LETTER I.
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TO MISS LUCY FREEMAN.
New-Haven.
An unu&longs;ual &longs;en&longs;ation po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;es my
brea&longs;t; a &longs;en&longs;ation, which I once thought
could never pervade it on any occa&longs;ion whatever.
It is plea&longs;ure; plea&longs;ure, my dear Lucy,
on leaving my paternal roof! Could you have
believed that the darling child of an indulgent
and dearly beloved mother would feel a gleam
of joy at leaving her? but &longs;o it is. The melancholy,
the gloom, the condolence, which surrounded
me for a month after the death of
Mr. Haly, had depre&longs;&longs;ed my &longs;pirits, and palled
every enjoyment of life. Mr. Haly was a man
of worth; a man of real and &longs;ub&longs;tantial merit.
He is therefore deeply, and ju&longs;tly regreted by
his friends; he was cho&longs;en to be a future
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guardian, and companion for me, and was, therefore,
beloved by mine. As their choice; as a good
man, and a faithful friend, I e&longs;teemed him. But
no one acquainted with the di&longs;parity of our
tempers and di&longs;po&longs;itions, our views and designs,
can &longs;uppo&longs;e my heart much engaged in
the alliance. Both nature and education had
in&longs;tilled into my mind an implicit obedience to
the will and de&longs;ires of my parents. To them,
of cour&longs;e, I &longs;acrificed my fancy in this affair;
determined that my rea&longs;on &longs;hould coucur with
theirs; and on that to ri&longs;k my future happine&longs;s.
I was the more encouraged, as I &longs;aw, from our
fir&longs;t acquaintance, his declining health; and
expected, that the event would prove as it has.
Think not, however, that I rejoice in his death.
No; far be it from me; for though I believe
that I never felt the pa&longs;&longs;ion of love for Mr.
Haly; yet a habit of conver&longs;ing with him,
of hearing daily the mo&longs;t virtuous, tender,
and affectionate &longs;entiments from his lips, inspired
emotions of the &longs;incere&longs;t friend&longs;hip, and
e&longs;teem.
He is gone. His fate is unalterably, and I
tru&longs;t, happily fixed. He lived the life, and died
the death of the righteous. O that my la&longs;t
end may be like his! This event will, I hope,
make a &longs;uitable and abiding impre&longs;&longs;ion upon
my mind; teach me the fading nature of all
&longs;ublunary enjoyments, and the little dependence
which is to be placed on earthly felicity.
Who&longs;e &longs;ituation was more agreeable; who&longs;e
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pro&longs;pects more flattering, than Mr. Haly's?
Social, dome&longs;tic, and connubial joys were
fondly anticipated, and friends, and fortune
&longs;eemed ready to crown every wi&longs;h! Yet animated
by &longs;till brighter hopes, he cheerfully bid
them all adieu. In conver&longs;ation with me, but
a few days before his exit; “There is” &longs;aid
he, “but one link in the chain of life, undissevered;
that, my dear Eliza, is my attachment
to you. But God is wife and good in all
his ways; and in this, as in all other re&longs;pects,
I would cheerfully &longs;ay, His will be done.”
You, my friend, were witne&longs;s to the concluding
&longs;cene; and therefore, I need not describe
it.
I &longs;hall only add, on the &longs;ubject, that if I have
wi&longs;dom and prudence to follow his advice and
example; if his prayers for my temporal and
eternal welfare be heard and an&longs;wered, I &longs;hall
be happy indeed.
The di&longs;po&longs;ition of mind, which I now feel,
I wi&longs;h to cultivate. Calm, placid, and &longs;erene;
thoughtful of my duty, and benevolent to all
around me, I wi&longs;h for no other connection than
that of friend&longs;hip.
This Letter is all egoti&longs;m, I have even neglected
to mention the re&longs;pectable, and happy
friends, with whom I re&longs;ide; but will do it in
my next. Write &longs;oon, and often; and believe
me &longs;incerely yours,
Eliza Wharton.
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LETTER II.
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TO THE SAME.
New-Haven.
Time, which effaces every occa&longs;ional
impre&longs;&longs;ion, I find gradually di&longs;pelling the pleasing
pen&longs;ivene&longs;s, which the melancholy event,
the &longs;ubject of my la&longs;t, had diffu&longs;ed over my
mind. Naturally cheerful, volatile, and unreflecting,
the oppo&longs;ite di&longs;po&longs;ition, I have found
to contain &longs;ources of enjoyment, which I was
before uncon&longs;cious of po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ing.
My friends, here, are the picture of conjugal
felicity. The &longs;ituation is delightful. The visiting
parties perfectly agreeable. Every thing
tends to facilitate the return of my accu&longs;tomed
vivacity. I have written to my mother, and
received an an&longs;wer. She prai&longs;es my fortitude,
and admires the philo&longs;ophy which I have exerted,
under, what &longs;he calls, my heavy bereavement.
Poor woman! She little thinks that
my heart was untouched; and when that is
unaffected, other &longs;entiments and pa&longs;&longs;ions make
but a tran&longs;ient impre&longs;&longs;ion. I have been, for a
month or two, excluded from the gay world;
and, indeed, fancied my&longs;elf &longs;oaring above it.
It is now that I begin to de&longs;cend, and find my
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natural propen&longs;ity for mixing in the bu&longs;y &longs;cenes
and active plea&longs;ures of life returning. I have
received your letter; your moral lecture rather;
and be a&longs;&longs;ured, my dear, your monitorial
le&longs;&longs;ons and advice &longs;hall be attended to. I believe
I &longs;hall never again re&longs;ume tho&longs;e airs,
which you term coquetti&longs;h, but which I think
de&longs;erve a &longs;ofter appellation; as they proceed
from an innocent heart, and are the effu&longs;ions
of a youthful, and cheerful mind. We are all
envited to &longs;pend the day, to morrow, at Col.
Farington's, who has an elegant &longs;eat in this
neighbourhood. Both he and his Lady are
&longs;trangers to me; but the friends, by whom I
am introduced, will procure me a welcome reception.
Adieu.
Eliza Wharton.
LETTER III.
TO THE SAME.
New-Haven.
Is it time for me to talk again of con
que&longs;ts? or mu&longs;t I only enjoy them in &longs;ilence?
I mu&longs;t write to you the impul&longs;es of my mind;
or I mu&longs;t not write at all. You are not &longs;o
moro&longs;e, as to wi&longs;h me to become a nun, would
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our country, and religion allow it. I ventured
ye&longs;terday to throw a&longs;ide the habiliments
of mourning, and to array my&longs;elf in
tho&longs;e more adapted to my ta&longs;te. We arrived at
Col. Farington's about one o'clock. The
Col. handed me out of the carriage, and introduced
me to a large company a&longs;&longs;embled in
the Hall. My name was pronounced with an
empha&longs;is; and I was received with the mo&longs;t
flattering tokens of re&longs;pect. When we were
&longs;ummoned to dinner, a young gentleman in a
clerical dre&longs;s offered me his hand, and led
me to a table furni&longs;hed with an elegant, and
&longs;umptuous repa&longs;t, with more gallantry, and
addre&longs;s than commonly fall to the &longs;hare of
&longs;tudents. He &longs;at oppo&longs;ite me at table; and
whenever I rai&longs;ed my eye, it caught his. The
ca&longs;e, and politene&longs;s of his manners, with his
particular attention to me, rai&longs;ed my curio&longs;ity,
and induced me to a&longs;k Mrs. Laiton who he
was? She told me that his name was Boyer;
that he was de&longs;cended from a worthy family;
had pa&longs;&longs;ed with honor and applau&longs;e through
the univer&longs;ity where he was educated; had
&longs;ince &longs;tudied divinity with &longs;ucce&longs;s; and now
had a call to &longs;ettle as a mini&longs;ter in one of the
fir&longs;t pari&longs;hes in a neighbouring &longs;tate.
The gates of a &longs;pacious garden were thrown
open, at this in&longs;tant; and I accepted with avidity
an invitation to walk in it. Mirth, and hilarity
prevailed, and the moments fled on downy
wings; while we traced the beauties of art
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and nature, &longs;o liberally di&longs;played, and &longs;o happily
blended in this delightful retreat. An
enthu&longs;ia&longs;tic admirer of &longs;cenes like the&longs;e, I had
rambled &longs;ome way from the company, when
I was followed by Mrs. Laiton to offer her condolence
on the &longs;uppo&longs;ed lo&longs;s, which I had
&longs;u&longs;tained, in the death of Mr. Haly. My heart
ro&longs;e again&longs;t the woman, &longs;o ignorant of human
nature, as to think &longs;uch conver&longs;ation acceptable
at &longs;uch a time. I made her little reply,
and waved the &longs;ubject, though I could not immediately
di&longs;pel the gloom which it excited.
The ab&longs;urdity of a cu&longs;tom, authori&longs;ing people
at a fir&longs;t interview to revive the idea of
griefs, which time has lulled; perhaps obliterated,
is intolerable. To have our enjoyments
arre&longs;ted by the empty compliments of unthinking
per&longs;ons, for no other rea&longs;on, than a compliance
with fa&longs;hion is to be treated in a manner
which the laws of humanity forbid.
We were &longs;oon joined by the gentlemen, who
each &longs;elected his partner, and the walk wa&longs;
prolonged.
Mr. Boyer offered me his arm, which I gladly
accepted; happy to be relieved from the
impertinence of my female companion. We
returned to tea, after which the ladies &longs;ung,
and played by turns on the Piano Forte ; while
&longs;ome of the gentlemen accompanied with the
flute, the clarinet, and the violin, forming
in the whole a very decent concert. An elegant
&longs;upper, and half an hour'&longs; conver&longs;ation
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after it, clo&longs;ed the evening; when we returned
home, delighted with our entertainment and
plea&longs;ed with our&longs;elves and each other. My
imagination is &longs;o impre&longs;&longs;ed with the fe&longs;tive &longs;cenes
of the day, that Morpheus waves his ebon-wand
in vain. The evening is fine beyond the power
of de&longs;cription! all nature is &longs;erene and
harmonious; in perfect uni&longs;on with my pre&longs;ent
di&longs;po&longs;ition of mind. I have been taking a retrospect
of my pa&longs;t life; and a few juvenile follies
excepted, which I tru&longs;t the recording angel has
blotted out with the tear of charity, find an approving
con&longs;cience, and a heart at ea&longs;e. Fortune,
indeed, has not been very liberal of her
gifts to me; but I pre&longs;ume on a large &longs;tock in
the bank of friend&longs;hip, which, united with
health and innocence, give me &longs;ome plea&longs;ing
anticiapation&longs; of future felicity.
Whatgever my fate may be, I &longs;hall always
continue your
Eliza Wharton.
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LETTER IV.
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TO MR. SELBY.
New-Haven.
You a&longs;k me, my friend, whether
I am in pur&longs;uit of truth, or a lady? I
an&longs;wer, both. I hope and tru&longs;t they are
united; and really expect to find truth and the
virtues and graces be&longs;ides in a fair form. If
you mean by the fir&longs;t part of your que&longs;tion,
whether I am &longs;earching into the &longs;ublimer doctrines
of religion? To the&longs;e I would by no
means be inattentive; but to be hone&longs;t, my
&longs;tudies of that kind have been very much interrupted
of late. The re&longs;pectable circle of acquaintances
with which I am honored here, has
rendered my vi&longs;its very frequent and numerous.
In one of the&longs;e I was introduced to Mi&longs;s
Eliza Wharton; a young lady who&longs;e elegant
per&longs;on, accompli&longs;hed mind, and poli&longs;hed manners
have been much celebrated. Her fame has
often reached me; but, as the queen of Sheba
&longs;aid to Solomon, the half was not told me.
You will think, that I talk in the &longs;tyle of a lover.
I confe&longs;s it, nor am I a&longs;hamed to rank myself
among the profe&longs;&longs;ed admirers of this lovely
fair one. I am in no danger, however, of
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becoming an enthu&longs;ia&longs;tic devotee. No, I mean to
act upon ju&longs;t and rational principles. Expecting
&longs;oon to &longs;ettle in an eligible &longs;ituation, if &longs;uch
a companion as I am per&longs;uaded &longs;he will make
me, may fall to my lot, I &longs;hall deem my&longs;elf as happy
as this &longs;tate of imperfection will admit. She
is now re&longs;ident at Gen. Richman's. The general
and his lady are her particular friends.
They are warm in her prai&longs;es. They tell me,
however, that &longs;he is naturally of a gay disposition.
No matter for that; it is an agreeable
quality, where there is di&longs;cretion &longs;ufficient for
its regulation. A cheerful friend, much more
a cheerful wife is peculiarly nece&longs;&longs;ary to a person
of a &longs;tudious and &longs;edentary life. They dispel
the gloom of retirement, and exhilerate
the &longs;pirits depre&longs;&longs;ed by inten&longs;e application.
She was formerly addre&longs;&longs;ed by the late Mr.
Haly of Bo&longs;ton. He was not, it &longs;eems, the man
of her choice; but her parents were extremely
partial to him, and wi&longs;hed the connection to
take place. She, like a dutiful child, &longs;acrificed
her own inclination to their plea&longs;ure, &longs;o far as
to acquie&longs;ce in his vi&longs;its. This &longs;he more ea&longs;ily
accompli&longs;hed, as his health, which declined
from their fir&longs;t acquaintance, led her to &longs;uppo&longs;e,
as the event has proved, that he would not live
to enter into any la&longs;ting engagements. Her
father, who died &longs;ome months before him, invited
him to re&longs;ide at his hou&longs;e, for the benefit
of a change of air, agreeably to the advice of
his phy&longs;icians. She attended him during his
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la&longs;t illne&longs;s, with all the care and a&longs;&longs;iduity of a
nur&longs;e; and with all the &longs;ympathi&longs;ing tenderness
of a &longs;i&longs;ter.
I have had &longs;everal opportunities of conversing
with her. She di&longs;covers an elevated mind,
a ready apprehen&longs;ion, and an accurate knowledge
of the various &longs;ubjects which have been
brought into view. I have not yet introduced the
favorite &longs;ubject of my heart. Indeed &longs;he &longs;eems
&longs;tudiou&longs;ly to avoid noticing any expre&longs;&longs;ion which
leads towards it. But &longs;he mu&longs;t hear it &longs;oon. I
am &longs;ure of the favor and intere&longs;t of the friends
with whom &longs;he re&longs;ides. They have promi&longs;ed to
&longs;peak previou&longs;ly in my behalf. I am to call as
if accidentally this afternoon, ju&longs;t as they are
to ride abroad. They are to refer me to Mi&longs;s
Wharton for entertainment, till their return.
What a delightful opportunity for my purpo&longs;e!
I am counting the hours, nay, the very moments.
Adieu. You &longs;hall &longs;oon hear again from your
mo&longs;t obedient,
J. Boyer.
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LETTER V.
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TO MISS LUCY FREEMAN.
New-Haven.
These bewitching charms of mine
have a tendency to keep my mind in a &longs;tate of
perturbation. I am &longs;o pe&longs;tered with the&longs;e admirers;
not that I am &longs;o very hand&longs;ome neither;
but I dont know how it is, I am certainly
very much the ta&longs;te of the other &longs;ex. Followed,
flattered, and care&longs;&longs;ed; I have cards and
compliments in profu&longs;ion. But I mu&longs;t try to
be &longs;erious; for I have, alas! one &longs;erious lover.
As I promi&longs;ed you to be particular in my writing,
I &longs;uppo&longs;e I mu&longs;t proceed methodically.
Ye&longs;terday we had a party to dine. Mr. Boyer
was of the number. His attention was immediately
engro&longs;&longs;ed; and I &longs;oon perceived that
every word, every action, and every look was
&longs;tudied to gain my approbation. As he &longs;at
next me at dinner, his a&longs;&longs;iduity and politene&longs;s
were plea&longs;ing; and as we walked together afterwards,
his conver&longs;ation was improving. Mine
was &longs;entimental and &longs;edate; perfectly adapted
to the ta&longs;te of my gallant. Nothing, however,
was &longs;aid particularly expre&longs;&longs;ive of his apparent
wi&longs;hes. I &longs;tudiou&longs;ly avoided every kind of
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discourse which might lead to this topic. I wi&longs;h
not for a declaration from any one, e&longs;pecially
from one whom I could not repul&longs;e and do
not intend to encourage at pre&longs;ent. His conversation,
&longs;o &longs;imilar to what I had often heard
from a &longs;imilar character, brought a decea&longs;ed
friend to mind, and rendered me &longs;omewhat pensive.
I retired directly after &longs;upper. Mr. Boyer
had ju&longs;t taken leave.
Mrs. Richman came into my chamber as
&longs;he was pa&longs;&longs;ing to her own. Excu&longs;e my intrusion,
Eliza, &longs;aid &longs;he; I thought I would ju&longs;t &longs;tep
in and a&longs;k you if you have pa&longs;&longs;ed a plea&longs;ant day?
Perfectly &longs;o, madam; and I have now retired
to protract the enjoyment by recollection.
What, my dear, is your opinion of our favorite
Mr. Boyer? Declaring him your favorite,
madam, is &longs;ufficient to render me partial to him.
But to be frank, independent of that, I think
him an agreeable man. Your heart, I presume,
is now free? Yes, and I hope it
will long remain &longs;o. Your friends, my dear,
&longs;olicitous for your welfare, wi&longs;h to &longs;ee you suitably
and agreeably connected. I hope my
friends will never again interpo&longs;e in my concnerns
of that nature. You, madam, have
have ever known my heart, are &longs;en&longs;ible, that had
the Almighty &longs;pared life, in a certain in&longs;tance
I mu&longs;t have &longs;acrificed my own happine&longs;s, or incurred
their cen&longs;ure. I am young, gay, volatile.
A melancholy event has lately extricated
me from tho&longs;e &longs;hackles, which parental
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authority had impo&longs;ed on my mind. Let me then
enjoy that freedom which I &longs;o highly prize. Let
me have opportunity, unbia&longs;&longs;ed by opinion, to
gratify my natural di&longs;po&longs;ition in a participation
of tho&longs;e plea&longs;ures which youth and innocence
afford. Of &longs;uch plea&longs;ures, no one, my dear,
would wi&longs;h to deprive you. But beware, Eliza!—
Though &longs;trowed with flowers, when contemplated
by your lively imagination, it is, after
all, a &longs;lippery, thorny path. The round of fashionable
di&longs;&longs;ipation is dangerous. A phantom
is often pur&longs;ued, which leaves its deluded
votary the real form of wretchedne&longs;s. She
&longs;poke with an empha&longs;is, and taking up her
candle, wi&longs;hed me a good night. I had not
power to return the compliment. Something
&longs;eemingly prophetic in her looks and expressions,
ca&longs;t a momentary gloom upon my mind!
But I de&longs;pi&longs;e tho&longs;e contracted ideas which consine
virtue to a cell. I have no notion of becoming
a reclu&longs;e. Mrs. Richman has ever
been a beloved friend of mine; yet I always
thought her rather prudi&longs;h. Adieu,
Eliza Wharton.
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LETTER VI.
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TO THE SAME.
New-Haven.
I had &longs;carcely &longs;eated my&longs;elf at the
breakfa&longs;t table this morning, when a &longs;ervant
entered with a card of invitation from Major
Sanford, reque&longs;ting the happine&longs;s of my hand
this evening, at a ball, given by Mr. Atkins,
about three miles from this. I &longs;hewed the billet
to Mrs. Richman, &longs;aying, I have not much
acquaintance with this gentleman, madam; but
I &longs;uppo&longs;e his character &longs;ufficiently re&longs;pectable to
warrant an affirmative an&longs;wer. He is a gay
man, my dear, to &longs;ay no more, and &longs;uch are the
companions we wi&longs;h, when we join a party avowedly
formed for plea&longs;ure. I then &longs;tepped
into my apartment, wrote an an&longs;wer, and dispatched
the &longs;ervant. When I returned to the
parlour, &longs;omething di&longs;approbating appeared in
the countenances of both my friends. I endeavored
without &longs;eeming to ob&longs;erve, to di&longs;&longs;ipate it
by chit chat; but they were better plea&longs;ed with
each other than with me; and &longs;oon ri&longs;ing,
walked into the garden, and left me to amu&longs;e
my&longs;elf alone. My eyes followed them through
the window. Happy pair, &longs;aid I. Should it
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ever be my fate to wear the hymenial chain,
may I be thus united! The pure&longs;t and mo&longs;t ardent
affection, the greate&longs;t con&longs;onance of ta&longs;te
and di&longs;po&longs;ition, and the mo&longs;t congenial virtue
and wi&longs;hes di&longs;tingui&longs;h this lovely couple. Health
and wealth, with every attendant ble&longs;&longs;ing preside
over their favored dwelling, and &longs;hed their
benign influence without alloy. The consciousness
of exciting their di&longs;plea&longs;ure gave me pain;
but I con&longs;oled my&longs;elf with the idea that it was
ill founded.
They &longs;hould con&longs;ider, &longs;aid I, that they have
no &longs;atisfaction to look for beyond each other.
There every enjoyment is centered; but I
am a poor &longs;olitary being, who need &longs;ome amusement
beyond what I can &longs;upply my&longs;elf. The
mind, after being confined at home for a while,
&longs;ends the imagination abroad in que&longs;t of new
trea&longs;ures, and the body may as well accompany
it, for ought I can &longs;ee.
General Richman and lady have ever appeared
&longs;olicitous to promote my happine&longs;s
&longs;ince I have re&longs;ided with them. They have urged
my acceptance of invitations to join parties,
though they have not been much them&longs;elves,
of late; as Mrs. Richman's pre&longs;ent circumstances
render her fond of retirement. What
rea&longs;on can be a&longs;&longs;igned for their apparent reluctance
to this evening's entertainment is to
me incomprehen&longs;ible; but I &longs;hall apply the
chymical powers of friend&longs;hip, and extract the
&longs;ecret from Mrs. Richman to morrow if not
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before. Adieu. I am now &longs;ummoned to dinner,
and after that &longs;hall be engaged in preparation
till the wi&longs;hed for hour of hilarity and
mirth engro&longs;&longs;es every faculty of your
Eliza Wharton.
LETTER VII.
TO MR. SELBY.
New-Haven.
Divines need not declaim, nor philosophers
expatiate on the di&longs;appointments of
human life! Are they not legibly written on every
page of our exi&longs;tence? Are they not predominantly
prevalent over every period of our lives?
When I clo&longs;ed my la&longs;t letter to you, my heart
exulted in the plea&longs;ing anticipation of promi&longs;ed
bli&longs;s; my wi&longs;hes danced on the light breezes of
hope, and my imagination dared to arre&longs;t the
attention, and even claim a return of affection
from the lovely Eliza Wharton! But imagination
only, it has proved; and that da&longs;hed with
the bitter ranklings of jealou&longs;y and &longs;u&longs;picion.
But to re&longs;ume my narrative. I reached the
man&longs;ion of my friend about four. I was disagreeably
&longs;truck with the appearance of a
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[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]
carriage at the door, as it rai&longs;ed an idea of company
which might fru&longs;trate my plan; but &longs;till more
di&longs;agreeable were my &longs;en&longs;ations, when, on entering
the parlour, I found Major Sanford evidently
in a waiting po&longs;ture. I was very politely
received; and when Eliza entered the room
with a brilliance of appearance and gaiety of
manner, which I had never before connected
with her character, I ro&longs;e, as did Major Sanford
who offered his hand, and led her to a chair.
I forgot to &longs;it down again, but &longs;tood transfixed
by the pangs of di&longs;appointment. Mi&longs;s Wharton
appeared &longs;omewhat confu&longs;ed; but &longs;oon resuming
her vivacity, de&longs;ired me to be &longs;eated;
inquired after my health, and made &longs;ome common
place remarks on the weather. Then apologizing
for leaving me, gave her hand again
to Major Sanford, who had previou&longs;ly ri&longs;en, and
reminded her that the time and their engagements
made it nece&longs;&longs;ary to leave the good company;
which, indeed, they both appeared very
willing to do. General Richman and lady took
every method in their power to remove my chagrin,
and atone for the ab&longs;ence of my fair one,
but ill did they &longs;ucceed. They told me that
Mi&longs;s Wharton had not the mo&longs;t di&longs;tant idea of
my vi&longs;iting there, this afternoon; much le&longs;s of
the de&longs;ign of my vi&longs;it; that for &longs;ome months
together, &longs;he had been lately confined by the
&longs;ickne&longs;s of Mr. Haly, whom &longs;he attended during
the whole of his la&longs;t illne&longs;s; which confinement
had eventually increa&longs;ed her de&longs;ire of
-- 023 --
[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
indulging her natural di&longs;po&longs;ition for gaiety. She
had, however, they &longs;aid, an excellent heart and
reflecting mind, a great &longs;hare of &longs;en&longs;ibility, and
a temper peculiarly formed for the enjoyments
of &longs;ocial life. But this gentleman, madam, who
is her gallant this evening—is his character
unexceptionable? Will a lady of delicacy associate
with an immoral, not to &longs;ay profligate
man? The rank and fortune of Major Sanford,
&longs;aid Mrs. Richman, procure him re&longs;pect.
His &longs;pecious manners render him acceptable
in public company; but I mu&longs;t own that
he is not the per&longs;on with whom I wi&longs;h my cousin
to be connected, even for a moment. She
never con&longs;ulted me &longs;o little on any &longs;ubject as
on that of his card this morning. Before I had
time to object, &longs;he di&longs;mi&longs;&longs;ed the &longs;ervant; and I
forbore to de&longs;troy her expected happine&longs;s, by
acquainting her with my di&longs;approbation of her
partner. Her omi&longs;&longs;ion was not de&longs;ign; it was
juvenile indi&longs;cretion. We mu&longs;t, my dear &longs;ir,
continued &longs;he, look with a candid eye on &longs;uch
excentricities. Faults, not foibles, require the
&longs;everity of cen&longs;ure. Far, madam, be it from me
to cen&longs;ure any conduct, which as yet I have observed
in Mi&longs;s Wharton; &longs;he has too great an
intere&longs;t in my heart to admit of that.
We now went into more general conversation.
Tea was &longs;erved; and I &longs;oon after took
leave. General Richman, however, in&longs;i&longs;ted on
my dining with him on Thur&longs;day, which I
promi&longs;ed. And here I am again over head
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[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
and ears in the hypo. A di&longs;ea&longs;e, you will &longs;ay,
peculiar to &longs;tudents. I believe it peculiar to
lovers; and with that cla&longs;s I mu&longs;t now rank
my&longs;elf, though I did not know, until this evening,
that I was &longs;o much engaged as I find I
really am. I knew, indeed, that I was extremely
plea&longs;ed with this amiablé girl; that I was
intere&longs;ted in her favor; that I was happier in
her company than any where el&longs;e, with innumerable
other circum&longs;tances, which would have
told me the truth, had I examined them. But
be that as it may; I hope, and tru&longs;t that I
am, and ever &longs;hall be a rea&longs;onable creature;
and not &longs;uffer my judgment to be mi&longs;led by
the operations of a blind pa&longs;&longs;ion.
I &longs;hall now lay a&longs;ide this &longs;ubject, endeavor to
dive&longs;t even my imagination of the charmer, and
return until Thur&longs;day, to the contemplation of
tho&longs;e truths and duties, which have a happy
tendency to calm the jarring elements which
compo&longs;e our mortal frame. Adieu.
J. Boyer.
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LETTER VIII.
[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON.
New-Haven.
We had an elegant ball, la&longs;t night,
Charles; and what is &longs;till more to the ta&longs;te of
your old friend, I had an elegant partner; one
exactly calculated to plea&longs;e my fancy; gay,
volatile, apparently thoughtle&longs;s of every thing
but pre&longs;ent enjoyment. It was Mi&longs;s Eliza
Wharton, a young lady, who&longs;e agreeable person,
poli&longs;hed manners, and refined talents, have
rendered her the toa&longs;t of the country around
for the&longs;e two years; though for half that time
&longs;he has had a clerical lover impo&longs;ed on her
by her friends; for I am told it was not agreeable
to her inclination. By this &longs;ame clerical
lover of hers, &longs;he was for &longs;everal months confined
as a nur&longs;e. But his death has happily
relieved her, and &longs;he now returns to the world
with redoubled lu&longs;tre. At pre&longs;ent &longs;he is a vi&longs;itor
to Mrs. Richman, who is a relation. I fir&longs;t &longs;aw
her on a party of plea&longs;ure at Mr. Frazier's
where we walked, talked, &longs;ung, and danced together.
I thought her cou&longs;in watched her with
a jealous eye; for &longs;he is, you mu&longs;t know, a
prude: and immaculate, more &longs;o than you or I
-- 026 --
[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
mu&longs;t be the man who claims admi&longs;&longs;ion to her society.
But I fancy this young lady is a coquette;
and if &longs;o, I &longs;hall avenge my &longs;ex, by retaliating
the mi&longs;chiefs, &longs;he meditates again&longs;t us. Not
that I have any ill de&longs;igns; but only to play
off her own artillery, by u&longs;ing a little unmeaning
gallantry. And let her beware of the confequences.
A young clergyman came in at
Gen. Richman's ye&longs;terday, while I was waiting
for Eliza, who was much more cordially
received by the general and his lady, than was
your humble &longs;ervant: but I lay that up.
When &longs;he entered the room, an air of mutual
embarra&longs;ment was evident. The lady recovered
her a&longs;&longs;urance much more ea&longs;ily than the
gentleman. I am ju&longs;t going to ride, and &longs;hall
make it in my way to call and inquire after the
health of my dulcinea. Therefore, adieu for the
pre&longs;ent.
Peter Sanford.
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LETTER IX.
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
TO MISS LUCY FREEMAN.
New-Haven.
I am not &longs;o happy to day in the recollection
of la&longs;t evening's entertainment, as I
was in the enjoyment.
The explanation which I promi&longs;ed you from
Mrs. Richman ye&longs;terday, I could not obtain.
When I went down to dinner, &longs;ome friends of
General Richman's had accidentally dropped
in, which precluded all particular conver&longs;ation.
I retired &longs;oon to dre&longs;s, and &longs;aw Mrs. Richman
no more, till I was informed that Major Sanford
waited for me. But I was &longs;urpri&longs;ed on going
into the parlour to find Mr. Boyer there. I
blu&longs;hed and &longs;tammered; but I know not why;
for certain I am, that I neither love nor fear the
good man yet, whatever I may do &longs;ome future
day. I would not be under&longs;tood that I do not
re&longs;pect and e&longs;teem him; for I do both. But
the&longs;e are calm pa&longs;&longs;ions, which &longs;ooth rather than
agitate the mind. It was not the con&longs;ciou&longs;ne&longs;s
of any impropriety of conduct; for I was far
from feeling any. The entertainment for
which I was prepared was &longs;uch as virtue would
not di&longs;approve, and my gallant was a man of
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[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
fortune, fa&longs;hion, and for ought I knew, of unblemished
character.
But Mr. Boyer was much more di&longs;concerted
than my&longs;elf. Indeed he did not recover his
philo&longs;ophy while I &longs;taid. I believe, by &longs;ome
hints I have received &longs;ince, that he had &longs;ome
particular views, in which he was di&longs;appointed.
Our ball had every charm which could render
a ball delightful. My partner was all ea&longs;e,
politene&longs;s, and attention; and your friend was
as much flattered and care&longs;&longs;ed as variety it&longs;elf
could wi&longs;h. We returned to General Richman's
about two. Major Sanford a&longs;ked leave
to call and inquire after my health, this morning,
and I am now expecting him. I ro&longs;e to
breakfa&longs;t. The late hour of retiring to re&longs;t had
not depre&longs;&longs;ed, but rather exhilerated my &longs;pirits.
My friends were waiting for me in the parlor.
They received me &longs;ociably, inquired after my
health, my la&longs;t evening's entertainment, the
company, &c. When, after a little pau&longs;e, Mrs.
Richman &longs;aid, and how do you like Major
Sanford, Eliza? Very well indeed, madam:
I think him a fini&longs;hed gentleman. Will you,
who are a connoi&longs;ieur, allow him that title?
No, my dear: in my opinion, he falls far below
it; &longs;ince he is deficient in one of the great
e&longs;&longs;entials of the character, and that is, virtue.
I am &longs;urpri&longs;ed, &longs;aid I: but how has he incurred
&longs;o &longs;evere a cen&longs;ure? By being a pro&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed libertine;
by having but too &longs;ucce&longs;sfully practi&longs;ed
the arts of &longs;eduction; by triumphing in the destruction
of innocence and the peace of families!
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O, why was I not informed of this before?
But, perhaps the&longs;e are old affairs; the effects
of juvenile folly; crimes of which he may have
repented, and which charity ought to obliterate.
No, my dear, they are recent facts; facts which
he dares not deny; facts for which he ought
to be bani&longs;hed from all virtuous &longs;ociety. I
&longs;hould have intimated this to you before, but
your precipitate acceptance of his invitation deprived
me of an opportunity, until it was too
late to prevent your going with him; and we
thought it be&longs;t to protract your enjoyment as
long as po&longs;&longs;ible, not doubting but your virtue
and delicacy would, in future, guard you again&longs;t
the like deception.
Mu&longs;t I then become an avowed prude at
once; and refu&longs;e him admi&longs;&longs;ion, if he call, in
compliance with the cu&longs;tomary forms? By no
means. I am &longs;en&longs;ible, that even the fal&longs;e maxims
of the world mu&longs;t be complied with in a
degree. But a man of Major Sanford's art can
ea&longs;ily di&longs;tingui&longs;h between a forbidding, and an
encouraging reception. The former may, in this
ca&longs;e, be given without any breach of the rules
of politene&longs;s. A&longs;toni&longs;hed, and mortified, I knew
not what further to &longs;ay. I had been &longs;o plea&longs;ed
with the man, that I wi&longs;hed to plead in his
favor; but virtue and prudence forbade. I
therefore ro&longs;e and retired. He is this moment,
I am told, below &longs;tairs. So that I mu&longs;t bid
you adieu, until the next po&longs;t.
Eliza Wharton.
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LETTER X.
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
TO THE SAME.
New-Haven.
Upon clo&longs;ing my la&longs;t, I walked
down, and found Major Sanford alone. He
met me at the door of the parlor; and taking
my hand with an air of affectionate tenderne&longs;s,
led me to a &longs;eat, and took one be&longs;ide me. I
believe the gloom of &longs;u&longs;picion had not entirely
for&longs;aken my brow. He appeared, however,
not to notice it; but after the compliments of
the day had pa&longs;&longs;ed, entered into an ea&longs;y
and agreeable conver&longs;ation on the plea&longs;ures of
&longs;ociety: a conver&longs;ation perfectly adapted to
my ta&longs;te, and calculated to di&longs;&longs;ipate my chagrin,
and pa&longs;s the time imperceptibly. He inquired
the place of my native abode; and having informed
him, he &longs;aid he had thoughts of purchasing
the &longs;eat of Capt. Pribble, in that neighborhood,
for his re&longs;idence; and could he be assured
of my &longs;ociety and friend&longs;hip, his resolution
would be fixed. I an&longs;wered his compliment
only by a &longs;light bow. He took leave, and
I retired to dre&longs;s for the day, being engaged to
accompany my cou&longs;in to dine at Mr. Laurence's,
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[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
a gentleman of fortune and fa&longs;hion, in this vicinity.
Mr. Laurence has but one daughter,
heire&longs;s to a large e&longs;tate, with an agreeable form,
but a countenance, which to me, indicates not
much &longs;oul. I was &longs;urpri&longs;ed in the afternoon to &longs;ee
Major Sanford alight at the gate. He entered
with the familiarity of an old acquaintance;
and, after acco&longs;ting each of the company, told
me, with a low bow, that he did not expect the
happine&longs;s of &longs;eeing me again &longs;o &longs;oon. I received
his compliment with a con&longs;cious awkwardness.
Mrs. Richman's morning lecture
&longs;till rung in my head; and her watchful eye
now traced every turn of mine, and every action
of the major's. Indeed, his a&longs;&longs;iduity was
painful to me; yet I found it impo&longs;&longs;ible to disengage
my&longs;elf a moment from him, till the
clo&longs;e of the day brought our carriage to the
door; when he handed me in, and pre&longs;&longs;ing my
hand to his lips, retired.
What &longs;hall I &longs;ay about this extraordinary man?
Shall I own to you, my friend, that he is pleasing
to me? His per&longs;on, his manners, his situation,
all combine to charm my fancy; and to
my lively imagination, &longs;trew the path of life with
flowers. What a pity, my dear Lucy, that the
graces and virtues are not oftner united! They
mu&longs;t, however, meet in the man of my choice;
and till I find &longs;uch a one, I &longs;hall continue to subscribe
my name
Eliza Wharton.
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LETTER XI.
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON.
New-Haven.
Well, Charles, I have been man
œuvring to day, a little revengefully. That,
you will &longs;ay, is out of character. So baleful a
pa&longs;&longs;ion does not ea&longs;ily find admi&longs;&longs;ion among
tho&longs;e &longs;ofter ones, which you well know I cherish.
However, I am a mere Proteus, and can
a&longs;&longs;ume any &longs;hape that will be&longs;t an&longs;wer my purpose.
I called this forenooon, as I told you I intended,
at Gen. Richman's. I waited &longs;ome time in
the parlor alone, before Eliza appeared; and
when &longs;he did appear, the di&longs;tant re&longs;erve of her
manners, and the pen&longs;ivene&longs;s of her countenance
convinced me that &longs;he had been vexed, and
I doubted not but Peter Sanford was the occasion.
Her wife cou&longs;in, I could have &longs;worn, had
been giving her a detail of the vices of her
gallant; and warning her again&longs;t the danger
of a&longs;&longs;ociating with him in future. Notwithstanding,
I took no notice of any alteration in
her behavior; but entered with the utmo&longs;t facetiousness
into a conver&longs;ation which I thought
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[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
mo&longs;t to her ta&longs;te. By degrees, &longs;he a&longs;&longs;umed her
u&longs;ual vivacity; cheerfulne&longs;s and good humor
again animated her countenance. I tarried as
long as decency would admit. She having intimated
that they were to dine at my friend
Lawrence's, I caught at this information; and
determined to follow them, and teaze the jealous
Mrs. Richman, by playing off all the gallantry
I was ma&longs;ter of in her pre&longs;ence.
I went, and &longs;ucceeded to the utmo&longs;t of my
wi&longs;hes, as I read in the vexation, vi&longs;ible in the
one; and the ea&longs;e and attention di&longs;played by
the other. I believe too, that I have charmed
the eye at lea&longs;t, of the amiable Eliza. Indeed,
Charles, &longs;he is a fine girl. I think it would hurt,
my con&longs;cience to wound her mind or reputation.
Were I di&longs;po&longs;ed to marry, I am persuaded
&longs;he would make an excellent wife; but that
you know is no part of my plan, &longs;o long as I
can keep out of the noo&longs;e. Whenever I do submit
to be &longs;hackled, it mu&longs;t be from a nece&longs;&longs;ity
of mending my fortune. This girl would be
far from doing that. However, I am plea&longs;ed
with her acquaintance, and mean not to abu&longs;e
her credulity and good nature, if I can help it.
Peter Sanford.
-- 034 --
LETTER XII.
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
TO MISS LUCY FREEMAN.
New-Haven.
The heart of your friend is again
be&longs;ieged. Whether it will &longs;urrender to the assailants
or not, I am unable at pre&longs;ent to determine.
Sometimes I think of becoming a
prede&longs;tinarian, and &longs;ubmitting implicitly to fate,
without any exerci&longs;e of free will; but, as mine
&longs;eems to be a wayward one, I would counteract
the operations of it, if po&longs;&longs;ible.
Mrs. Richman told me this morning, that
&longs;he hoped I &longs;hould be as agreeably entertained
this afternoon, as I had been the preceding;
that &longs;he expected Mr. Boyer to dine, and take
tea; and doubted not but he would be as attentive
and &longs;incere to me, if not as gay and polite
as the gentleman who obtruded his civilities
ye&longs;terday. I replied that I had no rea&longs;on to
doubt the &longs;incerity of the one, or the other,
having never put them to the te&longs;t, nor did I imagine
I ever &longs;hould. Your friends, Eliza, &longs;aid
&longs;he, would be very happy to &longs;ee you united to a
man of Mr. Boyer's worth; and &longs;o agreeably
&longs;ettled, as he has a pro&longs;pect of being. I hope,
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
&longs;aid I, that my friends are not &longs;o weary of my
company, as to wi&longs;h to di&longs;po&longs;e of me. I am too
happy in my pre&longs;ent connections to quit them
for new ones. Marriage is the tomb of friendship.
It appears to me a very &longs;elfi&longs;h &longs;tate. Why
do people, in general, as &longs;oon as they are married,
centre all their cares, their concerns, and
plea&longs;ures in their own families? former acquaintances
are neglected or forgotten. The tenderest
ties between friends are weakened, or dissolved;
and benevolence it&longs;elf moves in a very limited
&longs;phere. It is the glory of the marriage
&longs;tate, &longs;he rejoined, to refine, by circum&longs;cribing
our enjoyments. Here we can repo&longs;e in &longs;afety.
“The friend&longs;hips of the world are oft
Confed'racies in vice, or leagues in plea&longs;ure:
Our's has the pure&longs;t virtue for its ba&longs;is;
And &longs;uch a friend&longs;hip ends not but with life.”
True, we cannot always pay that attention to
former a&longs;&longs;ociates, which we may wi&longs;h; but the
little community which we &longs;uperintend is quite
as important an object; and certainly renders
us more beneficial to the public. True benevolence,
though it may change its objects, is not
limited by time or place. Its effects are the
&longs;ame, and aided by a &longs;econd &longs;elf, are rendered
more diffu&longs;ive and &longs;alutary.
Some plea&longs;antry pa&longs;&longs;ed, and we retired to
dre&longs;s. When &longs;ummoned to dinner, I found
Mr. Boyer below. If what is &longs;ometimes &longs;aid be
true, that love is diffident, re&longs;erved, and
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
unassuming, this man mu&longs;t be tinctured with it.
The&longs;e &longs;ymptoms were vi&longs;ible in his deportment
when I entered the room. However, he &longs;oon
recovered him&longs;elf, and the conver&longs;ation took a
general turn. The &longs;e&longs;tive board was crowned
with &longs;ociability, and we found in reality, “The
fea&longs;t of rea&longs;on, and the flow of &longs;oul.” After
we ro&longs;e from table, a walk in the garden was
propo&longs;ed, an amu&longs;ement we are all peculiarly
fond of. Mr. Boyer offered me his arm. When
at a &longs;ufficient di&longs;tance from our company, he
begged leave to congratulate him&longs;elf on having
an opportunity which he had ardently de&longs;ired
for &longs;ome time, of declaring to me his attachment;
and of &longs;oliciting an intere&longs;t in my favor;
or, if he might be allowed the term, affection.
