Gass. 
 Book- 
 
\ 
 
L U C I X D A : 
 
 OB THE 
 
 MOUNTAIN MOURNER. 
 
 AUTHENTIC FACTS, 
 
 SERIES OF LETT! 
 
 v 
 
 
 MRS. MAN VIM.. 
 
 ■ 
 
 t ii i it i> i; i> i t i o 
 
 ALBANY: 
 J. MUNSELL, 58 STATE STREET. 
 
 185 
 
'252, 
 
 Entered according to act of Congress in the year 1852, 
 
 by Elias F. Mantill, 
 
 in the clerk s office, for the Northern District of Xew York. 
 
 
TO THE PUBLIC. 
 
 We, the undersigned, having perused the Book 
 titled, Luanda; or the Mountain Mourner, §x., 
 commend it to the attention of the American pub- 
 ^, and particularly to the young and inexperienced, 
 possessing, from its being founded on realities, 
 perior merit to most publications of a similar 
 i 'ture. It contains, according to the best informa- 
 >n (and some of us are thoroughly acquainted with 
 any of the circumstances therein recorded) a narra- 
 tive statement of the most incontestable facts ; and 
 is well calculated to afford not only amusement, but 
 useful instruction, to every reader of sensibility and 
 reflection. 
 
 ELIAS GILBERT, M. of the Gospel, Greenfield. 
 MARK A. CHILD. 
 EZRA NASH, Justice of the Peace. 
 E. WHITE, Jun., Merchant, Ballston Spa. 
 PRINCE WING, 
 
 NOAH WEED, Members of the Society of 
 
 DAVID DUEL, Friends 
 
 BENJAMIN PECK, 
 ASA C. BARNEY, M. D., Greenfield. 
 * CHAS. DEAKE, Deacon of a B. C, Greenfield. 
 LEMUEL SMITH, M. of the Gospel, Canajoharie. 
 
The following communication from the Honorable 
 Salmon Child, Esq., First Judge of the Court of 
 Common Pleas of the County of Saratoga, and Col. 
 John Prior, while it establishes the authenticity of 
 the succeeding pages beyond all contradiction, will 
 be read with peculiar interest. 
 
TO THE EDITOR OF THE SECOND EDITION OF 
 
 LUCINDA; OR THE MOUNTAIN MOURNER. 
 
 Sir, — Having been frequently solicited by indi- 
 viduals, to relate the melancholy scene that took 
 place when we attended, as magistrates, to the 
 enquiry of the last place of legal residence of 
 Lucinda, and her means of subsistence; we the more 
 readily comply with your request in furnishing you 
 for publication, a short narrative of the facts to 
 which we were witnesses, and our opinion of the 
 history of Lucinda, as wrote by Mrs. Manvill. 
 
 In the fore part of May, 1806, we were called 
 upon to make the above enquiry by virtue of a 
 complaint, stating that a daughter of Mr. Manvill 
 had come to reside with him, in a situation which 
 rendered it probable the town would be put to 
 expense on her account, should she be suffered 
 to remain with her father. 
 
 Mr. Manvill is reputed to be an honest, upright 
 man; well read, of good behaviour, and possessing 
 rather a philosophical turn of mind ; of an easy 
 
6 
 
 disposition, and not very anxious to accumulate 
 property. He had generally taught school for a 
 livelihood, and like most others who have undertaken 
 to support a family by that honorable and important 
 calling, had been familiar with poverty, till com- 
 pelled by necessity to seek a living by some other 
 employment. But he was too far advanced in life 
 to accumulate wealth by manual labor, and was of 
 course poorly qualified to encounter the fatigues 
 consequent on cultivating a mountainous desert. 
 
 Mrs. Manvill bears an unimpeachable character; 
 is affable and genteel in her deportment; exceeding 
 kind and benevolent, and remarkably attentive to the 
 sick and distressed. Her expertness with the needle 
 (being a seamstress) procured the principal support 
 of the family. From this circumstance, it was 
 natural to conclude, that should Lucinda (of whose 
 character we knew nothing, our conjectures being 
 unfavorable merely from her situation) be ill any 
 considerable time, or her benevolent mother by 
 any unfortunate occurrence, rendered unable to 
 pursue her wonted industry, assistance from the over- 
 seers of the poor would be necessary. Under these 
 impressions, which chiefly originated from others 
 who had an opportunity of being better acquainted 
 
7 
 with the family than ourselves, we agreed on a day 
 when we would attend to the enquiries and pro- 
 ceedings, enjoined on us by law. 
 
 On the day appointed, we arrived at the foot of 
 the Kayaderosseras Mountain, situated at the west 
 part of the town, where we left our horses and pro- 
 ceeded on foot. We ascended on a fertile soil over 
 improved land, and the air being clear and serene, 
 we had a pleasing prospect of a very considerable 
 part of the county of Saratoga, a part of the coun- 
 ties of Washington and Rensselaer, and south of us 
 as far as the Catskill Mountains. We passed on 
 slowly, every few rods stopping and looking back 
 on the wide extended country behind us j little 
 thinking of the wonderful exhibitions that were 
 before us. We however had concluded, that we 
 should not be unwelcome guests to Mrs. Manvill; 
 that she would consider her toils already sufficiently 
 great, without any further addition to her family, 
 and rejoice to be freed from the burden of doing for 
 a daughter-in-law, under circumstances so disagree- 
 able; but the variety of pleasing objects within our 
 view, afforded us little time to reflect on the situation 
 of the unfortunate and distressed. 
 
 At length we suddenly descended into a valley. 
 
8 
 
 thickly covered with hemlock; then again ascending 
 over irregular hills and precipices, we were totally 
 secluded from those beauties of nature we had so 
 recently admired; and almost as suddenly were our 
 minds enveloped in sorrow. We soon came up 
 to Mr. Manvill, whose countenance bespoke the 
 afflictions of his heart, having anticipated the object 
 of our visit. After passing the usual compliments, 
 we mentioned our business; he gave us a short 
 account of the seduction of his daughter by Brown; 
 his son's journey to the westward, and the promises 
 that Brown had made of coming and atoning for his 
 perfidy. He then invited us into his habitation, the 
 outside of which had the appearance of extreme 
 poverty; but the inside was more comfortable than 
 what we had expected. The apartment which we 
 entered, was very clean. Every thing we saw, 
 demonstrated the neatness and industry of Mrs. 
 Manvill. In one corner of the room was a reservoir 
 erected, into which there was constantly running a 
 small stream of water, conducted from an adjacent 
 hill; and by the same means carried out at the back 
 part of the cottage, which, being but dimly lighted 
 and standing in a solitary place, the sound of the 
 water gently falling from the conductors, all con- 
 
9 
 
 spired to awaken the monitor within, and greatly 
 added to the solemnity of the subsequent scene of 
 woe. 
 
 Mrs. Manvill received us with becoming decency, 
 but not with her usual sprightliness. Mr. Manvill 
 went directly to the apartment where Lucinda had 
 retired. Mrs. Manvill soon understood our business, 
 and her anxiety and distress for Lucinda, in spite of 
 all her resolution, instantly trickled from her eyes, 
 and silently accused us of having been altogether 
 ignorant of her character, when we concluded she 
 would gladly part with her visitor. Indeed, such 
 god-like excellency shone in her tender concern for 
 Lucinda, as we had never before witnessed in a 
 mother-in-law; a virtue of infinite more worth than 
 the mines of Peru — more durable than the founda- 
 tions of the mountain on which we stood. Did 
 step mothers always possess that virtue, their very 
 countenances would tend to soothe the distresses of 
 the bereaved children of their care. 
 
 But, to return. Soon after Mr. Manvill entered 
 the apartment of Lucinda, we heard her sighs and 
 groans. He returned, and Mrs. Manvill attended 
 her. Their mingled lamentations, were sufficient to 
 have moved the heart of the most obdurate. Her 
 
10 
 
 parents attended her alternately for a considerable 
 length of time. At length she made her appearance, 
 accompanied by her mother. They had both en- 
 deavored to compose themselves, and had so far 
 succeeded, as to appear the more interesting. 
 Lucinda, if not a beauty, was graceful and delicate; 
 and although the tears were wiped from her face, 
 her countenance bespoke the keenest sorrow, while 
 her eyes expressed the sensibility of her soul. Mrs. 
 Manvill introduced her to us, when we proceeded to 
 the examination of her last place of legal residence. 
 We first took the affidavit of her father, and then 
 administered to her the requisite oath. She behaved 
 with great reverence to the Supreme Being on the 
 solemn occasion; was candid and intelligent in her 
 answers, and the relation she gave of the places in 
 which she had resided, and of the families in which 
 she had lived. We never beheld more sedateness in 
 a witness on any occasion whatever, and so inte- 
 resting was the scene, that we endeavored to comfort 
 her and her distressed parents with every consolation 
 that came to our recollection, or that the circum- 
 stances of the case would permit. 
 
 We then went out to converse by ourselves. But 
 the interview within made such an impression on our 
 
11 
 
 minds, and the circumstances were so intricate, that 
 we were totally at a loss in what manner to proceed. 
 Mrs. Manvill had by her extraordinary tenderness 
 and benevolent conduct towards Lucinda, greatly 
 added to the esteem we had entertained for her, 
 which made us unwilling to add to her troubles, 
 were it possible to prevent it, and at the same time 
 fulfill our duty to the town. To give notice that 
 Lucinda must leave the place in so many days, 
 unless security was given to indemnify the town 
 from expense, looked like adding affliction to afflic- 
 tion: though at that time we had not the least 
 information of her ill health, or of her being in that 
 habitual, disconsolate state of mind, with which we 
 were afterwards made acquainted. Our greatest 
 concern for Lucinda, was immediate consequences. 
 We sometimes thought the gloom we had passed 
 through so shortly after the pleasing prospects of the 
 morning, had made us unreasonably timid, though 
 perhaps neither of us are noted for timidity. We 
 finally concluded, that we would inform them in as 
 gentle a manner as possible, what our duty was, 
 agreeably to the principles of the law. Mr. Manvill 
 was silent, and appeared to know not what to say. A 
 flood of tears gushed from the eyes of Mrs. Manvill, 
 
12 
 
 who expressed herself in nearly the following words: 
 " We are poor; I know not that we can give any 
 security but our industry. I will do as long as I can 
 crawl, rather than have the poor, suffering, innocent 
 Lucinda torn from us in her present situation. She 
 is the most extraordinary person I ever saw; her 
 distressed soul is constantly grieving for the disgrace 
 and trouble she conceives she has brought upon us. 
 The sighs and groans of her wounded heart, are to 
 be heard day and night! So fearful is she of injuring 
 others, that she sometimes pleads for the viper that 
 has given her the mortal wound, and can hardly be 
 willing to have him brought to justice; and must 
 she now be cast among strangers, who know not the 
 glowing virtues of her heart? " Here her soul 
 seemed to burst; but after a short pause, she ex- 
 claimed: "Does the rigor of the law know no 
 mercy? " Our reply and the closing part of the 
 scene, you will see stated in Letter XVIII, of Mrs. 
 Manvill to her sister. 
 
 We then took our leave of them, and proceeded down 
 the mountain with sensations quite the reverse of those 
 we possessed when we ascended it. The beauties of 
 nature and distant prospects had lost their charms; 
 and our minds were attracted by the more noble and 
 
13 
 
 durable excellencies of virtue. We could not but reca- 
 pitulate the unparalleled affection of the step-mother, 
 and the uncommon sensibility of the daughter-in-law. 
 We were pained with anxiety for the safety of 
 Lucinda, and almost trembled when we anticipated 
 the probable effects of our visit on her mind, in the 
 disconsolate and precarious circumstances to which 
 she was reduced ; sometimes reflecting on our- 
 selves for not having used more precaution, and for 
 not having enquired more particularly of Mrs. Man- 
 vill concerning her. The case was so uncommon, 
 that when other objects became the subject of re- 
 mark, we could not confine our conversation to 
 them; some new recollection of what had so recently 
 transpired, would crowd every other consideration 
 from our minds. For several days, nay weeks, the 
 melancholy scene of that day, would almost present 
 the unfortunate sufferer in person to our imaginations. 
 From the information we have received from the 
 physicians who attended Lucinda during her whole 
 illness — from the neighbors and others, from whom 
 we have been able to obtain information on the 
 subject — and from our own personal knowledge, put 
 it beyond a doubt that the history of Lucinda is 
 founded on the most incontestable facts ; and in our 
 2 
 
14 
 
 opinion, is the purest source of instruction and 
 admonition to the youth of both sexes — and the 
 brightest ornament of a mother-in-law, of any thing 
 of the kind we have ever seen in print. 
 
 SALMON CHILD. 
 Greenfield, JOHN PRIOR. 
 
 July 31, 1810. 
 
TO THE READER. 
 
 To tell you that I have been urged 
 against my own inclinations, to enter on 
 this truly painful task, would be deviating 
 from that which I humbly trust will be 
 the governing principles of my life : And 
 though the request of those friends who 
 partake of a heart-felt interest in pro- 
 moting the work, may have had great in- 
 fluence ; yet the conscious duty I owe an 
 Innocent Orphan, cast on a world of un- 
 feeling conjecture (exclusive of what is 
 due to the deceased, and those of the 
 present and future generations, who are 
 desirous of profiting by the awful warn- 
 ing it contains) has determined me to offer 
 to the public, in a series of letters dedi- 
 cated to my Sister, a melancholy narra- 
 
16 
 tive ; depending for its recommendation, 
 on the sacred truths it contains. 
 
 And shall we, my friends, while the 
 tears of sensibility flow in torrents, at the 
 doubtful sufferings of fictitious greatness, 
 refuse the gentle tribute to the suffering 
 daughter of humility ? 
 
LUCINDA; OR THE MOUNTAIN MOURNER. 
 
 LETTEK I. 
 
 Greenfield, July 20th, 1806. 
 Dear Sister, 
 
 You are alarmed at my long silence, 
 and fear that the heart, whose every sen- 
 sation you once knew and affectionately 
 approved, has suffered a material change. 
 You mistake the cause. Learn it then, 
 from a series of writings, which I pre- 
 sume will sufficiently elucidate it, and 
 convince you that for many months* I 
 have had no time to devote to you. Ever 
 accustomed to receiving the most mel- 
 ancholy epistles from your sister, you will 
 not be surprised to find, that Providence, 
 for wise purposes, still holds out to her the 
 cup of affliction. May she be enabled 
 with cheerful submission, to bow to the 
 throne of Omnipotence ; and with hum- 
 ble gratitude, receive the bitter draught. 
 My next shall present you with a clue, 
 which leads to my sorrowful tale. 
 
18 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 You are acquainted with the principles 
 on which I united myself to one of the 
 best of men ; and our consequeut retire- 
 ment from a world, which had measurably 
 denied to each its common enjoyments. 
 On the Kayaderosseras Mountain, by the 
 side of a beautiful and never failing 
 stream, we built our humble cot. The 
 surrounding scenes like the friendly moni- 
 tor of the soul, were calculated to inspire 
 and perpetuate those sacred reflections, 
 which lead to real and permanent happi- 
 ness, Thus mutually contemplating the 
 beauties of creation, did we frequently 
 traverse the surrounding forests — climb 
 the ragged rocks — and happy, supreme- 
 ly happy, in the reciprocal affection and 
 esteem of each other — while we smiled 
 at the rude scene which conveyed such 
 unaffected delight. Thus employed, the 
 moments fled on the wings of bliss, which 
 were allotted for a temporary relaxation 
 
19 
 
 from labor; we returned again to the 
 cheerful mansion, characterized by love, 
 peace and humility — where no other em- 
 barrassments awaited us, than such as 
 are ever inseparable from indigence ; nor 
 knew we of wretchedness, but by the 
 power of recollection. Our affections were 
 by no means circumscribed to ourselves 
 alone ; our children in common, when 
 with us, shared an equal love and atten- 
 tion. My little daughter was his — his con- 
 sisting of six in number, four sons and two 
 daughters, were mine; and though only 
 two, which were sous, occasionally re- 
 sided with us; yet the other, (the oldest 
 son excepted, who was settled in life) each 
 living with a sister of their deceased 
 mother, whom they loved, and by whom 
 they were tenderly regarded, we were 
 happy on their account. And although 
 they were at a distance from us, yet we 
 felt no other solicitude, than that which 
 naturally arises in the bosom of paternal 
 fondness, under such privations. 
 
 Four years had elapsed since our resi- 
 dence in this sequestered spot ; and each 
 
20 
 
 annual revolution brought with it, some 
 new source of happiness. The lenient 
 hand of time, seeming to promise in the 
 decline of life, to reward past sufferings 
 by an uninterrupted course of felicity. 
 Blessed days of delusion — never to re- 
 turn. 
 
 Thou sacred source of intellectual love ; 
 Supreme thy power — unerring thy decree : 
 On wings of mercy, waft my soul above ; 
 And let me rest, my hope, and life on thee. 
 
 Pardon this digression, my Dear Sister 
 — my soul instinctively addressed the 
 throne of Grace ; and I found myself un- 
 able to proceed with my subject. 
 
 
21 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 In October last, we received a letter 
 from our oldest daughter who had resided 
 in Marcellus, in the western part of the 
 state for almost three years. She informed 
 lift, that she had returned to Troy ; and 
 was then at an uncle's there, waiting a 
 convenient opportunity to make us a visit* 
 Why it should be so, I could not compre- 
 hend ; but I was far from being happy at 
 the intelligence ; my heart foreboded the 
 most painful consequences. We had 
 been informed that she received the ad- 
 dresses of a Mr. Brown, who had a long 
 time previous to her departure from this 
 quarter, professed an unbounded attach- 
 ment to her. Her father could scarce be- 
 lieve it possible, as he had ever supposed 
 him indifferent to her, since she for many 
 months at first, refused his suit. Had it 
 been otherwise, doubtless the tenderness 
 of a fond parent, would have suggested to 
 
22 
 
 her the danger of a connection with a 
 man, whose only recommendation was 
 industry. And although that may be con- 
 sidered as one of the moral virtues, and is 
 essentially necessary in the character of a 
 good citizen — a good husband, or a father 
 of a family ; yet beneath the shadow of 
 economy, may be shrouded every vice 
 that can taint the human heart, or meet 
 the approbation of the fallen angels. 
 
