birth of their children. Often should we be impelled to a compliance
with this custom, could we foresee the future incidents of their lives.
I think, at least, that the uncertainty of their conduct and condition
in more advanced age may reconcile us to their removal to a happier
state before they are capable of tasting the bitterness of woe.
"Happy the babe, who, privileged by fate
To shorter labors and a lighter weight,
Received but yesterday the gift of breath,
Ordered to-morrow to return to death."
Our domestic affairs are much as when you left us. Nothing remarkable
has occurred in the neighborhood worth communicating. The company and
amusements of the town are as usual, I suppose. I frequent neither of
them. Having incurred so much censure by the indulgence of a gay
disposition, I am now trying what a recluse and solitary mode of life
will, produce. You will call me splenetic. I own it. I am pleased with
nobody; still less with myself. I look around for happiness, and find it
not. The world is to me a desert. If I indulge myself in temporary
enjoyment, the consciousness or apprehension of doing amiss destroys my
peace of mind. And when I have recourse to books, if I read those of
serious descriptions, they remind me of an awful futurity, for which I
am unprepared; if history, it discloses facts in which I have no
interest; if novels, they exhibit scenes of pleasure which I have no
prospect of realizing.
My mamma is solicitously attentive to my happiness; and though she fails
of promoting it, yet I endeavor to save her the pangs of disappointment
by appearing what she wishes.
I anticipate, and yet I dread, your return; a paradox this, which time
alone can solve.
Continue writing to me, and entreat Mrs. Sumner, in my name, to do
likewise. Your benevolence must be your reward.
ELIZA WHARTON.
LETTER LXIII.
TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.
BOSTON.
A paradox, indeed, is the greater part of your letter to us, my dear
Eliza. We had fondly flattered ourselves that the melancholy of your
mind was exterminated. I hope no new cause has revived it. Little did I
intend, when I left you, to have been absent so long; but Mrs. Summer's
disappointment, in her plan of spending the summer at Hartford, induced
me, in compliance with her request, to prolong my residence here. But
for your sake, she now consents to my leaving her, in hopes I may be so
happy as to contribute to your amusement.
I am both pleased and instructed by the conduct of this amiable woman.
As I always endeavored to imitate her discreet, and modest behavior in a
single state, so likewise shall I take her for a pattern should I ever
enter a married life. She is most happily united. Mr. Sumner, to all the
graces and accomplishments of the gentleman, adds the still more
important and essential properties of virtue, integrity, and honor. I
was once present when a person was recommended to her for a husband. She
objected that he was a rake. "True," said the other, "he has been, but
he has reformed." "That will never do for me," rejoined she; "I wish my
future companion to need no reformation"--a sentiment worthy the
attention of our whole sex; the general adoption of which, I am
persuaded, would have a happy influence upon the manners of the other.
I hope neither you nor I, Eliza, shall ever be tried by a man of
debauched principles. Such characters I conceive to be totally unfit
for the society of women who have any claim to virtue and delicacy.
I intend to be with you in about a month. If agreeable to you, we will
visit and spend a few weeks with the afflicted Mrs. Richman. I sincerely
sympathize with her under her bereavement. I know her fondness for you
will render your company very consoling to her; and I flatter myself
that I should not be an unwelcome guest.
Make my respects to your mamma, and believe me ever yours,
JULIA GRANBY.
LETTER LXIV.
TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.
HARTFORD.
Dear madam: I have arrived in safety to the mansion of our once happy
and social friends. But I cannot describe to you how changed, how
greatly changed this amiable family appears since I left it. Mrs.
Wharton met me at the door, and, tenderly embracing, bade me a cordial
welcome. "You are come, Julia," said she, "I hope, to revive and comfort
us. We have been very solitary during your absence." "I am happy,
madam," said I, "to return; and my endeavors to restore cheerfulness and
content shall not be wanting. But where is Eliza?" By this time we had
reached the back parlor, whither Mrs. Wharton led me; and, the door
being open, I saw Eliza reclined on a settee, in a very thoughtful
posture. When I advanced to meet her, she never moved, but sat, "like
Patience on a monument, smiling at Grief."
