To the utter astonishment of every one and disclosing an unparalleled revolting case of parental heartlessness, William B. Mead, the father of Olivia, induced his daughter to quit the path of virtue, and to enter a fashionable house of prostitution in Rochester, then kept by Madame Annie Eagan; and, as the beautiful but frail defendant states, the paternal originator of her being told her that as she was inclined to be "gay" she might as well live in a "gay" house as not; and he took her there, making arrangements with the proprietress for her stay, and she became one of the inmates, conforming to the requirements and regulations of the situation. The plaintiff, hearing this heart-breaking intelligence, made every effort to induce the defendant to leave her life of debauchery, and portrayed the misery, disease, and prospects of early death consequent upon such a life; but it appeared to be time wasted to talk to her, as she was evidently too far gone to become awakened to any desire for reformation. Subsequently, learning that her devoted and much injured husband had determined to avail himself of the law to get free from the legal obligation which bound him to one lost past redemption, the defendant addressed to the plaintiff two letters, of which the following are copies, and which but too plainly admit the extent of the degradation and crime into which the unhappy, and lost, abandoned wife had plunged herself: "ROCHESTER, . . . . . "My dear husband,--With a sad and breaking heart I sit down to communicate my thoughts and feelings to you; but oh, if I could tell you how I feel I should be happy, but words can never express or tongue tell. I believe that I am at present one of the most unhappy, as well as unfortunate and miserable beings, that ever existed, but I can only feel to say that it was God's curse upon me, and that I know that I am deserving all, so I do not murmur. But, oh! the tears I have shed for my past follies would make an ocean; and to-night, if I was only laid in my grave, is my wish. John, what shall I say? In the first place, can you ever forgive me? for God alone knows that I am penitent if there ever was one in the world. I can hardly hope to be forgiven, for my sins are almost beyond redemption, but God will forgive at the eleventh hour, and I want to be forgiven and reform. I will reform. I have seen enough, and now I want to settle down and live a virtuous and respectable life the rest of my days and die a happy death, for I have spent many an hour of late in deep thought, and it is not an impulse of the moment, but I have spent hours and days and months, and conclude that this is no life for me to lead. I am cured of my follies and I want to reform. Now, John, I have used you like a dog. I can say nothing for myself only that I am sorry, and have suffered enough, and have had my just dues. But, oh, John, forgive me! I could never do enough for you, and though I