after to-morrow." "O," said she, "I shall not rest till the period
arrives." "Dear, good woman," said I to myself, "I fear you will never
rest afterwards."

This is our present situation. Think what a scene rises to the view of
your Julia. She must share the distress of others, though her own
feelings on this unhappy occasion are too keen to admit a moment's
serenity. My greatest relief is in writing to you; which I shall do
again by the next post. In the mean time, I must beg leave to subscribe
myself sincerely yours,

JULIA GRANBY.


LETTER LXVII.

TO THE SAME.

HARTFORD.

All is now lost; lost indeed! She is gone! Yes, my dear friend, our
beloved Eliza is gone! Never more shall we behold this once amiable
companion, this once innocent and happy girl. She has forsaken, and, as
she says, bid an everlasting adieu to her home, her afflicted parent,
and her friends. But I will take up my melancholy story where I left it
in my last.

She went, as she told me she expected, into the garden, and met her
detestable paramour. In about an hour she returned, and went directly to
her chamber. At one o'clock I went up, and found her writing, and
weeping. I begged her to compose herself, and go down to dinner. No, she
said, she should not eat; and was not fit to appear before any body. I
remonstrated against her immoderate grief, represented the injury she
must sustain by the indulgence of it, and conjured her to suppress the
violence of its emotions.

She entreated me to excuse her to her mamma; said she was writing to
her, and found it a task too painful to be performed with any degree of
composure; that she was almost ready to sink under the weight of her
affliction; but hoped and prayed for support both in this and another
trying scene which awaited her. In compliance with her desire, I now
left her, and told her mamma that she was very busy writing, wished not
to be interrupted at present, but would take some refreshment an hour or
two hence. I visited her again about four o'clock; when she appeared
more calm and tranquil.

"It is finished," said she, as I entered her apartment; "it is
finished." "What," said I, "is finished?" "No matter," replied she; "you
will know all to-morrow, Julia." She complained of excessive fatigue,
and expressed an inclination to lie down; in which I assisted her, and
then retired. Some time after, her mamma went up, and found her still on
the bed. She rose, however, and accompanied her down stairs. I met her
at the door of the parlor, and, taking her by the hand, inquired how she
did. "O Julia, miserably indeed," said she. "How severely does my
mother's kindness reproach me! How insupportably it increases my
self-condemnation!" She wept; she rung her hands, and walked the room in
the greatest agony. Mrs. Wharton was exceedingly distressed by her
appearance. "Tell me, Eliza," said she, "tell me the cause of your
trouble. O, kill me not by your mysterious concealment. My dear child,
let me by sharing alleviate your affliction." "Ask me not, madam," said
she; "O my mother, I conjure you not to insist on my divulging to-night
the fatal secret which engrosses and distracts my mind; to-morrow I will
hide nothing from you." "I will press you no further," rejoined her
mamma. "Choose your own time, my dear; but remember, I must participate
your grief, though I know not the cause."

Supper was brought in, and we endeavored to prevail on Eliza to eat, but
in vain. She sat down in compliance with our united importunities; but
neither of us tasted food. It was removed untouched. For a while, Mrs.
Wharton and I gazed in silent anguish upon the spectacle of woe before
us. At length Eliza rose to retire. "Julia," said she, "you will call at
my chamber as you pass to your own?" I assented. She then approached her
mamma, fell upon her knees before her, and clasping her hand, said, in
broken accents, "O madam, can you forgive a wretch, who has forfeited
your love, your kindness, and your compassion?" "Surely, Eliza," said
she, "you are not that being! No, it is impossible! But however great
your transgression, be assured of my forgiveness, my compassion, and my
continued love." Saying this, she threw her arms about her daughter's
neck, and affectionately kissed her. Eliza struggled from her embrace,
and looking at her with wild despair, exclaimed, "This is too much! O,
this unmerited goodness is more than I can bear!" She then rushed
precipitately out of the room, and left us overwhelmed in sympathy and
astonishment.

