longs;t
my lips, will not my perturbed &longs;pirits be hu&longs;hed
to re&longs;t, and all my &longs;oul be rapt in religious harmony.
Oh! no, no, my &longs;weet friend, the ma&longs;&longs;y
doors that clo&longs;e on us poor captives, cannot &longs;hut
out the bu&longs;y meddling pa&longs;&longs;ions, or &longs;tifle the feelings
we receive from nature. The &longs;implicity of
our habit is not an index of the purity of our
mind, nor is the kneeling po&longs;ture, or lifted eye,
true indications of the fervor of religion!

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Augustina, hypocri&longs;y may dwell in a convent, &longs;o
may love, hatred, jealou&longs;y, and de&longs;pair. And is
an heart agitated by the&longs;e contending pa&longs;&longs;ions, a
&longs;it &longs;acrifice to be offered at the throne of grace?
Will not your Agnes be the wor&longs;t of hypocrites,
to vow eternal love and faith to her Maker,
when her whole &longs;oul is ab&longs;orbed in a pa&longs;&longs;ion
for a frail mortal!

I know I di&longs;tre&longs;s you, my friend, Oh! pardon
the wretched Agnes, if with her complaining
&longs;he &longs;ometimes da&longs;hes with bitter the cup
which overflows with ble&longs;&longs;ings; if you refu&longs;e
to hear my complaints, where &longs;hall the unhappy
Agnes &longs;eek for compa&longs;&longs;ion—had&longs;t thou never
left me I &longs;hould not have been the wretch I
am.

Adieu. May every ble&longs;&longs;ing heaven can bestow,
or you de&longs;ire, be your portion, prays the
lo&longs;t

Augustina, you will tremble when you
receive this, you will think it a meritorious
act to drive from your heart the remembrance
of Agnes de Romani; but if thou ha&longs;t any remaining
gleam of compa&longs;&longs;ion in thy gentle bo&longs;om,

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oh give it way, renounce not thy unhappy friend,
but chear her with one forgiving line.

I have &longs;een Vieurville, I have forfeited my
vows, left the convent, and become a fugitive
and an exile, my brain is diftracted when I think
what I have &longs;uffered this la&longs;t fourteen days, nor
can all my hu&longs;band's tenderne&longs;s &longs;oothe me. My
pul&longs;e throbs, my veins are &longs;corched with heat---
I mu&longs;t throw a&longs;ide my pen, my eyes are dim.
Augu&longs;tina, thy dying friend lifts up her &longs;oul in
prayers for thy happine&longs;s.

After three weeks being confined to my bed,
I am at length permitted to addre&longs;s the compassionate
friend of my youth. Rai&longs;ed from the
confines of the grave, I once more pour forth my
&longs;oul into the bo&longs;om of Augu&longs;tina. I will now attempt
to give you &longs;ome regular account of the
proceedings of la&longs;t month. Alas! my friend,
my heart will bleed afre&longs;h as I trace the painful
&longs;cenes, painful they will ever be to my remembrance,
for I have drawn inevitable ruin on the
man my &longs;oul doated on.

As I had never heard any tidings of Vieurville,
from the time I was taken from the convent,
with a de&longs;ign of being married to the Count, till
within three days of the time when my novitiate
was expired, I began to look on my profe&longs;&longs;ion as

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inevitable, and endeavoured to bring my&longs;elf to
think of it with calmne&longs;s, but &longs;till corroding
thoughts would &longs;ometimes intrude, and overturn
my be&longs;t re&longs;olutions. My only wi&longs;h was to hear
whether Vieurville was alive or dead, or whether
he was married to my rival; but the&longs;e were
particulars I was never able to di&longs;cover, as his
father and family had quitted Paris &longs;oon after my
return to the convent.