I stopped involuntarily, and involuntarily raising my eyes to heaven,
exclaimed, "Is that Eliza Wharton?" She burst into tears, and attempted
to rise, but sank again into her seat. Seeing her thus affected, I sat
down by her, and, throwing my arm about her neck, "Why these tears?"
said I. "Why this distress, my dear friend? Let not the return of your
Julia give you pain; she comes to soothe you with the consolations of
friendship." "It is not pain," said she, clasping me to her breast; "it
is pleasure too exquisite for my weak nerves to bear. See you not,
Julia, how I am altered? Should you have known me for the sprightly girl
who was always welcome at the haunts of hilarity and mirth?" "Indeed,"
said I, "you appear indisposed; but I will be your physician. Company
and change of air will, I doubt not, restore you." "Will these cure
disorders of the mind, Julia?" "They will have a powerful tendency to
remove them, if rightly applied; and I profess considerable skill in
that art Come," continued I, "we will try these medicines in the
morning. Let us rise early, and step into the chaise, and, after riding
a few miles, call and breakfast with Mrs. Freeman. I have some
commissions from her daughter. We shall be agreeably entertained there,
you know."
Being summoned to supper, I took her by the hand, and we walked into
another room, where we found her brother and his wife, with her mamma,
waiting for us. We were all very chatty; even Eliza resumed, in a
degree, her former sociability. A settled gloom, notwithstanding,
brooded on her countenance; and a deep sigh often escaped her in spite
of her evident endeavors to suppress it. She went to bed before us, when
her mamma informed me that her health had been declining for some
months; that she never complained, but studiously concealed every
symptom of indisposition. Whether it were any real disorder of body, or
whether it arose from her depression of spirits, she could not tell, but
supposed they operated together, and mutually heightened each other.
I inquired after Major Sanford; whether he and Eliza had associated
together during my absence. Sometimes, she said, they seemed on good
terms, and he frequently called to see her; at others they had very
little, if any, correspondence at all. She told me that Eliza never went
abroad, and was very loath to see company at home; that her chief
amusement consisted in solitary walks; that the dreadful idea of her
meeting Major Sanford in these walks had now and then intruded upon her
imagination; that she had not the least evidence of the fact, however,
and, indeed, was afraid to make any inquiries into the matter, lest her
own suspicions should be discovered; that the major's character was
worse than ever; that he was much abroad, and frequently entertained
large parties of worthless bacchanalians at his house; that common
report said he treated his wife with indifference, neglect, and ill
nature; with many other circumstances which it is not material to
relate.
Adieu, my dear friend, for the present. When occasion requires, you
shall hear again from your affectionate
JULIA GRANBY.
LETTER LXV.
TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON.
HARTFORD.
Good news, Charles, good news! I have arrived to the utmost bounds of my
wishes--the full possession of my adorable Eliza. I have heard a
quotation from a certain book, but what book it was I have forgotten, if
I ever knew. No matter for that; the quotation is, that "stolen waters
are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant." If it has reference
to the pleasures which I have enjoyed with Eliza, I like it hugely, as
Tristram Shandy's father said of Yorick's sermon; and I think it fully
verified.
I had a long and tedious siege. Every method which love could suggest,
or art invent, was adopted. I was sometimes ready to despair, under an
idea that her resolution was unconquerable, her virtue impregnable.
Indeed, I should have given over the pursuit long ago, but for the hopes
of success I entertained from her parleying with me, and, in reliance
upon her own strength, endeavoring to combat and counteract my designs.
Whenever this has been the case, Charles, I have never yet been defeated
in my plan. If a lady will consent to enter the lists against the
antagonist of her honor, she may be sure of losing the prize. Besides,
were her delicacy genuine, she would banish the man at once who presumed
to doubt, which he certainly does who attempts to vanquish it. But far
be it from me to criticize the pretensions of the sex. If I gain the
rich reward of my dissimulation and gallantry, that, you know, is all I
want.
