His return from Boston was but a day or two after mine. He paid me an early visit, and, indeed, has been very attentive ever since. My mamma is somewhat precise in her notions of propriety, and, of course, blames me for associating so freely with him. She says that my engagements to Mr. Boyer ought to render me more sedate, and more indifferent to the gallantry of mere pleasure hunters, to use her phrase. But I think otherwise. If I am to become a recluse, let me at least enjoy those amusements which are suited to my taste a short time first. Why should I refuse the polite attentions of this gentleman? They smooth 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 increase amusement. We have few hours unimproved. Some new plan of pleasure and sociability is constantly courting our adoption. He lives in all the magnificence of a prince: and why should I, who can doubtless share that magnificence if I please, forego the advantages and indulgences it offers, merely to gratify those friends who pretend to be better judges of my happiness than I am myself? I have not yet told my mamma that he entertains me with the lover's theme, or, at least, that I listen to it. Yet I must own to you, from whom I have never concealed an action or idea, that his situation in life charms my imagination; that the apparent fervor and sincerity of his passion affect my heart. Yet there is something extremely problematical in his conduct. He is very urgent with me to dissolve my connection with Mr. Boyer, and engage not to marry him without his consent, or knowledge, to say no more. He warmly applauds my wish still longer to enjoy the freedom and independence of a single state, and professedly adopts it for his own. While he would disconnect me from another, he mysteriously conceals his own intentions and views. In conversation with him yesterday, I plainly told him that his conduct was unaccountable; that, if his professions and designs were honorable, he could not neglect to mention them to my mamma; that I should no longer consent to carry on a clandestine intercourse with him; that I hourly expected Mr. Boyer, whom I esteemed, and who was the favorite of my friends; and that, unless he acted openly in this affair before his arrival, I should give my hand to him.

He appeared thunderstruck at this declaration. All his words and actions were indicative of the most violent emotions of mind. He entreated me to recall the sentence; for I knew not, he said, his motives for secrecy; yet he solemnly swore that they were honorable. I replied in the words of the poet,—

"Trust not a man; they are by nature cruel, False, deceitful, treacherous, and inconstant. When a man talks of love, with caution hear him; But if he swear, he'll certainly deceive you."

He begged that he might know by what means he had provoked my suspicions; by what means he had forfeited my confidence. His importunity vanquished my fortitude; and before we parted, I again promised to make him acquainted, from time to time, with the progress of my connection with Mr. Boyer.

Now, my dear friend, I want your advice more than ever. I am inadvertently embarrassed by this man; and how to extricate myself I know not. I am sensible that the power is in my hands; but the disposition (shall I confess it?) is wanting.

"I know the right; and I approve it too; I know the wrong, and yet the wrong pursue."

I have just received a card from Major Sanford, inviting me to ride this afternoon. At first I thought of returning a negative answer; but, recollecting that Mr. Boyer must soon be here, I concluded it best to embrace this opportunity of talking further with him. I must now prepare to go, but shall not close this letter, for I intend writing in continuation, as events occur, till this important business is decided.

Tuesday evening.—The little tour which I mentioned to you this afternoon was not productive of a final determination. The same plea was repeated over and over again without closing the cause. 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 pleasure mixed with apprehension. I must own that his conversation and manners are much better calculated to bear the scrutinizing eye of a refined understanding and taste than Major Sanford's. But whether the fancy ought not to be consulted about our settlement in life, is with me a question.

When we parted last I had promised Mr. Boyer to inform him positively, at this visit, when my hand should be given. He therefore came, as he told me in the course of our conversation, with the resolution of claiming the fulfilment of this promise.

I begged absolution, told him that I could not possibly satisfy his claim, and sought still to evade and put off the important decision. He grew warm, and affirmed that I treated him ungenerously and made needless delays. He even accused 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 against any intercourse with him, and insisted that I must renounce the society of the one or the other immediately.

He would leave me, he said, this evening, and call to-morrow to know the result of my determination. It was late before he bade me good night, since which I have written these particulars. It is now time to lay aside my pen, and deliberate what course to take.

Wednesday evening.—Last night I closed not my eyes. I rose this morning with the sun, and went into the garden till breakfast. My mamma doubtless saw the disorder of my mind, but kindly avoided any inquiry about it. She was affectionately attentive to me, but said nothing of my particular concerns. I mentioned not my embarrassment to her. She had declared herself in favor of Mr. Boyer; therefore I had no expectation that she would advise impartially. I retired to my chamber, and remained in a kind of revery for more than an hour, when I was roused by the rattling of a carriage at the door. I hastened to the window, and saw Major Sanford just driving away. The idea of his having been to converse with my mamma gave me new sensations. A thousand perplexities occurred to my mind relative to the part most proper for me to act in this critical situation. All these 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 she thought it unnecessary to call me, as she presumed I had no particular business with him. I knew the motives by which she was actuated, and was vexed at her evasions. I told her plainly that she would never carry her point in this way; that Thought myself capable of conducting my own affairs, and wished her not to interfere, except by her advice, which I should always listen to and comply with when I could possibly make it consistent with my inclination and interest. She wept at my undutiful anger, (of which I have severely repented since,) and affectionately replied, that my happiness was the object of her wishes and prayers; conformably to which she felt constrained freely to speak her mind, though it incurred my displeasure. She then went through again with all the comparative circumstances and merits of the two candidates for my favor, which have perpetually rung in my ears for months. I shed tears at the idea of my embarrassment; and in this condition Mr. Boyer found us. He appeared to be affected by my visible disorder, and, without inquiring the cause, endeavored to dissipate it. This was kindly done. He conversed upon indifferent subjects, and invited me to ride, and take tea with your mamma, to which I readily consented. We found her at home, and passed the time agreeably, excepting the alloy of your absence. Mr. Boyer touched lightly on the subject of our last evening's debate, but expatiated largely on the pleasing power of love, and hoped that we should 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 should call to-morrow, and begged that I would then relieve his suspense. As I was retiring to bed, the maid gave me a hint that Major Sanford's servant had been here and left a letter. I turned instantly back to my mamma, and, telling her my information, demanded the letter. She hesitated, but I insisted on having it; and seeing me resolute, she reluctantly gave it into my hand. It contained the following words:—

"Am I forsaken? am I abandoned? O my adorable Eliza, have you sacrificed me to my rival? have you condemned me to perpetual banishment without a hearing?

"I came this day to plead my cause at your feet, but was cruelly denied the privilege of seeing you. My mind is all anarchy and confusion. My soul is harrowed up with jealousy. I will be revenged on those who separate us, if that distracting event take place. But it is from your lips only that I can hear my sentence. You must witness its effects. To what lengths my despair may carry me I know not. You are the arbitress of my fate.

"Let me conjure you to meet me in your garden to-morrow at any hour you shall appoint. My servant will call for an answer in the morning. Deny me not an interview, but have pity on your faithful SANFORD."

I wrote for answer that I would meet him to-morrow, at five o'clock in the afternoon.

I have now before me another night for consideration, and shall pass it in that employment. I purpose not to see Mr. Boyer till I have conversed with Major Sanford.

Thursday morning.—The morning dawns, and ushers 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 wisely concealed from the penetration of mortals.

After mature consideration, after revolving and re-revolving every circumstance on both sides of the question, 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 despair of Major Sanford, it does not much alarm me. Such violent passions are seldom so deeply rooted as to produce lasting effects. I must, however, keep my word, and meet him according to promise.

Mr. Boyer is below. My mamma has just sent me word that he wished to see me. My reply was, that I had lain down, which was a fact.

One o'clock.—My mamma, alarmed by my indisposition, has visited my apartment. I soon convinced her that it was but trifling, owing principally to the want of sleep, and that an airing in the garden, which I intended towards night, would restore me.

Ten o'clock at night.—The day is past; and such a day it has been as I hope nevermore to see. At the hour appointed, I went, tolerably composed and resolute, into the garden. I had taken several turns, and retired into the little arbor, where you and I have spent so many happy hours, before Major Sanford entered. When he appeared, a consciousness of the impropriety of this clandestine intercourse suffused my cheek, and gave a coldness to my manners. He immediately penetrated the cause, and observed that my very countenance told him he was no longer a welcome guest to me. I asked him if he ought so to be, since his motives for seeking admission were unworthy of being communicated to my friends. That, he said, was not the case, but that prudence in the present instance required a temporary concealment. He then undertook to exculpate himself from blame, assuring me that as soon as I should discountenance the expectations of Mr. Boyer, and discontinue the reception of his address, his intentions should be made known. He was enlarging upon this topic, when we heard a footstep approaching us, and, looking up, saw Mr. Boyer within a few paces of the arbor. Confusion seized us both. We rose involuntarily from our seats, but were mute as statues. He spoke not a word, but casting a look of indignant accusation at me,—a glance which penetrated my very soul,—turned on his heel, and walked hastily back to the house.

I stood a few moments, considering what course to take, though shame and regret had almost taken from me the power of thought.

Major Sanford took my hand. I withdrew it from him. "I must leave you," said I. "Where will you go?" said he. "I will go and try to retrieve my character. It has suffered greatly by this fatal interview."

