3 1822 01715 1663
 
 JN VERS TY OF CAL FORNIA SAN DIEGO 
 
 Central University Library 
 
 University of California, San Diego 
 Please Note: This item is subject to recall. 
 
 Date Due 
 
 FEB 1 6 1994 
 
 MAR 1 6 1994 
 
 Cl 39 (7/93) 
 
 UCSD Lib.
 
 THE COQUETTE; 
 
 OR, THE 
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 
 
 A NOVEL. FOUNDED ON FACT. 
 
 BY MRS. HANNAH FOSTER. 
 
 WIFE OF KEY. JOHN FOSTER, OF BRIGHTON, AND DAUGHTER 
 OF GRANT WEBSTER, OF BOSTON. 
 
 WITH AN HISTORICAL PREFACE, 
 
 AND A 
 
 MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR, BY JANE E. LOCKE. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; 
 
 306 CHESTNUT STREET.
 
 Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by 
 
 T. B. PKTKHSOX & 15ROTIIEU.;, 
 
 In the Clerk s Office of tln> District Court of the United States, in anil for the 
 Eastern District of IVinisvlvaniiX.
 
 PUBLISHERS PREFACE. 
 
 The interest in the fate of Eliza Wharton (or Eliz 
 abeth Whitman) is to be explained only by the air 
 of mystery which surrounds her. A few years after 
 her death, the first edition of this volume, " The 
 Coquette, or the Life and Letters of Eliza Wharton," 
 written by Mrs. Hannah Foster, wife of Rev. John 
 Foster, of Brighton, appeared, and was immensely 
 popular throughout the whole of New England, where 
 the chief actors were well known, Miss Whitman, the 
 heroine, having been a reigning belle in New England, 
 and the idol of society for many years. Her first 
 accepted lover was a Boston clergyman, who died ; 
 her second, who treated her shamefully, was also a 
 New England clergyman of wide renown; and her 
 last was her favored lover and cousin, Pierrepont 
 Edwards, of good pious Connecticut family, ranking 
 with Aaron Burr, another cousin, in beauty, audacity, 
 and fascination. The book is in the form of letters, 
 Avritten by Eliza Wharton herself and her friends ; and 
 the letters are of uncommon vivacity and freedom for 
 the time when statcliness was the fashion even in 
 family letters. They represent Miss Whitman as 
 handsome, bright and vain, falling a victim to her 
 caprice and ambition. None of her lovers appear in an 
 attractive light, and there seems to be no apology for 
 the wretched tragedy. The novel ran through twenty 
 
 (17)
 
 18 PUBLISHERS PREFACE. 
 
 or more editions, sometimes out of print for a while, 
 and then reappearing when something called out fresh 
 interest in the heroine. The present edition contains 
 a sentimental and historical preface, including a full 
 and complete memoir of the author, which we would 
 advise all to read, written by Jane E. Locke, who tells, 
 what she believes to be, all the facts in the case, and 
 gives dates, which are omitted entirely in the novel, 
 and true names, which in the novel were, for certain 
 reasons, at that time, concealed. She confirms Mrs. 
 Foster s story, and adds the record of the death of all 
 of Eliza Whitman s near relatives, and states at length, 
 how, that in the midsummer of 1788, there arrived at 
 the Bell Tavern, in Danvers, a woman of distinguished 
 appearance and remarkable beauty, who gave the 
 name of Mrs. Walker, and wished to wait there for 
 her husband s arrival. Weeks passed on, but the 
 husband did not come. In July, the lady gave birth 
 to a dead child, and two weeks later she d\ed herself, 
 and was buried in the Danvers graveyard. It was not 
 till after her death, that her friends, who were seeking 
 her, learned of her sad fate; and stones bearing the 
 name " ELIZA WHARTON " were erected at each end of 
 her grave, and how year after year a lady and gentle 
 man visited the grave, but came no one knew whence, 
 gave no name, and went no one knew whither. 
 