To return, then, to the point. An unlucky, but not a miraculous accident
has taken place which must soon expose our amour. What can be done? At
the first discovery, absolute distraction seized the soul of Eliza,
which has since terminated in a fixed melancholy. Her health, too, is
much impaired. She thinks herself rapidly declining, and I tremble when
I see her emaciated form.
My wife has been reduced very low of late. She brought me a boy a few
weeks past, a dead one though.
These circumstances give me neither pain nor pleasure. I am too much
engrossed by my divinity to take an interest in any thing else. True, I
have lately suffered myself to be somewhat engaged here and there by a
few jovial lads who assist me in dispelling the anxious thoughts which
my perplexed situation excites. I must, however, seek some means to
relieve Eliza's distress. My finances are low; but the last fraction
shall be expended in her service, if she need it.
Julia Granby is expected at Mrs. Wharton's every hour. I fear that her
inquisitorial eye will soon detect our intrigue and obstruct its
continuation. Now, there's a girl, Charles, I should never attempt to
seduce; yet she is a most alluring object, I assure you. But the dignity
of her manners forbids all assaults upon her virtue. Why, the very
expression of her eye blasts in the bud every thought derogatory to her
honor, and tells you plainly that the first insinuation of the kind
would be punished with eternal banishment and displeasure. Of her there
is no danger. But I can write no more, except that I am, &c.,
PETER SANFORD.
LETTER LXVI.
TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.
HARTFORD.
O my friend, I have a tale to unfold--a tale which will rend every nerve
of sympathizing pity, which will rack the breast of sensibility, and
unspeakably distress your benevolent heart. Eliza--O, the ruined, lost
Eliza!
I want words to express the emotions of indignation and grief which
oppress me. But I will endeavor to compose myself, and relate the
circumstances as they came to my knowledge.
After my last letter Eliza remained much in the same gloomy situation as
I found her. She refused to go, agreeably to her promise, to visit your
mamma, and, under one pretext or another, has constantly declined
accompanying me any where else since my arrival.
Till last Thursday night she slept in the same bed with me, when she
excused herself by saying she was restless, and should disturb my
repose. I yielded to her humor of taking a different apartment, little
suspecting the real cause. She frequently walked out, and though I
sometimes followed, I very seldom found her. Two or three times, when I
happened to be awake, I heard her go down stairs; and, on inquiry in the
morning, she told me that she was very thirsty, and went down for water.
I observed a degree of hesitancy in her answers for which I could not
account. But last night the dreadful mystery was developed. A little
before day, I heard the front door open with great caution. I sprang
from my bed, and, running to the window, saw by the light of the moon a
man going from the house. Soon after, I perceived a footstep upon the
stairs, which carefully approached, and entered Eliza's chamber.
Judge of my astonishment, my surprise, my feelings upon this occasion. I
doubted not but Major Sanford was the person I had seen; and the
discovery of Eliza's guilt in this infamous intrigue almost deprived me
of thought and recollection. My blood thrilled with horror at this
sacrifice of virtue. After a while I recovered myself, and put on my
clothes. But what to do I knew not--whether to go directly to her
chamber, and let her know that she was detected, or to wait another
opportunity.
I resolved on the first. The day had now dawned. I tapped at her door,
and she bade me come in. She was sitting in an easy chair by the side of
her bed. As I entered she withdrew her handkerchief from her face, and,
looking earnestly at me, said, "What procures me the favor of a visit at
this early hour, Miss Granby?" "I was disturbed," said I, "and wished
not to return to my bed. But what breaks your rest, and calls you up so
unseasonably, Eliza?" "Remorse and despair," answered she, weeping.
"After what I have witnessed, this morning," rejoined I, "I cannot
wonder at it. Was it not Major Sanford whom I saw go from the house some
time ago?" She was silent, but tears flowed abundantly. "It is too
late," continued I, "to deny or evade. Answer my question sincerely;
for, believe me, Eliza, it is not malice, but concern for you, which
prompts it." "I will answer you, Julia," said she. "You have discovered
a secret which harrows up my very soul--a secret which I wished you to
know, but could not exert resolution to reveal. Yes, it was Major
Sanford--the man who has robbed me of my peace, who has triumphed in my
destruction, and who will cause my sun to set at noon."
