that no woman can devote herself
exclusively to the society of men without losing some of the best and
sweetest characteristics of her sex. The conversation of men of the
world and men of gallantry, gives insensibly a taint to the mind; the
unceasing language of adulation and admiration intoxicates the head
and perverts the heart; the habit of _tete-a-tetes_, the habit of
being always either the sole or the principal object of attention, of
mingling in no conversation which is not personal, narrows the
disposition, weakens the mind, and renders it incapable of rising to
general views or principles; while it so excites the senses and the
imagination, that every thing else becomes in comparison stale, flat,
and unprofitable. The life of a coquette is very like that of a
drunkard or an opium eater, and its end is the same--the utter
extinction of intellect, of cheerfulness, of generous feeling, and of
self-respect.

* * * * *

_St. Michel, Monday._--I know not why I open my book, or why I should
keep accounts of times and places. I saw nothing of Turin but what I
beheld from my window: and as soon as I could travel we set off,
crossed Mount Cenis in a storm, slept at Lans-le-bourg, and reached
this place yesterday, where I am again ill, and worse--worse than
ever.

Is it not strange that while life is thus rapidly wasting, I should
still be so strong to suffer? the pang, the agony is not less acute at
this moment, than when, fifteen months ago, the poignard was driven to
my heart. The cup, though I have nearly drained it to the last, is not
less bitter now than when first presented to my lips. But this is not
well; why indeed should I repine? mine was but a common fate--like a
true woman, I did but stake my all of happiness upon one cast--and
lost!

* * * * *

_Lyons, 19th._--Good God! for what purpose do we feel! why within our
limited sphere of action, our short and imperfect existence have we
such boundless capacity for enjoying and suffering? no doubt for some
good purpose. But I cannot think as I used to think: my ideas are
perplexed: it is all pain of heart and confusion of mind; a sense of
bitterness, and wrong, and sorrow, which I cannot express, nor yet
quite _suppress_. If the cloud would but clear away that I might feel
and see to do what is right! but all is dark, and heavy, and vacant;
my mind is dull, and my eyes are dim, and I am scarce co