 Her grave became a place of pilgrimage; relic 
 hunters chipped away the head and foot-stones of the 
 heroine, and lovers plighted their troth amid the 
 whispering of the unmown grass. Eliza Wharton was 
 a descendant of the English Stanleys, and a daughter- 
 in-law of Jonathan Edwards, president of Princeton 
 College, New Jersey.
 
 HISTORICAL PREFACE, 
 
 INCLUDING 
 
 A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 HE who waits beside the folded gates of mys 
 tery, over which forever float the irnpurpled vapors 
 of the PAST, should stand with girded loins, and 
 white, unshodden feet. So he who attempts to 
 lift the veil that separates the REAL from the IDEAL, 
 or to remove the heavy curtain that for a century 
 may have concealed from view the actual person 
 ages of a well-drawn popular fiction, or what may 
 have been received as such, should bring to his 
 task a tender heart and a delicate and gentle hand. 
 
 Thus, in preparing an introductory chapter for 
 these pages which are to follow, many and various 
 thoughts suggest themselves, and it is necessary 
 to recognize and pursue them with gentleness and 
 
 caution. 
 
 (19)
 
 20 HISTORICAL PREI ACK. 
 
 The romance of " Eliza Wharton " appeared 
 in print not many years subsequent to the assumed 
 transactions it so faithfully attempts to record. 
 Written as it was by one highly educated for the 
 times, the popular wife of a popular clergyman, 
 connected in no distant degree, by marriage, with 
 the family of the heroine, and one who by the 
 very profession and position of her husband was, 
 as by necessity, brought into the sphere of actual 
 intercourse with the principal characters of the 
 novel, and as the book also took precedence in time 
 of all American romances, when, too, the literature 
 of the day was any thing but " light" it is not 
 surprising that it thus took precedence in interest 
 as well of all American novels, at least throughout 
 New England, and was found, in every cottage 
 within its borders, beside the family Bible, and 
 though pitifully, yet almost as carefully treasured. 
 
 Since that time it has run through a score of 
 editions, at long intervals out of print, and again 
 revived at the public call with an eagerness of 
 distribution which few modern romances have 
 enjoyed. Its author, Hannah Foster, was the 
 daughter of Grant Webster, a well-known mer 
 chant of Boston, and wife of Rev. John Foster, 
 of Brighton, Massachusetts, whose pedigree, but 
 few removes backward in the line of her hus-
 
 HISTORICAL PREFACE. 21 
 
 band,* interlinked, as has been already hinted, 
 with that of the " Coquette." Thus did they 
 hold towards each other that very significant re 
 lationship especially in the past century of 
 u cousins" a relationship better heeded and more 
 earnestly recognized and cherished than that of 
 nearer kin at the present day. Therefore, not only 
 by family ties, but by similarity of positions and 
 community of interests, was she brought into im 
 mediate acquaintance with the circumstances here 
 in combined, and especially qualified to write the 
 history with power and effect. Nor is this the 
 only work which bears the impress of her gifted 
 pen. There is still another extant, of which I 
 need not at this time and place make mention, 
 besides many valuable literary contributions to the 
 scattered periodicals of that day. It is to be re 
 gretted here that a short time previous to her 
 death she destroyed the whole of her manuscripts, 
 which might, in many respects, have been particu 
 larly valuable. 
 
 She has, however, transmitted her genius and 
 
 * John Whitman, whose lather was brother to the grandfather of 
 " Eliza Wharton," married a daughter of Rev. Mr. Foster, of Stafford, 
 Connecticut, who afterwards settled in Stow, Massachusetts, and who 
 was father of Rev. John Foster, of Brighton, Massachusetts, the hus 
 band of the author of this book.
 
