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.