less guilty Charlotte.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

CHARLOTTE TEMPLE,
VOLUME II

CHAPTER XVIII.
REFLECTIONS.

"AND am I indeed fallen so low," said Charlotte, "as to be only pitied?
Will the voice of approbation no more meet my ear? and shall I never again

possess a friend, whose face will wear a smile of joy whenever I approach?
Alas! how thoughtless, how dreadfully" target="_blank" title="ad.可怕地；糟透地">dreadfully imprudent have I been!

I know not which is most painful to endure, the sneer of contempt,
or the glance of passion" target="_blank" title="n.同情；怜悯">compassion, which is depicted in the various

countenances of my own sex: they are both equally humiliating.
Ah! my dear parents, could you now see the child of your affections,

the daughter whom you so dearly loved, a poor solitary being,
without society, here wearing out her heavy hours in deep regret

and anguish of heart, no kind friend of her own sex to whom she
can unbosom her griefs, no beloved mother, no woman of character

will appear in my company, and low as your Charlotte is fallen,
she cannot associate with infamy."

These were the painfulreflections which occupied the mind of Charlotte.
Montraville had placed her in a small house a few miles from

New-York: he gave her one femaleattendant, and supplied her
with what money she wanted; but business and pleasure so entirely

occupied his time, that he had little to devote to the woman,
whom he had brought from all her connections, and robbed of innocence.

Sometimes, indeed, he would steal out at the close of evening,
and pass a few hours with her; and then so much was she attached to him,

that all her sorrows were forgotten while blest with his society:
she would enjoy a walk by moonlight, or sit by him in a little

arbour at the bottom of the garden, and play on the harp,
accompanying it with her plaintive, harmonious voice. But often,

very often, did he promise to renew his visits, and, forgetful of
his promise, leave her to mourn her disappointment. What painful

hours of expectation would she pass! She would sit at a window
which looked toward a field he used to cross, counting the minutes,

and straining her eyes to catch the first glimpse of his person,
till blinded with tears of disappointment, she would lean her head

on her hands, and give free vent to her sorrows: then catching
at some new hope, she would again renew her watchful position,

till the shades of evening enveloped every object in a dusky cloud:
she would then renew her complaints, and, with a heart bursting

with disappointed love and wounded sensibility, retire to a bed
which remorse had strewed with thorns, and court in vain

that comforter of weary nature (who seldom visits the unhappy)
to come and steep her senses in oblivion.

Who can form an adequate idea of the sorrow that preyed upon the mind
of Charlotte? The wife, whose breast glows with affection to her husband,

and who in return meets only indifference, can but faintly conceive
her anguish. Dreadfully painful is the situation of such a woman,

but she has many comforts of which our poor Charlotte was deprived.
The duteous, faithful wife, though treated with indifference,

has one solid pleasure within her own bosom, she can reflect
that she has not deserved neglect--that she has ever fulfilled

the duties of her station with the strictest exactness;
she may hope, by constant assiduity and unremitted attention,

to recall her wanderer, and be doubly happy in his returning affection;
she knows he cannot leave her to unite himself to another:

he cannot cast her out to poverty and contempt; she looks around her,
and sees the smile of friendly welcome, or the tear of affectionate

consolation, on the face of every person whom she favours with
her esteem; and from all these circumstances she gathers comfort:

but the poor girl by thoughtlesspassion led astray, who, in parting
with her honour, has forfeited the esteem of the very man to whom she has

sacri-iced every thing dear and valuable in life, feels his indifference
in the fruit of her own folly, and laments her want of power to recall

his lost affection; she knows there is no tie but honour, and that,
in a man who has been guilty of seduction, is but very feeble:

he may leave her in a moment to shame and want; he may marry and
forsake her for ever; and should he, she has no redress, no friendly,

soothing companion to pour into her wounded mind the balm of consolation,
no benevolent hand to lead her back to the path of rectitude;

she has disgraced her friends, forfeited the good opinion of the world,
and undone herself; she feels herself a poor solitary being in

the midst of surrounding multitudes; shame bows her to the earth,
remorse tears her distracted mind, and guilt, poverty, and disease

close the dreadful scene: she sinks unnoticed to oblivion.
The finger of contempt may point out to some passing daughter of

youthful mirth, the humble bed where lies this frail sister of mortality;
and will she, in the unbounded gaiety of her heart, exult in her own

unblemished fame, and triumph over the silent ashes of the dead?
Oh no! has she a heart of sensibility, she will stop, and thus

address the unhappyvictim of folly--
"Thou had'st thy faults, but sure thy sufferings have expiated them:

thy errors brought thee to an early grave; but thou wert a fellow-creature--
thou hast been unhappy--then be those errors forgotten. "

Then, as she stoops to pluck the noxious weed from off the sod,
a tear will fall, and consecrate the spot to Charity.

For ever honoured be the sacred drop of humanity; the angel of
mercy shall record its source, and the soul from whence it sprang

shall be immortal.
My dear Madam, contract not your brow into a frown of disapprobation.

I mean not to extenuate the faults of those unhappy women who fall
victims to guilt and folly; but surely, when we reflect how many

errors we are ourselves subject to, how many secret faults lie hid
in the recesses of our hearts, which we should blush to have brought

into open day (and yet those faults require the lenity and pity
of a benevolent judge, or awful would be our prospect of futurity)

I say, my dear Madam, when we consider this, we surely may pity
the faults of others.

Believe me, many an unfortunatefemale, who has once strayed
into the thorny paths of vice, would gladly return to virtue,

was any generous friend to endeavour to raise and re-assure her;
but alas! it cannot be, you say; the world would deride and scoff.

Then let me tell you, Madam, 'tis a very unfeeling world,
and does not deserve half the blessings which a bountiful Providence

showers upon it.
Oh, thou benevolent giver of all good! how shall we erring mortals

dare to look up to thy mercy in the great day of retribution,
if we now uncharitably refuse to overlook the errors, or alleviate

the miseries, of our fellow-creatures.
CHAPTER XIX.

A MISTAKE DISCOVERED.
JULIA Franklin was the only child of a man of large property,

who, at the age of eighteen, left her independent mistress
of an unincumbered income of seven hundred a year; she was

a girl of a livelydisposition, and humane, susceptible heart:
she resided in New-York with an uncle, who loved her too well,

and had too high an opinion of her prudence, to scrutinize her
actions so much as would have been necessary with many young ladies,

who were not blest with her discretion: she was, at the time Montraville
arrived at New-York, the life of society, and the universal toast.

Montraville was introduced to her by the following accident.
One night when he was upon guard, a dreadful fire broke out near

Mr. Franklin's house, which, in a few hours, reduced that and several
others to ashes; fortunately no lives were lost, and, by the assiduity

of the soldiers, much valuable property was saved from the flames.
In the midst of the confusion an old gentleman came up to Montraville,

and, putting a small box into his hands, cried--"Keep it,
my good Sir, till I come to you again;" and then rushing again

into the thickest of the croud, Montraville saw him no more.
He waited till the fire was quite extinguished and the mob dispersed;

but in vain: the old gentleman did not appear to claim his property;
and Montraville, fearing to make any enquiry, lest he should meet

with impostors who might lay claim, without any legal right,
to the box, carried it to his lodgings, and locked it up:

he naturally imagined, that the person who committed it to his care
knew him, and would, in a day or two, reclaim it; but several

weeks passed on, and no enquiry being made, he began to be uneasy,
and resolved to examine the contents of the box, and if they were,

as he supposed, valuable, to spare no pains to discover, and restore
them to the owner. Upon opening it, he found it contained