When Mrs. Wharton had recovered herself a little, she observed that
Eliza's brain was evidently disordered. "Nothing else," continued she,
"could impel her to act in this extraordinary manner." At first she was
resolved to follow her; but I dissuaded her from it, alleging that, as
she had desired me to come into her chamber, I thought it better for me
to go alone. She acquiesced, but said she should not think of going to
bed, but would, however, retire to her chamber, and seek consolation
there. I bade her good night, and went up to Eliza, who took me by the
hand, and led me to the toilet, upon which she laid the two enclosed
letters, the one to her mamma, and the other to me. "These," said she,
"contain what I had not resolution to express. Promise me, Julia, that
they shall not be opened till to-morrow morning." "I will," said I. "I
have thought and wept," continued she, "till I have almost exhausted my
strength and my reason. I would now obtain a little respite, that I may
prepare my mind for the account I am one day to give at a higher
tribunal than that of earthly friends. For this purpose, what I have
written, and what I shall yet say to you, must close the account between
you and me." "I have certainly no balance against you," said I. "In my
breast you are fully acquitted. Your penitential tears have obliterated
your guilt and blotted out your errors with your Julia. Henceforth, be
they all forgotten. Live, and be happy." "Talk not," said she, "of life;
it would be a vain hope, though I cherished it myself.

'That I must die, it is my only comfort;
Death is the privilege of human nature,
And life without it were not worth the taking.
Thither the poor, the prisoner, and the mourner
Fly for relief, and lay their burdens down.'

You have forgiven me, Julia; my mother has assured me of her
forgiveness; and what have I more to wish? My heart is much lightened by
these kind assurances; they will be a great support to me in the
dreadful hour which awaits me." "What mean you, Eliza?" said I. "I fear
some dreadful purpose labors in your mind." "O, no," she replied; "you
may be assured your fear is groundless. I know not what I say; my brain
is on fire; I am all confusion. Leave me, Julia; when I have had a
little rest, I shall be composed. These letters have almost distracted
me; but they are written, and I am comparatively easy." "I will not
leave you, Eliza," said I, "unless you will go directly to bed, and
endeavor to rest." "I will," said she, "and the sooner the better." I
tenderly embraced her, and retired, though not to bed. About an hour
after, I returned to her chamber, and opening the door very softly,
found her apparently asleep. I acquainted Mrs. Wharton with her
situation, which was a great consolation to us both, and encouraged us
to go to bed: having suffered much in my mind, and being much fatigued,
I soon fell asleep; but the rattling of a carriage, which appeared to
stop a little distance from the house, awoke me. I listened a moment,
and heard the door turn slowly on its hinges. I sprang from my bed, and
reached the window just in time to see a female handed into a chaise by
a man who hastily followed her, and drove furiously away. I at once
concluded they could be no other than Eliza and Major Sanford. Under
this impression I made no delay, but ran immediately to her chamber. A
candle was burning on the table, but Eliza was not there. I thought it
best to acquaint her mamma with the melancholy discovery, and, stepping
to her apartment for the purpose, found her rising. She had heard me
walk, and was anxious to know the cause. "What is the matter, Julia?"
said she; "what is the matter?" "Dear madam," said I, "arm yourself with
fortitude." "What new occurrence demands it?" rejoined she. "Eliza has
left us." "Left us! What mean you?" "She has just gone; I saw her handed
into a chaise, which instantly disappeared."