 22 HISTORICAL PREPACK. 
 
 her powers, which find expression and appreciation 
 in two daughters still living in Montreal, Canada 
 East, one of whom is the gifted author of " Peep 
 at the Pilgrims," " Sketches from the Life of 
 Christ," and " Confessions of an early Martyr," all 
 of which have been very popular; the first having 
 been republished here within a short period, and 
 also in England with still greater success. The 
 other daughter, the widow of the late Dr. Gushing, 
 who, while firm at his post as physician at the 
 Emigrant Hospital, fell a victim to that terrible 
 malady, ship fever, in 1846, is also author of many 
 minor works, and co-editor of the " Snowdrop," a 
 monthly publication of much merit in Montreal. 
 Mrs. Foster died in that place, at the residence of 
 her daughter, Mrs. Cushing, April 17, 1840, at the 
 advanced age of eighty-one years. 
 
 It may seem, however, at a period so long 
 subsequent to the actual transpiration of events 
 herein recorded, that little could be said to throw 
 light or interest upon the history, and even less 
 upon the character, or in extenuation of the follies 
 or the frailties of the unfortunate subject of the 
 following pages, and upon which public opinion 
 had long ago rendered its verdict and sealed it 
 for a higher tribunal. Yet T am happy in assuring 
 any who may pause over these prefatory leaves
 
 HISTORICAL PREFACE. 23 
 
 that this is not the fact ; and it harms us not to 
 believe that over every life, however full of error 
 it may be, there is an unwritten chapter which the 
 angels take into account as they bear upward the 
 tearful record, and which He, the great Scribe, 
 " who ever sitteth at the right hand of the Father," 
 and from whose solemn utterance on earth dropped 
 the forever cherished words which have so often 
 given life and hope to the penitent fallen, "neither 
 do I condemn thee" interpolates on the mighty 
 leger of eternity for the great reckoning day. 
 
 " Eliza Wharton," generally known, perhaps, as 
 Elizabeth Whitman, was the eldest of four chil 
 dren Elizabeth, Mary, Abigail, and William ; the 
 latter of whom was a physician, twice married, 
 and who also left a son of his own name, (Wil 
 liam Elnathan,) who died in Philadelphia in 1846, 
 unmarried. Her father, the Rev. Elnathan Whit 
 man, was the son of Rev. Samuel Whitman, who 
 was the third son of Rev. Zechariah Whitman, the 
 youngest child of John, the original ancestor of the 
 Whitman family. He (Rev. Samuel W.) gradu 
 ated at Harvard University in 1696, and was for 
 several years a tutor there. Thus having passed 
 through the usual, though then somewhat limited, 
 course of theology, he was ordained as minister 
 of the gospel in Farmington, Connecticut, in 1706,
 
 24 HISTORICAL PREFACE. 
 
 at that time one of the largest towns in the state. 
 He inherited by bequest one half of his father s 
 lands in Stow, Massachusetts, and was thereby 
 also made executor of his will. He married, 
 March 19, 1707, Mary Stoddard, daughter of Rev. 
 Solomon Stoddard, second minister of Northamp 
 ton, Massachusetts. Mr. Stoddard was born in 
 Boston in 1643, and died in Northampton in 1729. 
 This Solomon Stoddard was the great-grandfather 
 of Hon. Solomon Stoddard, now residing in North 
 ampton. 
 
 It is worthy of remark here that the early an 
 cestors of " Eliza Wharton " intermarried also 
 with the Edwards family ; so that Hon. Pierpont 
 Edwards, who figures in this volume as " Major 
 Sanford," could be no less than second cousin to 
 his unfortunate victim. 
 
 Rev. Elnathan Whitman, the father of Eliza 
 beth, was born January 12, 1708-9, and graduated 
 from Yale College, New Haven, where he was for 
 several subsequent years a tutor. He at length set 
 tled as minister over the Second Church in Hart 
 ford, Connecticut, and there married Abigail Stan 
 ley, daughter of Colonel Nathaniel Stanley, treas 
 urer of the colony of Connecticut, a woman of un 
 common energy of character and of superior mental 
 acquirements, (a correct portrait of whom accom-
 
 HISTORICAL PREFACE. 25 
 
 panies these pages, taken from an original paint 
 ing.) He died in Hartford also, March 2, 1776, 
 aged sixty-eight years, after having served in the 
 ministry in that place forty-three of the same. His 
 tombstone bears the following inscription : 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 THE REV. ELNATHAN WHITMAN, 
 
 Pastor of the Second Church of Christ in Hartford, and one of the 
 fellows of the corporation of Yale College, who departed this life 
 the 2d day of March, A. D. 1776, in the 69th year of his age and 44th 
 of his ministry. 
 
