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.