ave rarely, in the first instances, been corrupted by
love; but by poverty, and the contagion of circumstance and example. It
is a miserable cant phrase to call them the victims of seduction;
they have been the victims of hunger, of vanity, of curiosity, of evil
_female_ counsels; but the seduction of love hardly ever conducts to
a _life_ of vice. If a woman has once really loved, the beloved object
makes an impenetrable barrier between her and other men; their advances
terrify and revolt--she would rather die than be unfaithful even to a
memory. Though man love the sex, woman loves only the individual; and
the more she loves him, the more cold she is to the species. For the
passion of woman is in the sentiment--the fancy--the heart. It rarely
has much to do with the coarse images with which boys and old men--the
inexperienced and the worn-out--connect it.

But Alice, though her blood ran cold at her terrible father's language,
saw in his very design the prospect of escape. In an hour of drunkenness
he thrust her from the house, and stationed himself to watch her--it was
in the city of Cork. She formed her resolution instantly--turned up a
narrow street, and fled at full speed. Darvil endeavoured in vain to
keep pace with her--his eyes dizzy, his steps reeling with intoxication.
She heard his last curse dying from a distance on the air, and her fear
winged her steps: she paused at last, and found herself on the outskirts
of the town. She paused, overcome, and deadly faint; and then, for the
first time, she felt that a strange and new life was stirring within
her own. She had long since known that she bore in her womb the unborn
offspring of Maltravers, and that knowledge had made her struggle and
live on. But now, the embryo had quickened into being--it moved--it
appealed to her, a--thing unseen, unknown; but still it was a living
creature appealing to a mother! Oh, the thrill, half of ineffable
tenderness, half of mysterious terror, at that moment!--What a new
chapter in the life of a woman did it not announce:--Now, then, she must
be watchful over herself--must guard against fatigue--must wrestle with
despair. Solemn was the trust committed to her--the life of another--the
child of the Adored. It was a summer night--she sat on a rude stone,
the city on one side, with its lights and lamps;--the whitened fields
beyond, with the moon and the stars above; and _above_ she raised her
streaming eyes, and she thought that God,