TO MRS. TEMPLE. NEW-YORK.

"Will my once kind, my ever beloved mother, deign to receive a letter
from her guilty, but repentant child? or has she, justly incensed at my
ingratitude, driven the unhappy Charlotte from her remembrance? Alas!
thou much injured mother! shouldst thou even disown me, I dare not
complain, because I know I have deserved it: but yet, believe me, guilty
as I am, and cruelly as I have disappointed the hopes of the fondest
parents, that ever girl had, even in the moment when, forgetful of my
duty, I fled from you and happiness, even then I loved you most, and my
heart bled at the thought of what you would suffer. Oh! never, never!
whilst I have existence, will the agony of that moment be erased from my
memory. It seemed like the separation of soul and body. What can I plead
in excuse for my conduct? alas! nothing! That I loved my seducer is
but too true! yet powerful as that passion is when operating in a
young heart glowing with sensibility, it never would have conquered my
affection to you, my beloved parents, had I not been encouraged, nay,
urged to take the fatally imprudent step, by one of my own sex, who,
under the mask of friendship, drew me on to ruin. Yet think not your
Charlotte was so lost as to voluntarily rush into a life of infamy; no,
my dear mother, deceived by the specious appearance of my betrayer, and
every suspicion lulled asleep by the most solemn promises of marriage,
I thought not those promises would so easily be forgotten. I never once
reflected that the man who could stoop to seduction, would not hesitate
to forsake the wretched object of his passion, whenever his capricious
heart grew weary of her tenderness. When we arrived at this place, I
vainly expected him to fulfil his engagements, but was at last fatally
convinced he had never intended to make me his wife, or if he had once
thought of it, his mind was now altered. I scorned to claim from his
humanity what I could not obtain from his love: I was conscious of
having forfeited the only gem that could render me respectable in the
eye of the world. I locked my sorrows in my own bosom, and bore my
injuries in silence. But how shall I proceed? This man, this cruel
Montraville, for whom I sacrificed honour, happiness, and the love of my
friends, no longer looks on me with affection, but scorns the credulous
girl whom his art has made miserable. Could you see me, my dear parents,
without society, without friends, stung with