At this intelligence she gave a shriek, and fell back on her bed. I
alarmed the family, and by their assistance soon recovered her. She
desired me to inform her of every particular relative to her elopement,
which I did, and then delivered her the letter which Eliza had left for
her. "I suspect," said she, as she took it; "I have long suspected what
I dared not believe. The anguish of my mind has been known only to
myself and my God." I could not answer her, and therefore withdrew. When
I had read Eliza's letter to me, and wept over the sad fall, and, as I
fear, the total loss of this once amiable and accomplished girl, I
returned to Mrs. Wharton. She was sitting in her easy chair, and still
held the fatal letter in her hand. When I entered, she fixed her
streaming eyes upon me, and exclaimed, "O Julia, this is more than the
bitterness of death." "True, madam," said I, "your affliction must be
great; yet that all-gracious Being who controls every event is able, and
I trust disposed, to support you." "To him," replied she, "I desire
humbly to resign myself; but I think I could have borne almost any other
calamity with greater resignation and composure than this. With how much
comparative ease could I have followed her to the grave at any period
since her birth! O, my child, my child! dear, very dear, hast thou been
to my fond heart. Little did I think it possible for you to prepare so
dreadful a cup of sorrow for your widowed mother. But where," continued
she, "where can the poor fugitive have fled? Where can she find that
protection and tenderness, which, notwithstanding her great apostasy, I
should never have withheld? From whom can she receive those kind
attentions which her situation demands."

The agitation of her mind had exhausted her strength, and I prevailed on
her to refresh and endeavor to compose herself to rest, assuring her of
my utmost exertions to find out Eliza's retreat, and restore her to a
mother's arms.

I am obliged to suppress my own emotions, and to bend all my thoughts
towards the alleviation of Mrs. Wharton's anxiety and grief.

Major Sanford is from home, as I expected; and I am determined, if he
return, to see him myself, and extort from him the place of Eliza's
concealment. Her flight in her present state of health is inexpressibly
distressing to her mother; and unless we find her soon, I dread the
effects.

I shall not close this till I have seen or heard from the vile
miscreant who has involved a worthy family in wretchedness.

_Friday morning._--Two days have elapsed without affording us much
relief. Last evening, I was told that Major Sanford was at home. I
immediately wrote him a billet, entreating and conjuring him to let me
know where the hapless Eliza had fled. He returned me the following
answer:--

"Miss Granby need be under no apprehensions respecting the situation of
our beloved Eliza. She is well provided for, conveniently accommodated,
and has every thing to make her happy which love and affluence can give.

"Major Sanford has solemnly sworn not to discover her retreat. She
wishes to avoid the accusations of her friends till she is better able
to bear them.

"Her mother may rest assured of immediate information, should any danger
threaten her amiable daughter; and also of having seasonable notice of
her safety."

Although little dependence can be placed upon this man, yet these
assurances have, in a great degree, calmed our minds. We are, however,
contriving means to explore the refuge of the wanderer, and hope, by
tracing his steps, to accomplish our purpose. This we have engaged a
friend to do.

I know, my dear Mrs. Sumner, the kind interest you will take in this
disastrous affair. I tremble to think what the event may be. To relieve
your suspense, however, I shall write you every circumstance as It
occurs; but at present, I shall only enclose Eliza's letters to her
mamma and me, and subscribe myself your sincere and obliged friend,

JULIA GRANBY.


LETTER LXVIII.

TO MRS. M. WHARTON.

TUESDAY.

My honored and dear mamma: In what words, in what language shall I
address you? What shall I say on a subject which deprives me of the
power of expression? Would to God I had been totally deprived of that
power before so fatal a subject required its exertion. Repentance comes
too late, when it cannot prevent the evil lamented: for your kindness,
your more than maternal affection towards me, from my infancy to the
present moment, a long life of filial duty and unerring rectitude could
hardly compensate. How greatly deficient in gratitude must I appear,
then, while I confess that precept and example, counsel and advice,
instruction and admonition, have been all lost upon me!

Your kind endeavors to promote my happiness have been repaid by the
inexcusable folly of sacrificing it. The various emotions of shame and
remorse, penitence and regret, which torture and distract my guilty
breast, exceed description. Yes, madam, your Eliza has fallen, fallen
indeed. She has become the victim of her own indiscretion, and of the
intrigue and artifice of a designing libertine, who is the husband of
another. She is polluted, and no more worthy of her parentage. She flies
from you, not to conceal her guilt, (that she humbly and penitently
owns,) but to avoid what she has never experienced, and feels herself
unable to support--a mother's frown; to escape the heart-rending sight
of a parent's grief, occasioned by the crimes of her guilty child.