I replied, that, Sir, is indeed laying
claim to an important intere&longs;t. I believe you
mu&longs;t &longs;ub&longs;titute &longs;ome more indifferent epithet
for the pre&longs;ent. Well then, &longs;aid he, if it mu&longs;t
be &longs;o, let it be e&longs;teem, or friend&longs;hip. Indeed,
Sir, &longs;aid I, you are intitled to them both. Merit
has always a &longs;hare in that bank; and I know
of none, who has a larger claim on that &longs;core,
than Mr. Boyer. I &longs;uppo&longs;e my manner was
hardly &longs;erious enough for what he con&longs;idered a
weighty cau&longs;e. He was a little di&longs;concerted;
but &longs;oon regaining his pre&longs;ence of mind, entreated
me, with an air of earne&longs;tne&longs;s, to encourage
his &longs;uit, to admit his addre&longs;&longs;es, and, if
po&longs;&longs;ible, to reward his love. I told him, that
this was rather a &longs;udden affair to me; and that
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[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
I could not an&longs;wer him without con&longs;ideration.
Well then, &longs;aid he, take what time you think
proper, only relieve my &longs;u&longs;pen&longs;e, as &longs;oon as may
be. Shall I vi&longs;it you again to morrow? O, not
&longs;o &longs;oon, &longs;aid I. Next Monday, I believe will
be early enough. I will endeavor to be at
home. He thanked me even for that favor,
recommended him&longs;elf once more to my kindness;
and we walked towards the company, returned
with them to the hou&longs;e, and he &longs;oon took
leave. I immediately retired to write this letter,
which I &longs;hall clo&longs;e, without a &longs;ingle observation
on the &longs;ubject, until I know your opinion.
Eliza Wharton.
LETTER XIII.
TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.
Hartford.
And &longs;o you wi&longs;h to have my opinion
before you know the re&longs;ult of your own. This
is playing a little too much with my patience.
But, however, I will gratify you this once, in
hopes that my epi&longs;tle may have a good effect.
You will a&longs;k, perhaps, whether I would influence
your judgment? I an&longs;wer, no; provided
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you will exerci&longs;e it your&longs;elf: but I am a little
apprehen&longs;ive that your fancy will mi&longs;lead you.
Methinks I can gather from your letters, a predilection
for this Major Sanford. But he is a
rake, my dear friend; and can a lady of your
delicacy and refinement, think of forming a connection
with a man of that character? I hope not.
Nay, I am confident you do not. You mean only
to exhibit a few more girli&longs;h airs, before you
turn matron. But I am per&longs;uaded, if you wi&longs;h to
lead down the dance of life with regularity, you
will not find a more excellent partner than Mr.
Boyer. Whatever you can rea&longs;onably expect
in a lover, hu&longs;band, or friend, you may perceive
to be united in this worthy man. His ta&longs;te is undebauched,
his manners not vitiated, his morals
uncorrupted. His &longs;ituation in life is, perhaps,
as elevated as you have a right to claim. Forgive
my plainne&longs;s, Eliza. It is the ta&longs;k of
friend&longs;hip, &longs;ometimes to tell di&longs;agreeable truths.
I know your ambition is to make a di&longs;tingui&longs;hed
figure in the fir&longs;t cla&longs;s of poli&longs;hed &longs;ociety; to
&longs;hine in the gay circle of fa&longs;hionable amu&longs;ements,
and to bear off the palm amid&longs;t the votaries of
plea&longs;ure. But the&longs;e are fading honors, unsatisfactory
enjoyments; incapable of gratifying
tho&longs;e immortal principles of rea&longs;on and religion,
which have been implanted in your mind
by nature; a&longs;&longs;iduou&longs;ly cultivated by the be&longs;t of
parents, and exerted, I tru&longs;t, by your&longs;elf. Let me
advi&longs;e you then, in conducting this affair; an affair
big, perhaps, with your future fate, to lay a&longs;ide those
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coquetti&longs;h airs which you &longs;ometimes put on; and
remember that you are not dealing with a fop,
who will take advantage of every conce&longs;&longs;ion;
but with a man of &longs;en&longs;e and honor, who will
properly e&longs;timate your conde&longs;cen&longs;ion, and frankness.
Act then with that mode&longs;t freedom, that
dignified unre&longs;erve which be&longs;peaks con&longs;cious
rectitude and &longs;incerity of heart.
I &longs;hall be extremely anxious to hear the process
and progre&longs;s of this bu&longs;ine&longs;s. Relieve my
impatience, as &longs;oon as po&longs;&longs;ible, and believe me
yours, with undi&longs;&longs;embled affection.
Lucy Freeman.
LETTER XIV.
TO MISS LUCY FREEMAN.
New-Haven.
I HAVE received, and read again and
again, your friendly epi&longs;tle. My rea&longs;on and
judgment entirely coincide with your opinion;
but my fancy claims &longs;ome &longs;hare in the deci&longs;ion:
and I cannot yet tell which will preponderate.
This was the day fixed for deciding Mr. Boyer's
cau&longs;e. My friends here gave me a long
differtation on his merits. Your letter, likewi&longs;e,
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had its weight, and I was candidly &longs;umming up
the pros and cons in the garden, whither I had
walked (Gen. Richman and lady having rode
out) when I was informed that he was waiting
in the parlor. I went immediately in (a good
&longs;ymptom, you will &longs;ay) and received him very
graciou&longs;ly. After the fir&longs;t compliments were
over, he &longs;eemed eager to improve the opportunity
to enter directly on the &longs;ubject of his pre&longs;ent
vi&longs;it. It is needle&longs;s for me to recite to you,
who have long been acquainted with the whole
proce&longs;s of court&longs;hip, the declarations, propositions,
prote&longs;tations, intreaties, looks, words and
actions of a lover. They are, I believe, much
the &longs;ame, in the whole &longs;ex, allowing for their
different di&longs;po&longs;itions, educations, and characters.
But you are impatient I know for the conclusion.
You have ha&longs;tily peru&longs;ed the preceding
lines, and are &longs;training your eye forward
to my part of the farce; for &longs;uch it may prove
after all. Well then, not to play too long with
the curio&longs;ity, which I know to be excited, and
actuated by real friend&longs;hip, I will relieve it. I
think you would have been plea&longs;ed to have &longs;een
my gravity, on this important occa&longs;ion. With
all the candor and frankne&longs;s which I was capable
of a&longs;&longs;uming, I thus an&longs;wered his long harangue,
to which I had li&longs;tened, without interrupting
him. Self knowledge, &longs;ir, that mo&longs;t
important of all &longs;ciences, I have yet to learn.
Such have been my &longs;ituations in life, and the
natural volatility of my temper, that I have
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looked but little into my own heart, in regard
to its future wi&longs;hes and views. From a &longs;cene
of con&longs;traint and confinement, ill &longs;uited to my
years and inclination, I have ju&longs;t launched into
&longs;ociety. My heart beats high in expectation
of its fancied joys. My &longs;anguine imagination
paints, in alluring colors, the charms of youth
and freedom, regulated by virtue and innocence.
Of the&longs;e, I wi&longs;h to partake. While I own myself
under obligations for the e&longs;teem which you
are plea&longs;ed to profe&longs;s for me, and in return, acknowledge,
that neither your per&longs;on nor manners
are di&longs;agreeable to me, I recoil at the
thought of immediately forming a connection,
which mu&longs;t confine me to the duties of demostic
life, and make me dependent for happine&longs;s,
perhaps too, for &longs;ub&longs;i&longs;tence, upon a cla&longs;s of
people, who will claim the right of &longs;crutini&longs;ing
every part of my conduct; and by cen&longs;uring
tho&longs;e &longs;oibles, which I am con&longs;cious of not having
prudence to avoid, may render me completely
mi&longs;erable. While, therefore, I receive
your vi&longs;its, and cultivate towards you &longs;entiments
of friend&longs;hip and e&longs;teem, I would not have you
con&longs;ider me as confined to your &longs;ociety, or obligated
to a future connection. Our &longs;hort acquaintance
renders it impo&longs;&longs;ible for me to decide
what the operations of my mind may hereafter
be. You mu&longs;t either quit the &longs;ubject, or
leave me to the exerci&longs;e of my free will, which
perhaps may coincide with your pre&longs;ent wi&longs;hes.
Madam, &longs;aid he, far is the wi&longs;h from me to
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restrain your per&longs;on or mind. In your brea&longs;t I
will repo&longs;e my cau&longs;e. It &longs;hall be my &longs;tudy to
merit a return of affection; and I doubt not,
but genero&longs;ity and honor will influence your
conduct towards me. I expect &longs;oon to &longs;ettle
among a generous and enlightened people,
where I flatter my&longs;elf I &longs;hall be exempt from
tho&longs;e difficulties, and embarra&longs;&longs;ments, to which
too many of my brethren are &longs;ubject. The
local &longs;ituation is agreeable, the &longs;ociety refined
and poli&longs;hed; and if, in addition, I may
obtain that felicity which you are formed to
be&longs;tow, in a family connection, I &longs;hall be happy
indeed.
He &longs;poke with empha&longs;is. The tear of sensibility
&longs;parkled in his eye. I involuntarily gave
him my hand, which he pre&longs;&longs;ed with ardor to
his lips. Then ri&longs;ing, he walked to the window
to conceal his emotion. I rang the bell
and ordered tea; during, and after which, we
&longs;hared that &longs;ocial conver&longs;e, which is the true
ze&longs;t of life, and which, I am per&longs;uaded, none
but virtuous minds can participate. General
Richman and lady returned with the &longs;hades
of the evening. The penetrating eye of
my cou&longs;in traced in our countenances the
progre&longs;s of the cau&longs;e, and the &longs;mile of approbation
animated hers. Mr. Boyer a&longs;ked the favor
of my company to ride to morrow morning,
which was granted. He tarried to &longs;upper, and
took his leave. I retired immediately to my
chamber, to which I was followed by Mrs.
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Richman. I related to her the conver&longs;ation,
and the encouragement which I had given to Mr.
Boyer. She was plea&longs;ed; but in&longs;i&longs;ted that I
&longs;hould own my&longs;elf &longs;omewhat engaged to him.
This, I told her I &longs;hould never do to any man,
before the indi&longs;&longs;oluble knot was tied. That, &longs;aid
I, will be time enough to re&longs;ign my freedom.
She replied that I had wrong ideas of freedom,
and matrimony; but &longs;he hoped that Mr. Boyer
would happily rectify them.
I have now, my dear friend, given you an
account of my pre&longs;ent &longs;ituation, and leave you
to judge for your&longs;elf concerning it. Write me
your opinion, and believe me ever yours.
Eliza Wharton.
LETTER XV.
TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.
Hartford.
I congratulate you, my dear
Eliza, on the &longs;tability of your conduct towards
Mr. Boyer. Pur&longs;ue the &longs;y&longs;tem which you have
adopted, and I dare &longs;ay, that happine&longs;s will
crown your future days. You are indeed very
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tenacious of your freedom, as you call it; but
that is a play about words. A man of Mr. Boyer's
honor and good &longs;en&longs;e will never abridge
any privileges which virtue can claim.
When do you return to embelli&longs;h our &longs;ociety,
here? I am impatient to &longs;ee you, and likewi&longs;e
this amiable man. I am much intere&longs;ted in his favor.
By the way, I am told that Major Sanford has
been to look at the &longs;eat of Captain Pribble, which
is upon &longs;ale. It is reported that he will probably
purcha&longs;e it. Many of our gentry are pleased
with the pro&longs;pect of &longs;uch a neighbor. As
an accompli&longs;hed gentleman, &longs;ay they, he will be
an agreeable addition to our &longs;ocial parties; and
as a man of property, and public &longs;pirit, he will
be an advantage to the town; but, from what
I have heard of him, I am far from &longs;uppo&longs;ing
him a de&longs;irable acqui&longs;ition in either of the&longs;e respects.
A man of a vicious character cannot be
a good member of &longs;ociety. In order to that,
his principles and practice mu&longs;t be uncorrupted:
in his morals, at lea&longs;t, he mu&longs;t be a man of probity,
and honor. Of the&longs;e qualifications, if I mistake
not, this gallant of yours cannot boa&longs;t.
But I &longs;hall not &longs;et up for a cen&longs;or. I hope neither
you nor I &longs;hall have much connection with
him. My &longs;wain intere&longs;ts him&longs;elf very much in
your affairs. You will po&longs;&longs;ibly think him impertinent;
but I give his curio&longs;ity a &longs;ofter name.
Should I own to you that I place great confidence
in his integrity and honor, you would,
perhaps, laugh at my weakne&longs;s; but, my dear,
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I have pride enough to keep me above conquettry,
or prudery; and di&longs;cretion enough, I hope,
to &longs;ecure me from the errors of both. With
him I have determined to walk the future round
of life. What folly then would it be to affect
re&longs;erve and di&longs;tance, relative to an affair in
which I have &longs;o much intere&longs;t? Not that I am
going to betray your &longs;ecrets. The&longs;e I have no
right to divulge; but I mu&longs;t be the judge
what may, and what may not be communicated.
I am very much pre&longs;&longs;ed for an early day of consummation;
but I &longs;hall not li&longs;ten to a reque&longs;t of
that kind, till your return. Such is my regard
for you, that a union of love would be imperfect,
if friend&longs;hip attended not the rites. Adieu.
Lucy Freeman.
LETTER XVI.
TO MISS LUCY FREEMAN.
New-Haven.
We go on charmingly here; almo&longs;t
as &longs;oft and &longs;mooth as your lady&longs;hip. It &longs;eems to
me that love mu&longs;t &longs;tagnate, if it have not a light
breeze of di&longs;cord once in a while to keep it in
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motion. We have not tried any yet, however.
We had a lovely tour this forenoon; were out
three long hours, and returned to dinner in perfect
harmony.
Mr. Boyer informed me that he &longs;hould &longs;et out
to morrow morning, for his future re&longs;idence, and
&longs;oon put on the &longs;acred bands. He &longs;olicited an
epi&longs;tolary corre&longs;pondence, at the &longs;ame time, as
an alleviation of the care which that weighty
charge would bring on his mind. I con&longs;ented;
telling him, that he mu&longs;t not expect any thing
more than general &longs;ubjects from me.
We were &longs;omewhat interrupted in our confidential
intercour&longs;e, in the afternoon, by the arrival
of Major Sanford. I cannot &longs;ay that I was
not agreeably relieved. So &longs;weet a repa&longs;t, for
&longs;everal hours together, was rather &longs;ickening to
my ta&longs;te. My enamorato looked a little mortified
at the cheerful reception which I gave the
intruder, and joined not &longs;o placidly in the &longs;ocial
conver&longs;ation, as I could have wi&longs;hed.
When Mr. Boyer, after the Major took leave,
pre&longs;&longs;ed me to give him &longs;ome a&longs;&longs;urance of my
con&longs;tancy, I only reminded him of the terms
of our engagement. Seeing me decided, he
was &longs;ilent on the &longs;ubject, and &longs;oon bid me an
affectionate adieu; not expecting, as he told
me, the plea&longs;ure of a per&longs;onal interview again,
for two or three months.
Thus far we have proceeded in this &longs;ober business.
A good beginning, you will &longs;ay. Perhaps
it is. I do not, however, feel my&longs;elf
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greatly intere&longs;ted in the progre&longs;s of the negociation.
Time may con&longs;olidate my affections, and enable
me to fix them on &longs;ome particular object.
At pre&longs;ent the mo&longs;t lively emotions of
my heart are tho&longs;e of friend&longs;hip; that friendship
which I hope you will &longs;oon participate with
your faithful
Eliza Wharton.
LETTER XVII.
TO MR. SELBY.
New-Haven.
I have &longs;ucceeded in my addre&longs;&longs;es to
the lovely Eliza Wharton; as far at lea&longs;t as I
had any rea&longs;on to expect from our &longs;hort acquaintance.
I find the graces of her per&longs;on and mind
ri&longs;e in my e&longs;teem; and have already enjoyed,
in her &longs;ociety, &longs;ome of the happie&longs;t hours of my
life. She is kind, affable, and conde&longs;cending;
yet I mu&longs;t own that I have not been able to infuse
into her bo&longs;om, the ardor which I feel in
my own. I know that the native mode&longs;ty of
the &longs;ex would re&longs;train the di&longs;covery; but there
is an animation of countenance, which betrays
the &longs;en&longs;ations of the heart, that I find wanting
in her on this occa&longs;ion.
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I have ju&longs;t taken leave of my fair, and propose
returning to morrow morning; to take
upon me the &longs;olemn charge, which lies with &longs;uch
weight upon my mind, that I need every support,
both human and divine. Eliza has promised
to corre&longs;pond with me. From this I anticipate
a &longs;ource of plea&longs;ure, which alone can
atone for her ab&longs;ence. I am, &c.
J. Boyer.
LETTER XVIII.
TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON.
New-Haven.
Do you know, Charles, that I have
commenced lover? I was always a general one;
but now I am &longs;omewhat particular. I &longs;hall be
the more intere&longs;ted, as I am likely to meet with
difficulties; and it is the glory of a rake, as
well as a chri&longs;tian to combat ob&longs;tacles. This
&longs;ame Eliza, of whom I have told you, has really
made more impre&longs;&longs;ion on my heart, than I was
aware of; or than the &longs;ex, take them as they ri&longs;e,
are wont to do. But &longs;he is be&longs;ieged by a priest
(a likely lad though.) I know not how it is,
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[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
but they are commonly &longs;ucce&longs;sful with the
girls, even the gaye&longs;t of them. This one, too,
has the intere&longs;t of all her friends, as I am told.
I called ye&longs;terday, at General Richman's, and
found this pair together, apparently too happy in
each other's &longs;ociety for my wi&longs;hes. I mu&longs;t own,
that I felt a glow of jealou&longs;y, which I never experienced
before; and vowed revenge for the
pain it gave me, though but momentary. Yet
Eliza's reception of me was vi&longs;ibly cordial; nay,
I fancied my company as plea&longs;ing to her as that
which &longs;he had before. I tarried not long, but left
him to the enjoyment of that plea&longs;ure which I flatter
my&longs;elf will be &longs;hort-lived. O, I have another
plan in my head; a plan of nece&longs;&longs;ity, which,
you know, is the mother of invention. It is
this: I am very much courted and care&longs;&longs;ed by
the family of Mr. Lawrence, a man of large
property in this neighborhood. He has only
one child; a daughter, with whom I imagine
the old folks intend to &longs;hackle me in the bonds
of matrimony. The girl looks very well. She
has no &longs;oul though, that I can di&longs;cover. She
is heire&longs;s, neverthele&longs;s, to a great fortune; and
that is all the &longs;oul I with for in a wife. In truth,
Charles, I know of no other way to mend my
circum&longs;tances. But li&longs;p not a word of my embarrassments
for your life. Show and equipage
are my hobby-hor&longs;e; and if any female wi&longs;h to
&longs;hare them with me, and will furni&longs;h me with the
means of &longs;upporting them, I have no objection.
Could I conform to the &longs;ober rules of wedded
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[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
life, and renounce tho&longs;e dear enjoyments of dissipation,
in which I have &longs;o long indulged, I
know not the lady in the world with whom I
would &longs;ooner form a connection of this &longs;ort
than with Eliza Wharton. But it will never do.
If my fortune, or hers were better, I would ri&longs;k
a union; but as they are, no idea of the kind
can be admitted. I &longs;hall endeavor, notwithstanding,
to enjoy her company as long as possible.
Though I cannot po&longs;&longs;e&longs;s her wholly myself,
I will not tamely &longs;ee her the property of
another.
I am now going to call at General Richman's,
in hopes of an opportunity to profe&longs;s my devotion
to her. I know I am not a welcome
vi&longs;itor to the family; but I am independent of
their cen&longs;ure or e&longs;teem, and mean to act accordingly.
Peter Sanford.
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LETTER XIX.
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
TO MISS LUCY FREEMAN.
New-Haven.
I FIND the ideas of &longs;obriety, and domestic
&longs;olitude, I have been cultivating for three
days pa&longs;t, &longs;omewhat deranged by the interruption
of a vi&longs;itor, with whom, I know, you will
not be plea&longs;ed. It is no other than Major Sanford.
I was walking alone in the garden yesterday,
when he &longs;uddenly appeared to my view.
How happy am I, &longs;aid he, &longs;eizing my hand, in
this opportunity of finding you alone; an opportunity,
Mi&longs;s Wharton, which I mu&longs;t improve
in expatiating on a theme, that fills my heart,
and &longs;olely animates my frame.
I was &longs;tartled at his impetuo&longs;ity, and displeased
with his freedom. Withdrawing my hand,
I told him, that my retirement was &longs;acred. He
bowed &longs;ubmi&longs;&longs;ively; begged pardon for his intrusion,
alledged, that he found no body but the
&longs;ervants in the hou&longs;e; that they informed him, I
was alone in the garden, which intelligence was
too plea&longs;ing for him to con&longs;ult any forms of
ceremony for the regulation of his conduct.
He then went on rhap&longs;odically to declare his
pa&longs;&longs;ion, his &longs;u&longs;picions, that I was forming a
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[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
connection with Mr. Boyer, which would effectually
de&longs;troy all his hopes of future happine&longs;s.
He painted the re&longs;traint, the con&longs;inement, the
embarra&longs;&longs;ments to which a woman, connected
with a man of Mr. Boyer's profe&longs;&longs;ion, mu&longs;t be
&longs;ubjected; however agreeable his per&longs;on might
be. He a&longs;ked if my generous mind could submit
to cares and perplexities like the&longs;e; whether
I could not find greater &longs;ources of enjoyment
in a more elevated &longs;phere of life, or &longs;hare pleasures
better &longs;uited to my genius and di&longs;po&longs;ition,
even in a &longs;ingle &longs;tate? I li&longs;tened to him involuntarily.
My heart did not approve his sentiments,
but my ear was charmed with his rhetoric,
and my fancy captivated by his addre&longs;s.
He invited my confidence, by the mo&longs;t ardent
profe&longs;&longs;ions of friend&longs;hip, and labored to remove
my &longs;u&longs;picions by vows of &longs;incerity. I was induced
by his importunity, gradually to di&longs;clo&longs;e the
&longs;tate of affairs between Mr. Boyer and my&longs;elf.
He li&longs;tened eagerly; wi&longs;hed not, he &longs;aid, to influence
me unduly; but if I were not otherwise
engaged, might he pre&longs;ume to &longs;olicit a
place in my friend&longs;hip and e&longs;teem; be admitted
to enjoy my &longs;ociety, to vi&longs;it me as an acquaintance,
and to attend my excur&longs;ions and amusements,
as a brother, if no more? I replied,
that I was a pen&longs;ioner of friend&longs;hip, at pre&longs;ent;
that my friends were extremely refined in their
notions of propriety, and that I had no right to
receive vi&longs;itants independent of them. I understand
you, madam, &longs;aid he. You intimate that
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[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
my company is not agreeable to them: but I
know not why. Surely my rank in life is as
elevated; and my knowledge of, and acceptance
in the world, are as exten&longs;ive as General Richman's.
I hope, &longs;aid I, &longs;ince we are engaged in
the conver&longs;ation, that you will excu&longs;e my frankness,
if I tell you, that the under&longs;tanding and
virtue of this worthy couple, induce them, without
any regard to rank, to be&longs;tow their e&longs;teem
wherever it is merited. I cannot &longs;ay that you
are not a &longs;harer. Your own heart can be&longs;t determine,
whether upon their principles, you are,
or not! He appeared mortified, and chagrined;
and we had walked &longs;ome di&longs;tance without exchanging
a word, or a look. At la&longs;t, he rejoined,
I plead guilty to the charge, madam, which
they have undoubtedly brought again&longs;t me, of
imprudence and folly in many particulars; yet of
malignancy and vice I am innocent. Brought
up in affluence; innured from my infancy to
the gratification of every pa&longs;&longs;ion; the indulgence
of every wi&longs;h, it is not &longs;trange, that a life of dissipation
and gaiety &longs;hould prove alluring to a
youthful mind, which had no care but to procure
what it deemed enjoyment. In this pursuit
I have perhaps deviated from the rigid rules
of di&longs;cretion, and the har&longs;her laws of morality.
But let the veil of charity be drawn over my
faults; let the eye of candor impartially examine
my pre&longs;ent behavior; let the kind and lenient
hand of friend&longs;hip a&longs;&longs;i&longs;t in directing my
future &longs;teps; and, perhaps, I may not prove
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unworthy of a&longs;&longs;ociating with the re&longs;pectable inhabitants
of this happy man&longs;ion; for &longs;uch I am &longs;ure
it mu&longs;t be, while honored with Mi&longs;s Wharton's
pre&longs;ence. But, circum&longs;tanced as you and I are,
at pre&longs;ent, I will not &longs;ue for your attention, as a
lover; but re&longs;t contented, if po&longs;&longs;ible, with that
&longs;hare of kindne&longs;s, and regard, which your be
nevolence may afford me as a friend. I bowed
in approbation of his re&longs;olution. He pressed
my hand with ardor to his lips; and at
that in&longs;tant General Richman entered the garden.
He approached us cheerfully, offered Major
Sanford his hand with apparent cordiality,
and told us plea&longs;antly, that he hoped he &longs;hould
not be con&longs;idered as an intruder. By no means,
&longs;ir, &longs;aid Major Sanford. It is I who have incurred
that imputation. I called this afternoon to
pay you my re&longs;pects; when being informed that
you and your lady were abroad, and that Mi&longs;s
Wharton was in the garden, I took the liberty
to invade her retirement. She has graciou&longs;ly
forgiven my crime, and I was ju&longs;t affixing the
&longs;eal to my pardon as you entered.
We then returned into the hou&longs;e. Mrs.
Richman received us politely. During tea, the
conver&longs;ation turned on literary &longs;ubjects, in which
I cannot &longs;ay that the Major bore a very distinguished
part. After he was gone, Mrs. Richman
&longs;aid, I hope you have been agreeably entertained,
Mi&longs;s Wharton? I did not chu&longs;e my
company, madam, &longs;aid I. Nor, &longs;aid the, did
you refu&longs;e it, I pre&longs;ume. Would you not have
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me re&longs;pect the rights of ho&longs;pitality towards your
gue&longs;ts, when you are ab&longs;ent, madam? If you
had acted from that motive, I own my obligations
to you, my dear; but even that consideration
can hardly reconcile me to the &longs;acrifice
of time, which you have made to the amusement
of a &longs;educer. I hope, madam, you do
not think me an object of &longs;eduction! I do not
think you &longs;educible; nor was Richard&longs;on's
Clari&longs;&longs;a, till &longs;he made her&longs;elf the victim, by her
own indi&longs;cretion. Pardon me, Eliza, this is a
&longs;econd Lovelace. I am alarmed by his artful
intru&longs;ions. His in&longs;inuating attention to you are
characteri&longs;tic of the man. Come, I pre&longs;ume
you are not intere&longs;ted to keep his &longs;ecrets, if you
know them. Will you give me a little &longs;ketch of
his conver&longs;ation? Mo&longs;t willingly, &longs;aid I; and, accordingly,
related the whole. When I had concluded,
&longs;he &longs;hook her head, and replied, beware,
my friend, of his arts. Your own heart is too
&longs;incere to &longs;u&longs;pect treachery and di&longs;&longs;imulation
in another; but &longs;uffer not your ear to be charmed
by the &longs;yren voice of flattery; nor your eye
to be caught by the phantom of gaiety and
plea&longs;ure. Remember your engagements to Mr.
Boyer. Let &longs;incerity and virtue be your guides,
and they will lead you to happine&longs;s and peace.
She waited not for an an&longs;wer, but immediately
ri&longs;ing, begged leave to retire, alledging that &longs;he
was fatigued. Gen. Richman accompanied her,
and I ha&longs;tened to my apartment, where I have
written thus far, and &longs;hall &longs;end it on for your
-- 056 --
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comments. I begin to think of returning &longs;oon
to your circle. One inducement is, that I may
be free from the intru&longs;ions of this man. Adieu.
Eliza Wharton.
LETTER XX.
TO MRS. M. WHARTON.
New-Haven.
From the conver&longs;ation of the polite,
the &longs;edate, the engaging and the gay; from
corre&longs;ponding with the learned, the sentimental
and the refined, my heart and my pen
turn with ardor and alacrity to a tender and affectionate
parent, the faithful guardian and guide
of my youth; the unchanging friend of my
riper years. The different di&longs;po&longs;itions of various
a&longs;&longs;ociates, &longs;ometimes perplex the mind,
which &longs;eeks direction; but in the di&longs;intere&longs;ted
affection of the maternal brea&longs;t, we fear no dissonance
of pa&longs;&longs;ion, no jarring intere&longs;ts, no disunion
of love. In this &longs;eat of felicity is every
enjoyment which fancy can form, or friend&longs;hip,
with affluence, be&longs;tow; but &longs;till my mind frequently
returns to the happy &longs;hades of my nativity.
I wi&longs;h there to impart my plea&longs;ures, and
&longs;hare the coun&longs;els of my be&longs;t, my long tried
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and experienced friend. At this time, my dear
mamma, I am peculiarly &longs;olicitous for your advice.
I am again inportuned to li&longs;ten to the voice
of love; again called upon to accept the addresses
of a gentleman of merit and respectability.
You will know the character of the
man, when I tell you, it is Mr. Boyer. But his situation
in life! I dare not enter it. My di&longs;po&longs;ition
is not calculated for that &longs;phere. There are duties
ari&longs;ing from the &longs;tation, which I fear I &longs;hould not
be able to fulfil; cares and re&longs;traints to which
I could not &longs;ubmit. This man is not disagreeable
to me; but if I mu&longs;t enter the connubial
&longs;tate, are there not others, who may be equally
plea&longs;ing in their per&longs;ons, and who&longs;e profe&longs;&longs;ion
may be more conformable to my ta&longs;te? You,
madam, have pa&longs;&longs;ed through this &longs;cene of trial,
with honor and applau&longs;e. But alas! can your
volatile daughter ever acquire your wi&longs;dom;
ever po&longs;&longs;e&longs;s your re&longs;olution, dignity and prudence?
I hope &longs;oon to conver&longs;e with you per&longs;onally
upon the &longs;ubject, and to profit by your precepts
and example. I anticipate the hour of my return
to your bo&longs;om, with impatience. My daily
thoughts and nightly dreams re&longs;tore me to the
&longs;ociety of my beloved mamma; and, till I enjoy
it in reality, I &longs;ub&longs;cribe my&longs;elf your dutiful
daughter,
Eliza Wharton.
-- 058 --
LETTER XXI.
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.
Hartford.
How welcome to me, my dear Eliza,
are the tidings of your return? My widowed
heart has mourned your ab&longs;ence, and langui&longs;hed
for the company of its now, deare&longs;t connection.
When &longs;tript of one dependence, the mind naturally
collects, and re&longs;ts it&longs;elf in another. Your father's
death deprived me, for a while, of every
enjoyment. But a reviving &longs;en&longs;e of the duties
which I owed to a ri&longs;ing family, rou&longs;ed me
from the lethargy of grief. In my cares I found
an alleviation of my &longs;orrows. The expanding virtues
of my children &longs;oothed and exhilerated my
drooping &longs;pirits; and my attention to their education,
and intere&longs;t, was amply rewarded by
their proficiency and duty. In them, every hope,
every plea&longs;ure now centres. They are the axis
on which revolves the temporal felicity of their
mother. Judge then, my dear, how anxiou&longs;ly
I mu&longs;t watch, how &longs;olicitou&longs;ly I mu&longs;t regard
every circum&longs;tance which relates to their
welfare and pro&longs;perity! Exqui&longs;itely alive to
the&longs;e &longs;en&longs;ations, your letter awakens my hopes
-- 059 --
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and my fears. As you are young and
charming, a thou&longs;and dangers, lurk un&longs;een around
you. I wi&longs;h you to find a friend and
protector, worthy of being rewarded by your
love and your &longs;ociety. Such a one, I think,
Mr. Boyer will prove. I am, therefore, &longs;orry,
&longs;ince there can be no other, that his profe&longs;&longs;ion
&longs;hould be an objection in your mind. You &longs;ay,
that I have experienced the &longs;cenes of trial, connected
with that &longs;tation. I have, indeed; and
I will tell you the re&longs;ult of this experience. It
is, that I have found it replete with happine&longs;s.
No cla&longs;s of &longs;ociety has dome&longs;tic enjoyment
more at command, than clergymen. Their
circum&longs;tances are generally a decent competency.
They are removed alike from the perplexing
cares of want, and from the di&longs;tracting
parade of wealth. They are re&longs;pected by all
ranks, and partakers of the be&longs;t company.
With regard to its being a dependent &longs;ituation,
what one is not &longs;o? Are we not all links in the
great chain of &longs;ociety, &longs;ome more, &longs;ome le&longs;s important;
but each upheld by others, throughout
the confederated whole? In whatever situation
we are placed, our greater or le&longs;s degree
of happine&longs;s mu&longs;t be derived from our&longs;elves.
Happine&longs;s is in a great mea&longs;ure the re&longs;ult of our
own di&longs;po&longs;itions and actions. Let us conduct
uprightly and ju&longs;tly; with propriety and steadiness;
not &longs;ervilely cringing for favor, nor arrogantly
claiming more attention and re&longs;pect than
our due; let us bear with fortitude the
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
providential, and unavoidable evils of life, and we
&longs;hall &longs;pend our days with re&longs;pectability and contentment,
at lea&longs;t.
I will not expatiate on the topic of your
letter, till we have a per&longs;onal interview, for
which I am, indeed, impatient. Return, my
daughter, as &longs;oon as politene&longs;s will allow, to
your expecting friends; more e&longs;pecially, to the
fond embraces of your affectionate mother,
M. Wharton.
LETTER XXII.
TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.
Hampshire.
Can time, can di&longs;tance, can ab&longs;ence
allay, or extingui&longs;h the &longs;entiments of refined affection,
the ardor of true love? No, my dear
Eliza. If I may judge by my own heart, I &longs;hall
&longs;ay they cannot. Amid&longs;t the parade which
has attended me, the intere&longs;ting &longs;cenes in which
I have been engaged, and the weighty cares,
which have occupied my attention, your idea
has been the &longs;olace of my retired moments;
the &longs;oother of every anxious thought. I recal,
with plea&longs;ure, the conver&longs;ation which we have
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&longs;hared. I dwell with rapture on the marks of
favor which I have received from you. My
fir&longs;t wi&longs;h is the continuance and increa&longs;e of the&longs;e
favors; my highe&longs;t ambition, to de&longs;erve them.
I look forward and anticipate with impatience,
the future enjoyment of your &longs;ociety; and hope
we &longs;hall one day experience the reality of tho&longs;e
beautiful lines of Thomp&longs;on:
—“An elegant &longs;ufficiency,
Content, retirement, rural quiet, friend&longs;hip;
Books, ea&longs;e and alternate labor, u&longs;eful life;
Progreflive virtue, and approving heaven;
The&longs;e are the matchle&longs;s joys of virtuous love.”
Mr. Selby, my particular friend, will have the
honor of delivering this letter. He will be able
to give you any information, relative to our public
tran&longs;actions, which you may wi&longs;h. May I
&longs;olicit the favor of a line, through him, in return?
It will relieve, in &longs;ome mea&longs;ure, the tediousness
of this &longs;eparation. I intend to pay my
re&longs;pects to you per&longs;onally, in about a fortnight;
till when, I &longs;ub&longs;cribe my&longs;elf your &longs;incere and affectionate
friend,
J. Boyer.
-- 062 --
LETTER XXIII.
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
TO THE REV. J. BOYER.
New-Haven.
I have executed your commi&longs;&longs;ion,
and been amply rewarded for my trouble, by
the plea&longs;ure I enjoyed in the &longs;ociety of the agreeable
family to which I was introduced; especially
of the amiable and accompli&longs;hed lady, who
is the object of your particular regard. I think
&longs;he fully ju&longs;tifies your partiality to her. She
appears to po&longs;&longs;e&longs;s both the virtues and the graces.
Her form is fine, and her countenance intere&longs;ts
us at once in her favor. There is a mixture
of dignity and ca&longs;e, which commands re&longs;pect,
and conciliates affection. After the&longs;e encomiums,
will you permit me to &longs;ay, there is an air
of gaiety in her appearance and deportment,
which favors a little of coquetry. I am persuaded,
however, that &longs;he has too much good
&longs;en&longs;e to practi&longs;e its arts. She received your letter
very graciou&longs;ly, a&longs;ked leave to retire a few
moments; and returned with a &longs;mile of complacency
on her brow, which I con&longs;true favoraably
to you.
-- 063 --
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There was a Mr. Laurence, with his lady and
daughter, and a certain Major Sanford, at the
hou&longs;e. The latter, I believe, in the modern
&longs;en&longs;e of the phra&longs;e, is much of a gentleman, that
is, a man of &longs;how and fa&longs;hion.
Mi&longs;s Wharton a&longs;ked me, when I &longs;hould leave
town, and when I &longs;hould return, or have an opportunity
of conveyance to Hamp&longs;hire? I told
her I &longs;hould write by the next po&longs;t, and if &longs;he
had any commands, would be happy to execute
them. She would &longs;end a line to her friend, &longs;he
&longs;aid, if I would take the trouble to inclo&longs;e it in
my letter. I readily con&longs;ented; and told her,
that I would call and receive her favor to morrow
morning. This chit-chat was a little a&longs;ide;
but I could not but ob&longs;erve, that the fore&longs;aid
Major Sanford had dropped his part in the conversation
of the re&longs;t of the company, and was
attending to us, though he endeavored to
conceal his attention, by looking carele&longs;sly over
a play, which lay on the window by him. Yet
he evidently watched every word and action of
Mi&longs;s Wharton, as if he were really intere&longs;ted in
her movements.
It is &longs;aid &longs;he has many admirers, and I conceive
it very po&longs;&longs;ible that this may be one of
them; though, truly, I do not think that &longs;he
would e&longs;teem &longs;uch a conque&longs;t any great honor.
I now joined in the general topic of conversation,
which was politics. Mrs. Richman and
Mi&longs;s Wharton judiciou&longs;ly, yet mode&longs;tly bore a
part; while the other ladies amu&longs;ed them&longs;elves
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[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
with Major Sanford, who was making his &longs;age
remarks on the play, which he &longs;till kept in his
hand. General Richman at length ob&longs;erved,
that we had formed into parties. Major Sanford,
upon this, laid a&longs;ide his book. Mi&longs;s Laurence
&longs;impered; and looked as if &longs;he was well
plea&longs;ed with being in a party with &longs;o fine a man;
while her mother replied, that &longs;he never meddled
with politics; &longs;he thought they did not belong
to ladies. Mi&longs;s Wharton and I, &longs;aid Mrs.
Richman, mu&longs;t beg leave to differ from you,
madam. We think our&longs;elves intere&longs;ted in the
welfare and pro&longs;perity of our country; and, consequently,
claim the right of inquiring into tho&longs;e
affairs, which may conduce to, or interfere with
the common weal. We &longs;hall not be called to
the &longs;enate or the field to affert its privileges, and
defend its rights, but we &longs;hall feel for the honor
and &longs;afety of our friends and connections,
who are thus employed. If the community
flouri&longs;h and enjoy health and freedom, &longs;hall we
not &longs;hare in the happy effects? if it be oppreff-ed
and di&longs;turbed, &longs;hall we not endure our
proportion of the evil? Why then &longs;hould the
love of our country be a ma&longs;culine pa&longs;&longs;ion only?
Why &longs;hould government, which involves
the peace and order of the &longs;ociety, of which
we are a part, be wholly excluded from our observation?
Mrs. Laurence made &longs;ome &longs;light reply
and waved the &longs;ubject. The gentlemen
applauded Mrs. Richman's &longs;entiments as truly
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
Roman; and what was more, they &longs;aid, truly
republican.
I ro&longs;e to take leave, ob&longs;erving to Mi&longs;s Wharton,
that I &longs;hould call to morrow, as agreed.
Upon this, Gen. Richman politely reque&longs;ted the
favor of my company at dinner. I accepted
his invitation, and bid them good night. I &longs;hall
do the &longs;ame to you for the pre&longs;ent; as I intend,
to morrow to &longs;cribble the cover, which is to inclose
your Eliza's letter.
T. Selby.
LETTER XXIV.
TO THE REV. J. BOYER.
New-Haven.
I resume my pen, having ju&longs;t returned
from Gen. Richman's; not with an expectation,
however, of your reading this, till
you have peru&longs;ed, and reperu&longs;ed the inclo&longs;ed.
I can bear &longs;uch neglect, in this ca&longs;e, as I have
been alike intere&longs;ted my&longs;elf.
I went to Gen. Richman's at twelve o'clock.
About a mile from thence, upon turning a corner,
I ob&longs;erved a gentleman and lady on horse-back,
&longs;ome way before me, riding a very moderate
pace, and &longs;eemingly in clo&longs;e conver&longs;ation.
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I kept at the &longs;ame di&longs;tance from them, till I &longs;aw
them &longs;top at the General's gate. I then put on,
and coming up with them, ju&longs;t as they alighted,
and was &longs;urpri&longs;ed to find them no other than
Major Sanford and Mi&longs;s Wharton. They were
both a little di&longs;concerted at my &longs;alutation; I
know not why. Mi&longs;s Wharton invited him in;
but he declined, being engaged to dine. Gen.
Richman received us at the door. As I handed
Mi&longs;s Wharton in, he ob&longs;erved joco&longs;ely, that
&longs;he had changed company. Yes &longs;ir, &longs;he replied,
more than once, &longs;ince I went out, as
you doubtle&longs;s ob&longs;erved. I was not aware,
&longs;aid Mrs. Richman, that Major Sanford was to
be of your party to day. It was quite accidental,
madam, &longs;aid Mi&longs;s Wharton. Mi&longs;s Laurence
and I had agreed la&longs;t evening, to take a
little airing, this forenoon. A young gentleman,
a relation of her's, who is making them a
vi&longs;it, was to attend us. We had not rode
more than two miles, when we were overtaken
by Major Sanford, who very politely a&longs;ked leave
to join our party. Mi&longs;s Laurence very readily
con&longs;ented; and we had a very &longs;ociable ride.
The finene&longs;s of the day induced me to protract
the enjoyment of it abroad; but Mi&longs;s Laurence
declined riding &longs;o far as I propo&longs;ed, as &longs;he had
engaged company to dine. We therefore parted
till evening, when we are to meet again.
What, another engagement! &longs;aid Mrs. Richman.
Only to the a&longs;&longs;embly, madam. May I inquire
after your gallant, my dear? But I have no
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[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
right, perhaps, to be inqui&longs;itive, &longs;aid Mrs. Richman.
Mi&longs;s Wharton made no reply; and the
conver&longs;ation took a general turn. Mi&longs;s Wharton
&longs;u&longs;tained her part with great propriety. Indeed,
&longs;he di&longs;covers a fund of u&longs;eful knowledge,
and exten&longs;ive reading, which render her peculiarly
entertaining; while the brilliancy of her
wit, the fluency of her language, the vivacity
and ca&longs;e of her manners, are inexpre&longs;&longs;ibly engaging.
I am going my&longs;elf to the a&longs;&longs;embly this
evening, though I did not mention it to General
Richman; I therefore took my leave &longs;oon after
dinner.
I have heard &longs;o much in prai&longs;e of Mi&longs;s Wharton's
penman&longs;hip, in addition to her other endowments,
that I am almo&longs;t tempted to break
the &longs;eal of her letter to you; but I forbear.