He threw himself at my feet, and exclaimed, "Leave me not, Eliza; I conjure you not to leave me." "Let me go now," I rejoined, "or I bid you farewell forever." I flew precipitately by him, and went into the parlor, where I found Mr. Boyer and my mamma, the one traversing the room in the greatest agitation, the other in a flood of tears. Their appearance affected me, and I wept like an infant. When I had a little recovered myself, I begged him to sit down. He answered, No. I then told him that however unjustifiable my conduct might appear, perhaps I might explain it to his satisfaction if he would hear me; that my motives were innocent, though they doubtless wore the aspect of criminality in his view. He sternly replied, that no palliation could avail; that my motives were sufficiently notorious. He accused me of treating him ill, of rendering him the dupe of coquetting artifice, of having an intrigue with Major Sanford, and declared his determination to leave me forever, as unworthy of his regard, and incapable of love, gratitude, or honor. There was too much reason in support of his accusations for me to gainsay them, had his impetuosity suffered me to attempt it.

But, in truth, I had no inclination to self-defence. My natural vivacity had forsaken me, and I listened without interrupting him to the fluency of reproachful language which his resentment inspired. He took a very solemn and affectionate leave of my mamma, thanking her for her politeness, and wishing her much future felicity. He attempted to address me, I suppose, somewhat in the same way; but his sensibility somewhat overcame him, and he only took my hand, and, bowing in silence, departed.

The want of rest for two long nights together, the exercise of mind, and conflict of passions which now tortured my breast, were too much for me to support.

When I saw that he was gone, that he had actually forsaken me, I fainted. My mamma, with the assistance of the maid, soon restored me.

When I opened my eyes and beheld this amiable and tender parent watching and attending me with the most anxious concern, without one reproachful word, without one accusing look, my reflections upon the part I had acted, in defeating her benevolent wishes, were exquisitely afflictive. But we mutually forbore to mention the occasion of my illness; and I complied with her advice to take some refreshment, and retire to my chamber. I am so much fatigued by the exertions of the day that rest is absolutely necessary; and I lay aside my pen to seek it.

Friday morning.—When I shall again receive the balmy influence of sleep, I know not. It has absolutely forsaken me at present. I have had a most restless night. Every awakening idea presented itself to my imagination; whether I had sustained a real loss in Mr. Boyer's departure, reflections on my own misconduct, with the censure of my friends, and the ill-natured remarks of my enemies, excited the most painful anxiety in my mind.

I am going down; but how shall I see my mamma? To her I will confess my faults, in her maternal breast repose my cares, and by her friendly advice regulate my conduct. Had I done this before, I might have escaped this trouble, and saved both her and myself many distressing emotions.

Friday evening'.—I have had a long conversation with my mamma, which has greatly relieved my mind. She has soothed me with the most endearing tenderness.

Mr. Atkins, with whom Mr. Boyer lodged while in town, called here this afternoon. I did not see him; but he told my mamma that Mr. Boyer had returned home, and left a letter for me, which he had promised to convey with his own hand. By this I am convinced that the die is absolutely cast with respect to him, and that no attempts on my part to bring about a reconciliation would be either prudent or successful. He has penetrated the cause of my proceedings; and such is his resentment, that I am inclined not much to regret his avoiding another interview.

My excuses would be deemed utterly insufficient, and truth would not befriend and justify me.

As I know you are impatient to hear from me, I will now despatch this long letter without any other addition than that I am your sincere friend,

ELIZA WHARTON.

LETTER XLII.

TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON.

HARTFORD.

Well, Charles, the show is over, as we Yankees say, and the girl is my own; that is, if I will have her. I shall take my own time for that, however. I have carried my point, and am amply revenged on the whole posse of those dear friends of hers. She was entangled by a promise (not to marry this priest without my knowledge) which her conscience would not let her break. Thank God, I have no conscience. If I had, I believe it would make wretched work with me. I suppose she intended to have one or the other of us, but preferred me. I have escaped the noose this time, and I'll be fairly hanged if I ever get so near it again; for indeed, Charles, I was seriously alarmed. I watched all their motions, and the appearance of harmony between them awakened all my activity and zeal. So great was my infatuation, that I verily believe I should have asked her in marriage, and risked the consequences, rather than to have lost her.

I went to the house while Mr. Boyer was in town; but her mamma refused to call her, or to acquaint her that I was there. I then wrote a despairing letter, and obtained a conference with her in the garden. This was a fortunate event for me. True, Eliza was very haughty, and resolutely insisted on an immediate declaration or rejection; and I cannot say what would have been the result if Mr. Boyer had not surprised us together. He gave us a pretty harsh look, and retired without speaking a word.

I endeavored to detain Eliza, but in vain. She left me on my knees, which are always ready to bend on such occasions.

This finished the matter, it seems. I rose, and went into a neighbor's to observe what happened, and in about half an hour saw Mr. Boyer come out and go to his lodgings. "This," said I to myself, "is a good omen." I went home, and was informed, next day, that he had mounted his horse and departed.

I heard nothing more of her till yesterday, when I determined to know how she stood 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 resentment at her meeting me in the garden was so great that he had bade her a final adieu. I congratulated myself on having no rival, hoped that her favor would now be unbiased, and that in due time I should reap the reward of my fidelity. She begged me not to mention the subject, said she had been perplexed by our competition, and wished not to hear any thing further about it at present. I bowed in obedience to her commands, and changed the discourse.

I informed her that I was about taking a tour to the southward; that I should be absent several months, and trusted that on my return her embarrassments would be over.

I left her with regret After all, Charles, she is the summum bonum of my life. I must have her in some way or other. Nobody else shall, I am resolved.

I am making preparations for my journey, which, between you and me, is occasioned by the prospect of making a speculation, by which I hope to mend my affairs. The voyage will at least lessen my expenses, and screen me from the importunity of creditors till I can look about me.

PETER SANFORD.

LETTER XLIII.

TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.

NEW HAVEN.

My dear Eliza: Through the medium of my friends at Hartford, I have been informed of the progress of your affairs as they have transpired. The detail which my sister gave me of your separation from Mr. Boyer was painful, as I had long contemplated a happy union between you; but still more disagreeable sensations possessed my breast when told that you had suffered your lively spirits to be depressed, and resigned yourself to solitude and dejection.

Why, my dear friend, should you allow this event thus to affect you? Heaven, I doubt not, has happiness still in store for you—perhaps greater than you could have enjoyed in that connection. If the conviction of any misconduct on your part gives you pain, dissipate 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 less degree, from the maxims of prudence. Our greatest mistakes may teach lessons which will be useful through life.

But I will not moralize. Come and see us, and we will talk over the matter once, and then dismiss it forever. Do prevail on your mamma to part with you a month or two at least. I wish you to witness how well I manage my nursery business. You will be charmed with little Harriet. I am already enough of the mother to think her a miniature of beauty and perfection.

How natural and how easy the transition from one stage of life to another! Not long since, I was a gay, volatile girl, seeking satisfaction in fashionable circles and amusements; but now I am thoroughly domesticated. All my happiness is centred within the limits of my own walls, and I grudge every moment that calls me from the pleasing scenes of domestic life. Not that I am so selfish as to exclude my friends from my affection or society. I feel interested in their concerns, and enjoy their company. I must own, however, that conjugal and parental love are the mainsprings of my life. The conduct of some mothers, in depriving their helpless offspring of the care and kindness which none but a mother can feel, is to me unaccountable. There are many nameless attentions which nothing short of maternal tenderness and solicitude can pay, and for which the endearing smiles and progressive improvements of the lovely babe are an ample reward.

How delightful to trace from day to day the expansion of reason and the dawnings of intelligence! O, how I anticipate the time when these faculties shall be displayed by the organs of speech, when the lisping accent shall heighten our present pleasure, and the young idea be capable of direction "how to shoot"! General Richman is not less interested by these enjoyments than myself. All the father beams in his eye; all the husband reigns in his heart and pervades his every action.

Miss Lawrence is soon to be married to Mr. Laiton. I believe he is a mere fortune hunter. Indeed, she has little to recommend her to any other. Nature has not been very bountiful either to her body or mind. Her parents have been shamefully deficient in her education, but have secured to her what they think the chief good—not considering that happiness is by no means the invariable attendant of wealth.

I hope this incoherent scrawl will amuse, while it induces you speedily to favor us with another visit.

My best wishes attend your honored mamma, while I subscribe myself, &c.,

A. RICHMAN.

LETTER XLIV.

TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.

HARTFORD.

I am extremely depressed, my dear Lucy. The agitating scenes through which I have lately passed have broken my spirits, and rendered me unfit for society. Major Sanford has visited me, and taken his leave. He is gone to the southward on a tour of two or three months. I declined any further conversation with him on the subject of love. At present I wish not to hear it mentioned by any one.

I have received a very friendly and consolatory letter from Mrs. Richman. She invites me to spend a few months with her, which, with my mamma's consent, I shall do. I hope the change of situation and company will dissipate the gloom which hangs over my mind.