"I shudder," said I, "at your confession! Wretched, deluded girl! Is
this a return for your parent's love and assiduous care; for your
friends' solicitude and premonitory advice? You are ruined, you say! You
have sacrificed your virtue to an abandoned, despicable profligate! And
you live to acknowledge and bear your infamy!" "I do," said she; "but
not long shall I support this burden. See you not, Julia, my decaying
frame, my faded cheek, and tottering limbs? Soon shall I be insensible
to censure and reproach. Soon shall I be sequestered in that mansion
'where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at
rest.'" "Rest!" said I; "can you expect to find rest, either in this
world or another, with such a weight of guilt on your head?" She
exclaimed, with great emotion, "Add not to the upbraidings of a wounded
spirit. Have pity upon me, O my friend, have pity upon me. Could you
know what I suffer, you would think me sufficiently punished." "I wish
you no other punishment," said I, "than what may effect your repentance
and reformation. But your mother, Eliza! She cannot long be ignorant of
your fall; and I tremble to think of her distress. It will break her
widowed heart. How has she loved, how has she doted upon you! Dreadful
is the requital which you have made." "My mother," rejoined she, "O,
name her not! The very sound is distraction to me. O my Julia, if your
heart be not shut against mercy and compassion towards me, aid me
through this trying scene. Let my situation call forth your pity, and
induce you, undeserving as I am, to exert it in my behalf."
During this time, I had walked the chamber. My spirits had been raised
above their natural key, and were exhausted. I sat down, but thought I
should have fainted, till a copious flood of tears gave me relief. Eliza
was extremely affected. The appearance of calamity which she exhibited
would have softened the most obdurate anger. Indeed, I feared some
immediate and fatal effect. I therefore seated myself beside her; and
assuming an air of kindness, "Compose yourself, Eliza," said I; "I
repeat what I told you before--it is the purest friendship which thus
interests me in your concerns. This, under the direction of charity,
induces me again to offer you my hand. Yet you have erred against
knowledge and reason, against warning and counsel. You have forfeited
the favor of your friends, and reluctant will be their forgiveness." "I
plead guilty," said she, "to all your charges. From the general voice I
expect no clemency. If I can make my peace with my mother, it is all I
seek or wish on this side the grave. In your benevolence I confide for
this. In you I hope to find an intercessor. By the remembrance of our
former affection and happiness, I conjure you, refuse me not At present,
I entreat you to conceal from her this distressing tale. A short,
reprieve is all I ask." "Why," said I, "should you defer it? When the
painful task is over, you may find relief in her lenient kindness."
"After she knows my condition, I cannot see her," resumed she, "till I
am assured of her forgiveness. I have not strength to support the
appearance of her anger and grief. I will write to her what I cannot
speak. You must bear the melancholy message, and plead for me, that her
displeasure may not follow me to the grave, whither I am rapidly
hastening." "Be assured," replied I, "that I will keep your secret as
long as prudence requires. But I must leave you now; your mamma will
wonder at our being thus closeted together. When opportunity presents,
we will converse further on the subject. In the mean time keep yourself
as composed as possible, if you would avoid suspicion." She raised her
clasped hands, and with a piteous look, threw her handkerchief over her
face, and reclined in her chair, without speaking a word. I returned to
my chamber, and endeavored to dissipate every idea which might tend to
disorder my countenance, and break the silence I wished to observe
relative to what had happened.
When I went down, Mrs. Wharton desired me to step up and inform Eliza
that breakfast was ready. She told me she could not yet compose herself
sufficiently to see her mamma, and begged me to excuse her absence as I
thought proper. I accordingly returned for answer to Mrs. Wharton, that
Eliza had rested but indifferently, and being somewhat indisposed, would
not come down, but wished me to bring her a bowl of chocolate, when we
had breakfasted. I was obliged studiously to suppress even my thoughts
concerning her, lest the emotions they excited might be observed. Mrs.