Wi&longs;hing you much happine&longs;s in the peru&longs;al of
it, and more in the po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion of its writer, I subscribe
my&longs;elf, yours, &c.
T. Selby.
-- 068 --
LETTER XXV.
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
TO THE REV. J. BOYER.
New-Haven.
Sir,
Your favor of the 4th in&longs;t. came to
hand ye&longs;terday. I received it with plea&longs;ure,
and embrace this early opportunity of contributing
my part to a corre&longs;pondence, tending to
promote a friendly and &longs;ocial intercour&longs;e. An
epi&longs;tolary communication between the &longs;exes has
been with &longs;ome, a &longs;ubject of &longs;atire and cen&longs;ure;
but unju&longs;tly, in my opinion. With per&longs;ons of
refinement and information, it may be a &longs;ource
of entertainment and utility. The knowledge
and ma&longs;culine virtues of your &longs;ex may be softened,
and rendered more diffu&longs;ive by the inquisitiveness,
vivacity, and docility of ours; drawn
forth and exerci&longs;ed by each other.
In regard to the particular &longs;ubject of your's I
&longs;hall be &longs;ilent. Ideas of that kind are better conveyed,
on my part, by words, than by the pen.
I congratulate you on your agreeable settlement,
and hope it will be productive of real and
la&longs;ting happine&longs;s. I am convinced that felicity
is not confined to any particular &longs;tation, or
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[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
condition in life; yet methinks &longs;ome are better calculated
to afford it to me, than others.
Your extract from a favorite poet is charmingly
de&longs;criptive; but is it not difficult to a&longs;certain
what we can pronounce “an elegant sufficiency?”
Perhaps you will an&longs;wer as &longs;ome others
have done, We can attain it by circum&longs;cribing
our wi&longs;hes within the compa&longs;s of our abilities.
I am not very avaricious; yet I mu&longs;t own that
I &longs;hould like to enjoy it without &longs;o much trouble
as that would co&longs;t me.
Excu&longs;e my &longs;eeming levity. You have flattered
my cheerfulne&longs;s by commending it; and
mu&longs;t, therefore, indulge me in the exerci&longs;e of it.
I cannot conveniently be at the pains of restraining
its &longs;allies, when I write in confidence.
Is a &longs;prightly di&longs;po&longs;ition, in your view, indicative
of a giddy mind, or an innocent heart? Of
the latter, I pre&longs;ume; for I know you are not
a mi&longs;anthrope.
We expect the plea&longs;ure of Mr. Selby's company
to dinner. You are, certainly, under
obligations to his friend&longs;hip for the liberal encomiums
he be&longs;towed on you, and your pro&longs;pects
ye&longs;terday. Mrs. Richman rallied me after he
was gone, on my li&longs;tening ear. The General
and &longs;he unite in reque&longs;ting me to pre&longs;ent their
re&longs;pects. Wi&longs;hing you health and happine&longs;s, I
&longs;ub&longs;cribe my&longs;elf your friend,
Eliza Wharton.
-- 070 --
LETTER XXVI.
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
TO MISS LUCY FREEMAN.
New-Haven.
I am perplexed and embarra&longs;&longs;ed, my
friend, by the a&longs;&longs;iduous attentions of this Major
Sanford. I &longs;hall write circum&longs;tantially, and
frankly to you, that I may have the benefit of
your advice. He came here, la&longs;t Monday, in
company with Mr. Laurence, his wife, and
daughter, to make us a vi&longs;it. While they were
pre&longs;ent, a Mr. Selby, a particular friend of Mr.
Boyer, came in, and delivered me a letter from
him. I was really happy in the reception of this
proof of his affection. His friend gave a very
flattering account of his &longs;ituation and pro&longs;pects.
The watchful eye of Major Sanford traced
every word and action, re&longs;pecting Mr. Boyer,
with an attention, which &longs;eemed to border on
anxiety. That, however, did not re&longs;train, but
rather accellerate my vivacity and inquisitiveness
on the &longs;ubject; for I wi&longs;hed to know
whether it would produce any real effect upon
him, or not.
After Mr. Selby's departure, he appeared pensive,
and thoughtful, the remainder of the
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evening; and evidently &longs;ought an opportunity
of &longs;peaking to me a&longs;ide; which I studiously
avoided. Mi&longs;s Laurence and I formed
an engagement to take an airing in the
morning on hor&longs;eback; attended by a relation
of hers, who is now with them. They
called for me about ten, when we immediately
&longs;et out upon our preconcerted excur&longs;ion. We
had not proceeded far, before we were met by
Major Sanford. He was extremely polite, and
finding our de&longs;tination was not particular, begged
leave to join our party. This was granted,
and we had an agreeable tour for &longs;everal miles;
the time being pa&longs;&longs;ed in ea&longs;y, and un&longs;tudied remarks
upon obvious occurrences. Maj. Sanford
could not, however, conceal his particular attention
to me, which rather nettled Mi&longs;s Laurence.
She grew &longs;omewhat &longs;erious, and declined
riding &longs;o far as we had intended; alledging
that &longs;he expected company to dine.
Major Sanford under&longs;tanding that &longs;he was
going to the a&longs;&longs;embly in the evening with Mr.
Gordon, &longs;olicited me to accept a ticket and form
a party with them. The entertainment was
alluring, and I con&longs;ented. When we had parted
with Mi&longs;s Laurence, Major Sanford in&longs;i&longs;ted
on my riding a little farther; &longs;aying, he mu&longs;t
conver&longs;e with me on a particular &longs;ubject; and
if I refu&longs;ed him this opportunity, that he mu&longs;t
vi&longs;it me, at my re&longs;idence, let it offend whom it
would. I yielded to his importunity; and we
rode on. He then told me that his mind was
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in a &longs;tate of &longs;u&longs;pen&longs;e and agitation, which was
very painful to bear; and which I only could
relieve; that my cheerful reception of Mr. Boyer's
letter, ye&longs;terday, and deportment respecting
him, had awakened in his brea&longs;t all the pangs
of jealou&longs;y, which the mo&longs;t ardent love could
feel; that my treatment of Mr. Boyer's friend
convinced him that I was more intere&longs;ted in his
affairs than I was willing to own; that he foresaw
him&longs;elf to be condemned to an eternal separation;
and the total lo&longs;s of my favor and society,
as &longs;oon as time and circum&longs;tances would
allow.
His zeal, his pathos, alarmed me. I begged
him to be calm. To you, &longs;aid I, as a friend,
I have intru&longs;ted my &longs;ituation in relation to Mr.
Boyer. You know that I am under no &longs;pecial
obligation to him; and I do not intend to form
any immediate connection. Mr. Boyer mu&longs;t
have different ideas, madam; and he has rea&longs;on
for them, if I may judge by appearances. When
do you expect another vi&longs;it from him? In about
a fortnight. And is my fate to be then decided;
and &longs;o decided, as I fear it will be, through
the influence of your friends, if not by your
own inclination? My friends, &longs;ir, will not control;
they will only advi&longs;e to what they think
mo&longs;t for my intere&longs;t; and I hope, that my conduct
will not be unworthy of their approbation.
Pardon me, my dear Eliza, &longs;aid he, if I am
impertinent; it is my regard for you which impels
me to the pre&longs;umption. Do you intend to
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give your hand to Mr. Boyer? I do not intend
to give my hand to any man at pre&longs;ent. I
have but lately entered &longs;ociety; and wi&longs;h, for
a while, to enjoy my freedom, in the participation
of plea&longs;ures, &longs;uited to my age and &longs;ex.
The&longs;e, &longs;aid he, you are aware, I &longs;uppo&longs;e, when
you form a connection with that man, you mu&longs;t
renounce; and content your&longs;elf with a confinement
to the tedious round of dome&longs;tic duties,
the pedantic conver&longs;ation of &longs;cholars, and the invidious
critici&longs;ms of a whole town. I have
been accu&longs;tomed, &longs;aid I, and am therefore attached
to men of letters; and as to the prai&longs;e
or cen&longs;ure of the populace, I hope always to
enjoy that approbation of con&longs;cience, which will
render me &longs;uperior to both. But you forget
your promi&longs;e, not to talk in this &longs;tyle; and
have deviated far from the character of a friend
and brother, with which you con&longs;ented to
re&longs;t &longs;atisfied. Yes, but I find my&longs;elf unequal
to the ta&longs;k. I am not &longs;toic enough, tamely to
make &longs;o great a &longs;acrifice. I mu&longs;t plead for an
intere&longs;t in your favor, till you bani&longs;h me from
your pre&longs;ence, and tell me plainly that you
hate me. We had by this time reached the
gate; and as we di&longs;mounted, were unexpectedly
acco&longs;ted by Mr. Selby, who had come agreeably
to his promi&longs;e, to dine with us, and receive
my letter to Mr. Boyer.
Major Sanford took his leave as General
Richman appeared at the door. The General
and his lady rallied me on my change of
-- 074 --
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company; but very prudently concealed their sentiments
of Major Sanford, while Mr. Selby was
pre&longs;ent. Nothing material occurred before, and
during dinner; &longs;oon after which, Mr. Selby
went away. I retired to dre&longs;s for the a&longs;&longs;embly;
and had nearly completed the labor of the toilet,
when Mrs. Richman entered. My friend&longs;hip for
you, my dear Eliza, &longs;aid &longs;he, intere&longs;ts me &longs;o
much in your affairs, that I cannot repre&longs;s my
curio&longs;ity to know who has the honor of your
hand, this evening. If it be any honor, &longs;aid I,
it will be confered on Major Sanford. I think
it far too great to be thus be&longs;towed, returned
&longs;he. It is perfectly a&longs;toni&longs;hing to me, that the
virtuous part of my &longs;ex will countenance, care&longs;s,
and encourage tho&longs;e men, who&longs;e profe&longs;&longs;ion it is
to bla&longs;t their reputation, de&longs;troy their peace, and
triumph in their infamy! Is this, madam, the
avowed de&longs;ign of Major Sanford? I know not
what he avows; but his practice too plainly
be&longs;peaks his principles and views. Does he
now practice the arts you mention; or do you
refer to pa&longs;t follies? I cannot an&longs;wer for his
pre&longs;ent conduct; his pa&longs;t has e&longs;tabli&longs;hed his
character. You, madam, are an advocate for
charity; that, perhaps, if exerci&longs;ed in this instance
might lead you to think it po&longs;&longs;ible for
him to reform; to become a valuable member
of &longs;ociety; and, when connected with a lady of
virtue and refinement, to be capable of making
a good hu&longs;band. I cannot conceive that &longs;uch a
lady would be willing to ri&longs;k her all upon the
&longs;lender pro&longs;pect of his reformation. I hope the
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one with whom I am conver&longs;ing, has no inclination
to &longs;o hazardous, an experiment. Why,
not much. Not much! If you have any, why
do you continue to encourage Mr. Boyer's addresses?
I am not &longs;ufficiently acquainted with
either yet, to determine which to take. At present,
I &longs;hall not confine my&longs;elf in any way. In
regard to the&longs;e men, my fancy and my judgment
are in &longs;cales. Sometimes one preponderates,
&longs;ometimes the other. Which will finally
outweigh, time alone can reveal. O my cou&longs;in,
beware of the delu&longs;ions of fancy! Rea&longs;on mu&longs;t be
our guide, if we would expect durable happiness.
At this in&longs;tant a &longs;ervant opened the
door, and told me that Major Sanford waited in
the parlor. Being ready, I wi&longs;hed Mrs. Richman
a good evening, and went down. Neither
General Richman nor his lady appeared. He
therefore handed me immediately into his phaeton,
and we were &longs;oon in the a&longs;&longs;embly room.
I was &longs;urpri&longs;ed, on my entrance, to find Mr.
Selby there, as he did not mention, at dinner, his
intention of going. He attached him&longs;elf to our
party; and, in the intervals of dancing, took every
opportunity of conver&longs;ing with me. The&longs;e,
however, were not many; for Major Sanford
a&longs;&longs;iduou&longs;ly precluded the po&longs;&longs;ibility of my being
much engaged by any one el&longs;e. We pa&longs;&longs;ed the
evening very agreeably; but the Major's importunity
was rather trouble&longs;ome, as we returned
home. He in&longs;i&longs;ted upon my declaring whether
Mr. Boyer really po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed my affections; and
whether I intended to confer my&longs;elf on him or
-- 076 --
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
not. If, &longs;aid he, you an&longs;wer me in the affirmative,
I mu&longs;t de&longs;pair; but if you have not absolutely
decided again&longs;t me, I will &longs;till hope, that
my per&longs;evering a&longs;&longs;iduity, my faithful love, may
at la&longs;t be rewarded. I told him that I was under
no obligation to give him any account of
my di&longs;po&longs;ition towards another; and that he
mu&longs;t remember the terms of our pre&longs;ent association,
to which he had &longs;ub&longs;cribed. I therefore
begged him to wave the &longs;ubject now, if not
forever. He a&longs;ked my pardon, if he had been
impertinent; but de&longs;ired leave to renew his request,
that I would receive his vi&longs;its, his friendly
vi&longs;its. I replied, that I could not grant this;
and that he mu&longs;t blame him&longs;elf, not me, if he
was an unwelcome gue&longs;t at General Richman's.
He lamented the prejudices which my friends
had imbibed again&longs;t him; but flattered him&longs;elf
that I was more liberal than to be influenced by
them, without any po&longs;itive proof of demerit; as
it was impo&longs;&longs;ible that his conduct towards me
&longs;hould ever deviate from the &longs;tricte&longs;t rules of
honor and love.
What &longs;hall I &longs;ay now, my friend? This man,
to an agreeable per&longs;on has &longs;uperadded, graceful
manners, an amiable temper, and a fortune
&longs;ufficient to en&longs;ure the enjoyments of all the
plea&longs;ing varieties of &longs;ocial life. Perhaps a gay
di&longs;po&longs;ition, and a lax education may have betrayed
him into &longs;ome &longs;cenes of di&longs;&longs;ipation. But
is it not an adage generally received, that “a
reformed rake makes the be&longs;t hu&longs;band?” My
fancy leads me for happine&longs;s to the fe&longs;tive
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
haunts of fa&longs;hionable life. I am at pre&longs;ent, and
know not but I ever &longs;hall be, too volatile for a
confinement to dome&longs;tic avocations, and sedentary
plea&longs;ures. I dare not, therefore, place myself
in a &longs;ituation where the&longs;e mu&longs;t be indispensable.
Mr. Boyer's per&longs;on, and character are
agreeable. I really e&longs;teem the man. My reason
and judgment, as I have ob&longs;erved before,
declare for a connection with him, as a &longs;tate of
tranquillity and rational happine&longs;s. But the
idea of relinqui&longs;hing tho&longs;e delightful amu&longs;ements
and flattering attentions, which wealth and equipage
be&longs;tow, is painful. Why were not
the virtues of the one, and the graces and affluence
of the other combined? I &longs;hould then have
been happy indeed! But, as the ca&longs;e now &longs;tands,
I am loath to give up either; being doubtful
which will conduce mo&longs;t to my felicity.
Pray write me impartially; let me know
your real &longs;entiments, for I rely greatly upon
your opinion. I am, &c.
Eliza Wharton.
-- 078 --
LETTER XXVII.
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
TO THE REV. MR. BOYER.
New-Haven.
I am quite a convert to Pope's assertion,
that “Every woman is, at heart, a
rake.” How el&longs;e can we account for the pleasure
which they evidently receive from the society,
the flattery; the care&longs;&longs;es of men of that
character? Even the mo&longs;t virtuous of them
&longs;eem naturally prone to gaiety, to plea&longs;ure, and,
I had almo&longs;t &longs;aid, to di&longs;&longs;ipation! How el&longs;e &longs;hall
we account for the exi&longs;tence of this di&longs;po&longs;ition,
in your favorite fair? It cannot be the re&longs;ult of
her education. Such a one as &longs;he has received,
is calculated to give her a very different turn of
mind. You mu&longs;t forgive me, my friend, for
I am a little vexed, and alarmed on your account.
I went la&longs;t evening to the a&longs;&longs;embly, as
I told you in my la&longs;t that I intended. I was
purpo&longs;ely without a partner, that I might have
the liberty to exerci&longs;e my gallantry, as circumstances
&longs;hould invite. Indeed, I mu&longs;t own,
that my particular de&longs;ign was, to ob&longs;erve
Mi&longs;s Wharton's movements, being rather
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
inclined to jealou&longs;y in your behalf. She was
handed into the a&longs;&longs;embly room by Major
Sanford. The brilliance of their appearance,
the levity of their manners, and the contrast
of their characters I found to be a general
&longs;ubject of &longs;peculation. I endeavored to associate
with Mi&longs;s Wharton, but found it impossible
to detach her a moment from the coxcomb
who attended her. If &longs;he has any idea of a
connection with you, why does &longs;he continue to
a&longs;&longs;ociate with another, e&longs;pecially with one of
&longs;o oppo&longs;ite a de&longs;cription? I am &longs;eriou&longs;ly afraid,
that there is more intimacy between them, than
there ought to be, con&longs;idering the encouragement
&longs;he has given you.
I hope you will not be offended by my freedom
in this matter. It originates in a concern
for your honor and future happine&longs;s. I am
anxious, left you &longs;hould be made the dupe of a
coquette, and your peace of mind fall a sacrifice
to an artful debauchee. Yet I mu&longs;t believe,
that Mi&longs;s Wharton has, in reality, all that virtue
and good &longs;en&longs;e of which &longs;he enjoys the reputation;
but her pre&longs;ent conduct is my&longs;terious.
I have &longs;aid enough (more than I ought, perhaps)
to awaken your attention to circum&longs;tances,
which may lead to important events. If they appear
of little, or no con&longs;equence to you, you
will at lea&longs;t a&longs;cribe the mention of them to
motives of &longs;incere regard; in your friend and
humble &longs;ervant,
T. Selby.
-- 080 --
LETTER XXVIII.
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON.
New-Haven.
I go on finely with my amour. I
have every encouragement that I could wi&longs;h.
Indeed my fair one does not verbally declare in
my favor; but then, according to the vulgar
proverb, that actions &longs;peak louder than words, I
have no rea&longs;on to complain; &longs;ince &longs;he evidently
approves my gallantry, is plea&longs;ed with my
company, and li&longs;tens to my flattery. Her sagatious
friends have undoubtedly given her a
detail of my vices. If, therefore, my pa&longs;t conduct
has been repugnant to her notions of propriety,
why does &longs;he not act con&longs;i&longs;tently, and refuse
at once to a&longs;&longs;ociate with a man who&longs;e character
&longs;he cannot e&longs;teem? But no; that, Charles, is
no part of the female plan: our entrapping a few
of their &longs;ex, only di&longs;covers the gaiety of our dispositions,
the in&longs;inuating graces of our manners,
and the irre&longs;i&longs;tible charms of our per&longs;ons and
addre&longs;s. The&longs;e qualifications are very alluring
to the &longs;prightly fancy of the fair. They
think to enjoy the plea&longs;ures which re&longs;ult from
this &longs;ource; while their vanity and ignorance
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[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
prompt each one to imagine her&longs;elf &longs;uperior to
delu&longs;ion; and to anticipate the honor of reclaiming
the libertine, and reforming the rake!
I dont know, however, but this girl will
really have that merit with me; for I am
&longs;o much attached to her, that I begin to suspect
I &longs;hould &longs;ooner become a convert to sobriety
than lo&longs;e her. I cannot find that I have
made much impre&longs;&longs;ion on her heart as yet.
Want of &longs;ucce&longs;s in this point mortifies me extremely,
as it is the fir&longs;t time I ever failed. Besides,
I am apprehen&longs;ive that &longs;he is prepo&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed
in favor of the other &longs;wain, the clerical lover,
whom I have mentioned to you before. The
chord, therefore, upon which I play the mo&longs;t,
is the di&longs;&longs;imilarity of their di&longs;po&longs;itions and
plea&longs;ures. I endeavor to detach her from him,
and di&longs;affect her towards him; knowing, that
if I can &longs;eparate them entirely, I &longs;hall be
more likely to &longs;ucceed in my plan. Not that I
have any thoughts of marrying her my&longs;elf;
that will not do at pre&longs;ent. But I love her too
well to &longs;ee her connected with another for life.
I mu&longs;t own my&longs;elf a little revengeful too in this
affair. I wi&longs;h to puni&longs;h her friends, as &longs;he calls
them, for their malice towards me; for their
cold and negligent treatment of me whenever
I go to the hou&longs;e. I know that to fru&longs;trate their
de&longs;igns of a connection between Mr. Boyer and
Eliza would be a grievous di&longs;appointment. I
have not yet determined to &longs;educe her, though,
with all her preten&longs;ions to virtue, I do not think
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it impo&longs;&longs;ible. And if I &longs;hould, &longs;he can blame
none but her&longs;elf, &longs;ince &longs;he knows my character,
and has no rea&longs;on to wonder if I act con&longs;i&longs;tently
with it. If &longs;he will play with a lion, let her beware
of his paw, I &longs;ay. At pre&longs;ent, I wi&longs;h innocently
to enjoy her &longs;ociety; it is a luxury which
I never ta&longs;ted before. She is the very &longs;oul
of plea&longs;ure. The gaye&longs;t circle is irradiated by
her pre&longs;ence, and the highe&longs;t entertainment receives
its greate&longs;t charm from her &longs;miles. Besides,
I have purcha&longs;ed the &longs;eat of Capt. Pribble,
about a mile from her mother's; and can
I think of &longs;uffering her to leave the neighborhood,
ju&longs;t as I enter it? I &longs;hall exert every
nerve to prevent that, and hope to meet with
the u&longs;ual &longs;ucce&longs;s of
Peter Sanford.
LETTER XXIX.
TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.
Hartford.
You de&longs;ire me to write to you, my
friend; but if you had not, I &longs;hould by no
means have refrained. I tremble at the precipice
on which you &longs;tand; and mu&longs;t echo, and
re-echo the &longs;ea&longs;onable admonition of the
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excellent Mrs. Richman, “Beware of the delu&longs;ions
of fancy!” You are &longs;trangely infatuated by
them! Let not the magic arts of that worthle&longs;s
Sanford lead you, like an ignis fatuus from the
path of rectitude and virtue!
I do not find, in all your conver&longs;ations with
him, that one word about marriage drops from
his lips. This is my&longs;terious? No, it is characteristic
of the man. Suppo&longs;e, however, that
his views are honorable; yet what can you expect,
what can you promi&longs;e your&longs;elf from &longs;uch
a connection? “A reformed rake,” you &longs;ay,
“makes the be&longs;t hu&longs;band;” a trite, but a very
erroneous maxim, as the fatal experience of
thou&longs;ands of our &longs;ex can te&longs;tify. In the fir&longs;t
place, I believe that rakes very &longs;eldom do referm,
while their fortunes and con&longs;titutions enable
them to pur&longs;ue their licentious plea&longs;ures. But
even allowing this to happen, can a woman of
refinement and delicacy enjoy the &longs;ociety of a
man, who&longs;e mind has been corrupted, who&longs;e
ta&longs;te has been vitiated, and who has contracted
a depravity both of &longs;entiment and manners,
which no degree of repentance can wholly
efface? Be&longs;ides, of true love they are ab&longs;olutely
incapable. Their pa&longs;&longs;ions have been too much
hackneyed to admit &longs;o pure a flame. You cannot
anticipate &longs;incere and la&longs;ting re&longs;pect from
them. They have been &longs;o long accu&longs;tomed to the
company of tho&longs;e of our &longs;ex, who ob&longs;erve no
e&longs;teem; that the greate&longs;t dignity and purity of
character can never excite it in their brea&longs;ts. They
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[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
are naturally prone to jealou&longs;y. Habituated to
an intercour&longs;e with the ba&longs;er part of the &longs;ex, they
level the whole, and &longs;eldom believe any to be incorruptible.
They are always hard hearted and
cruel. How el&longs;e could they triumph in the
mi&longs;eries which they frequently occa&longs;ion? Their
&longs;pecious manners may render them agreeable
companions abroad; but at home the evil propensities
of their minds will invariably predominate.
They are &longs;teeled again&longs;t the tender affections,
which render dome&longs;tic life delightful;
&longs;trangers to the kind, the endearing &longs;ympathies
of hu&longs;band, father, and friend! The thou&longs;and
namele&longs;s attentions which &longs;often the rugged
path of life, are neglected, and deemed unworthy
of notice by per&longs;ons who have been innured
to &longs;cenes of di&longs;&longs;ipation and debauchery! and is
a man of this de&longs;cription to be the partner, the
companion, the bo&longs;om friend of my Eliza?
Forbid it heaven! Let not the noble qualities,
&longs;o lavi&longs;hly be&longs;towed upon her, be thus unworthily
&longs;acrificed!
You &longs;eem to be particularly charmed with the
fortune of Major Sanford; with the gaiety of
his appearance; with the &longs;plendor of his equipage;
with the politene&longs;s of his manners; with
what you call the graces of his per&longs;on! The&longs;e,
alas! are &longs;uperficial, en&longs;naring endowments.
As to fortune, prudence, economy, and regularity
are nece&longs;&longs;ary to pre&longs;erve it, when po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed.
Of the&longs;e Major Sanford is certainly de&longs;titute;
unle&longs;s common fame (which more frequently
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tells truth than &longs;ome are willing to allow) does
him great inju&longs;tice. As to external parade, it
will not &longs;atisfy the rational mind, when it aspires
to tho&longs;e &longs;ub&longs;tantial plea&longs;ures for which
yours is formed. And as to the graces of
per&longs;on and manners, they are but a wretched
&longs;ub&longs;titute for tho&longs;e virtues which adorn and
dignify human life. Can you, who have always
been u&longs;ed to &longs;erenity and order in a family, to
rational, refined and improving conver&longs;ation,
relinqui&longs;h them, and launch into the whirlpool
of frivolity, where the correct ta&longs;te and the delicate
&longs;en&longs;ibility which you po&longs;&longs;e&longs;s mu&longs;t constantly
be wounded by the frothy and illiberal sallies
of licentious wit?
This, my dear, is but a faint picture of the
&longs;ituation to which you &longs;eem inclined! Rever&longs;e
the &longs;cene, and you will perceive the alternative,
which is &longs;ubmitted to your option, in a virtuous
connection with Mr. Boyer. Remember that
you are acting for life; and that your happine&longs;s
in this world; perhaps in the next, depends on
your pre&longs;ent choice!
I called, la&longs;t evening, to &longs;ee your mamma. She
is fondly anticipating your return; and rejoicing
in the pro&longs;pect of your agreeable and &longs;peedy
&longs;ettlement. I could not find it in my heart to distress
her by intimating that you had other views.
I wi&longs;h her benevolent bo&longs;om never more to feel
the pangs of di&longs;appointed hope.
I am bu&longs;ily engaged in preparing for my
nuptials. The &longs;olemn words “as long as ye
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both &longs;hall live,” render me thoughtful and serious.
I hope for your enlivening pre&longs;ence &longs;oon;
which will prove a &longs;ea&longs;onable cordial to the spirits
of your
Lucy Freeman.
LETTER XXX.
TO MISS LUCY FREEMAN.
New-Haven.
I believe your &longs;pirits need a cordial
indeed, my dear Lucy; after drawing &longs;o dreadful
a portrait of my &longs;wain. But I call him mine
no longer. I renounce him entirely. My
friends &longs;hall be gratified. And if their predictions
are verified, I &longs;hall be happy in a union
with the man of their choice. General Richman
and lady have labored abundantly to prove
that my ruin was inevitable if I did not immediately
break all intercour&longs;e with Major Sanford.
I promi&longs;ed a compliance with their wi&longs;hes; and
have accompli&longs;hed the ta&longs;k, though a hard one I
found it. La&longs;t Thur&longs;day he was here, and desired
leave to &longs;pend an hour with me. I readily
con&longs;ented, a&longs;&longs;uring my friends it &longs;hould
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be the la&longs;t hour, which I would ever &longs;pend in
his company.
He told me that he was obliged to leave town
for a few days; and, as I &longs;hould probably &longs;ee
Mr. Boyer, before his return, he could not depart
in peace without once more endeavoring to
intere&longs;t me in his favor; to obtain &longs;ome token
of e&longs;teem, &longs;ome glimp&longs;e of hope, that I would not
utterly reject him, to &longs;upport him in his ab&longs;ence.
I thanked him for the polite attention he had
paid me, &longs;ince our acquaintance; told him that I
&longs;hould ever retain a grateful &longs;en&longs;e of his partiality
to me; that he would ever &longs;hare my be&longs;t wishes;
but that all connection of the kind, to which
he alluded, mu&longs;t from that time, for ever cea&longs;e.
He exerted all his eloquence to obtain a retraction
of that &longs;entence, and ran, with the
greatect volubility, through all the prote&longs;tations,
prayers, entreaties, profe&longs;&longs;ions and a&longs;&longs;urances
which love could feel or art contrive. I had resolution,
however, to re&longs;i&longs;t them, and to command
my own emotions on the occa&longs;ion, better than
my natural &longs;en&longs;ibility gave me rea&longs;on to expect.
Finding every effort vain, he ro&longs;e precipitately,
and bade me adieu. I urged his tarrying to
tea; but he declined, &longs;aying, that he mu&longs;t retire
to his chamber, being, in his pre&longs;ent &longs;tate of
mind, unfit for any &longs;ociety, as he was bani&longs;hed
from mine. I offered him my hand, which he
pre&longs;&longs;ed with ardor to his lips, and bowing in silence,
left the room.
Thus terminated this affair; an affair, which,
perhaps, was only the effect of mere gallantry
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on his part, and of unmeaning plea&longs;antry on
mine; and which, I am &longs;orry to &longs;ay, has given
my friends &longs;o much anxiety and concern. I am
under obligations to them for their kind solicitude,
however cau&longs;ele&longs;s it may have been.
As an agreeable companion, as a polite and
fini&longs;hed gallant, Major Sanford is all that the
mo&longs;t lively fancy could wi&longs;h. And as you have
always affirmed that I was a little inclined to coquetry,
can you wonder at my exerci&longs;ing it upon
&longs;o happy a &longs;ubject? Be&longs;ides, when I thought
more &longs;eriou&longs;ly, his liberal fortune was extremely
alluring to me, who, you know, have been
hitherto confined to the rigid rules of prudence
and economy, not to &longs;ay, nece&longs;&longs;ity in my finances.
Mi&longs;s Laurence called on me ye&longs;terday, as &longs;he
was taking the air, and a&longs;ked me whether Major
Sanford took leave of me when he left town?
He was here la&longs;t week, &longs;aid I, but I did not know
that he was gone away. O yes, &longs;he replied,
he is gone to take po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion of his &longs;eat, which
he has lately purcha&longs;ed of Captain Pribble. I
am told it is &longs;uperb; and it ought to be, if it
have the honor of his re&longs;idence. Then you
have a great opinion of Major Sanford, &longs;aid I.
Certainly; and has not every body el&longs;e? &longs;aid
&longs;he. I am &longs;ure he is a very fine gentleman.
Mrs. Richman &longs;miled rather contemptuou&longs;ly,
and I changed the &longs;ubject.
I believe that the innocent heart of this simple
girl is a little taken in.
I have ju&longs;t received a letter from Mr. Boyer,
in the u&longs;ual &longs;tyle. He expects the &longs;uperlative
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happine&longs;s of ki&longs;&longs;ing my hand next week. O
dear! I believe I mu&longs;t begin to fix my phiz. Let
me run to the gla&longs;s and try if I can make up one
that will look madami&longs;h. Yes, I &longs;ucceed very well.
I congratulate you on your new neighbor;
but I advi&longs;e friend George to have the guardian
knot tied immediately, le&longs;t you &longs;hould be ensnared
by this bewitching '&longs;quire.
I have been trying to &longs;educe General Richman
to accompany me to the a&longs;&longs;embly, this evening,
but cannot prevail. Were Mrs. Richman
able to go with us, he would be very happy
to wait on us together; but to tell the truth, he
had rather enjoy her company at home, than
any which is to be found abroad. I rallied him
on his old fa&longs;hioned ta&longs;te; but my heart approved
and applauded his attachment. I despise
the married man or woman, who harbors
an inclination to partake of &longs;eparate plea&longs;ures.
I am told, that a &longs;ervant man inquires for me
below; the me&longs;&longs;enger of &longs;ome enamoured &longs;wain,
I &longs;uppo&longs;e. I will &longs;tep down and learn what message
he brings—
Nothing extraordinary; it is only a card of
compliments from a Mr. Emmons, a re&longs;pectable
merchant of this city, reque&longs;ting the honor to
wait on me to the a&longs;&longs;embly this evening. A
welcome reque&longs;t, which I made no he&longs;itation to
grant. If I mu&longs;t re&longs;ign the&longs;e favorite amusements,
let me enjoy as large a &longs;hare as po&longs;&longs;ible,
till the time arrive. Adieu. I mu&longs;t repair to
the toilet and adorn for a new conque&longs;t, the
per&longs;on of
Eliza Wharton.
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LETTER XXXI.
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.
Hartford.
I AM very happy to find you are in &longs;o
good &longs;pirits, Eliza, after parting with your favorite
&longs;wain. For I perceive that he is really the
favorite of your fancy, though your heart cannot
e&longs;teem him; and, independent of that, no
&longs;en&longs;ations can be durable.
I can tell you &longs;ome news of this &longs;trange
man. He has arrived, and taken po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion of
his &longs;eat. Having given general invitations, he has
been called upon and welcomed by mo&longs;t of the
neighboring gentry. Ye&longs;terday he made an elegant
entertainment. Friend George (as you call
him) and I were of the number, who had cards.
Twenty one couple went, I am told. We did
not go. I con&longs;ider my time too valuable to be
&longs;pent in cultivating acquaintance with a per&longs;on
from whom neither plea&longs;ure nor improvement
are to be expected. His profu&longs;ene&longs;s may bribe
the unthinking multitude to &longs;how him re&longs;pect;
but he mu&longs;t know, that though
“Places and honors have been bought for gold,
E&longs;teem and love were never to be &longs;old.”
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I look upon the vicious habits, and abandoned
character of Major Sanford, to have more
pernicious effects on &longs;ociety, than the perpetrations
of the robber and the a&longs;&longs;a&longs;&longs;in. The&longs;e,
when detected, are rigidly puni&longs;hed by the
laws of the land. If their lives be &longs;pared,
they are &longs;hunned by &longs;ociety, and treated with
every mark of di&longs;approbation and contempt.
But to the di&longs;grace of humanity and virtue,
the a&longs;&longs;a&longs;&longs;in of honor; the wretch, who breaks
the peace of families, who robs virgin innocence
of its charms, who triumphs over the ill placed
confidence of the inexperienced, un&longs;u&longs;pecting,
and too credulous fair, is received, and care&longs;&longs;ed,
not only by his own &longs;ex, to which he is a reproach,
but even by ours, who have every conceivable
rea&longs;on to de&longs;pi&longs;e and avoid him. Influenced
by the&longs;e principles, I am neither a&longs;hamed
nor afraid, openly to avow my &longs;entiments of this
man, and my rea&longs;ons for treating him with the
mo&longs;t pointed neglect.
I write warmly on the &longs;ubject; for it is a
&longs;ubject in which I think the honor and happiness
of my &longs;ex concerned. I wi&longs;h they would
more generally e&longs;pou&longs;e their own cau&longs;e. It
would conduce to the public weal, and to their
per&longs;onal re&longs;pectability. I rejoice, heartily, that
you have had re&longs;olution to re&longs;i&longs;t his allurements,
to detect and repel his artifices. Re&longs;olution, in
&longs;uch a ca&longs;e, is ab&longs;olutely nece&longs;&longs;ary; for,
“In &longs;pite of all the virtue we can boa&longs;t,
The woman that deliberates is lo&longs;t.”
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As I was riding out, ye&longs;terday, I met your
mamma. She wondered that I was not one of
the party at our new neighbor's. The rea&longs;on,
madam, &longs;aid I, is that I do not like the character
of the man. I know nothing of him, &longs;aid &longs;he;
he is quite a &longs;tranger to me, only as he called at
my hou&longs;e, la&longs;t week, to pay me his re&longs;pects, as
he &longs;aid, for the &longs;ake of my late hu&longs;band, who&longs;e
memory he revered; and becau&longs;e I was the
mother of Mi&longs;s Eliza Wharton, with whom he
had the honor of &longs;ome little acquaintance. His
manners are engaging, and I am &longs;orry to hear that
his morals are corrupt.
This, my dear, is a very extraordinary vi&longs;it. I
fear that he has not yet laid a&longs;ide his arts. Be
&longs;till on your guard, is the advice of your &longs;incere
and faithful friend,
Lucy Freeman.
LETTER XXXII.
TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON.
Hartford.
I AM really bani&longs;hed and rejected;
de&longs;ired never more to think of the girl I love,
with a view of indulging that love, or of
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[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
rendering it acceptable to its object! You will perhaps,
di&longs;pute the propriety of the term, and tell
me it is not love, it is only gallantry, and a desire
to exerci&longs;e it with her, as a favorite nymph.
I neither know, nor care by what appellation
you di&longs;tingui&longs;h it, but it truly gives me pain. I
have not felt one &longs;en&longs;ation of genuine plea&longs;ure
&longs;ince I heard my &longs;entence; yet I acquie&longs;ced
in it, and &longs;ubmi&longs;&longs;ively took my leave; though I
doubt not but I &longs;hall retaliate the indignity one
time or other.
I have taken po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion of my new purcha&longs;e,
an elegant and delightful re&longs;idence. It is rendered
more &longs;o by being in the vicinity of my
charmer's native abode. This circum&longs;tance will
conduce much to my enjoyment, if I can succeed
in my plan of &longs;eparating her from Mr.
Boyer. I know that my &longs;ituation and mode of
life are far more plea&longs;ing to her than his, and
&longs;hall therefore tru&longs;t to my appearance and address
for a ree&longs;tabli&longs;hment in her favor. I intend,
if po&longs;&longs;ible, to ingratiate my&longs;elf with her
particular friends. For this purpo&longs;e, I called
la&longs;t week at her mother's, to pay my re&longs;pects to
her (&longs;o I told the good woman) as an object of
my particular regard; and as the parent of a
young lady, whom I had the honor to know and
admire. She received me very civilly, thanked
me for my attention, and invited me to call
whenever I had opportunity; which was the
very thing I wanted. I intend likewi&longs;e, to court
popularity. I don't know but I mu&longs;t accept, by
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and by, &longs;ome lucrative office in the civil department.
Yet I cannot bear the idea of confinement
to bu&longs;ine&longs;s. It appears to me quite inconsistent
with the character of a gentleman; I am
&longs;ure it is, with that of a man of plea&longs;ure. But
&longs;omething I mu&longs;t do; for I tell you, in confidence,
that I was obliged to mortgage this place,
becau&longs;e I had not wherewithal to pay for it. But
I &longs;hall manage matters very well, I have no
doubt, and keep up the appearance of affluence,
till I find &longs;ome lady in a &longs;trait for a hu&longs;band,
who&longs;e fortune will enable me to extricate myself
from the&longs;e embarra&longs;&longs;ments. Do come
and &longs;ee me, Charles; for, notwith&longs;tanding all
my gaiety and parade, I have &longs;ome turns of the
hypo, &longs;ome qualms of con&longs;cience, you will call
them; but I meddle not with &longs;uch ob&longs;olete
words. And &longs;o good bye to you, &longs;ays
Peter Sanford.
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LETTER XXXIII.
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
TO MISS LUCY FREEMAN.
New-Haven.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
I BELIEVE I mu&longs;t begin to a&longs;&longs;ume airs
of gravity; and they will not be quite &longs;o foreign
to my feelings now, as at &longs;ome other times.
You &longs;hall know the rea&longs;on. I have been associated
for three days, with &longs;entiment and sobriety,
in the per&longs;on of Mr. Boyer. I don't know
but this man will &longs;educe me into matrimony.
He is very eloquent upon the &longs;ubject; and his
manners are &longs;o &longs;olemn, that I am &longs;trongly tempted,
yet I dare not to laugh. Really, Lucy,
there is &longs;omething extremely engaging and
&longs;oothing too, in virtuous and refined conversation.
It is a &longs;ource of enjoyment which cannot
be reali&longs;ed by the di&longs;&longs;olute and unreflecting.
But then, this particular theme of his, is not a
favorite one to me; I mean, as connected with
its con&longs;equences, care and confinement. However,
I have compounded the matter with him,
and conditioned that he &longs;hall expatiate on the
&longs;ubject, and call it by what name he plea&longs;es,
platonic or conjugal, provided he will let me
take my own time for the con&longs;ummation. I
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have con&longs;ented that he &longs;hall e&longs;cort me, next
week, to &longs;ee my mamma and my Lucy. O, how
the idea of returning to that revered man&longs;ion,
to tho&longs;e beloved friends, exhilerates my &longs;pirits!
General Richman's politene&longs;s to me has induced
him to invite a large party of tho&longs;e gentlemen
and ladies who have been particularly attentive
to me, during my re&longs;idence here, to dine
and take tea, to morrow. After that, I expect
to be engaged in making farewell vi&longs;its, till I
leave the place. I &longs;hall, therefore, forego the
plea&longs;ure of telling you any occurrences, subsequent
to this date, until you &longs;ee and conver&longs;e
with your &longs;incere friend,
Eliza Wharton.
LETTER XXXIV.
TO MRS. RICHMAN.
Hartford.
DEAR MADAM,
The day after I left your ho&longs;pitable
dwelling, brought me &longs;afe to that of my honored
mamma; to the &longs;eat of maternal and &longs;ilial affection;
of &longs;ocial ea&longs;e and dome&longs;tic peace; of
every &longs;pecies of happine&longs;s which can re&longs;ult from
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religion and virtue; from refinement in morals,
and manners.
I found my brother and his wife, with Lucy
Freeman and Mr. Sumner, waiting to receive
and bid me welcome. I flew with extacy to the
bo&longs;om of my mamma, who received me with
her accu&longs;tomed affection, te&longs;tified by the expressive
tears of tenderne&longs;s which &longs;tole &longs;ilently down
her widowed cheek. She was unable to &longs;peak.
I was equally &longs;o. We therefore indulged, a moment,
the plea&longs;ing emotions of &longs;ympathi&longs;ing sensibility.
When di&longs;engaged from her fond embrace,
I was &longs;aluted by the others in turn; and
having recovered my&longs;elf, I pre&longs;ented Mr. Boyer
to each of the company, and each of the company
to him. He was cordially received by all,
but more e&longs;pecially by my mamma.
The next day I was called upon and welcomed
by &longs;everal of my neighboring acquaintance;
among whom I was not a little &longs;urpri&longs;ed to &longs;ee
Major Sanford. He came in company with
Mr. Stoddard and Lady, whom he overtook, as
he told me, near by; and, as they informed him
that the de&longs;ign of their vi&longs;it was to welcome me
home, he readily accepted their invitation to partake
of the plea&longs;ure which every one mu&longs;t receive
on my return. I bowed &longs;lightly at his
compliment, taking no vi&longs;ible notice of any peculiarity
of expre&longs;&longs;ion either in his words or
looks.