It is a common observation, that we know not the value of a blessing but by deprivation. This is strictly verified in my case. I was insensible of my regard for Mr. Boyer till this fatal separation took place. His merit and worth now appear in the brightest colors. I am convinced of that excellence which I once slighted, and the shade of departed happiness haunts me perpetually. I am sometimes tempted to write to him and confess my faults; to tell him the situation of my mind, and to offer him my hand; but he has precluded all hopes of success by the severity of his letter to me. At any rate, I shall 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 persuades me to disregard it; but how can I rise superior to "the world's dread laugh, which scarce the firm philosopher can scorn"?

Pray remember me to Mr. Sumner. You are happy, my friend, in the love and esteem of a worthy man, but more happy still in deserving them. Adieu.

ELIZA WHARTON.

LETTER XLV.

TO THE SAME.

HARTFORD.

I have returned to the once smiling seat of maternal affection; but I find not repose and happiness even here.

In the society of my amiable friends at New Haven, I enjoyed every thing that friendship could bestow; but rest to a disturbed mind was not in their power.

I was on various parties of pleasure, and passed through different scenes of amusement; but with me they have lost their charms. I relished them not as formerly.

Mrs. Richman advises me to write to Mr. Boyer, and I have concluded to act accordingly. If it answer no other purpose, it will be a relief to my mind. If he ever felt for me the tenderness and regard which he professed, I think they cannot be entirely obliterated. If they still remain, perhaps I may rekindle the gentle flame, and we may both be happy. I may at least recall his esteem, and that will be a satisfaction to my conscious mind.

I wonder what has become of Major Sanford. Has he, too, forsaken me? Is it possible for him wilfully to neglect me? I will not entertain so injurious a suspicion. Yet, if it were the case, it would not affect me like Mr. Boyer's disaffection; for I frankly own that my fancy, and a taste for gayety of life, induced me to cherish the idea of a connection with Major Sanford; while Mr. Boyer's real merit has imprinted those sentiments of esteem and love in my heart which time can never efface.

Instead of two or three, more than twelve months have elapsed, 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 syllable 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 impossible. I am persuaded that his passion for me was sincere, however deceitful he may have been with others. But I will not bestow an anxious thought upon him. My design relative to Mr. Boyer demands my whole attention.

My hopes and fears alternately prevail, and my resolution is extremely fluctuating. How it finally terminates you shall hear in my next. Pray write to me soon. I stand in need of the consoling power of friendship. Nothing can beguile my pensive hours, and exhilarate my drooping spirits, like your letters.

Let me know how you are to be entertained this winter at the theatre. That, you know, is a favorite amusement of mine. You see I can step out of myself a little. Afford an assisting 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 desire, in your last 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 shall be happy to hear it," and partly from a wish to inform you that such is in truth my present state of mind, that I now write to you.

I cannot but hope that this letter, coming from the hand which you once sought, will not be unacceptable.

Pope very justly observes, that "every year is a critic on the last." The truth of this observation is fully exemplified in my years. How severely this condemns the follies of the preceding, my own heart alone can testify.

I shall not offer any palliation or apology for my misconduct. You told me it admitted none. I frankly confess it; and if the most humble acknowledgment of my offences, with an assurance that they have cost me the deepest repentance, can in any degree atone for them, I now make that atonement. Casting off the veil of dissimulation, I shall write with frankness, believing you possessed of more honor than to make any ungenerous use of the confidence reposed in you.

To say that I ever esteemed you may, perhaps, appear paradoxical when compared with certain circumstances which occurred during our acquaintance; but to assert that I loved you may be deemed still more so. Yet these 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 absence served but to heighten real love. This I find by experience. Need I blush to declare these sentiments, when occasion like this calls for the avowal? I will go even further, and offer you that heart which you once prized, that hand which you once solicited. The sentiments of affection which you then cultivated, though suppressed, I flatter myself are not wholly obliterated. Suffer me, then, to rekindle the latent flame, to revive that friendship and tenderness which I have so foolishly neglected. The endeavor of my future life shall be to reward your benevolence, and perhaps we may yet be happy together.

But let not this offer of myself constrain you. Let not pity influence your conduct. I would have your return, if that pleasing event take place, a voluntary act. Receive, or consent not to confer, happiness.

I thought it a duty which I owed to you, and to myself, to make this expiation, this sacrifice of female reserve, for the wrongs I have done you. As such I wish you to accept it; and if your affections are entirely alienated or otherwise engaged, if you cannot again command the respect and love which I would recall, do not despise me for the concessions I have made. Think as favorably of my past faults and of my present disposition as charity will allow. Continue, if possible, to be my friend, though you cease to be my lover.

Should this letter find you in the full possession of happiness, let not the idea of your once loved Eliza, thus intruding itself again upon your thoughts, interrupt your enjoyments. May some distinguished female, as deserving as fair, partake with you of that bliss which I have forfeited.

Whatever may be my destiny, my best wishes shall ever attend you, and a pleasing remembrance of your honorable attentions preside, till death, in the breast of

ELIZA WHARTON.

LETTER XLVII.

TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.

HAMPSHIRE.

Madam: As I was sitting last evening in my study, a letter was handed me by a servant; upon which I no sooner cast my eye than I recognized, with surprise, the hand and seal of my once loved, but to me long lost, Eliza. I opened it hastily, and with still greater surprise read the contents.

You write with frankness; I shall answer in the same manner.

On reviewing our former intercourse, be assured that I have not an accusing thought in my heart. The regard which I felt for you was tender and animated, but it was not of that passionate kind which ends in death or despair. It was governed by reason, and had a nobler object in view than mere sensual gratification. It was excited by the appearance of excellent qualities. Your conduct, at length, convinced me it was misplaced; that you possessed not in reality those charms which I had fondly ascribed to you. They were inconsistent, I conceived, with that artifice and dissimulation of which you strove to render me the dupe. But, thank Heaven, the snare was broken. My eyes were open to discover your folly; and my heart, engaged as it was, exerted resolution and strength to burst asunder the chain by which you held me enslaved, and to assert the rights of an injured man.

The parting scene you remember. I reluctantly bade you adieu. I tore myself from you, determined to eradicate your idea from my breast. Long and severe was the struggle; at last I vanquished, as I thought, every tender passion of my soul, (for they all centred in you,) and resigned myself to my God and my duty, devoting those affections to friendship which had been disappointed in love. But they are again called into exercise. The virtuous, the amiable, the accomplished Maria Selby possesses my entire confidence and esteem; and I trust I am not deceived when I think her highly deserving of both. With her I expect soon to be united in the most sacred and endearing of human relations, with her to pass my future days in serenity and peace.

Your letter, therefore, came too late, were there no other obstacle to the renewal of our connection. I hope at the close of life, when we take a retrospect of the past, that neither of us shall have reason to regret our separation.

Permit me to add, that for your own sake, and for the sake of your ever-valued friends, I sincerely rejoice that your mind has regained its native strength and beauty; that you have emerged from the shade of fanciful vanity. For although, to adopt your own phrase, I cease to style myself your lover, among the number of your friends I am happy to be reckoned. As such, let me conjure you, by all that is dear and desirable, both in this life and another, to adhere with undeviating exactness to the paths of rectitude and innocence, and to improve the noble talents which Heaven has liberally bestowed upon you in rendering yourself amiable and, useful to your friends. Thus will you secure your own, while you promote the happiness of all around you.

I shall ever cherish sentiments of kindness towards you, and with gratitude remember your condescension in the testimony of regard which you have given me in your last letter.

I hope soon to hear that your heart and hand are bestowed on some worthy man, who deserves the happiness you are formed to communicate. Whatever we may have called errors will, on my part, be forever buried in oblivion; and for your own peace of mind I entreat you to forget that any idea of a connection between us ever existed.

I shall always rejoice at the news of your welfare, and my ardent prayers will daily arise for your temporal and eternal felicity.

J. BOYER.

LETTER XLVIII.

TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.

HARTFORD.

Health, placid serenity, and every domestic pleasure are the lot of my friend; while I, who once possessed the means of each, and the capacity of tasting them, have been tossed upon the waves of folly, till I am shipwrecked on the shoals of despair.

O my friend, I am undone. I am slighted, rejected, by the man who once sought my hand, by the man who still retains my heart. And what adds an insupportable poignancy to the reflection is self-condemnation. From this inward torture where shall I flee? Where shall I seek that happiness which I have madly trifled away?

The enclosed letters[A] will show you whence this tumult of soul arises. 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 she is—-what I am not—worthy of him. Peace and joy be their portion both here and hereafter. But what are now my prospects? What are to be the future enjoyments of my life?

O that I had not written to Mr. Boyer! By confessing my faults, and by avowing my partiality to him, I have given him the power of triumphing in my distress; of returning to my tortured heart all the pangs of slighted love. And what have I now to console me? My bloom is decreasing, my health is sensibly impaired. Those talents, with the possession of which I have been flattered, will be of little avail when unsupported by respectability of character. My mamma, who knows too well the distraction of my mind, endeavors to soothe and compose me on Christian principles; but they have not their desired effect. I dare not converse freely with her on the subject of my present uneasiness, lest I should distress her. I am therefore obliged to conceal my disquietude, and appear as cheerful as possible in her company, though my heart is ready to burst with grief. O that you were near me, as formerly, to share and alleviate my cares!. To have some friend in whom I could repose confidence, and with whom I could freely converse and advise on this occasion, would be an unspeakable comfort. Such a one, next to yourself, I think Julia Granby to be. With your leave and consent, I should esteem it a special favor if she would come and spend a few months with me. My mamma joins in this request. I would write to her on the subject, but cannot compose myself at present. Will you prefer my petition for me?