 Endowed with superior natural abilities and good literary acquire 
 ments, he was still more distinguished for his unaffected piety, primi 
 tive simplicity of manners, and true Christian benevolence. He 
 closed a life spent in the service of his Creator in humble confidenca 
 of eternal happiness through the merits of the Savior. 
 
 " Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord." 
 
 His wife survived him nineteen years, and died 
 November 19, 1795, aged seventy-six. It was 
 during the dark, early period of her widowhood 
 that the sad events occurred which have furnished 
 the historian and the novelist with themes of the 
 deepest pathos, and to which prominence is given 
 in the following pages. But, 
 
 " Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes ; 
 They love a train they tread each other s heels." 
 
 So said the jsublimest of poets, and so has all ex-
 
 20 HISTORICAL PREFACE. 
 
 perience proved. Thus, in her case, this affliction 
 did not come alone ; but at a period nearly con 
 nected with this, in the dreary, solitary hours of 
 the night, her night of sorrow too, her house 
 was discovered on fire, which, for lack of modern 
 appliances, was totally destroyed, with all its con 
 tents, consisting not only of many curious and 
 valuable articles of furniture both for use and 
 ornament, but embracing, also, an uncommon 
 library, overflowing with rare books, pamphlets, 
 &c., which her late husband had collected with 
 great effort and research. 
 
 Elizabeth, the eldest of her family, was born 
 in 1752. She was a child of early promise, and 
 remarkable in maturer years for her genius (I 
 use the term in no merely conventional sense, as 
 will hereafter appear) and accomplishments, as 
 well as for. her genial spirit and tender and endear 
 ing qualities. Her maternal ancestor, Thomas 
 Stanley, was an original owner and settler in 
 Hartford, Connecticut, and removed to, and died 
 in, Hadley, Massachusetts, January 30, 16623. 
 
 Thus nobly descended and connected, so singu 
 larly unfortunate, and her fate so afflicting and 
 disastrous, it is no wonder that the novelist point 
 ed her pen to record, with historical accuracy, a 
 destiny so fearful, a career so terrible. By her ex 
 ceeding personal beauty and accomplishments,
 
 HISTORICAL PREPACK. 27 
 
 added to the wealth of her mind, she attracted to 
 her sphere the grave and the gay, the learned and 
 the witty, the worshippers of the beautiful, with 
 those who reverently bend before all inner graces. 
 
 Prominent among these was the Rev. Joseph 
 Howe, then pastor at the New South Church, on 
 Church Green, in this city, a young man of rare 
 talents and eminent piety. Unfortunately, the 
 fear and excitement consequent on the hostile re 
 lation of the colonies at that time towards the 
 mother country forced him from his position here ; 
 and he left, with the family whose house had 
 been his home, for a more quiet, temporary re 
 treat in Norwich, Connecticut. Soon after this 
 he repaired to the residence of Jlev. Mr. Whitman, 
 in Hartford, for a short visit, high in the anticipa 
 tion of soon becoming the happy husband of the 
 gifted daughter Elizabeth. But Providence, in 
 wisdom, had ordered it otherwise ; and, while on 
 this visit, he suddenly sickened and died. 
 
 However much or little of soul or of sorrow she 
 had in this event we are not to know ; but another 
 stood ready to worship in his place, what we will 
 endeavor to believe was in some degree worthy 
 of homage. This was " J. Boyer," known as 
 the Rev. Joseph Buckminster, a graduate of Yale 
 College, and at that time tutor in the same insti-
 
 28 HISTORICAL PREFACE. 
 
 tution, who afterwards settled as minister over the 
 religious society in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, 
 and whose Biography was but a few years ago 
 published. 
 