 But to return to my narrative. The 
 three following months after the receipt 
 of her letter, passed without further news 
 from her. I was by no means happy, when 
 one day sitting by the fire with my little 
 daughter, immersed in the volumes of 
 futurity (my husband being engaged in 
 some domestic concerns without) I was 
 aroused from my stupor by a knock at the 
 door. A youth entered — and although 
 my business with my needle, brought al- 
 most every day some stranger to our cot- 
 tage, yet I felt an unaccountable emotion 
 and interest in the countenance of this 
 young man. He enquired for Mr. Man- 
 rill; my heart immediately acknowledged 
 
23 
 
 him for our youngest son, whom I had 
 never seen. I rose, took his hand, " You 
 are his son, I presume." " I am." " Can 
 you then look on me as your mother." I 
 could say no more ; my heart was full. 
 " I can madam," replied the sweet youth ; 
 whom I could have pressed to my bosom, 
 and called on the shade of his departed 
 mother, to have witnessed the ailcction 
 and pity I felt for her darling son. "We 
 both stood for a moment, when recollect- 
 ing myself T asked him if he was alone — 
 he told me his sisters * el a sleigh at 
 
 the door. I accompanied him to them; 
 the youngest of whom likewise, I had 
 never seen. And while my heart bade 
 them welcome to the rural roof, even- 
 faculty of my soul seemed absorbed in the 
 most undescribable sensations, which was 
 not in my power, for many hours, to over- 
 come. 
 
 After their father was called in, and 
 the mutual ceremonies over, Lucinda 
 (that was the name of the eldest daugh- 
 ter) observed with a look which seemed 
 to ask for sympathy, that she had 
 
24 
 
 brought a trunk with some other arti- 
 cles, intending with our permission,. to 
 stay some time with us. Her looks 
 were more particularly directed towards 
 me; most probably wishing to develop 
 my thoughts. Misconstruing her sen- 
 timents, I aimed at being cheerful; and 
 told her with a smile that illy accorded 
 with my feelings, "that it should de- 
 pend upon her merit." Cruel words ; how 
 often have I reproached myself for my 
 ill-timed raillery ; how little did I think 
 I was throwing a javelin at a wounded 
 heart. While I was preparing some re- 
 freshment, she made some remarks on 
 the duty of filial obedience, and the im- 
 becility of forming hasty judgments ; I 
 collected from her observations, some 
 unconnected ideas of what was passing 
 in her heart ; yet little did I know the 
 struggles it must have felt, before it 
 yielded to a desire of returning to a 
 father, whose protection she had volun- 
 tarily left, at a time when her attention 
 was perhaps necessary to his happiiuv 
 and now she knew not the reception she 
 
25 
 
 should meet. After supper, the conver- 
 sation turned on different subjects; her 
 father and brothers, who had come in 
 (being at that time at home) took notice 
 of her altered manners ; for myself, she 
 was so much a stranger to me, that had 
 the change been still more apparent, I 
 could not have known it. 
 
 A sudden dizziness in my head, com- 
 pels me to bid you adieu. You will soon 
 hear again from your friend and sister. 
 
26 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 Shall I tell you my dear Nancy, how I 
 have spent this morning? "Yes," you 
 say. Attend then, and no not call me 
 romantic; for believe me, I do not feel a 
 single sensation, that can entitle me to 
 such an epithet. I arose, intending to 
 have devoted a few hours to you, having 
 made some previous arrangements, as you 
 may perhaps recollect, that the morning 
 was ever my favorite time for writing ; 
 my mind being then free from all the 
 cares and fatigues of the day. Endeav- 
 oring, however, before I took my pen, to 
 recollect a few circumstances which had 
 been partly eradicated from my mind, in 
 the long series of events which succeed- 
 ed, I was imperceptibly led into a train 
 of painful reflections, which totally un- 
 fitted me for such an employment. The 
 sun rose with unusual splendor; but it^> 
 rays had no power, or at least no com- 
 
27 
 
 mission to illume my heart. I could not 
 help asking myself, why I was thus dis- 
 tressed; when perhaps there were thou, 
 sands in the world, wading through the 
 same channel of affliction, with fewer 
 sources of happiness to sustain them than 
 I had. Why then should I dwell forever 
 on the dark pages of life, regardless of 
 the thousand blessings that awaited me. 
 But my reasonings were of no avail; I 
 dismissed the idea of writing — went and 
 prepared breakfast for my little family ; 
 after which I walked out and gave my- 
 self up to reflection. In a short time, 
 however, my attention was (ailed to the 
 most delightful sounds, that I ever heard 
 from the leathered choir; and though J 
 instinctively listened to the notes, yet 
 they were without their usual effect 
 Thus for some time he continued to sing, 
 till at length (as if sensible of the inutili- 
 ty of his labors) he raised his notes to 
 such a height, as insensibly drew from 
 me the subject of my meditations. I lis- 
 tened in silent gratitude to the little 
 cherub who had thus befriended me. 
 
28 
 
 Thanks to the sweet warbler I am again 
 restored to a degree of tranquility, which 
 will enable me to continue,, or rather re- 
 sume my narrative. But as this seems 
 to have no connection with my story, I 
 will conclude it, after observing that I 
 apprehend my last must have left you 
 under very unfavorable impressions, re- 
 specting Lucinda's leaving her father. 
 Suspend your judgment ; my next shall 
 undeceive you- 
 
29 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 Lucinda lived with her father for three 
 years after her mother's death, most faith- 
 fully discharging the duties, not only of 
 an affectionate child, but those of a cheer- 
 ful and prudent economist. To tell you 
 her motives for leaving him, would be at 
 present out of place. I must therefore 
 desire you to suppress your curiosity, till 
 the thread of my story conducts you to 
 them; and return to the evening of thai 
 day, which brought her with her brother 
 and sister to the mountain. Eliza, to all 
 the glowing beauties of eighteen, happily 
 united thai easy cheerfulness, at once so 
 interesting to the beholder, and expres- 
 sive of that internal happiness, which ani- 
 mates the bosom of unsuspecting inno- 
 cence and virtue ; and made her a play- 
 ful companion for Julia, who was scarce 
 turned off eleven. The strongly contras- 
 ted manners of Lucinda, I very naturally 
 ascribed to the disparity of years, and 
 
3& 
 
 that experience which teaches us the fal- 
 libility of all sublunary enjoyments. At 
 a late hour we repaired to rest ; my bosom 
 filled with a thousand inexplicable sensa- 
 tions, it was long before I could close my 
 eyes; overcome at length, I had just fal- 
 len into a slumber, when I was called on 
 to visit a sick neighbor. I threw on my 
 clothes In haste, went into the apartment 
 of my children, whom the noise had al- 
 ready awoke, and told them I must leave 
 them for a short time, but would return 
 again as soon as possible. In the mean 
 time, begged they would remember they 
 were at a father's house, and would (with 
 Julia's assistance) make themselves com- 
 fortable with whatever it afforded. Pro- 
 mising they would obey, I left them. I 
 did not return till nearly noon the next 
 day; I was received with apparent joy, 
 and the situation I found every thing in, 
 evinced the interest they felt in the wel- 
 fare of the family. 
 
 Next morning was the time appointed, 
 for the departure of our two youngest ; 
 they took their leave of us, to return 
 
31 
 
 again to those tender friends,* who are 
 entitled to receive from them, that filial 
 reverence and affection, which is forever 
 due to our parents and benefactors ; and 
 who may with propriety expect from us, 
 those grateful acknowledgments, which 
 flow from the bosoms of sensibility. Un- 
 happy children ! You left us unconscious 
 of the misery that awaited our unfortu- 
 nate family, and you, my son, in parti- 
 cular. Little did you think you were 
 taking a last leave of a much loved sis- 
 ter, who ibr three years, had supplied to 
 you the place of a tender mother; and 
 whom, in the innocent gaiety of your 
 heart, yon had rallied on her apparent 
 melancholy. 
 
 The first day of their absence was 
 principally devoted to inquiry by the 
 father, and absent answers, if I may so 
 
 *Mr. William Marvin, of Malta, has brought up the daugh- 
 ter from seven years of age (at which time she lost her mother) 
 and has most tenderly discharged the sacred trust. 
 
 Mr. Peter Betts of Troy, with unremitted zeal, has per- 
 formed the same parental duties to the son, whom he took at 
 eight years old, somewhat more than three years after the death 
 of his mother, who was sister to Mrs. Marvin and Mrs. Betts; 
 to whose tender care is due the most grateful thanks. 
 
32 
 
 express it, on the part of the daughter, 
 who was evidently in a state of latent 
 anxiety ; the succeeding one, however, 
 opened a new scene. I was busily em- 
 ployed in some little arrangements in 
 another room, when she came in and be- 
 gan to assist me. After some time, she 
 observed that her aunt Betts talked of 
 coming up soon, but it was a matter of 
 uncertainty. I asked if her husband 
 was coming with her; she replied " no." 
 " Surely she will not venture to come so 
 far alone," said I ; when casting a look at 
 Lucinda, I observed she blushed exceed- 
 ingly ; while a tear stood ready to fall. 
 I was that moment awakened to the pur- 
 port of her communication, and thus ad- 
 dressed her : " My child, I have made 
 no inquiry of your sister, respecting your 
 connection with Mr. Brown ; because I 
 had rather be indebted to your confidence, 
 than to be informed of it through any 
 other channel : tell me, therefore, if Ave 
 may not expect him with your aunt?" 
 She readily answered, that on him, de- 
 pended her coming; and further added 
 
33 
 
 that she had little reason to expect such 
 an event, as she had hourly expected him 
 for many weeks; and as the sleighing 
 was leaving us very fast, it being now 
 about the middle of February, if he was 
 not here in a few days, there was very 
 little probability of her seeing him soon. 
 Finding her heart deeply interested, 
 and ignorant of any immediate cause of 
 fear, I told her 1 saw no reason to doubt 
 his coming, on account of his having de- 
 layed the time longer than was expected ; 
 as there were a thousand ways for people 
 to be disappointed themselves; and as 
 she had just observed, he was in Phila- 
 delphia on business, when she last heard 
 from him, it was more than probable that 
 he might have been unexpectedly de- 
 tained, and was doubtless more anxious 
 on her account, than she imagined. I 
 spoke from the dictates of my heart — 
 therefore plead his cause with energy. 
 All my rhetoric, however, I found was 
 lost on her; and while each returning 
 day brought to the rest of the family, 
 some new expectation of his arrival, she 
 
34 
 
 seemed lost in thought ; and as the little 
 apartment where she lodged was adjoin- 
 ing to ours, I never awoke at any season 
 of the night whatever, but the sound 
 of grief assailed my ears ; and yet so 
 stupid was I, that almost a fortnight 
 elapsed, before I suspected the fatal 
 cause. Her desires at length, to com- 
 municate her sorrows, exceeded all 
 bounds. She made use of every ex- 
 pression, which would be likely to pro- 
 duce an inquiry into her situation ; but 
 even after I suspected it, it was a mat- 
 ter of so much delicacy, that I knew 
 not how to request an explanation. You 
 will perhaps, be anxious to know what 
 first drew the veil of misapprehension 
 before my sight. I will tell you. Her 
 young brother when here, had affection- 
 ately joked her on being subject to the 
 hysterics; but I thought nothing of it at 
 that time. One day however, when we 
 were alone, Lucinda observed, that she 
 would explain to me the meaning of her 
 brother Smith. 
 
 The day before her leaving her uncle's 
 
35 
 
 at Troy, her mind had been uncommonly 
 agitated by reflecting on the distressing 
 state in which she was about to return to 
 her father, after having left him for so 
 many years. The idea was oppressive ; 
 the recollection of the poor Prodigal, who 
 returned naked and forlorn to the bosom 
 of a father, pressed powerfully on her im- 
 agination ; her faculties were for some 
 moments suspended ; and she conceived 
 the hand of death was upon her. It was 
 observed by the family, who immediately 
 lent her some assistance, and she recov- 
 ered. Could I be blind any longer? 
 And yet I did not dare to ask any ques- 
 tions. Pardon my diffidence, my sister, 
 and remember that I was a step-mother. 
 That night, however, with all the tender- 
 ness I was mistress of, I told her father my 
 apprehensions. I found him by no means 
 surprized, as he had for many days con- 
 ceived the same, from her excessive sor- 
 row — but while he was studious how to 
 divulge it to me, whom he saw in a state 
 of friendly delusion, that equanimity, 
 which governs every action of his life, 
 
36 
 
 only served to thicken the veil that blind- 
 ed me. 
 
 The measure we took to confirm or dis- 
 pel our fears, shall be the subject of my 
 next. 
 
37 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 I requested my husband to take an op- 
 portunity of introducing the subject of our 
 fears to our unhappy daughter, when they 
 were alone, as perhaps it might be less 
 painful for her to converse with him, than 
 with me. Consequently the next day, 
 when, osav;i> her constant custom, she 
 retired to her room to indulge her grief, 
 he followed her — begged she would no 
 longer mourn in silence ; but rest assured 
 that her parents tenderly participated her 
 sufferings, and would do every thing in 
 their power to alleviate them. 
 
 She seemed greatly desirous, yet unable 
 to speak on the subject. He saw her em- 
 barrassment, and told her, that if it would 
 be more agreeable to write a line which 
 might inform us of her sorrows, he would 
 for the present desist from any inquiry, 
 that might give her pain to answer. He 
 then left the room, where she continued 
 alone for several hours, till our little 
 
38 
 
 family were assembled to supper. She 
 had with the rest obeyed the summons ; 
 but her appetite was swallowed up in 
 grief. In vain were all my entreaties ; 
 she left the table, but only to return again 
 to her apartment, where she spent the 
 night in the most agonizing affliction. 
 
 The following day when we were again 
 alone, she began by saying, that her 
 father, the preceding evening had very 
 much distressed her by his tenderness. 
 " Indeed," said she, " little as I merit such 
 solicitude, it wounds my heart." She 
 could say no more — my soul was wrought 
 up to the height of sympathetic woe." 
 "Lucinda," said I, " I can not any longer 
 bear to see you thus distressed — I am 
 your friend — I am your mamma — and 
 what mother would forbear to enquire 
 into the distresses of her child. Tell me 
 then — it is a cruel question, and I trust 
 your goodness will pardon my suggestions 
 if groundless — tell me my child — is not 
 your situation peculiarly wretched ? She 
 burst into tears — I was answered ! 
 
 What could I say, to comfort her or 
 
39 
 
 myself. My eyes were at once opened to 
 all the awful circumstances that succeed- 
 ed. However sanguine my expectations 
 might have been, with regard to her union 
 with the object of her affections ; yet for 
 several days past, I had been doubtful of 
 some unforseen event. Our mingled 
 tears, forbade any further explanation at 
 that time. You will, perhaps, ask me, 
 how I could ever have expected him, 
 when I contemplated her sorrows ; and 
 further observe, that you never saw our 
 daughter. I will endeavor to show you 
 the basis of my hopes ; and I trust, then, 
 you will not think them ill-founded. Lu- 
 cinda, without being a striking beauty, 
 possessed all the elegance of form. I 
 would proceed, but am incompetent to 
 the task — suffice it then to say, that she 
 added to the above, all those amiable and 
 numberless virtues, which (though ab- 
 sorbed in the gloom of wretchedness) en- 
 deared her to all who saw her ; and while 
 my tears flow at the tender recollection, 
 I say to myself — unfortunate woman, 
 while life is lent thee, the image of thy 
 
40 
 
 lovely child, shall never be eradicated 
 from thy bosom. Oh ! my dear, dear Lu- 
 cinda ! Could thy sacred shade witness 
 the tears I have shed, while relating the 
 horrid deed which caused thy dissolution, 
 you would comfort me by saying as you 
 once did before — " Mamma, I am now 
 happy ! " 
 
 Farewell, my sister ; my heart is full, 
 and I can write no more. 
 
41 
 
 LETTER VII. 
 
 Could I suppose, my dear sister, that 
 there existed the man on earth, who 
 knowing (as he must have done) he pos- 
 sessed the highest place in the bosom of 
 such sensibility, who could basely have 
 deserted her, at the time appointed for 
 their union to be solemnized. Thus far, I 
 presume, I have justified those expecta- 
 tions, the imbecility of which, however, 
 we have most fatally proved. Being fully 
 apprised of the extent of our misfortunes, 
 we thought it most advisable to write to 
 her uncle Whitney, with whom she had 
 lived, and request him to see Mr. Brown 
 (as there had for a long time subsisted a 
 very friendly intercourse between them), 
 and inform us immediately, by the mail, 
 of what we had to hope. 
 
 Mr. Manvill, therefore, wrote to her 
 uncle and aunt — first informing them of 
 the awful stroke of Providence, of which 
 we believed them still ignorant (not 
 
42 
 
 knowing at that time, there had any let- 
 ter been forwarded to them from Troy, of 
 which Lucinda afterwards informed us) — 
 and then pathetically repeated the dying 
 words of his departed wife ; that now 
 rushed with redoubled poignancy on his 
 heart. She had particularly mentioned 
 Lucinda; recommending her to his im- 
 mediate care. Here suffer me to remark, 
 that it seems her prophetic soul, foresaw 
 this dreadful calamity; or why should 
 she have expressed a more particular 
 solicitude for the fate of one child, 
 when they must all have been equally 
 dear to her. I will not, however, trouble 
 you further with my comments ; but re- 
 turn to the contents of the letter. He 
 likewise added, that he had not supposed 
 her character would have been more se- 
 curely established, under the kind care of 
 her affectionate aunts, with whom she 
 alternately lived; and with whose pre- 
 cepts and examples he should ever rest 
 satisfied, he should not consented for her 
 to have left him. His heart, torn by that 
 anguish which could never be obliterated, 
 
43 
 
 could not reproach him with want of pa- 
 ternal love, or conjugal duties, in en- 
 deavoring to fulfill the last and most ten- 
 der request of his dear deceased wife ; by 
 exerting every faculty of the soul, to 
 guard (while with him) against the dupli- 
 city of the human heart, and those com- 
 plicated arts of seduction concomitant of 
 it. Then, after making the above stated 
 requests, respecting brother Whitney's in- 
 terposition in the principal business which 
 now occupied all our thoughts, he con- 
 cluded. I added a short postscript, which 
 as it only related to the interest I felt in 
 the distresses of my family, it would be 
 superfluous to transcribe it here. 
 
 And now. dear sister, observe all our 
 hopes resting on the returns, we were to 
 receive ; and as it would at least, take up 
 several weeks, it was necessary that every 
 exertion should be tried to divert her mel- 
 ancholy, which was by no means abated 
 — though that extreme anguish of soul, 
 had appeared to be somewhat softened, 
 since she had communicated the fatal 
 cause, and found herself not the less wel- 
 come to our hearts, for her misfortunes. 
 
44 
 
 For believe me, Nancy, though I would 
 by no means wish to appear as an advo- 
 cate for vice ; yet shall the truly humble 
 and penitent offender, who with unremit- 
 ted ardor, pleads for and receives mercy 
 and pardon at the throne of Grace — shall 
 they, let me ask, be denied forgiveness, of 
 weak and erring mortals, because them- 
 selves have been more abundantly favored 
 of Providence ; and under its immediate 
 direction, have escaped the wiles of delu- 
 sion ? No, my sister, never shall I be 
 made to believe, that God would appro- 
 bate such rigid virtue, or that the bosom 
 of sensibility can ever be barred against 
 the all-powerful pleadings of humanity. 
 Bowed down by the most humiliating re- 
 flections, our poor repentant child had re- 
 turned and sought an asylum under the 
 paternal roof, from the scoffs of a censo- 
 rious and misjudging world. And might 
 we, with unprecedented cruelty, reject her 
 petition. You my friend, and I trust 
 every feeling heart, will readily give a 
 negative answer, and thereby approve the 
 conduct of 
 
 Your truly affectionate, &c. 
 