If I have not forfeited your friendship, my dear Mrs. Sumner, write to me, and pour its healing balm into the wounded mind of your

ELIZA WHARTON.

[Footnote A: See the two preceding letters.]

LETTER XLIX.

TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.

Your truly romantic letter came safe to hand. Indeed, my dear, it would make a very pretty figure in a novel. A bleeding heart, slighted love, and all the et ceteras of romance enter into the composition.

Excuse this raillery, and I will now write more seriously. You refer yourself to my friendship for consolation. It shall be exerted for the purpose. But I must act the part of a skilful surgeon, and probe the wound which I undertake to heal.

Where, O Eliza Wharton, where is that fund of sense and sentiment which once animated your engaging form? Where that strength of mind, that independence of soul, that alacrity and sprightliness of deportment, which formerly raised you superior to every adverse occurrence? Why have you resigned these valuable endowments, and suffered yourself to become the sport of contending passions?

You have now emerged from that mist of fanciful folly which in a measure obscured the brilliance of your youthful days.

True, you figured among the first-rate coquettes, while your friends, who knew your accomplishments, lamented the misapplication of them; but now they rejoice at the returning empire of reason.

True, you have erred; misled by the gayety of your disposition, and that volatility and inconsideration which were incident to your years; but you have seen and nobly confessed your errors. Why do you talk of slighted love? True, Mr. Boyer, supposing you disregarded him, transferred his affections to another object; but have you not your admirers still among men of real merit? Are you not esteemed and caressed by numbers who know you capable of shining in a distinguished sphere of life? Turn then, my friend, from the gloomy prospect which your disturbed imagination has brought into view. Let reason and religion erect their throne in your breast; obey their dictates, and be happy. Past experience will point out the quicksands which you are to avoid in your future course.

Date then, from this, a new era of life; and may every moment be attended with felicity. Follow Mr. Boyer's advice and forget all former connections.

Julia accepts your invitation. Nothing short of your request could induce me to part with her. She is a good girl, and her society will amuse and instruct you. I am, &c.,

LUCY SUMNER.

LETTER L.

TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.

HARTFORD.

My Julia Granby has arrived. She is all that I once was—easy, sprightly, debonnaire. Already has she 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 obstinately refused. I cannot yet mix with gay and cheerful circles. I therefore alleged that I was indisposed, and persuaded her to go without me.

The events of my life have always been unaccountably wayward. In many instances I have been ready to suppose that some evil genius presided over my actions, which has directed them contrary to the sober dictates of my own judgment. I am sometimes tempted to adopt the sentiment expressed in the following lines of the poet:—

"To you, great gods, I make my last appeal; O, clear my conscience, or my crimes reveal! If wandering through the paths of life I've run, And backward trod the steps I sought to shun, Impute my errors to your own decree; My feet were guilty, but my heart was free."

I suppose you will tell me that the fate I accuse through the poet is only the result of my own imprudence. Well, be it what it may,—either the impulse of my own passions or some higher efficiency,—sure I am that I pay dear for its operation.

I have heard it remarked that experience is the preceptor of fools, but that the wise need not its instruction. I believe I must be content to rank accordingly, and endeavor to reap advantage from its tuition.

Julia urges me to revisit the scenes of amusements and pleasure, in which, she tells me, she is actuated by selfish motives. She wishes it for her own sake. She likes neither to be secluded from them nor to go alone. I am sometimes half inclined to seek in festive mirth a refuge from thought and reflection. I would escape, if possible, from the idea of Mr. Boyer. This I have never been able to accomplish since he dropped a tear upon my hand and left me. I marked the spot with my eye, and twenty times in a day do I view it, and fondly imagine it still there. How could I give him pain! I hope his happy Maria never will. I hope she will reward that merit which I have slighted. But I forbear. This theme carries away my pen if I but touch upon it. And no wonder, for it is the sole exercise of my thoughts. Yet I will endeavor to divert them. Send me some new books; not such, however, as will require much attention. Let them be plays and novels, or any thing else that will amuse or extort a smile. Julia and I have been rambling in the garden. She insisted upon my going with her into the arbor, where I was surprised with Major Sanford. What a crowd of painful ideas rushed upon my imagination! I believe she repented of her rashness. But no more of this. I must lay aside my pen, for I can write nothing else.

ELIZA WHARTON.

LETTER LI.

TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.

HARTFORD.

Dear madam: You commanded me to write you respecting Miss Wharton, and I obey. But I cannot describe to you the surprising change which she has undergone. Her vivacity has certainly forsaken her; and she has actually become, what she once dreaded above all things, a recluse. She flies from company as eagerly as she formerly sought it; her mamma is exceedingly distressed by the settled melancholy which appears in her darling child; but neither of us think it best to mention the subject to her. We endeavor to find means to amuse her; and we flatter ourselves that the prospect of success rather increases. It would add greatly to my happiness to contribute, in any degree, to restore her to herself, to her friends, and to society.

We are all invited to dine abroad to-morrow; and, to oblige me, she has consented to go.

Pray, madam, write to her often. Your letters may do much for her. She is still feelingly alive to the power of friendship; and none can exercise it upon her to greater acceptance or with more advantage than yourself.

Major Sanford's house is undergoing a complete repair. The report is, that he is soon to be married. Miss Wharton has heard, but does not believe it. I hope for her sake it will prove true; for, at any rate, he is about returning; and from her mamma's account of his past conduct towards Eliza, were he to return unconnected, he would probably renew his attentions; and though they might end in marriage, her happiness would not be secured. She has too nice a sense of love and honor to compound with his licentious principles. A man who has been dissolute before marriage will very seldom 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 physiognomist, Julia," said she. "What can you trace in that countenance?" I guessed whose it was; and looking wistfully at it, replied, "I believe the original is an artful, designing man. He looks to me like a Chesterfieldian. Pray who is he?" "Major Sanford," said she; "and I am afraid you have hit his character exactly. Sure I am that the appearance of those traits in it has made my heart ache." She wept as she spoke it.

Poor girl, I wish he may never give you greater cause to weep! She is strongly blind to the vices and imperfections of this man. Though naturally penetrating, he has somehow or other cast a deceptious mist over her imagination with respect to himself. She professes neither to love nor esteem him, and owns that his ungenerous artifice misled her in her treatment of Mr. Boyer. Yet she has forgiven him, and thinks him a pleasing companion.

How prone to error is the human mind! how much lighter than the breath of zephyrs the operations of fancy! Strange, then, it should ever preponderate over the weightier powers of the understanding.

But I will not moralize. My business here is to dissipate, not to collect, ideas; and I must regulate myself accordingly.

I am endeavoring to prepare Eliza, by degrees, to accompany me to Boston the ensuing winter, but think it doubtful whether I shall succeed. I shall, however, return myself: till when, I am, &c.,

JULIA GRANBY.

LETTER LII.

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 those lively sensations of pleasure which I usually feel at the perusal of your letters. It inspired me both with concern and chagrin—with concern lest your dejection of mind should affect your health, and with chagrin at your apparent indulgence of melancholy. Indeed, my friend, your own happiness and honor require you to dissipate the cloud which hangs over your imagination.

Rise then above it, and prove yourself superior to the adverse occurrences which have befallen you. It is by surmounting difficulties, not by sinking under them, that we discover our fortitude. True courage consists not in flying from the storms of life, but in braving and steering through them with prudence. Avoid solitude. It is the bane of a disordered mind, though of great utility to a healthy one. Your once favorite amusements court your attention. Refuse not their solicitations. I have contributed my mite by sending you a few books, such as you requested. They are of the lighter kind of reading, yet perfectly chaste, and, if I mistake not, well adapted to your taste.

You wish to hear from our theatre. I believe it will be well supplied with performers this winter. Come and see whether they can afford you any entertainment. Last evening I attended a tragedy; but never will I attend another. I have not yet been able to erase the gloom which it impressed upon my mind. It was Romeo and Juliet. Distressing enough to sensibility this! Are there not real woes (if not in our own families, at least among our own friends and neighbors) sufficient to exercise our sympathy and pity, without introducing fictitious ones into our very diversions? How can that be a diversion which racks the soul with grief, even though that grief be imaginary? The introduction of a funeral solemnity upon the stage is shocking indeed!

Death is too serious a matter to be sported with. An opening grave cannot be a source of amusement to any considerate mind. The closing scene of life can be no pastime when realized. It must therefore awaken painful sensations in the representation.

The circus is a place of fashionable resort of late, but not agreeable to-me. I think it inconsistent with the delicacy of a lady even to witness the indecorums which are practised there, especially when the performers of equestrian feats are of our own sex. To see a woman depart so far from the female character as to assume the masculine habit and attitude, and appear entirely indifferent even to the externals of modesty, is truly disgusting, and ought not to be countenanced by our attendance, much less by our approbation. But, setting aside the circumstance, I cannot conceive it to be a pleasure to sit a whole evening trembling with apprehension lest the poor wight of a horseman, or juggler, or whatever he is to be called, should break his neck in contributing to our entertainment.