I have become a reproach and disgrace to my friends. The consciousness
of having forfeited their favor and incurred their disapprobation and
resentment induces me to conceal from them the place of my retirement;
but lest your benevolence should render you anxious for my comfort in my
present situation, I take the liberty to assure you that I am amply
provided for.

I have no claim even upon your pity; but from my long experience of your
tenderness. I presume to hope it will be extended to me. O my mother, if
you knew what the state of my mind is, and has been for months past, you
would surely compassionate my case. Could tears efface the stain which I
have brought upon my family, it would long since have been washed away;
but, alas! tears are in vain; and vain is my bitter repentance; it
cannot obliterate my crime, nor restore me to innocence and peace. In
this life I have no ideas of happiness. These I have wholly resigned.
The only hope which affords me any solace is that of your forgiveness.
If the deepest contrition can make an atonement,--if the severest pains,
both of body and mind, can restore me to your charity,--you will not be
inexorable. O, let my sufferings be deemed a sufficient punishment, and
add not the insupportable weight of a parent's wrath. At present I
cannot see you. The effect of my crime is too obvious to be longer
concealed, to elude the invidious eye of curiosity. This night,
therefore, I leave your hospitable mansion. This night I become a
wretched wanderer from my paternal roof. O that the grave were this
night to be my lodging! Then should I lie down and be at rest. Trusting
in the mercy of God, through the mediation of his Son, I think I could
meet my heavenly Father with more composure and confidence than my
earthly parent.

Let not the faults and misfortunes of your daughter oppress your mind.
Rather let the conviction of having faithfully discharged your duty to
your lost child support and console you in this trying scene.

Since I wrote the above, you have kindly granted me your forgiveness,
though you knew not how great, how aggravated was my offence. You
forgive me, you say. O, the harmonious, the transporting sound! It has
revived my drooping spirits, and will enable me to encounter, with
resolution, the trials before me.

Farewell, my dear mamma! Pity and pray for your ruined child; and be
assured that affection and gratitude will be the last sentiments which
expire in the breast of your repenting daughter,

ELIZA WHARTON.


LETTER LXIX.

TO MISS JULIA GRANBY.

TUESDAY.

My dear friend: By that endearing title you permit me still to address
you, and such you have always proved yourself by a participation of my
distresses, as well as by the consoling voice of pity and forgiveness.
What destiny Providence designs for me I know not, but I have my
forebodings that this is the last time I shall ever accost you. Nor does
this apprehension arise merely from a disturbed imagination. I have
reason to think myself in a confirmed consumption, which commonly proves
fatal to persons in my situation. I have carefully concealed every
complaint of the kind from my mamma, for fear of distressing her; yet I
have never been insensible of their probable issue, and have bidden a
sincere welcome to them, as the harbingers of my speedy release from a
life of guilt and woe.

I am going from you, Julia. This night separates us, perhaps, forever. I
have not resolution to encounter the tears of my friends, and therefore
seek shelter among strangers, where none knows or is interested in my
melancholy story. The place of my seclusion I studiously conceal; yet I
shall take measures that you may be apprised of my fate.

Should it please God to spare and restore me to health, I shall return,
and endeavor, by a life of penitence and rectitude, to expiate my past
offences. But should I be called from this scene of action, and leave
behind me a helpless babe, the innocent sufferer of its mother's shame,
O Julia, let your friendship for me extend to the little stranger.
Intercede with my mother to take it under her protection, and transfer
to it all her affection for me; to train it up in the ways of piety and
virtue, that it may compensate her for the afflictions which I have
occasioned.

One thing more I have to request. Plead for me with my two best friends,
Mrs. Richman and Mrs. Sumner. I ask you not to palliate my faults,--that
cannot be done,--but to obtain, if possible, their forgiveness. I cannot
write all my full mind suggests on this subject. You know the purport,
and can better express it for me.

And now, my dear Julia, recommending myself again to your benevolence,
to your charity, and (may I add?) to your affection, and entreating that
the fatal consequences of my folly, now fallen upon my devoted head, may
suffice for my punishment, let me conjure you to bury my crimes in the
grave with me, and to preserve the remembrance of my former virtues,
which engaged your love and confidence; more especially of that ardent
esteem for you, which will glow till the last expiring breath of your
despairing

ELIZA WHARTON.