45 
 
 LETTEE VIII. 
 
 You are extremely impatient to hear 
 the sequel of my melancholy narrative — 
 yet wish to know the most minute partic- 
 ulars. Attend, and you shall hear how 
 we spent our time during those tedious 
 weeks of doubtful expectation ; the first 
 of which were chiefly, on the part of Lu- 
 cinda, devoted to writing to her sister, 
 and to her uncle and aunt in Troy ; to in- 
 form the latter of the proceedings, as they 
 were the only friends whom she had made 
 acquainted with her situation. She now 
 gave her sister an account of her distress- 
 ing circumstances, and pathetically en- 
 treated her pardon; representing in the 
 strongest colors her deep regret, at having 
 brought, not only infamy and disgrace on 
 her friends in general ; bat more imme- 
 diate distress on her parents, whose em- 
 barrassments were already sufficiently 
 burdensome. Unhappy child ! that she 
 should then be thus doubly oppressed by 
 
46 
 
 an idea of the accumulating weight of 
 sorrows she had brought on those she 
 loved. Yes, my sister, I say on those she 
 loved — for could you but have witnessed 
 the filial affection with which she treated 
 me— hear those tender expressions, by 
 which I was mentioned in her letters to 
 her aunts, you would justify the above re- 
 mark. She had written several but deli- 
 cacy forbade my asking to see them ; by 
 the same power, perhaps, she was with- 
 held from showing them. Thus was I, in 
 some degree, a stranger to their contents ; 
 however, when one day she had just 
 finished writing to her aunt Whitney, she 
 sat some time in a hesitating manner ; at 
 length reaching it to me, " Mamma, 5 ' 
 said she, " It is but just that you should 
 see my letters ; as they contain nothing 
 which my heart does not acknowledge. 3 ' 
 I perused the writing; but could not 
 speak. You know the heart of your sis- 
 ter, that heart which with all its errors, 
 she has often wished could be laid open 
 to full view, and every sensation scanned. 
 To be thus assured, of having been in- 
 
47 
 
 strumental in any degree, of pouring the 
 balm of comfort into the wounded bosom 
 of my child, judge what must have been 
 my delight. I wept from the excess of 
 joy that Heaven had thus reciprocated our 
 affection for each other. 
 
 " Lucinda," said I one day when we 
 were sitting alone, "I wish you could 
 feel a freedom, to tell me the commence- 
 ment, and progressive circumstances, at- 
 tending your connexion with Mr. Brown. 
 I wish at least, to find some trival excuse 
 for his conduct. Perhaps you may have 
 triumphed over his attachment at first ; 
 and like the churlish little school boy, he 
 first means to triumph in his turn for a 
 season, and then be friends. However, 
 should that be the case, I shall not much 
 approve his disposition. For believe me, 
 though I should sincerely blame the 
 cause, I should heartily detest the effect." 
 She then mildly entered into a relation of 
 the motives, by which she had been 
 governed for many years, even from the 
 death of her dear mother. But as our 
 conversations were frequently interrupted, 
 
48 
 
 I can not give it to you in such detached 
 parts ; and will therefore endeavor so to 
 connect the broken threads of her history, 
 as to give you as clear an idea of the 
 truth, as can be drawn from memory, 
 when the impression it has made on the 
 heart, is indelible. And as I know it will 
 be quite agreeable to you, I will throw if 
 into the form of a letter, and enclose it. 
 
49 
 
 LETTER IX. 
 
 LUCINDA TO HER MOTHER. 
 
 Since Heaven has destined to me a 
 friend, where cruel prejudice taught me 
 never to hope far our. 1 will endeavor, as 
 
 far as I am able, to relate every circum- 
 stance, which can have a tendency to- 
 wards assisting her judgment, respecting 
 my past conduct; which, however guilty 
 1 may have !>■ in the conclusion, 
 permit me to say, I never lest sight of 
 those principles of virtue — the gifts of 
 Heaven, and fruitless cultivation of my 
 dear parents. Jn my mother's Last sick- 
 ness, my uncle and Aunt Marvin, from 
 motives of tenderness, knowing my fa- 
 ther's circumstances, whit h were by no 
 means eligible, sent for his two youngest 
 children (excepting the babe) to keep 
 till she could be restored, if consistent 
 with the will of Providence. However, 
 it was otherwise determined. After lan- 
 guishing for five weeks, in the most 
 5 
 
50 
 
 excruciating distress, her soul took its 
 flight to those regions of bliss, where I 
 have long since, most ardently wished 
 to follow her. My unhappy father was 
 left with seven children, of whom I was 
 the eldest, then about seventeen years 
 of age; the youngest, a daughter of two. 
 After the last duties were paid to the 
 remains of my dear mother, my uncle 
 sent home my little brother, but desired 
 that they might keep my sister, as they 
 had no daughter ; and observed, they 
 would use her as their own. My father, 
 therefore, consented. 
 
 About a year after this, having been 
 engaged in some domestic duties, I had 
 just taken a kettle of boiling water from 
 over the fire, when turning to get some- 
 thing to put over it, my dear little sister. 
 who had been asleep, awoke at that 
 critical moment ; got off the bed, and 
 attempting to run to her daddy, who sat 
 at the opposite side of the room, by some 
 unhappy step, blundered and fell, alas ! 
 into the boiling kettle ! Oh ! the distiv 
 of that moment ! It will never be effaced 
 
51 
 
 from my memory. We caught her out 
 immediately; but indeed, too late. She 
 lived only three days. From the time 
 of that unfortunate event, I began to 
 think it would be best for the family 
 to break up; as my father was mostly 
 employed in a school, and had nothing 
 wherewith to employ my brothers to any 
 advantage, eithet to himself of them, 
 And now T humbly hope, they will not 
 :e it unkind, should they ever know- 
 that my anxiety for my father, for whom 
 it was hard to support so large a family, 
 from the mere productions of his own 
 labor, made me wish to leave him. think- 
 ing perhaps, when I . my broth 
 might be put to some mechanical branch j 
 ami thus become useful and valuable 
 members of society* 
 
 I contemplated this for two years, 
 
 when at la>t. I requested my father's per* 
 mission to leave him. U** at Length, not 
 only consented, hut even permitted me 
 
 to take as mueh of his hou>ehold furniture 
 
 ;i- I >aw lit ; ;i^ therefore, no one would 
 
 left, who could take the necessary care 
 
52 
 
 of it. I hope I am excusable for having 
 taken the principal part ; particularly of 
 such things as were most likely to be in- 
 jured by neglect. However, I trust I may 
 so far justify myself, as to assure you with 
 truth, that I have ever cherished this 
 principle, that whatever might be the 
 event of my leaving him, he should never 
 suffer, while it was in my power to relieve 
 him. But, alas ! how little did I think, 
 when I was fondly anticipating the su- 
 preme delight of discharging the duties 
 of filial affection, should it ever become 
 necessary for me to support my parent ; 
 that in the course of a few years, I should 
 again return to him, in a far more deplor- 
 able state, than that of infancy. Oh ! my 
 beloved father; what a complication of 
 sorrows have I brought on your aged 
 heart ! And you, my dear mamma, for 
 your sakes, and the rest of my friend-. 
 my heart bleeds ; was there none but me 
 to suffer, I could bear it with more forti- 
 tude ! But I must refrain from such 
 thoughts, if possible ; and confine myself 
 to the recollection of events long pa^ 
 
53 
 
 Indeed, I can not justly tell how long ; for 
 I hardly know when first my acquaintance 
 with Mr. Brown commenced. Only this 
 I rememher. that I had often seen him 
 before he made any professions of love; 
 or even solicited permission to visit me. 
 But when lie did, (hough I had no desire 
 of entertaining him as a lover ; yet 1 hope 
 and trust, I was very tar from treating him 
 with disrespect. I alternately resided 
 with my relations, hut mostly with my 
 ancle Whitney, in Charlton. 1 frequent- 
 ly fell in company with him, when he 
 
 would he Mire to nvat me with a di^tin- 
 guished attention; hut wholly onacquaint- 
 
 lii the science Of ll I had never 
 
 kept any company, I suspected not his par- 
 tiality, till 1 was repeatedly rallied on it 
 
 by Others; particularly a relation of his, 
 whom in the confidence of friendship, he 
 
 had told, that lie should never have taken 
 up his residence, where lie then was, had 
 it not have been lor the opportunities 
 which he flattered himself might oiler, of 
 evincing his attachment to me. This 
 communication, in particular, the sincer- 
 
54 
 
 ity of which I had no reason to doubt, 
 aided by the most tender and undeviating 
 attentions from him, taught me at last to 
 look into my own heart ; and finding I 
 had that esteem for him, which I felt for 
 no other of his sex, I accepted his love ; 
 and began to receive his visits, in the year 
 1802. From that moment, I even denied 
 myself the common privileges of my sex. 
 My whole happiness was centered in him. 
 I had not as yet, however, engaged to be 
 his wife, although I had no other motive 
 in keeping his company ; but was unwill- 
 ing to be too precipitate in a matter, on 
 which the future happiness of my life de- 
 pended. 
 
 My uncle had disposed of his property 
 in Charlton, and made a purchase of lands 
 at Marcellus ; whither I had promised to 
 attend the family, previous to my connec- 
 tion with Mr. Brown. The time arrived 
 for their departure, in the spring of 1803. 
 It is true, he dissuaded me from going; 
 but did not propose an immediate union ; 
 which had he done, I should then have 
 accepted. But to stay, and not only dis- 
 
55 
 
 oblige my good aunt (to whom I was un- 
 der many obligations) but expose myself 
 to the ridicule of the world, for my fond- 
 ness for one, who might change his senti- 
 ments, and abandon me, indeed I could 
 not bear it. Therefore, after making you 
 a very short visit (in which time, as I 
 then was unacquainted with my mamma, 
 I could neither tell he* my thoughts, nor 
 oak her ad vice, which, alaai might have 
 saved dm and herself those heart rending 
 
 moments, which now Mirroiind us) I set 
 oil lor the western country. Mr. IJrown, 
 
 however, proposed his coining nut the 
 
 follow i 1 1 u iiiiiiiiiin; and pressed me t<> hind 
 mv>eli' by BOme promise, hut I feared 
 the caprice of the human heart. 1 there- 
 fore, perhaps I was wrong, recommended 
 as the most consistent with propriety, to 
 be hound hy no other ties, than the rights 
 of honor; which, while v itinuedto 
 
 esteem each other, OUT hearts would na- 
 turally suggest. He appeared satisfied 
 witli my remark, and after assuring me, 
 that I might depend on his coming, took 
 
 his leave. Here, for the present, sn! 1 
 me to leave my narrative 
 
56 
 
 LETTER X. 
 
 MRS. MANVILLE TO HIS SISTER. 
 
 IN CONTINUATION. 
 
 There having been an interval of some 
 time, before I found an opportunity of 
 conversing further with Lucinda, on the 
 subject which employed all our thoughts ; 
 and having for some time been oppressed 
 with an idea, that even now to rclat e chills 
 my heart, I sought an interview of a few 
 moments only (when the rest of t lie fami- 
 ly were in bed) that I might be relieved 
 from a state of awful apprehension. But 
 how was I to ask an explanation, which 
 was become so essentially necessary to 
 my peace of mind ? Summoning, how- 
 ever, all the fortitude in my power, I said 
 w My child, from every circumstance I 
 can collect, either from your principles, 
 your manners, or those frequent renin r' 
 obscured in darkness, which I have heard 
 you make, I have every reason to bc&ei 
 
that however great your affection might 
 have been for your betrayer, that you did 
 not fall by the common arts of seduction. 
 Relieve my mind, and if le, acquit 
 
 him of the horrid charge! She answer- 
 ed me not; I looked, and beheld the cuw- 
 lliet of li il ! I had unexpectedly 
 
 awakened her mind to the most ctistn 
 ing recoiled was unable to 
 
 speak. The crimson glow on ber ch< 
 and conclusive emotion of her bosom, 
 convinced me of o r ; and desirous 
 
 of relieving ber, I i ad< d to turn my 
 
 enquiry into a Less painful channel, and 
 affected no1 to notice ber situation. Bui 
 unskilled in the sci< ace of dissimulation, 
 i a^> unsuccessful ; and a- w e were both 
 willing to he relieved from a painful re- 
 straint, we took 1- i each other for 
 the night, repaired to our beds; but not to 
 rest. For occupied, as] must have been, 
 by the mere suggestions of a cruelty, 
 which had apparently been practiced, 
 how could I sleep ? And much teas rea- 
 son had T to hope tor the oor 
 Lucinda, from whose wounded heart I 
 
58 
 
 had torn the bandages, and saw it bleed- 
 ing afresh ! 
 
 Suffer me here, my sister, to digress a 
 little from my subject ; and offer a few 
 comments on the attributes of love. The 
 love I would first describe, has true reli- 
 gion and morality for its basis, unaffect- 
 ed virtue for its object, truth and honor 
 for its supporting pillar, stability and ten- 
 der solicitude for its everlasting crown. 
 I will now endeavor to point out those of 
 its anti-type ; and then by way of refer- 
 ence, discriminate the different traits, by 
 which they may be understood. That 
 love, then, which by the young and inex- 
 perienced, and indeed too often by those 
 of a more advanced age, has been often 
 received as the genuine effusions of purity 
 itself, may be justly said to have for its 
 consistent parts atheism, immorality, du- 
 plicity and pride. It is likewise covered 
 with the magnetic mantle of flattery ; and 
 thus it ventures forth in search of prey. 
 As the former may be justly esteemed a 
 compound of all the mental virtues, so 
 the latter may, with equal propriety be 
 
59 
 
 termed the offspring of impiety, licen- 
 tiousness and guilt. The capacious soul, 
 which comprehends and is governed by 
 the first, would sooner sacrifice his own 
 temporal existence, than give pain, much 
 less assassinate the object of it. It will 
 be ever studious to communicate that 
 happiness; which it longs to find recipro- 
 cated, and without which, to a feeling 
 heart, life is but a painful void. Far dif- 
 ferent, the votaries of voluptuousness. 
 Studious of nothing but the gratification 
 of their own inordinate passions, theypu— 
 sue with unremitted zeal, their intended 
 victim ; till the innocent and unthinking 
 fair one, who has long been the dupe of 
 mere sounds, unsuspicious of their dupli- 
 city, submits her heart, happiness and 
 what is still more painful too add, her 
 honor, to the shrine of that love, with 
 which she believes herself revered ; and 
 thus becomes the wretched sacrifice of 
 ungovernable lust. 
 
 Oh ! my sister, though thousands have 
 fallen, many of whom now sleep in dust, 
 and neither precept nor example, can be 
 
60 
 
 of any further use to them; yet we ought 
 not, to withhold the assisting hand, from 
 the dear inexperienced survivors. And 
 I humbly believe it to be the indispensa- 
 ble duty of every person, whether parents, 
 preceptors, or those who only stand in 
 the general relationship of the world, to 
 point out, according to the best of their 
 abilities, those hidden rocks on which 
 the sons and daughters of virtue may be 
 lost. But as it is more particularly our 
 province to guide and direct those tender 
 plants of our own sex, how ardently I 
 could wish, that the dispensations of Pro- 
 vidence in my own family, together with 
 what I have here written, might prove 
 an awful warning to all the youthful and 
 innocent daughters of Adam. To each 
 of whom I would further recommend, 
 not merely a strict adherence to the prin- 
 ciples of virtue ; but a rigid watchfulness 
 of the false meteors, whose delusive pow- 
 ers might lead them imperceptibly from 
 the paths of rectitude. Would each one 
 of our sex, my Nancy, instead of contem- 
 plating in their mirrors, real or imaginary 
 
61 
 
 beauties, devote a small proportion of the 
 inestimable moments of time, to the gen- 
 eral study of physiognomy, we should 
 not, I presume, so often see the victims 
 of perjury, sinking to their untimely 
 graves. Little as the study of this sci- 
 ence is recommended to the fair sex, yet 
 believe me, I conceive it to be of the 
 greatest importance. As those who have 
 ever made any tolerable proficiency in 
 the art, will seldom fail to discriminate, 
 betwixt the electric glow of voluptuous- 
 ness, and the milder radiance of celestial 
 love, which beams on the eyes of sacred 
 affection. There is something in the for- 
 mer, which can only be understood by a 
 minute investigation ; and when once 
 discovered, will most assuredly cause the 
 bosom of innocence to shrink from its 
 advances — while the magnetic power of 
 the latter, which holds out to them the 
 cup of connubial bliss, unadulterated by 
 any impious anticipations, will imper- 
 ceptibly inspire that esteem, which (being 
 founded on real merit) will soon ripen into 
 love ; and when sanctioned by the laws 
 6 
 
62 
 
 of heaven and earth, and crowned by the 
 conscious rectitude of their own hearts, 
 they may reasonably hope for a blessing 
 in their union. And even should Provi- 
 dence, for wise purposes, disappoint their 
 endeavors, the demon discord will find 
 little room in their hearts to erect his 
 throne. While on the other hand, should 
 the libertine from mere necessity, unite 
 himself with one whom his vices had 
 sullied, what might be expected from 
 such a connexion? When I reflect on 
 this, my sister, I am happy; even while 
 I write and bedew the memory of our 
 child with tears, that she has paid the 
 debt of nature, and now enjoys the re- 
 ward of unaffected penitence. 
 
 When I first strayed from my subj< 
 I did not intend to have detained you 
 long; the motive however, I hope will be 
 my apology. Pardon me, therefore, and 
 read the inclosed. 
 
63 
 
 LETTER XI. 
 
 LUCTXDA TO HER MOTHER. 
 
 Dear Mamma: 
 
 I will continue my narrative, though J 
 am rare there ifl nothing it contains, thai 
 can afford cither consolation or hope. 
 Yet the power of sympathy i^ great ; and 
 I ma doubly bound not to deceive her 
 whom I address. 
 
 After our arrival at Marcellus, notwith- 
 standing the affectionate treatment of my 
 ancle's family, I eedingly unhap- 
 
 py ; there was a strange void in my heart. 
 
