LETTER LXXIII.
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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.
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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].
