these visits gave rise to the subject, and the whole party
descanted on it; but as the ladies could not handle it well, they soon
adverted to portraits; and talked of the attitudes and characters in
which they should wish to be drawn. Mary did not fix on one--when
Henry, with more apparent warmth than usual, said, "I would give the
world for your picture, with the expression I have seen in your face,
when you have been supporting your friend."

This delicate compliment did not gratify her vanity, but it reached her
heart. She then recollected that she had once sat for her picture--for
whom was it designed? For a boy! Her cheeks flushed with indignation, so
strongly did she feel an emotion of contempt at having been thrown
away--given in with an estate.

As Mary again gave way to hope, her mind was more disengaged; and her
thoughts were employed about the objects around her.

She visited several convents, and found that solitude only eradicates
some passions, to give strength to others; the most baneful ones. She
saw that religion does not consist in ceremonies; and that many prayers
may fall from the lips without purifying the heart.

They who imagine they can be religious without governing their tempers,
or exercising benevolence in its most extensive sense, must certainly
allow, that their religious duties are only practiced from selfish
principles; how then can they be called good? The pattern of all
goodness went about _doing_ good. Wrapped up in themselves, the nuns
only thought of inferior gratifications. And a number of intrigues were
carried on to accelerate certain points on which their hearts were
fixed:

Such as obtaining offices of trust or authority; or avoiding those that
were servile or laborious. In short, when they could be neither wives
nor mothers, they aimed at being superiors, and became the most selfish
creatures in the world: the passions that were curbed gave strength to
the appetites, or to those mean passions which only tend to provide for
the gratification of them. Was this seclusion from the world? or did
they conquer its vanities or avoid its vexations?

In these abodes the unhappy individual, who, in the first paroxysm of
grief flies to them for refuge, finds too late she took a wrong step.
The same warmth which determined her will make her repent; and sorrow,
the rust of the mind, will never have a chance of being rubbed off by
sensible conversation, or new-born affections of the hea