 I then for the first time in my life, fell all 
 the lender emotion- of love. At length 
 autUSUI arrived, and my hopes v NOS- 
 
 pleted. Mr. Brown not merely came lor 
 a visit, hnt made a purchase of a piece oi 
 land adjoining my uncle's. Yet as he 
 was about commencing the mercantile 
 business in the town oi' Scipio, about thir- 
 ty miles from thence ; and that, together 
 
64 
 
 with making some little establishments 
 on his land, would necessarily take up 
 much of his time ; and I being willing 
 to make what additions I could to my 
 own accommodations, our nuptials, for 
 the above reasons, were postponed till 
 the next fall, notwithstanding our vo\ 
 of eternal fidelity were interchanged. 
 When business admitted, he constantly 
 made it his home, at our house, win 
 he was treated with the utmost polite- 
 ness by the whole family. The yeai at 
 length had elapsed, and I was prepared 
 for the fulfillment of my vows. But shall 
 I tell you on what pretence he evaded 
 his ? Oh ! that some kind friend had 
 stepped between me and ruin! Ignorant 
 and unacquainted with deceit, little did 
 I think, cruel as it was, that the man 
 who could wish to debase the propov 
 object of his choice and affection, must 
 be totally destitute of every sentiment of 
 honor or tenderness. Yet, alas, such 
 has been the painful conclusion. Blind- 
 ed by the power of my own love, I sim- 
 ply attributed it to his excessive fond 
 
 i 
 
65 
 
 ftess, which absorbed every rational idea. 
 Instead, then fore, of discarding, as 1 
 j hi to have done, I continued with un- 
 abated affection to receive him as befort 
 for many months; constantly endeavor- 
 ing, and vainly hoping, to remove from 
 his mind, that prejudice by which he had 
 hitherto been governed; and convic 
 him. thai the greatest proof I could J 
 sihly give of thai tenderness which en- 
 grossed my whole tin" was inviola- 
 bly to pi <.wn honor, till it 
 should be mon inseparably connected 
 
 with his. Ihit ( >h ! my mamma ; my 
 kind friend! Your sospicions have not 
 been groundlet Unbounded as was 
 that passion, which even death can only 
 refine, your wretched child was neither 
 the victim of to credulity ; hut the 
 
 more cruel practice of premeditated guilt. 
 Oh ! do ; do not tell mv father. 
 
 In continuation, after several days. 
 
 Pardon me, I can not be more explicit. 
 Indeed you already despise him. But 
 what was now to be done 7 Ala- ! my 
 
66 
 
 honor gone ; and with it, every thing that 
 was dear or valuable in life ; and nothing 
 left me, but that fatal love, which had 
 unsuspectingly thrown me into his pow- 
 er : and which, I now blush to acknow- 
 ledge, has never known any diminution. 
 And believe me, when I assure you, that 
 his reiterated vows to repair my wrong 
 and the imprecations called upon himself, 
 should he ever forsake me, lulled me in- 
 to a kind of gloomy security. Thus did 
 I live for several months in those guilty 
 scenes, which were degrading to my 
 friends, repugnant to my soul, and offen- 
 sive to my God ! And though in the 
 course of that time, he had twice desired 
 me to be prepared for the solemnization 
 of our union; yet when the appointed 
 time had arrived, he repeatedly waived 
 the ceremony on some trivial pretence of 
 business. Yet so lost and infatuated was 
 I, as still to think he loved with unabated 
 ardor. Often did he wish with apparent 
 tenderness and concern, that he might be 
 blessed with that proof of aftection. which 
 will soon publish my disgrace to the world. 
 
67 
 
 Previous to my dishonor, I had been 
 very desirous of coming- home on a visit : 
 but had no thoughts of coming alone and 
 unprotected. Last fall, however, there 
 was a young lady with whom I had some 
 acquaintance, thai was going to return to 
 her relatives in same of the Eastern 
 States in company with a friend, who 
 was then gone on business further into 
 the country, and was to call for her on 
 his return. As their route led then 
 through Albany, she v. ious I 
 
 should come with her as Far as there •. 
 where, by the assistance of her friends, I 
 conlil obtain a psa in the stage to 
 
 Troy, at any hour of the day. My ancle 
 ami aunt knowing how great my desires 
 had been for coming; and totally unsus- 
 picious of any cause which might h 
 changed my sentiments, arged my ac- 
 cepting the invitation. I could no1 tell 
 them the reason why I wished not to 
 leave Marcellus ; but waited an opportu- 
 nity to uniform Mr. Brown, when I told 
 him of the oiler. Tie seemed much to 
 approve my coming. Filled with the 
 
68 
 
 most distressing ideas, I humbly request- 
 ed him to secure my happiness, before I 
 left him. He again waived it, as being 
 very inconvenient for him at that time ; 
 as he was making out a drove of cattle 
 for the market. But observed, as I 
 wished of course to come down after fur- 
 niture, which was at my uncle's in Troy, 
 it would be best for me to come thou: 
 and he would make every possible dis- 
 patch in his business, and meet me bei 
 where he chose the ceremony should be 
 performed, and then we would return 
 back in the stage. With a trembling 
 heart I acquiesced ; we then parted. His 
 business detained him some time from 
 home ; I can not recollect how I but 
 
 before he returned, there was word sent 
 from my young friend, that the carriage 
 had arrived, and that Ave must be ready 
 to set off early the next morning. 
 
 Judge, if possible, what must have 1 
 my sensations ! I had given my word to 
 attend her. What must be done ! I inn 
 not merely dishonored in the sight of Hi m 
 ven and my own eyes; but began to be 
 
60 
 
 under more distressing apprehensions, for 
 fatal con>e<[u<aices. I would have 
 
 given worlds, had I po d them, for 
 
 minute to hi u the object of all 
 
 then, jiiv feelin 
 
 whrii I heard tin' joyful sound, that he 
 
 wa> Fur thai moment, my grief 
 
 suh>id< d ; l)iit ala- I tin iul calm v. 
 
 sneeeedad bj I was < u- 
 
 velopcd in the billows pf despair! — un- 
 abftt eitshei in extx* imparl 
 
 my n win i « onse! 1 
 
 much longed. It was ing \\ Inn he 
 
 arrived; I impatiently waited for an in- 
 ter! iew : when after sitting some time 
 conversing in with the 
 
 family, h< . and to my infinite Bar- 
 
 prise ami tired to bed with one 
 
 ofiny ancle'c termined 
 
 ave inn no opportunity t< [, not- 
 
 withstanding he Mil preparations w 
 making, for my departure in the raorni 
 At this event, I was almost frantic. Often 
 did I say to m\ ->rli— <>h! tny dear aunt, 
 
 dd you hut know the cruel tortures that 
 oppn um my soul, you would not only pity, 
 
70 
 
 but soothe my sorrows by your kind ad- 
 vice. But, alas ! you know them not. 
 Your own heart, formed of purity itself, 
 can never suspect your unfortunate niece 
 has lived in infamy. As she was up with 
 me till very late, on account of my journey, 
 I made many efforts to open my whole 
 heart to her ; crave her pardon for the dis- 
 grace I had brought, not only on herself, 
 but all my family — and humbly solicit her 
 counsel respecting my present conduct. 
 For that purpose, I made several remarks, 
 as I had often done before, which I thought 
 could not fail of leading her to a suspicion 
 of our fatal connection ; and consequently 
 to those inquiries I so ardently wished her 
 to make ; but all my endeavors were 1< 
 Dear mamma, how could she be so blind- 
 ed by a mistaken confidence in the merits 
 of her wretched niece. After many un- 
 successful attempts to be understood, I 
 gave over the task, and silently submitted 
 to my fate. 
 
 Early the next morning, the carriage 
 came ; I was handed into it in all the 
 horrors of despair ! Mr. Brown, who had 
 
71 
 
 Ltiously avoided being alone with me, 
 now add] me in j of the 
 
 family, and desired I would tell my 
 friends, he should be down in January. 
 In I Little i us 
 
 you must naturally sup] ose J had to I « - 
 lie ve him; yet the fond hope supported 
 me through the journey, \\ hich lasted four 
 da] * When \\ i d in Albany , the 
 
 just ready b Troj , 
 
 1 tli \r of my ii i' ndsj who 
 
 had treat d ni< i wi1 1 
 
 and ptolii :hed T i at 
 
 1 had. howi difficulty 
 
 in tracing out in\ ! . To b hear! 
 
 more 1 1 1 \ [a] a circum- 
 
 nce mighl h. ic< d ; but 
 
 alas ! I small ointments 
 
 app [uential. J km w thai my 
 
 uncle r,« tts lived a little ou1 of the toi 
 and had tin ; clud( d to hai i \x i n 
 
 sai down at the door of his brother 3 
 I had been informed resided there, till I 
 could send him word of toy arrival Bui 
 through a mistake, occasioned by a simi- 
 larity of names, J carried past his 
 
72 
 
 house, and set down among all strangers \ 
 who, far from being able to direct me 
 back, did not even know that any of that 
 name lived in the town. I was very much 
 distressed, and knew not which way to 
 direct my steps. The driver, who ap- 
 peared to be a very humane person, pity- 
 ing my situation, recommended me to a 
 family of his acquaintance, who kept a 
 public house a little distance out, and 
 were people of respectability ; whither he 
 would, if I pleased, conduct me. He 
 further added, that I might there perhaps, 
 make some inquiry more to my satisfac- 
 tion ; and if I wished to return again in 
 the morning, he would with pleasure con- 
 duct me, as he should then drive back. 
 What should I do ? Indeed I could but 
 be with strangers ; and those with whom 
 I was then with, could give me no ac- 
 count of my friends ; it was possible the 
 others might; I therefore accepted his 
 offer. His remarks were justified. I found 
 them an amiable family; and being in- 
 formed of my embarrassment, treated me 
 as an own child. How grateful to my 
 
73 
 
 soul, was this kindness ! In the evening, 
 there came in a gentleman, of whom 
 the landlord inquired, if he knew a Mr. 
 Betts, who kept a public house in Troy ; 
 observing, likewise, there was a young 
 woman there, who was interested in 
 knowing. He replied, that he knew him 
 very well, and was himself going there 
 that night ; if the young lady wished to 
 go there, and would put herself under his 
 protection, he would conduct her with 
 safety. I thanked him for his friendly 
 offer; but could by no means have ac- 
 cepted it, and indeed, my generous friends 
 with whom I was, were too kind and con- 
 siderate, to recommend to me so rash a 
 step. I felt, however, much relieved ; and 
 waited with some little impatience, the 
 returning of the stage next morning; 
 when I took leave of the hospitable 
 family,* who would accept nothing but 
 thanks for my entertainment. My heart 
 and eyes, overflowed with the weight of 
 my gratitude ; not merely to those, but to 
 
 * Whose name, if I mistake not, was Mason. 
 7 
 
74 
 the generous man,* who conducted me to 
 them; and who now sat me down at Mr. 
 Betts's door, where I had been but a few 
 moments, before, to my agreeable sur- 
 prise, my uncle and aunt drove up. 
 
 Not to dwell on particulars, I returned 
 home with them that day ; where I in- 
 formed them of what Mr. Brown had re- 
 quested, without adding any of my fears 
 that it would not be fulfilled. From thence 
 you will perhaps recollect I wrote, in- 
 forming you of my desires and intentions 
 of returning home ; but as no opportunity 
 offered, I continued with them a few 
 weeks ; when one of my uncle Whitney's 
 sons, who had left Marcellus (a few days 
 after I did) in company with Mr. Brown 
 for Philadelphia, arrived at my uncle 
 Betts's ; and informed us, that having been 
 to Norwalk on a short visit to his friends, 
 was now on his return home, but accord- 
 ing to appointment^ was to wait in Troy 
 for his friend, whom he had left in Phila- 
 delphia ; and from whom he brought me 
 
 * Whose name, lam sorry to say, has been forgotten; but 
 whose friendship, will be remembered while life lasts me. 
 
75 
 
 this verbal message, " Tell Lucinda, that 
 I shall be there sooner than I expected." 
 This intelligence, revived my drooping 
 spirits. My cousin, however, after wait- 
 ing for him some time, and going to Al- 
 bany twice in hopes of meeting him 
 there, returned to the westward alone. 
 Though love suggested a thousand causes 
 of delay, yet my hopes began gradually 
 to forsake me. And as my friends had 
 very little business in which I could em- 
 ploy myself with any advantage to them ; 
 and conscious that 1 OUghl not to depend 
 wholly on their bounty, while it was in 
 
 my power to support myself, 1 consented 
 
 to go into the service of a very worthy 
 
 family in Troy, by the name of Warren, 
 who wanted my assistance ; there to stay, 
 till I had an opportunity of coining to my 
 
 father; or -one- more happy event should 
 take place* Six weeks. I continued with 
 this truly amiable family, laboring under 
 the horrors of disappointment. My 
 ngth failed me through continual 
 weeping, and I found I should not much 
 longer be able to provide myself a home. 
 
76 
 
 I repeatedly wrote to my false friend, but 
 received no return ; till at length, to save 
 my family from dishonor, I even contem- 
 plated the impious purpose of suicide ! 
 But thanks to my God ! those principles 
 of religion which had been early implant- 
 ed in my breast by the best of parents, 
 forbade the awful deed. I then thought 
 I would go to my uncle's, disclose to them 
 all my sufferings, and beg their assistance. 
 But when I returned, the apparent plea- 
 sure of seeing me defeated every purpose 
 of my heart ; and I again went back to 
 town, without introducing a subject, of 
 which it was evident they had not the 
 least suspicion, notwithstanding they had 
 frequently remarked the gloom that over- 
 spread my countenance. When I took 
 leave of them, most fervently did I pray 
 that the Supreme disposer of events, who 
 alone knew my grief and penitence, would 
 in mercy take me to his bosom, wipe away 
 my tears, and save my dear friends from 
 that dreadful and unexpected stroke, 
 which otherwise awaited them. 
 
 The Sunday following, my aunt came 
 
77 
 
 to church ; and calling to see me, the dis- 
 tressing idea of my situation for the first 
 moment, rushed on her heart. She de- 
 sired to speak with me alone. But what 
 language can paint her sorrows, when she 
 found her conjectures real ! After some 
 time spent in silent contemplation, she at 
 length proposed that I should be imme- 
 diately brought home; as 1 should not 
 only be with fnVmK but also much less 
 exposed to company in tikis retired place, 
 than I could he at their house. The pro- 
 posal was pleasing to me ; not merely be- 
 cause company an r as painful, for I had an 
 ardent desire to die at my fathers. She 
 then left me. begging me to be comforted ; 
 for they would do every thing in their 
 power to assist me. A few days after, she 
 came again with her huaband; they took 
 me home with them ; my uncle wrote 
 immediately to the westward; and the 
 next day, my brother was directed to pre- 
 pare for a visit to his parents, and bring 
 me with him. We were likewise to stop 
 at my uncle Marvin's, stay over night, 
 and take my sister with us. They were 
 
78 
 
 both, however, ignorant of the fatal cause 
 of our coming, and were happy in the 
 prospect. You know the rest. 
 
 But I hope my dear mamma will be- 
 lieve me, when I assure her, that however 
 great the distress which she has witnessed 
 may have been, it has in a manner lost its 
 poignacy in her kind sympathy and con- 
 soling tenderness. Nor can I ever be suf- 
 ficiently grateful to Heaven, for having 
 given such a friend, to soothe the passage 
 to death, for the wretched 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
79 
 
 LETTER XII. 
 
 MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 
 IN C [OS. 
 
 Dear Nancy, 
 
 The conclusion of our child's narrative, 
 lias quite overcome me, Indeed, I do not 
 
 know but m\ d it quite 
 
 il legible; for a> I had no command over 
 my feelings, while committing it to writ- 
 ing, they have flowed almost incessantly 
 through the whole course of it ; and the 
 tribute which was due to her grateful soul, 
 forbade me to omit any eireuiustai: 
 
 which mighl Lave saved me a single 
 pang; Wail a few hours ; I will endeavor 
 to compose myself, and then continue the 
 Bubjeet 
 
 The human heart is inexplicable. I 
 could sometimes pass whole days without 
 shedding a single tear — at others, I wept 
 from morning till night. Each post-day 
 brought disappointment with it ; till worn 
 out with expectation, we dispatched one 
 
80 
 
 of our sons to Troy, to see if there had 
 been any return to those letters which had 
 been sent from thence, either from Lu- 
 cinda or Mr. Betts. On the third day, he 
 returned, bringing a line from Mr. Betts, 
 with one inclosed from Mr. Whitney, 
 which he had just received. The con- 
 tents of the latter (to which the former 
 chiefly referred) were these ; that the au- 
 thor, agreeably to the request contained 
 in Mr. Betts' s letter, had seen Mr. Brown ; 
 delivered him the inclosed from Lucinda, 
 and talked with him in very plain terms. 
 His answers, far from being satisfactory, 
 were indeed very insulting. He told Mr. 
 Whitney, that after leaving Philadelphia, 
 he had traveled almost over the Southern 
 States ; that on his return to Marcellus, he 
 had been in Albany, and Charlton, where 
 he staid a week. But as he heard Lu- 
 cinda was at Troy, he did not choose to 
 go there, for she had promised to meet 
 him there, at Mr.W's house; with many 
 other ridiculous remarks, equally incon- 
 sistent with truth or manhood. It was 
 very surprising, that he should presume 
 
81. 
 
 to tell her uncle that she had promised to 
 meet him there, when he must have been 
 conscious of his presence, when he ad- 
 dressed her in the carriage.* Through 
 the whole course of this conversation, his 
 observations were so exceedingly void of 
 common sense, or even of decency itself, 
 that they neither ought to be repeated or 
 remembered. 
 
 But the effect of this cruel letter on the 
 heart of our child, was beyond descrip- 
 tion. The fond hope which (notwith- 
 standing all her distress) she sometimes 
 cherished, that some unavoidable acci- 
 dent had detained him, was now no longer 
 her support. For myself, you know me, 
 my sister ; and therefore will not be sur- 
 prised to hear that my soul was wrought 
 up to the height of indignation. Indeed, 
 from what I had been informed of before, 
 there was nothing lacking in him but in- 
 sult, to form the chief of Milton's fell 
 band. 
 
 The next day, our friends in general 
 
 * See Letter XI. 
 
82 
 
 having been apprised of our misfortunes, 
 
 I received a billet from brother M , 
 
 intreating me in the most feeling terms, 
 to write to Mr. Brown in behalf of our 
 daughter ; as it might possibly have a bet- 
 ter effect than for Lucinda' s father to 
 write ; fearing he was too much exasper- 
 ated. But indeed, our brother was mis- 
 taken. However distressed Mr. Manvill 
 might have been, I was the one who was 
 distracted with resentment. I wrote back 
 to my brother, requesting that he would 
 never more wish me " to flatter a wretch 
 whom my soul despised; and who never 
 merited an alliance with the murdered 
 Lucinda." A few days after, we received 
 a letter from the westward in answer to 
 ours, which had been sent by the mail 
 six weeks before. But as it merely con- 
 tained (with respect to Mr. Brown) what 
 has been before written, with the addi- 
 tion only of a few more insulting remarks, 
 I shall pass them over, as you will have 
 an opportunity to judge of them here- 
 after, and proceed to the next step. 
 