LETTER LXX.

TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON.

HARTFORD.

I have, at last, accomplished the removal of my darling girl from a
place where she thought every eye accused and every heart condemned her.

She has become quite romantic in her notions. She would not permit me to
accompany her, lest it should be reported that we had eloped together. I
provided amply for her future exigencies, and conveyed her by night to
the distance of ten or twelve miles, where we met the stage, in which I
had previously secured her a seat. The agony of her grief at being thus
obliged to leave her mother's house baffles all description.

It very sensibly affected me, I know. I was almost a penitent. I am
sure I acted like one, whether I were sincere or not. She chose to go
where she was totally unknown. She would leave the stage, she said,
before it reached Boston, and take passage in a more private carriage to
Salem, or its vicinity, where she would fix her abode; chalking the
initials of my name over the door, as a signal to me of her residence.

She is exceedingly depressed, and says she neither expects nor wishes to
survive her lying in. Insanity, for aught I know, must be my lot if she
should die. But I will not harbor the idea. I hope, one time or other,
to have the power to make her amends, even by marriage. My wife may be
provoked, I imagine, to sue for a divorce. If she should, she would find
no difficulty in obtaining it, and then I would take Eliza in her stead;
though I confess that the idea of being thus connected with a woman whom
I have been enabled to dishonor, would be rather hard to surmount. It
would hurt even my delicacy, little as you may think me to possess, to
have a wife whom I know to be seducible. And on this account I cannot be
positive that even Eliza would retain my love.

My Nancy and I have lived a pretty uncomfortable life of late. She has
been very suspicious of my amour with Eliza, and now and then expressed
her jealous sentiments a little more warmly than my patience would
bear. But the news of Eliza's circumstances and retirement, being
publicly talked of, have reached her ears, and rendered her quite
outrageous. She tells me she will no longer brook my indifference and
infidelity; intends soon to return to her father's house, and extricate
herself from me entirely. My general reply to all this is, that she knew
my character before we married, and could reasonably expect nothing less
than what has happened. I shall not oppose her leaving me, as it may
conduce to the execution of the plan I have hinted above.

To-morrow I shall set out to visit my disconsolate fair one. From my
very soul I pity her, and wish I could have preserved her virtue
consistently with the indulgence of my passion. To her I lay not the
principal blame, as in like cases I do the sex in general. My finesse
was too well planned for detection, and my snares too deeply laid for
any one to escape who had the least warmth in her constitution, or
affection in her heart. I shall, therefore, be the less whimsical about
a future connection, and the more solicitous to make her reparation,
should it ever be in my power.

Her friends are all in arms about her. I dare say I have the
imprecations of the whole fraternity. They may thank themselves in
part, for I always swore revenge for their dislike and coldness towards
me. Had they been politic, they would have conducted more like the
aborigines of the country, who are said to worship the devil out of
fear.

I am afraid I shall be obliged to remove my quarters, for Eliza was so
great a favorite in town that I am looked upon with an evil eye. I
pleaded with her, before we parted last, to forgive my seducing her,
alleged my ardent love, and my inability to possess her in any other
way. "How," said she, "can that be love which destroys its object? But
granting what you say, you have frustrated your own purpose. You have
deprived yourself-of my society, which might have been innocently
enjoyed. You have cut me off from life in the midst of my days. You have
rendered me the reproach of my friends, the disgrace of my family and a
dishonor to virtue and my sex. But I forgive you," added she. "Yes,
Sanford, I forgive you, and sincerely pray for your repentance and
reformation. I hope to be the last wretched female sacrificed by you to
the arts of falsehood and seduction. May my unhappy story serve as a
beacon to warn the American fair of the dangerous tendency and
destructive consequences of associating with men of your character, of
destroying their time and risking their reputation by the practice of
coquetry and its attendant follies. But for these I might have been
honorably connected, and capable, at this moment, of diffusing and
receiving happiness. But for your arts I might have remained a blessing
to society, as well as the delight and comfort of my friends. You being
a married man unspeakably aggravates both your guilt and mine. This
circumstance annexes indelible shame to our crime. You have rent asunder
the tenderest ties of nature. You have broken the bonds of conjugal
love, which ought ever to be kept sacred and inviolate. You have filled
with grief and discontent the heart of your amiable wife, whom
gratitude, if no other principle, should have induced you to cherish
with tenderness; and I, wretch that I am, have been your accomplice. But
I cease to reproach you. You have acted but too consistently with the
character which I was sufficiently apprised you sustained. The blame,
then, may be retorted on myself, for disregarding the counsels,
warnings, and admonitions of my best friends. You have prided yourself
in the character of a libertine. Glory no longer in your shame. You have
accomplished your designs, your dreadful designs, against me. Let this
suffice. Add not to the number of those deluded creatures who will one
day rise up in judgment against you and condemn you."