 We have no reason to believe, however, that 
 either of these persons was her earliest choice, 
 especially the latter, or that, in this case most cer 
 tainly, there could have been at all that sacred 
 congeniality of spirit so deeply necessary to wo 
 man s nature, bearing out from her bosom that 
 deathless affection which nor pride, nor affluence, 
 nor folly, nor love of conquest, with the victory 
 every where certain, could in any wise overcome. 
 
 The feeling that existed on her part was of cir 
 cumstances only, mfluenced by strong parental 
 predilection, and the desire which so often obtains 
 in the heart of a true woman that of soothing 
 
 O 
 
 the love she cannot return, resolving itself at lengrh 
 into pity. 
 
 We might here also dwell upon the idiosyncra 
 sies of genius as applicable to her case, which are 
 generally banned, of whatever character they may 
 be, and evermore shut out all sympathy, till, in 
 despair or despite, folly is made crime. But since 
 sin must ever be arraigned for itself, and error is 
 prone to plead for mercy, I leave no word here that 
 can be misconstrued or misapplied. Certain it is
 
 HISTORICAL PREFACE. 29 
 
 that Elizabeth Whitman was marked as one of 
 strangely fluctuating moods, as the truly gifted 
 ever are, and of a wild, incomprehensible nature, 
 little understood by those who should have known 
 her best, and with whom she was most intimate. 
 Over this, in tracing her history, it were well to 
 pause, were it not that thus we might give coun 
 tenance to this prominent fact of modern days, 
 that the eccentricities of genius ^are often substi 
 tuted for genius itself, or are made its prime char 
 acteristics, as the gold of the jeweller is recom 
 mended for its beauty and strength in proportion 
 to its alloy. 
 
 However much we may regret the waywardness 
 of such a heart in the present instance, in that it 
 rejected one so nobly qualified as was Mr. Buck- 
 minster to appreciate its genius and its love, while 
 sympathizing with his own mortifying disappoint 
 ment, (for this we must admit,) that she had in the 
 secrets of her nature a preference for another, we 
 cannot altogether know its results. So cautiously 
 and discreetly did he, through a long and beautiful 
 life, qualify both his lips and his pen, that little or 
 nothing remains beyond these letters of the novel 
 ist which we may not doubt are authentic, as 
 they were long in the possession of Mrs. Henry Hill, 
 of Boston, the " Mrs. Sumner" of the novel to
 
 30 HISTORICAL 1 REFACfc. 
 
 tell how the heart was instructed, and how blighted 
 hope and blasted affection were made the lobes 
 through which the spirit caught its sublimest and 
 holiest respiration. We know 
 
 " Through lacerations takes the spirit wing, 
 And in the heart s long death throe grasps true life." 
 
 One little remark which has been suffered to creep 
 into his Memoirs is, however, of peculiar signifi 
 cance. I quote it here. 
 
 In speaking of Connecticut to a friend, he says, 
 " My place was there ; I always wished that state 
 to be my home ; but Providence has directed my 
 line of duty far away from the place of my first 
 affections." 
 
 He also as one who had every means of 
 knowing the fact has informed me was deeply 
 affected on reading the "romance" here following, 
 and at the time remarked that, had the author 
 been personally acquainted (not knowing that 
 she was) with the circumstances of his engage 
 ment with Elizabeth Whitman, she could not 
 have described them with more graphic truth. 
 
 The Hon. Pierrepont Edwards, to whom was 
 given the preference and precedence above referred 
 to, and who is made to assume in the chapters of 
 the novel the name of " Sanford," was the son of
 