 Lucinda had a great desire that her 
 
83 
 
 father would go to him, and see what ef- 
 fect that would have ; but the situation of 
 our affairs were such, that it would not 
 possibly admit of it. One of her brothers, 
 therefore, offered to go, and thought it 
 most advisable to take such measures as 
 would bring him, should he prove refrac- 
 tory. But the tenderness of her heart re- 
 volted at the idea. She rould not consent 
 that he should be distressed ; and begged 
 her brother to treat him with respect. 
 " Her daddy would write, she would 
 write herself; and if I would add my en- 
 treat ies to theirs, she still hoped that he 
 would listen to the calls of humanity." 
 Oh! any sister — could I be deaf to the 
 energetic pleadings of her tears ? No, 
 indeed. I therefore subdued, or rather 
 stifled my detestation ( for what fitter 
 name shall I give those sensations I felt 
 towards him) and promised her I would 
 do everything in my power to make her 
 happy. I performed the task with much 
 more ease than I expected; for Provi- 
 dence kindly compassionating the vio- 
 lence I must have done to my feelings, 
 
84 
 
 absorbed every other sensation in that of 
 pity to my child. And as I know you 
 will be desirous of knowing the contents 
 of what was written, I will here inclose 
 the rough draught of her father's and 
 mine, with a few extracts from her's. 
 
85 
 
 LETTER XIII. 
 
 froxw mr. manvill to mr. brown. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 I have taken up my pen, with a view 
 of reciting a few realities and of making 
 some remarks on the powers and facul- 
 ties, with which rational beings are in- 
 vested by the great Author of nature : 
 and the propensities to which we find 
 ourselves liable, which I flatter myself 
 might by some, be esteemed deserving of 
 attention. A knowledge of the world, I 
 allow to be useful ; but we can not act 
 with propriety, without the knowledge of 
 ourselves. Let us take a candid and in- 
 trinsic view, the better to discover 
 whether we apply our gifts agreeably to 
 the will of the great Giver. This dis- 
 covery must be made by the light of the 
 mind, which every rational creature pos- 
 sesses in a greater or less degree. For 
 that light is reason; and everything 
 which is not consistent with it, is irration- 
 8 
 
86 
 
 al ; but every action which is consistent 
 with the light of reason is approbated by 
 the laws human and divine; they bear 
 the seal of conscious rectitude, and de- 
 serve laurels of honor according as the 
 action proves less or more useful. True 
 honor is not derived from wealth; it is 
 not derived from learning nor external 
 beauty ; but it is derived from the beauty 
 of the mind, that noble ornament called 
 virtue. It may be asked whether those 
 who possess the greatest gifts of reason, 
 are always the most virtuous. I answer, 
 No. Such, as often as any, are guilty 
 of a misapplication of their talents — 
 they neglect to form a proper system 
 of self government ; suffer the powers 
 of the mind to be led by inordinate 
 desires, to the pursuit of objects beyond 
 the encircled rays of their own reason ; 
 and often spend their days in infamy. 
 Their faculties become so absorbed 
 in darkness, that they have no heart to 
 prove their good qualities, and sometimes, 
 I suppose, they are almost persuaded 
 themselves that they have none. 
 
87 
 
 Who then are praiseworthy, or who 
 are truly honorable? I answer, those 
 who hold their will in such subjection, 
 that it never leads them beyond the limits 
 of their own comprehension. Such, 
 search for propriety; they consult reason, 
 and are not deceived ; they have a true 
 sense of honor, and are never led by 
 undue means to the deception of raising a 
 character on the ruin of others ; all the 
 powers of the mind are well organized, and 
 in cordant subordination to the laws of 
 humanity; they feel a sympathy in the dis- 
 tress of others, and are excited to alleviate 
 their griefs. These are the ways of wis- 
 dom ; which are said to be the ways of 
 pleasantness, and all her paths peace. 
 Have you, my friend — let me call you so, 
 because I feel a disposition to be yours — 
 have you, I ask, kept an eye on these 
 paths, in your correspondence with Lu- 
 cinda; or are you rambling in the dark 
 in search of honor and happiness, where 
 your reason, if you will attend to it, will 
 shew you they never existed. If you were 
 never stimulated by an ordinate and hon- 
 
88 
 
 orable love for her — it was not only dis- 
 honorable, but cruel to persist in your 
 suit. But if your love was ever sincere, 
 only ask your own heart, and it will tell 
 you, she has yet the highest place in it. 
 In common affairs, my friend, it is rarely 
 necessary to take much pains to persuade 
 a man to do as he pleases ; but in love 
 affairs, there are many allowances to be 
 made ; and I, of all men, perhaps ought 
 to make them. I have traversed those 
 wiles in early life, and can judge of most 
 of your sensations, though I never was 
 agent in a case quite similar ; for I do not 
 know that ever I injured the character of 
 any one ; had that been the case, I judge 
 by the light of my own reason, that it ever 
 would have been a thorn in my path ; and 
 more, if life had been hazarded through 
 my neglect. That my daughter loves you, 
 is no matter of doubt with me ; neither 
 can it be with you — for of that she has 
 given you the highest proof. What then 
 is her crime which merits such a reward? 
 She has placed an implicit confidence in 
 your honor and friendship ; do not suffer 
 her, then, to be deceived. Her heart is 
 
89 
 
 yours; and her life is, under God, at your 
 disposal. You are all the world to her, 
 and without you, she is apparently lost to 
 herself, her friends, and the world. But 
 she has still a hope ; she thinks if she 
 could see you, all would yet he well — or 
 if I could see you. What shall I do for 
 my child ? I could only tell you, were I 
 to see you, what you already know — that 
 you would be welcome here. Come then, 
 and speak comfort to your Lucinda — who 
 loves you more than all others — more 
 than is possible for her to love another, or 
 any other to love you. The matter has 
 become too serious to be trifled with any 
 longer, or delayed for any trivial cause. 
 Could she have come to you, she would 
 not have hesitated. Consider impartially, 
 sir, whether you have objections sufficient 
 to counterbalance the destruction of one, 
 who, if considered on the general scale, 
 must be ranked among the lost of her sex. 
 If not, make haste to heal the wounded 
 heart of my daughter. It is you alone can 
 save her, and restore peace of mind to the 
 family of Your Friend, 
 
 A.M. 
 
90 
 
 LETTER XIV. 
 
 from mrs. manvill to mr. brown. 
 
 Sir : 
 
 You will probably be surprised at an 
 address from me, who has not the honor 
 of a personal acquaintance ; more espe- 
 cially, on a subject which will doubt- 
 less be disagreeable to you : And indeed, 
 sir, I am perfectly sensible that my writ- 
 ing must be superfluous. Nor would I 
 have troubled you therewith, had I not 
 promised my poor child, that I would sup- 
 plicate for her. For surely if her own pa- 
 thetic entreaties, together with those of a 
 disconsolate father, can have no influence, 
 I certainly can not hope to be more suc- 
 cessful. Should your heart be callous to 
 the tender sentiments of humanity, as 
 well as love, you will perhaps ask, what 
 right I have to interest myself so far? Let 
 me tell you, sir, I am not merely bound 
 by those ties, which, as her father's wife, 
 duty calls me to fulfill ; but she is my 
 
91 
 
 child, by the strongest ties of maternal 
 love. Her dutiful and affectionate man- 
 ners, her unremitted grief, and her stead- 
 fast attachment to — let me say — her per- 
 secutor, all conspire to make her one of 
 the most interesting characters, I ever 
 saw. Nor shall she ever want a friend 
 while I live. 
 
 Now, sir, I think T hove elucidated my 
 reasons for tin* liberty 1 am taking ; and 
 will now presume to ask you a few ques- 
 tions. Have you ever loved Lueinda, or 
 haa she been the dupe of duplicity? if 
 the latter] sooner would 1 consign her to 
 herparent earth, to which she is apparent- 
 ly hastening, than see her united to you. 
 But if she ever held B plaee in your affec- 
 tions, how is it possible she should be thus 
 painfully abandoned ; and not she alone, 
 but your own offspring ? Oh ! sir, can 
 you possibly be deaf to the pleadings of 
 nature ; and leave the dear innocent to 
 infamy and disgrace ? Alas ! what will 
 be the portion of misery allotted to it. 
 For believe me, when I assure you, that 
 unless your heart acknowledges its mo- 
 
92 
 
 ther as the partner of your future joys 
 and cares, her sufferings, I apprehend, 
 will soon cease. Dear sufferer ! and can 
 my heart survive the sacrifice. 
 
 Overpowered by the distressing idea, 
 and blinded by my tears, I dismissed my 
 pen a few moments, till I could summon 
 more fortitude. But Oh ! sir, could you 
 for one moment look into our humble 
 dwelling, and see the poor dying Lucinda, 
 her distressed parents, her mourning 
 friends (for all who know her are such) 
 and know yourself the author and only 
 healing physician, what must be your 
 sensations ? Adieu, my tears flow so 
 fast, I can not proceed. 
 
 I again resume my pen, to tell you, our 
 reliance is on that kind Providence, who 
 will not reprobate our repentant child ; 
 and to entreat that you seriously reflect 
 on what has past ; and by seeking to re- 
 dress, as far as possible, before it is too 
 late, entitle yourself to the love of a now 
 wretched family ; and particularly to the 
 gratitude and esteem of 
 
 P. D. M. 
 
03 
 
 EXTRACTS OF A LETTER FROM LUCINDA TO 
 MR. BROWN. 
 
 My hopes are fled ; and all those days 
 of blissful expectation are vanished from 
 the sight of the unhappy Lnrinda. Why 
 is it thus? Ah! Could you but have 
 read my thoughts when last these eves 
 beheld the dearest object of my affections, 
 your heart must have bled for my suffer- 
 ings, which were rendered mere poignant 
 by thai excess of joy I fell at your ui i 
 pre ted arrival.* How did my bosom 
 glow with the lend idea, that the dear 
 friend had come on whose breasl 1 could 
 
 rest all my SOrTOWS J and his own heart 
 would plead my cause. 
 
 It you think me too humble for your 
 wile, pray remember by whom 1 have 
 
 been dishonored. 
 
 If 1 have erred, as I am willing to ac- 
 knowledge, pray forgive me. 1 entreat ; 
 and hasten to me, that I may see one day 
 more of comfort, before I depart and am 
 no more. 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
 *See Letter XI. 
 
94 
 LETTER XV. 
 
 MRS. MANVILLE TO HER SISTER. 
 
 IN CONTINUATION. 
 
 On the 10th of April, our son set out 
 for Marcellus. The term of hisabsence, 
 which was a fortnight, was spent in alter- 
 nate hope and fear by his sister ; by my 
 husband with expectation something 
 more sanguine ; and by myself, alas ! with- 
 out hope ; for having lost that enthusiasm 
 which dictate I my letter, what hope 
 could I have, if indeed he should come, 
 in seeing the daughter of patience, truth 
 and piety, united to such an abandoned 
 reprobate ? But yet, as to see him once 
 more was the only earthly desire which 
 found room in her heart, for her sake, I 
 most sincerely wished it. 
 
 As one continual series of events filled 
 up the measure of time till the return of 
 her brother, I will not tire your patience 
 by dwelling on them ; but proceed to the 
 more interesting particulars of his mis- 
 
95 
 
 sion. As our little family sat one even- 
 ing collected round a fire, which must 
 have expanded every heart but those con- 
 gealed in woe, he entered. On his coun- 
 tenance was depicted strong marks of dis- 
 appointment 1 do n<»t recollect who first 
 addressed him; but when he was asked 
 what news, his answers n wr. 
 
 However, I saw from some of bis words, 
 that Lucinda had caught b ray of ho] 
 an<i dreading tq bave it extinguished, al- 
 ter having been confirmed by conjecture, 
 I requested turn to give a candid relation, 
 
 I no! excite b bope which might not 
 be gratified. He replied, that he would 
 give us the particulars of their interview, 
 and Leave as to judge for ourseh 
 
 He then proceeded to tell us. that the 
 last day of bis journey out, he met Air. 
 Brown on the road ; the sight of him, be 
 continued, so agitated him, he could 
 
 tree speak without betraying th< 
 emotions he wished to conceal. He how- 
 
 er addressed him witb the common 
 ceremonies of an old acquaintance; in- 
 quired after his uncle's family. &c, but 
 
96 
 
 did not give him the letters, as he ob- 
 served he should be at Mr. Whitney's the 
 next day. They then parted, and he pro- 
 ceeded on to his uncle's, where he in- 
 formed them of the purport of his visit, 
 and likewise of the painful and precarious 
 state of his sister. He then gave them a 
 letter from her, together with all those for 
 Mr. Brown, that they might be delivered 
 to him by Mr. Whitney, who was nee 
 sarily in his confidence. Mr. Brown, 
 however, did not arrive till the third day. 
 and then made his appearance in all the 
 pompous parade of disdainful arrogance. 
 The letters were given him ; when he 
 very impertinently asked, if they had been 
 opened; and being answered in the nega- 
 tive, observed, he did not choose they 
 should be. Mr. Whitney ventured to re- 
 monstrate ; and pointed out to him the 
 inutility of such a step, in colors so im- 
 pressive, that he was at last prevailed on 
 to hear them. They retired to a separate 
 apartment, where they continued some 
 time in the perusal; but their contents 
 had no effect on the brutal heart of him 
 
97 
 
 to Avhom they were directed, as you Avill 
 assured when T tell you he threw them 
 ide, and lefl the house. How- 
 r, when he came in again, Mr>. Whit- 
 ney (who bs amiablenessg itself) look up 
 the melancholy subjeel in hehalf of her 
 unfortunate d She observed to him. 
 
 thai he had ever teen treated with the 
 nii! in their family, and 
 
 wished to know if Lucinda had ei er of 
 fended him. Be readily replied, " Bj no 
 means— the truth is," continued he, for 
 I d<> do1 wish to dissemble, " that we had 
 agreed to be unit* d." Mark the word 
 •. which lie had substitu- 
 ted for the i solemn engagements 
 Bui ( Mi ! he musl one (lay appear bef 
 the awful throne of < ►mnipot nee ! A I- 
 when I think of this, I could almost | 
 him. Bu1 t<> continue — ho further added, 
 "but she has hitherto slighted me." 
 
 Her brother th< e him an unequi- 
 
 vocal account of her situation; and en- 
 treated that he would pay soine regard to 
 the UtW8 of humanity. The hardened 
 wretch replied, that should she not liv< 
 9 
 
98 
 
 two hours, he should feel perfectly happy 
 on his own account. Thus ended their 
 conversation for that time. And here 
 suffer me to conclude this letter after re- 
 marking, that it is past a doubt with me, 
 that from the first moment his suit was 
 denied (however politely in other respects 
 he was treated) the demon of resentment 
 determined her ruin ; and so fixed and 
 unalterable was his revenge, that he hesi- 
 tated at no crime, that could in any de- 
 gree tend to the accomplishment of it. 
 And as the first requisite thereto, it was 
 necessary that he should feign the most 
 honorable and disinterested attachment. 
 To a heart wholly unacquainted except 
 by precept, with the deceit of man, it was 
 morally impossible that his wretched vic- 
 tim should detect his complicated arts, 
 which ceased not till he had (by some 
 yet unknown means) violated all the 
 laws of heaven and earth; and for which 
 the avenging wrath of God will most as- 
 suredly call him to answer. Is it won- 
 derful then, that the man who from early 
 infancy must have possessed the most 
 
99 
 
 abandoned principles ; and who necessa- 
 rily must ever have been on his guard to 
 conceal them, is it wonderful, I ask again, 
 that such a man should be uneducated 
 or uninformed, in any other science than 
 that of duplicity. But I forgot myself. 
 Adieu, my sister; and pardon all the er- 
 rors which the painful interest 1 feci in 
 what I am relating, imperceptibly leads 
 me into. Again, adieu. 
 
100 
 
 LETTER XVI. 
 
 MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 
 
 IN CONTINUATION. 
 
 In a further conversation between Mrs. 
 Whitney and Mr. Brown, she desired he 
 would inform her, if there existed no 
 more laudable motives for his discarding 
 her niece, than had been already de- 
 scribed. To which he most insultingly 
 replied, that Lucinda had been plainly 
 brought up. For himself, he had traveled 
 and studied improvement ; was admitted 
 into the society of gentlemen of respect- 
 ability and figure ; they also visited at 
 his house, &c, intimating that he thought 
 her manners not sufficiently elegant to 
 distinguish his entertainments from those 
 of the vulgar ! Mrs. Whitney very reason- 
 ably offended, replied with some warmth, 
 that humble as the education of her niece 
 had been, and though she was the daugh- 
 ter of a poor man ; yet she could both 
 read and write. This last stroke some- 
 
101 
 
 what confounded him, and he found him- 
 self no longer able to defend his cause. 
 
 Next morning, being the time appoint- 
 ed for our son to set out fox home, and 
 Mr. Brown being ready to depart that 
 evening, desired him to walk out with 
 him a short distance, wying, he wished 
 to havr Mime conversation with him 
 alone. He the* complied. Bu1 in- 
 ad of the haughty canl of the precedr 
 ing evening, he now assumed the lan- 
 age of a petitioner, Observing, that 
 
 should he be publicly called upon, BO criti- 
 cally was he circumstanced, thai it would 
 inevitably ruin him. He further added. 
 that his si>ter'> Letter was more agreeable 
 in its contents than he had expected to 
 find it ; and that when he saw her, all 
 would he settled. u 1 do Hot doliht ft," 
 
 replied the brother with warmth, u bu1 I 
 
 presume you are determined that time 
 shall never come." M If God spares my 
 life/' rejoined the reprobate, "I will he 
 there in three weeks from this day." On 
 that they parted — he rode off, and our son 
 returned to the house. It was. however, 
 
10-2 
 
 so plain, (comparing all that had passed, 
 with his present conduct) that his last 
 conversation was a finesse to elude public 
 justice, that one of the young Mr. AVhit- 
 neys conceived himself no longer bound 
 by the ties of honor to respect the confi- 
 dence of such a wretch, now communicat- 
 ted to all present, that Mr. Brown had told 
 him some time past, that he was very 
 much attached to a young lady in Scipio, 
 of some considerable prospects ; but had 
 not as yet made any address to her. He 
 further added, that since that time, the 
 young lady's father had inquired of him 
 the character of Mr. Brown. This ap- 
 pears to have been a very singular cir- 
 cumstance, that Mr. Brown should pre- 
 sume to boast of his attachment to Mr. 
 Whitney, when he knew that he must 
 have been sensible, that he was under en- 
 gagements to his cousin. It is, however. 
 most rational to suppose, that he expected 
 he would immediately inform her of it : 
 and she would then be prepared for what 
 he intended. Far otherwise, Mr. Whit- 
 ney considered himself bound by honor, 
 
103 
 
 not to betray a confidence reposed in him 
 — mure especially as he had no suspicion 
 the honor of Lucinda was bo deeply con- 
 cerned in it. And indeed it Mould have 
 beoi useless, as it was then too late to 
 hav< (I her, and as gratitude to him 
 
 for his considerate tenderness towards 
 her, demands thai I should do him jus- 
 tice. Let me further add, that lie was 
 the same gentleman, by \\ bom the 
 
 inconsistent Mr. Brown (after informing 
 him of his new attachment) sent the ver- 
 bal message na ationed in her narratii 
 
 If tie .Mr. While 
 
 certainly he did, that he was coming to 
 fulfil] his i ments, he certainly could 
 
 not ha mark of af- 
 
 fection, exclusii i of tie- ties of lienor, 
 than t<> withhold from hertheknowled 
 that her husband preferred another. 
 
