I must be forgiven if I now introduce myself on the stage.
Sophia Westwyn is the friend of Constantia, and the writer
of this narrative. So far as my fate was connected with

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that of my friend, it is worthy to be known. That connexion
has constituted the joy and misery of my existence, and
has prompted me to undertake this task.

I assume no merit from the desire of knowledge, and superiority
to temptation. There is little of which I can boast,
but that little I derived, instrumentally, from Constantia.
Poor as my attainments are, it is to her that I am indebted
for them all. Life itself was the gift of her father, but my
virtue and felicity are her gifts. That I am neither indigent
nor profligate, flows from her bounty.

I am not unaware of the divine superintendence, of the
claims upon my gratitude and service, which pertain to my
God. I know that all physical and moral agents are merely
instrumental to the purpose that he wills, but though the
great Author of being and felicity must not be forgotten, it is
neither possible nor just to overlook the claims upon our love,
with which our fellow-beings are invested.

The supreme love does not absorb, but chasten and enforce
all subordinate affections. In proportion to the rectitude
of my perceptions and the ardor of my piety, must I
clearly discern and fervently love, the excellence discovered
in my fellow-beings, and industriously promote their improvement
and felicity.

From my infancy to my seventeenth year, I lived in the
house of Mr. Dudley. On the day of my birth I was deserted
by my mother. Her temper was more akin to that
of tygress than woman. Yet that is unjust, for beasts cherish
their offspring. No natures but human, are capable of
that depravity, which makes insensible to the claims of innocence
and helplessness.

But let me not recall her to memory. Have I not enough
of sorrow? Yet to omit my causes of disquiet, the unprecedented
forlornness of my condition, and the persecutions
of an unnatural parent, would be to leave my character a
problem, and the sources of my love of Miss Dudley unexplored.
Yet I must not dwell upon that complication of iniquities,
that savage ferocity and unextinguishable hatred of
me, which characterized my unhappy mother!

I was not safe under the protection of Mr. Dudley, nor
happy in the caresses of his daughter. My mother asserted
the privilege of that relation; she labored for years to

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obtain the control of my person and actions; to snatch me
from a peaceful and chaste asylum, and detain me in her
own house, where, indeed, I should not have been in want
of raiment and food, but where—

O my mother! Let me not dishonor thy name! Yet it
is not in my power to enhance thy infamy. Thy crimes,
unequalled as they were, were, perhaps, expiated by thy
penitence. Thy offences are too well known, but perhaps
they who witnessed thy freaks of intoxication, thy defiance
of public shame, the enormity of thy pollutions, the infatuation
that made thee glory in the pursuit of a loathsome and
detestable trade, may be strangers to the remorse and the
abstinence which accompanied the close of thy ignominious
life.

For ten years was my peace incessantly molested, by the
menaces or machinations of my mother. The longer she
meditated my destruction, the more tenacious of her purpose,
and indefatigable in her efforts, she became. That my
mind was harassed with perpetual alarms, was not enough.
The fame and tranquillity of Mr. Dudley and his daughter,
were hourly assailed. My mother resigned herself to the
impulses of malignity and rage. Headlong passions and a
vigorous, though perverted understanding, were her's. Hence
her stratagems to undermine the reputation of my protector,
and to bereave him of domestic comfort, were subtle and
profound. Had she not herself been careless of that good,
which she endeavored to wrest from others, her artifices
could scarcely have been frustrated.

In proportion to the hazard which accrued to my protector
and friend, the more ardent their zeal in my defence, and
their affection for my person became. They watched over
me with ineffable solicitude. At all hours and in every occupation,
I was the companion of Constantia. All my
wants were supplied, in the same proportion as her's. The
tenderness of Mr. Dudley seemed equally divided between
us. I partook of his instructions, and the means of every
intellectual and personal gratification, were lavished upon
me.

The speed of my mother's career in infamy, was at length
slackened. She left New-York, which had long been the

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theatre of her vices. Actuated by a new caprice, she determined
to travel through the Southern States. Early indulgence
was the cause of her ruin, but her parents had
given her the embellishments of a fashionable education.
She delighted to assume all parts, and personate the most
opposite characters. She now resolved to carry a new
name and the mask of virtue, into scenes hitherto unvisited.

She journeyed as far as Charleston. Here she met an
inexperienced youth, lately arrived from England, and in
possession of an ample fortune. Her speciousness and
artifices seduced him into a precipitate marriage. Her
true character, however, could not be long concealed by
herself, and her vices had been too conspicuous, for her
long to escape recognition. Her husband was infatuated
by her blandishments. To abandon her, or to contemplate
her depravity with unconcern, were equally beyond his
power. Romantic in his sentiments, his fortitude was unequal
to his disappointments, and he speedily sunk into the
grave. By a similar refinement in generosity, he bequeathed
to her his property.

