And now that time has cooled the youthful ardour that carried me away let me do justice to this unfortunate girl.  She was the most natural, unaffected and gifted person I ever met with.  Boundless wit, enchanting liveliness, a strong mind, and self-devotion towards me, the first, and, I firmly believe, the only object she ever loved; and her love for me ceased only with her life.  Her faults, though not to be defended, may be palliated and deplored, because they were the defects of education.  Her infant days were passed in scenes of domestic strife, profligacy, and penury; her maturer years, under the guidance of a weak mother, were employed in polishing, not strengthening, the edifice of her understanding, and the external ornaments only served to accelerate the fall of the fabric, and to increase the calamity.

Bred up in France, and almost in the fervour of the Revolution, she had imbibed some of its libertine opinions; among others, that marriage was a civil contract, and if entered into at all, might be broken at the pleasure of either party.  This idea was strengthened and confirmed in her by the instances she had seen of matrimonial discord, particularly in her own family.  When two people, who fancied they loved, had bound themselves by an indissoluble knot, they felt from that time the irksomeness of restraint, which they would never have felt if they had possessed the power of separation; and would have lived happily together if they had not been compelled to do it.  “How long you, my dear Frank,” said Eugenia to me one day, “may continue to love me, I know not; but the moment you cease to love me, it were better that we parted.”

These were certainly the sentiments of an enthusiast; but Eugenia lived long enough to acknowledge her error, and to bewail its fatal effects on her peace of mind.

I was awoke from this dream of happiness by a curious incident.  I thought it disastrous at the time, but am now convinced that it was fraught with good, since it brought me back to my profession, recalled me to a sense of duty, and showed me the full extent of my disgraceful situation.  My father, it appears, was still ignorant of my absence from my ship, and had come down, without my knowledge, on a visit to a friend in the neighbourhood.  Hearing of “the interesting young man” who had acquired so much credit in the character of Apollo, as well as of Romeo, he was persuaded to see the performance.

I was in the act of singing “Pray Goody,” when my eyes suddenly met those of my papa, who was staring like the head of Gorgon; and though his gaze did not turn me to stone, it turned me sick.  I was stupified, forgot my part, ran off, and left the manager and the music to make the best of it.  My father, who could hardly believe his eyes, was convinced when he saw my confusion.  I ran into the dressing-room, where, before I had time to divest myself of Apollo’s crown and petticoat, I was accosted by my enraged parent, and it is quite impossible for me to describe (taking my costume into consideration) how very much like a fool I looked.