By this time we had nearly reached the inn, and were soon to part. I
seized her hand, and exclaimed, "You must not leave me, Eliza, with that
awful anathema on your lips. O, say that you will forget my past
faults." "That," said she, "I shall soon do; for in the grave there is
no remembrance." This, to my mind, was a harsher sentence than the
other, and almost threw me into despair. Never was I so wrought upon
before. I knew not what to say or do. She saw my distress, and kindly
softened her manner. "If I am severe," said she, "it is because I wish
to impress your mind with such a sense of your offences against your
Maker, your friends, and society in general, as may effect your
repentance and amendment. I wish not to be your accuser, but your
reformer. On several accounts, I view my own crime in a more aggravated
light than yours; but my conscience is awakened to a conviction of my
guilt. Yours, I fear, is not. Let me conjure you to return home, and
endeavor, by your future kindness and fidelity to your wife, to make her
all the amends in your power. By a life of virtue and religion, you may
yet become a valuable member of society, and secure happiness both here
and hereafter."

I begged leave to visit her retirement next week, not in continuation of
our amour, but as a friend solicitous to know her situation and welfare.
Unable to speak, she only bowed assent. The stage being now ready, I
whispered some tender things in her ear, and kissing her cheek, which
was all she would permit, suffered her to depart.

My body remains behind; but my soul, if I have any, went with her.

This was a horrid lecture, Charles. She brought every charge against me
which a fruitful and gloomy imagination could suggest. But I hope when
she recovers she will resume her former cheerfulness, and become as kind
and agreeable as ever. My anxiety for her safety is very great. I trust,
however, it will soon be removed, and peace and pleasure be restored to
your humble servant,

PETER SANFORD.


LETTER LXXI.

TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.

HARTFORD.

The drama is now closed! A tragical one it has proved!

How sincerely, my dear Mrs. Sumner, must the friends of our departed
Eliza sympathize with each other, and with her afflicted, bereaved
parent!

You have doubtless seen the account in the public papers which gave us
the melancholy intelligence. But I will give you a detail of
circumstances.

A few days after my last was written, we heard that Major Sanford's
property was attached, and he a prisoner in his own house. He was the
last man to whom we wished to apply for information respecting the
forlorn wanderer; yet we had no other resource. And after waiting a
fortnight in the most cruel suspense, we wrote a billet, entreating him,
if possible, to give some intelligence concerning her. He replied that
he was unhappily deprived of all means of knowing himself, but hoped
soon to relieve his own and our anxiety about her.

In this situation we continued till a neighbor (purposely, we since
concluded) sent us a Boston paper. Mrs. Wharton took it, and unconscious
of its contents, observed that the perusal might divert her a few
moments. She read for some time, when it suddenly dropped upon the
floor. She clasped her hands together, and raising her streaming eyes to
heaven, exclaimed, "It is the Lord; let him do what he will. Be still, O
my soul, and know that he is God."