With this accession of wealth, she returned to her ancient
abode. The mask, lately worn, seemed preparing to be
thrown aside, and her profligate habits to be resumed with
more eagerness than ever, but an unexpected and total
revolution was effected, by the exhortations of a Methodist
divine. Her heart seemed, on a sudden, to be remoulded,
her vices and the abettors of them were abjured, she shut
out the intrusions of society, and prepared to expiate, by
the rigors of abstinence and the bitterness of tears, the
offences of her past life.

In this, as in her former career, she was unacquainted
with restraint and moderation. Her remorses gained strength,
in proportion as she cherished them. She brooded over
the images of her guilt, till the possibility of forgiveness and
remission disappeared. Her treatment of her daughter and
her husband constituted the chief source of her torment.
Her awakened conscience refused her a momentary respite
from its persecutions. Her thoughts became, by rapid degress,
tempestuous and gloomy, and it was at length evident,
that her condition was maniacal.

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In this state, she was to me an object, no longer of terror,
but compassion. She was surrounded by hirelings, devoid
of personal attachment, and anxious only to convert her
misfortunes to their own advantage. This evil it was my
duty to obviate. My presence for a time, only enhanced
the vehemence of her malady, but at length it was only by
my attendance and soothing, that she was diverted from the
fellest purposes. Shocking execrations and outrages, resolutions
and efforts to destroy herself and those around her,
were sure to take place in my absence. The moment I
appeared before her, her fury abated; her gesticulations
were becalmed, and her voice exerted only in incoherent
and pathetic lamentations.

These scenes, though so different from those which I had
formerly been condemned to witness, were scarcely less excruciating.
The friendship of Constantia Dudley was my
only consolation. She took up her abode with me, and
shared with me every disgustful and perilous office, which
my mother's insanity prescribed.

Of this consolation, however, it was my fate to be bereaved.
My mother's state was deplorable, and no remedy
hitherto employed, was efficacious. A voyage to England,
was conceived likely to benefit, by change of temperature
and scenes, and by the opportunity it would afford of trying
the superior skill of English physicians. This scheme, after
various struggles, on my part, was adopted. It was detestable
to my imagination, because it severed me from that friend,
in whose existence mine was involved, and without whose
participation, knowledge lost its attractions, and society became
a torment.

The prescriptions of my duty could not be disguised or
disobeyed, and we parted. A mutual engagement was
formed, to record every sentiment and relate every event
that happened, in the life of either, and no opportunity of
communicating information, was to be omitted. This engagement
was punctually performed on my part. I sought
out every method of conveyance to my friend, and took infinite
pains to procure tidings from her, but all were ineffectual.

My mother's malady declined, but was succeeded by a
pulmonary disease, which threatened her speedy destruction.

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By the restoration of her understanding, the purpose of her
voyage was obtained, and my impatience to return, which
the inexplicable and ominous silence of my friend daily increased,
prompted me to exert all my powers of persuasion,
to induce her to revisit America.

My mother's frenzy was a salutary crisis in her moral
history. She looked back upon her past conduct with unspeakable
loathing, but this retrospect only invigorated her
devotion and her virtue; but the thought of returning to the
scene of her unhappiness and infamy could not be endured.
Besides, life in her eyes, possessed considerable attractions,
and her physicians flattered her with recovery from her
present disease, if she would change the atmosphere of England
for that of Languedoc and Naples.

I followed her with murmurs and reluctance. To desert
her in her present critical state would have been inhuman.
My mother's aversions and attachments, habits and views
were dissonant with my own. Conformity of sentiments
and impressions of maternal tenderness, did not exist to bind
us to each other. My attendance was assiduous, but it was
the sense of duty that rendered my attendance a supportable
task.

Her decay was eminently gradual. No time seemed to
diminish her appetite for novelty and change. During three
years we traversed every part of France, Switzerland and
Italy. I could not but attend to surrounding scenes, and
mark the progress of the mighty revolution, whose effects,
like agitation in a fluid, gradually spread from Paris, the
centre, over the face of the neighboring kingdoms; but
there passed not a day or an hour in which the image of
Constantia was not recalled, in which the most pungent
regrets were not felt at the inexplicable silence which had
been observed by her, and the most vehement longings indulged
to return to my native country. My exertions to
ascertain her condition by indirect means, by interrogating
natives of America, with whom I chanced to meet, were
unwearied, but, for a long period, ineffectual.

During this pilgrimage, Rome was thrice visited. My
mother's indisposition was hastening to a crisis, and she
formed the resolution of closing her life at the bottom of
Vesuvius. We stopped, for the sake of a few day's repose,

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at Rome. On the morning after our arrival, I accompanied
some friends to view the public edifices. Casting my eyes
over the vast and ruinous interior of the Coliseo, my attention
was fixed by the figure of a young man, whom, after a
moment's pause, I recollected to have seen in the streets of
New York. At a distance from home, mere community of
country is no inconsiderable bond of affection. The social
spirit prompts us to cling even to inanimate objects, when
they remind us of ancient fellowships and juvenile attachments.