With Mr. Bowen's museum I think you were much pleased. He has made a number of judicious additions to it since you were here. It is a source of rational and refined amusement. Here the eye is gratified, the imagination charmed, and the understanding improved. It will bear frequent reviews without palling on the taste. It always affords something new; and, for one, I am never a weary spectator. Our other public and private places of resort are much as you left them.

I am happy in my present situation; but when the summer returns, I intend to visit my native home. Again, my Eliza, will we ramble together in those retired shades which friendship has rendered so 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 forsworn, he has perjured and given himself to another. That, you will say, is nothing strange. It is characteristic of the man. It may be so; but I could not be convinced of his perfidy till now.

Perhaps it is all for the best. Perhaps, had he remained unconnected, he might still have deceived me; but now I defy his arts.

They tell me he has married a woman of fortune. I suppose he thinks, as I once did, that wealth can insure happiness. I wish he may enjoy it.

This event would not affect me at all were it not for the depression of spirits which I feel in consequence of a previous disappointment; since which every thing of the kind agitates and overcomes me. I will not see him. If I do, I shall betray my weakness, and flatter his vanity, as he will doubtless think he has the power of mortifying me by his connection with another.

Before this news discomposed me, I had attained to a good degree of cheerfulness. Your kind letter, seconded by Julia's exertions, had assisted me in regulating my sensibility. I have been frequently into company, and find my relish for it gradually returning.

I intend to accept the pleasure, to which you invite me, of spending a little time with you this winter. Julia and I will come together. Varying the scene may contribute effectually to dissipate the gloom of my imagination. I would fly to almost any resort rather than my own mind. What a dreadful thing it is to be afraid of one's own reflections, which ought to be a constant source of enjoyment! But I will not moralize. I am sufficiently melancholy without any additional cause 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 stare, and can hardly credit the assertion. I cannot realize it myself; yet I assure you, Charles, it is absolutely true. Necessity, dire necessity, forced me into this dernier resort. I told you some time ago it would come to this.

I stood aloof as long as possible; but in vain did I attempt to shun the noose. I must either fly to this resource or give up all my show, equipage, and pleasure, and degenerate into a downright, plodding money catcher for a subsistence. I chose the first; and who would not? Yet I feel some remorse at taking the girl to wife from no better motives. She is really too good for such an imposition. But she must blame herself if she suffer hereafter; for she was visibly captivated by my external appearance, and wanted but very little solicitation to confer herself and fortune on so charming a fellow. Her parents opposed her inclination for a while, because I was a stranger, and rather too gay for their taste. But she had not been used to contradiction, and could not bear it, and therefore they ventured not to cross her. So I bore off the prize; and a prize she really is—five thousand pounds in possession, and more in reversion, if I do not forfeit it. This will compensate for some of my past mistakes, and set matters right for the present. I think it doing much better than to have taken the little Lawrence girl I told you of with half the sum. Besides, my Nancy is a handsomer and more agreeable person; but that is of little consequence to me, you know. "Beauty soon 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 Miss Wharton sticks fast in my heart; and, I assure you, I could hardly persuade myself even to appear unfaithful to her. O Eliza! accuse me not of infidelity; for your image is my constant companion. A thousand times have I cursed the unpropitious stars which withheld from her a fortune. That would have enabled me to marry her; and with her even wedlock would have been supportable.

I am told that she is still single. Her sober lover never returned. Had he loved as I did, and do, he could not have been so precipitate. But these stoic souls are good for nothing, that I know of, but,

"Fixed, like a plant, to one peculiar spot, To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot."

I want to see Eliza, and I must see her; yet I dread an interview. I shall frankly confess my motives for marrying, and the reasons of my conduct before I went away. I shall own that my circumstances would not allow me to possess her, and yet that I could not resign her to another.

When I make up the matter with her, I shall solicit her friendship for my wife. By this means I may enjoy her society, at least, which will alleviate the confinement of a married state. To my spouse I must be as civil as possible. I really wish she had less merit, that I might have a plausible excuse for neglecting her.

To-morrow I shall go to Mrs. Wharton's. I am very much taken up with complimental visits at present. What deference is always paid to equipage! They may talk of their virtue, their learning, and what not; but, without either of them, I shall bear off the palm of respect from those who have them, unadorned with gold and its shining appendages.

Every thing hereabouts recalls Eliza to my mind. I impatiently anticipate the hour which will convey me to her presence.

PETER SANFORD.

LETTER LV.

TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.

HARTFORD.

A new scene has opened upon us to-day, my dear Mrs. Sumner—a visit from Major Sanford. My mamma, Miss Granby, and myself were sitting together in the chamber. Miss Granby was entertaining us by reading aloud in Millot's Elements of History, when a servant rapped at the door, and handed in the following billet:—

"Will Miss Wharton condescend to converse a few moments with her once-favored Sanford? He is but too sensible that he has forfeited all claim to the privilege. He therefore presumes not to request it on the score of merit, nor of former acquaintance, but solicits it from her benevolence and pity."

I read and showed it to my mamma and Julia. "What," said I, "shall I do? I wish not to see him. His artifice has destroyed my peace of mind, and his presence may open the wounds which time is closing." "Act," said my mamma, "agreeably to the dictates of your own judgment." "I see no harm in conversing with him," said Julia. "Perhaps it may remove some disagreeable thoughts which now oppress and give you pain. And as he is no longer a candidate for your affections," added she with a smile, "it will be less hazardous than formerly. He will not have the insolence to speak, nor you the folly to hear, the language of love."

He was accordingly invited in. When I rose to go down, I hesitated, and even trembled. "I fear," said I to myself, "it will be too much for me; yet why should it? Conscious innocence will support me. This he has not." When I entered the room he stepped forward to meet me. Confusion and shame were visibly depicted in his countenance. He approached me hastily and without uttering a word, took my hand. I withdrew it. "O Miss Wharton," said he, "despise me not. I am convinced that I deserve your displeasure and disdain; but my own heart has avenged your cause." "To your own heart, then," said I, "I will leave you. But why do you again seek an interview with one whom you have endeavored to mislead—with one whom you have treated with unmerited neglect?"

"Justice to myself required my appearing before you, that, by confessing my faults and obtaining your forgiveness, I might soften the reproaches of my own mind." "Will you be seated, sir?" said I. "Will you," rejoined he, "condescend to sit with me, Eliza?" "I will, sir," answered I "The rights of hospitality I shall not infringe. In my own house, therefore, I shall treat you with civility." "Indeed," said he, "you are very severe; but I have provoked all the coldness and reserve which you can inflict.

"I am a married man, Eliza." "So I understand," said I; "and I hope you will never treat your wife with that dissimulation and falsehood which you have exercised towards me." "Would to Heaven," exclaimed he, "that you were my wife. I should not, then, fail in my love or duty as a husband; yet she is an amiable girl, and, had I a heart to give her, I might still be happy; but that, alas! I can never recall." "Why, then," said I, "did you marry her? You were, doubtless, master of your own actions." "No," said he, "I was not. The embarrassed state of my affairs precluded the possibility of acting as I wished. Loving you most ardently, I was anxious to prevent your union with another, till I could so far improve my circumstances as to secure 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 forbade my telling you the motives of my delay; and I left you to see if I could place myself in a situation worthy of your acceptance. This I could not effect, and, therefore, have run the risk of my future happiness by marrying a lady of affluence. This secures to me the externals of enjoyment, but my heart, I fear, will never participate it; yet it affords me some degree of satisfaction that I have not involved you in distress. The only alleviation of which my banishment from you is capable, is your forgiveness. In compassion, then, refuse it not. It cannot injure you. To me it will be worth millions." He wept. Yes, Lucy, this libertine, this man of pleasure and gallantly, wept. I really pitied him from my heart. "I forgive you," said I, "and wish you happy; yet on this condition only, that you never again pollute my ears with the recital of your infamous passion. Yes, infamous I call it; for what softer appellation can be given to such professions from a married man? Harbor not an idea of me, in future, inconsistent with the love and fidelity which you owe your wife; much less presume to mention it, if you wish not to be detested by me, and forever banished from my presence." He expressed gratitude for his absolution, even upon these terms, and hoped his future conduct would entitle him to my friendship and esteem. "That," I replied, "time only can determine."

One favor more he begged leave to solicit; which was, that I would be a neighbor to his wife. "She was a stranger," he said, "and would deem my society a particular privilege." This, I told him, I could not grant at present, whatever I might do hereafter. He did not urge it any further, but inquired after my mamma, and expressed a wish to see her. I rang the bell, and ordered her and Miss Granby to be called. When they came he was very polite to them both, and, after usual compliments, told my mamma that he was happy in having obtained my forgiveness, to which he was anxious to have her seal affixed. "My daughter," said she, "is the injured party; and if she be satisfied, I shall not complain." He thanked her for her condescension, informed her that he was married, and requested her to visit his wife. We then conversed upon different subjects for a short time, and he took his leave. A sigh escaped him as he departed, and a gloom was visible in his countenance which I never observed before.