"What, madam," said I, "can be the matter?" She answered not, but, with
inexpressible anguish depicted in her countenance, pointed to the paper.
I took it up, and soon found the fatal paragraph. I shall not attempt to
paint our heartfelt grief and lamentation upon this occasion; for we had
no doubt of Eliza's being the person described, as a stranger, who died,
at Danvers, last July. Her delivery of a child, her dejected state of
mind, the marks upon her linen, indeed every circumstance in the
advertisement, convinced us, beyond dispute, that it could be no other.
Mrs. Wharton retired immediately to her chamber, where she continued
overwhelmed with sorrow that night and the following day. Such in fact
has been her habitual frame ever since; though the endeavors of her
friends, who have sought to console her, have rendered her somewhat more
conversable. My testimony of Eliza's penitence before her departure is a
source of comfort to this disconsolate parent. She fondly cherished the
idea that, having expiated her offence by sincere repentance and
amendment, her deluded child finally made a happy exchange of worlds.
But the desperate resolution, which she formed and executed, of becoming
a fugitive, of deserting her mother's house and protection, and of
wandering and dying among strangers, is a most distressing reflection
to her friends; especially to her mother, in whose breast so many
painful ideas arise, that she finds it extremely difficult to compose
herself to that resignation which she evidently strives to exemplify.

Eliza's brother has been to visit her last retreat, and to learn the
particulars of her melancholy exit. He relates that she was well
accommodated, and had every attention and assistance which her situation
required. The people where she resided appear to have a lively sense of
her merit and misfortunes. They testify her modest deportment, her
fortitude under the sufferings to which she was called, and the serenity
and composure with which she bade a last adieu to the world. Mr. Wharton
has brought back several scraps of her writing, containing miscellaneous
reflections on her situation, the death of her babe, and the absence of
her friends. Some of these were written before, some after, her
confinement. These valuable testimonies of the affecting sense and calm
expectation she entertained of her approaching dissolution are
calculated to soothe and comfort the minds of mourning connections. They
greatly alleviate the regret occasioned by her absence at this awful
period. Her elopement can be equalled only by the infatuation which
caused her ruin.

"But let no one reproach her memory.
Her life has paid the forfeit of her folly.
Let that suffice."


I am told that Major Sanford is quite frantic. Sure I am that he has
reason to be. If the mischiefs he has brought upon others return upon
his own head, dreadful indeed must be his portion. His wife has left
him, and returned to her parents. His estate, which has been long
mortgaged, is taken from him, and poverty and disgrace await him. Heaven
seldom leaves injured innocence unavenged. Wretch that he is, he ought
forever to be banished from human society! I shall continue with Mrs.
Wharton till the lenient hand of time has assuaged her sorrows, and then
make my promised visit to you. I will bring Eliza's posthumous papers
with me when I come to Boston, as I have not time to copy them now.

I foresee, my dear Mrs. Sumner, that this disastrous affair will suspend
your enjoyments, as it has mine. But what are our feelings, compared
with the pangs which rend a parent's heart? This parent I here behold
inhumanly stripped of the best solace of her declining years by the
insnaring machinations of a profligate debauchee. Not only the life,
but, what was still dearer, the reputation and virtue? of the
unfortunate Eliza have fallen victims at the shrine of _libertinism_.
Detested be the epithet. Let it henceforth bear its true signature, and
candor itself shall call it _lust_ and _brutality_. Execrable is the
man, however arrayed in magnificence, crowned with wealth, or decorated
with the external graces and accomplishments of fashionable life, who
shall presume to display them at the expense of virtue and innocence.
Sacred name attended with real blessings--blessings too useful and
important to be trifled away. My resentment at the base arts which must
have been employed to complete the seduction of Eliza I cannot suppress.
I wish them to be exposed, and stamped with universal ignominy. Nor do I
doubt but you will join with me in execrating the measures by which _we_
have been robbed of so valuable a friend, and _society_ of so ornamental
a member. I am, &c.,

JULIA GRANBY.


LETTER LXXII.

TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON.

HARTFORD.

