orable forms. If
history furnishes one parallel fact, it is a sufficient vindication of
the Writer; but most readers will probably recollect an authentic case,
remarkably similar to that of Wieland.

It will be necessary to add, that this narrative is addressed, in an
epistolary form, by the Lady whose story it contains, to a small
number of friends, whose curiosity, with regard to it, had been greatly
awakened. It may likewise be mentioned, that these events took
place between the conclusion of the French and the beginning of the
revolutionary war. The memoirs of Carwin, alluded to at the conclusion
of the work, will be published or suppressed according to the reception
which is given to the present attempt.

C. B. B. September 3, 1798.

Chapter I

I feel little reluctance in complying with your request. You know not
fully the cause of my sorrows. You are a stranger to the depth of my
distresses. Hence your efforts at consolation must necessarily fail. Yet
the tale that I am going to tell is not intended as a claim upon your
sympathy. In the midst of my despair, I do not disdain to contribute
what little I can to the benefit of mankind. I acknowledge your right to
be informed of the events that have lately happened in my family. Make
what use of the tale you shall think proper. If it be communicated
to the world, it will inculcate the duty of avoiding deceit. It will
exemplify the force of early impressions, and show the immeasurable
evils that flow from an erroneous or imperfect discipline.

My state is not destitute of tranquillity. The sentiment that dictates
my feelings is not hope. Futurity has no power over my thoughts. To all
that is to come I am perfectly indifferent. With regard to myself, I
have nothing more to fear. Fate has done its worst. Henceforth, I am
callous to misfortune.

I address no supplication to the Deity. The power that governs the
course of human affairs has chosen his path. The decree that ascertained
the condition of my life, admits of no recal. No doubt it squares with
the maxims of eternal equity. That is neither to be questioned nor
denied by me. It suffices that the past is exempt from mutation. The
storm that tore up our happiness, and changed into dreariness and desert
the blooming scene of our existence, is lulled into grim repose; but
not until the victim was transfixed and mangled; till every obstacle was
dissipated by its rage; till every remnant of good was wrested f