 And now, as I humbly hope I have ful- 
 ly acquitted Mr. Whitney of any breach 
 of duty, or dishonorable concealment, I 
 return again to our -on. the last of whose 
 narrative, more sensibly affected his sis 
 
 * See Letter XL 
 
104 
 
 ter, than all the preceding insolence with 
 which she had been treated. Indeed for 
 twenty-four hours, her cries were almost 
 incessant. At length, seeming to catch a 
 hope, from the idea, that he could not 
 thus cruelly forsake her, she collected 
 some little degree of fortitude and looked 
 forward with an apparent expectation of 
 once more seeing, and expiring on the bo- 
 som of her loved assassin. Each day she 
 would walk out; and sealed on a bank, 
 which commanded, at some distance, a 
 short view of the road, she would sit till 
 her eyes became dim with watching and 
 weeping, and her body enervated by the 
 cold chills of spring ; when returning to 
 the house, she would enter it with that 
 sweet smile, which ever marked her coun- 
 tenance, and rendered her sorrows doubly 
 interesting. Sometimes she would stay 
 out so long, that alarmed for her safety, I 
 would follow her ; but indeed her griefs 
 ever appeared too sacred to be molested. 
 At length the utmost limits of time pre- 
 fixed for his coming arrived — it pa>sed. 
 " Alas !' ? she cried — " still let me hope for 
 
106 
 
 one poor week longer ; he seldom ever 
 came at the time appointed." Oh! my 
 sister, my tears flow so fast at the cruel 
 recollection of what I have so painfully 
 witnessed, thai f can not proceed. 
 
106 
 
 LETTER XVII. 
 
 MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 
 
 IN COHTIKUATIOlf, 
 
 All my care and attention was now de- 
 voted to our poor distressed Lucinda. I 
 exerted all my powers — I offered books 
 for her perusal, which I hoped at least 
 might amuse her for a moment. Among 
 the number was Charlotte Temple, which 
 I strongly recommended ; and desired 
 that she would draw therefrom, some 
 comparative ideas, whereby she would 
 find the balance of wretchedness on the 
 part of Charlotte, who, far distant from 
 her native land, and every dear and ten- 
 der connexion, lingered out a wretched 
 existence, aggravated by all the poign- 
 ancy of cold and hunger. While she, 
 on the other hand, was surrounded by 
 those who loved, pitied, and would do 
 every thing in their power, which could 
 afford her the least comfort ; and though 
 our circumstances were humble, vet we 
 
107 
 
 did not want the y means of 
 
 support. My endearors were all lost — 
 orbed in her own sorrows, she had no 
 room in her h< t the distresses of 
 
 another. 
 
 Hope has a1 length fled the bosom oi 
 our child ; ami in i ve behold 
 
 unaffected piety and i ation, a\ h< 
 
 influence, like the mild beams of the 
 in. illuminated h< r heart. Bui 
 mark, my sister, the deci 
 do not ask wrho I it \ every 
 
 feeling heart must rei oil at their nan 
 suffer me -e them. Ptobably, Imw- 
 
 r, they supposed 1 1 re dischai 
 
 ing a public duty; I ii re pardon 
 
 them. Bui while 1 am d my com- 
 
 ments, I fin on are in suspen 
 
 Know then that Lucinda aol a law- 
 
 ful resident oft I reenfield; neither had her 
 father an}- legal pa which could 
 
 secure her a Inane. Yen will comprehend 
 the rest. Sen." time about the middle of 
 May, two magistrates 4 arrived at our 
 
 Mestn Child and Prior. 
 
108 
 
 cottage. My heart sunk within me at the 
 sight of them; as we had previously been 
 informed that a complaint had been 
 lodged. Our poor child was sitting with 
 me, appearing to be unusually calm and 
 placid, when accidentally stepping to the 
 door, I saw them conversing with 31 r. 
 Manvill, a little distance from the house. 
 As she knew nothing of our apprehen- 
 sions, I stepped back, and told her there 
 was company at the door, that lniirht 
 probably come in with her father; there- 
 fore, as usual, she went to her little apart- 
 ment, unconscious that she must so soon 
 be called to attend them. They came in. 
 and imparted to mo their business, while 
 her father went in to prepare her for the 
 stroke. He staid but a lew moment- : 
 but coming out desired me to attend her. 
 I instantly obeyed — found her sunk on 
 her bed, absorbed in the bitterness of woe. 
 "Oh! my Lucinda ! my child! What 
 shall I do to comfort you?'' Unable to 
 say more, I threw myself on the bed 
 beside her, and wept aloud! My first 
 transport of grief a little subsiding, 1 
 
109 
 
 look bet hand, and endeavored to 
 compose and fortify her mind that she 
 mighl be enabled to walk out ; her lather 
 then returned, begged her to becalm, far 
 that the gentlemen were friends, and 
 would treal tie 4 matter with tendern* 
 •• ^ i not. therefore," continued he, 
 
 "to treat them disrespectfully by detain- 
 ing them ; H then desiri \\ ould walk 
 on! .11 as possible, he again lefll us. 
 Raising her streaming to nte, with 
 a \ oice of supplication, she cried out : 
 11 < Mi ! mamma ' spare me hut one mo- 
 ment I" and fell back on the bed from 
 which she had jusl risen. I stopped 
 short ; when in a moment, seeming to 
 recoiled herself] she again arose, gave 
 me her hand, and I led her out. Her 
 figure iras naturally delicate, and being 
 rendered doubly interesting by those traits 
 of sorrow and anguish which had for so 
 many month d on her constitution ; 
 the humane magistrates were affected, 
 and proceeded with the ntmori caution 
 Kecution of their office. The] 
 : took the testimony of her father, 
 
 10 
 
no 
 
 respecting his last residence previous to 
 her being of age ; then hers of her man- 
 ner of living since she left him, and of 
 what she at present possessed, then tend- 
 erly dismissed her. They walked out 
 alone for a few moments, and when they 
 returned, closed the painful scene. "We 
 had three days given us to procure bail ; 
 or commit our poor dying child to the 
 care of the public. Oh! my sister, I 
 thought my heart would have burst ! 
 Even now — I can write no more. 
 
Ill 
 
 LETTER XVIII. 
 
 r.WVILL TO HI RR. 
 
 I remained 6 oomeats silent, not 
 
 knowing what to do with myself .Mr. 
 ICanriU was Lost in thought. 1 read his 
 sentiments from my own heart It was a 
 
 vny delicate thing for a lather to a>k any 
 
 one to be security lor him in inch a ease, 
 11 had he been assured of success ; and 
 
 to have her taken from lis in Mich a pre- 
 carioafl state, was still more painful. Sum- 
 moning, therefore, all my iortitude, I 
 ssked the gentlemen if the decision of the 
 law paid no regard to the principles of lm- 
 manity. " Most certainly, M they replied. 
 I then observed to them, that I thought 
 the peculiar situation of our dauidi 
 rendered it very dangerous to remove her. 
 They admitted, that of course I must 
 know better than any other person ; and 
 asked if I was willing to give my affida- 
 
112 
 
 vit. I told them, to determine on the de- 
 crees of Providence, was what I could not 
 do ; but I was willing to give testimony 
 of my sentiments. They observed, that 
 presumptive evidence was all that was re- 
 quired; or indeed all that could be ob- 
 tained in such cases. They therefore took 
 my deposition, which for the present miti- 
 gated the rigor of the law, and secured 
 the dear suffering saint under paternal 
 care. They then in a very friendly man- 
 ner, took their leave ; recommending to 
 us the exercise of fortitude and resigna- 
 tion ; which indeed had become two very 
 essential requisites for our support. This 
 last, and to her most unexpected stroke of 
 Providence, was like the cold blasts of 
 December on the tender blossom; who 
 unconscious of its approach, had peeped 
 forth its latent beauties, in that inclement 
 season — and as the fatal blight seals up 
 the yielding plant, till the return of spring 
 bids it resume and expand its native 
 colours, and more odoriferous sweets — so 
 from this moment we dismissed every 
 hope of comfort in our child, till the sweet 
 
113 
 
 sounds of universal peace shall prevail: 
 when wickedness shall no more pervade 
 the heart of man. And then, oh ! then 
 my sister, do T trust that we shall see our 
 dear departed one, clothed in robes of ce- 
 lestial light, sitting among the martyred 
 saints, at the right hand of Omnipotence. 
 
114 
 
 LETTER XIX. 
 
 MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 
 
 IN CONTINUATION. 
 
 Her tears ceased to flow — deep and 
 hollow groans, which frequently assailed 
 my ears, sunk into my bosom ; and though 
 without any apparent success, I ceased 
 not my endeavors to soften those griefs, 
 which flowed, not merely for herself; but 
 which were evidently more poignant on 
 our accounts, than on her own. Yet not- 
 withstanding she appeared insensible to 
 every thing I could offer for her relief, she 
 seemed more affectionately attached to 
 me than ever — nor would she willingly 
 suffer me to be away from her. The sacred 
 volume, which had been much her com- 
 panion, she could now no longer read. 
 Her eyes bad become dim through sor- 
 row and weakness ; neither could she, as 
 she had frequently done, select some fa- 
 vorite Psalm, most applicable to her situa- 
 
115 
 
 tion, and sing with me ; till touched with 
 the melancholy sweetness of her voice, I 
 could sing no longer. Those things were 
 done away ; she now looked forward to 
 death as her last hope and refuge. 
 
 Now my sister, I will tell you a conver- 
 sation, which, when you consider what is 
 due to the memory of my grateful child, 
 I presume will excuse me from the cen- 
 sure of egotism. As I was sitting by her 
 one day, she thus addressed me ; — " You 
 know not, when I first came to this house, 
 how difficult it was for me to call you 
 mamma — nor yet how dear the sound is 
 now to my heart. I love to dwell on it. 
 Nor can my dear mamma ever know the 
 sweet consolations I have received from 
 her kind sympathy and tender care, which 
 Heaven only can reward. And though en- 
 veloped in the complicated miseries of 
 disgrace and disappointment, I have in 
 the moments of enthusiasm, even dared 
 to anticipate the delight of revisiting my 
 father's house (should my still dear be- 
 trayer take me from it) since I was now 
 assured, I had a second mamma ; but 
 
116 
 
 alas ! the illusion is now vanished, and I 
 have but one hope, which is, to be par- 
 doned and accepted of that God, against 
 whose holy commands I have sinned ; and 
 who I now trust, sees the unaffected peni- 
 tence of my soul. And as there is little 
 probability that I shall survive the ap- 
 proaching hour of distress, I wish to dis- 
 pose of what little I have in such a man- 
 ner as may be most consistent with justice 
 and affection ; and though I have but lit- 
 tle to give, yet I fear it will be out of my 
 power to give satisfaction. " She then 
 spoke of what had been done for her, and 
 the still further trouble she might be to 
 us ; seeming to fear we should take it un- 
 kind, should she give any thing from us. 
 " Lucinda, " said I, " believe what I am 
 now going to say to you — not merely for 
 myself, but for your father, for whom I 
 think I may with safety speak. It is my 
 most sincere wish, that you dispose of 
 what you have, agreeable to the dictates 
 of your own heart ; and be assured of 
 this, my child, that, whoever is offended 
 with you for that, never loved you. " She 
 
117 
 
 seemed much more composed after this, 
 and commenced writing; observing, how- 
 ever, that she would want some assist- 
 ance. I told her if forms were necessary, 
 she could easily obtain them ; but I did 
 not conceive them to be. Her desires 
 were all that were wanting to be known, 
 and I presumed to say, that should her 
 father or myself survive her, they should 
 be executed with as much punctilio, as 
 though they were written by a notary. 
 She then desired I would assist her in 
 pricing, particularly those things that had 
 bet n given her by her father. 1 therefl 
 lent her all the aid in my power in that 
 respect ; but told her she must not insist 
 on my seeing the writing, nor indeed any 
 one else; but seal it up when she had 
 done, and if it was consistent with Divine 
 will that she should be restored to us, 
 there would he no necessity of any one 
 knowing the contents. She now devoted 
 what little time she was able to sit up, to 
 the little arrangements of her temporal 
 concerns. "When she had got through and 
 sealed them up, she told me she felt eased 
 
118 
 
 of a burthen that had for some time dis- 
 tressed her. Then pointing out to me the 
 garments reserved for her grave-clothes, 
 together with some trifling articles not 
 particularized in her will, she observed 
 she had done all that lay in her power ; 
 hoped that no one would think hard of 
 her — for that it was not possible to ex- 
 hibit that love she felt for all her friends. 
 She further added, that on her parents she 
 relied for the fulfillment of her desires, 
 which I assured her, should be regarded 
 as sacred injunctions. 
 
119 
 
 LETTER XX. 
 
 MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 
 
 M "AT I U.N. 
 
 A few days after, sister M can 
 
 to make us b visit ; when the evening 
 approached and Bhe was preparing to de- 
 part, 1 told Lueinda (who bad sat up 
 long enough to take tea with us) that I 
 was going to leave her; and walk a little 
 way with her aunt. She seemed very 
 willing, and wo set off — proceeded slow- 
 ly forward, and often stopping to real ; 
 we had gone more than half a mile, and 
 got quite in sight of the settlements at the 
 foot of the Mountain, before we were 
 sensible of having walked so far. But 
 being then deeply engaged on the subject 
 of our misfortune, we were unwilling to 
 part. We therefore seated ourselves on 
 a fallen tree, and sat till almost dusk. 
 when we found it necessary to take leave 
 of each other. And though the distance 
 
120 
 
 to walk back was not very great ; yet at 
 that late hour, in the state of mind I 
 then was, the wood appeared very gloomy, 
 and fearing my family would be uneasy, 
 I returned with hasty steps. But judge 
 my surprise, when at the foot of a little 
 descent, which marked the way to our 
 cottage, on a log beside the path, wrapt 
 in a small blanket, sat the wretched 
 Lucinda ! Greatly agitated, " my child," 
 said I, "what is the matter?" "Don't 
 be alarmed, mamma," she answered with 
 a sweet smile ; " I set out directly after 
 you, intending to walk back with you ; 
 I therefore followed slowly after, stop- 
 ping whenever you did, that I might not 
 interrupt you, till a short turn took you 
 from my sight ; notwithstanding I kept 
 forward, till I came within view of open 
 fields ; and there being several paths 
 which intercepted each other, and not 
 knowing which to take, I sat down with 
 the intent of waiting for you there ; but 
 staying some time without seeing you, 
 and fearing I had already made some 
 mistake, I hastened back till I was sure 
 
121 
 
 of being right; and here I have been 
 sitting a good while, but don't be uneasy, 
 I am not tired/' Fearing it would be 
 dark. I stopped but for a moment. Her 
 countenance was animated, and she 
 stepped up the hill with apparent alacrity. 
 Believe me, my sister, the circum- 
 stance I have recited, however trivial in 
 itself, affected me not a little. Next 
 morning she told me she had rested better 
 that night than she had done since she 
 
 :ie home. Her decisive hour approach- 
 ing, and it !>• Ldispensably necessary 
 that her lather or myself should leave 
 home for the purpose of procuring such 
 things as our Mountain did not afford as, 
 1 thought then was a proper time to men- 
 tion it ; yel knew not how to prop 
 leaving her, and it was extremely incon- 
 
 lient lor liiiii to leave his busini 
 However, I at length ventured to ask her 
 if she was willing to spare me while I 
 could ride to a store, a few miles distant. 
 She replied that since it was necessary 
 she was willing ; but ere T was ready, she 
 was apparently more indisposed and 
 n 
 
122 
 
 gloomy than usual ; so that I was un- 
 willing to leave her ; yet knew not how 
 to avoid it. She saw my embarrassment, 
 and insisted on my going, saying I should 
 not be gone long. " No," I told her, "but 
 a few hours." Then turning to my 
 youngest daughter, I spoke to her of some 
 little articles of clothing which she 
 needed, and which had been promised 
 her. While we were talking, her sister 
 desired to speak with me ; when we were 
 alone, " mamma," said she, "I do not 
 wish to disappoint Julia ; but I request 
 that you will not get the things you were 
 speaking of, as you are already sufficiently 
 embarrassed on my account ; and I have 
 made such arrangements, as will perhaps 
 render it unnecessary." Then extending 
 both her arms towards me, and bursting 
 into tears, " Oh ! mamma my fete will 
 soon be determined." I embraced her; 
 begged she would be composed, and not 
 talk of leaving us, adding, we still hoped 
 that she might be restored to us, and 
 enjoy what she possessed. Apparently 
 insensible to what I had said, she remain- 
 
123 
 
 ed some time before she spoke ; at length 
 she observed with extreme regret (as she 
 had often done before) that I could not 
 wear her clothing. I stopped her. "My 
 dear child/ 1 said I. " be happy on that ac- 
 count ; for should it be the will of Provi- 
 dence to take you from us. however dear 
 I might esteem any gifts of yours, be as- 
 sured thai your affectionate manners to- 
 ward- me, has fixed a more indelible me- 
 mento in my heart, than could ever have 
 been implanted there by all the perishable 
 goods of this world." Adieu. 
 
124 
 LETTER XXI. 
 
 MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 
 
 IN CONTINUATION. 
 
 And now my sister, methinks I hear 
 you emphatically exclaim, and is it pos- 
 sible you could have left her, if but for a 
 moment, in the situation you have de- 
 scribed. Suspend your censure a moment, 
 and hear me. She still insisted on my go- 
 ing, and when I reflected, that situated as 
 we were, should assistance be soon want- 
 ing, it would be much better for me to be 
 absent than her father; I hesitated no 
 longer, but instantly left her, made every 
 possible dispatch, and returned under the 
 impressions of a thousand painful sensa- 
 tions. It was late in the afternoon ; she 
 met me at the door, but was unable to 
 speak. When she could, she informed 
 me she had been writing, during nay ab- 
 sence, to Mr. Brown ; but being very ill, 
 was obliged to leave it before she had 
 written all she wished to. Finding it ne- 
 
125 
 
 cessary, I delayed not a moment to in- 
 form her father of her situation, who with 
 the most ardent zeal of a tender parent, 
 exerted himself so that by ten o'clock in 
 the evening, distant as we were from our 
 neighbors we had every necessary assist- 
 ance. But oh ! my Nancy, through the 
 horrors of an awful night, how incessant- 
 ly did T wish, that the deal Sufferer in 
 all the agonies of excruciating distn 
 might he presenl to the imagination of 
 the cruel author, that lie might he 4 able 
 to form some faint idea, of the crimes he 
 had committed, and detest himself ac- 
 cordingly. Alternate hope and fear pre- 
 vailed tor many hours ; at length the ri- 
 sing Min, and the birth of a lovely female 
 infant, in a measure dispelled the gloom 
 which pervaded every heart. Lncinda 
 was apparently comfort aide ; her mind 
 was serene as the morning ; and even 
 emitted a ray of celestial joy. But here 
 let me rest. 
 