There remained but three days now before I
was to take the veil, and I endeavoured to forfity
my mind again&longs;t the awful day, with every argument
rea&longs;on or religion could &longs;upply. I was
bu&longs;y in reflecting on the change a few &longs;hort hours
would make, when one of our boarders a&longs;ked me
to accompany her to the grate; I complied, and
we amu&longs;ed our&longs;elves &longs;ometime in chatting to two
Engli&longs;h ladies, who were in the parlour; the
ladies were ju&longs;t preparing to leave the convent,
when a violent ringing at the gate alarmed us;
the portre&longs;s ran to open it, and in a moment
Vieurville ru&longs;hed into the parlour. I know not
what I &longs;aid or whether I &longs;poke at all---a &longs;udden
mi&longs;t ob&longs;cured my &longs;ight and I fell to the ground;
when I recovered, my friend, the boarder, told
me, that &longs;eeing the impetuo&longs;ity of my lover, &longs;he
had advi&longs;ed him to leave the convent, and if he
had any thing particular to communicate, to do
it by letter, and inclo&longs;e it to her. Her friendly

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&longs;oothing greatly contributed to calm my &longs;pirits,
and as none of the &longs;i&longs;terhood had &longs;een Vieurville,
they all remained ignorant of the interview.

In about three hours I received a letter, in
which he told me, nothing but ab&longs;olute force
&longs;hould &longs;o long have kept him from me; that he
had been detained in Spain by various &longs;tratagems,
but having at la&longs;t eluded the vigilance of his
guards, he hurried to Paris, where he pre&longs;ently
learnt the &longs;acrifice I was about to make, he urged
my leaving the convent and being united to him
by the mo&longs;t indi&longs;&longs;oluble bonds; and &longs;aid, he
made no doubt but my father would be ea&longs;ily
led to forgive us. I &longs;hewed the letter to my
young friend, &longs;he joined the per&longs;ua&longs;ions of Vieruville,
and &longs;aid &longs;he would undertake to manage
my e&longs;cape on the very morning on which I was
to become profe&longs;t.

I wrote to my dear Vieurville, and my friend
enclo&longs;ed it in one from her&longs;elf, directing him in
what manner to proceed. That very evening
Edella, (which was the name of my friend) was
&longs;eized with a violent indi&longs;po&longs;ition, which would
have made a dupe of even me, had I not been in
the &longs;ecret. She continued ill all night, and the
next day when &longs;he de&longs;ired the abbe&longs;s to &longs;end to a
relation &longs;he had about &longs;even miles from Paris, requesting
&longs;he would &longs;end her coach for her the

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en&longs;uing morning at eleven o'clock, as &longs;he thought
a few days &longs;pent in the country, would be of infinite
&longs;ervice to her. Vieurville was ordered to
&longs;end a carriage at nine, and it being the la&longs;t morning
of my novitiate, I de&longs;ired not be di&longs;turbed till
it was time for me to enter the chapel. This request
I knew would be complied with, as it
would be &longs;uppo&longs;ed, I wi&longs;hed for time for meditation.
Accordingly I early left my cell, and going
to Edella's apartment, dre&longs;&longs;ed my&longs;elf in &longs;ome
of her cloaths, and put on a long black hood
which would pull over the face; thus attired, I
waited anxiou&longs;ly for a ring at the gate and
gue&longs;&longs;ing it was the coach, hurried down &longs;tairs,
and &longs;o prevented the portre&longs;s from coming up to
call Edella. I met &longs;everal of the nuns as I pa&longs;&longs;ed
from her apartment to the door, but they neither
&longs;poke to me, nor attempted to &longs;top me. I got out of
the convent un&longs;u&longs;pected, and in le&longs;s than an hour
was in a place of &longs;afety, where a prie&longs;t immediately
united me to my dear Vieurville. My fir&longs;t
de&longs;ire was that we &longs;hould fly to my father for his
protection, intreat his pardon and ble&longs;&longs;ing, and
through his interce&longs;&longs;ion be again received into the
church, from whence I was certain we &longs;hould be
excommunicated. It was midnight when I arrived
at my father's, he had been returned from Paris
near four hours, whither he had rapaired to
&longs;ee me take the veil, and was then, overcome
with fatigue and di&longs;appointment, ju&longs;t retired to

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re&longs;t. I would not permit the &longs;ervant to inform
his ma&longs;ter that I was come home, but following
him up &longs;tairs, threw my&longs;elf on my knees by his
bed-&longs;ide. He &longs;tarted at &longs;eeing me, fury fla&longs;hed
from his eyes, and gra&longs;ping my hand with violence,
he cried, Agnes, ungrateful girl, why are
you here? With tremulous accents, I in a few
words told him I was married, and intreated his
pardon and friend&longs;hip.

