Your reflections on the adventure of the Chevalier are very just. It is not the first of the kind I have heard; and as you say, women, who allow themselves to criticise the conduct of men, and accuse them of playing ungenteely at cards, or of want of courage, well deserve the little respect men in general shew them.

You desire me, my dear friend, to give you a general idea of my plan of education. My first principle is to employ all my attention to preserve my girl from a fault common to almost all women, and which leads to so many others, coquetry. You say, my dear friend, that you have been a coquette. It is a character you have no pretensions to. The people with whom you have lived, custom, and bad examples, might have given you the appearance of it. But you were only so at times, and through caprice, not from your real sentiments; as you have always preserved your integrity and innocence of heart. This odious vice contracts the mind, renders it susceptible of the most ridiculous vexations. It extinguishes sensibility, and leads us into the most frightful errors. A coquette has neither principles nor virtue. She takes a cruel delight in inspiring sentiments she is determined to take no part in. To give pain to, and prevent the fortunate union of two tender and gentle lovers, is the least of her guilty frolics. She is by turns delivered up to malice, and to the meanest jealousy. She would subject every one to her humour, and would sacrifice to that desire, without remorse, both decency and virtue. This unruly passion, produced by the corruption of the heart, and the licentiousness of the imagination, when carried to excess, has no curb that will check it. By an artful dexterity, you may always lead a coquette beyond the bounds she had prescribed herself. You have only to irritate and mortify her pride, and you will conquer. But it is a contemptible victory, which is not worth the trouble it costs. There are some vices for which we must be inspired with a detestation.