126 
 
 LETTER XXII. 
 
 MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 
 
 in CONTINUATION. 
 
 She continued thus, through the first 
 and part of the second day ; when we 
 began to discover an essential change. 
 She grew extremely restless, and at times 
 her intellects appeared to be deranged. 
 However, being unwilling to be burden- 
 some to our good friends and neighbors, 
 her father and I sat up, by turns, (never 
 undressing) till the fifth day. She had 
 been very much distressed through the 
 preceding night, but in the morning ap- 
 peared more calm ; and I had left her for 
 a few moments to prepare some little 
 nourishments for her. When I returned 
 again, " oh! mamma!" said she as I en- 
 tered the room, " do come and sit down 
 with me on the bed ; I am now happy." 
 Then taking my hand, she continued, " I 
 have just been at prayer ; and never before 
 did I feel such fervor, such ardent desires, 
 
1-27 
 
 the Lord has heard me, I saw my dear 
 Saviour in the clouds, I feel at peace with 
 the whole world." Then stopping a mo- 
 ment as if to recollect something, she 
 said, " pray bring my last writing and 
 read it to me ; I want to know if it con- 
 tains any thing that can give pain. 
 Happy myself) I feel a sincere wish to 
 make ever) one else bo." 1 went and 
 fetched the letter* she had written the 
 day preceding the birth of her child; a 
 rough draught of which 1 have enclosed 
 for your perusaL Yon will be so good as to 
 recoiled under what painful circumstan- 
 it was written, and spare the eye of 
 criticism. 
 
 * See Letter XXI 
 
128 
 
 LETTER XXIII 
 
 lucinda's last letter to mr. brown. 
 
 Sir: 
 
 Once more I presume to present you 
 with the productions of a trembling hand 
 and a bleeding heart. You may not feel 
 a disposition to pay an immediate atten- 
 tion to my sufferings, yet I trust you will 
 not always be capable of evading the 
 stings of remorse. On you I once placed 
 my whole heart ; my mind was absorbed 
 in the idea of being happy with you, and 
 of making you happy. In this blind 
 affection I have too far lost a sense of my 
 duty to my God, and by you I am made 
 wretched. If I had trusted in my Saviour 
 as I trusted in you, I never should have 
 fallen. But this is the effect of my love. 
 Oh! my dear sir, had you not been dear 
 as my own heart, this never would have 
 been. Had I considered you as a stran- 
 ger, or an enemy, I should have fled far 
 
1-29 
 
 from you. But trusting on you as on my 
 dearest friend and guide, I have fallen a 
 to my misplaced confidence. 
 Wh the love you once professed for 
 
 me? 0! where is your honor? If it 
 was only my ruin 3 and think 
 
 that acting the part of a gentleman, you 
 will perhaps exult for a while in your 
 conquest. Bui is Li >ie that you 
 
 can think Midi conduct consistent either 
 with the ties of honor or the laws of 
 humanit] I Le1 me ask h i dispel 
 
 with the pmnii .11 have made me ? 
 
 Did you 11 tinise to the Supreme 1 1 
 
 of 1 1 1. that I should not suffer by 
 
 yen. and that you would be ever ready 
 
 my support and defence as Long as 
 
 you could crawl, even on your hands and 
 
 with many oth< r vows, which you 
 
 called ( rod to win you not 
 
 professed to consider me a • wile, 
 
 and set tiqies fv the completion of the 
 
 nuptial tie>? Did you not promise my 
 brother" that if Cod spared your I 
 you would be here within three we< 
 
 * See Letter XVI. 
 
130 
 
 from the time you parted with him ? I 
 am your wife ; and you might with equal 
 propriety have discarded me after the 
 public performance of the marriage cere- 
 mony. How can this be ? Have I ever 
 labored under a cruel deception, or did 
 you once love ? If the latter, why this 
 change of sentiments ? Is pride the 
 origin ? If so, know that it will end in 
 ruin ! 
 
 You say that you never should have gone 
 to the westward, had it not have been on 
 my account. If this be the case, and, 
 you had gained an interest by it, I think 
 I ought to have shared it with you. I 
 am further informed # that you acknow- 
 ledge you " ever thought I should make 
 a poor man a good wife, 5 ' but that now 
 you thought yourself something better. 
 He that gave can take away ; and you 
 may yet be glad of one, who would be 
 suitable for a poor man. You further ob- 
 ject to my plain breeding.f I would ask 
 you to consider your own ; you have 
 little indeed to boast on account of an 
 
 * See Letter XII. t See Letter XVI. 
 
131 
 
 education. That remark of yours my 
 friends despise ; and I think you ought to 
 despise it yourself You boast of your 
 improvement by travel and society with 
 people of distinction ; but it seems you 
 are insensible of that which constitutes 
 a gentleman. 
 
 My brother informed you of my dan- 
 gerous state, from which it seems you an- 
 ticipated much happiness. Should it 
 God' s will to call you first, 1 should mourn 
 over you, as for the Loss of a dear friend. 
 Yet, you will rejoice over my grave. Bui 
 1 have prayed thai Heaven might prosper 
 you on earth, and give yen wisdom so to 
 reflect on the evil of your ways, as may 
 lead you to repentance, that you may ob- 
 tain forgiveness of that Being, who claims 
 a right to vengeance, and who hath de- 
 clared in Ids sacred word, that In 4 will re- 
 pay. Adieu ! my dear Meh in ! Again 1 
 say farewell, and it may he a long farewell, 
 From vour victim. 
 
 LUCINDA MANVTLL. 
 
132 
 LETTER XXIV. 
 
 MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 
 
 IN CONTINUATION. 
 
 When I had finished reading, as she had 
 requested, she made many comments on 
 some parts of the letter, observing that 
 they appeared too much like reflection. 
 She therefore desired I would write once 
 more to him ; tell him she wished to re- 
 call that part of her letter ; and likewise 
 entreat for pity in behalf of her infant. 
 And now, Nancy, shall I here acknow- 
 ledge, that those two requests I have not 
 literally fulfilled. For the first, my indig- 
 nant soul could not stoop to tell him she 
 was sorry for anything she had written. 
 Yet I in some degree have ; for I wrote to 
 Mr. "Whitney, to whom (agreeably to her 
 request) Brown's letter was inclosed ; and 
 requested that he would read my letter to 
 the wretch, which might answer the same 
 purpose, as if I had written to him. And 
 respecting her babe, I believe she was 
 
133 
 
 conscious before she departed life, that 
 justice ought to take place ; though in the 
 first moments of blissful assurance, she 
 fancied every heart like her own, purified 
 from all the evils of this life ; consequently 
 thought that should he once hear of her 
 poor babe, his bosom would cleave to it. 
 A few boon after, she became very un- 
 v. and wanted her father called in. and 
 desired we would both sit witb her. She 
 thell asked us many question* — particu- 
 larly our sentiments respecting that pas- 
 sage in Holy Writ, where it is said, thai 
 the offspring of illicit connections, "shall 
 not enter the kingdom of Heaven, even 
 unto the tenth generation." This we 
 found was a matter of great anxiety to 
 her. We therefore gave her all tin 4 con- 
 solation in our power representing to her 
 the love of a Redeemer, who made no dis- 
 tinctions. She seented more composed on 
 that account, hut wanted the assistance 
 of some Divine, who perhaps might throw 
 some new light on her way, which not- 
 Withstanding her blessed assurance in the 
 morning, began to be somewhat over- 
 12 
 
134 
 
 clouded. She likewise desired that her 
 sister might be immediately sent for, as it 
 appeared she had but little longer to stay 
 with us. Each request was fulfilled in 
 sending for those she wished to see. Our 
 kind neighbors being apprised of her situ- 
 ation, flocked in to offer their generous as- 
 sistance, which was indeed become ex- 
 tremely necessary. Physical aid* was 
 immediately called, that nothing should 
 be omitted which might possibly afford 
 relief. Next day, her sister arrived. Lu- 
 cinda had been very much distressed, lest 
 she should not reach her, before she re- 
 ceived the last summons — which, though 
 for many months she had impatiently 
 waited, yet now for the sake of her infant, 
 she could have wished it postponed, if 
 consistent with the will of Providence. 
 But now mark, my sister, the kind con- 
 cern she felt for us all. When she heard 
 that Eliza had come, she took hold of my 
 hand as I sat by her — u Mamma," said 
 
 * Doctors Barney and Hix, attending Physicians, who not 
 merely officiated as gentlemen of the faculty, but as sincere and 
 interested friends, to whom our grateful thanks are due. 
 
135 
 
 she, "don't weep; but receive her cheer- 
 fully — do." But the advice she wished 
 to impress on my heart, had a very oppo- 
 site effect Here let me pass over a meet- 
 ing, as the sensations to which it gave 
 rise, ao words can paint. 
 
136 
 LETTER XXV. 
 
 MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 
 
 IN CONTINUATION . 
 
 Our friends in general, and indeed ev- 
 ery friend to humanity, enjoined it on us, 
 to take such measures previous to her dis- 
 solution, which was apparently fast ap- 
 proaching, as would leave it in our power, 
 to demand of him all the justice that was 
 in his power to give or us to receive. This 
 was a very delicate matter, as she had 
 never given public testimony of the father 
 of her babe; and her intellects were so 
 easily deranged, that we apprehended 
 that the least alarm, might incapacitate 
 her for the sacred duty. We therefore, 
 without informing her of the design, that 
 she might not be distressed by anticipa- 
 tion, sent for one of those gentleman* 
 mentioned in a preceding letter, to take 
 her deposition. When he arrived, her 
 father in the most tender manner, un- 
 
 * See Letter XVII. 
 
137 
 
 folded the business to her; adding there- 
 unto, the injustice it would be doing, not 
 merely to herself, but to all her eonnec- 
 tions ; more particularly to her helpless 
 infant, whom she would tor ever deprive 
 of any assistance from its cruel father, by 
 delaying so neceesftiry a step. Neither was 
 
 that all — tor notwithstanding we had both 
 promised her. that her child should never 
 sutler while Providence g&Ye Us power to 
 
 defend it; yet it was more than probable, 
 
 in our present circumstances (aa her pttt- 
 perty whs by no means an adequate fund) 
 that we should stand in need of some as- 
 sistance tor it^ support; and from whom 
 could we receive it with so much pro- 
 priety, as from the author of its existence. 
 The ahove reasons were very influential ; 
 and she supported herself through the 
 painful trial, with more composure than 
 1 had presumed to hope for. But soon as 
 it was over, she beckoned me to her, when 
 speaking in alow voice — " Mamma my 
 task is done ! — and I feel my life fast flee- 
 ing from me ! " Assisted by some kind 
 friends, I did every thing which reason or 
 
138 
 
 pity suggested, to soothe and tranquilize 
 her. 
 
 A little while after, when no one but 
 myself was with her, she looked upon me 
 with anxious earnestness, and attempted 
 to elucidate more fully the cruel transac- 
 tion, of which I had been but imperfectly 
 informed. "Oh!" said she, "I still re- 
 member his cruel and triumphant words 
 — that "resistance would no longer avail 
 me!" Here she seemed to pause for a 
 moment, as if intending to proceed ; but 
 the distressing recollection deprived her 
 of reason ; and she fell back on her bed, 
 from which, in the agonizing remem- 
 brance of past sufferings, she had raised, 
 and appeared totally insensible of all her 
 past or present distresses. Once more 
 then, my dear sister, and probably for ever 
 am I left in the chaos of conjecture, re- 
 specting the cruel arts which were first 
 made use of to subdue her rigid virtue. 
 They were, however, doubtless such as 
 would have justified the most stern de- 
 cision of the law, had not that unprece- 
 dented love, which perhaps never before, 
 
139 
 
 and I presume to hope, will never here- 
 after find place in a female hosom, plead 
 for the inhuman assassin, who first dis- 
 honored her by violence, and then lulled 
 her into a life of infamy for several 
 months, hy the most sacred promises of 
 an inseparable union. Oh ! Nancy, hot* 
 ardently CQClld J wish, thai every soul of 
 nitspotted innocence, might read and 
 mentally realize the wrongs and sufferings 
 of the unfortunate Lttcincfa 
 
140 
 
 LETTER XXVI. 
 
 MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 
 
 IN CONTINUATION. 
 
 You will probably be surprised, that in 
 her letter to Mr. Brown, she did not speak 
 of the cruel circumstances mentioned in 
 my last. I will therefore tell you my sen- 
 timents. As she frequently observed, she 
 could never forgive herself, for the sins 
 she had committed against her Maker, in 
 consenting, however reluctantly, to live, 
 if but for one day, in violation of his holy 
 laws, she probably thought it would be 
 criminal in her to reflect on him, as that 
 might appear to be building her hope of 
 pardon on his condemnation. There also 
 appears to have been an additional reason. 
 She had desired me not to let it be known 
 to her father,* evidently fearing that he 
 might personally avenge her wrongs ; and 
 
 * See Letter XI. 
 
141 
 
 if she mentioned it in her writings, which 
 he would mo>t probably see, it would 
 then he exposed. 
 
 But now. my Bister, as a tribute due to 
 the memory of immolated excellence, I 
 conceive it my duty to let it he known. 
 It may further be of the most sacred 
 utility to those dear, young and innocent 
 females, who healing of it, may wish to 
 profit by the awful warning it presents, 
 by being placed ;i- i sentinel in their 
 bosoms, which will be ever watchful and 
 ready to warn them of the approach of 
 danger, under the mask of a most pure 
 and disinterested attachment. But you 
 will pardon my digression, if such it may 
 he called | and attend further. After my 
 child had been for some time in a state of 
 apparent insensibility, she seemed to have 
 collected some little degree of strength 
 and reason, and asked for her hahe, 
 pressed it fondly to her bosom, and wept 
 over it ; ohserving, that as I was weakly, 
 she cotlld have wished it, had it been 
 consistent, for her Bitter to have taken it ; 
 hut as she was unsettled in the world, she 
 
142 
 
 could not ask it. She then remarked, 
 that if her child should live, the Will she 
 had written would be useless, and though 
 she was sensible she had not enough to 
 bring* it up, yet wished to have something 
 kept for it. She then asked me to call 
 her father. I did. AVhen he came in, 
 she desired him to write for her. He 
 therefore sat down by her, and wrote ac- 
 cording to her directions. First submit- 
 ting her babe with all she possessed, to 
 his and my care ; then after making the 
 reserves in its favor, together with some 
 little bequests to her sister, it was signed, 
 sealed, and witnessed. A few hours after, 
 she called me to sit down by her, when 
 she said " mamma, you have had a great 
 deal of trouble in taking care of me, and 
 if it should live, you will have much more 
 in taking care of my child, I have done 
 wrong, pray call my lather again, that my 
 will may be altered while those friends are 
 here, that witnessed the other." I was 
 really grieved, this apparent conflict be- 
 twixt justice, filial affection and maternal 
 love, was truly distressing. I however 
 
143 
 
 obeyed her request, and again left the 
 room. She expressed to him much anxi- 
 ety ib? having reserved so much for her 
 child, and begged him to alter it. But he 
 put her oil", assuring her that every thing 
 \vlii( h was in our power to do, either lor 
 her or her child, would be freely done ; 
 but as far writing, perhaps it might be 
 useless, for if we could not obtain justi 
 in any <!• of its father, we should 
 
 probably be obliged to make ase of all her 
 effects tow ards its support. Vet notwith- 
 standing, whatever was possible to he 
 done in Lis favor, would be most willingly 
 and tenderly pat in practice; and thus 
 ended this painful and affecting trial. 
 
144 
 
 LETTER XXVII. 
 
 MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 
 
 IN CONTINUATION, 
 
 Next morning the divine, * who had 
 been previously sent for, arrived. At the 
 news, she appeared to be very happy ; and 
 his conversation, and concluding interces- 
 sion at the throne of mercy was such, as 
 I hoped might aftbrd her much consola- 
 tion ; yet her senses were so debilitated, 
 that though she listened with extreme at- 
 tention, yet she seemed not fully to com- 
 prehend what was said, and indeed she 
 never after possessed her reason, but by 
 momentary intervals ; at which times she 
 would be anxiously solicitous with her 
 father, to see that I was reimbursed, par- 
 ticularizing some articles of clothing 
 (which did not depend on the size of the 
 wearerf to render useful) and desired they 
 might be given immediately to her 
 
 * Mr. Nichols. t See Letter XX. 
 
145 
 
 " mamma, M mementos of her gratitude 
 and affection" You, my etister, who 
 know my heart, can judge of my motives 
 for being thus minute! which is to show 
 you the worth of the deal child we hare 
 lost : and to evince the imbecility of that 
 mistaken prejudice, which teaches as 
 thai step-parents and children can have 
 no affection far each other, merely be* 
 cause they are such. 
 
 Day after day passed, and one contin- 
 ued scene of distress surrounded u>. And 
 though each medicine operated agreeably 
 to its peculiar properties, yel they foiled 
 of their much-desired effect; whirl] plain- 
 ly evinced there was do derangement in 
 any pari of the human structure, which 
 was in the j>< dicine to reach; 
 
 and though our kind friends, the physi- 
 cians, had little reason to hope, y< t so 
 desirous were they to restore her if p 
 sible, thai they ceased not their attentions 
 till the last moments. It would have 
 melted a heart of adamant, to hive seen 
 her one day in the course of her delirium. 
 which had now become almost continual. 
 
 13 
 
146 
 
 Fancying, as we conjectured, that the 
 officers had come for her ; and probably 
 retaining some faint recollections, that I 
 had once * saved her, she cried out in 
 the most fearful agony: "Dear mamma ! 
 save ! Oh ! save me ! they have come to 
 carry me away ! " Then clinching both 
 my hands, she clung to me, almost lift- 
 ing herself out of bed, still crying: " Do, 
 dear mamma, call more help; or they 
 will take me away from you ! " This 
 distress, which language has no power to 
 paint, lasted almost an hour, before she 
 could be calmed by any or all our exer- 
 tions. After that, she noticed one of her 
 brothers, who was sitting a little dis- 
 tance from her. She conceived him to 
 be her eldest, whom she had not seen 
 for several years (as he lived far from us); 
 she therefore called me to her ; desired 
 he would sit down, and asked him in the 
 most pathetic manner, after the state of 
 his soul ; recommending to him in the 
 strongest colors, the necessity of living 
 
 * See Letter XVIII. 
 
147 
 
 agreeably to the commands of God, 
 through his dear Son. She then contin- 
 ued calm till some time in the evening; 
 when all the family were at supper, 
 excepting our youngest daughter and one 
 
 of the JTOOng ladies who had eome to sit 
 
 up, wo were much surprised at hearing 
 the sounds of soft music* We all rose 
 precipitately and rushed into the room; 
 
 whore we beheld our child, our dear 
 
 Lcinda, with her eyes fixed on vacancy, 
 who in sweet and melodious accents, 
 rendered tremulous by the cold hand of 
 death, was thus addressing that Being 
 
 whom she adored : 
 
 r JetOt, how delightful ' 
 Huv sweet thy e: -nts are, 
 
 For those blessM saints who taste ftbtt 
 Redeeming grace and heavenly love." 
 