Wharton conversed much of her daughter, and expressed great concern
about her health and state of mind. Her return to this state of
dejection, after having recovered her spirits and cheerfulness in a
great degree, was owing, she feared, to some cause unknown to her; and
she entreated me to extract the secret, if possible. I assured her of my
best endeavors, and doubted not, I told her, but I should be able in a
few days to effect what she wished.
Eliza came down and walked in the garden before dinner; at which she
commanded herself much better than I expected. She said that a little
ride might, she imagined, be of service to her, and asked me if I would
accompany her a few miles in the afternoon. Her mamma was much pleased
with the proposition, and the chaise was accordingly ordered.
I observed to Eliza, as we rode, that with her natural and acquired
abilities, with her advantages of education, with her opportunities of
knowing the world, and of tracing the virtues and vices of mankind to
their origin, I was surprised at her becoming the prey of an insidious
libertine, with whose character she was well acquainted, and whose
principles, she was fully apprised, would prompt him to deceive and
betray her. "Your surprise is very natural," said she. "The same will
doubtless be felt and expressed by every one to whom my sad story is
related. But the cause may be found in that unrestrained levity of
disposition, that fondness for dissipation and coquetry, which alienated
the affections of Mr. Boyer from me. This event fatally depressed and
enfeebled my mind. I embraced with avidity the consoling power of
friendship, insnaringly offered by my seducer; vainly inferring, from
his marriage with a virtuous woman, that he had seen the error of his
ways, and forsaken his licentious practices, as he affirmed, and I, fool
that I was, believed it.
"It is needless for me to rehearse the perfidious arts by which he
insinuated himself into my affections and gained my confidence. Suffice
it to say, he effected his purpose. But not long did I continue in the
delusive dream of sensual gratification. I soon awoke to a most poignant
sense of his baseness, and of my own crime and misery. I would have fled
from him; I would have renounced him forever, and by a life of sincere
humility and repentance endeavored to make my peace with Heaven, and to
obliterate, by the rectitude of my future conduct, the guilt I had
incurred; but I found it too late. My circumstances called for
attention; and I had no one to participate my cares, to witness my
distress, and to alleviate my sorrows, but him. I could not therefore
prevail on myself wholly to renounce his society. At times I have
admitted his visits, always meeting him in the garden, or grove
adjoining; till, of late, the weather and my ill health induced me to
comply with his solicitations, and receive him into the parlor.
"Not long, however, shall I be subject to these embarrassments. Grief
has undermined my constitution. My health has fallen a sacrifice to a
disordered mind. But I regret not its departure. I have not a single
wish to live. Nothing which the world affords can restore my former
serenity and happiness.
"The little innocent I bear will quickly disclose its mother's shame.
God Almighty grant it may not live as a monument of my guilt, and a
partaker of the infamy and sorrow, which is all I have to bequeath it.
Should it be continued in life, it will never know the tenderness of a
parent; and, perhaps, want and disgrace may be its wretched portion. The
greatest consolation I can have will be to carry it with me to a state
of eternal rest; which, vile as I am, I hope to obtain, through the
infinite mercy of Heaven, as revealed in the gospel of Christ. I must
see Major Sanford again. It is necessary to converse further with him in
order to carry my plan of operation into execution."
"What is this plan of operation, Eliza?" said I. "I am on the rack of
anxiety for your safety." "Be patient," continued she, "and you shall
soon be informed. To-morrow I shall write my dreadful story to my
mother. She will be acquainted with my future intentions; and you shall
know, at the same time, the destination of your lost friend." "I hope,"
said I, "that you have formed no resolution against your own life." "God
forbid," rejoined she. "My breath is in his hands; let him do what
seemeth good in his sight! Keep my secret one day longer, and I will never
more impose so painful a silence upon you."
By this time we had reached home. She drank tea with composure, and soon
retired to rest. Mrs. Wharton eagerly inquired whether I had found out
the cause of Eliza's melancholy. "I have urged her," said I, "on the
subject; but she alleges that she has particular reasons for present
concealment. She has, notwithstanding, promised to let me know the day
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.