 [H] er attachment to Mr. Barbauld was the illusion of a romantic fancy — not of a tender heart. Had her true affections been early called forth by a more genial home atmosphere, she would never have allowed herself to be caught by crazy demonstrations of amorous rapture, set off with theatrical French manners, or have conceived of such exaggerated passion as a safe foundation on which to raise the sober structure of domestic happiness. My father ascribed that ill-starred union in great part to the baleful influence of [Jean-Jacques Rousseau's]' Nouvelle Heloise, 'Mr. B. impersonating St. Preux. [Barbauld] was informed by a true friend that he had experienced one attack of insanity, and was urged to break off the engagement on that account. —' Then 'answered she,' if I were now to disappoint him, he would certainly go mad. ' To this there could be no reply; and with a kind of desperate generosity she rushed upon her melancholy destiny.
