“The guilt of the unfortunate king was clear.”—“The horrid murders and massacres were partial evils.”—“The French Revolution was destined to break the fetters of mankind throughout the world.” This and far worse garbage than this, was the reader compelled to wade through in the various publications of this perverted writer. All this is wondrous pitiful, but pity ’tis, ’tis true. When accident first introduced our Sexagenarian to H. M. W. she was young and lovely, ingenuous and innocent. By the proper exercise of her talents, she might have been an ornament to society, and useful to the world. Her decline of life might have tranquilly been passed under the shadow of her own vine, honoured and beloved. If she exists, she can have no other reflections but those which must be truly mortifying. She cannot fail now to be sensible, that she deserted substance for shadow, real liberty for ideal dreams about its phantom, a long list of honourable friends, comprehending some of the fairest names among us—for whom?—for Mrs. W., Thomas Paine, Danton, for her friend, or her lover, or her husband, (by whichever name she wishes him to be distinguished) for Ramond, Madame Roland, O’Connor, Santerre, &c. &c. To finish in a word, she exchanged the prospect of honourable fame, for neglect and contempt. There still remain a few more of this class of females, with whom an introduction took place, by the means of common friends engaged in literary pursuits. It may be as well to bring them together and get rid of them at once. Recollection does not regard them with complacency. Indeed, they were so amiable on first acquaintance, (and if the expression may be allowed, they so degenerated afterwards) that memory is oppressed with looking back upon them. Another disciple of this fantastic school was— M⸺ H⸺, who really, when first known, appeared lively, ingenuous, innocent, and interesting. It is not pretended to say who or what perverted her principles, but she was a friend of the Wolstoncroft, a follower of Helvetius, and a great admirer of Rousseau. As ill luck would have it, she must needs write a novel, and as her evil genius prompted, was induced to publish it. What thinkest thou, gentle reader, was the outline of the story? Why this:— The heroine, Emma Courtney Hight, falls in love, desperately in love, with a youth whom she had never seen; at length, she encounters him—worse and worse!—Passion now boils over, and she exercises every female artifice to captivate his affection in return. But it will not do; all her efforts prove ineffectual. What’s next to be done? Why take him by storm; or, which is much the same thing, she voluntarily offers herself to live with him as his mistress. Make me mistress to the man I love.