 Her lovely bosom heaved with the fer- 
 vor of devotion; and apparently insens- 
 ible to every surrounding object, she con- 
 tinued Ringing Ibr some time ; and though 
 we distinctly heard the preceding lin 
 yet in vain did we endeavor to catch the 
 rest. The organs of speech being much 
 
148 
 
 debilitated, the sounds were mostly inar- 
 ticulate ; yet were they pathetically de- 
 scriptive of the internal joys of a soul, 
 just verging on the confines of life, with 
 full assurance of a blissful eternity. To 
 attempt describing my sensations at that 
 moment, would be vain, as the shadowy 
 joys of the sensualist, who builds his 
 hope of happiness on sublunary gratifi- 
 cations. She continued to sing at short 
 intervals through the night. From that 
 time she appeared to have little solicitude 
 for any thing except her babe ; for that 
 she would frequently ask, and when 
 brought, would fondly press it to her 
 dying bosom. Thus she continued for 
 two days longer. At 12 o'clock on the 
 second night, the family were all called. 
 A cold sweat having overspread her whole 
 frame it was apparent the last agonies 
 were approaching. But as she seemed 
 to lie for some time without any visible 
 change, and being much indisposed both 
 in body and mind, I again lay down, re- 
 questing to be spoken to on the least 
 change ; but as there appeared none, I 
 
149 
 
 till morning. When I arose, and 
 went into the room, she looked at me. 
 and distinctly pronounced these words: 
 
 "Oh! mamma! you ha*e tatm again; 
 
 now if I ran make you understand mo, 
 I shall be happy. " I hastened to her, 
 readied her my hand, which she took. 
 and grasping it with all her might, again 
 endeavored t<> speak; hut it was impos- 
 sible ; the sounds died on her tongue ! 
 Bhe exerted all her facilities; she drew 
 my face down to bert; hut all to no pur- 
 pose. She could not articulate q single 
 sound, whereby I could catch the least 
 idea of what she wished to say. The hand 
 
 with which she had grasped mine appa- 
 rently growing weaker, she also took her 
 
 other, and seeming to fear lot I should 
 
 Leave her before she was able to speak, held 
 me with all her strength, notwithstand- 
 ing all my endeavors to make her sensi- 
 ble that J Would not. Judge, my sister, 
 what must have been my feelings. I 
 would have given worlds, had I posses* 
 them, to have known her desires ! Thus 
 after exerting herself till she was quite 
 
150 
 
 spent to no purpose, she dismissed the 
 idea. I have since endeavored to recon- 
 cile myself, by this — about an hour after- 
 wards she spoke plain, and said that a 
 noise disturbed her. It is probable, as 
 there were several in the room who were 
 speaking when I first went in, that might 
 be what she wished to make me under- 
 stand. I will at least endeavor to believe, 
 there was nothing else she wished to com- 
 municate. A little while after, as her 
 brothers, sisters and I surrounded her bed, 
 she regarded us with the most expressive 
 looks, apparently distinguishing us ail- 
 But missing her father asked for him. I 
 told her he would be here in a few mo- 
 ments. She then appeared calm — her 
 lips only moved. I could sometimes 
 catch the sweet sound of " Dear Jesus !" 
 Her father soon came in ; she regarded 
 him with a look of tenderness but did not 
 speak. Soon after she ceased to notice 
 anything; her eyes were fixed in death. 
 The struggles were long and painful — I 
 can not dwell on them. Suffice it to say. 
 that on the 20th of June, 1806, between 
 
151 
 
 the hours of 11 and 12, A. M. she ceased 
 to breathe ; and her purified and disin- 
 enmbered soul, flew to the bosom of its 
 God! 
 
152 
 
 LETTER XXVIII. 
 
 MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER. 
 
 IN CONTINUATION. 
 
 That sweet smile with which, through 
 all her distresses she had met every 
 friend, was now indelibly stamped by 
 the seal of death. Nor had the grim 
 messenger left any traces of his unrivalled 
 power behind save the lily's mantle. In- 
 deed, Nancy, such was the beauteous 
 corpse, that I could have contemplated 
 it for hours, with celestial delight ! There 
 now remained to be fulfilled our last du- 
 ties to the dear departed one ; and as she 
 was to be laid in our family burying 
 ground, and our little habitation being far 
 in the Mountain, for the convenience of 
 each sympathizing friend who wished to 
 attend on this last solemn occasion, it 
 was thought advisable, that the corpse 
 should be conveyed to a small public 
 
153 
 
 building, which you may perhaps recol- 
 lect, about a mile north of the Burying 
 Hill, and that there the funeral sermon 
 should be preached, where a very apt and 
 pathetic discourse was delivered by the 
 Rev, Mr. Nichols, from the first Epistle 
 general of Peter, Chap, iii, 10th, 11th, 
 and 12th verses. It there is a consola- 
 tion to be derived from sympathy, and 
 certainly there is. we have much reason 
 to 1 efuL The impressions our mis- 
 
 fortunes had made on the hearts of our 
 neighbors for many miles round, was 
 moM feelingly exhibited, not merely in 
 this Last day's attention, in which many 
 Came up the Mountain to aS8is1 tie 
 kind friends who came with carriages to 
 convey tie 1 COrpm and mourners down to 
 
 the valley, hut even through the course of 
 
 tin* latter part of our distresses, when as- 
 sistance had become necessary, their 
 goodne>s was indescribable. To particu- 
 larize any individual, would he doing in- 
 justice to the rest of our friends, so uni- 
 versal were those acts of "beneficence, 
 which only can he estimated by that Om- 
 
154 
 
 nipresent power, whose infinite wisdom 
 presides over all his works, and who 
 holdeth in his right hand the rewards of 
 virtue. 
 
156 
 
 LETTER XXIX. 
 
 MRS. MANVILL TO HER SISTER 
 
 IN CON I INI A I 
 
 The third day after the interment, our 
 daughter Eliza, whose tender solicitude 
 through those painful - . had greatly 
 
 alleviated my cares, took an affectionate 
 leave of as, and returned to those dear 
 friends, who had been to her as second, 
 
 but real parents. She had promised her 
 
 dying sister, thai should it ever be in her 
 
 power, she would take her infant. "But at 
 present, that was impossible. Never, 
 
 never shall T forget the day, when elop- 
 ing her feeble arms around my neck, she 
 begged me to he a mother to it. saying 
 her father had already promised his pro- 
 teelion : yet she was miieli distressed on 
 account of my ill health. Never before 
 had T felt so desirous of possessing a eom- 
 peteney which might have given her a 
 more full assurance ; yet I hesitated not 
 to follow the dictates of my heart, in tell- 
 
156 
 
 mg her that her dear bate should never 
 suffer, while God gave us the means to 
 prevent it ; and desired her not to be 
 grieved on my account, for perhaps we 
 might be able to procure a nurse for it, 
 until it should need less attention ; and 
 should Providence so direct that it should 
 be brought up with us, it should be 
 educated as our own, and share the 
 same tenderness. Here my sister, let me 
 assure you, that I feel my promise no 
 burden on my heart, for should the cruel 
 father elude the cries of nature and justice 
 and we receive no assistance from any 
 other quarter, never can I see the dear 
 innocent suffer, while God gives me 
 strength to labor. Farewell. 
 
157 
 
 LETTER XXX. 
 
 mrs. manvill to her sister. 
 
 Dear Sister, 
 
 Overpowered by a complication of ten- 
 der and painful ideas, \ Lei) you abruptly, 
 and indulged in a torrent of tears, I am 
 now Bomewhal relieved, and will hasten 
 to conclude my melancholy tale* Our 
 sweet babe (who was three weeks old 
 when itfl mamma departed life) is aowat 
 norse in a very tender and affectionate 
 family, where every necessary attention 
 
 will be paid it, oven BION than my loudest 
 
 fare could accomplish in my present state 
 of health. F yesterday had the melan- 
 choly satisfaction of pressing the dear lit- 
 tle orphan to my bosom, and bathing it 
 with tears, while my heart involuntarily 
 renewed its promise, of lasting love and 
 
 tendering 
 
 How many things combine to perpetu- 
 ate the memory of our dear Lucinda. In 
 14 
 
158 
 
 a visit to my friends in the valley a few 
 days since, I first passed the log # on which 
 I found her sitting the last time she walk- 
 ed out; next the bier on which her corpse 
 was carried, till the carriage could receive 
 it ; and even the veil I wore, which in my 
 absencef she had added to a suit of mourn- 
 ing, which at her request I had put in re- 
 pair a few days before, having been some- 
 time since I wore them, and which she 
 then observed, lacked only a veil ; the will 
 she had written previous to her last dis- 
 tresses, and at the time when she did not 
 expect that either herself or infant would 
 survive them, has just been put into my 
 hands for my persual, by her father, in 
 whose care it has been; and though the 
 contents are now of no use, yet they have 
 done honor to the heart that dictated 
 them. 
 
 Adieu, my dear Nancy ! and believe that 
 through all the vicissitudes of this proba- 
 tory state, I am the same unchangeable 
 friend and affectionate sister, whose heart, 
 as an assistant to the best of parents, you 
 
 * See Letter XX t See Letter XXI. 
 
159 
 
 have measurably formed. Again adieu. 
 
 P. D. MAN V ILL. 
 
 P. 8. I here inclose a monumental in- 
 scription, dictated by maternal lo\ 
 
 MONUMENTAL [N3CJUPTK 
 
 U was thy sou .ir, 
 
 As fragrant blossoms, tipt with morning dews; 
 Till love, enthusiastic joys declare, 
 
 som for admission sues. 
 
 ; irit, from the bless'd abode, 
 : a thy guardian friend to be, 
 To paint the man. who has derVd his God-, 
 
 And fro .-s, to set I I Vee. 
 
 IptCtMfU is impious breast, 
 
 When at thy feet, bit rail hi 
 
 Foul rankPd vengeance, evrry MTT6 impressM, 
 And fell deceit by Satan's u vM. 
 
 inger to guile, and artless as the d« 
 The dire event, ne'er wakM thy ihimbei 
 As gentle guests receiv'd the shafts of I 
 Nor knew the shades of death, were hov'ring ne 
 
 Ye beauteous fair, who these sad truths shall learn, 
 Admit the sacred warning to your breasts; 
 
 h piteous tears, bedew Luanda's urn, 
 Where love's sad victim, shrouded — IW] 
 
 OF MR. BROWN. 
 As it is natural to .suppose, that those 
 who may read this little volume wiU be 
 desirous of hearing something further re- 
 
160 
 
 specting the wretched author of the ca- 
 lamitous events it contains, I conceive it 
 my duty to inform them, that a few weeks 
 after the preceding letters were written. 
 the young gentleman who had been com- 
 missioned to call on Mr. Brown, returned 
 with the following account: He found 
 him at Marcellus, and after acquainting 
 him with the importance of hi* busin< 
 was answered, or rather questioned Sfl fol- 
 lows: 
 
 Brown. — "Why was I not informed of 
 the circumstances I I would have come 
 down immediately ! " 
 
 Officer. — "I understood you were. M 
 
 Brown. — u Not lately; and I scorn the 
 public should take it up ; hut she shall 
 fare ne'er the better for this. n 
 
 Officer. — " Nor ne'er the worse, I pre- 
 
 sume. " 
 
 Brown. — " Where is she \ w 
 
 Officer. — Tn Heaven, I trust ! M 
 
 Brown. — Is she dead M 1 
 
 And being- answered in the afiirmath 
 a long silence succeeded; his mantle of 
 delusion was measurably thrown off; 1 
 
p 
 
 ray of reason wma his t u*d 
 
 inn iw thr hii of his an- 
 
 tici| triumph ! Bu1 alas ! the iVuit 
 
 wa* unpleasant 1—1 trot whirl 
 
 had fbUawed d isa ppe a red In' now 
 I hi-* hnppim distant 
 
 re from w hich he had bH i md n<> 
 
 ed, that iiiiLilit 
 
 ia ■ raft him through 
 
 the chani and dismay, t hat 
 
 I hi^ passa<n th After 
 
 pone moments of apparent agitation, h<* 
 
 Lucinda t I ; I 
 
 ■he was my * it ; ' by 
 
 gagementa j her child 
 
 i- mine, ami I \s ill be a father to i1 M» 
 
 i without besil mplied with 
 
 thr reqnii f the law 
 
 iTiirity lor it> Mip] i I And h< 
 foi the present, e him to the 
 
 gloomy reflect* baring contracted 
 
 a debt he can neyei pay ; sincerely a ish- 
 
 on of the incurable 
 
 ukU he has made in the bosom <>f a 
 
 one.' happy famil] gethet with his 
 
 own p< a. honor and 
 
162 
 
 happiness, may so lead him to a sense of 
 his unprecedented crimes, as shall pro- 
 duce that unfeigned repentance, which 
 shall procure him pardon at the hand of 
 an offended, but merciful God. 
 
163 
 
 LETTER XXXI. 
 
 MRS. MANVILL TO HER BI8T1 
 
 bong, long, my d< tor, have 1 ecu* 
 
 templateld writing, but as often as] have 
 attempted to take the pen, have I been 
 withheld from the painfuJ idea of ad- 
 dressing one, who might no Longer be an 
 Inhabitant of this U tl globe ; conse- 
 
 quently, that tender solicitude to know the 
 sequri of those melancholy communica- 
 tions received from me, in the jrear 1806, 
 opuld no more stimulate that Laudable 
 anxiety, which dictated your last enquiry. 
 And can you l>< i surprised at my fears, 
 when I assure yon. thai more than three 
 years have elapg ace I had the plea- 
 
 sure of receiving one line from you. 
 
 Passing over the concerns of our family 
 in general, this Letter shall be principally 
 confined to one subject — that of our little 
 orphan grandchild, whom we took from 
 
164 
 
 nurse, two years ago last April. She has 
 ever since lived not merely in the bosom 
 of our family, but likewise in the heart of 
 each individual of it; and has become the 
 sweet cement of universal love. Julia, on 
 whose care she has more particularly de- 
 pended, is so much attached to her, that 
 I believe nothing but death wall ever be 
 able to displace the reciprocated tie. 
 
 You will recollect, perhaps, that our 
 daughter Eliza, in consideration of my ill 
 health, had promised her dying sister, that 
 should she ever be settled in life, she 
 would take care of her infant. She is now 
 apparently, happily united to a Mr. Dunn- 
 ing, a young gentleman of a respectable 
 family and flattering prospects, who has 
 recently made us a visit, and joined his 
 request to take our little darling under 
 their protection. But indeed we knew 
 not how to part with her. Perhaps we 
 shall be censured by some, for not accept- 
 in? their srenerous offer ; while others 
 might have condemned our acquiescence 
 as the offspring of sinister motives. And 
 really, Nancy, set apart my affections for 
 
1G5 
 
 the lovely babe (whose ways are calcu- 
 lated to attract general love) never did I 
 find the line of duty bo difficult to be kept, 
 n in the present Instance. Shall I portray 
 the peculiar circumstances I I anticipate 
 your reply. Observe then, that Mr. Man* 
 vi 11 and myself, both previous and alter 
 (jiliz ader promise, had assured the 
 
 dear anxious Lncinda, that \\< i would 
 
 r. to the utmost of our abilities, be the 
 real parents of her hapless orphan j and 
 hence our little Pollt who was called 
 alter Lucinda's own mother, < ontinues to 
 
 a much loved mem ' our humble 
 
 family. 
 
 [Thus far, as it r e s p ects the innocent 
 offspring of the unfortunate sufferer, I 
 have stated facts which have fallen under 
 my own obs erva tion ; but with regard to 
 the cried assassin, I inuM be content with 
 relating the most accurate accounts we 
 have heen able to procure. For this ibur 
 
 ITS pa>t, various have heen the reports 
 of his regrets, his Intemperance, his in- 
 sanity, fee, together with innumerable 
 judgments that must nearly have filled 
 
166 
 
 up the measure of his days ; and though 
 not sufficiently authenticated to obtain 
 undoubted credence, yet all served to 
 corroborate the idea of his fall from that 
 fancied height on which he stood, when 
 our ill fated daughter became the victim 
 of his lust. The following, however, is 
 the report of a gentleman of veracity, 
 who has recently returned from an excur- 
 sion to the west. These are his words : 
 " all the information I could obtain re- 
 specting Mr. Brown, is that some time 
 since he became reduced to the most ex- 
 treme poverty, and is now, literally speak- 
 ing, a vagabond ; supporting himself by 
 the mean employment of a fiddler, a just 
 reward for his perfidy." Thus we see the 
 ultimate end of all his boasted acquire- 
 ments. Pope very aptly observes : 
 
 11 Of all the causes, which conspire to blind 
 Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind, 
 What th<* weak head with strongest bias rules, 
 Is pride the never failing vice of fools/' 
 
 It seems, my dear Nancy, as if this 
 misguided and now wretched man, has 
 been a compound of every vice, among 
 
u;: 
 
 which pride seemed to predominate, lie 
 IS now bumbled to the dust; his gaudy 
 trappinir of tinseled greatness bo longer 
 screens hia perjured heart. And what — 
 ah ! what must be hia sensations I For 
 Miely hia forlorn and despised situation, 
 must often awaken in his mind, i recofe 
 |ection of the pasl ; when the puresi prin- 
 ciples of virtue aw aited bis embrace, and 
 would Inr d liini to the man- 
 
 sioi ternal bliss. Hut no, I mistake. 
 
 Be i- merely bumbled in externals, the 
 r momenta of reflection, hai e 
 never risited him; neither baa the influ- 
 of Divine love, illuminated his 
 gloomy sou] with the smallest conceptions 
 of hie crimes, or be must before this, 
 have How ii on the wing of penitence to 
 have elapsed in lii ized bosom, all 
 
 that remains of the lovely woman whom 
 be has sacrificed, and implore through 
 her, pardon of her sainted mother. But, 
 alas ! his stubborn will seeks no palliation 
 tor the wrongs he haa committed; for 
 notwithstanding his voluntary engaj 
 ments, to become the father of the sw< i I 
 
168 
 
 babe, and his ready submission to the dr- 
 mand of public justice, by giving bail for 
 Ltssupporl ; yet 1ms he been totally regard- 
 less of the former, emd by §ome, to me 
 inexplicable means, has hitherto avoided 
 the latter. Bui h< fliorl sighted 
 
 man may err, the lawa of Heaven an 
 equitable. To that tribunal let us see\ 
 for thai justice, which is denied us In 
 
 I an), my dear sister, 
 four 1 1- u 1 > affectionat( 
 
 P. D. MANY1I.L. 
 
 Greenfield, December, 81, imo. 
 
I 
 
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