That a man of a character which ever was my abhorrence should fall to my lot!—­But, depending on my own strength; having no reason to apprehend danger from headstrong and disgraceful impulses; I too little perhaps cast up my eyes to the Supreme Director:  in whom, mistrusting myself, I ought to have placed my whole confidence—­and the more, when I saw myself so perserveringly addressed by a man of this character.

Inexperience and presumption, with the help of a brother and sister who have low ends to answer in my disgrace, have been my ruin!—­A hard word, my dear! but I repeat it upon deliberation:  since, let the best happen which now can happen, my reputation is destroyed; a rake is my portion:  and what that portion is my cousin Morden’s letter has acquainted you.

Pray keep it by you till called for.  I saw it not myself (having not the heart to inspect my trunks) till this morning.  I would not for the world this man should see it; because it might occasion mischief between the most violent spirit, and the most settled brave one in the world, as my cousin’s is said to be.

This letter was enclosed (opened) in a blank cover.  Scorn and detest me as they will, I wonder that one line was not sent with it—­were it but to have more particularly pointed the design of it, in the same generous spirit that sent me the spira.

The sealing of the cover was with black wax.  I hope there is no new occasion in the family to give reason for black wax.  But if there were, it would, to be sure, have been mentioned, and laid at my door—­perhaps too justly!

I had begun a letter to my cousin; but laid it by, because of the uncertainty of my situation, and expecting every day for several days past to be at a greater certainty.  You bid me write to him some time ago, you know.  Then it was I began it:  for I have great pleasure in obeying you in all I may.  So I ought to have; for you are the only friend left me.  And, moreover, you generally honour me with your own observance of the advice I take the liberty to offer you:  for I pretend to say, I give better advice than I have taken.  And so I had need.  For, I know not how it comes about, but I am, in my own opinion, a poor lost creature:  and yet cannot charge myself with one criminal or faulty inclination.  Do you know, my dear, how this can be?

Yet I can tell you how, I believe—­one devious step at setting out!—­ that must be it:—­which pursued, has led me so far out of my path, that I am in a wilderness of doubt and error; and never, never, shall find my way out of it:  for, although but one pace awry at first, it has led me hundreds and hundreds of miles out of my path:  and the poor estray has not one kind friend, nor has met with one direct passenger, to help her to recover it.

But I, presumptuous creature! must rely so much upon my own knowledge of the right path!—­little apprehending that an ignus fatuus with its false fires (and ye I had heard enough of such) would arise to mislead me!  And now, in the midst of fens and quagmires, it plays around me, and around me, throwing me back again, whenever I think myself in the right track.  But there is one common point, in which all shall meet, err widely as they may.  In that I shall be laid quietly down at last:  and then will all my calamities be at an end.