spared to make this daughter an accomplished woman; but not one
thought was ever bestowed upon the immortal interests of her soul. At
the age of sixteen, she was beautiful and intelligent, but utterly
destitute of all religious principle. Enthusiastically fond of
reading, she roamed her father's spacious library, and selected
whatever books best pleased her. Of an imaginative turn, earnest and
impassioned, hers was the very mind that required the strong,
controlling hand of a matured judgment. Yet it was left to feed at
will upon the poisoned fruits that lie scattered around. She naturally
turned to the novels that stored the library shelves; and at sixteen
was as much at home in the pages of Bulwer as she was in her French
grammar. The ridiculous romances of Mrs. Radcliffe were laid aside
with disgust, and Bulwer, James, and others, took their place. But she
descended a step, many steps lower, and, supplied by the governess,
eagerly devoured the very worst fictions of Eugene Sue and George
Sand. Next she was heard discussing and excusing the most heinous
crimes of which human nature can be guilty.

Her parents heard with horror her freely expressed sentiments, and
wondered where she had inhaled such lax ideas. They never thought of
looking into her library for the cause, or at the unprincipled
governess. The poison began to do its work; she could no longer live
this tame life; she must have something more exciting, more
exhilarating. The resolution was formed; with a beating heart she
collected her mother's jewels; took one long look at her indulgent
parents; bade a silent farewell to the scenes of her happy childhood,
and left the house forever. No warning voice implored her to return;
no hand was stretched out to save. On, on she went, until she reached
the far-off city. Its lights dazzled her, its noise confused her, but
she never regretted the peaceful home she had so culpably deserted.