I must acknowledge that this interview has given me satisfaction. I have often told you, that if I married Major Sanford, it would be from a predilection for his situation in life. How wretched must have been my lot, had I discovered, too late, that he was by no means possessed of the independence which I fondly anticipated! I knew not my own heart, when I contemplated a connection with him. Little did I think that my regard for Mr. Boyer was so deeply rooted as I now find it. I foolishly imagined that I could turn my affections into what channel I pleased. What, then, must have been my feelings, when I found myself deprived both of inward peace and outward enjoyment! I begin now to emerge from the darkness in which I have been long benighted. I hope the tragic comedy, in which I have acted so conspicuous a part, will come to a happy end.

Julia and I talk, now and then, of a journey to Boston. As yet, I have not resolution to act with much decision upon the subject; but, wherever I am, and whatever may be my fate, I shall always be yours in truth,

ELIZA WHARTON.

LETTER LVI.

TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.

HARTFORD.

I begin to hope we shall come to rights here by and by. Major Sanford has returned, has made us a visit, and a treaty of peace and amity (but not of commerce) is ratified. Eliza appears to be rapidly returning to her former cheerfulness—if not gayety. I hope she will not diverge too far from her present sedateness and solidity; yet I am not without apprehensions of danger on that score. One extreme commonly succeeds another. She tells me that she assiduously cultivates her natural vivacity; that she finds her taste for company and amusements increasing; that she dreads being alone, because past scenes arise to view which vex and discompose her.

These are indications of a mind not perfectly right. I flatter myself, however, that the time is not far distant when her passions will vibrate with regularity.

I need not repeat to you any thing relative to Major Sanford's conciliatory visit. Eliza has given you a particular, and, I believe, a faithful detail. I was called down to see this wonderful man, and disliked him exceedingly. I am astonished that Eliza's penetrating eye has not long since read his vices in his very countenance. I am told by a friend, who has visited them, that he has an agreeable wife; and I wish she may find him a husband of the same description; but I very much doubt the accomplishment of my wish, for I have no charity for these reformed rakes.

We were walking abroad the other afternoon, and met Major Sanford and lady. Eliza did not see them till they were very near us. She started, turned pale, and then colored like crimson. I cannot but think a little envy rankled in her heart. Major Sanford very politely accosted us, and congratulated Mrs. Sanford on this opportunity of introducing her to a particular friend, presenting Eliza. She received her with an easy dignity, and bade her welcome to this part of the country. Mrs. Sanford answered her modestly, hoped for the pleasure of a further acquaintance, and urged us, as we were not far from their house, to return with them to tea. We declined, and wishing each other good evening, parted. Major Sanford's eyes were riveted on Eliza the whole time we were together, and he seemed loath to remove them when we separated. I suspect there is some truth in his tale of love. I shall therefore discourage Eliza from associating with him under any pretext whatever. She appeared more pensive and thoughtful than common as we returned home, and said little the rest of the evening, but next morning was as chatty as ever.

She is warm in the praises of Mrs. Sanford, thinks her an accomplished woman, and wonders that the major could suggest an idea of marrying her for her money. She intends, she says, to visit her soon, and wishes me to accompany her. This, for her own sake, I shall defer as long as possible. I am, &c.,

JULIA GRANBY.

LETTER LVII.

TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.

HARTFORD.

By Julia's advice we have neglected the repeated invitations of Major Sanford to visit and commence neighborhood with them till yesterday, when we received a polite billet requesting the honor of our company to dine. My mamma declined going, but said she had no objection to our compliance with the message if we thought proper. Julia and I accordingly went. We found a large company assembled in a spacious hall, splendidly furnished and decorated. They were all very polite and attentive to me, but none more so than Major Sanford and his lady, who jointly strove to dissipate the pensiveness of my mind, which I found it impossible to conceal. When we were summoned to dinner, the major, being near me, offered his hand, and, leading me into the dining room, seated me at a table furnished with all the variety which could please the eye or regale the taste of the most luxurious epicure. The conversation turned on various subjects—literary, political, and miscellaneous. In the evening we had a ball. Major Sanford gave the hand of his wife to a Mr. Grey, alleging that he was a stranger, and therefore entitled to particular attention, and then solicited mine himself. I was on the point of refusing him, but recollecting that it might have the appearance of continued resentment, contrary to my declaration of forgiving what was past, I complied. He was all kindness and assiduity; the more so, I imagined, with a view to make amends for his former ingratitude and neglect. Tenderness is now peculiarly soothing to my wounded heart. He took an opportunity of conversing with his wife and me together, hoped she would be honored with my friendship and acquaintance, and begged for her sake that I would not be a stranger at his house. His Nancy, he said, was far removed from her maternal friends, but I could supply their place if I would generously undertake the task. She joined in expressing the same sentiments and wishes. "Alas! sir," said I, "Eliza Wharton is not now what she once was. I labor under a depression of spirits which must render my company rather painful than pleasing to my friends." The idea of what I had been, contrasted with what I then was, touched my sensibility, and I could not restrain the too officious tear from stealing down my cheek. He took me by the hand, and said, "You distress me, Miss Wharton; indeed you distress me. Happiness must and shall attend you. Cursed be the wretch who could wound a heart like yours."

Julia Granby now joined us. An inquisitive concern was visible in her countenance.

I related this conversation to her after we returned home; but she approved it not.

She thought Major Sanford too particularly attentive to me, considering what had previously happened. She said 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," said I; "it is an ill-natured, misjudging world, and I am not obliged to sacrifice my friends to its opinion. Were Major Sanford a single man, I should avoid his society; but since he is married, since his wife is young, beautiful, and lovely, he can have no temptation to injure me. I therefore see no evil which can arise from the cultivation of friendship with her at least. I relish company so little, that I may surely be indulged in selecting that which is most agreeable to my taste, to prevent my becoming quite a misanthrope." I thank you, my dear Mrs. Sumner, for your kind letter. It was a seasonable cordial to my mind, and I will endeavor to profit by your advice. Your remarks on the public entertainments are amusing, and, as far as I am a judge, perfectly just. 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 respects to Mr. Sumner, I subscribe myself, yours in sincerity,

ELIZA WHARTON.

LETTER LVIII.

TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON.

HARTFORD.

Rejoice with me, my friend, that I have made my peace with the mistress 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 so much sensibility before. Why, I was as much a woman as the very weakest of the sex.

But I dealt very plainly and sincerely with her, to be sure; and this atones for all past offences, and procures absolution for many others yet to be committed.

The dear girl was not inexorable; she was as placable and condescending as I could expect, considering the nature of the crime, which was apparently slighting her person and charms by marrying another. This, you know, is one of the nicest points with the ladies. Attack their honor, that is, their chastity, and they construe it to be the effect of excessive love, which hurries you a little beyond the bounds of prudence. But touch their vanity by preferring another, and they will seldom pardon you. You will say I am very severe upon the sex; and have I not reason to be so, since I have found so many frail ones among them? This, however, is departing from my subject.

Eliza is extremely altered. Her pale, dejected countenance, with the sedateness of her manners, so different from the lively glow of health, cheerfulness, and activity which formerly animated her appearance and deportment, struck me very disagreeably.

With all my gallantry and fluency in love matters, I was unable to acquit myself tolerably, or to address her with any degree of ease and confidence. She was very calm, and spoke with great indifference about my marriage, &c., which mortified me exceedingly. Yet I cannot consent to believe that her present depression of spirits arises solely from Mr. Boyer's infidelity. I flatter myself that I am of sufficient consequence to her to have contributed in a degree.

When I inquired after her health, she told me she had been indisposed; but was now much better. This indisposition, I am informed, was purely mental; and I am happy to observe her recovering from it. I frequently visit her, sometimes with and sometimes without my wife, of whom, through my mediation, she has become a favorite. I have married, and according to the general opinion reformed. Yet I suspect my reformation, like most others of the kind, will prove instable as "the baseless fabric of a vision," unless I banish myself entirely from her society. But that I can never do; for she is still lovely in my eyes, and I cannot control my passions.

When absent from her I am lost to every thing but her idea. My wife begins to rally me on my fondness for Miss Wharton. She asked me the other day if she had a fortune. "No," said I; "if she had I should have married her." This wounded her sensibility. I repented of my sincerity, and made my peace for that time. Yet I find myself growing extremely irritable, and she must take heed how she provokes me; for I do not love her, and I think the name of wife becomes more and more distasteful to me every day.

In my mind, Eliza has no competitor. But I must keep up appearances, though I endeavor to regain her love. I imagine that the enjoyment of her society as a neighbor and friend may content me for the present, and render my condition supportable.

Farewell, Charles. I hope you will never be embarrassed with a wife, nor lack some favorite nymph to supply the place of one.

PETER SANFORD.

LETTER LIX.

TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.

HARTFORD.

Dear Lucy: I intended this week to have journeyed to Boston with Julia Granby; but my resolution 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 oppressed will be more effectually, if not more easily, surmounted 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 substitution of friendship, in the place of love, for Major Sanford, I find productive of agreeable sensations. With him, he assures 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 professions of regard, with all the consoling softness and attention of a sister. Indeed, their politeness has greatly contributed to revive the cheerfulness of my natural disposition. I believe the major's former partiality to me as a lover is entirely obliterated; and for my part, I feel as little restraint 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 soon as possible. She is a valuable friend. Her mind is well cultivated, and she has treasured up a fund of knowledge and information which renders her company both agreeable and useful in every situation of life. We lately spent the afternoon and evening at Mr. Smith's. They had a considerable number of visitants, and among the rest Major Sanford. His wife was expected, but did not come, being indisposed.

