is that to the Love one is so solemnly to vow a husband? And should I, after that vow, behold an object whom I could indeed have loved?—
A Duke de Nemours! said she, taking up the Princess of Cleves, that unluckily lay on my table—Ah, my Henrietta, have I found you out!—That princess, my dear, was a silly woman. Her story is written with dangerous elegance; but the whole foundation of her distresses was an idle one. To fansy herself in Love with a mere stranger, because he appeared agreeable at a Ball, when she lived happily with a worthy husband, was mistaking mere Liking for Love, and combating all her Life after with a chimera of her own creating. I do not tell you it is impossible for you to meet hereafter with persons in some external accomplishments superior to the deserving man whose wish is to make you happy: But will you suffer your eye to lead you into misery then, when

an additional tie of duty forbids its wandering? If so, I must suppose it would equally mislead you now. Tell me, Henrietta, What think you of those girls, who blast all the hopes of their fond parents, by eloping with a well-drest captain, a spruce dancingmaster, or a handsome player?
She struck me dumb with shame.
You see then, my dear, the filial duty, the duty of a reasonable and modest woman, were she even without parents or friends, forbids fancy to be her guide, as much as the sacred engagement of marriage forbids it to be her tormenter.
But have there not been instances, said I; do not you and I know one [We did] in this neighbourhood, where a truly good woman was made miserable for years, by having her heart and hand differently engaged?
Mrs. Eggleton reminded me, that there were, in that case, such extremely particular circumstances, as made it absurd to form from thence a general judgment. In almost every thing, said she, we act but upon probabilities; and one exception out of a thousand ought never to determine us. Even this exception in the case you hint at, is owing, in some measure, to a pitiable misguided imagination. Let us take our rules, my dear, from plain common sense, and not from poetical refinements.
Say, my children, said the condescending parent, did my friend argue well?
I think, madam, answered Kitty, she argued poor Love out of doors. She did not seem to allow the possibility of any person's being in Love