His politene&longs;s to Mr. Boyer, appeared to be
the re&longs;ult of habit. Mr. Boyer's to him, to be
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[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
forced by re&longs;pect to the company to which he
had gained admi&longs;&longs;ion. I dare &longs;ay, that each felt
a con&longs;cious &longs;uperiority; the one on the &longs;core of
merit; the other on that of fortune. Which
ought to outweigh, the judicious mind will easily
decide. The &longs;cale, as I once ob&longs;erved to
you, will turn as fancy or rea&longs;on preponderates.
I believe the e&longs;teem which I now have for Mr.
Boyer, will keep me &longs;teady; except, perhaps,
&longs;ome little excentricities, now and then, ju&longs;t by
way of variety. I am going to morrow morning
to &longs;pend a few days with Lucy Freeman;
to a&longs;&longs;i&longs;t in the preparation for, and the solemnization
of her nuptials, Mr. Boyer, in the mean
time, will tarry among his friends in town. My
mamma is exce&longs;&longs;ively partial to him; though I
am not yet jealous that &longs;he means to rival me,
I am not certain, however, but it might be happy
for him if &longs;he &longs;hould. For I &longs;u&longs;pect, notwithstanding
the di&longs;parity of her age, that &longs;he is better
calculated to make him a good wife than I
am or ever &longs;hall be.
But to be &longs;ober. Plea&longs;e, madam, to make my
compliments acceptable to tho&longs;e of your neighbors,
who&longs;e politene&longs;s and attention to me, while
at your hou&longs;e, have laid me under particular obligations
of gratitude and re&longs;pect. My be&longs;t regards
attend General Richman. Pray tell him,
that though I never expect to be &longs;o good a
wife as he is ble&longs;&longs;ed with; yet I intend, after a
while (when I have &longs;owed all my wild cats) to
make a tolerable one.
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I am anxious to hear of a wi&longs;hed for event,
and of your &longs;afety. All who know you, feel interested
in your health and happine&longs;s; but none
more warmly than your obliged and affectionate.
Eliza Wharton.
LETTER XXXV.
TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.
New-Haven.
I write a line, at Mrs. Richman's
reque&longs;t, ju&longs;t to inform you, Eliza, that ye&longs;terday,
that lovely and beloved woman pre&longs;ented me
with a daughter. This event awakens new sensations
in my mind; and calls into exerci&longs;e a
kind of affection which had before lain dormant.
I feel already the tenderne&longs;s of a parent; while
imagination &longs;ondly traces the mother's likene&longs;s
in the infant form. Mrs. Richman expects to
receive your congratulations, in a letter by the
next po&longs;t. She bids me tell you, moreover, that
&longs;he hopes &longs;oon to receive an invitation, and be
able to attend to the con&longs;ummation you talk of.
Give Mrs. Richman's and my particular regards
to your excellent mother; and to the worthy Mr.
Boyer. With &longs;entiments of e&longs;teem and friendship,
I am, &c.
S. Richman.
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LETTER XXXVI.
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TO MRS. RICHMAN.
Hartford.
From the &longs;cenes of &longs;e&longs;tive mirth,
from the conviviality of rejoicing friends, and
from the di&longs;&longs;ipating amu&longs;ements of the gay
world, I retire with alacrity, to hail my beloved
friend on the important charge which &longs;he has
received; on the acce&longs;&longs;ion to her family, and,
may I not &longs;ay, on the addition to her care; &longs;ince
that care will be more than counterbalanced by
the plea&longs;ure it con&longs;ers. Hail happy babe! Ushered
into the world by the be&longs;t of mothers; entitled
by birth-right to virtue and honor; defended
by parental love, from the weakne&longs;s of
infancy and childhood, by guardian wi&longs;dom
from the perils of youth, and by affluent independence
from the griping hand of poverty, in
more advanced life! May the&longs;e animating prospects
be reali&longs;ed by your little daughter; and
may you long enjoy the rich reward of &longs;eeing
her all that you wi&longs;h!
Ye&longs;terday, my dear friend, Lucy Freeman
gave her hand to the amiable and accomplished
Mr. George Sumner. A large circle of
congratulating friends were pre&longs;ent. Her dre&longs;s
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was &longs;uch as wealth and elegance required. Her
deportment was every thing that mode&longs;ty and
propriety could &longs;ugge&longs;t. They are, indeed, a
charming couple. The con&longs;onance of their dispositions,
the &longs;imilarity of their ta&longs;tes, and the
equality of their ages are a &longs;ure pledge of happiness.
Every eye beamed with plea&longs;ure on the
occa&longs;ion, and every tongue echoed the wi&longs;hes of
benevolence. Mine only was &longs;ilent. Though
not le&longs;s intere&longs;ted in the felicity of my friend
than the re&longs;t, yet the idea of a &longs;eparation; perhaps,
of an alienation of affection, by means of
her entire devotion to another, ca&longs;t an involuntary
gloom over my mind. Mr. Boyer took
my hand, after the ceremony was pa&longs;t. Permit
me, Mi&longs;s Wharton, &longs;aid he, to lead you to your
lovely friend; her happine&longs;s mu&longs;t be heightened
by your participation of it. Oh no; &longs;aid I,
I am too &longs;elfi&longs;h for that. She has conferred upon
another that affection which I wi&longs;hed to engross.
My love was too &longs;ervent to admit a rival.
Retaliate then, &longs;aid he, this fancied wrong, by
doing likewi&longs;e. I ob&longs;erved that this was not a
proper time to di&longs;cu&longs;s that &longs;ubject; and, resuming
my feat, endeavored to put on the appearance
of my accu&longs;tomed vivacity. I need nor
relate the remaining particulars of the evening's
entertainment. Mr. Boyer returned with my
mamma, and I remained at Mrs. Freeman's.
We are to have a ball here, this evening.
Mr. Boyer has been with us, and tried to monopolize
my company; but in vain. I am too much
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engaged by the exhilerating &longs;cenes around, for
attending to a &longs;ubject which affords no variety.
I &longs;hall not clo&longs;e this till to morrow.
—I am rather fatigued with the amusements
of la&longs;t night, which were protracted to a
late hour. Mr. Boyer was pre&longs;ent; and I was
plea&longs;ed to &longs;ee him not aver&longs;e to the entertainment,
though his profe&longs;&longs;ion prevented his taking
an active part. As all the neighboring gentry
were invited, Mr. Freeman would, by no means,
omit Major Sanford, which his daughter earnestly
&longs;olicited. It happened (unfortunately, &longs;hall I
&longs;ay?) that I drew him for a partner. Yet I mu&longs;t
own, that I felt very little reluctance to my lot.
He is an excellent dancer, and well calculated
for a companion in the hours of mirth and gaiety.
I regretted Mr. Boyer's being pre&longs;ent, however;
becau&longs;e my enjoyment &longs;eemed to give him pain.
I hope he is not inclined to the pa&longs;&longs;ion of jealou&longs;y.
If he is, I fear it will be &longs;omewhat exerci&longs;ed.
Lucy Freeman, now Mrs. Sumner, removes,
next week, to Bo&longs;ton. I have agreed to accompany
her, and &longs;pend a month or two in her family.
This will give variety to the journey of life.
Be &longs;o kind as to direct your next letter to me
there.
Ki&longs;s the dear little babe for me. Give love,
compliments, &c. as re&longs;pectively due; and believe
me, with every &longs;entiment of re&longs;pect, your
affectionate
Eliza Wharton.
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LETTER XXXVII.
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TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON.
Hartford.
DEAR CHARLES,
My hopes begin to revive. I am again
permitted to a&longs;&longs;ociate with my Eliza; invited
to the &longs;ame entertainment! She does not
re&longs;u&longs;e to join with me in the mazy dance, and
partake the &longs;cenes of fe&longs;tive mirth. Nay, more;
&longs;he allows me to pre&longs;s her hand to my lips; and
li&longs;tens to the &longs;ighing accents of love. Love her,
I certainly do. Would to heaven I could marry
her! Would to heaven I had pre&longs;erved my
fortune; or &longs;he had one to &longs;upply its place! I
am di&longs;tracted at the idea of lo&longs;ing her forever.
I am &longs;ometimes tempted to &longs;olicit her hand in
&longs;erious earne&longs;t; but if I &longs;hould, poverty and
want mu&longs;t be the con&longs;equence. Her disappointment
in the expectation of affluence and splendor,
which I believe her ruling pa&longs;&longs;ion, would
afford a perpetual &longs;ource of di&longs;content and mutual
wretchedne&longs;s.
She is going to Bo&longs;ton with her friend, Mrs.
Sumner. I mu&longs;t follow her. I mu&longs;t break the
connection, which is rapidly forming, between
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her and Mr. Boyer; and enjoy her &longs;ociety a
while longer, if no more.
I have had a little intimation from New-Haven,
that Mi&longs;s Laurence is partial to me, and
might ea&longs;ily be obtained, with a hand&longs;ome property
into the bargain. I am neither plea&longs;ed with,
nor aver&longs;e to the girl. But &longs;he has money, and
that may &longs;upply the place of love, by enabling
me to pur&longs;ue independent plea&longs;ures. This &longs;he
mu&longs;t expect, if &longs;he marries a man of my ca&longs;t.
She doubtle&longs;s knows my character; and if &longs;he
is &longs;o vain of her charms or influence, as to
think of reforming or confining me, &longs;he mu&longs;t
bear the con&longs;equences.
However, I can keep my head up, at pre&longs;ent,
without recour&longs;e to the noo&longs;e of matrimony;
and &longs;hall, therefore, defer any particular attention
to her, till nece&longs;&longs;ity requires it.
I am, &c.
Peter Sanford.
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LETTER XXXVIII.
[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
TO MRS. M. WHARTON.
Boston.
You commanded me, my dear mamma,
to write you. That command, I cheerfully
obey, in te&longs;timony of my ready &longs;ubmi&longs;&longs;ion and
re&longs;pect. No other avocation could arre&longs;t my
time, which is now completely occupied in &longs;cenes
of amu&longs;ement.
Mrs. Sumner is agreeably &longs;ettled and &longs;ituated.
She appears to be po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed of every ble&longs;&longs;ing
which can render life de&longs;irable. Almo&longs;t every
day, &longs;ince our arrival, has been engro&longs;&longs;ed by visitants.
Our evenings, we have devoted to company
abroad; and that more generally than we
&longs;hould otherwi&longs;e have done, as my &longs;tay is limited
to &longs;o &longs;hort a period. The mu&longs;eum, the theatres,
the circus and the a&longs;&longs;emblies have been frequented.
Mrs. Sumner has made me &longs;everal pre&longs;ents,
notwith&longs;tanding which, the articles requi&longs;ite to
a fa&longs;hionable appearance, have involved me in
con&longs;iderable expen&longs;e. I fear that you will think
me extravagant when you are told how much.
Mr. Boyer tarried in town about a week, having
bu&longs;ine&longs;s. He appeared a little concerned at
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my ta&longs;te for di&longs;&longs;ipation, as he once termed it.
He even took the liberty to conver&longs;e &longs;eriou&longs;ly on
the &longs;ubject.
I was di&longs;plea&longs;ed with his freedom; and reminded
him that I had the di&longs;po&longs;al of my own
time, as yet; and that while I e&longs;caped the censure
of my own heart, I hoped that no one el&longs;e
would pre&longs;ume to arraign it. He apologi&longs;ed,
and gave up his argument.
I was much &longs;urpri&longs;ed, the fir&longs;t time I went to
the play, to &longs;ee Major Sanford in the very next
box. He immediately joined our party; and
wherever I have been &longs;ince, I have been almo&longs;t
&longs;ure to meet him.
Mr. Boyer has taken his departure; and I do
not expect to &longs;ee him again, till I return home.
O mamma! I am embarra&longs;&longs;ed about this man.
His worth I acknowledge; nay, I e&longs;teem him
very highly. But can there be happine&longs;s with
&longs;uch a di&longs;parity of di&longs;po&longs;itions?
I &longs;hall &longs;oon return to the bo&longs;om of dome&longs;tic
tranquillity, to the arms of maternal tenderne&longs;s,
where I can deliberate and advi&longs;e at lei&longs;ure, about
this important matter. Till when,
I am, &c.
Eliza Wharton.
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LETTER XXXIX.
[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]
TO MR. T. SELBY.
Hampshire.
DEAR SIR.
I believe that I owe you an apology
for my long &longs;ilence. But my time has been
much engro&longs;&longs;ed of late; and my mind much
more &longs;o. When it will be otherwi&longs;e, I cannot
fore&longs;ee. I fear, my friend, that there is &longs;ome
foundation for your &longs;u&longs;picions re&longs;pecting my
beloved Eliza. What pity it is, that &longs;o fair a
form, &longs;o accompli&longs;hed a mind, &longs;hould be tarnished,
in the &longs;malle&longs;t degree, by the follies of coquetry!
If this be the fact, which I am loth to
believe, all my regard for her &longs;hall never make
me the dupe of it.
When I arrived at her re&longs;idence, at New-Haven,
where, I told you in my la&longs;t, I was &longs;oon to
go, &longs;he gave me a mo&longs;t cordial reception. Her
whole behavior to me was corre&longs;pondent with
tho&longs;e &longs;entiments of e&longs;teem and affection which
&longs;he mode&longs;tly avowed. She permitted me to accompany
her to Hartford, to re&longs;tore her to her
mother, and to declare my wi&longs;h to receive her
again from her hand. Thus far, all was
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harmony and happine&longs;s. As all my wi&longs;hes were
con&longs;i&longs;tent with virtue and honor, &longs;he readily indulged
them. She took apparent plea&longs;ure in
my company, encouraged my hopes of a future
union, and li&longs;tened to the tender accents of
love.
But the &longs;cenes of gaiety, which invited her
attention, rever&longs;ed her conduct. The delightful
hours of mutual confidence, of &longs;entimental
conver&longs;e, and of the interchange of re&longs;ined affection,
were no more! In&longs;tead of the&longs;e, parties
were formed, unplea&longs;ing to my ta&longs;te; and every
opportunity was embraced to join in diver&longs;ions,
in which &longs;he knew I could not con&longs;i&longs;tently take
a &longs;hare. I, however, acquie&longs;ced in her plea&longs;ure,
though I &longs;ometimes thought my&longs;elf neglected,
and even hinted it to her mother. The old lady
apologi&longs;ed for her daughter, by alledging that
&longs;he had been ab&longs;ent for a long time; that her
acquaintances were rejoiced at her return, and
welcomed her by &longs;triving to promote her amnsement.
One of her mo&longs;t intimate friends was married
during my &longs;tay; and &longs;he appeared deeply
intere&longs;ted in the event. She &longs;pent &longs;everal days
in a&longs;&longs;i&longs;ting her, previous to the celebration. I
re&longs;ided, in the mean time, at her mamma's, visiting
her at her friend's, where Major Sanford,
among others, was received as a gue&longs;t. Mrs.
Summer acquainted me that &longs;he had prevailed on
Mi&longs;s Wharton to go and &longs;pend a few weeks
with her at Bo&longs;ton, whither &longs;he was removing;
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and urged my accompanying them. I endeavored
to excu&longs;e my&longs;elf, as I had been ab&longs;ent
from my people a con&longs;iderable time, and my
return was now expected. But their importunity
was &longs;o great, and Eliza's declaration that
it would be very agreeable to her, &longs;o tempting,
that I con&longs;ented. Here I took lodgings and
&longs;pent about a week, taking every opportunity
to conver&longs;e with Eliza, &longs;triving to di&longs;cover her
real di&longs;po&longs;ition towards me. I mentioned the
inconvenience of vi&longs;iting her &longs;o often as I wi&longs;hed,
and &longs;ugge&longs;ted my de&longs;ire to enter, as &longs;oon as
might be, into a family relation. I painted in
the mo&longs;t alluring colours the plea&longs;ures re&longs;ulting
from dome&longs;tic tranquillity, mutual confidence,
and conjugal affection; and in&longs;i&longs;ted on her declaring
frankly whether &longs;he de&longs;igned to &longs;hare this
happine&longs;s with me, and when it &longs;hould commence.
She owned that &longs;he intended to give
me her hand; but when &longs;he &longs;hould be ready,
&longs;he could not yet determine. She pretended a
promi&longs;e from me to wait her time; to con&longs;ent
that &longs;he &longs;hould &longs;hare the plea&longs;ures of the sashionable
world, as long as, &longs;he cho&longs;e, &c.
I then attempted to convince her of her mistaken
ideas of plea&longs;ure; that the &longs;cenes of
di&longs;&longs;ipation, of which &longs;he was &longs;o pa&longs;&longs;ionately &longs;ond,
afforded no true enjoyment; that the adulation
of the coxcomb could not give durability to her
charms, or &longs;ecure the approbation of the wife and
good; nor could the fa&longs;hionable amu&longs;ements
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of brilliant a&longs;&longs;emblies, and crouded theatres
furni&longs;h the mind with
“That which nothing earthly gives, or can de&longs;troy,
The &longs;oul's calm &longs;un&longs;hine, and the heart felt joy.”
The&longs;e friendly &longs;ugge&longs;tions, I found were considered
as the theme of a prie&longs;t; and my de&longs;ire
to detach her from &longs;uch empty pur&longs;uits, as the
&longs;elfi&longs;hne&longs;s of a lover. She was even offended at
my freedom; and warmly affirmed, that no one
had a right to arraign her conduct. I mentioned
Major Sanford who was then in town, and who
(though &longs;he went to places of public re&longs;ort with
Mr. and Mrs. Sumner) always met and gallanted
her home. She rallied me upon my jealou&longs;y,
as &longs;he termed it; wi&longs;hed that I would attend her
my&longs;elf, and then &longs;he &longs;hould need no other gallant.
I an&longs;wered that I had rather re&longs;ign that
honor to another; but wi&longs;hed, for her &longs;ake,
that he might be a gentleman who&longs;e character
would not di&longs;grace the company with which he
a&longs;&longs;ociated. She appeared morti&longs;ied and chagrined
in the extreme. However, &longs;he studiously
&longs;uppre&longs;&longs;ed her emotions; and even &longs;oothed
me with the blandi&longs;hments of female &longs;oftne&longs;s.
We parted amicably. She promi&longs;ed to return
&longs;oon, and prepare for a compliance with my
wi&longs;hes. I cannot re&longs;u&longs;e to believe her! I cannot
cea&longs;e to love her! My heart is in her possession.
She has a perfect command of my passions.
Per&longs;ua&longs;ion dwells on her tongue. With
all the boa&longs;ted fortitude and re&longs;olution of our
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&longs;ex, we are but mere machines. Let love once
pervade our brea&longs;ts; and its object may mould
us into any form that plea&longs;es her fancy, or even
caprice!
I have ju&longs;t received a letter from Eliza, informing
me of her return to Hartford. To
morrow I &longs;hall &longs;et out on a vi&longs;it to the dear girl;
for, my friend, notwith&longs;tanding all her &longs;oibles,
&longs;he is very dear to me. Before you hear from me
again, I expect that the happy day will be fixed;
the day which &longs;hall unite, in the mo&longs;t &longs;acred
bands, this lovely maid, and your faithful
friend,
J. Boyer.
LETTER XL.
TO MR. T. SELBY.
Hampshire.
I HAVE returned; and the day, indeed,
is fixed; but Oh! how different from my fond
expectations! It is not the day of union, but
the day of final &longs;eparation; the day which divides
me from my charmer; the day which breaks
a&longs;under the bands of love; the day on which my
rea&longs;on a&longs;&longs;umes its empire, and triumphs over
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the arts of a fini&longs;hed coquette! Congratulate
me, my friend, that I have thus overcome
my feelings, and repelled the infatuating
wiles of a deceitful girl. I would not be
under&longs;tood to impeach Mi&longs;s Wharton's virtue;
I mean her cha&longs;tity. Virtue in the common acceptation
of the term, as applied to the &longs;ex, is
confined to that particular, you know. But in
my view, this is of little importance, where all
other virtues are wanting!
When I arrived at Mrs. Wharton's, and inquired
for Eliza, I was told that &longs;he had rode
out; but was &longs;oon expected home. An hour
after, a phaeton &longs;topped at the door, from which
my fair one alighted, and was handed into the
hou&longs;e by Major Sanford, who immediately took
leave. I met her and offered my hand, which
&longs;he received with apparent tenderne&longs;s.
When the family had retired after &longs;upper,
and left us to talk on our particular affairs, I
found the &longs;ame indeci&longs;ion, the &longs;ame loathne&longs;s to
bring our court&longs;hip to a period, as formerly.
Her previous excu&longs;es were renewed, and her
wi&longs;hes to have a union &longs;till longer delayed, were
zealou&longs;ly urged. She could not bear the idea
of con&longs;inement to the cares of a married life at
per&longs;ent; and begged me to defer all &longs;olicitation
on that &longs;ubject to &longs;ome future day. I found my
temper ri&longs;e, and told her plainly, that I was
not thus to be tri&longs;ted with; that if her regard
for me was &longs;incere; if &longs;he really intended to
form a connection with me, &longs;he could not thus
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protract the time, try my patience, and prefer every
other plea&longs;ure to the rational interchange of
affection, to the calm delights of dome&longs;tic life.
But in vain did I argue again&longs;t her fal&longs;e notions
of happine&longs;s; in vain did I repre&longs;ent the dangerous
&longs;y&longs;tem of conduct, which &longs;he now pursued,
and urge her to accept, before it was too
late, the hand and heart which were devoted to
her &longs;ervice. That, &longs;he &longs;aid, &longs;he purpo&longs;ed, ere
long to do; and hoped amply to reward my
faithful love; but &longs;he could not fix the time this
evening. She mu&longs;t con&longs;ider a little further; and
likewi&longs;e con&longs;ult her mother. Is it not Major
Sanford whom you wi&longs;h to con&longs;ult, madam?
&longs;aid I. She blu&longs;hed, and gave me no an&longs;wer.
Tell me, Eliza, I continued, tell me frankly, if
he has not &longs;upplanted me in your affections; if
he be not the cau&longs;e of my being thus eva&longs;ively,
thus cruelly treated? Major Sanford, &longs;ir, replied
&longs;he, has done you no harm. He is a
particular friend of mine; a polite gentleman,
and an agreeable neighbor; and therefore I
treat him with civility; but he is not &longs;o much
intere&longs;ted in my concerns, as to alter my disposition
towards any other per&longs;on. Why, &longs;aid
I, do you talk of friend&longs;hip with a man of his
character? Between his &longs;ociety and mine, there
is a great contra&longs;t. Such oppo&longs;ite put&longs;uits and
inclinations cannot be equally plea&longs;ing to the
&longs;ame ta&longs;te. It is therefore nece&longs;&longs;ary, that you
renounce the one, to enjoy the other. I will
give you time to decide which. I am going to a
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friend's hou&longs;e to &longs;pend the night; and will call
on you to morrow, if agreeable, and conver&longs;e
with you further upon the matter. She bowed
a&longs;&longs;ent, and I retired.
The next afternoon I went as agreed; and
found her mamma and her alone in the parlor.
She was very pen&longs;ive and appeared to have been
in tears. The &longs;ight affected me. The idea
of having treated her har&longs;hly, the evening before,
di&longs;armed me of my re&longs;olution to in&longs;i&longs;t on her
deci&longs;ion that day. I invited her to ride with
me and vi&longs;it a friend, to which &longs;he readily consented.
We &longs;pent our time agreeably. I
forebore to pre&longs;s her on the &longs;ubject of our
future union; but &longs;trove rather to &longs;oothe
her mind, and in&longs;pire her with &longs;entiments
of tenderne&longs;s towards me. I conducted her
home, and returned early in the evening to my
friend's, who met me at the door; and joco&longs;ely
told me, that he expected I &longs;hould now rob them
of their agreeable neighbor. But, added he,
we have been apprehen&longs;ive that you would be
rivalled, if you delayed your vi&longs;it much longer.
I did not &longs;u&longs;pect a rival, &longs;aid I. Who can the
happy man be? I can &longs;ay nothing from personal
ob&longs;ervation, &longs;aid he; but &longs;ame, of late,
has talked loudly of Major Sanford and Mi&longs;s
Wharton. Be not alarmed, continued he,
feeing me look grave. I pre&longs;ume no harm is
intended. The Major is a man of gallantry,
and Mi&longs;s Wharton is a gay lady; but I dare
&longs;ay that your connection will be happy, if it he
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formed
. I noticed a particular empha&longs;is on the
word if; and as we were alone, I followed him
with que&longs;tions, till the whole affair was developed.
I informed him of my embarra&longs;&longs;ment; and
he gave me to under&longs;tand that Eliza's conduct
had, for &longs;ome time pa&longs;t, been a &longs;ubject of speculation
in the town; that formerly, her character
was highly e&longs;teemed; but that her intimacy
with a man of Sanford's known libertini&longs;m;
more e&longs;pecially as &longs;he was &longs;uppo&longs;ed to be engaged
to another, had rendered her very cen&longs;urable;
that they were often together; that wherever &longs;he
went, he was &longs;ure to follow, as if by appointment;
that they walked, talked, &longs;ung and danced together
in all companies; that &longs;ome &longs;uppo&longs;ed he would
marry her; others, that he only meditated adding
her name to the black catalogue of deluded
wretches, whom he had already ruined!
I ro&longs;e, and walked the room in great agitation.
He apologized for his freedom; was forry
if he had wounded my feelings; but friendship
alone had induced him frankly to declare
the truth, that I might guard again&longs;t duplicity
and deceit.
I thanked him for his kind inten&longs;ions; and
a&longs;&longs;ured him that I &longs;hould not quit the town till I
had terminated this affair, in one way or another.
I retired to bed, but &longs;leep was a &longs;iranger to my
eyes. With the dawn I ro&longs;e; and after breakfast
walked to Mrs. Wharton's, who informed
me, that Eliza was in her chamber, writing to a
friend, but would be down in a few minutes. I
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entered into conver&longs;ation with the old lady on
the &longs;ubject of her daughter's conduct; hinted
my &longs;u&longs;picions of the cau&longs;e, and declared my resolution
of knowing my de&longs;tiny immediately.
She endeavored to extenuate, and excu&longs;e her
as much as po&longs;&longs;ible; but frankly owned that
her behavior was my&longs;terious; that no pains had
been wanting, on her part, to alter and rectify
it; that &longs;he had remon&longs;trated, expo&longs;tulated, advised
and entreated, as often as occa&longs;ion required.
She hoped that my re&longs;olution would have
a good effect, as &longs;he knew that her daughter esteemed
me very highly.
In this manner we conver&longs;ed till the clock
&longs;truck twelve; and Eliza, not appearing, I desired
her mamma to &longs;end up word that I waited
to &longs;ee her. The maid returned with an an&longs;wer
that &longs;he was indi&longs;po&longs;ed, and had lain down.
Mrs. Wharton ob&longs;erved, that &longs;he had not &longs;lept
for &longs;everal nights, and complained of the head
ache in the morning. The girl added, that &longs;he
would wait on Mr. Boyer in the evening. Upon
this information I ro&longs;e and abruptly took my
leave. I went to dine with a friend, to whom I
had engaged my&longs;elf the day before; but my
mind was too much agitated to enjoy either the
company or the dinner. I excu&longs;ed my&longs;elf from
tarrying to tea, and returned to Mrs. Wharton's.
On inquiry, I was told that Eliza had gone to
walk in the garden; but de&longs;ired that no per&longs;on
might intrude on her retirement. The singularity
of the reque&longs;t awakened my curio&longs;ity, and
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determined me to follow her. I &longs;ought her in
vain, in different parts of the garden, till, going
towards an arbor, almo&longs;t concealed from &longs;ight,
by &longs;urrounding &longs;hrubbery, I di&longs;covered her, sitting
in clo&longs;e conver&longs;ation with Major Sanford!
My blood chilled in my veins, and I &longs;tood perrisied
with a&longs;toni&longs;hment, at the di&longs;clo&longs;ure of
&longs;uch ba&longs;ene&longs;s and deceit. They both ro&longs;e in
vi&longs;ible confu&longs;ion. I dared not tru&longs;t my&longs;elf to
acco&longs;t them. My pa&longs;&longs;ions were rai&longs;ed, and I
feared that I might &longs;ay or do &longs;omething unbecoming
my character. I therefore gave them a
look of indignation and contempt, and retreated
to the hou&longs;e. I traver&longs;ed the parlor ha&longs;tily, overwhelmed
with chagrin and re&longs;entment! Mrs.
Wharton inquired the cau&longs;e. I attempted to
tell her, but my tongue refu&longs;ed utterance!
While in this &longs;ituation, Eliza entered the room.
She was not le&longs;s di&longs;compo&longs;ed than my&longs;elf. She
&longs;at down at the window and wept. Her mamma
wept likewi&longs;e. At length &longs;he recovered herself,
in a degree, and de&longs;ired me to &longs;it down. I
an&longs;wered no; and continued walking. Will
you, &longs;aid &longs;he, permit me to vindicate my conduct
and explain my motives? Your conduct,
&longs;aid I, cannot be vindicated; your motives need
no explanation; they are too apparent! How,
Mi&longs;s Wharton, have I merited this treatment
from you? But I can bear it no longer. Your
indifference to me proceeds from an attachment
to another; and forgive me, if I add, to one,
who is the di&longs;grace of his own &longs;ex, and the
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destroyer of yours. I have been too long the dupe
of your di&longs;&longs;imulation and coquetry. Too long
has my peace of mind been &longs;acrificed to the arts
of a woman, who&longs;e conduct has proved her unworthy
of my regard; in&longs;en&longs;ible to love, gratitude
and honor!
To you, madam, &longs;aid I, turning to her mother,
I acknowledge my obligations for your friendship,
politene&longs;s and attention. I once hoped for
the privilege of rocking for you the cradle of declining
age. I am deprived of that privilege;
but I pray that you may never want a child, who&longs;e
love and duty &longs;hall prove a &longs;ource of consolation
and comfort!
Farewell! If we never meet again in this
life, I hope and tru&longs;t we &longs;hall in a better; where
the parent's eye &longs;hall cea&longs;e to weep for the disobedience
of a child; and the lover's heart to
bleed for the infidelity of his mi&longs;tre&longs;s!
I turned to Eliza, and attempted to &longs;peak;
but her extreme emotion &longs;oftened me, and I
could not command my voice. I took her hand,
and bowing, in token of an adieu, went precipitately
out of the hou&longs;e. The re&longs;idence of my friend,
with whom I lodged, was at no great di&longs;tance, and
thither I repaired. As I met him in the entry,
I ru&longs;hed by him, and betook my&longs;elf to my chamber.
The fever of re&longs;entment, and the tumult of
pa&longs;&longs;ion began now to give place to the &longs;often
emotions of the &longs;oul. I found my&longs;elf perfectly
unmanned. I gave free &longs;cope to the &longs;en&longs;ibility
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of my heart; and the effeminate relief of tears
materially lightened the load which oppre&longs;&longs;ed
me.
After this arduous &longs;truggle I went to bed;
and &longs;lept more calmly than for &longs;everal nights before.
The next morning I wrote a farewell letter
to Eliza (a copy of which I &longs;hall inclo&longs;e to
you) and ordering my hor&longs;e to be brought, left
town immediately.
My re&longs;entment of her behavior has much assisted
me in era&longs;ing her image from my brea&longs;t.
In this exertion I have &longs;ucceeded beyond my
mo&longs;t &longs;anguine expectations. The more I reflect
on her temper and di&longs;po&longs;ition, the more my
gratitude is enlivened towards the wi&longs;e Di&longs;po&longs;er
of all events for enabling me to break a&longs;under
the &longs;nares of the deluder. I am convinced, that
the gaiety and extravagance of her ta&longs;te, the
frivolous levity of her manners di&longs;qualify her
for the &longs;tation in which I wi&longs;hed to have placed
her. The&longs;e con&longs;iderations, together with that
re&longs;ignation to an overruling Providence which
the religion I profe&longs;s, and teach, requires me
to cultivate, induce me cheerfully to adopt the
following lines of an ingenious poet:
“Since all the downward tracts of time,
God's watchful eye &longs;urveys,
Oh, who &longs;o wi&longs;e to choo&longs;e our lot,
Or regulate our ways?
Since none can doubt his equal love,
Unmea&longs;urably kind.
To his nuerring gracious will,
Be every wi&longs;h re&longs;ign'd.
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Good, when he gives, &longs;upremely good,
Not le&longs;s when he denies;
E'en cro&longs;&longs;es from his &longs;overeign hand,
Are ble&longs;&longs;ings in di&longs;gui&longs;e.”
I am, &c.
J. Boyer.
TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.
Enclo&longs;ed in the foregoing.
Hartford.
MADAM,
Fearing, that my re&longs;olution may
not be proof again&longs;t the eloquence of tho&longs;e
charms, which have &longs;o long commanded me, I
take this method of bidding you a final adieu.
I write not as a lover. That connection between
us is for ever di&longs;&longs;olved; but I addre&longs;s you as a
friend; a friend to your happine&longs;s, to your reputation,
to your temporal and eternal welfare.
I will not rehear&longs;e the innumerable in&longs;tances of
your imprudence and mi&longs;conduct, which have
fallen under my ob&longs;ervation. Your own heart
mu&longs;t be your monitor! &longs;uffice it for me to warn
you again&longs;t the dangerous tendency of &longs;o diffipated
a life; and to tell you that I have traced
(I believe aright) the cau&longs;e of your dissimulation
and indifference to me. They are an aversion
to the &longs;ober, rational, frugal mode of
living, to which my profe&longs;&longs;ion leads; a fondness
for the parade, the gaiety, not to &longs;ay, the
licentiou&longs;ne&longs;s of a &longs;tation calculated to gratify
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&longs;uch a di&longs;po&longs;ition; and a prepo&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion for Major
Sanford, infu&longs;ed into your giddy mind by
the frippery, flattery and artifice of that worthless
and abandoned man. Hence you preferred
a connection with him, if it could be accomplished;
but a doubt, whether it could,
together with the advice of your friends, who
have kindly e&longs;pou&longs;ed my cau&longs;e, have re&longs;trained
you from the avowal of your real &longs;entiments,
and led you to continue your civilities to me.
What the re&longs;ult of your coquetry would have
been, had I waired for it, I cannot &longs;ay, nor have
I now any de&longs;ire or intere&longs;t to know. I tear
from my brea&longs;t the idea which I have long
cheri&longs;hed of future union and happine&longs;s with
you in the conjugal &longs;tate. I bid a la&longs;t farewell
to the&longs;e fond hopes, and leave you for
ever!
For your own &longs;ake, however, let me conjure
you to review your conduct, and before you
have advanced beyond the po&longs;&longs;ibility of returning
to rectitude and honor, to re&longs;train your
&longs;teps from the dangerous path in which you
now tread!
Fly Major Sanford. That man is a deceiver.
Tru&longs;t not his profe&longs;&longs;ions. They are certainly
in&longs;incere; or he would not affect concealment;
he would not induce you to a clande&longs;tine intercourse!
Many have been the victims of his
treachery! O Eliza! add not to the number!
Bani&longs;h him from your &longs;ociety, if you wi&longs;h to
pre&longs;erve your virtue un&longs;ullied, your character
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un&longs;u&longs;picious! It already begins to depreciate.
Snatch it from the envenomed tongue of slander,
before it receive an incurable wound!
Many faults have been vi&longs;ible to me; over
which my affection once drew a veil. That
veil is now removed. And, acting the part of
a di&longs;intere&longs;ted friend, I &longs;hall mention &longs;ome few
of them with freedom. There is a levity in
your manners, which is incon&longs;i&longs;tent with the
&longs;olidity and decorum becoming a lady who has
arrived to years of di&longs;cretion. There is al&longs;o an
unwarrantable extravagance betrayed in your
dre&longs;s. Prudence and economy are &longs;uch necessary,
at lea&longs;t, &longs;uch decent virtues, that they
claim the attention of every female, whatever
be her &longs;tation or her property. To the&longs;e virtues
you are apparently inattentive. Too
large a portion of your time is devoted to the
adorning of your per&longs;on.
Think not that I write thus plainly from
re&longs;entment. No; It is from benevolence. I
mention your foibles, not to reproach you with
them, but that you may con&longs;ider their nature
and effects, and renounce them.
I wi&longs;h you to regard this letter as the legacy
of a friend; and to improve it accordingly. I
&longs;hall leave town before you receive it. O, how
different are my &longs;en&longs;ations at going, from
what they were when I came! but I forbear
de&longs;cription.
Think not, Eliza, that I leave you with indifference!
The conflict is great; the trial is
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more than I can calmly &longs;upport! Yet the consciousness
of duty, affords con&longs;olation. A duty
I conceive it to be, which I owe to my&longs;elf;
and to the people of my charge, who are interested
in my future connection.
I wi&longs;h not for an an&longs;wer; my re&longs;olution is
unalterably fixed. But &longs;hould you hereafter
be convinced of the ju&longs;tice of my conduct;
and become a convert to my advice, I &longs;hall be
happy to hear it.
That you may have wi&longs;dom to keep you
from falling, and conduct you &longs;afely through
this &longs;tate of trial to the regions of immortal
bli&longs;s, is the &longs;ervent prayer of your &longs;incere
friend, and humble &longs;ervant,
J. Boyer.
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LETTER XLI.
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TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.
Hartford.
The retirement of my native home
is not &longs;o gloomy, &longs;ince my return from Boston,
as I expected, from the contra&longs;t between
them.
Indeed, the cu&longs;toms and amu&longs;ements of this
place are materially altered, &longs;ince the residence
of Major Sanford among us. The dull,
old fa&longs;hioned &longs;obriety which formerly prevailed,
is nearly bani&longs;hed; and cheerfulne&longs;s, vivacity,
and enjoyment are &longs;ub&longs;tituted in its
&longs;tead. Plea&longs;ure is now diffu&longs;ed through all
ranks of the people, e&longs;pecially the rich; and
&longs;urely it ought to be cultivated, &longs;ince the wi&longs;e&longs;t
of men informs us, that “a merry heart doth
good like a medicine.” As human life has
many di&longs;ea&longs;es, which require medicines, are
we not right in &longs;electing the mo&longs;t agreeable
and palatable? Major Sanford's example has
had great influence upon our &longs;ociety in general;
and though &longs;ome of our old dons think
him rather licentious; yet, for ought I can &longs;ee,
he is as &longs;trict an ob&longs;erver ofdecorum, as the be&longs;t
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of them. True, he &longs;eldom goes to church;
but what of that? The Deity is not con&longs;ined to
temples made with hands. He may wor&longs;hip
him as devoutly el&longs;ewhere, if he chu&longs;es; and
who has a right to &longs;ay he does not?
His return from Bo&longs;ton was but a day or
two after mine. He paid me an early vi&longs;it;
and, indeed, has been very attentive ever &longs;ince.
My mamma is &longs;omewhat preci&longs;e in her notions
of propriety; and of cour&longs;e, blames me for
a&longs;&longs;ociating &longs;o freely with him. She &longs;ays,
that my engagements to Mr. Boyer ought to
render me more &longs;edate; and more indifferent
to the gallantry of mere plea&longs;ure-bunters, to
u&longs;e her phra&longs;e. But I think otherwi&longs;e. If I
am to become a reclu&longs;e, let me, at lea&longs;t, enjoy
tho&longs;e amu&longs;ements, which are &longs;uited to my ta&longs;te,
a &longs;hort time fir&longs;t. Why &longs;hould I refu&longs;e the
polite attentions of this gentleman? They
&longs;moothe the rugged path of life, and wonderfully
accelerate the lagging wheels of time.
Indeed, Lucy, he has an admirable talent
for contributing to vary, and increa&longs;e amusement.
We have few hours unimproved. Some
new plan of plea&longs;ure, and &longs;ociability is constantly
courting our adoption. He lives in all
the magnificence of a prince; and why &longs;hould
I, who can doubtle&longs;s &longs;hare that magnificence if
I plea&longs;e, forego the advantages and indulgences
it offers, merely to gratify tho&longs;e friends
who pretend to be better judges of my happiness
than I am my&longs;elf.
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I have not yet told my mamma that he entertains
me with the lover's theme; or, at lea&longs;t,
that I li&longs;ten to it. Yet I mu&longs;t own to you,
from whom I have never concealed an action
or idea, that his &longs;ituation in life charms my imagination;
that the apparent &longs;ervor and sincerity
of his pa&longs;&longs;ion affect my heart. Yet there is
&longs;omething extremely problematical in his conduct.
He is very urgent with me to di&longs;&longs;olve
my connection with Mr. Boyer, and engage not
to marry him without his con&longs;ent; or knowledge,
to &longs;ay no more. He warmly applauds
my wi&longs;h, &longs;till longer to enjoy the freedom and
independence of a &longs;ingle &longs;tate; and profe&longs;&longs;edly
adopts it for his own. While he would disconnect
me from another, he my&longs;teriou&longs;ly conceals
his own intentions and views. In conversation
with him ye&longs;terday, I plainly told him
that his conduct was unaccountable; that if his
profe&longs;&longs;ions and de&longs;igns were honorable he
could not neglect to mention them to my
mamma; that I &longs;hould no longer con&longs;ent to
carry on a clande&longs;tine intercour&longs;e with him;
that I hourly expected Mr. Boyer, whom I esteemed,
and who was the favorite of my frinds;
and that unle&longs;s he acted openly in this affair before
his arrival, I &longs;hould give my hand to him.
He appeared thunder&longs;truck at this declaration.
All his words and actions were indicative
of the mo&longs;t violent emotions of mind. He
entreated me to recall the &longs;entence; for I knew
not, he &longs;aid, his motives for &longs;ecrecy; yet he
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&longs;olemnly &longs;wore that they were honorable. I
replied in the words of the poet,
“Tru&longs;t not a man, they are by nature cruel,
Fal&longs;e, deceitful, treacherous, and incon&longs;tant.
When a man talks of love, with caution hear him;
But if he &longs;wear, he'll certainly deceive you.”
He begged that he might know by what means
he had provoked my &longs;u&longs;picions; by what
means he had for&longs;eited my confidence? His
importunity vanqui&longs;hed my fortitude; and
before we parted, I again promi&longs;ed to make
him acquainted, from time to time, with the
progre&longs;s of my connection with Mr. Boyer.
Now, my dear friend, I want your advice more
than ever. I am inadvertently embarra&longs;&longs;ed by
this man; and how to extricate my&longs;elf, I know
not. I am &longs;en&longs;ible that the power is in my
hands; but the di&longs;po&longs;ition (&longs;hall I confe&longs;s it)
is wanting!
“I know the right, and I approve it too;
I know the wrong and yet the wrong pur&longs;ue!”
I have ju&longs;t received a card from Major Sanford,
inviting me to ride this afternoon. At
fir&longs;t I thought of returning a negative an&longs;wer;
but recollecting that Mr. Boyer mu&longs;t &longs;oon be
here, I concluded it be&longs;t to embrace this opportunity,
of talking further with him. I mu&longs;t
now prepare to go; but &longs;hall not clo&longs;e this letter,
for I intend writing in continuation, as events
occur, till this important bu&longs;ine&longs;s is decided.