Confusion, horror, and despair are the portion of your wretched, unhappy
friend. O Deighton, I am undone. Misery irremediable is my future lot.
She is gone; yes, she is gone forever. The darling of my soul, the
centre of all my wishes and enjoyments, is no more. Cruel fate has
snatched her from me, and she is irretrievably lost. I rave, and then
reflect; I reflect, and then rave. I have no patience to bear this
calamity, nor power to remedy it. Where shall I fly from the upbraidings
of my mind, which accuse me as the murderer of my Eliza? I would fly to
death, and seek a refuge in the grave; but the forebodings of a
retribution to come I cannot away with. O that I had seen her! that I
had once more asked her forgiveness! But even that privilege, that
consolation, was denied me! The day on which I meant to visit her, most
of my property was attached, and, to secure the rest, I was obliged to
shut my doors and become a prisoner in my own house. High living, and
old debts incurred by extravagance, had reduced the fortune of my wife
to very little, and I could not satisfy the clamorous demands of my
creditors.

I would have given millions, had I possessed them, to have been at
liberty to see, and to have had the power to preserve Eliza from death.
But in vain was my anxiety; it could not relieve, it could not liberate
me. When I first heard the dreadful tidings of her exit, I believe I
acted like a madman; indeed, I am little else now. I have compounded
with my creditors, and resigned the whole of my property. Thus that
splendor and equipage, to secure which I have sacrificed a virtuous
woman, is taken from me. That poverty, the dread of which prevented my
forming an honorable connection with an amiable and accomplished
girl,--the only one I ever loved,--has fallen with redoubled vengeance
upon my guilty head, and I must become a vagabond on the earth.

I shall fly my country as soon as possible. I shall go from every object
which reminds me of my departed Eliza; but never, never shall I
eradicate from my bosom the idea of her excellence, nor the painful
remembrance of the injuries I have done her. Her shade will perpetually
haunt me; the image of her--as she appeared when mounting the carriage
which conveyed her forever from my sight, waving her hand in token of a
last adieu--will always be present to my imagination; the solemn counsel
she gave me before we parted, never more to meet, will not cease to
resound in my ears.

While my being is prolonged, I must feel the disgraceful and torturing
effects of my guilt in seducing her. How madly have I deprived her of
happiness, of reputation, of life! Her friends, could they know the
pangs of contrition and the horrors of conscience which attend me,
would be amply revenged.

It is said she quitted the world with composure and peace. Well she
might. She had not that insupportable weight of iniquity which sinks me
to despair. She found consolation in that religion which I have
ridiculed as priestcraft and hypocrisy. But, whether it be true or
false, would to Heaven I could now enjoy the comforts which its votaries
evidently feel.

My wife has left me. As we lived together without love, we parted
without regret.

Now, Charles, I am to bid you a long, perhaps a last farewell. Where I
shall roam in future, I neither know nor care. I shall go where the name
of Sanford is unknown, and his person and sorrows unnoticed.

In this happy clime I have nothing to induce my stay. I have not money
to support me with my profligate companions, nor have I any relish, at
present, for their society. By the virtuous part of the community I am
shunned as the pest and bane of social enjoyment. In short, I am
debarred from every kind of happiness. If I look back, I recoil with
horror from the black catalogue of vices which have stained my past
life, and reduced me to indigence and contempt. If I look forward, I
shudder at the prospects which my foreboding mind presents to view both
in this and a coming world. This is a deplorable, yet just, picture of
myself. How totally the reverse of what I once appeared!

Let it warn you, my friend, to shun the dangerous paths which I have
trodden, that you may never be involved in the hopeless ignominy and
wretchedness of

PETER SANFORD.


LETTER LXXIII.

TO MISS JULIA GRANBY.

BOSTON.

A melancholy tale have you unfolded, my dear Julia; and tragic indeed is
the concluding scene.

Is she then gone? gone in this most distressing manner? Have I lost my
once-loved friend? lost her in a way which I could never have conceived
to be possible?

Our days of childhood were spent together in the same pursuits, in the
same amusements. Our riper years increased our mutual affection, and
maturer judgment most firmly cemented our friendship. Can I, then,