I believe, my friend, you must excuse me if my letters are shorter than formerly. Writing is not so agreeable to me as it used to be. I love my friends as well as ever, but I think they must be weary of the gloom and dulness which pervade my present correspondence. When my pen shall have regained its original fluency and alertness, I will resume and prolong the pleasing task.

I am, my dear Lucy, yours most affectionately,

ELIZA WHARTON.

LETTER LX.

TO THE SAME.

HARTFORD.

Dear madam: Agreeably to your desire every art has been tried, every allurement held out, every argument used, and every plan adopted, which Mrs. Wharton and I could devise to induce Eliza to accompany me to Boston; but all in vain. Sometimes she has been almost persuaded to a compliance with our united request, but soon has resolutely determined against it. I have observed her sentiments to be suddenly changed after being in company with Major Sanford. This alarms us exceedingly. Indeed, the major seems to have insinuated himself into her good opinion more than ever. She is flattered into the belief that his attention to her is purely the result of friendship and benevolence.

I have not so favorable an opinion of the man as to suppose him capable of either. He has become very familiar here. He calls in almost every day. Sometimes he but just inquires after our health, and sometimes makes long visits. The latter is his invariable practice when he finds Eliza alone. Mrs. Wharton always avoids seeing him if she can. She dreads, she says, his approaching the house.

I entered the parlor the other day, somewhat suddenly, and found him sitting very near Eliza, in a low conversation. They both rose in apparent confusion, and he soon retired.

When he was gone, "I suspect," said I, "that the major was whispering a tale of love, Eliza." "Do you imagine," said she, "that I would listen to such a theme from a married man?" "I hope not," said I, "but his conduct towards you indicates a revival of his former sentiments, at least." "I was not aware of that," said she. "As yet I have observed nothing in his behavior to me inconsistent with the purest friendship."

We drank tea not long since at Mr. Smith's. Late in the afternoon Major Sanford made his appearance, to apologize, as he said, for Mrs. Sanford, who was indisposed, and could not enjoy the pleasure of the visit she had contemplated. He was very gay the whole evening; and when the company separated, he was the first to present his arm to Eliza, who accepted it without hesitation. A Mr. Newhall attended me, and we endeavored to keep them company; but they evidently chose to walk by themselves. Mr. Newhall observed, that if Major Sanford were not married he should suspect he still intended a union with Miss Wharton. I replied, that their former intercourse, having terminated in friendship, rendered them more familiar with each other than with the generality of their acquaintance.

When we reached the house, Mr. Newhall chose not to go in, and took his leave. I waited at the door for Eliza and Major Sanford. At some little distance, I saw him press her hand to his lips. It vexed me exceedingly; and no sooner had they come up, than I sullenly bade them good night, and walked directly in. Eliza soon followed me. I sat down by the fire in a thoughtful posture. She did the same. In this situation we both remained for some time without speaking a word. At length she said, "You seem not to have enjoyed your walk, Miss Granby: did you not like your gallant?" "Yes," said I, "very well; but I am mortified that you were not better provided for." "I make no complaint," rejoined she; "I was very well entertained." "That is what displeases me," said I; "I mean your visible fondness for the society of such a man. Were you averse to it, as you ought to be, there would be no danger. But he has an alluring tongue and a treacherous heart. How can you be pleased and entertained by his conversation? To me it appears totally repugnant to that refinement and delicacy for which you have always been esteemed.

"His assiduity and obtrusion 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. Trust him not, then, my dear Eliza; if you do, depend upon it you will find his professions of friendship to be mere hypocrisy and deceit. I fear that he is acting over again the same unworthy arts which formerly misled you. Beware of his wiles. Your friends are anxious for you. They tremble at your professed regard and apparent intimacy with that unprincipled man." "My friends," said she, "are very jealous of me lately. I know not how I have forfeited their confidence, or incurred their suspicion." "By encouraging that attention," I warmly replied, "and receiving those caresses, from a married man which are due from him to none but his wife. He is a villain if he deceived her into marriage by insincere professions of love. If he had then an affection for her, and has already discarded it, he is equally guilty. Can you expect sincerity from the man who withholds it from an amiable and deserving wife? No, Eliza; it is not love which induces him to entertain you with the subject. It is a baser passion; and if you disdain not his artifice, if you listen 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 esteem; but his behavior is quite the reverse: yet, vile as he is, he would not dare to lisp his insolent hopes of your regard if you punished his presumption with the indignation it deserves; if you spurned from your presence the ungrateful wretch who would requite your condescension by triumphing in your ruin."

She now burst into tears, and begged me to drop the subject. Her mind, she said, was racked by her own reflections. She could bear but little. Kindness deceived, and censure distressed her.

I assured her of my good intentions; that, as I saw her danger, I thought it a duty of the friendship and affection I bore her solemnly to warn her against it before we parted. We talked over the matter more calmly, till she professed herself resolved in future to avoid his company, and reject his insinuations.

The next day, as I walked out, I met Major Sanford. He accosted me very civilly. I barely bade him good morning, and passed on.

I made it in my way to call at his house, and bid Mrs. Sanford adieu; not expecting another opportunity equally favorable. When I entered the parlor, she was playing a melancholy air on the harpsichord. She rose, and gave me a polite and graceful reception. I told her, as I was soon to leave the town, I called to take my leave of her—a compliment which her attention to me required. "Are you going to leave us then, Miss Granby?" said she. "I shall regret your departure exceedingly. I have so few friends in this part of the country, that it will give me sensible pain to part with one I so highly value."

I told her, in the course of conversation, that I expected the pleasure of seeing her yesterday at Mr. Smith's, and was very sorry for the indisposition which prevented her favoring us with her company. "Indeed," said she, "I did not know I was expected there. Were you there, pray?" "Yes," said I; "and Major Sanford excused your not coming, on the account I have mentioned." "Well," said she, "this is the first word that I ever heard about it; he told me that business led him abroad. Did he gallant any lady?" "O," said I, "he was with us all together. We had no particular gallants."

Seeing her curiosity excited, I heartily repented saying any thing of the matter, and waived the subject. Little did I suspect him to have been guilty of so base an artifice. It was evidently contrived to facilitate an interview with Eliza.

When I returned, I related this affair to Mrs. Wharton and her daughter. The old lady and I expatiated largely on the vileness of this conduct, and endeavored to expose it to Eliza's view in its true colors. She pretended not to justify it; yet she looked as if she wished it in her power.

I am now preparing for my journey to Boston, which I must, however, defer another week for the sake of a more agreeable passage in the stage. I regret leaving Eliza. I tremble at her danger. She has not the resolution to resist temptation which she once possessed. Her mind is surprisingly weakened. She appears sensible 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 persuade her to write. She has unfortunately become very averse to this, her once favorite amusement.

As I shall soon have the pleasure of conversing with you personally, I conclude without any other addition to this scrawl than the name of your obliged

JULIA GRANBY.

LETTER LXI.

TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.

BOSTON.

My dear friend: I have received your letters, and must own to you that the perusal of them gave me pain. Pardon my suspicions, Eliza; they are excited by real friendship. Julia, you say, approves not Major Sanford's particular attention to you. Neither do I. If you recollect and examine his conversation in his conciliatory visit, you will find it replete with sentiments for the avowal of which he ought to be banished from all virtuous society.

Does he not insidiously 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, still he has not a heart to bestow, and expects not happiness with her? Does this discover even the appearance of amendment? Has he not, by false pretensions, misled a virtuous woman, and induced her to form a connection with him? She was a stranger to his manner of life, and doubtless allured, as you have been, by flattery, deceit, and external appearance, to trust his honor, little thinking him wholly devoid of that sacred tie. What is the reward of her confidence? Insensibility to her charms, neglect of her person, and professed attachment to another!

Is he a man, my dear Eliza, whose friendship you wish to cultivate? Can that heavenly passion reside in a breast which is the seat of treachery, duplicity, and ingratitude? You are too sensible of its purity and worth to suppose it possible. The confessions of his own mouth condemn him. They convince me that he is still the abandoned libertine, and that marriage is but the cloak of his intrigues. His officious attentions to you are alarming to your friends. Your own mind weakened, and peculiarly susceptible of tender impressions, beware how you receive them from him. Listen not a moment to his flattering professions; it is an insult upon your understanding 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 smallest traces of virtuous sensibility remain, we must feel the force of that dependence in a greater or less degree. No female, whose mind is uncorrupted, can be indifferent to reputation. It is an inestimable jewel, the loss of which can never be repaired. While retained, it affords conscious peace to our own minds, and insures the esteem and respect of all around us.

Blessed with the company of so disinterested and faithful a friend as Julia Granby, some deference is certainly due to her opinion and advice. To an enlarged understanding, a cultivated taste, and an extensive knowledge of the world, she unites the most liberal sentiments with a benevolence and candor of disposition, which render her equally deserving of your confidence and affection.