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Tue&longs;day evening. The little tour which I
mentioned to you this afternoon, was not productive
of a final determination. The &longs;ame
plea was repeated over, and over again, without
clo&longs;ing the cau&longs;e. On my return I found
Mr. Boyer waiting to receive me. My heart
beat an involuntary welcome. I received him
very cordially, though with a kind of plea&longs;ure
mixed with apprehen&longs;ion. I mu&longs;t own that his
conver&longs;ation and manners are much better calculated
to bear the &longs;crutini&longs;ing eye of a refined
under&longs;tanding and ta&longs;te, than Major Sanford's.
But whether the fancy ought not to be consulted
about our &longs;ettlement for life, is with me a
que&longs;tion.
When we parted la&longs;t, I had promi&longs;ed Mr.
Boyer, to inform him po&longs;itively, at this vi&longs;it,
when my hand &longs;hould be given. He therefore
came, as he told me in the cour&longs;e of our conversation,
with the re&longs;olution of claiming the
ful&longs;ilment of this promi&longs;e.
I begged ab&longs;olution; told him, that I could
not po&longs;&longs;ibly &longs;atisfy his claim; and &longs;ought &longs;till
to evade, and put off the important deci&longs;ion.
He grew warm; and affirmed that I treated
him ungenerou&longs;ly, and made needle&longs;s delays.
He even accu&longs;ed me of indifference towards
him; and of partiality to another. Major
Sanford he believed, was the man who
robbed him of the affection which he had supposed
his due. He warned me again&longs;t any intercourse
with him, and in&longs;i&longs;ted that I mu&longs;t
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renounce the &longs;ociety of the one or the other immediately.
He would leave me, he &longs;aid, this evening
and call to morrow to know the re&longs;ult of
my determination. It was late before he bade
me good night; &longs;ince which I have written
the&longs;e particulars. It is now time to lay a&longs;ide
my pen, and deliberate what cour&longs;e to take.
Wedne&longs;day Evening. La&longs;t night I clo&longs;ed not
my eyes. I ro&longs;e this morning with the &longs;un,
and went into the garden till breakfa&longs;t. My
mamma doubtle&longs;s &longs;aw the di&longs;order of my mind,
but kindly avoided any inquiry about it. She
was affectionately attentive to me, but &longs;aid nothing
of my particular concerns. I mentioned
not my embarra&longs;&longs;ment to her. She had declared
her&longs;elf in favor of Mr. Boyer; therefore
I had no expectation, that &longs;he would advise
impartially. I retired to my chamber,
and remained in a kind of reverie, for more
than an hour; when I was rou&longs;ed by the rattling
of a carriage at the door. I ha&longs;tened to
the window, and &longs;aw Major Sanford ju&longs;t driving
away. The idea of his having been to
conver&longs;e with my mamma, gave me new sensations.
A thou&longs;and perplexities occurred to my
mind relative to the part mo&longs;t proper for me to
act in this critical &longs;ituation. All the&longs;e might
have been avoided, had I gone down and inquired
into the matter; but this I delayed
till dinner. My mamma then informed me,
that Major Sanford had been with her, and
inquired for me; but that &longs;he thought it
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unnecessary to call me, as &longs;he prefumed I had no
particular bu&longs;ine&longs;s with him. I knew the motives
by which &longs;he was actuated, and was vexed
at her eva&longs;ions. I told her plainly, that &longs;he
would never carry her point in this way; that
I thought my&longs;elf capable of conducting my
own affairs; and wi&longs;hed her not to inter&longs;ere,
except by her advice, which I &longs;hould always
li&longs;ten to, and comply with when I could
po&longs;&longs;ibly make it con&longs;i&longs;tent with my inclination
and intere&longs;t. She wept at my undutiful
anger (of which I have &longs;everely repented &longs;ince)
and affectionately replied, that my happine&longs;s
was the object of her wi&longs;hes and prayers; conformably
to which &longs;he felt con&longs;trained, &longs;reely
to &longs;peak her mind, though it incurred my displeasure.
She then went through again with
all the comparative circum&longs;tances and merits
of the two candidates for my favor, which have
perpetually rung in my ears for months. I
&longs;hed tears at the idea of my embarra&longs;&longs;ment; and
in this condition Mr. Boyer found us. He appeared
to be affected by my vi&longs;ible di&longs;order; and
without inquiring the cau&longs;e, endeavored to dissipate
it. This was kindly done. He conversed
upon indifferent &longs;ubjects; and invited
me to ride, and take tea with your mamma, to
which I readily con&longs;ented. We found her at
home; and pa&longs;&longs;ed the time agreeably, excepting
the alloy of your ab&longs;ence. Mr. Boyer
touched lightly on the &longs;ubject of our laft evening's
debate; but expatiated largely on the
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plea&longs;ing power of love; and hoped that we
&longs;hould one day both realize and exemplify it
in perfection. When we returned, he observed
that it was late, and took his leave; telling
me that he &longs;hould call to morrow; and begged
that I would then relieve his &longs;u&longs;pen&longs;e. As I
was retiring to bed, the maid gave me a hint
that Major Sandford's &longs;ervant had been here
and left a letter. I turned in&longs;tantly back to
my mamma, and telling her my information,
demanded the letter. She he&longs;itated, but I insisted
on having it; and &longs;eeing me re&longs;olute, &longs;he
reluctantly gave it into my hand. It contained
the following words:
“Am I for&longs;aken? Am I abandoned? Oh
my adorable Eliza, have you &longs;acrificed me to
my rival? Have you condemned me to perpetual
bani&longs;hment, without a hearing?
I came this day, to plead my cau&longs;e at your
feet; but was cruelly denied the privilege of feeing
you! My mind is all anarchy and confu&longs;ion!
My &longs;oul is harrowed up with jealou&longs;y! I will
be revenged on tho&longs;e who &longs;eparate us, if that
di&longs;tracting event take place! But it is from
your lips only that I can hear my &longs;entence!
You mu&longs;t witne&longs;s its effects! To what lengths
my de&longs;pair may carry me, I know not! You
are the arbitre&longs;s of my fate!
Let me conjure you to meet me in your garden
to morrow at any hour you &longs;hall appoint.
My &longs;ervant will call for an an&longs;wer in the
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morning. Deny me not an interview; but have
pity on your faithful Sanford.”
I wrote for an&longs;wer, that I would meet him
to morrow, at five o'clock in the afternoon.
I have now before me another night for confideration;
and &longs;hall pa&longs;s it in that employment.
I purpo&longs;e not to &longs;ee Mr. Boyer, till I
have conver&longs;ed with Major Sanford.
Thur&longs;day Morning. The morning dawns,
and u&longs;hers in the day; a day, perhaps big with
the fate of your friend! What that fate may be
is wrapped in the womb of futurity; that futurity
which a kind Providence has wifely concealed
from the penetration of mortals!
After mature confideration; after revolving
and re-revolving every circum&longs;tance on both
&longs;ides of the que&longs;tion, I have nearly determined,
in compliance with the advice of my friends,
and the dictates of my own judgment, to give
Mr. Boyer the preference, and with him to
tread the future round of life.
As to the de&longs;pair of Major Sanford, it does
not much alarm me. Such violent pa&longs;&longs;ions are
&longs;eldom &longs;o deeply rooted, as to produce la&longs;ting
effects. I mu&longs;t, however, keep my word, and
meet him according to promi&longs;e.
Mr. Boyer is below. My mamma has ju&longs;t
&longs;ent me word that he wi&longs;hed to &longs;ee me. My
reply was that I had lain down, which was a fact.
One o'Clock. My mamma, alarmed by my indisposition,
has vi&longs;ited my apartment. I &longs;oon
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convinced her that it was but tri&longs;ling, owing
principally to the want of &longs;leep; and that an
airing in the garden, which I intended towards
night, would re&longs;tore me.
Ten o'clock, at night.—The day is pa&longs;t! and
&longs;uch a day it has been, as I hope never more to
&longs;ee!
At the hour appointed, I went tolerably
compo&longs;ed and re&longs;olute into the garden. I
had taken &longs;everal turns, and retired into the little
arbor, where you and I have &longs;pent &longs;o many
happy hours, before Major Sanford entered.
When he appeared, a con&longs;ciou&longs;ne&longs;s of the impropriety
of this clande&longs;tine intercour&longs;e suffused
my cheek, and gave a coldne&longs;s to my manners.
He immediately penetrated the cau&longs;e,
and ob&longs;erved that my very countenance told
him he was no longer a welcome gue&longs;t to me.
I a&longs;ked him if he ought &longs;o to be; &longs;ince his ma-tives
for &longs;eeking admi&longs;&longs;ion, were unworthy of
being communicated to my friends? That he &longs;aid
was not the ca&longs;e, but that prudence in the present
in&longs;tance required a temporary concealment.
He then undertook to exculpate him&longs;elf
from blame, a&longs;&longs;uring me that as &longs;oon as I &longs;hould
di&longs;countenance the expectations of Mr. Boyer,
and di&longs;continue the reception of his addre&longs;s, his
intentions &longs;hould be made known. He was
enlarging upon this topic, when we heard a
foot&longs;tep approaching us? and looking up &longs;aw
Mr. Boyer within a few paces of the arbor.—
Confu&longs;ion &longs;eized us both! We ro&longs;e
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involuntarily from our &longs;eats, but were mute as &longs;tatues!
He &longs;poke not a word, but ca&longs;ting a look of indignant
accu&longs;ation at me, a glance which penetrated
my very &longs;oul, turned on his heel, and
walked ha&longs;tily back to the hou&longs;e.
I &longs;tood a few moments, con&longs;idering what
cour&longs;e to take, though &longs;hame and regret had
almo&longs;t taken from me the power of thought.
Major Sanford took my hand. I withdrew
it from him. I mu&longs;t leave you, &longs;aid I. Where
will you go? &longs;aid he. I will go and try to retrieve
my character. It has &longs;uffered greatly
by this &longs;atal interview.
He threw him&longs;elf at my &longs;eet and exclaimed,
leave me not, Eliza, I conjure you not to leave
me. Let me go now, I rejoined, or I bid you
farewell for ever. I flew precipitately by him,
and went into the parlor, where I found Mr.
Boyer and my mamma, the one traver&longs;ing the
room in the greate&longs;t agitation; the other in a
flood of tears! Their appearance affected me;
and I wept like an infant! when I had a little
recovered my&longs;elf, I begged him to fit down;
He an&longs;wered no. I then told him, that however
unju&longs;ti&longs;iable my conduct might appear, perhaps
I might explain it to his &longs;atisfaction, if he
would hear me; that my motives were innocent,
though they doubtle&longs;s wore the a&longs;pect of
criminality, in his view. He &longs;ternly replied,
that no palliation could avail; that my motives
were &longs;ufficiently notorious! He, accu&longs;ed me of
treating him ill, of rendering him the dupe of
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coquetting artifice, of having an intrigue with
Major Sanford, and declared his determination
to leave me for ever, as unworthy of his regard,
and incapable of love, gratitude, or honor!—
There was too much rea&longs;on in &longs;upport of his
accu&longs;ations for me to gain&longs;ay them, had his
impetuo&longs;ity &longs;uffered me to attempt it.
But in truth I had no inclination to &longs;elf defence.
My natural vivacity had for&longs;aken me;
and I li&longs;tened without interrupting him to the
fluency of reproachful language, which his resentment
in&longs;pired. He took a very &longs;olemn and
affectionate leave of my mamma; thanking her
for her politene&longs;s, and wi&longs;hing her much future
felicity. He attempted to addre&longs;s me, I suppose
&longs;omewhat in the &longs;ame way; but his sensibility
overcome him; and he only took my
hand, and bowing in &longs;ilence, departed.
The want of re&longs;t for two long nights together,
the exerci&longs;e of mind, and con&longs;lict of passions,
which now tortured my brea&longs;t, were too
much for me to &longs;upport!
When I &longs;aw that he was gone; that he had
actually for&longs;aken me, I fainted. My mamma,
with the a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tance of the maid, &longs;oon re&longs;tored
me.
When I opened my eyes, and beheld this amiable
and tender parent, watching and attending
me with the mo&longs;t anxious concern; without
one reproachful word, without one accu&longs;ing
look, my reflections upon the part I had acted,
in defeating her benevolent wi&longs;hes, were
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exqui&longs;itely afflictive! But we mutually forbore
to mention the occa&longs;ion of my illne&longs;s; and I
complied with her advice to take &longs;ome refreshment,
and retire to my chamber. I am &longs;o much
fatigued by the exertions of the day, that reft
is ab&longs;olutely nece&longs;&longs;ary; and I lay a&longs;ide my pen
to &longs;eek it.
Friday Morning. When I &longs;hall again receive
the balmy influence of &longs;leep, I know not.
It has ab&longs;olutely for&longs;aken me at prefent. I have
had a mo&longs;t re&longs;tle&longs;s night. Every awakening
idea pre&longs;ented it&longs;elf to my imagination; whether
I had &longs;u&longs;tained a real lo&longs;s in Mr. Boyer's
departure; reflections on my own mi&longs;conduct,
with the cen&longs;ure of my friends, and the ill-natured
remarks of my enemies, excited the mo&longs;t
painful anxiety in my mind!
I am going down, but how &longs;hall I &longs;ee my
mamma? To her will I con&longs;e&longs;s my faults, in
her maternal brea&longs;t repo&longs;e my cares, and by
her friendly advice regulate my conduct. Had
I done this before, I might have e&longs;caped this
trouble, and &longs;aved both her and my&longs;elf many
di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ing emotions!
Friday Evening. I have had a long conversation
with my mamma, which has greatly relieved
my mind. She has &longs;oothed me with the
mo&longs;t endearing tenderne&longs;s.
Mr. Atkins, with whom Mr. Boyer lodged,
while in town, called here this afternoon. I
did not &longs;ee him, but he told my mamma that
Mr. Boyer had returned home, and left a letter
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for me, which he had promi&longs;ed to convey with
his own hand. By this letter I am convinced
that the dye is ab&longs;olutely ca&longs;t, with re&longs;pect to
him, and that no attempts on my part to
bring about a reconciliation would be either
prudent or &longs;ucce&longs;sful. He has penetrated the
cau&longs;e of my proceedings; and &longs;uch is his resentment,
that I am inclined not much to regret
his avoiding another interview.
My excu&longs;es would be deemed utterly insufficient,
and truth would not befriend and ju&longs;tify
me.
As I know you are impatient to hear from
me, I will now di&longs;patch this long letter without
any other addition, than that I am your
&longs;incere friend,
Eliza Wharton.
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LETTER XLII.
[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]
TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON.
Hartford.
Well, Charles, the &longs;how is over,
as we yankees &longs;ay; and the girl is my own.
That is, if I will have her. I &longs;hall take my
own time for that, however. I have carried
my point, and am amply revenged on the whole
po&longs;&longs;e of tho&longs;e dear friends of her's. She was
entangled by a promi&longs;e (not to marry this prie&longs;t
without my knowledge,) which her con&longs;cience
would not let her break. Thank God, I have
no con&longs;cience. If I had, I believe it would
make wretched work with me! I &longs;uppo&longs;e &longs;he
intended to have one, or the other of us; but
preferred me. I have e&longs;caped the noo&longs;e, this
time, and I'll be fairly hanged, if I ever get &longs;o
near it again. For indeed Charles, I was seriously
alarmed. I watched all their motions;
and the appearances of harmony between them
awakened all my activity and zeal. So great
was my in&longs;atuation, that I verily believe I &longs;hould
have a&longs;ked her in marriage, and ri&longs;ked the consequences,
rather than to have lo&longs;t her!
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I went to the hou&longs;e, while Mr. Boyer was in
town, but her mamma re&longs;u&longs;ed to call her, or
to acquaint her that I was there. I then wrote
a de&longs;pairing letter, and obtained a conference
with her in the garden. This was a fortunate
event for me. True, Eliza was very haughty,
and re&longs;olutely in&longs;i&longs;ted on immediate declaration
or rejection. And I cannot &longs;ay what would
have been the re&longs;ult, if Mr. Boyer had not surprized
us together. He gave us a pretty har&longs;h
look and retired without &longs;peaking a word.
I endeavored to detain Eliza, but in vain.
She left me on my knees, which are always ready
to bend on &longs;uch occa&longs;ions.
This &longs;ini&longs;hed the matter, it &longs;eems. I ro&longs;e,
and went into a near neighbor's to ob&longs;erve
what happened; and in about half an hour &longs;aw
Mr. Boyer come out, and go to his lodgings.
This, &longs;aid I to my&longs;elf, is a good omen. I
went home, and was informed next day, that
he had mounted his hor&longs;e and departed.
I heard nothing more of her till ye&longs;terday,
when I determined to know how &longs;he &longs;tood affected
towards me. I therefore paid her a visit,
her mamma being luckily abroad.
She received me very placidly, and told me,
on inquiry, that Mr. Boyer's re&longs;entment at her
meeting me in the garden was &longs;o great, that he
had bid her a final adieu. I congratulated myself
on having no rival; hoped that her favor
would now be unbia&longs;&longs;ed, and that in due time I
&longs;hould reap the reward of my fidelity. She
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begged me not to mention the &longs;ubject; &longs;aid
&longs;he had been perplexed by our competition,
and wi&longs;hed not to hear any thing further about
it at pre&longs;ent. I bowed in obedience to her
commands and changed the di&longs;cour&longs;e.
I informed her, that I was about taking a
tour to the &longs;outhward; that I &longs;hould be absent
&longs;everal months, and tru&longs;ted that on my return
her embarra&longs;&longs;ments would be over.
I left her with regret. After all, Charles,
&longs;he is the &longs;ummum bonum of my life. I mu&longs;t
have her in &longs;ome way or other. No body el&longs;e
&longs;hall, I am re&longs;olved.
I am making preparations for my journey;
which between you and me, is occa&longs;ioned by
the pro&longs;pect of making a &longs;peculation, by which
I hope to mend my affairs. The voyage will
at lea&longs;t le&longs;&longs;en my expen&longs;es, and &longs;creen me from
the importunity of creditors till I can look about
me.
Peter Sanford.
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LETTER XLIII.
[figure description] Page 141.[end figure description]
TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.
New-Haven.
MY DEAR ELIZA,
Through the medium of my
friends at Hartford I have been informed of the
progre&longs;s of your affairs, as they have transpired.
The detail which my &longs;i&longs;ter gave me of
your &longs;eparation from Mr. Boyer was painful;
as I had long contemplated a happy union between
you. But &longs;till more di&longs;agreeable sensations
po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed my brea&longs;t, when told that you
had &longs;uffered your lively &longs;pirits to be depre&longs;&longs;ed,
and re&longs;igned your&longs;elf to &longs;olitude and dejection!
Why, my dear friend, &longs;hould you allow this
event thus to affect you? Heaven, I doubt not,
has happine&longs;s &longs;till in &longs;tore for you; perhaps
greater than you could have enjoyed in that
connection. If the convi&longs;ction of any misconduct
on your part, give you pain, di&longs;&longs;ipate it
by the reflection, that unerring rectitude is not
the lot of mortals, that few are to be found
who have not deviated in a greater or le&longs;s
degree from the maxims of prudence. Our
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greate&longs;t mi&longs;takes may teach le&longs;&longs;ons which will
be u&longs;eful through life.
But I will not moralize. Come and &longs;ee us;
and we will talk over the matter once, and then
di&longs;mi&longs;s it for ever. Do prevail on your mamma
to part with you a month or two, at lea&longs;t.
I wi&longs;h you to witne&longs;s how well I manage my
nur&longs;ery bu&longs;ine&longs;s. You will be charmed with
little Harriot. I am already enough of the
mother to think her a miniature of beauty and
perfection.
How natural, and how ea&longs;y the tran&longs;ition
from one &longs;tage of life to another! Not long
&longs;ince I was a gay, volatile girl; &longs;eeking satisfaction
in fa&longs;hionable circles and amu&longs;ements;
but now I am thoroughly dome&longs;ticated. All
my happine&longs;s is centered within the limits of
my own walls; and I grudge every moment
that calls me from the plea&longs;ing &longs;cenes of domestic
life. Not that I am &longs;o &longs;elfi&longs;h as to exclude
my friends from my affection or &longs;ociety.
I feel intere&longs;ted in their concerns, and enjoy
their company. I mu&longs;t own, however, that
conjugal and parental love are the main &longs;prings
of my life. The conduct of &longs;ome mothers in
depriving their helple&longs;s offspring of the care
and kindne&longs;s which none but a mother can
feel, is to me unaccountable. There are many
namele&longs;s attentions which nothing &longs;hort of maternal
tenderne&longs;s, and &longs;olicitude can pay; and
for which the endearing &longs;miles, and
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progressive improvements of the lovely babe are an
ample reward.
How delightful to trace from day to day
the expan&longs;ion of rea&longs;on and the dawnings of
intelligence! Oh, how I anticipate the time,
when the&longs;e faculties &longs;hall be di&longs;played by the organs
of &longs;peech; when the li&longs;ping accent &longs;hall
heighten our pre&longs;ent plea&longs;ure, and the young idea
be capable of direction “how to &longs;hoot”!
General Richman is not le&longs;s intere&longs;ted by
the&longs;e enjoyments than my&longs;elf. All the father
beams in his eye! All the hu&longs;band reigns in
his heart, and pervades his every action!
Mi&longs;s Lawrence is &longs;oon to be married to Mr.
Laiton. I believe he is a mere fortune-hunter.
Indeed &longs;he has little to recommend her to any
other. Nature has not been very bountiful,
either to her body, or mind. Her parents
have been &longs;hamefully deficient in her education;
but have &longs;ecured to her what they think
the chief good; not con&longs;idering that happine&longs;s
is by no means the invariable attendant of
wealth.
I hope this incoherent &longs;croll will amu&longs;e, while
it induces you &longs;peedily to favor us with another
vi&longs;it.
My be&longs;t wi&longs;hes attend your honored mamma,
while I &longs;ub&longs;cribe my&longs;elf, &c.
A. Richman.
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LETTER XLIV.
[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]
TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.
Hartford.
I am extremely depre&longs;&longs;ed, my dear
Lucy! The agitating &longs;cenes, through which I
have lately pa&longs;&longs;ed, have broken my &longs;pirits, and
rendered me unfit for &longs;ociety.
Major Sanford has vi&longs;ited me, and taken his
leave. He is gone to the &longs;outhward on a tour
of two or three months. I declined any further
conver&longs;ation with him, on the &longs;ubjct of love.
At pre&longs;ent, I wi&longs;h not to hear it mentioned by
any one.
I have received a very friendly and consolatory
letter from Mrs. Richman. She invites
me to &longs;pend a few months with her; which
with my mamma's con&longs;ent I &longs;hall do. I hope
the change of &longs;ituation and company will
di&longs;&longs;ipate the gloom which hangs over my mind.
It is a common ob&longs;ervation, that we know
not the value of a ble&longs;&longs;ing but by deprivation.
This is &longs;trictly verified in my ca&longs;e. I was
in&longs;en&longs;ible of my regard for Mr. Boyer, till this
fatal &longs;eparation took place. His merit and
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worth now appear in the brighte&longs;t colors. I
am convinced of that excellence which I once
&longs;lighted; and the &longs;hade of departed happine&longs;s
haunts me perpetually! I am &longs;ometimes tempted
to write him, and confe&longs;s my faults; to tell
him the &longs;ituation of my mind, and to offer him
my hand. But he has precluded all hopes of
&longs;ucce&longs;s, by the &longs;everity of his letter to me. At
any rate, I &longs;hall do nothing of the kind, till my
return from New-Haven.
I am the more willing to leave home, as my
affairs are made a town talk. My mamma
per&longs;uades me to di&longs;regard it. But how can I ri&longs;e
&longs;uperior to “The world's dread laugh, which
&longs;carce the firm philo&longs;opher can &longs;corn?”
Pray remember me to Mr. Sumner. You
are happy, my friend, in the love and e&longs;teem of
a worthy man; but more happy &longs;till, in deferving
them. Adieu.
Eliza Wharton.
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LETTER XLV.
[figure description] Page 146.[end figure description]
TO THE SAME.
Hartford.
I have returned to the once &longs;miling
&longs;eat of maternal affection; but I find not repose
and happine&longs;s, even there!
In the &longs;ociety of my amiable friends at New-Haven,
I enjoyed every thing that friend&longs;hip
could be&longs;tow; but re&longs;t to a di&longs;turbed mind
was not in their power.
I was on various parties of plea&longs;ure, and
pa&longs;&longs;ed through different &longs;cenes of amu&longs;ement;
but with me they have lo&longs;t their charms. I relished
them not as formerly.
Mrs. Richman advi&longs;es me to write to Mr.
Boyer, and I have concluded to act accordingly.
If it an&longs;wer no other purpo&longs;e, it will be a
relie&longs; to my mind. If he ever felt for me the
tenderne&longs;s and regard which he pro&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed, methinks
they cannot be entirely obliterated. If
they &longs;till remain, perhaps I may rekindle the
gentle &longs;lame, and we may both be happy. I
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[figure description] Page 147.[end figure description]
may at lea&longs;t recal his e&longs;teem, and that will be
a &longs;atisfaction to my con&longs;cious mind.
I wonder what has become of Major Sanford!
Has he too for&longs;aken me? Is it po&longs;&longs;ible
for him wilfully to neglect me? I will not entertain
&longs;o injurious a &longs;u&longs;picion.
Yet, if it were the ca&longs;e, it would not affect me
like Mr. Boyer's di&longs;affection; for I frankly
own, that my fancy, and a ta&longs;te for gaity of life,
induced me to cheri&longs;h the idea of a connection
with Major Sanford; while Mr. Boyer's real
merit has imprinted tho&longs;e &longs;entiments of e&longs;teem
and love in my heart, which time can never efface.
In&longs;tead of two, or three, more than twelve
months have elap&longs;ed, and I have not received
a line from Major Sanford in all that time,
which I fully expected, though he made no mention
of writing; nor have I heard a &longs;yllable about
him, except a report circulated by his servants,
that he is on the point of marrying, which
I do not believe. No, it is impo&longs;&longs;ible! I am
per&longs;uaded that his pa&longs;&longs;ion for me, was &longs;incere,
however deceitful he may have been with others.
But I will not be&longs;tow an anxious thought upon
him. My de&longs;ign relative to Mr. Boyer, demands
my whole attention.
My hopes and fears alternately prevail, and
my re&longs;olution is extremely fluctuating. How
It finally terminates you &longs;hall hear in my next.
Pray write to me &longs;oon. I &longs;tand in need of
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the con&longs;oling power of friend&longs;hip. Nothing
can beguile my pen&longs;ive hours, and exhilerate
my drooping &longs;pirits, like your letters.
Let me know how you are to be entertained
this winter at the theatre. That, you know, is
a favorite amu&longs;ement of mine. You &longs;ee I can
&longs;tep out of my&longs;elf a little. Afford an a&longs;&longs;i&longs;ting
hand, and perhaps I may again be fit for society.
Eliza Wharton.
LETTER XLVI.
TO THE REV. J. BOYER.
Hartford.
SIR,
It is partly in compliance with your
de&longs;ire, in your la&longs;t letter to me, in which you
tell me, “that when I am convinced of the justice
of your conduct, and become a convert to
your advice, you &longs;hall be happy to hear it;”
and partly from a wi&longs;h to inform you, that &longs;uch
is in truth my pre&longs;ent &longs;tate of mind, that I now
write to you.
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I cannot but hope that this letter coming
from the hand which you once &longs;ought, will not
be unacceptable.
Pope very ju&longs;tly ob&longs;erves, “that every year
is a critic on the la&longs;t.” The truth of this observation
is fully exeplified in my years! How
&longs;everely this condemns the follies of the preceding,
my own heart alone can te&longs;tify!
I &longs;hall not offer any palliation, or apology
for my mi&longs;conduct. You told me it admitted
none. I frankly confe&longs;s it; and if the mo&longs;t
humble acknowledgement of my offences,
with an a&longs;&longs;urance that they have co&longs;t me the
deepe&longs;t repentance, can in any degree atone
for them, I now make that atonement. Casting
off the veil of di&longs;&longs;imulation, I &longs;hall write
with frankne&longs;s; believing you po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed of more
honor than to make any ungenerous u&longs;e of the
confidence repo&longs;ed in you.
To &longs;ay that I ever e&longs;teemed you, may, perhaps,
appear paradoxical, when compared with
certain circum&longs;tances which occurred during
our acquaintance; but to affert that I loved
you, may be deemed &longs;till more &longs;o. Yet the&longs;e
are real facts, facts of which I was then sensible,
and by which I am now more than ever
affected.
I think you formerly remarked, that ab&longs;ence
&longs;erved but to heighten real love. This I find
by experience. Need I blu&longs;h to declare the&longs;e
&longs;entiments, when occa&longs;ion like this, calls for the
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avowal? I will go even further, and offer you
that heart which once you prized; that hand
which you once &longs;olicited. The &longs;entiments of
affection, which you then cultivated, though
&longs;uppre&longs;&longs;ed, I flatter my&longs;elf are not wholly obliterated.
Suffer me then to rekindle the latent
flame; to revive that friend&longs;hip and tenderness,
which I have &longs;o fooli&longs;hly neglected.
The endeavor of my future life &longs;hall be to reward
your benevolence, and perhaps we may
yet be happy together.
But let not this offer of my&longs;elf con&longs;train you.
Let not pity influence your conduct. I would
have your return, if that plea&longs;ing event take
place, a voluntary act. Receive, or con&longs;ent
not to confer happine&longs;s.
I thought it a duty which I owed to you, and to
my&longs;elf, to make this expiation; this &longs;acrifice of
female re&longs;erve, for the wrongs I have done you.
As &longs;uch I wi&longs;h you to accept it; and if your
affections are intirely alienated, or otherwi&longs;e engaged;
if you cannot again command the respect
and love which I would recal, do not despise
me for the conce&longs;&longs;ions I have made. Think
as favorably of my pa&longs;t faults, and of my present
di&longs;po&longs;ition, as charity will allow. Continue,
if po&longs;&longs;ible, to be my friend, though you
cea&longs;e to be my lover.
Should this letter find you in the full possession
of happine&longs;s, let not the idea of your once
loved Eliza, thus intruding it&longs;elf again upon
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your thoughts, interrupt your enjoyments.
May &longs;ome di&longs;tingui&longs;hed female, as de&longs;erving,
as fair, partake with you of that bli&longs;s which I
have forfeited.
Whatever may be my de&longs;tiny, my be&longs;t wishes
&longs;hall ever attend you, and a plea&longs;ing remembrance
of your honorable attentions pre&longs;ide,
till death, in the brea&longs;t of
Eliza Wharton.
LETTER XLVII.
TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.
Hampshire.
MADAM,
As I was &longs;itting la&longs;t evening in my
&longs;tudy, a letter was handed me by a &longs;ervant; upon
which I no &longs;ooner ca&longs;t my eye, than I recognized,
with &longs;urpri&longs;e, the hand and &longs;eal of my
once loved, but to me long lo&longs;t Eliza! I opened
it ha&longs;tily, and with &longs;till greater &longs;urpri&longs;e, read
the contents!
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You write with frankne&longs;s. I &longs;hall an&longs;wer in
the &longs;ame manner.
On reviewing our former intercour&longs;e, be assured,
that I have not an accu&longs;ing thought in
my heart. The regard which I felt for you
was tender and animated, but it was not of that
pa&longs;&longs;ionate kind which ends in death or de&longs;pair.
It was governed by rea&longs;on, and had a nobler
object in view, than mere &longs;en&longs;ual gratification.
It was excited by the appearance of excellent
qualities. Your conduct, at length, convinced
me it was mi&longs;placed, that you po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed not, in
reality, tho&longs;e charms which I had fondly ascribed
to you. They were incon&longs;i&longs;tent, I conceived,
with that artifice and di&longs;&longs;imulation, of
which you &longs;trove to render me the dupe. But
thank heaven, the &longs;nare was broken. My eyes
were opened to di&longs;cover your folly; and my
heart, engaged, as it was, exerted re&longs;olution and
&longs;trength to bur&longs;t a&longs;under the chain by which
you held me en&longs;laved, and to affert the rights
of an injured man.
The parting &longs;cene, you remember. I reluctantly
bade you adieu. I tore my&longs;elf from you,
determined to eradicate your idea from my
brea&longs;t! long and &longs;evere was the &longs;truggle. I
at la&longs;t vanqui&longs;hed, as I thought, every tender
pa&longs;&longs;ion of my &longs;oul, (for they all centered in you)
and re&longs;igned my&longs;elf to my God, and my duty;
devoting tho&longs;e affections to friend&longs;hip, which
had been di&longs;appointed in love. But they are
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again called into exerci&longs;e. The virtuous, the
amiable, the accompli&longs;hed Maria Selby possesses
my entire confidence and e&longs;teem; and I tru&longs;t
I am not deceived, when I think her highly deserving
of both. With her I expect &longs;oon to be
united in the mo&longs;t &longs;acred and endearing of human
relations; with her to pa&longs;s my future days
in &longs;erenity and peace.
Your letter, therefore, came too late; were
there no other ob&longs;tacle to the renewal of our
connection. I hope at the clo&longs;e of life, when
we take a retro&longs;pect of the pa&longs;t, that neither
of us &longs;hall have rea&longs;on to regret our &longs;eparation.
Permit me to add, that for your own &longs;ake,
and for the &longs;ake of your ever valued friends, I
&longs;incerely rejoice that your mind has regained
its native &longs;trength and beauty; that you have
emerged from the &longs;hade of fanciful vanity. For
although to adopt your own phra&longs;e, I cea&longs;e to
&longs;tyle my&longs;elf your lover, among the number of
your friends, I am happy to be reckoned. As
&longs;uch, let me conjure you, by all that is dear and
de&longs;irable, both in this life, and another, to adhere,
with undeviating exactne&longs;s, to the path
of rectitude and innocence; and to improve
the noble talents, which heaven has liberally
be&longs;towed upon you, in rendering your&longs;elf amiable,
and u&longs;eful to your friends. Thus will
you &longs;ecure your own, while you promote the
happine&longs;s of all around you.
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I &longs;hall ever cheri&longs;h &longs;entiments of kindne&longs;s
towards you, and with gratitude remember
your conde&longs;cen&longs;ion, in the te&longs;timony of regard,
which you have given me in your la&longs;t letter.
I hope &longs;oon to hear that your heart and
hand are be&longs;towed on &longs;ome worthy man, who
de&longs;erves the happine&longs;s you are formed to communicate.
Whatever we may have called errors,
will, on my part, be for ever buried in oblivion;
and for your own peace of mind, I entreat
you to forget that any idea of a connection
between us ever exi&longs;ted.
I &longs;hall always rejoice at the news of your
welfare, and my ardent prayers will daily ari&longs;e
for your temporal and eternal felicity.
I am, &c.
J. Boyer.
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LETTER XLVIII
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TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.
Hartford.
Health, placid &longs;erenity, and every
dome&longs;tic plea&longs;ure, are the lot of my friend;
while I, who once po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed the means of each,
and the capacity of ta&longs;ting them, have been
to&longs;&longs;ed upon the waves of folly, ti'l I am shipwrecked
on the &longs;hoals of de&longs;pair!
Oh my friend, I am undone! I am &longs;lighted,
rejected by the man who once &longs;ought my hand,
by the man who &longs;till retains my heart! and
what adds an in&longs;upportable poignancy to the reflection,
is &longs;elf-condemnation! From this inward
torture, where &longs;hall I flee? Where &longs;hall I
&longs;eek that happine&longs;s which I have madly trifled
away?
The inclo&longs;ed letters,[1] will &longs;how you whence
this tumult of &longs;oul ari&longs;es. But I blame not Mr.
Boyer. He has acted nobly. I approve his
conduct, though it operates my ruin!
He is worthy of his intended bride, and &longs;he
is what I am not, worthy of him. Peace and
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joy be their portion, both here and hereafter!
But what are now my pro&longs;pects? what are to
be the future enjoyments of my life?
Oh that I had not written to Mr. Boyer!
by confe&longs;&longs;ing my faults, and by avowing my
partiality to him, I have given him the power
of triumphing in my di&longs;tre&longs;s; of returning to
my tortured heart all the pangs of &longs;lighted love!
and what have I now to con&longs;ole me? my bloom
is decrea&longs;ing; my health is &longs;en&longs;ibly impaired.
Tho&longs;e talents, with the po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion of which I have
been flattered, will be of little avail when unsupported
by re&longs;pectability of character!
My mamma, who knows too well the distraction
of my mind, endeavors to &longs;ooth and
compo&longs;e me, on chri&longs;tian principles; but they
have not their de&longs;ired effect. I dare not converse
freely with her on the &longs;ubject of my present
unea&longs;ine&longs;s, le&longs;t I &longs;hould di&longs;tre&longs;s her. I am
therefore, obliged to conceal my di&longs;quietude, and
appear as cheerful as po&longs;&longs;ible in her company,
though my heart is ready to bur&longs;t with grief!
Oh that you were near me, as formerly, to
&longs;hare and alleviate my cares! to have &longs;ome friend
in whom I could repo&longs;e confidence, and with
whom I could freely conver&longs;e, and advi&longs;e, on
this occa&longs;ion, would be an un&longs;peakable comfort!
Such a one, next to your&longs;elf, I think Julia
Granby to be. With your leave and con&longs;ent
I &longs;hould e&longs;teem it a &longs;pecial favor if &longs;he would
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come and &longs;pend a few months with me. My
mamma joins in this reque&longs;t. I would write
to her on the &longs;ubject, but cannot compo&longs;e myself
at pre&longs;ent. Will you prefer my petition
for me?
If I have not forfeited your friend&longs;hip, my
dear Mrs. Sumner, write to me, and pour its
healing balm into the wounded mind of your
Eliza Wharton.
eaf104.n1[1] See the two preceding Letters.
LETTER XLIX.
TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.
Boston.
Your truly romantic letter came
&longs;afe to hand. Indeed, my dear, it would make
a very pretty figure in a novel. A bleeding
heart, &longs;lighted love, and all the et ceteras of
romance, enter into the compo&longs;ition!
Excu&longs;e this raillery; and I will now write
more &longs;eriou&longs;ly. You refer your&longs;elf to my
friend&longs;hip for confolation. It &longs;hall be exerted
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for the purpo&longs;e. But I mu&longs;t act the part of a
&longs;kilful &longs;urgeon, and probe the wound, which
I undertake to heal.
Where, O Eliza Wharton! Where is that
fund of &longs;en&longs;e, and &longs;entiment which once animated
your engaging form? Where that
&longs;trength of mind, that independence of &longs;oul,
that alacrity and &longs;prightline&longs;s of deportment,
which formerly rai&longs;ed you &longs;uperior to every
adver&longs;e occurrence? Why have you re&longs;igned
the&longs;e valuable endowments, and &longs;uffered yourself
to become the &longs;port of contending pa&longs;&longs;ions?
You have now emerged from that mi&longs;t of
fanciful &longs;olly, which, in a mea&longs;ure ob&longs;cured the
brilliance of your youthful days.
True, you figured among the fir&longs;t rate coquettes;
while your friends, who knew your
accompli&longs;hments, lamented the mi&longs;application of
them; but now they rejoice at the returning
empire of rea&longs;on.
True, you have erred; mi&longs;lead by the gaiety
of your di&longs;po&longs;ition, and that volatility, and
incon&longs;ideration, which were incident to your
years; but you have &longs;een, and nobly confe&longs;&longs;ed
your errors. Why do you talk of &longs;lighted
love? True, Mr. Boyer, &longs;uppo&longs;ing you disregarded
him, transferred his affections to another
object; but have you not your admirers
&longs;till, among men of real merit? Are you not
e&longs;teemed, and care&longs;&longs;ed by numbers, who know
you capable of &longs;hining in a di&longs;tingui&longs;hed &longs;phere
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of life? Turn then, my friend, from the gloomy
pro&longs;pect, which your di&longs;turbed imagination has
brought into view. Let rea&longs;on and religion
erect their throne in your brea&longs;t; obey their
dictates and be happy. Pa&longs;t experience will
point out the quick&longs;ands which you are to avoid
in your future cour&longs;e.
Date then, from this, a new æra of life; and
may every moment be attended with &longs;elicity.
Follow Mr. Boyer's advice, and forget all former
connections.
Julia accepts your invitation. Nothing &longs;hort
of your reque&longs;t could induce me to part with
her. She is a good girl; and her &longs;ociety will
amu&longs;e and in&longs;truct you.
I am, &c.
Lucy Sumner.
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LETTER L.
[figure description] Page 160.[end figure description]
TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.
Hartford.
My Julia Granby has arrived. She
is all that I once was; ea&longs;y, &longs;prightly, debonair.
Already has &longs;he done much towards relieving
my mind. She endeavors to divert,
and lead my thoughts into a different channel
from that to which they are now prone. Yesterday,
we had each an invitation to a ball.
She labored hard to prevail on me to go; but I
ob&longs;tinately refu&longs;ed. I cannot yet mix with
gay and cheerful circles. I therefore alledged
that I was indi&longs;po&longs;ed, and per&longs;uaded her to go
without me.
The events of my life have always been unaccountably
wayward. In many in&longs;tances I
have been ready to &longs;uppo&longs;e that &longs;ome evil genius
pre&longs;ided over my actions, which has directed
them contrary to the &longs;ober dictates of my
own judgment.
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I am &longs;ometimes tempted to adopt the sentiment
expre&longs;&longs;ed in the following lines of the
poet,
“To you, great gods, I make my la&longs;t appeal;
O, clear my con&longs;cience, or my crimes reveal!
If wand'ring through the paths of life I've run;
And backward trod the &longs;teps, I &longs;ought to &longs;hun,
Impute my errors to your own decree;
My feet were guilty, but my heart was free.”
I &longs;uppo&longs;e you will tell me, that the fate I accuse,
through the poet, is only the re&longs;ult of my
own imprudence. Well, be it what it may; either
the impul&longs;e of my own pa&longs;&longs;ions, or &longs;ome
higher efficiency; &longs;ure I am, that I pay dear for
its operation.
I have heard it remarked, that experience is
the preceptor of fools; but that the wi&longs;e need
not its in&longs;truction. I believe I mu&longs;t be content to
rank accordingly, and endeavor to reap advantage
from its tuition.
Julia urges me to revi&longs;it the &longs;cenes of amusements
and plea&longs;ure; in which &longs;he tells me,
&longs;he is actuated by &longs;elfi&longs;h motives. She wi&longs;hes
it for her own &longs;ake. She likes neither to be
&longs;ecluded from them, nor to go alone. I am
&longs;ometimes half inclined to &longs;eek, in fe&longs;tive mirth,
a refuge from thought and reflection. I would
e&longs;cape, if po&longs;&longs;ible, from the idea of Mr. Boyer.
This I have never been able to accompli&longs;h,
&longs;ince he dropped a tear upon my hand, and
left me. I marked the &longs;pot with my eye; and
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twenty times in a day, do I view it, and fondly
imagine it &longs;till there! How could I give him
pain! I hope his happy Maria never will! I
hope &longs;he will reward that merit, which I have
&longs;lighted! but I forbear. This theme carries
away my pen, if I but touch upon it. And no
wonder; for it is the &longs;ole exerci&longs;e of my
thoughts! Yet I will endeavor to divert them.
Send me &longs;ome new books; not &longs;uch, however,
as will require much attention. Let them
be plays or novels, or any thing el&longs;e, that will
amu&longs;e and extort a &longs;mile.