Oh! never &longs;hall I forget his an&longs;wer, 'twas awful,
'twas more than nature could &longs;upport. He
&longs;purned me from him, he cur&longs;ed me, and imprecated
the wrath of heaven on his head if ever he
forgave me. “I will not, &longs;aid he, precipitate
your impending fate, by betraying you to the
eccle&longs;ia&longs;tical powers; go ha&longs;ten to leave France,
and if you can be happy oppre&longs;&longs;ed by the weight
of a father's cur&longs;e, may you be &longs;o!---Hence,
begone, you offend my &longs;ight.”

Vieurville forced me out of the room. During
the time of my petitioning for pardon, my mother
had aro&longs;e, &longs;he followed me down &longs;tairs, ble&longs;&longs;ed
me, and promi&longs;ed to u&longs;e her intere&longs;t with my father,
to effect a reconciliation. She gave me all
the ca&longs;h the po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed and &longs;ome jewels that had
been pre&longs;ented me by a relation. When I em
her for the la&longs;t time, it &longs;eemed like rending
&longs;oul and body a&longs;under; but hope, that &longs;weet

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&longs;oother of the human mind, bore me up, and
I flattered my&longs;elf we &longs;hould one day meet again.

When we left my father's hou&longs;e, we &longs;et forward
immediately for Calais, and from thence
embarked for Dover, where, overcome by agitation
and fatigue, I was &longs;eized with a fever which
brought me to the verge of the grave. During
my illne&longs;s Vieurville wrote to his father, and we
now anxiou&longs;ly await the arrival of an an&longs;wer. Oh!
may it be propitious, but my &longs;ad heart pre&longs;ages
I &longs;hall never more know happine&longs;s: For my&longs;elf,
I could have borne it patiently, but when I
think I have involved my dear Vieurville in misery,
my brain &longs;ickens and almo&longs;t madne&longs;s en&longs;ues.

My deare&longs;t Augu&longs;tina, if you do not re&longs;olve to
hate me, by one kind line convey &longs;ome gleam of
comfort to the agonizing heart of

When will my portion of mi&longs;ery be full,
when &longs;hall I &longs;ay there is no more to suffer.
When I am laid in the grave, when
my eyes clo&longs;e on this world and open to immortality,
then Augu&longs;tina may &longs;ay, Agnes is at
peace!

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Though I have not received a line from your
once friendly hand, I &longs;till think you have not
forgotten me, and having no other prop whereon
to lean, I &longs;till pour forth my &longs;orrows to you.
My mother, my only friend, is torn from me,
and I have the additional mi&longs;ery of thinking my
di&longs;obedience precipitated her end; &longs;he drooped
from the day I le&longs;t France, and her confidential
&longs;ervant informed me, her la&longs;t breath was &longs;pent
in intreating my father to pardon me, but he was
inexorable.

Vieurville has received an an&longs;wer from his
father; but, oh! my Augu&longs;tina, what killing
lines did it contain. Donna Clara had conceived
a pa&longs;&longs;ion for her cou&longs;in, and from the time of his
leaving Spain, fell into a profound melancholy,
and when &longs;he heard of his marriage, the agitation
of her &longs;pirits became too much for her weak
frame to &longs;upport, and a rapid decline carried
her an early victim to the grave. Vieurville is
di&longs;inherited, di&longs;owned, and loaded with a father's
anger; but will you believe it, my friend,
he &longs;till loves the woman who has brought tho&longs;e
misfortunes upon him; but that love, that warm
mutual affection that &longs;ub&longs;i&longs;ts between us &longs;erves
only to heighten our mi&longs;ery---for oh! what torture
can compare to that of &longs;eeing the object we
love overwhelmed with di&longs;tre&longs;s we have not the
power to mitigate? —

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