A servant was despatched to summon this stranger, who
recognised a country-woman with a pleasure equal to that
which I had received. On nearer view, this person, whose
name was Courtland, did not belie my favorable prepossessions.
Our intercourse was soon established on a footing
of confidence and intimacy.

The destiny of Constantia was always uppermost in my
thoughts. This person's acquaintance was originally sought,
chiefly in the hope of obtaining from him some information
respecting my friend. On inquiry I discovered that he had
left his native city, seven months after me. Having tasked
his recollection and compared a number of facts, the name
of Dudley at length reoccurred to him. He had casually
heard the history of Craig's imposture and its consequences.
These were now related as circumstantially as a memory,
occupied by subsequent incidents, enabled him. The tale
had been told to him, in a domestic circle which he was accustomed
to frequent, by the person who purchased Mr.
Dudley's lute, and restored it to its previous owner, on the
conditions formerly mentioned.

This tale filled me with anguish and doubt. My impatience
to search out this unfortunate girl, and share with her
her sorrows or relieve them, was anew excited by this
mournful intelligence. That Constantia Dudley was reduced
to beggary, was too abhorrent to my feelings to receive
credit, yet the sale of her father's property, comprising even
his furniture and clothing, seemed to prove that she had
fallen even to this depth. This enabled me in some degree
to account for her silence. Her generous spirit would induce
her to conceal misfortunes from her friend, which no

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communication would alleviate. It was possible that she
had selected some new abode, and that in consequence, the
letters I had written, and which amounted to volumes, had
never reached her hands.

My mother's state would not suffer me to obey the impulse
of my heart. Her frame was verging towards dissolution.
Courtland's engagements allowed him to accompany
us to Naples, and here the long series of my mother's
pilgrimages, closed in death. Her obsequies were no sooner
performed, than I determined to set out on my long projected
voyage. My mother's property, which, in consequence
of her decease, devolved upon me, was not inconsiderable.
There is scarcely any good so dear, to a
rational being, as competence. I was not unacquainted
with its benefits, but this acquisition was valuable to me
chiefly as it enabled me to reunite my fate to that of Constantia.

Courtland was my countryman and friend. He was
destitute of fortune, and had been led to Europe partly by
the spirit of adventure, and partly on a mercantile project.
He had made sale of his property, on advantageous terms,
in the ports of France, and resolved to consume the produce
in examining this scene of heroic exploits and memorable
revolutions. His slender stock, though frugally
and even parsimoniously administered, was nearly exhausted,
and at the time of our meeting at Rome, he was making
reluctant preparations to return.

Sufficient opportunity was afforded us, in an unrestrained
and domestic intercourse of three months, which succeeded
our Roman interview, to gain a knowledge of each
other. There was that conformity of tastes and views
between us, which could scarcely fail, at an age, and in a
situation like ours, to give birth to tenderness. My resolution
to hasten to America, was peculiarly unwelcome to my
friend. He had offered to be my companion, but this offer,
my regard to his interest obliged me to decline; but I was
willing to compensate him for this denial, as well as to
gratify my own heart, by an immediate marriage.

So long a residence in England and Italy, had given
birth to friendships and connexions of the dearest kind.

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I had no view but to spend my life with Courtland, in the
midst of my maternal kindred, who were English. A
voyage to America, and reunion with Constantia were previously
indispensable, but I hoped that my friend might be
prevailed upon, and that her disconnected situation would
permit her to return with me to Europe. If this end could
not be accomplished, it was my inflexible purpose to live and
to die with her. Suitably to this arrangement, Courtland
was to repair to London, and wait patiently till I should be
able to rejoin him there, or to summon him to meet me in
America.

A week after my mother's death, I became a wife, and
embarked, the next day, at Naples, in a Ragusan ship, destined
for New-York. The voyage was tempestuous and
tedious. The vessel was necessitated to make a short stay
at Toulon. The state of that city, however, then in possession
of the English, and besieged by the revolutionary
forces, was adverse to commercial views. Happily, we resumed
our voyage, on the day previous to that on which the
place was evacuated by the British. Our seasonable departure
rescued us from witnessing a scene of horrors, of
which the history of former wars, furnish us with few examples.

A cold and boisterous navigation awaited us. My palpitations
and inquietudes augmented as we approached the
American coast. I shall not forget the sensations which I
experienced on the sight of the Beacon at Sandy-Hook.
It was first seen at midnight, in a stormy and beclouded
atmosphere, emerging from the waves, whose fluctuation
allowed it, for some time, to be visible only by fits. This
token of approaching land, affected me as much as if I had
reached the threshold of my friend's dwelling.

At length we entered the port, and I viewed, with high
raised, but inexplicable feelings, objects with which I had
been from infancy familiar. The flag-staff erected on the
battery, recalled to my imagination the pleasures of the
evening and morning walks, which I had taken on that spot,
with the lost Constantia. The dream was fondly cherished,
that the figure which I saw, loitering along the terrace was
her's.

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On disembarking, I gazed at every female passenger, in
hope that it was she whom I sought. An absence of three
years, had obliterated from my memory none of the images
which attended me on my departure.