Julia and I have been rambling in the garden.
She in&longs;i&longs;ted upon my going with her into
the arbor, where I was &longs;urpri&longs;ed with Major
Sanford. What a croud of painful ideas rushed
upon my imagination! I believe &longs;he repented
her ra&longs;hne&longs;s. But no more of this. I mu&longs;t
lay a&longs;ide my pen; for I can write nothing
el&longs;e!
Eliza Wharton.
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LETTER LI.
[figure description] Page 163.[end figure description]
TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.
Hartford.
DEAR MADAM,
You commanded me to write you
re&longs;pecting Mi&longs;s Wharton; and I obey. But
I cannot de&longs;cribe to you the &longs;urpri&longs;ing change,
which &longs;he has undergone. Her vivacity has
entirely for&longs;aken her; and &longs;he has actually become,
what &longs;he once dreaded above all things,
a reclu&longs;e! She &longs;lies from company, as eagerly
as &longs;he formerly &longs;ought it! Her mamma is exceedingly
di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed by the &longs;ettled melancholy
which appears in her darling child; but neither
of us think it be&longs;t to mention the &longs;ubject
to her. We endeavor to find means to amu&longs;e
her; and we flatter our&longs;elves that the pro&longs;pect
of &longs;ucce&longs;s rather increa&longs;es. It would add greatly
to my happine&longs;s, to contribute, in any degree,
to re&longs;tore her to her&longs;elf, to her friends, and to
&longs;ociety.
We are all invited to dine abroad to morrow;
and to oblige me, &longs;he has con&longs;ented to go.
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Pray madam, write to her often. Your letters
may do much for her. She is &longs;till feelingly
alive to the power of friend&longs;hip; and none
can exerci&longs;e it upon her to greater acceptance,
or with more advantage than your&longs;elf.
Major Sanford's hou&longs;e is undergoing a complete
repair. The report is, that he is &longs;oon to
be married. Mi&longs;s Wharton has heard, but
does not believe it. I hope, for her &longs;ake, it
will prove true. For, at any rate, he is about
returning; and from her mamma's account of
his pa&longs;t conduct towards Eliza, were he to return
unconnected, he would probably renew
his attentions; and though they might end in
marriage, her happine&longs;s would not be &longs;ecured.
She has too nice a &longs;en&longs;e of love and honor, to
compound with his licentious principles. A
man, who has been di&longs;&longs;olute before marriage,
will very &longs;eldom be faithful afterwards.
I went into Eliza's chamber the other day,
and found her with a miniature picture in her
hand. You pretend to be a phy&longs;iognomi&longs;t, Julia,
&longs;aid &longs;he. What can you trace in that
countenance? I gue&longs;&longs;ed who&longs;e it was; and
looking wi&longs;tfully at it, replied, I believe the original
is an artful, de&longs;igning man. He looks to
me like a Che&longs;terfieldian. Pray who is he?
Major Sanford, &longs;aid &longs;he; and I am afraid you
have hit his character exactly. Sure I am, that
the appearance of tho&longs;e traits in it has made my
heart ache! She wept, as &longs;he &longs;poke it.
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Poor girl! I wi&longs;h he may never give you
greater cau&longs;e to weep! She is &longs;trongly blind
to the vices and imperfections of this man.
Though naturally penetrating, he has &longs;ome
how or other, ca&longs;t a deceptious mi&longs;t over her
imagination, with re&longs;pect to him&longs;elf. She prosesses
neither to love, nor e&longs;teem him; and owns
that his ungenerous artifice mi&longs;lead her in her
treatment of Mr. Boyer. Yet &longs;he has forgiven
him, and thinks him a plea&longs;ing companion!
How prone to error is the human mind!
How much lighter than the breath of zephyrs
the operations of fancy! Strange then, it &longs;hould
ever preponderate over the weightier powers of
the under&longs;tanding!
But I will not moralize. My bu&longs;ine&longs;s here
is to di&longs;&longs;ipate, not to collect ideas; and I mu&longs;t
regulate my&longs;elf accordingly.
I am endeavoring to prepare Eliza, by degrees,
to accompany me to Bo&longs;ton, the en&longs;uing
winter; but think it doubtful whether I &longs;hall
&longs;ucceed. I &longs;hall, however, return my&longs;elf; till
when, I am, &c.
Julia Granby.
-- 166 --
LETTER LII.
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TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.
Boston.
MY DEAR ELIZA,
I RECEIVED yours of the 24th.
ult. and thank you for it; though it did not
afford me tho&longs;e lively &longs;en&longs;ations of plea&longs;ure,
which I u&longs;ually feel at the peru&longs;al of your letters.
It in&longs;pired me both with concern, and
chagrin. With concern, le&longs;t your dejection
of mind &longs;hould affect your health; and with
chagrin at your apparent indulgence of melancholy.
Indeed, my friend, your own happiness
and honor, require you to di&longs;&longs;ipate the
cloud which hangs over your imagination.
Ri&longs;e then above it; and prove your&longs;elf superior
to the adver&longs;e occurrences which have
befallen you. It is by &longs;urmounting difficulties,
not by &longs;inking under them, that we di&longs;cover
our fortitude. True courage con&longs;i&longs;ts not in
flying from the &longs;torms of life; but in braving
and &longs;teering through them with prudence.
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Avoid &longs;olitude. It is the bane of a di&longs;ordered
mind; though of great utility to a healthy one.
Your once favorite amu&longs;ements court your attention.
Refu&longs;e not their &longs;olicitations. I have
contributed my mite, by &longs;ending you a few
books; &longs;uch as you reque&longs;ted. They are of
the lighter kind of reading; yet perfectly cha&longs;te;
and if I mi&longs;take not, well adapted to your ta&longs;te.
You wi&longs;h to hear from our theatre. I believe
it will be well &longs;upplied with performers
this winter. Come and &longs;ee whether they can
afford you any entertainment. La&longs;t evening
I attended a tragedy; but never will I attend
another. I have not yet been able to
era&longs;e the gloom which it impre&longs;&longs;ed upon my
mind. It was Romeo and Juliet. Di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ing
enough to &longs;en&longs;ibility this! Are there not real
woes (if not in our own families, at lea&longs;t among
our own friends, and neighbors) &longs;ufficient to
exerci&longs;e our &longs;ympathy and pity, without introducing
fictitious ones into our very diver&longs;ions?
How can that be a diver&longs;ion, which racks the
&longs;oul with grief, even though that grief be imaginary.
The introduction of a funeral solemnity,
upon the &longs;tage, is &longs;hocking indeed!
Death is too &longs;erious a matter to be &longs;ported
with! An opening grave cannot be a &longs;ource of
amu&longs;ement to any con&longs;iderate mind! The closing
&longs;cene of life can be no pa&longs;time, when realized!
it mu&longs;t therefore awaken painful sensations,
in the repre&longs;entation!
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The circus is a place of fa&longs;hionable re&longs;ort of
late, but not agreeable to me. I think it inconsistent
with the delicacy of a lady, even to
witne&longs;s the indecorums, which are practi&longs;ed
there; e&longs;pecially, when the performers of equestrian
feats are of our own &longs;ex. To &longs;ee a woman
depart &longs;o far from the female character,
as to a&longs;&longs;ume the ma&longs;culine habit and attitudes;
and appear entirely indifferent, even to the externals
of mode&longs;ty, is truly di&longs;gu&longs;ting, and
ought not to be countenanced by our attendance,
much le&longs;s by our approbation. But setting
a&longs;ide this circum&longs;tance, I cannot conceive
it to be a plea&longs;ure to &longs;it a whole evening,
trembling with apprehen&longs;ion, le&longs;t the poor
wight of a hor&longs;eman, or juggler, or whatever he
is to be called, &longs;hould break his neck in contributing
to our entertainment.
With Mr. Bowen's mu&longs;eum, I think you
were much plea&longs;ed. He has made a number
of judicious additions to it, &longs;ince you were
here. It is a &longs;ource of rational and refined amusement.
Here the eye is gratified, the imagination
charmed, and the under&longs;tanding improved.
It will bear frequent reviews without
palling on the ta&longs;te. It always affords something
new; and for one, I am never a weary
&longs;pectator.
Our other public, and private places of resort,
are much as you left them.
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I am happy in my pre&longs;ent &longs;ituation; but
when the &longs;ummer returns, I intend to vi&longs;it
my native home. Again, my Eliza, will we
ramble together in tho&longs;e retired &longs;hades which
friend&longs;hip has rendered &longs;o delightful to us.
Adieu, my friend, till then. Be cheerful, and
you will yet be happy.
Lucy Sumner.
LETTER LIII.
TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.
Hartford.
Gracious Heaven! What have
I heard? Major Sanford is married! Yes, the
ungrateful, the deceitful wretch, is married!
He has for&longs;worn, he has perjured, and given
him&longs;elf to another! That, you will &longs;ay, is nothing
&longs;trange. It is characteri&longs;tic of the man.
It may be &longs;o; but I could not be convinced
of his per&longs;idy till now!
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Perhaps it is all for the be&longs;t. Perhaps, had
he remained unconnected, he might &longs;till have
deceived me; but now I defy his arts!
They tell me, he has married a woman of
fortune. I &longs;uppo&longs;e he thinks, as I once did,
that wealth can en&longs;ure happine&longs;s. I wi&longs;h he
may enjoy it.
This event would not affect me at all, were
it not for the depre&longs;&longs;ion of &longs;pirits which I feel,
in con&longs;equence of a previous di&longs;appointment;
&longs;ince which, every thing of the kind agitates
and overcomes me. I will not &longs;ee him. If
I do, I &longs;hall betray my weakne&longs;s, and flatter
his vanity; as he will doubtle&longs;s think he has
the power of mortifying me by his connection
with another.
Before this news di&longs;compo&longs;ed me, I had attained
to a good degree of cheerfulne&longs;s. Your
kind letter, &longs;econded by Julia's exertions, had
a&longs;&longs;i&longs;ted me in regulating my &longs;en&longs;ibility. I have
been frequently into company, and find my relish
for it gradually returning.
I intend to accept the plea&longs;ure to which you
invite me, of &longs;pending a little time with you,
this winter. Julia and I will come together.
Varying the &longs;cene may contribute effectually
to di&longs;&longs;ipate the gloom of my imagination. I
would fly to almo&longs;t any re&longs;ort, rather than my
own mind. What a dreadful thing it is to be
afraid of one's own reflections, which ought
to be a con&longs;tant &longs;ource of enjoyment! But I
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will not moralize. I am &longs;ufficiently melancholy,
without any additional cau&longs;e to increase
it!
Eliza Wharton.
LETTER LIV.
TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON.
Hartford.
DEAR DEIGHTON,
Who do you think is writing to
you? Why, it is your old friend, metamorphosed
into a married man! You &longs;tare, and can
hardly credit the a&longs;&longs;ertion. I cannot realize
it my&longs;elf; yet, I a&longs;&longs;ure you, Charles, it is
ab&longs;olutely true! Nece&longs;&longs;ity, dire nece&longs;&longs;ity, forced
me into this dernier re&longs;ort. I told you, &longs;ome
time ago, it would come to this.
I &longs;tood aloof, as long as po&longs;&longs;ible; but in
vain did I attempt to &longs;hun the noo&longs;e. I mu&longs;t
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either fly to this re&longs;ource; or give up all my
&longs;how, equipage, and plea&longs;ure, and degenerate
into a downright plodding money-catcher, for
a &longs;ub&longs;i&longs;tance. I cho&longs;e the fir&longs;t; and who
would not? yet I feel &longs;ome remor&longs;e at taking
the girl to wife, from no better motives. She
is really too good for &longs;uch an impo&longs;ition. But
&longs;he mu&longs;t blame her&longs;elf, if &longs;he &longs;uffer hereafter;
for &longs;he was vi&longs;ibly captivated by my external
appearance; and wanted but very little solicitation
to confer her&longs;elf, and fortune on &longs;o
charming a fellow. Her parents oppo&longs;ed her
inclination, for a while, becau&longs;e I was a stranger,
and rather too gay for their ta&longs;te. But
&longs;he had not been u&longs;ed to contradiction, and
could not bear it; and therefore they ventured
not to cro&longs;s her. So I bore off the prize;
and a prize &longs;he really is. Five thou&longs;and pounds
in po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion, and more in rever&longs;ion, if I do
not forfeit it. This will compen&longs;ate for &longs;ome
of my pa&longs;t mi&longs;takes, and &longs;et matters right
for the pre&longs;ent. I think it doing much better
than to have taken the little Laurence girl, I
told you of, with half the &longs;um. Be&longs;ides, my
Nancy is a hand&longs;omer, and more agreeable
per&longs;on. But that is of little con&longs;equence to
me, you know. “Beauty &longs;oon grows familiar
to the lover.” Were I a lover, it would
be of no great avail. A lover I am; yet not
of my wife. The dart which I received from
Mi&longs;s Wharton, &longs;ticks fa&longs;t in my heart; and I
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a&longs;&longs;ure you, I could hardly per&longs;uade my&longs;elf
even to appear unfaithful to her. O, Eliza,
accu&longs;e me not of infidelity; for your image
is my con&longs;tant companion! A thou&longs;and times
have I cur&longs;ed the unpropitious &longs;tars, which
withheld from her a fortune. That would
have enabled me to marry her; and with her,
even wedlock would have been &longs;upportable.
I am told, that &longs;he is &longs;till &longs;ingle. Her sober
lover never returned. Had he loved as I
did, and do, he could not have been &longs;o precipitate.
But the&longs;e &longs;toic &longs;ouls are good for nothing,
that I know of, but
“Fix'd like a plant, to one peculiar &longs;pot,
To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot.”
I want to &longs;ee Eliza, and I mu&longs;t &longs;ee her; yet
I dread an interview. I &longs;hall frankly confe&longs;s
my motives for marrying; and the rea&longs;ons of
my conduct, before I went away. I &longs;hall own
that my circum&longs;tances would not allow me to
po&longs;&longs;e&longs;s her; and yet that I could not re&longs;ign
her to another.
When I make up the matter with her, I
&longs;hall &longs;olicit her friend&longs;hip for my wife. By
this mean I may enjoy her &longs;ociety, at lea&longs;t,
which will alleviate the con&longs;inement of a married
&longs;tate. To my &longs;pou&longs;e I mu&longs;t be as civil as
po&longs;&longs;ible. I really wi&longs;h &longs;he had le&longs;s merit, that
I might have a plau&longs;ible excu&longs;e for neglecting
her.
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Tomorrow I &longs;hall go to Mrs. Wharton's. I
am very much taken up with complimental
vi&longs;its, at pre&longs;ent. What deference is always
paid to equipage! They may talk of this virtue,
their learning, and what not; but without
either of them, I &longs;hall bear off the palm of
re&longs;pect from tho&longs;e, who have them, unadorned
with gold, and its &longs;hining appendages.
Every thing hereabouts recals Eliza to my
mind. I impatiently anticipate the hour, which
will convey me to her pre&longs;ence.
Peter Sanford.
-- 175 --
LETTER LV.
[figure description] Page 175.[end figure description]
TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.
Hartford.
A NEW &longs;cene has opened upon us
to day, my dear Mrs. Sumner; a vi&longs;it from
Major Sanford. My mamma, Mi&longs;s Granby,
and my&longs;elf, were &longs;itting together in the chamber.
Mi&longs;s Granby was entertaining us by
reading aloud in Millot's elements of hi&longs;tory,
when a &longs;ervant rapped at the door, and handed
in the following billet.
“Will Mi&longs;s Wharton conde&longs;cend to converse
a few moments with her once favored
Sanford? He is but too &longs;en&longs;ible that he has
forfeited all claim to the privilege. He therefore
pre&longs;umes not to reque&longs;t it on the &longs;core of
merit, or of former acquaintance; but solicits
it from her benevolence, and pity.”
I read and &longs;howed it to my mamma, and Julia.
What, &longs;aid I, &longs;hall I do? I wi&longs;h not to
&longs;ee him. His artifice has de&longs;troyed my peace
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of mind; and his prefence may open the
wounds which time is clo&longs;ing. Act, &longs;aid my
mamma, agreeably to the dictates of your own
judgment. I &longs;ee no harm in conver&longs;ing with
him, &longs;aid Julia. Perhaps it may remove &longs;ome
di&longs;agreeable thoughts, which now oppre&longs;s and
give you pain. And as he is no longer a candidate
for your affections, added &longs;he, with a
&longs;mile, it will be le&longs;s hazardous than formerly.
He will not have the in&longs;olence to &longs;peak; nor
you the folly to hear, the language of love.
He was accordingly invited in. When I
ro&longs;e to go down, I he&longs;&longs;itated, and even trembled.
I fear, &longs;aid I, to my&longs;elf, it will be too
much for me; yet why &longs;hould it? Con&longs;cious
innocence will &longs;upport me. This he has not.
When I entered the room he &longs;tepped forward
to meet me. Confu&longs;ion and &longs;hame were visibly
depicted in his countenance. He approached
me ha&longs;tily; and without uttering a
word, took my hand. I withdrew it. O! Mi&longs;s
Wharton, &longs;aid he, de&longs;pi&longs;e me not. I am convinced
that I de&longs;erve your di&longs;plea&longs;ure, and disdain;
but my own heart has avenged your
cau&longs;e. To your own heart, then, &longs;aid I, I will
leave you! But why do you again &longs;eek an interview
with one whom you have endeavored
to mi&longs;lead; with one whom you have treated
with unmerited neglect? Ju&longs;tice to my&longs;elf required
my appearing before you; that by confessing
my faults, and obtaining your
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forgiveness, I might &longs;often the reproaches of my own
mind. Will you be &longs;eated, &longs;ir? &longs;aid I. Will you,
rejoined he, conde&longs;cend to &longs;it with me, Eliza?
I will, &longs;ir, an&longs;wered I. The rights of hospitality
I &longs;hall not infringe. In my own hou&longs;e,
therefore, I &longs;hall treat you with civility. Indeed,
&longs;aid he, you are very &longs;evere; but I have
provoked all the coldne&longs;s and re&longs;erve which
you can inflict!
I am a married man, Eliza. So I understand,
&longs;aid I; and I hope you will never treat
your wife with that di&longs;&longs;imulation and fal&longs;hood,
which you have exerci&longs;ed towards me. Would
to heaven, exclaimed he, that you were my
wife! I &longs;hould not then fail in my love or duty
as a hu&longs;band! Yet &longs;he is an amiable girl;
and, had I a heart to give her, I might &longs;till be
happy! but that, alas! I can never recal.
Why, then, &longs;aid I, did you marry her? You
were doubtle&longs;s ma&longs;ter of your own actions.
No, &longs;aid he, I was not. The embarra&longs;&longs;ed &longs;tate
of my affairs precluded the po&longs;&longs;ibility of acting
as I wi&longs;hed. Loving you mo&longs;t ardently, I was
anxious to prevent your union with another,
till I could &longs;o far improve my circum&longs;tances,
as to &longs;ecure you from poverty and want in a
connection with me. My regard was too sincere
to permit me to deceive you, by a marriage
which might have proved unhappy for us
both. My pride forbad my telling you the
motives of my delay; and I left you to &longs;ee if
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I could place my&longs;elf in a &longs;ituation worthy of
your acceptance. This I could not effect; and
therefore have run the ri&longs;k of my future happiness,
by marrying a lady of affluence. This
&longs;ecures to me the externals of enjoyment; but
my heart, I fear, will never participate it. Yet
it affords me &longs;ome degree of &longs;atisfaction that I
have not involved you in di&longs;tre&longs;s. The only
alleviation of which my bani&longs;hment from you
is capable, is your forgivene&longs;s. In compa&longs;&longs;ion,
then, refu&longs;e it not! It cannot injure you! To
me it will be worth millions! He wept! Yes,
Lucy, this libertine; this man of plea&longs;ure and
gallantry wept! I really pitied him from my
heart. I forgive you, &longs;aid I and wi&longs;h you
happy; yet, on this condition only, that you
never again pollute my ears with the recital of
your infamous pa&longs;&longs;ion. Yes, infamous, I call it,
for what &longs;ofter appellation can be given to
&longs;uch profe&longs;&longs;ions from a married man? Harbor
not an idea of me, in future, incon&longs;i&longs;tent
with the love and fidelity which you owe your
wife; much le&longs;s, pre&longs;ume to mention it, if you
wi&longs;h not to be dete&longs;ted by me; and for ever
bani&longs;hed from my pre&longs;ence. He expre&longs;&longs;ed
gratitude for his ab&longs;olution even upon the&longs;e
terms; and hoped his future conduct would
entitle him to my friend&longs;hip and e&longs;teem.
That, I replied, time only can determine.
One favor more he begged leave to &longs;olicit;
which was, that I would be a neighbor to his
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wife. She was a &longs;tranger, he &longs;aid, and would
deem my &longs;ociety a particular privilege. This,
I told him, I could not grant, at pre&longs;ent, whatever
I might do hereafter. He did not urge it
any further, but inquired after my mamma,
and expre&longs;&longs;ed a wi&longs;h to &longs;ee her. I rung the
bell, and ordered her and Mi&longs;s Granby to be
called. When they came, he was very polite
to them both; and, after u&longs;ual compliments,
told my mamma that he was happy in having
obtained my forgivene&longs;s, to which he was anxious
to have her &longs;eal affixed. My daughter,
&longs;aid &longs;he, is the injured party; and if &longs;he be
&longs;atisfied, I &longs;hall not complain. He thanked her
for her conde&longs;cention; informed her that he
was married, and reque&longs;ted her to vi&longs;it his wife.
We then conver&longs;ed upon different &longs;ubjects for
a &longs;hort time, and he took his leave. A &longs;igh
e&longs;caped him as he departed; and a gloom was
vi&longs;ible in his countenance, which I never observed
before.
I mu&longs;t acknowledge that this interview has
given me &longs;atisfaction. I have often told
you that if I married Major Sanford, it would
be from a predilecton for his &longs;ituation in life.
How wretched mu&longs;t have been my lot, had I
di&longs;covered, too late, that he was by no mean,
po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed of the independence, which I fondly
anticipated. I knew nor my own heart, when
I contemplated a connection with him. Little
did I think that my regard for Mr. Boyer was
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&longs;o deeply rooted, as I now find it. I fooli&longs;hly
imagined that I could turn my affections into
what channel I plea&longs;ed. What then mu&longs;t
have been my feelings, when I found my&longs;elf
deprived both of inward peace, and outward
enjoyment! I begin now to emerge from the
darkne&longs;s, in which I have been long benighted!
I hope the tragic comedy, in which I have
acted &longs;o con&longs;picuous a part, will come to a
happy end.
Julia and I talk, now and then, of a journey
to Bo&longs;ton. As yet I have not re&longs;olution
to act with much deci&longs;ion upon the &longs;ubject.
But, wherever I am, and whatever may be my
fate, I &longs;hall always be your's in truth,
Eliza Wharton.
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LETTER LVI.
[figure description] Page 181.[end figure description]
TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.
Hartford.
I begin to hope we &longs;hall come to
rights here, by and by. Major Sanford has
returned; has made us a vi&longs;it; and a treaty
of peace, and amity (but not of commerce,)
is ratified.
Eliza appears to be rapidly returning to her
former cheerfulne&longs;s, if not gaity. I hope &longs;he
will not diverge too far from her pre&longs;ent sedateness
and &longs;olidity; yet I am not without apprehensions
of danger, on that &longs;core. One
extreme commonly &longs;ucceeds another. She
tells me, that &longs;he a&longs;&longs;iduou&longs;ly cultivates her natural
vivacity; that &longs;he finds her ta&longs;te for company
and amu&longs;ements increa&longs;ing; that &longs;he
dreads being alone, becau&longs;e pa&longs;t &longs;cenes ari&longs;e to
view which vex and di&longs;compo&longs;e her.
The&longs;e are indications of a mind not perfectly
right. I flatter my&longs;elf, however, that the
time is not far di&longs;tant, when her pa&longs;&longs;ions will
vibrate with regularity.
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I need not repeat to you any thing relative
to Major Sanford's conciliatory vi&longs;it. Eliza
has given you a particular, and I believe, a
faithful detail. I was called down to &longs;ee this
wonderful man; and di&longs;liked him exceedingly.
I am a&longs;toni&longs;hed that Eliza's penetrating
eye, has not long &longs;ince read his vices in his very
countenance. I am told by a friend, who
has vi&longs;ited them, that he has an agreeable
wife; and I wi&longs;h &longs;he may find him a hu&longs;band
of the &longs;ame de&longs;cription; but I very much
doubt the accompli&longs;hment of my wi&longs;h. For I
have no charity for the&longs;e reformed rakes.
We were walking abroad the other afternoon,
and met Major Sanford and lady.
Eliza did not &longs;ee them till they were very near
us. She &longs;tarted, turned pale, and then colored
like crim&longs;on. I cannot but think, a little
envy rankled in her heart. Major Sanford
very politely acco&longs;ted us; and congratulated
Mrs. Sanford on this opportunity of introducing
her to a particular friend; pre&longs;enting
Eliza. She received her with an ea&longs;y dignity,
and bid her welcome to this part of the country.
Mrs. Sanford an&longs;wered her mode&longs;tly;
hoped for the plea&longs;ure of a further acquaintance;
and urged us, as we were not far from
their hou&longs;e, to return with them to tea. We
declined; and, wi&longs;hing each other a good evening,
parted. Major Sanford's eyes were rivetted
on Eliza, the whole time we were together;
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and he &longs;eemed loath to remove them, when
we &longs;eparated. I &longs;u&longs;pect there is &longs;ome truth
in his tale of love. I &longs;hall therefore di&longs;courage
Eliza from a&longs;&longs;ociating with him under any
pretext whatever. She appeared more pensive
and thoughtful than common, as we returned
home; and &longs;aid little the re&longs;t of the
evening; but next morning was as chatty as
ever.
She is warm in the prai&longs;es of Mrs. Sanford,
thinks her an accompli&longs;hed woman, and wonders
that the major could &longs;ugge&longs;t an idea of
marrying her for her money. She intends,
&longs;he &longs;ays, to vi&longs;it her &longs;oon; and wi&longs;hes me
to accompany her. This, for her own &longs;ake,
I &longs;hall defer, as long as po&longs;&longs;ible.
I am, &c.
Julia Granby.
-- 184 --
LETTER LVII.
[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]
TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.
Hartford.
By Julia's advice, we have neglected
the repeated invitations of Major Sanford, to
vi&longs;it and commence neighborhood with them,
till ye&longs;terday; when we received a polite
billet, reque&longs;ting the honor of our company
to dine. My mamma declined going; but
&longs;aid &longs;he had no objection to our compliance
with the me&longs;&longs;age, if we thought proper. Julia
and I accordingly went. We found a large
company a&longs;&longs;embled in a &longs;pacious hall, splendidly
furni&longs;hed and decorated. They were
all very polite and attentive to me; but none
more &longs;o than Major Sanford and his lady,
who jointly &longs;trove to di&longs;&longs;ipate the pen&longs;ivene&longs;s
of my mind, which I found it impo&longs;&longs;ible to
conceal. When we were &longs;ummoned to dinner,
the major being near me, offered his
hand, and leading me into the dining room,
&longs;eated me at a table furni&longs;hed with all the variety
which could plea&longs;e the eye, or regale the
-- 185 --
[figure description] Page 185.[end figure description]
ta&longs;te of the mo&longs;t luxurious epicure. The
conver&longs;ation turned on various &longs;ubjects, literary,
political, and mi&longs;cellaneous. In the evening
we had a ball. Major Sanford gave the
hand of his wife to a Mr. Grey, alledging that
he was a &longs;tranger, and therefore, entitled to
particular attention; and then &longs;olicited mine
for him&longs;elf. I was on the point of refu&longs;ing
him, but recollecting that it might have the
appearance of continued re&longs;entment, contrary
to my declaration of forgiving what was
pa&longs;t, I complied. He was all kindne&longs;s, and
a&longs;&longs;iduity; the more &longs;o, I imagine, with a view
to make amends for his former ingratitude
and neglect. Tenderne&longs;s is now peculiarly
&longs;oothing to my wounded heart. He took an
opportunity of conver&longs;ing with his wife and
me together; hoped &longs;he would be honored
with my friend&longs;hip, and acquaintance; and
begged, for her &longs;ake, that I would not be a
&longs;tranger at his hou&longs;e. His Nancy, he &longs;aid,
was far removed from her maternal friends;
but I could &longs;upply their place, if I would generously
undertake the ta&longs;k. She joined in expressing
the &longs;ame &longs;entiments and wi&longs;hes.
Alas! Sir, &longs;aid I, Eliza Wharton is not now
what &longs;he once was! I labor under a depre&longs;&longs;ion
of &longs;pirits, which mu&longs;t render my company
rather painful than plea&longs;ing to my friends.
The idea of what I had been, contra&longs;ted
with what I then was, touched my &longs;en&longs;ibility;
-- 186 --
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and I could not re&longs;train the too officious tear
from &longs;tealing down my cheek. He took me
by the hand, and &longs;aid, you di&longs;tre&longs;s me, Mi&longs;s
Wharton, indeed, you di&longs;tre&longs;s me! Happine&longs;s
mu&longs;t, and &longs;hall attend you! Cur&longs;ed be the
wretch, who could wound a heart like your's!
Julia Granby now joined us. An inquisitive
concern was vi&longs;ible in her countenance.
I related this conver&longs;ation to her, after we
returned home; but &longs;he approved it not.
She thought Major Sanford too particularly
attentive to me, con&longs;idering what had previously
happened. She &longs;aid it would be noticed
by others, and the world would make unfavorable
remarks upon any appearance of intimacy
between us. I care not for that, &longs;aid
I. It is an ill-natured, misjudging world;
and I am not obliged to &longs;acrifice my friends
to its opinion. Were Major Sanford a &longs;ingle
man I &longs;hould avoid his &longs;ociety; but &longs;ince he
is married; &longs;ince his wife is young, beautiful
and lovely, he can have no temptation to injure
me. I therefore &longs;ee no evil, which can
ari&longs;e from the cultivation of friend&longs;hip with
her, at lea&longs;t. I reli&longs;h company &longs;o little, that
I may &longs;urely be indulged in &longs;electing that
which is mo&longs;t agreeable to my ta&longs;te, to prevent
my becoming quite a mi&longs;anthrope.
I thank you, my dear Mrs. Sumner, for your
kind letter. It was a &longs;ea&longs;onable cordial to my
mind; and I will endeavor to profit by your
advice.
-- 187 --
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Your remarks on the public entertainments
are amu&longs;ing, and as far as I am a judge, perfectly
ju&longs;t.
I think it a pity they have not female managers
for the theatre. I believe it would be
under much better regulations, than at present.
With cordial re&longs;pects to Mr. Sumner, I subscribe
my&longs;elf, yours in &longs;incerity,
Eliza Wharton.
-- 188 --
LETTER LVIII.
[figure description] Page 188.[end figure description]
TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON.
Hartford.
Rejoice with me, my friend, that
I have made my peace with the mi&longs;tre&longs;s of my
heart. No devotee could have been more sincere
in his penitence, than I was in mine.
Indeed, Charles, I never knew I had &longs;o much
&longs;en&longs;ibility before! Why, I was as much a
woman as the very weake&longs;t of the &longs;ex!
But I dealt very plainly and &longs;incerely with
her, to be &longs;ure; and this atones for all pa&longs;t
offences, and procures ab&longs;olution for many
others yet to be committed.
The dear girl was not inexorable; &longs;he was
as placable and conde&longs;cending as I could expect,
con&longs;idering the nature of the crime,
which was apparently &longs;lighting her per&longs;on
and charms, by marrying another. This you
know is one of the nice&longs;t points with the ladies.
Attack their honor, that is their chastity,
and they con&longs;true it to be the effect
-- 189 --
[figure description] Page 189.[end figure description]
of exce&longs;&longs;ive love, which hurries you a little
beyond the bounds of prudence. But touch
their vanity, by preferring another, and they
will &longs;eldom pardon you. You will &longs;ay I am
very &longs;evere upon the &longs;ex. And have I not
rea&longs;on to be &longs;o, &longs;ince I have found &longs;o many
frail ones among them. This, however, is
departing from my &longs;ubject.
Eliza is extremely altered! Her pale dejected
countenance, with the &longs;edatene&longs;s of her
manners, &longs;o different from the lively glow of
health, cheerfulne&longs;s and activity, which formerly
animated her appearance and deportment,
&longs;truck me very di&longs;agreeably.
With all my gallantry, and fluency in love
matters, I was unable to acquit my&longs;elf tolerably;
or to addre&longs;s her with any degree of
ea&longs;e and confidence. She was very calm;
and &longs;poke with great indifference about my
marriage, &c. which mortified me exceedingly.
Yet I cannot con&longs;ent to believe that her
pre&longs;ent depre&longs;&longs;ion of &longs;pirits ari&longs;es &longs;olely from
Mr. Boyer's infidelity. I &longs;latter my&longs;elf that
I am of &longs;ufficient con&longs;equence to her, to have
contributed in a degree.
When I inquired after her health, &longs;he told
me &longs;he had been indi&longs;po&longs;ed; but was now
much better. This indi&longs;po&longs;ition, I am informed,
was purely mental; and I am happy
to ob&longs;erve her recovering from it. I frequently
vi&longs;it her, &longs;ometimes with, and
-- 190 --
[figure description] Page 190.[end figure description]
sometimes without my wife; of whom, through
my mediation, &longs;he has become a favorite. I
have married, and according to the general
opinion, reformed. Yet I &longs;u&longs;pect my reformation,
like mo&longs;t others of the kind, will
prove in&longs;table as “the ba&longs;ele&longs;s fabric of a vision;”
unle&longs;s I bani&longs;h my&longs;elf entirely from her
&longs;ociety. But that I can never do; for &longs;he is
&longs;till lovely in my eyes, and I cannot control
my pa&longs;&longs;ions. When ab&longs;ent from her, I am
lo&longs;t to every thing but her idea. My wife begins
to rally me on my fondne&longs;s for Mi&longs;s
Wharton. She a&longs;ked me the other day if &longs;he
had a fortune? No, &longs;aid I, if &longs;he had I &longs;hould
have married her. This wounded her sensibility.
I repented of my &longs;incerity, and made
my peace for that time. Yet, I find my&longs;elf
growing extremely irritable, and &longs;he mu&longs;t
take heed how &longs;he provokes me; for I do not
love her; and I think the name of wife becomes
more and more di&longs;ta&longs;teful to me every
day.
In my mind Eliza has no competitor. But
I mu&longs;t keep up appearances, though I endeavor
to regain her love. I imagine that the
enjoyment of her &longs;ociety, as a neighbor and
friend may content me for the pre&longs;ent, and
render my condition &longs;upportable.
Farewell, Charles. I hope you will never
be embarra&longs;&longs;ed with a wife, nor lack &longs;ome favorite
nymph to &longs;upply the place of one.
Peter Sanford.
-- 191 --
LETTER LIX.
[figure description] Page 191.[end figure description]
TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.
Hartford.
DEAR LUCY,
I intended, this week, to have
journeyed to Bo&longs;ton with Julia Granby; but
my re&longs;olution fails me. I find it painful even
to think of mixing again with the gay multitude.
I believe the melancholy reflections,
by which I am oppre&longs;&longs;ed, will be more effectually,
if not more ea&longs;ily &longs;urraounted, by tarrying
where they are rendered familiar, than
by going from them awhile, and then returning.
Julia will therefore go without me. I envy
her no enjoyment there, except your company.
The &longs;ub&longs;titution of friend&longs;hip in the place
of love for Major Sanford, I find productive
of agreeable &longs;en&longs;ations. With him, he a&longs;&longs;ures
me, it is a far more calm, and rational pleasure.
He treats me with the affection and tenderness
of a brother; and his wife, who exceeds
him in pro&longs;e&longs;&longs;ions of regard, with all the
con&longs;oling &longs;oftne&longs;s, and attention of a &longs;i&longs;ter.
Indeed, their politene&longs;s has greatly contributed
-- 192 --
[figure description] Page 192.[end figure description]
to revive the cheerfulne&longs;s of my natural disposition.
I believe the major's former partiality to
me, as a lover, is intirely obliterated; and for
my part, I feel as little re&longs;traint in his company,
and his lady's, as in that of any other in
the neighborhood.
I very much regret the departure of Julia;
and hope you will permit her to return to me
again, as &longs;oon as po&longs;&longs;ible. She is a valuable
friend. Her mind is well cultivated; and
&longs;he has trea&longs;ured up a fund of knowledge
and information, which renders her company
both agreeable and u&longs;eful in every &longs;ituation of
life. We lately &longs;pent the afternoon and evening
at Mr. Smith's. They had a considerable
number of vi&longs;itants; and among the re&longs;t,
Major Sanford. His wife was expected, but
did not come, being indi&longs;po&longs;ed.
I believe, my friend, you mu&longs;t excu&longs;e me if
my letters are &longs;horter than formerly. Writing
is not &longs;o agreeable to me as it u&longs;ed to be.
I love my friends as well as ever; but I
think they mu&longs;t be weary of the gloom and
dulne&longs;s which pervades my pre&longs;ent correspondence.
When my pen &longs;hall have regained
its original fluency and alertne&longs;s, I will re&longs;ume
and prolong the plea&longs;ing ta&longs;k.
I am, my dear Lucy, your's mo&longs;t affectionately,
Eliza Wharton.
-- 193 --
LETTER LX.
[figure description] Page 193.[end figure description]
TO THE SAME.
Hartford.
DEAR MADAM,
Agreeably to your de&longs;ire, every
art has been tried, every allurement held out,
every argument u&longs;ed, and every plan adopted
which Mrs. Wharton and I could devi&longs;e to induce
Eliza to accompany me to Bo&longs;ton; but
all in vain. Sometimes &longs;he has been almo&longs;t persuaded
to a compliance with our united reque&longs;t;
but &longs;oon has re&longs;olutely determined again&longs;t
it. I have ob&longs;erved her &longs;entiments to be suddenly
changed after being in company with
Major Sanford. This alarms us exceedingly.
Indeed the major &longs;eems to have in&longs;inuated
him&longs;elf into her good opinion more than ever.
She is flattered into the belief that his attention
to her is purely the re&longs;ult of friend&longs;hip
and benevolence.
I have not &longs;o favorable an opinion of the
man, as to &longs;uppo&longs;e him capable of either. He
-- 194 --
[figure description] Page 194.[end figure description]
has become very familiar here. He calls in almost
every day. Sometimes he but ju&longs;t inquires
after our health; and &longs;ometimes makes long
vi&longs;its. The latter is his invariable practice,
when he finds Eliza alone. Mrs. Wharton
always avoids &longs;eeing him if &longs;he can. She
dreads, &longs;he &longs;ays, his approaching the hou&longs;e.
I entered the parlor the other day, somewhat
&longs;uddenly, and found him &longs;itting very
near Eliza, in a low conver&longs;ation. They
both ro&longs;e in apparent confu&longs;ion, and he &longs;oon
retired.
When he was gone; I &longs;u&longs;pect, &longs;aid I, that
the major was whi&longs;pering a tale of love, Eliza?
Do you imagine, &longs;aid &longs;he, that I would li&longs;ten
to &longs;uch a theme from a married man? I
hope not, &longs;aid I; but his conduct towards
you indicates a revival of his former sentiments,
at lea&longs;t. I was not aware of that, &longs;aid
&longs;he. As yet I have ob&longs;erved nothing in his
behavior to me, incon&longs;i&longs;tent with the pure&longs;t
friend&longs;hip.
We drank tea not long &longs;ince at Mr. Smith's.
Late in the afternoon, Major Sanford made
his appearance to apologize, as he &longs;aid, for
Mrs. Sanford, who was indi&longs;po&longs;ed, and could not
enjoy the plea&longs;ure of the vi&longs;it &longs;he had contemplated.
He was very gay, the whole evening;
and when the company &longs;eparated, he
was the fir&longs;t to pre&longs;ent his arm to Eliza, who
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[figure description] Page 195.[end figure description]
accepted it without he&longs;itation. A Mr. Newhall
attended me, and we endeavored to keep
them company; but they evidently cho&longs;e to
walk by them&longs;elves. Mr. Newhall ob&longs;erved,
that if Major Sanford were not married, he
&longs;hould &longs;u&longs;pect he &longs;till intended a union with
Mi&longs;s Wharton. I replied, that their former
intercour&longs;e having terminated in friend&longs;hip,
rendered them more familiar with each other,
than with the generality of their acquaintance.
When we reached the hou&longs;e, Mr. Newhall
cho&longs;e not to go in, and took his leave. I
waited at the door for Eliza and Major Sanford.
At &longs;ome little di&longs;tance I &longs;aw him pre&longs;s
her hand to his lips. It vexed me exceedingly;
and no &longs;ooner had they come up, than I
&longs;ullenly bade him good night, and walked directly
in. Eliza &longs;oon followed me. I &longs;at down
by the fire in a thoughtful po&longs;ture. She did
the &longs;ame. In this &longs;ituation we both remained
for &longs;ome time, without &longs;peaking a word.
At length &longs;he &longs;aid, you &longs;eem not to have enjoyed
your walk, Mi&longs;s Granby; did you not
like your gallant? Yes, &longs;aid I, very well; but
I am mortified that you were not better provided
for. I make no complaint, rejoined &longs;he;
I was very well entertained. That is what
di&longs;plea&longs;es me, &longs;aid I; I mean your vi&longs;ible
fondne&longs;s for the &longs;ociety of &longs;uch a man. Were
you aver&longs;e to it, as you ought to be, there
would be no danger. But he has an alluring
-- 196 --
[figure description] Page 196.[end figure description]
tongue, and a treacherous heart. How can
you be plea&longs;ed and entertained by his conversation?
to me it appears totally repugnant to
that re&longs;inement and delicacy for which you
have always been e&longs;teemed.
His a&longs;&longs;iduity, and obtru&longs;ion ought to alarm
you. You well know what his character has
been. Marriage has not changed his disposition.
It is only a cloak which conceals it.
Tru&longs;t him not then, my dear Eliza! If you
do, depend upon it, you will find his professions
of friend&longs;hip to be mere hypocricy, and
deceit! I fear that he is acting over again the
&longs;ame unworthy arts, which formerly mi&longs;lead
you. Beware of his wiles! Your friends are
anxious for you. They tremble at your prosessed
regard, and apparent intimacy with that
unprincipled man. My friends, &longs;aid &longs;he, are
very jealous of me, lately. I know not
how I have forfeited their confidence, or incurred
their &longs;u&longs;picion. By encouraging that
attention, I warmly replied, and receiving tho&longs;e
care&longs;&longs;es from a married man, which are due
from him to none but his wife! He is a villian,
if he deceived her into marriage by in&longs;incere
profe&longs;&longs;ions of love. If he had then an affection
for her, and has already di&longs;carded it, he
is equally guilty! Can you expect &longs;incerity
from the man, who withholds it from an amiable,
and de&longs;erving wife? no, Eliza; it is not
love, which induces him to entertain you with
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[figure description] Page 197.[end figure description]
the &longs;ubject! It is a ba&longs;er pa&longs;&longs;ion; and if you
di&longs;dain not his artifice; if you li&longs;ten to his
flattery, you will, I fear, fall a victim to his
evil machinations! If he conducted like a man
of honor, he would merit your e&longs;teem; but
his behavior is quite the rever&longs;e! Yet vile as
he is, he would not dare to li&longs;p his in&longs;olent
hopes of your regard, if you puni&longs;hed his presumption
with the indignation it de&longs;erves; if
you &longs;purned from your pre&longs;ence the ungrateful
wretch, who would requite your condescension
by triumphing in your ruin!