I cannot relinquish my claim to a visit from you this winter. Marriage has not alienated nor weakened my regard for my friends. Come, then, to your faithful Lucy. Have you sorrows? I will soothe and alleviate them. Have you cares? I will dispel them. Have you pleasures? I will heighten them. Come, then, let me fold you to my expecting heart. My happiness will be partly suspended till your society renders it complete. Adieu.

LUCY SUMNER.

LETTER LXII.

TO MISS JULIA GRANBY.

HARTFORD.

Dear Julia: I hope Mrs. Sumner and you will excuse my writing but one letter in answer to the number I have received from you both. Writing is an employment which suits me not at present. It was pleasing 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 just written a long consolatory letter to Mrs. Richman. She has buried, her babe—her little Harriet, of whom she was dotingly fond.

It was a custom with some of the ancients, we are told, to weep at the birth of their children. Often should we be impelled to a compliance with this custom, could we foresee the future incidents of their lives. I think, at least, that the uncertainty of their conduct and condition in more advanced age may reconcile us to their removal to a happier state before they are capable of tasting the bitterness of woe.

"Happy the babe, who, privileged by fate To shorter labors and a lighter weight, Received but yesterday the gift of breath, Ordered to-morrow to return to death."

Our domestic affairs are much as when you left us. Nothing remarkable has occurred in the neighborhood worth communicating. The company and amusements of the town are as usual, I suppose. I frequent neither of them. Having incurred so much censure by the indulgence of a gay disposition, I am now trying what a recluse and solitary mode of life will, produce. You will call me splenetic. I own it. I am pleased with nobody; still less with myself. I look around for happiness, and find it not. The world is to me a desert. If I indulge myself in temporary enjoyment, the consciousness or apprehension of doing amiss destroys my peace of mind. And when I have recourse to books, if I read those of serious descriptions, they remind me of an awful futurity, for which I am unprepared; if history, it discloses facts in which I have no interest; if novels, they exhibit scenes of pleasure which I have no prospect of realizing.

My mamma is solicitously attentive to my happiness; and though she fails of promoting it, yet I endeavor to save her the pangs of disappointment by appearing what she wishes.

I anticipate, and yet I dread, your return; a paradox this, which time alone can solve.

Continue writing to me, and entreat Mrs. Sumner, in my name, to do likewise. Your benevolence must 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 ourselves that the melancholy of your mind was exterminated. I hope no new cause has revived it. Little did I intend, when I left you, to have been absent so long; but Mrs. Summer's disappointment, in her plan of spending the summer at Hartford, induced me, in compliance with her request, to prolong my residence here. But for your sake, she now consents to my leaving her, in hopes I may be so happy as to contribute to your amusement.

I am both pleased and instructed by the conduct of this amiable woman. As I always endeavored to imitate her discreet, and modest behavior in a single state, so likewise shall I take her for a pattern should I ever enter a married life. She is most happily united. Mr. Sumner, to all the graces and accomplishments of the gentleman, adds the still more important and essential properties of virtue, integrity, and honor. I was once present when a person was recommended to her for a husband. She objected that he was a rake. "True," said the other, "he has been, but he has reformed." "That will never do for me," rejoined she; "I wish my future companion to need no reformation"—a sentiment worthy the attention of our whole sex; the general adoption of which, I am persuaded, would have a happy influence upon the manners of the other.

I hope neither you nor I, Eliza, shall ever be tried by a man of debauched principles. Such characters I conceive to be totally unfit for the society of women who have any claim to virtue and delicacy.

I intend to be with you in about a month. If agreeable to you, we will visit and spend a few weeks with the afflicted Mrs. Richman. I sincerely sympathize with her under her bereavement. I know her fondness for you will render your company very consoling to her; and I flatter myself that I should not be an unwelcome guest.

Make my respects to your mamma, and believe me ever yours,

JULIA GRANBY.

LETTER LXIV.

TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.

HARTFORD.

Dear madam: I have arrived in safety to the mansion of our once happy and social friends. But I cannot describe to you how changed, how greatly changed this amiable family appears since I left it. Mrs. Wharton met me at the door, and, tenderly embracing, bade me a cordial welcome. "You are come, Julia," said she, "I hope, to revive and comfort us. We have been very solitary during your absence." "I am happy, madam," said I, "to return; and my endeavors to restore cheerfulness and content shall 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 saw Eliza reclined on a settee, in a very thoughtful posture. When I advanced to meet her, she never moved, but sat, "like Patience on a monument, smiling at Grief."

I stopped involuntarily, and involuntarily raising my eyes to heaven, exclaimed, "Is that Eliza Wharton?" She burst into tears, and attempted to rise, but sank again into her seat. Seeing her thus affected, I sat down by her, and, throwing my arm about her neck, "Why these tears?" said I. "Why this distress, my dear friend? Let not the return of your Julia give you pain; she comes to soothe you with the consolations of friendship." "It is not pain," said she, clasping me to her breast; "it is pleasure too exquisite for my weak nerves to bear. See you not, Julia, how I am altered? Should you have known me for the sprightly girl who was always welcome at the haunts of hilarity and mirth?" "Indeed," said I, "you appear indisposed; but I will be your physician. Company and change of air will, I doubt not, restore you." "Will these cure disorders of the mind, Julia?" "They will have a powerful tendency to remove them, if rightly applied; and I profess considerable skill in that art Come," continued I, "we will try these medicines in the morning. Let us rise early, and step into the chaise, and, after riding a few miles, call and breakfast with Mrs. Freeman. I have some commissions from her daughter. We shall be agreeably entertained there, you know."

Being summoned to supper, I took her by the hand, and we walked into another room, where we found her brother and his wife, with her mamma, waiting for us. We were all very chatty; even Eliza resumed, in a degree, her former sociability. A settled gloom, notwithstanding, brooded on her countenance; and a deep sigh often escaped her in spite of her evident endeavors to suppress it. She went to bed before us, when her mamma informed me that her health had been declining for some months; that she never complained, but studiously concealed every symptom of indisposition. Whether it were any real disorder of body, or whether it arose from her depression of spirits, she could not tell, but supposed they operated together, and mutually heightened each other.

I inquired after Major Sanford; whether he and Eliza had associated together during my absence. Sometimes, she said, they seemed on good terms, and he frequently called to see her; at others they had very little, if any, correspondence at all. She told me that Eliza never went abroad, and was very loath to see company at home; that her chief amusement consisted in solitary walks; that the dreadful idea of her meeting Major Sanford in these walks had now and then intruded upon her imagination; that she had not the least evidence of the fact, however, and, indeed, was afraid to make any inquiries into the matter, lest her own suspicions should be discovered; that the major's character was worse than ever; that he was much abroad, and frequently entertained large parties of worthless bacchanalians at his house; that common report said 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 present. When occasion requires, you shall hear again from your affectionate

JULIA GRANBY.

LETTER LXV.

TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON.

HARTFORD.

Good news, Charles, good news! I have arrived to the utmost bounds of my wishes—the full possession 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; the quotation is, that "stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant." If it has reference to the pleasures which I have enjoyed with Eliza, I like it hugely, as Tristram Shandy's father said of Yorick's sermon; and I think it fully verified.

I had a long and tedious siege. Every method which love could suggest, or art invent, was adopted. I was sometimes ready to despair, under an idea that her resolution was unconquerable, her virtue impregnable. Indeed, I should have given over the pursuit long ago, but for the hopes of success I entertained from her parleying with me, and, in reliance upon her own strength, endeavoring to combat and counteract my designs. Whenever this has been the case, Charles, I have never yet been defeated in my plan. If a lady will consent to enter the lists against the antagonist of her honor, she may be sure of losing the prize. Besides, were her delicacy genuine, she would banish the man at once who presumed to doubt, which he certainly does who attempts to vanquish it. But far be it from me to criticize the pretensions of the sex. If I gain the rich reward of my dissimulation 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 must soon expose our amour. What can be done? At the first discovery, absolute distraction seized the soul of Eliza, which has since terminated in a fixed melancholy. Her health, too, is much impaired. She thinks herself rapidly declining, and I tremble when I see her emaciated form.

My wife has been reduced very low of late. She brought me a boy a few weeks past, a dead one though.

These circumstances give me neither pain nor pleasure. I am too much engrossed by my divinity to take an interest in any thing else. True, I have lately suffered myself to be somewhat engaged here and there by a few jovial lads who assist me in dispelling the anxious thoughts which my perplexed situation excites. I must, however, seek some means to relieve Eliza's distress. My finances are low; but the last fraction shall be expended in her service, if she need it.

Julia Granby is expected at Mrs. Wharton's every hour. I fear that her inquisitorial eye will soon detect our intrigue and obstruct its continuation. Now, there's a girl, Charles, I should never attempt to seduce; yet she is a most alluring object, I assure you. But the dignity of her manners forbids all assaults upon her virtue. Why, the very expression of her eye blasts in the bud every thought derogatory to her honor, and tells you plainly that the first insinuation of the kind would be punished with eternal banishment and displeasure. 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.

O my friend, I have a tale to unfold—a tale which will rend every nerve of sympathizing pity, which will rack the breast of sensibility, and unspeakably distress your benevolent heart. Eliza—O, the ruined, lost Eliza!