She now bur&longs;t into tears, and begged me to
drop the &longs;ubject. Her mind, &longs;he &longs;aid, was
racked by her own reflections. She could
bear but little. Kindne&longs;s deceived, and censure
di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed her!
I a&longs;&longs;ured her of my good intentions; that
as I &longs;aw her danger, I thought it a duty of the
friend&longs;hip and affection I bore her, &longs;olemnly to
warn her again&longs;t it before we parted. We
talked over the matter more calmly, till &longs;he
profe&longs;&longs;ed her&longs;elf re&longs;olved in future to avoid
his company, and reject his in&longs;inuations.
The next day, as I walked out, I met Major
Sanford. He acco&longs;ted me very civilly. I
barely bid him good morning, and pa&longs;&longs;ed on.
I made it in my way to call at his hou&longs;e,
and bid Mrs. Sanford adieu; not expecting
another opportunity equally favorable. When
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[figure description] Page 198.[end figure description]
I entered the parlor, &longs;he was playing a melancholy
air on the harp&longs;icord. She ro&longs;e, and
gave me a polite and graceful reception. I
told her, as I was &longs;oon to leave town, I called
to take my leave of her; a compliment, which
her attention to me required. Are you going
to leave us then, Mi&longs;s Granby? &longs;aid &longs;he. I
&longs;hall regret your departure exceedingly. I have
&longs;o few friends in this part of the country, that
it will give me &longs;en&longs;ible pain to part with one I
&longs;o highly value.
I told her in the cour&longs;e of conver&longs;ation,
that I expected the plea&longs;ure of &longs;eeing her yesterday
at Mr. Smith's; and was very &longs;orry
for the indi&longs;po&longs;ition, which prevented her favoring
us with her company. Indeed, &longs;aid
&longs;he, I did not know I was expected there!
Were you there pray? Yes, &longs;aid I; and Major
Sanford excu&longs;ed your not coming, on the
account I have mentioned. Well, &longs;aid &longs;he,
this is the fir&longs;t word I ever heard about it; he
told me that bu&longs;ine&longs;s led him abroad! Did he
gallant any lady? O, &longs;aid I, he was with us
all together. We had no particular gallants.
Seeing her curio&longs;ity excited, I heartily repented
&longs;aying any thing of the matter, and
waved the &longs;ubject. Little did I &longs;u&longs;pect him to
have been guilty of &longs;o ba&longs;e an artifice! It was
evidently contrived to faciliate an interview
with Eliza.
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[figure description] Page 199.[end figure description]
When I returned I related this affair to Mrs.
Wharton and her daughter. The old lady
and I expatiated largely on the vilene&longs;s of this
conduct; and endeavored to expo&longs;e it to Eliza's
view in its true colors. She pretended
not to ju&longs;tify it. Yet &longs;he looked as if &longs;he
wi&longs;hed it in her power.
I am now preparing for my journey to Boston;
which I mu&longs;t however de&longs;er another
week, for the &longs;ake of a more agreeable pa&longs;&longs;age
in the &longs;tage. I regret leaving Eliza! I tremble
at her danger! She has not the re&longs;olution
to re&longs;i&longs;t temptation, which &longs;he once po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed.
Her mind is &longs;urpri&longs;ingly weakened! She appears
&longs;en&longs;ible of this; yet adds to it by yielding
to her own imbecility. You will receive
a letter from her with this; though I had
much difficulty to per&longs;uade her to write. She
has unfortunately become very aver&longs;e to this,
her once favorite amu&longs;ement.
As I &longs;hall &longs;oon have the plea&longs;ure of conversing
with you per&longs;onally, I conclude without
any other addition to this &longs;croll, than the
name of your obliged
Julia Granby.
-- 200 --
LETTER LXI.
[figure description] Page 200.[end figure description]
TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.
Boston.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
I have received your letters, and mu&longs;t
own to you that the peru&longs;al of them gave me
pain. Pardon my &longs;u&longs;picions, Eliza: they
are excited by real friend&longs;hip. Julia, you &longs;ay,
approves not Major Sandford's particular attention
to you. Neither do I. If you recollect,
and examine his conver&longs;ation in his conciliatory
vi&longs;it, you will find it replete with sentiments,
for the avowal of which, he ought to
be bani&longs;hed from all virtuous &longs;ociety.
Does he not in&longs;idiou&longs;ly declare that you
are the only object of his affections; that his
union with another was formed from interested
views; and though that other is acknowledged
to be amiable and excellent, &longs;till he has
not a heart to be&longs;tow, and expects not happiness
with her? Does this di&longs;cover even the appearance
of amendment? Has he not, by &longs;al&longs;e
preten&longs;ions, mi&longs;lead a virtuous woman, and induced
her to form a connection with him? She
-- 201 --
[figure description] Page 201.[end figure description]
was a &longs;tranger to his manner of life; and doubtless
allured, as you have been, by flattery,
deceit, and external appearance, to tru&longs;t his
honor; little thinking him wholly devoid of
that &longs;acred tie! What is the reward of her
confidence? In&longs;en&longs;ibility to her charms,
neglect of her per&longs;on, and profe&longs;&longs;ed attachment
to another!
Is he the man, my dear Eliza, who&longs;e friendship
you wi&longs;h to cultivate? Can that heavenly
pa&longs;&longs;ion re&longs;ide in a brea&longs;t, which is the &longs;eat of
treachery, duplicity, and ingratitude? You
are too &longs;en&longs;ible of its purity and worth, to
&longs;uppo&longs;e it po&longs;&longs;ible. The confe&longs;&longs;ions of his
own mouth condemn him. They convince
me that he is &longs;till the abandoned libertine;
and that marriage is but the cloak of his
intrigues. His officious attentions to you are
alarming to your friends. You own your mind
weakened, and peculiarly &longs;u&longs;ceptible of tender
impre&longs;&longs;ions. Beware how you receive them
from him. Li&longs;ten not a moment to his flattering
profe&longs;&longs;ions. It is an in&longs;ult upon your
under&longs;tanding for him to offer them. It is
derogatory to virtue for you to hear them.
Slight not the opinion of the world. We
are dependent beings; and while the &longs;malle&longs;t
traces of virtuous &longs;en&longs;ibility remain, we mu&longs;t
feel the force of that dependence, in a greater
or le&longs;s degree. No female, who&longs;e mind is
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uncorrupted, can be indifferent to reputation.
It is an ine&longs;timable jewel, the lo&longs;s of which
can never be repaired. While retained, it
affords con&longs;cious peace to our own minds,
and en&longs;ures the e&longs;teem and re&longs;pect of all
around us.
Ble&longs;&longs;ed with the company of &longs;o disinterested
and faithful a friend, as Julia Granby, &longs;ome
deference is certainly due to her opinion
and advice. To an enlarged under&longs;tanding,
a cultivated ta&longs;te, and an exten&longs;ive knowledge
of the world, &longs;he unites the mo&longs;t liberal sentiments,
with a benevolence, and candor of
di&longs;po&longs;ition, which render her equally deserving
of your confidence and affection.
I cannot relinqui&longs;n my claim to a vi&longs;it from
you this winter. Marriage has not alieniated,
or weakened my regard formy friends. Come,
then, to your faithful Lucy. Have you forrows?
I will &longs;ooth, and alleviate them. Have
you cares? I will di&longs;pel them. Have you
plea&longs;ures? I will heighten them. Come then,
let me fold you to my expecting heart. My
happine&longs;s will be partly &longs;u&longs;pended till your
&longs;ociety render it complete. Adieu.
Lucy Sumner.
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LETTER LXII.
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TO MISS JULIA GRANBY.
Hartford.
DEAR JULIA,
I hope Mrs. Sumner and you will
excu&longs;e my writing but one letter, in an&longs;wer to
the number I have received from you both.
Writing is an employment, which &longs;uits me
not at pre&longs;ent. It was plea&longs;ing to me formerly,
and therefore, by recalling the idea of circumstances
and events which frequently occupied
my pen in happier days, it now gives
me pain. Yet I have ju&longs;t written a long consolatory
letter to Mrs. Richman. She has
buried her babe; her little Harriot, of whom
&longs;he was doatingly fond.
It was a cu&longs;tom with &longs;ome of the ancients,
we are told, to weep at the birth of their children.
Often &longs;hould we be impelled to a compliance
with this cu&longs;tom, could we fore&longs;ee the
future incidents of their lives. I think, at
lea&longs;t, that the uncertainty of their conduct and
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condition in more advanced age, may reconcile
us to their removal to a happier &longs;tate, before
they are capable of ta&longs;ting the bitterne&longs;s
of woe.
“Happy the babe, who, priviledg'd by fate,
To &longs;horter labors, and a lighter weight,
Receiv'd but ye&longs;terday the gift of breath;
Order'd to morrow, to return to death.”
Our dome&longs;tic affairs are much as when
you left us. Nothing remarkable has occurred
in the neighborhood, worth communicating.
The company and amu&longs;ements of
the town are as u&longs;ual, I &longs;uppo&longs;e. I frequent
neither of them. Having incurred &longs;o much
cen&longs;ure by the indulgence of a gay di&longs;po&longs;ition,
I am now trying what a reclu&longs;e and &longs;olitary
mode of life will produce. You will call me
&longs;plenetic. I own it. I am plea&longs;ed with nobody;
&longs;till le&longs;s with my&longs;elf. I look around
for happine&longs;s, and find it not. The world is
to me a de&longs;art! If I indulge my&longs;elf in temporary
enjoyment, the con&longs;ciou&longs;ne&longs;s or apprehension
of doing ami&longs;s, de&longs;troys my peace of
mind. And, when I have recour&longs;e to books,
if I read tho&longs;e of &longs;erious de&longs;cription, they remind
me of an awful &longs;uturity, for which I am
unprepared; if hi&longs;tory, it di&longs;clo&longs;es facts in
which I have no intere&longs;t; if novels, they exhibit
&longs;cenes of plea&longs;ure which I have no prospect
of realizing!
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My mamma is &longs;olicitou&longs;ly attentive to my
happine&longs;s; and though &longs;he fails of promoting
it; yet I endeavor to &longs;ave her the pangs of
di&longs;appointment, by appearing what &longs;he wi&longs;hes.
I anticipate, and yet I dread your return;
a paradox this, which time alone can &longs;olve.
Continue writing to me, and intreat Mrs.
Sumner, in my name, to do likewi&longs;e. Your
benevolence mu&longs;t be your reward.
Eliza Wharton.
LETTER LXIII.
TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.
Boston.
A paradox, indeed, is the greater
part of your letter to us, my dear Eliza. We
had fondly flattered our&longs;elves that the melancholy
of your mind was exterminated. I
hope no new cau&longs;e has revived it. Little did
I intend, when I left you, to have been ab&longs;ent
&longs;o long; but Mrs. Sumner's di&longs;appointment,
in her plan of &longs;pending the &longs;ummer at
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Hartford, induced me, in compliance with her
reque&longs;t, to prolong my re&longs;idence here.
But for your &longs;ake, &longs;he now con&longs;ents to my
leaving her, in hopes I may be &longs;o happy as to
contribute to your amu&longs;ement.
I am both plea&longs;ed and in&longs;tructed by the
conduct of this amiable woman. As I always
endeavored to imitate her di&longs;creet and mode&longs;t
behavior in a &longs;ingle &longs;tate; &longs;o likewi&longs;e &longs;hall I
take her for a pattern, &longs;hould I ever enter a
married life. She is mo&longs;t happily united.
Mr. Sumner, to allthe graces and accomplishments
of the gentleman, adds the &longs;till more
important and e&longs;&longs;ential properties of virtue,
integrity and honor. I was once pre&longs;ent
when a per&longs;on was recommended to her for a
hu&longs;band. She objected that he was a rake.
True, &longs;aid the other, he has been, but he has
reformed. That will never do for me, rejoined
&longs;he; I wi&longs;h my future companion to need
no reformation: a &longs;entiment worthy the attention
of our whole &longs;ex; the general adoption
of which, I am per&longs;uaded, would have a
happy influence upon the manners of the
other.
I hope neither you, nor I, Eliza, &longs;hall ever be
tried by a man of debauched principles. Such
characters I conceive to be totally unfit for
the &longs;ociety of women, who have any claim to
virtue and delicacy.
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I intend to be with you, in about a month.
If agreeable to you, we will vi&longs;it, and &longs;pend a
few weeks with the afflicted Mrs. Richman.
I &longs;incerely &longs;ympathize with her, under her
bereavement. I know her fondne&longs;s for you
will render your company very con&longs;oling to
her; and I flatter my&longs;elf that I &longs;hould not be
an unwelcome gue&longs;t.
Make my re&longs;pects to your mamma; and believe
me ever your's,
Julia Granby.
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LETTER LXIV.
[figure description] Page 208.[end figure description]
TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.
Hartford.
DEAR MADAM,
I HAVE arrived in &longs;afety, to the
man&longs;ion of our once happy and &longs;ocial friends.
But I cannot de&longs;cribe to you, how changed,
how greatly changed this amiable family appears
&longs;ince I left it. Mrs. Wharton met me
at the door; and tenderly embracing, bade me
a cordial welcome. You are come, Julia, &longs;aid
&longs;he, I hope, to revive and comfort us. We
have been very &longs;olitary during your ab&longs;ence.
I am happy madam, &longs;aid I, to return; and
my endeavors to re&longs;tore cheerfulne&longs;s and
content, &longs;hall not be wanting. But, where is
Eliza? By this time we had reached the
back parlor, whither Mrs. Wharton led me;
and the door being open, I &longs;aw Eliza, reclined
on a &longs;ettee, in a very thoughtful po&longs;ture.
When I advanced to meet her, &longs;he never moved;
but &longs;at “like patience on a monument,
&longs;miling at grief!”
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I &longs;topped involuntarily, and involuntarily
rai&longs;ing my eyes to heaven, exclaimed, is that
Eliza Wharton! She bur&longs;t into tears; and
attempted to ri&longs;e, but &longs;unk again into her
feat. Seeing her thus affected, I &longs;at down by
her; and throwing my arm about her neck,
why the&longs;e tears? &longs;aid I. Why this di&longs;tre&longs;s,
my dear friend? Let not the return of your
Julia give you pain! She comes to &longs;ooth you
with the con&longs;olations of friend&longs;hip! It is not
pain, &longs;aid &longs;he, cla&longs;ping me to her brea&longs;t; it is
plea&longs;ure, too exqui&longs;ite for my weak nerves to
bear! See you not, Julia, how I am altered?
Should you have known me for the &longs;prightly
girl, who was always welcome at the haunts
of hilarity and mirth? Indeed, &longs;aid I, you appear
indi&longs;po&longs;ed, but I will be your phy&longs;ician.
Company, and change of air will, I doubt not,
re&longs;tore you. Will the&longs;e cure di&longs;orders of the
mind, Julia? They will have a powerful tendency
to remove them, if rightly applied; and
I profe&longs;s con&longs;iderable &longs;kill in that art. Come,
continued I, we will try the&longs;e medicines in the
morning. Let us ri&longs;e early, and &longs;tep into the
chai&longs;e; and after riding a few miles, call and
breakfa&longs;t with Mrs. Freeman. I have &longs;ome
commi&longs;&longs;ions from her daughter. We &longs;hall be
agreeably entertained there, you know.
Being &longs;ummoned to &longs;upper, I took her by
the hand, and we walked into another room,
where we found her brother, and his wife,
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with her mamma waiting for us. We were all
very chatty; even Eliza re&longs;umed, in a degree,
her former &longs;ociability. A &longs;ettled gloom, notwithstanding,
brooded on her countenance;
and a deep &longs;igh often e&longs;caped her, in &longs;pite of
her evident endeavors to &longs;uppre&longs;s it. She
went to bed before us; when her mamma informed
me that her health had been declining
for &longs;ome months, that &longs;he never complained,
but &longs;tudiou&longs;ly concealed every &longs;ymptom of indisposition.
Whether it were any real disorder
of body, or whether it aro&longs;e from her depression
of &longs;pirits, &longs;he could not tell; but supposed
they operated together, and mutually
heightened each other.
I inquired after Major Sanford; whether
he and Eliza had a&longs;&longs;ociated together during
my ab&longs;ence? Sometimes, &longs;he &longs;aid, they seemed
on good terms; and he frequently called
to &longs;ee her; at others, they had very little, if
any corre&longs;pondence at all. She told me that
Eliza never went abroad, and was very loath
to &longs;ee company at home; that her chief amusement
con&longs;i&longs;ted in &longs;olitary walks; that the
dreadful idea of her meeting Major Sanford in
the&longs;e walks, had now and then intruded upon
her imagination; that &longs;he had not the lea&longs;t
evidence of the fact, however; and indeed,
was afraid to make any inquiries into the matter,
le&longs;t her own &longs;u&longs;picions &longs;hould be discovered;
that the major's character was wor&longs;e than
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ever; that he was much abroad, and frequently
entertained large parties of worthie&longs;s
bacchanalians at his hou&longs;e; that common report
&longs;aid he treated his wife with indifference,
neglect, and ill nature; with many other circumstances,
which it is not material to relate.
Adieu, my dear friend, for the pre&longs;ent.
When occa&longs;ion requires, you &longs;hall hear again
from your affectionate
Julia Granby.
LETTER LXV.
TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON.
Hartford.
Good news, Charles, good news!
I have arrived to the utmo&longs;t bounds of my
wi&longs;hes; the full po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion of my adorable
Eliza! I have heard a quotation from a certain
book; but what book it was I have forgotten,
if I ever knew. No matter for that;
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the quotation is, that “&longs;tolen waters are
&longs;weet, and bread eaten in &longs;ecret is plea&longs;ant.”
If it has reference to the plea&longs;ures, which I
have enjoyed with Eliza, I like it hugely, as
Tri&longs;tram Shandy's father &longs;aid of Yorick's sermon;
and I think it fully verified.
I had a long and tedious &longs;iege. Every method
which love could fugge&longs;t, or art invent,
was adopted. I was &longs;ometimes ready to despair,
under an idea that her re&longs;olution was unconquerable,
her virtue impregnable. Indeed,
I &longs;hould have given over the pur&longs;uit long ago,
but for the hopes of &longs;ucce&longs;s I entertained
from her parlying with me, and in reliance
upon her own &longs;trength, endeavoring to combat,
and counteract my de&longs;igns. Whenever
this has been the ca&longs;e, Charles, I have never
yet been defeated in my plan. If a lady will
con&longs;ent to enter the li&longs;ts again&longs;t the antagoni&longs;t
of her honor, &longs;he may be &longs;ure of loo&longs;ing the
prize. Be&longs;ides; were her delicacy genuine,
the would bani&longs;h the man at once, who presumed
to doubt, which he certainly does, who
attempts to vanqui&longs;h it!
But, far be it from me to critici&longs;e the pretensions
of the &longs;ex. If I gain the rich reward
of my di&longs;&longs;imulation and gallantry, that you
know is all I want.
To return then to the point. An unlucky,
but not a miraculous accident, has taken place,
which mu&longs;t &longs;oon expo&longs;e our amour. What
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can be done? At the fir&longs;t di&longs;covery, ab&longs;olute
di&longs;traction &longs;eized the &longs;oul of Eliza, which has
&longs;ince terminated in a fixed melancholy. Her
health too is much impaired. She thinks herself
rapidly declining; and I tremble when I
&longs;ee her emaciated form!
My wife has been reduced very low, of late.
She brought me a boy a few weeks pa&longs;t, a dead
one though.
The&longs;e circum&longs;tances give me neither pain
nor plea&longs;ure. I am too much ingro&longs;&longs;ed by
my divinity, to take an intere&longs;t in any thing
el&longs;e. True, I have lately &longs;uffered my&longs;elf to be
&longs;omewhat engaged here and there, by a few
jovial lads, who a&longs;&longs;i&longs;t me in di&longs;pelling the anxious
thoughts, which my perplexed situation
excites. I mu&longs;t, however, &longs;eek &longs;ome
means to relieve Eliza's di&longs;tre&longs;s. My finances
are low; but the la&longs;t fraction &longs;hall be expended
in her &longs;ervice, if &longs;he need it.
Julia Granby is expected at Mrs. Wharton's
every hour. I fear that her inquisitorial
eye will &longs;oon detect our intrigue, and obstruct
its continuation. Now there's a girl,
Charles, I &longs;hould never attempt to &longs;educe;
yet &longs;he is a mo&longs;t alluring object, I a&longs;&longs;ure you.
But the dignity of her manners forbid all asfaults
upon her virtue. Why, the very expression
of her eye, bla&longs;ts in the bud, every
thought, derogatory to her honor; and tells
you plainly, that the fir&longs;t in&longs;inuation of the
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kind, would be puni&longs;hed with eternal banishment
and di&longs;plea&longs;ure! Of her there is no
danger! But I can write no more, except that
I am, &c.
Peter Sanford.
LETTER LXVI.
TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.
Hartford.
Oh, my friend! I have a tale to unfold;
a tale which will rend every nerve of
&longs;ympathizing pity, which will rack the brea&longs;t
of &longs;en&longs;ibility, and un&longs;peakably di&longs;tre&longs;s your
benevolent heart! Eliza—Oh the ruined, lo&longs;t
Eliza!
I want words to expre&longs;s the emotions of indignation,
and grier which oppre&longs;s me! But
I will endeavor to compo&longs;e my&longs;elf; and relate
the circum&longs;tances as they came to my
knowledge.
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After my la&longs;t letter, Eliza remained much
in the &longs;ame gloomy &longs;ituation as I found her.
She refu&longs;ed to go, agreeably to her promi&longs;e, to
vi&longs;it your mamma; and under one pretext
or another, has con&longs;tantly declined accompanying
me any where el&longs;e, &longs;ince my arrival.
Till la&longs;t Thur&longs;day night &longs;he &longs;lept in the
&longs;ame bed with me; when &longs;he excu&longs;ed her&longs;elf,
by &longs;aying &longs;he was re&longs;tle&longs;s, and &longs;hould di&longs;turb
my repo&longs;e. I yeilded to her humor of taking
a different apartment, little &longs;u&longs;pecting
the real cau&longs;e! She frequently walked cut;
and though I &longs;ometimes followed, I very seldom
found her. Two or three times, when I
happened to be awake, I heard her go down
&longs;tairs; and on inquiry in the morning, &longs;he
told me that &longs;he was very thir&longs;ty, and went
down for water. I ob&longs;erved, a degree of hesitancy
in her an&longs;wers, for which I could not
account. But la&longs;t night, the dreadful my&longs;tery
was developed! A little before day, I heard
the front door opened with great caution.
I &longs;prang from my bed, and running to the
window, &longs;aw by the light of the moon, a man
going from the hou&longs;e. Soon after I perceived
a foot&longs;tep upon the &longs;tairs, which carefully
approached and entered Eliza's chamber.
Judge of my a&longs;toni&longs;hment, my &longs;urpri&longs;e, my
feelings, upon this ecca&longs;ion! I doubted not but
Major Sanford was the per&longs;on I had &longs;een;
and the di&longs;covery of Eliza's guilt, in this
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infamous intrigue, almo&longs;t deprived me of
thought and recollection! My blood thrilled
with horror at this &longs;acrifice of virtue! After
a while I recovered my&longs;elf, and put on
my clothes. But what to do, I knew not;
whether to go directly to her chamber, and
let her know that &longs;he was detected; or to
wait another opportunity.
I re&longs;olved on the fir&longs;t. The day had now
dawned. I tapped at her door; and &longs;he bid
me come in. She was &longs;itting in an ea&longs;y chair
by the &longs;ide of her bed. As I entered &longs;he
withdrew her handkerchief from her face;
and looking earne&longs;tly at me, &longs;aid, what procures
me the favor of a vi&longs;it, at this early
hour, Mi&longs;s Granby? I was di&longs;turbed, &longs;aid I,
and wi&longs;hed not to return to my bed. But
what breaks your re&longs;t; and calls you up &longs;o
un&longs;ea&longs;onably, Eliza? Remor&longs;e, and de&longs;pair,
an&longs;wered &longs;he, weeping. After what I have
witne&longs;&longs;ed, this morning, rejoined I, I cannot
wonder at it! Was it not Major Sanford
whom I &longs;aw go from the hou&longs;e &longs;ome time
ago? She was &longs;ilent, but tears flowed abundantly.
It is too late, continued I, to deny,
or evade. An&longs;wer my que&longs;tion &longs;incerely; for,
believe me, Eliza, it is not malice, but concern
for you, which prompts it. I will an&longs;wer
you, Julia, &longs;aid &longs;he. You have discovered
a &longs;ecret, which harrows up my very &longs;oul!
A &longs;ecret, which I wi&longs;hed you to know, but
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could not exert re&longs;olution to reveal! Yes!
It was Major Sanford; the man who has
robbed me of my peace; who has triumphed
in my de&longs;truction; and who will cau&longs;e my
&longs;un to &longs;it at noon!
I &longs;hudder, &longs;aid I, at your confe&longs;&longs;ion!
Wretched, deluded girl! Is this a return for
your parent's love, and a&longs;&longs;duous care; for
your friends' &longs;olicitude, and premonitory advice?
You are ruined, you &longs;ay! You have
&longs;acrificed your virtue to an abandoned, despicable
profligate! And you live to acknowledge
and bear your infamy! I do, &longs;aid &longs;he;
but not long &longs;hall I &longs;upport this burden! See
you not, Julia, my decaying frame, my &longs;aded
cheek, and tottering limbs? Soon &longs;hall I be insensible
to cen&longs;ure and reproach! Soon &longs;hall I
be &longs;eque&longs;tered in that man&longs;ion, “where the
wicked cea&longs;e from troubling, and where the
weary are at re&longs;t!” Re&longs;t! &longs;aid I, can you
expect to find re&longs;t either in this world, or
another, with &longs;uch a weight of guilt on your
head? She exclaimed, with great emotion,
add not to the upbraidings of a wounded
&longs;pirit! Have pity upon me, Oh! my friend,
have pity upon me!
Could you know what I &longs;uffer, you would
think me &longs;ufficiently puni&longs;hed! I wi&longs;h you no
other puni&longs;hment, &longs;aid I, than what may effect
your repentance and reformation. But your
mother, Eliza! She cannot long be ignorant of
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your fall; and I tremble to think of her distress!
It will break her widowed heart!
How has &longs;he loved; how has &longs;he doated upon
you! Dreadful is the requital which you
have made! My mother, rejoined &longs;he—Oh,
name her not! The very found is di&longs;traction
to me! Oh! my Julia, if your heart be
not &longs;hut again&longs;t mercy and compa&longs;&longs;ion towards
me, aid me through this trying &longs;cene!
Let my &longs;ituation call forth your pity, and induce
you, unde&longs;erving as I am, to exert it in
my behalf!
During this time, I had walked the chamber.
My &longs;pirits had been rai&longs;ed above their
natural key, and were exhau&longs;ted. I &longs;at
down, but thought I &longs;hould have fainted, till
a copious &longs;lood of tears gave me relief. Eliza
was extremely affected. The appearance
of calamity which &longs;he exhibited would have
&longs;oftened the mo&longs;t obdurate anger. Indeed, I
feared &longs;ome immediate and fatal effect. I
therefore &longs;eated my&longs;elf be&longs;ide her; and assuming
an air of kindne&longs;s, compo&longs;e your&longs;elf,
Eliza, &longs;aid I; I repeat what I told you before,
it is the pure&longs;t friend&longs;hip, which thus intere&longs;ts
me in your concerns. This, under the direction
of charity, induces me again to offer you
my hand. Yet you have erred again&longs;t knowledge
and rea&longs;on; again&longs;t warning and
coun&longs;el. You have forfeited the favor of
your friends; and reluctant will be their
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forgiveness. I plead guilty, &longs;aid &longs;he, to all
your charges. From the general voice I expect
no clemency. If I can make my peace
with my mother, it is all I &longs;eek or wi&longs;h on
this &longs;ide the grave.
In your benevolence I con&longs;ide for this. In
you, I hope to find an interce&longs;&longs;or. By the
remembrance of our former affection and happiness,
I conjure you, refu&longs;e me not. At present,
I entreat you to conceal from her this distressing
tale. A &longs;hort reprieve is all I a&longs;k.
Why, &longs;aid I, &longs;hould you defer it? When
the painful ta&longs;k is over, you may find relief in
her lenient kindne&longs;s. After &longs;he knows my
condition, I cannot &longs;ee her, re&longs;umed &longs;he, till I
am a&longs;&longs;ured of her forgivene&longs;s. I have not
&longs;trength to &longs;upport the appearance of her
anger and grief. I will write to her what I
cannot &longs;peak. You mu&longs;t bear the melancholy
me&longs;&longs;age, and plead for me, that her displeasure
may not follow me to the grave; whither
I am rapidly ha&longs;tening. Be a&longs;&longs;ured, replied I,
that I will keep your &longs;ecret as long as prudence
requires. But I mu&longs;t leave you now:
your mamma will wonder at our being thus
clo&longs;etted together. When opportunity presents,
we will conver&longs;e further on the &longs;ubject.
In the mean time, keep your&longs;elf as compo&longs;ed
as po&longs;&longs;ible, if you would avoid &longs;u&longs;picion. She
rai&longs;ed her cla&longs;ped hands, and with a piteous
look, threw her handkerchief over her face,
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and reclined in her chair, without &longs;peaking a
word. I returned to my chamber, and endeavored
to di&longs;&longs;ipate every idea which might
tend to di&longs;order my countenance, and break
the &longs;ilence I wi&longs;hed to ob&longs;erve, relative to what
had happened.
When I went down, Mrs. Wharton desired
me to &longs;tep up, and inform Eliza that
breakfa&longs;t was ready. She told me &longs;he could
not yet compo&longs;e her&longs;elf &longs;ufficiently to &longs;ee her
mamma; and begged me to excu&longs;e her absence
as I thought proper. I accordingly returned
for an&longs;wer to Mrs. Wharton, that
Eliza had re&longs;ted but indifferently, and being
&longs;omewhat indi&longs;po&longs;ed, would not come down,
but wi&longs;hed me to bring her a bowl of chocolate,
when we had breakfa&longs;ted. I was obliged
&longs;tudiou&longs;ly to &longs;uppre&longs;s even my thoughts
concerning her, left the emotions they excited
might be ob&longs;erved. Mrs. Wharton conversed
much of her daughter, and expre&longs;&longs;ed
great concern about her health and &longs;tate of
mind. Her return to this &longs;tate of dejection,
after having recovered her &longs;pirits and cheerfulness,
in a great degree, was owing, &longs;he
feared, to &longs;ome cau&longs;e unknown to her; and
&longs;he entreated me to extract the &longs;ecret, if
po&longs;&longs;ible. I a&longs;&longs;ured her of my be&longs;t endeavors,
and doubted not, I told her, but I &longs;hould
be able in a few days to effect what &longs;he wi&longs;hed.
Eliza came down and walked in the
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garden before dinner; at which &longs;he commanded
her&longs;elf much better than I expected. She
&longs;aid that a little ride might, &longs;he imagined, be
of &longs;ervice to her; and a&longs;ked me if I would
accompany her a few miles in the afternoon.
Her mamma was much plea&longs;ed with the
propo&longs;ition; and the chai&longs;e was accordingly
ordered.
I ob&longs;erved to Eliza, as we rode, that with
her natural and acquired abilities, with her
advantages of education, with her opportunities
of knowing the world, and of tracing
the virtues and vices of mankind to their
origin, I was &longs;urpri&longs;ed at her becoming the
prey of an in&longs;idious libertine, with who&longs;e
character &longs;he was well acquainted, and who&longs;e
principles &longs;he was fully appri&longs;ed would prompt
him to deceive and betray her. Your surprise
is very natural, &longs;aid &longs;he. The &longs;ame will
doubtle&longs;s be felt and expre&longs;&longs;ed by every one
to whom my &longs;ad &longs;tory is related. But the
cau&longs;e may be found in that unre&longs;trained levity
of di&longs;po&longs;ition, that fondne&longs;s for di&longs;&longs;ipation
and coquetry which alienated the affections
of Mr. Boyer from me. This event fatally
depre&longs;&longs;ed, and en&longs;eebled my mind. I embraced
with avidity the con&longs;oling power of
friend&longs;hip, en&longs;naringly offered by my &longs;educer;
vainly inferring from his marriage with a virtuous
woman, that he had&longs;een the error of his
ways, and for&longs;aken his licentious practices, as
he affirmed, and I, fool that I was, believed it!
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It is needle&longs;s for me to rehear&longs;e the persidious
arts, by which he in&longs;inuated him&longs;elf
into my affections, and gained my confidence.
Suffice it to &longs;ay, he effected his purpo&longs;e! But
not long did I continue in the delu&longs;ive dream
of &longs;en&longs;ual gratification. I &longs;oon awoke to a
mo&longs;t poignant &longs;en&longs;e of his ba&longs;ene&longs;s, and of
my own crime and mi&longs;ery. I would have
fled from him; I would have renounced
him for ever; and by a life of &longs;incere humility
and repentance, endeavored to make my
peace with heaven, and to obliterate, by the
rectitude of my future conduct, the guilt I had
incurred; but I found it too late! My circumstances
called for attention; and I had no
one to participate my cares, to witne&longs;s my distress,
and to alleviate my &longs;orrows, but him. I
could not therefore prevail on my&longs;elf, wholly
to renounce his &longs;ociety. At times I have admitted
his vi&longs;its; always meeting him in the
garden, or grove adjoining; till of late, the
weather, and my ill health induced me to
comply with his &longs;olicitations, and receive him
into the parlor.
Not long, however, &longs;hall I be &longs;ubject to
the&longs;e embarra&longs;&longs;ments. Grief has undermined
my con&longs;titution. My health has fallen a sacrifice
to a di&longs;ordered mind. But I regret
not its departure! I have not a &longs;ingle wi&longs;h
to live. Nothing which the world affords
can re&longs;tore my former &longs;erenity and happine&longs;s!
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The little innocent I bear, will quickly disclose
its mother's &longs;hame! God Almighty
grant it may not live as a monument of my
guilt, and a partaker of the infamy and sorrow,
which is all I have to bequeath it!
Should it be continued in life, it will never
know the tenderne&longs;s of a parent; and, perhaps,
want and di&longs;grace may be its wretched
portion! The greate&longs;t con&longs;olation I can have,
will be to carry it with me to a &longs;tate of eternal
re&longs;t; which, vile as I am, I hope to obtain,
through the infinite mercy of heaven, as revealed
in the go&longs;pel of Chri&longs;t.
I mu&longs;t &longs;ee Major Sanford again. It is necessary
to conver&longs;e further with him, in order
to carry my plan of operation into execution.
What is this plan of operation, Eliza? &longs;aid I. I
am on the rack of anxiety for your &longs;afety. Be
patient, continued &longs;he and you &longs;hall &longs;oon be informed.
To morrow I &longs;hall write my dreadful
&longs;tory to my mother. She will be acquainted
with my future intentions; and you &longs;hall know,
at the &longs;ame time, the de&longs;tination of your lo&longs;t
friend. I hope, &longs;aid I, that you have formed no
re&longs;olution again&longs;t your own life. God forbid,
rejoined &longs;he. My breath is in his hands, let
him do what &longs;eemeth good in his &longs;ight!
Keep my &longs;ecret one day longer, and I will
never more impo&longs;e &longs;o painful a &longs;ilence upon
you.
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By this time we had reached home. She
drank tea with compo&longs;ure, and &longs;oon retired
to re&longs;t. Mrs. Wharton eagerly inquired
whether I had found out the cau&longs;e of Eliza's
melancholy. I have urged her, &longs;aid I, on the
&longs;ubject; but &longs;he alledges that &longs;he has particular
rea&longs;ons for pre&longs;ent concealment. She has,
notwith&longs;tanding, promi&longs;ed to let me know, the
day after to morrow. Oh, &longs;aid &longs;he, I &longs;hall
not re&longs;t till the period arrives. Dear, good
woman, &longs;aid I to my&longs;elf, I fear you will never
re&longs;t afterwards!
This is our pre&longs;ent &longs;ituation. Think what
a &longs;cene ri&longs;es to the view of your Julia! She
mu&longs;t &longs;hare the di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;es of others, though
her own feelings, on this unhappy occa&longs;ion,
are too keen to admit a moment's &longs;erenity!
My greate&longs;t relief is in writing to you; which
I &longs;hall do again by the next po&longs;t. In the
mean time, I mu&longs;t beg leave to &longs;ub&longs;cribe myself,
&longs;incerely yours,
Julia Granby.
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LETTER LXVII.
[figure description] Page 225.[end figure description]
TO THE SAME.
Hartford.
All is now lo&longs;t; lo&longs;t, indeed! She is
gone! Yes, my dear friend, our beloved Eliza, is
gone! Never more &longs;hall we behold this once amiable
companion, this once innocent and happy
girl. She has for&longs;aken, and, as &longs;he &longs;ays, bid
an everla&longs;ting adieu to her home, her afflicted
parent and her friends! But I will take up
my melancholy &longs;tory where I left it in my la&longs;t.
She went, as &longs;he told me &longs;he expected, into
the garden, and met her dete&longs;table paramour.
In about an hour &longs;he returned, and went directly
to her chamber. At one o'clock I went
up, and found her writing, and weeping. I
begged her to compo&longs;e her&longs;elf, and go down
to dinner. No; &longs;he &longs;aid, &longs;he could not eat;
and was not fit to appear before any body.
I remon&longs;trated again&longs;t her immoderate grief;
repre&longs;ented the injury &longs;he mu&longs;t &longs;u&longs;tain by the
indulgence of it, and conjured her to &longs;upre&longs;s
the violence of its emotions.
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She entreated me to excu&longs;e her to her mamma;
&longs;aid &longs;he was writing to her, and found
it a ta&longs;k too painful to be performed with any
degree of compo&longs;ure; that &longs;he was almo&longs;t
ready to &longs;ink under the weight of her affliction;
but hoped and prayed for &longs;upport,
both in this, and another trying &longs;cene, which
awaited her. In compliance with her de&longs;ire, I
now left her; and told her mamma that &longs;he
was very bu&longs;y in writing; wi&longs;hed not to be interrupted
at pre&longs;ent; but would take &longs;ome
refre&longs;hment, an hour or two hence. I vi&longs;ited
her again, about four o'clock; when &longs;he appeared
more calm and tranquil.
It is fini&longs;hed, &longs;aid &longs;he, as I entered her
apartment, it is fini&longs;hed. What &longs;aid I, is
fini&longs;hed? No matter, replied &longs;he; you will
know all to morrow, Julia. She complained
of exce&longs;&longs;ive fatigue, and expre&longs;&longs;ed an inclination
to lie down; in which I a&longs;&longs;i&longs;ted her,
and then retired. Some time after, her mamma
went up, and found her &longs;till on the bed.
She ro&longs;e, however, and accompanied her down
&longs;tairs. I met her at the door of the parlor,
and taking her by the hand, inquired how &longs;he
did? Oh, Julia, mi&longs;erably indeed, &longs;aid &longs;he.
How &longs;everely does my mother's kindne&longs;s reproach
me! How in&longs;upportably it increa&longs;es my
&longs;elf-condemnation! She wept; &longs;he wrung
her hands, and walked the room in the greatest
agony! Mrs. Wharton was exceeding
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di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed by her appearance. Tell me, Eliza,
&longs;aid &longs;he, tell me the cau&longs;e of your trouble!
Oh, kill me not by your my&longs;terious concealment!
My dear child, let me, by &longs;haring,
alleviate your affliction! A&longs;k me not, madam,
&longs;aid &longs;he; O my mother, I conjure you
not to in&longs;i&longs;t on my divulging to night, the satal
&longs;ecret which engro&longs;&longs;es and di&longs;tracts my
mind! To morrow I will hide nothing from
you. I will pre&longs;s you no further, rejoined her
mamma. Chu&longs;e your own time, my dear;
but remember, I mu&longs;t participate your grief,
though I know not the cau&longs;e.
Supper was brought in; and we endeavored
to prevail on Eliza to eat, but in vain.
She &longs;at down, in compliance with our united
importunities; but neither of us ta&longs;ted food.
It was removed untouched. For a while,
Mrs. Wharton and I gazed in &longs;ilent angui&longs;h
upon the &longs;pectacle of woe, before us! At
length, Eliza ro&longs;e to retire. Julia, &longs;aid &longs;he,
will you call at my chamber, as you pa&longs;s to
your own? I a&longs;&longs;ented. She then approached
her mamma, fell upon her knees before
her, and cla&longs;ping her hand, &longs;aid, in broken
accents, Oh madam! can you forgive a
wretch, who has for&longs;eited your love, your
kindne&longs;s, and your compa&longs;&longs;ion? Surely,
Eliza, &longs;aid &longs;he, you are not that being! No,
it is impo&longs;&longs;ible! But however great your
tran&longs;gre&longs;&longs;ion, be a&longs;&longs;ured of my forgivene&longs;s,
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my compa&longs;&longs;ion, and my continued love!
Saying this, &longs;he threw her arms about her
daughter's neck, and affectionately ki&longs;&longs;ed her.
Eliza &longs;truggled from her embrace, and looking
at her with wild de&longs;pair, exclaimed, this is
too much! Oh, this unmerited goodne&longs;s is
more than I can bear! She then ru&longs;hed
precipitately out of the room, and left us overwhelmed
in &longs;ympathy and a&longs;toni&longs;hment!
When Mrs. Wharton had recovered herself
a little, &longs;he ob&longs;erved, that Eliza's brain
was evidently di&longs;ordered. Nothing el&longs;e, continued
&longs;he, could impel her to act in this extraordinary
manner. At fir&longs;t &longs;he was resolved
to follow her; but I di&longs;&longs;uaded her
from it, alledging, that as &longs;he had de&longs;ired me
to come into her chamber, I thought it better
for me to go alone. She acquie&longs;ced; but
&longs;aid &longs;he &longs;hould not think of going to bed;
but would, however, retire to her chamber, and
&longs;eek con&longs;olation there. I bade her good
night; and went up to Eliza, who took me
by the hand and led me to the toilet, upon
which &longs;he laid the two inclo&longs;ed letters, the one
to her mamma, and the other to me. The&longs;e,
&longs;aid &longs;he, contain what I had not re&longs;olution to
expre&longs;s. Promi&longs;e me, Julia, that they &longs;hall
not be opened till to morrow morning. I
will, &longs;aid I. I have thought and wept, continued
&longs;he, till I have almo&longs;t exhau&longs;ted my
&longs;trength, and my rea&longs;on. I would now
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obtain a little re&longs;pite, that I may prepare my mind
for the account I am one day to give at a higher
tribunal than that of earthly friends. For
this purpo&longs;e, what I have written, and what I
&longs;hall yet &longs;ay to you, mu&longs;t clo&longs;e the account between
you and me. I have certainly no balance
again&longs;t you, &longs;aid I. In my brea&longs;t you
are fully acquitted. Your penitential tears
have obliterated your guilt, and blotted out
your errors with your Julia. Henceforth, be
they all forgotten. Live, and be happy.
Talk not, &longs;aid &longs;he, of life. It would be a vain
hope, though I cheri&longs;hed it my&longs;elf.
“That I mu&longs;t die, it is my only comfort;
Death is the privilege of human nature;
And life without it were not worth our taking.
Thither the poor, the pri&longs;oner and the mourner
Fly for relief, and lay their burdens down!”
You have forgiven me, Julia; my mother
has a&longs;&longs;ured me of her forgivene&longs;s, and what
have I more to wi&longs;h? my heart is much lightened
by the&longs;e kind a&longs;&longs;urances; they will be
a great &longs;upport to me in the dreadful hour
which awaits me! What mean you, Eliza? &longs;aid
I. I fear &longs;ome de&longs;perate purpo&longs;e labors in your
mind. Oh, no, &longs;he replied; you may be
a&longs;&longs;ured your fear is groundle&longs;s. I know not
what I &longs;ay; my brain is on fire; I am all confusion!
Leave me, Julia; when I have had a
little re&longs;t, I &longs;hall be compo&longs;ed. The&longs;e letters
have almo&longs;t di&longs;tracted me; but they are
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written, and I am comparatively ea&longs;y. I will not
leave you, Eliza, &longs;aid I, unle&longs;s you will go
directly to bed, and endeavor to re&longs;t. I will,
&longs;aid &longs;he, and the &longs;ooner the better. I tenderly
embraced her, and retired, though not to
bed. About an hour after, I returned to her
chamber, and opening the door very &longs;oftly,
found her apparently a&longs;leep. I acquainted
Mrs. Wharton with her &longs;ituation, which was
a great con&longs;olation to us both; and encouraged
us to go to bed. Having &longs;uffered much
in my mind, and being much fatigued, I &longs;oon
fell a&longs;leep; but the rattling of a carriage,
which appeared to &longs;top at a little di&longs;tance
from the hou&longs;e, awoke me. I li&longs;tened a moment,
and heard the door turn &longs;lowly on its
hinges. I &longs;prang from my bed, and reached
the window ju&longs;t in time to &longs;ee a female handed
into a chai&longs;e by a man who ha&longs;tily followed
her, and drove furiou&longs;ly away! I at once
concluded they could be no other than Eliza
and Major Sanford. Under this impression
I made no delay, but ran immediately
to her chamber. A candle was burning on
the table; but Eliza was not there! I thought
it be&longs;t to acquaint her mamma with the melancholy
di&longs;covery; and &longs;teping to her apartment
for the purpo&longs;e, found her ri&longs;ing.
She had heard me walk, and was anxious to
know the cau&longs;e. What is the matter, Julia,
&longs;aid &longs;he; what is the matter? Dear madam,
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&longs;aid I, arm your&longs;elf with fortitude! What
new occurrence demands it? rejoined &longs;he.
Eliza has left us! Left us! what mean you? She
is ju&longs;t gone! I &longs;aw her handed into a chai&longs;e,
which in&longs;tantly di&longs;appeared!
At this intelligence &longs;he gave a &longs;hriek, and
fell back on her bed! I alarmed the family,
and by their a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tance &longs;oon recovered her. She
de&longs;ired me to inform her of every particular
relative to her elopement, which I did; and
then delivered her the letter which Eliza
had left for her. I &longs;u&longs;pect, &longs;aid &longs;he, as &longs;he
took it; I have long &longs;u&longs;pected, what I dared
not believe! The angui&longs;h of my mind has
been known only to my&longs;elf, and my God!
I could not an&longs;wer her, and therefore withdrew.
When I had read Eliza's letter to me,
and wept over the &longs;ad fall; and, as I fear, the total
lo&longs;s of this once amiable and accompli&longs;hed
girl, I returned to Mrs. Wharton. She was
&longs;itting in her ea&longs;y chair; and &longs;till held the fatal
letter in her hand. When I entered, &longs;he
fixed her &longs;treaming eyes upon me, and exclaimed,
O Julia, this is more than the bitterness
of death! True, madam, &longs;aid I, your
affliction mu&longs;t be great; yet that all-gracious
Being, who controls every event, is able, and
I tru&longs;t, di&longs;po&longs;ed to &longs;upport you! To Him,
replied &longs;he, I de&longs;ire humbly to re&longs;ign my&longs;elf;
but I think I could have borne almo&longs;t any
other calamity with greater re&longs;ignation and
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compo&longs;ure than this. With how much
comparative ea&longs;e could I have followed her to
the grave, at any period &longs;ince her birth! Oh,
my child, my child! dear, very dear ha&longs;t
thou been to my fond heart! Little did I
think it po&longs;&longs;ible for you to prepare &longs;o dreadful
a cup of &longs;orrow for your widowed mother!
But where, continued &longs;he, where can the poor
fugitive have fled? Where can &longs;he find that
protection and tenderne&longs;s, which, notwithstanding
her great apo&longs;tacy, I &longs;hould never
have withheld? From whom can &longs;he receive
tho&longs;e kind attentions, which her &longs;ituation demands.
The agitation of her mind had exhau&longs;ted
her &longs;trength; and I prevailed on her to refresh,
and endeavor to compo&longs;e her&longs;elf to
re&longs;t; a&longs;&longs;uring her of my utmo&longs;t exertions to
find out Eliza's retreat, and re&longs;tore her to a
mother's arms.
I am obliged to &longs;uppre&longs;s my own emotions;
and to bend all my thoughts towards the alleviation
of Mrs. Wharton's anxiety and grief.
Major Sanford is from home, as I expected;
and I am determined, if he return, to &longs;ee
him my&longs;elf, and extort from him the place
of Eliza's concealment. Her flight, in her
pre&longs;ent &longs;tate of health, is inexpre&longs;&longs;ibly distressing
to her mother; and, unle&longs;s we find her
&longs;oon, I dread the effects!
I &longs;hall not clo&longs;e this, till I have &longs;een or
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heard from the vile mi&longs;creant who has involved
a worthy family in wretchedne&longs;s!
Friday Morning—Two days have elap&longs;ed
without affording us much relief. La&longs;t evening,
I was told that Major Sanford was
at home. I immediately wrote him a billet,
entreating and conjuring him to let me know
where the haple&longs;s Eliza had fled. He returned
me the following an&longs;wer.
“Mi&longs;s Granby need be under no apprehensions,
re&longs;pecting the &longs;ituation of our beloved
Eliza. She is well provided for, conveniently
accommodated, and has every thing
to make her happy, which love or affluence
can give.
Major Sanford has &longs;olemnly &longs;worn not to discover
her retreat. She wi&longs;hes to avoid the
accu&longs;ations of her friends, till &longs;he is better able
to bear them.
Her mother may re&longs;t a&longs;&longs;ured of immediate
information, &longs;hould any danger threaten her
amiable daughter; and al&longs;o of having seasonable
notice of her &longs;afety.”
Although little dependence can be placed
upon this man; yet the&longs;e a&longs;&longs;urances have, in a
great degree, calmed our minds. We are, however,
contriving means to explore the refuge
of the wanderer; and hope, by tracing his
&longs;teps, to accompli&longs;h our purpo&longs;e. This we
have engaged a friend to do.
I know, my dear Mrs. Sumner, the kind
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intere&longs;t you will take in this di&longs;a&longs;trous affair.
I tremble to think what the event may be!
To relieve your &longs;u&longs;pen&longs;e, however, I &longs;hall write
you every circum&longs;tance, as it occurs. But at
pre&longs;ent, I &longs;hall only enclo&longs;e Eliza's letters to
her mamma, and me, and, &longs;ub&longs;cribe my&longs;elf
your &longs;incere and obliged friend,
Julia Granby.
LETTER LXVIII.
TO MRS. M. WHARTON.
Tuesday.
MY HONORED AND DEAR MAMMA,
In what words, in what language &longs;hall
I addre&longs;s you? What &longs;hall I &longs;ay on a subject
which deprives me of the power of expression?
Would to God I had been totally
deprived of that power before &longs;o fatal a subject
required its exertion! Repentance comes
too late, when it cannot prevent the evil lamented.
For your kindne&longs;s, your more than
maternal affection towards me, from my infancy
to the pre&longs;ent moment, a long life of
filial duty and unerring rectitude could hardly
compen&longs;ate. How greatly deficient in gratitude
mu&longs;t I appear then, while I confe&longs;s, that
precept and example, coun&longs;el and advice, instruction
and admonition, have been all lo&longs;t
upon me!
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Your kind endeavors to promote my happiness
have been repaid by the inexcu&longs;able
folly of &longs;acrificing it. The various emotions
of &longs;hame, and remor&longs;e, penitence and regret,
which torture and di&longs;tract my guilty brea&longs;t,
exceed de&longs;cription. Yes, madam, your Eliza
has fallen; fallen, indeed! She has become
the victim of her own indi&longs;cretion, and of the
intrigue and artifice of a de&longs;igning libertine,
who is the hu&longs;band of another! She
is polluted, and no more worthy of her
parentage! She flies from you, not to conceal
her guilt, that &longs;he humbly and penitently
owns; but to avoid what &longs;he has never experienced,
and feels her&longs;elf unable to &longs;upport,
a mother's frown; to e&longs;cape the heart-rending
&longs;ight of a parent's grief, occa&longs;ioned by the
crimes of her guilty child!
I have become a reproach and di&longs;grace to
my friends. The con&longs;ciou&longs;ne&longs;s of having
forfeited their favor, and incurred their disapprobation
and re&longs;entment, induces me to conceal
from them the place of my retirement;
but, le&longs;t your benevolence &longs;hould render you
anxious for my comfort in my pre&longs;ent situation,
I take the liberty to a&longs;&longs;ure you that I am
amply provided for.
I have no claim even upon your pity; but
from my long experience of your tenderne&longs;s,
I pre&longs;ume to hope it will be extended to me.
Oh, my mother, if you knew what the &longs;tate of
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my mind is, and has been, for months pa&longs;t,
you would &longs;urely compa&longs;&longs;ionate my ca&longs;e!
Could tears efface the &longs;tain, which I have
brought upon my family, it would, long &longs;ince
have been wa&longs;hed away! But, alas, tears are
vain; and vain is my bitter repentance! It cannot
obliterate my crime, nor re&longs;tore me to innocence
and peace! In this life I have no
ideas of happine&longs;s. The&longs;e I have wholly resigned!
The only hope which affords me any
&longs;olace, is that of your forgivene&longs;s. If the deepe&longs;t
contrition can make an atonement; if the severest
pains, both of body and mind, can restore
me to your charity, you will not be inexorable!
Oh, let my &longs;ufferings be deemed a
&longs;ufficient puni&longs;hment; and add not the insupportable
weight of a parent's wrath! At pre&longs;ent,
I cannot &longs;ee you. The effect of my crime is
too obvious to be longer concealed, to elude
the invidious eye of curio&longs;ity. This night,
therefore, I leave your ho&longs;pitable man&longs;ion!
This night I become a wretched wanderer from
thy paternal roof! Oh, that the grave were
this night to be my lodging! Then &longs;hould I
lie down and be at re&longs;t! Tru&longs;ting in the mercy
of God, through the mediation of his &longs;on;
I think I could meet my heavenly father
with more compo&longs;ure and confidence, than
my earthly parent!
Let not the faults and misfortunes of your
daughter oppre&longs;s your mind. Rather let the
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conviction of having faithfully di&longs;charged your
duty to your lo&longs;t child, &longs;upport and con&longs;ole
you in this trying &longs;cene.
Since I wrote the above, you have kindly
granted me your forgivene&longs;s, though you
knew not how great, how aggravated was my
offence! You forgive me, you &longs;ay: Oh, the
harmonious, the tran&longs;porting &longs;ound! It has
revived my drooping &longs;pirits; and will enable
me to encounter, with re&longs;olution, the trials before
me!
Farewell, my dear mamma! pity and pray
for your ruined child; and be a&longs;&longs;ured, that
affection and gratitude will be the la&longs;t sentiments,
which expire in the brea&longs;t of your
repenting daughter,
Eliza Wharton.
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LETTER LXIX.
[figure description] Page 238.[end figure description]
TO MISS JULIA GRANBY.
Tuesday.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
By that endearing title you permit
me &longs;till to addre&longs;s you, and &longs;uch you have always
proved your&longs;elf, by a participation of
my di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;es, as well as by the con&longs;oling voice
of pity and forgivene&longs;s. What de&longs;tiny Providence
de&longs;igns for me, I know not; but I have
my forebodings that this is the la&longs;t time I
&longs;hall ever acco&longs;t you! Nor does this apprehension
ari&longs;e merely from a di&longs;turbed imagination.
I have rea&longs;on to think my&longs;elf in a confirmed
con&longs;umption, which commonly proves
fatal to per&longs;ons in my &longs;ituation. I have carefully
concealed every complaint of the kind from
my mamma, for fear of di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ing her; yet I
have never been in&longs;en&longs;ible of their probable
i&longs;&longs;ue, and have bidden a &longs;incere welcome to
them, as the harbingers of my &longs;peedy relea&longs;e
from a life of guilt and woe!
I am going from you, Julia. This night
&longs;eparates us, perhaps, for ever! I have not
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resolution to encounter the tears of my friends;
and therefore &longs;eek &longs;helter among &longs;trangers;
where none knows, or is intere&longs;ted in my melancholy
&longs;tory. The place of my &longs;eclu&longs;ion
I &longs;tudiou&longs;ly conceal; yet I &longs;hall take mea&longs;ures
that you may be apprized of my fate.
Should it plea&longs;e God to &longs;pare and re&longs;tore
me to health, I &longs;hall return, and endeavor,
by a life of penitence and rectitude, to expiate
my pa&longs;t offences. But &longs;hould I be called from
this &longs;cene of action; and leave behind me a
helple&longs;s babe, the innocent &longs;ufferer of its
mother's &longs;hame, Oh, Julia, let your friend&longs;hip
for me extend to the little &longs;tranger! Intercede
with my mother to take it under her protection;
and transfer to it all her affection for me;
to train it up in the ways of piety and virtue,
that it may compen&longs;ate her for the afflictions
which I have occa&longs;ioned!
One thing more I have to reque&longs;t. Plead
for me with my two be&longs;t friends, Mrs. Richman
and Mrs. Sumner. I a&longs;k you not to paliate
my faults; that cannot be done; but to
obtain, if po&longs;&longs;ible, their forgivene&longs;s. I cannot
write all my full mind &longs;ugge&longs;ts on this &longs;ubject.
You know the purport; and can better express
it for me.
And now, my dear Julia, recommending
my&longs;elf again to your benevolence, to your
charity and (may I add?) to your affection;
and entreating that the fatal con&longs;equences of
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my folly, now fallen upon my devoted head,
may &longs;uffice for my puni&longs;hment; let me conjure
you to bury my crimes in the grave with
me, and to pre&longs;erve the remembrance of my
former virtues, which engaged your love and
confidence; more e&longs;pecially of that ardent esteem
for you, which will glow till the la&longs;t expiring
breath of your de&longs;pairing
Eliza Wharton.
LETTER LXX.
TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON.
Hartford.
I have, at la&longs;t, accompli&longs;hed the
removal of my darling girl, from a place where
&longs;he thought every eye accu&longs;ed, and every
heart condemned her.
She has become quite romantic in her notions.
She would not permit me to accompany
her, le&longs;t it &longs;hould be reported that we
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had eloped together. I provided amply for her
future exigencies, and conveyed her by night
to the di&longs;tance of ten or twelve miles, where
we met the &longs;tage, in which I had previou&longs;ly
&longs;ecured her a &longs;eat. The agony of her grief at
being thus obliged to leave her mother's
hou&longs;e, baffles all de&longs;cription.
It very &longs;en&longs;ibly affected me, I know. I was
almo&longs;t a penitent. I am &longs;ure I acted like one,
whether I were &longs;incere or not. She cho&longs;e to
go where &longs;he was totally unknown. She
would leave the &longs;tage, &longs;he &longs;aid, before it reached
Bo&longs;ton, and take pa&longs;&longs;age in a more private
carriage to Salem, or its vicinity, where &longs;he
would fix her abode; chalking the initials of
my name over the door, as a &longs;ignal to me of
her re&longs;idence.
She is exceedingly depre&longs;&longs;ed; and &longs;ays &longs;he
neither expects nor wi&longs;hes to &longs;urvive her lying
in. In&longs;anity, for aught I know, mu&longs;t be my
lot, if &longs;he &longs;hould die. But I will not harbor
the idea. I hope, one time or other, to have
the power to make her amends, even by
marriage. My wife may be provoked, I imagine,
to &longs;ue for a divorce. If &longs;he &longs;hould, &longs;he
would find no difficulty in obtaining it; and
then I would take Eliza in her &longs;tead. Though
I confe&longs;s that the idea of being thus connected
with a woman whom I have been able to
di&longs;honor would be rather hard to &longs;urmount.
It would hurt even my delicacy, little as you
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may think me to po&longs;&longs;e&longs;s, to have a wife whom
I know to be &longs;educible. And, on this account,
I cannot be po&longs;itive that even Eliza
would retain my love.
My Nancy and I have lived a pretty uncomfortable
life, of late. She has been very
&longs;u&longs;picious of my amour with Eliza; and now
and then expre&longs;&longs;ed her jealous &longs;entiments a
little more warmly than my patience would
bear. But the news of Eliza's circum&longs;tances
and retirement, being publicly talked of, have
reached her ears, and rendered her quite out-rageous.
She tells me &longs;he will no longer
brook my indifference and infidelity; intends
&longs;oon to return to her father's hou&longs;e, and extricate
her&longs;elf from me intirely. My general reply
to all this, is, that &longs;he knew my character
before we married, and could rea&longs;onably expect
nothing le&longs;s than what has happened. I
&longs;hall not oppo&longs;e her leaving me, as it may conduce
to the execution of the plan I have hinted
above.
To morrow I &longs;hall &longs;et out to vi&longs;it my disconsolate
fair one. From my very &longs;oul I pity
her; and wi&longs;h I could have pre&longs;erved her virtue
con&longs;i&longs;tently with the indulgence of my
pa&longs;&longs;ion. To her I lay not the principal blame,
as in like ca&longs;es, I do to the &longs;ex in general.
My fine&longs;&longs;e was too well planned for detection,
and my &longs;nares too deeply laid for any one to
e&longs;cape who had the lea&longs;t warmth in her
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constitution, or affection in her heart. I &longs;hall,
therefore, be the le&longs;s whim&longs;ical about a future
connection, and the more &longs;olicitous to make
her reparation, &longs;hould it ever be in my power.
Her friends are all in arms about her. I
dare &longs;ay I have the imprecations of the whole
fraternity. They may thank them&longs;elves in
part; for I always &longs;wore revenge for their dislike
and coldne&longs;s towards me. Had they been
politic, they would have conducted more like
the aborigines of the country, who are &longs;aid to
wor&longs;hip the devil out of fear.
I am afraid I &longs;hall be obliged to remove my
quarters; for Eliza was &longs;o great a favorite in
town, that I am looked upon with an evil
eye. I plead with her before we parted la&longs;t,
to forgive my &longs;educing her; alledged my ardent
love, and my inability to po&longs;&longs;e&longs;s her in
any other way. How, &longs;aid &longs;he, can that be
love which de&longs;troys its object? But granting
what you &longs;ay, you have fru&longs;trated your
own purpo&longs;e. You have deprived your&longs;elf of
my &longs;ociety, which might have been innocently
enjoyed. You have cut me off from life in
the mid&longs;t of my days. You have rendered me
the reproach of my friends, the di&longs;grace of my
family, and a di&longs;honor to virtue and my &longs;ex!
but I forgive you, added &longs;he. Yes, Sanford,
I forgive you; and &longs;incerely pray for your
repentance and reformation. I hope to be the
la&longs;t wretched female, &longs;acrificed by you to the
arts of fal&longs;ehood and &longs;eduction!
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May my unhappy &longs;tory &longs;erve as a beacon to
warn the American fair of the dangerous tendency
and de&longs;tructive con&longs;equences of associating
with men of your character, of destroying
their time, and ri&longs;king their reputation
by the practice of coquetry and its attendant
follies! But for the&longs;e, I might have been
honorably connected; and capable, at this
moment, of diffu&longs;ing and receiving happine&longs;s!
But for your arts, I might have remained a
ble&longs;&longs;ing to &longs;ociety, as well as the delight and
comfort of my friends!
Your being a married man un&longs;peakably
aggravates both your guilt and mine. This
circum&longs;tance annexes indelible &longs;hame to our
crime! You have rent a&longs;under the tendere&longs;t
ties of nature! You have broken the bonds of
conjugal love, which ought ever to be kept
&longs;acred and inviolate! You have filled with
grief and di&longs;content the heart of your amiable
wife, whom gratitude, if no other principle,
&longs;hould have induced you to cheri&longs;h with
tenderne&longs;s; and I, wretch that I am, have
been your accomplice!
But I cea&longs;e to reproach you. You have
acted but too con&longs;i&longs;tently with the character,
which I was &longs;ufficiently appri&longs;ed you &longs;u&longs;tained.
The blame then may be retorted on my&longs;elf,
for di&longs;regarding the coun&longs;els, warnings and
admonitions of my be&longs;t friends. You have
prided your&longs;elf in the character of a libertine.
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Glory no longer in your &longs;hame! You have
accompli&longs;hed your de&longs;igns; your dreadful
de&longs;igns again&longs;t me! Let this &longs;uffice. Add
not to the number of tho&longs;e deluded creatures,
who will one day ri&longs;e up in judgment again&longs;t
you, and condemn you.
By this time we had nearly reached the inn,
and were &longs;oon to part. I &longs;eized her hand
and exclaimed, you mu&longs;t not leave me, Eliza,
with that awful anathema on your lips! Oh,
&longs;ay that you will forget my pa&longs;t faults. That,
&longs;aid &longs;he, I &longs;hall &longs;oon do; for in the grave
there is no remembrance! This to my mind,
was a har&longs;her &longs;entence than the other; and
almo&longs;t threw me into de&longs;pair. Never was
&longs;o wrought upon before! I knew not what to
&longs;ay or do! She &longs;aw my di&longs;tre&longs;s, and kindly
&longs;oftened her manner. If I am &longs;evere, &longs;aid
&longs;he, it is becau&longs;e I wi&longs;h to impre&longs;s your mind
with &longs;uch a &longs;en&longs;e of your offences again&longs;t your
Maker, your friends and &longs;ociety in general, as
may effect your repentance and amendment.
I wi&longs;h not to be your accu&longs;er, but your reformer.
On &longs;everal accounts, I view my
own crime in a more aggravated light than
yours; but my con&longs;cience is awakened to a
conviction of my guilt. Yours, I fear is not.
Let me conjure you to return home, and
endeavor by you future kindne&longs;s and sidelity
to your wife, to make her all the amends
in your power. By a life of virtue and
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religion, you may yet become a valuable member
of &longs;ociety, and &longs;ecure happine&longs;s both here
and hereafter.
I begged leave to vi&longs;it her retirement next
week, not in continuation of our amour, but
as a friend, &longs;olicitous to know her &longs;ituation
and welfare. Unable to &longs;peak, &longs;he only
bowed a&longs;&longs;ent. The &longs;tage being now ready,
I whi&longs;pered &longs;ome tender things in her ear,
and ki&longs;&longs;ing her cheek, which was all &longs;he
would permit, &longs;uffered her to depart.
My body remains behind; but my &longs;oul, if
I have any, went with her!
This was a horrid lecture, Charles! She
brought every charge again&longs;t me, which a
fruitful and gloomy imagination could &longs;ugge&longs;t!
But I hope, when &longs;he recovers, &longs;he will resume
her former cheerfulne&longs;s, and become as
kind and agreeable as ever. My anxiety for
her &longs;afety is very great. I tru&longs;t, however, it
will &longs;oon be removed; and peace and pleasure
be re&longs;tored to your humble &longs;ervant,
Peter Sanford.
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LETTER LXXI.
[figure description] Page 247.[end figure description]
TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.
Hartford.
The drama is now clo&longs;ed! A
tragical one indeed it has proved!
How &longs;incerely, my dear Mrs. Sumner, mu&longs;t
the friends of our departed Eliza, &longs;ympathize
with each other; and with her afflicted, bereaved
parent!
You have doubtle&longs;s &longs;een the account, in
the public papers, which gave us the melancholy
intelligence. But I will give you a detail
of circum&longs;tances.
A few days after my la&longs;t was written, we
heard that Major Sanford's property was
attached, and he a pri&longs;oner in his own hou&longs;e.
He was the la&longs;t man, to whom we wi&longs;hed to
apply for information re&longs;pecting the forlorn
wanderer; yet we had no other re&longs;ource. And
after waiting a fortnight in the mo&longs;t cruel
&longs;u&longs;pen&longs;e, we wrote a billet, entreating him, if
po&longs;&longs;ible, to give &longs;ome intelligence concerning
her. He replied, that he was unhappily
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deprived of all means of knowing him&longs;elf; but
hoped &longs;oon to relieve his own, and our
anxiety about her.
In this &longs;ituation we continued, till a neighbor
(purpo&longs;ely, we &longs;ince concluded) &longs;ent us a
Bo&longs;ton paper. Mrs. Wharton took it, and
incon&longs;cious of its contents, ob&longs;erved that the
peru&longs;al might divert her, a few moments.
She read for &longs;ome time; when it &longs;uddenly
dropped upon the floor. She cla&longs;ped her
hands together, and rai&longs;ing her &longs;treaming eyes
to heaven, exclaimed, It is the Lord; let
him do what he will! Be &longs;till, O my &longs;oul,
and know that he is God!
What, madam, &longs;aid I, can be the matter?
She an&longs;wered not; but with inexpre&longs;&longs;ible anguish
depicted in her countenance, pointed to
the paper. I took it up, and &longs;oon found the
fatal paragraph. I &longs;hall not attempt to paint
our heart felt grief and lamentation upon this
occa&longs;ion; for we had no doubt of Eliza's being
the per&longs;on de&longs;cribed, as a &longs;tranger, who
died at Danvers, la&longs;t July. Her delivery of
a child; her dejected &longs;tate of mind; the
marks upon her linen; indeed, every circumstance
in the adverti&longs;ement convinced us beyond
di&longs;pute, that it could be no other. Mrs.
Wharton retired immediately to her chamber,
where &longs;he continued overwhelmed with &longs;orrow
that night and the following day. Such, in
fact, has been her habitual frame ever &longs;ince;
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though the endeavors of her friends, who have
&longs;ought to con&longs;ole her, have rendered her somewhat
more conver&longs;able. My te&longs;timony of Eliza's
penitence, before her departure, is a &longs;ource
of comfort to this di&longs;con&longs;olate parent. She
fondly cheri&longs;hed the idea, that having expiated
her offence by &longs;incere repentance and amendment,
her deluded child finally made a happy
exchange of worlds. But the de&longs;perate resolution,
which &longs;he formed, and executed of becoming
a fugitive; of de&longs;erting her mother's
hou&longs;e and protection, and of wandering and
dying among &longs;trangers, is a mo&longs;t di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ing reflection
to her friends; e&longs;pecially to her mother,
in who&longs;e brea&longs;t &longs;o many painful ideas ari&longs;e,
that &longs;he finds it extremely difficult to compo&longs;e
her&longs;elf to that re&longs;ignation, which &longs;he evidently
&longs;trives to exemplify.
Eliza's brother has been to vi&longs;it her la&longs;t retreat;
and to learn the particulars of her melancholy
exit. He relates, that &longs;he was well
accommodated, and had every attention and
a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tance, which her &longs;ituation required. The
people where &longs;he re&longs;ided appear to have a
lively &longs;en&longs;e of her merit and misfortunes.
They te&longs;tify her mode&longs;t deportment, her fortitude
under the &longs;ufferings to which &longs;he was
called, and the &longs;erenity and compo&longs;ure, with
which &longs;he bid a la&longs;t adieu to the world. Mr.
Wharton has brought back &longs;everal &longs;craps of
her writing, containing mi&longs;cellaneous
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reflections on her &longs;ituation, the death of her babe,
and the ab&longs;ence of her friends. Some of the&longs;e
were written before, &longs;ome after her confinement.
The&longs;e valuable te&longs;timonies of the affecting
&longs;en&longs;e, and calm expectation &longs;he entertained
of her approaching di&longs;&longs;olution, are calculated
to &longs;ooth and comfort the minds of
mourning connections. They greatly alleviate
the regret occa&longs;ioned by her ab&longs;ence, at
this awful period.
Her elopement can be equalled only by
the infatuation which cau&longs;ed her ruin.
“But let no one reproach her memory.
Her life has paid the forfeit of her folly.
Let that &longs;uffice.”
I am told that Major Sanford is quite frantic.
Sure I am that he has rea&longs;on to be. If
the mi&longs;chiefs he has brought upon others return
upon his own head, dreadful indeed
mu&longs;t be his portion! His wife has left him,
and returned to her parents. His e&longs;tate,
which has been long mortgaged, is taken from
him; and poverty and di&longs;grace await him!
Heaven &longs;eldom leaves injured innocence unavenged!
Wretch, that he is, he ought
for ever to be bani&longs;hed from human &longs;ociety!
I &longs;hall continue with Mrs. Wharton, till the
lenient hand of time has a&longs;&longs;uaged her &longs;orrows;
and then make my promi&longs;ed vi&longs;it to you. I
will bring Eliza's po&longs;thumous papers with
me, when I come to Bo&longs;ton, as I have not
time to copy them now.
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I fore&longs;ee, my dear Mrs. Sumner, that this
di&longs;a&longs;trous affair will &longs;u&longs;pend your enjoyments,
as it has mine. But what are our feelings,
compared with the pangs which rend a parent's
heart? This parent, I here behold, inhumanly
&longs;tripped of the be&longs;t &longs;olace of her declining
years, by the en&longs;naring machinations
of a profligate debauchee! Not only the life,
but what was &longs;till dearer, the reputation and
virtue of the unfortunate Eliza, have fallen
victims at the &longs;hrine of libertini&longs;m! Dete&longs;ted
be the epithet! Let it henceforth bear its true
&longs;ignature, and candor it&longs;elf &longs;hall call it lu&longs;t
and brutality!
Execrable is the man, however arrayed in
magnificence, crowned with wealth, or decorated
with the external graces and accomplishments
of fa&longs;hionable life, who &longs;hall pre&longs;ume
to di&longs;play them, at the expen&longs;e of virtue and
innocence! Sacred names! attended with real
ble&longs;&longs;ings; ble&longs;&longs;ings too u&longs;eful and important
to be trifled away! My re&longs;entment at the ba&longs;e
arts, which mu&longs;t have been employed to complete
the &longs;eduction of Eliza, I cannot &longs;uppre&longs;s.
I wi&longs;h them to be expo&longs;ed, and &longs;tamped with
univer&longs;al ignominy! Nor do I doubt but you
will join with me in execrating the mea&longs;ures
by which we have been robbed of &longs;o valuable
a friend; and &longs;ociety, of &longs;o ornamental a
member. I am, &c.
Julia Granby.
-- 252 --
LETTER LXXII.
[figure description] Page 252.[end figure description]
TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON.
Hartford.
Confusion, horror and de&longs;pair
are the portion of your wretched, unhappy
friend! Oh, Deighton, I am undone! Mi&longs;ery
irremediable is my future lot! She is gone;
yes, &longs;he is gone for ever! The darling of my
&longs;oul, the centre of all my wi&longs;hes and enjoyments
is no more! Cruel fate has &longs;natched her
from me; and &longs;he is irretrievably lo&longs;t! I rave,
and then reflect: I reflect, and then rave! I
have not patience to bear this calamity, nor
power to remedy it! Where &longs;hall I fly from
the upbraidings of my mind, which accu&longs;es me
as the murderer of my Eliza? I would fly to
death, and &longs;eek a refuge in the grave; but
the forebodings of a retribution to come, I
cannot away with! Oh, that I had &longs;een her;
that I had once more a&longs;ked her forgivene&longs;s!
But even that privilege, that con&longs;olation
was denied me! The day on which I meant
to vi&longs;it her, mo&longs;t of my property was
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attached, and to &longs;ecure the re&longs;t, I was obliged to &longs;hut
my doors, and become a pri&longs;oner in my own
hou&longs;e! High living, and old debts, incurred
by extravagance, had reduced the fortune of
my wife to very little, and I could not &longs;atisfy
the clamorous demands of my creditors.
I would have given millions, had I po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed
them, to have been at liberty to &longs;ee, and to
have had power to pre&longs;erve Eliza from death!
But in vain was my anxiety; it could not relieve;
it could not liberate me! When I fir&longs;t
heard the dreadful tidings of her exit, I believe
I acted like a madman! Indeed, I am little
el&longs;e now!
I have compounded with my creditors, and
re&longs;igned the whole of my property.
Thus, that &longs;plendor and equipage, to &longs;ecure
which, I have &longs;acrificed a virtuous woman, is
taken from me; that poverty, the dread of
which prevented my forming an honorable
connection with an amiable and accompli&longs;hed
girl, the only one I ever loved, has fallen,
with redoubled vengeance, upon my guilty
head; and I mu&longs;t become a vagabond in the
earth!
I &longs;hall fly my country as &longs;oon as po&longs;&longs;ible;
I &longs;hall go from every object which reminds
me of my departed Eliza! But never, never
&longs;hall I eradicate from my bo&longs;om the idea of
her excellence; or the painful remembrance
of the injuries I have done her! Her &longs;hade
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[figure description] Page 254.[end figure description]
will perpetually haunt me! The image of
her, as &longs;he appeared when mounting the carriage
which conveyed her for ever from my
&longs;ight, &longs;he waved her hand in token of a la&longs;t
adieu, will always be pre&longs;ent to my imagination!
The &longs;olemn coun&longs;el &longs;he gave me before
we parted, never more to meet, will not
cea&longs;e to re&longs;ound in my ears!
While my being is prolonged, I mu&longs;t feel
the di&longs;graceful, and torturing effects of my
guilt in &longs;educing her! How madly have I deprived
her of happine&longs;s, of reputation, of life!
Her friends, could they know the pangs of
contrition, and the horror of con&longs;cience which
attend me, would be amply revenged!
It is &longs;aid, &longs;he quitted the world with composure
and peace. Well &longs;he might! She had
not that in&longs;upportable weight of iniquity,
which &longs;inks me to de&longs;pair! She found consolation
in that religion, which I have ridiculed
as prie&longs;tcraft and hypocri&longs;y! But
whether it be true, or fal&longs;e, would to heaven
I could now enjoy the comforts, which its votaries
evidently feel!
My wife has left me. As we lived together
without love, we parted without regret.
Now, Charles, I am to bid you a long, perhaps,
a la&longs;t farewell. Where I &longs;hall roam
in future, I neither know nor care; I &longs;hall
go where the name of Sanford is unknown;
and his per&longs;on and &longs;orrows unnoticed.
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In this happy clime I have nothing to induce
my &longs;tay. I have not money to &longs;upport
me with my profligate companions; nor have
I any reli&longs;h, at pre&longs;ent, for their &longs;ociety. By
the virtuous part of the community, I am
&longs;hunned as the pe&longs;t and bane of &longs;ocial enjoyment.
In &longs;hort I am debarred from every kind of happiness.
If I look back, I recoil with horror from
the black catalogue of vices, which have &longs;tained
my pa&longs;t life, and reduced me to indigence and
contempt. If I look forward, I &longs;hudder at the
pro&longs;pects which my foreboding mind pre&longs;ents
to view, both in this and a coming world!
This is a deplorable, yet ju&longs;t picture of myself!
How totally the rever&longs;e of what I once
appeared!
Let it warn you, my friend, to &longs;hun the
dangerous paths which I have trodden, that
you may never be involved in the hopele&longs;s ignominy
and wretchedne&longs;s of
Peter Sanford.
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LETTER LXXIII.
[figure description] Page 256.[end figure description]
TO MISS JULIA GRANBY.
Boston.
A melancholy tale have you
unfolded, my dear Julia; and tragic indeed
is the concluding &longs;cene!
Is &longs;he then gone! gone in this mo&longs;t distressing
manner! Have I lo&longs;t my once loved
friend; lo&longs;t her in a way which I could never
have conceived to be po&longs;&longs;ible.
Our days of childhood were &longs;pent together
in the &longs;ame pur&longs;uits, in the &longs;ame amu&longs;ements.
Our riper years encrea&longs;ed our mutual affection,
and maturer judgment mo&longs;t firmly cemented
our friend&longs;hip. Can I then calmly re&longs;ign her to
&longs;o &longs;evere a fate! Can I bear the idea of her
being lo&longs;t to honor, to fame, and to life! No;
&longs;he &longs;hall &longs;till live in the heart of her faithful
Lucy; who&longs;e experience of her numerous virtues
and engaging qualities, has imprinted her
image too deeply on the memory to be obliterated.
However &longs;he may have erred, her
&longs;incere repentance is &longs;ufficient to re&longs;tore her
to charity.
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Your letter gave me the fir&longs;t information
of this awful event. I had taken a &longs;hort excursion
into the country, where I had not &longs;een
the papers; or if I had, paid little or no attention
to them. By your directions I found
the di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ing narrative of her exit. The
poignancy of my grief, and the unavailing lamentations
which the intelligence excited,
need no delineation. To &longs;cenes of this nature,
you have been habituted in the man&longs;ion
of &longs;orrow, where you re&longs;ide.
How &longs;incerely I &longs;ympathize with the bereaved
parent of the dear, decea&longs;ed Eliza, I
can feel, but have not power to expre&longs;s. Let
it be her con&longs;olation, that her child is at re&longs;t.
The re&longs;olution which carried this deluded
wanderer thus far from her friends, and
&longs;upported her through her various trials, is astonishing!
Happy would it have been, had
&longs;he exerted an equal degree of fortitude in repelling
the fir&longs;t attacks upon her virtue! But
&longs;he is no more; and heaven forbid that I
&longs;hould accu&longs;e or reproach her!
Yet, in what language &longs;hall I expre&longs;s my
abhorrence of the mon&longs;ter, who&longs;e dete&longs;table
arts have bla&longs;ted one of the faire&longs;t flowers in
creation? I leave him to God, and his own
con&longs;cience! Already is he expo&longs;ed in his
true colors! Vengeance already begins to
overtake him! His &longs;ordid mind mu&longs;t now
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&longs;uffer the deprivation of tho&longs;e &longs;en&longs;ual gratifications,
beyond which he is incapable of enjoyment!
Upon your reflecting and &longs;teady mind, my
dear Julia, I need not inculcate the le&longs;&longs;ons
which may be drawn from this woe-fraught
tale; but for the &longs;ake of my &longs;ex in general,
I wi&longs;h it engraved upon every heart, that virtue
alone, independent of the trappings of
wealth, the parade of equipage, and the adulation
of gallantry, can &longs;ecure la&longs;ting felicity.
From the melancholy &longs;tory of Eliza Wharton,
let the American fair learn to reject with disdain
every in&longs;inuation derogatory to their true
dignity and honor. Let them de&longs;pi&longs;e, and
for ever bani&longs;h the man, who can glory in the
&longs;eduction of innocence and the ruin of reputation.
To a&longs;&longs;ociate, is to approve; to approve,
is to be betrayed!
I am, &c.
Lucy Sumner.
-- 259 --
LETTER LXXIV.
[figure description] Page 259.[end figure description]
TO MRS. M. WHARTON.
Boston.
DEAR MADAM,
We have paid the la&longs;t tribute of
re&longs;pect to your beloved daughter. The day
after my arrival, Mrs. Sumner propo&longs;ed that
we &longs;hould vi&longs;it the &longs;ad &longs;pot which contains the
remains of our once amiable friend. The
grave of Eliza Wharton, &longs;aid &longs;he, &longs;hall not be
unbedewed by the tears of friend&longs;hip.
Ye&longs;terday we went accordingly, and were
much plea&longs;ed with the apparent &longs;incerity of
the people, in their a&longs;&longs;urances that every thing
in their power had been done to render her
&longs;ituation comfortable. The minute&longs;t circumstances
were faithfully related; and from the
&longs;tate of her mind, in her la&longs;t hours, I think
much comfort may be derived to her afflicted
friends.
We &longs;pent a mournful hour, in the place
where &longs;he is intered, and then returned to
the inn, while Mrs. Sumner gave orders for
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a decent &longs;tone to be erected over her grave,
with the following in&longs;cription:
“THIS HUMBLE STONE,
IN MEMORY OF
ELIZA WHARTON,
IS INSCRIBED BY HER WEEPING FRIENDS,
TO WHOM SHE ENDEARED HERSELF BY UNCOMMON
TENDERNESS AND AFFECTION.
ENDOWED WITH SUPERIOR ACQUIREMENTS,
SHE WAS STILL MORE DISTINGUISHED BY HUMILITY
AND BENEVOLENCE.
LET CANDOR THROW A VEIL OVER HER FRAILTIES,
FOR GREAT WAS HER CHARITY TO OTHERS.
SHE SUSTAINED THE LAST
PAINFUL SCENE, FAR FROM EVERY FRIEND;
AND EXHIBITED AN EXAMPLE
OF CALM RESIGNATION.
HER DEPARTURE WAS ON THE 25th DAY OF
JULY, A. D. —,
IN THE 27th YEAR OF HER AGE,
AND THE TEARS OF STRANGERS WATERED HER GRAVE.”
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I hope, madam, that you will derive satisfaction
from the&longs;e exertions of friend&longs;hip, and
that, united to the many other &longs;ources of consolation
with which you are furni&longs;hed, they
may alleviate your grief; and while they leave
the plea&longs;ing remembrance of her virtues, add
the &longs;upporting per&longs;ua&longs;ion, that your Eliza is
happy.
I am, &c.
Julia Granby.
FINIS.
Back matter
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Advertisement
[figure description] Printer's Imprint.[end figure description]
Di&longs;trict of Ma&longs;&longs;achu&longs;etts Di&longs;trict, to Wit.
Be it remembered, That on the eleventh day
of July, in the twenty-&longs;econd year of the Independence of
the United States of America, EBENEZER LARKIN,
of the &longs;aid di&longs;trict, hath depo&longs;ited in this Office, the title of
a Book, the right whereof he claims as Proprietor, in the
words following, to wit. “The COQUETTE, OR THE
HISTORY OF ELIZA WHARTON, a Novel, founded on
fact, by a Lady of Ma&longs;&longs;achu&longs;etts.”
In conformity to the Act of the Congre&longs;s of the United
States, entitled, “An Act for the Encouragement of Learning,
by &longs;ecuring the Copies of Maps, Charts, and Books, to
the Authors and Proprietors of &longs;uch Copies, during the
times therein mentioned.”
N. GOODALE, Clerk of the Di&longs;trict
of the Di&longs;trict.
A true Copy of Record.
Atte&longs;t, N. Goodale, Clerk.
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Foster, Hannah (Webster), 1759-1840 [1797], The coquette, or, The history of Eliza Wharton: a novel, founded on fact (Samuel Etheridge, Boston) [word count] [eaf104].