 HISTORICAL PREFACE. 31 
 
 Rev. Jonathan Edwards, president of Princeton 
 College, New Jersey. His maternal grandmother 
 was Esther, the second daughter of the Rev. 
 Solomon Stoddard, and sister to the paternal 
 grandmother of Elizabeth Whitman, the wife of 
 Rev. Samuel Whitman before mentioned. A Mr. 
 Burt has by some been identified with this " San- 
 ford," the rival of " Boyer," yet without the least 
 pretension in history to authenticity. Nor can we 
 place much reliance upon the letters here intro 
 duced as his in point of originality, as there is 
 sufficient reason for believing that these are, for 
 the most part, of the author s invention, founded 
 upon the current reputation of his after years. 
 And we may be happy in so considering them, 
 since they would betray a character, even in earli 
 est manhood, too depraved and debased for hon 
 orable mention, although his errors were no doubt 
 altogether beyond the palliation of a woman s 
 pen. Yet we would fain look at him, in youth at 
 least, as undebauched and uncorrupt, however 
 stained may be the record of his manhood. 
 
 Between him and Elizabeth Whitman there 
 was, notwithstanding, over all and under all, a 
 close affinity of spirit; and there is no question, 
 aside from the frailties and objections which the 
 writer of the romance has introduced, that there
 
 32 HISTORICAL PREFACE. 
 
 was a marriage of the soul, superseding all after 
 ties which worldliness and depravity might have 
 consummated, that overshadows sin, and may 
 not pass into our reckoning. Not only such a 
 marriage, but one, though secret, actually sanc 
 tioned by the laws of the land, she is known to 
 have declared a fact previous to her death. 
 
 Question this who may, that deep down under 
 the impulses of surging passion there existed a 
 purer and holier affection for her, is in history suf 
 ficiently clear. They had been set in family con 
 nection, intimate by kin, intimate in earliest life 
 by every outward tie, and especially intimate by 
 the subtile affinities of their spiritual natures. Yet 
 he who can, under any circumstances, entreat the 
 love of woman, and then take advantage of her 
 weakness or her confidence, is an anomaly in na 
 ture, and should have a special judiciary here and 
 in heaven. 
 
 Since so much of the romance here following 
 is truth, veritable truth, it is to be regretted that 
 any error of historical character was suffered to 
 assume importance in the narrative. Yet this 
 is so often the case in works of this kind, that it 
 is not remarkable here. More surprising is it that 
 truth was so carefully and conscientiously guarded 
 and preserved.
 
 HISTORICAL PRKFACE. 33 
 
 Iii conflicting statements, it is difficult to deter 
 mine the precise year of the marriage of Mr. Ed 
 wards, whether before or after the death of " Eliza 
 Wharton," although it may have been long before, 
 even as one of his biographers has it, and that 
 recklessness and extravagance may have lifted him 
 to a too fearful height from the calm Eden of love 
 and honor, till he at length compromised the influ 
 ence of both to baser avarice. 
 
 That he married Frances Ogden, of Elizabeth- 
 town, New Jersey, for his first wife, is the fact, and 
 the date given is 1769. Yet the ciphers may be 
 questioned, I think, as it would make him but 
 nineteen years of age at the time of the event, 
 besides other considerations which make it appear 
 more doubtful still. * 
 
 He was, however, as has been already stated, 
 the eleventh and youngest child of Rev. Jonathan 
 Edwards, and was born in Northampton, Massa 
 chusetts, Sabbath. His biographer has been par 
 ticularly faithful in thus recording it, as if the 
 hallowed influences of the Sabbath upon birth have 
 a bearing on subsequent life, and were in his case 
 either strikingly marked or missed. He was born, 
 then, Sabbath, April 8, 1750, and was cousin, in 
 good or evil, to the notorious Aaron Burr. Ho 
 2
 
 34 x HISTORICAL PREPACK. 
 
 was also brother to Rev. Jonathan Edwards, presi 
 dent of Union College. 
 
 His mother, Sarah Pierrepont, was of aristocratic 
 origin, and the daughter of Rev. James Pierrepont, 
 and granddaughter of John Pierrepont, of Roxbury, 
 from whom descended Rev. John Pierpont, the 
 celebrated poet and divine of our own time. The 
 Pierrepont family was a branch of the family of 
 the Duke of Kingston, (Pierrepont being the fami 
 ly name ;) and the mother of Mr. Edwards was 
 thus cousin-german to Mary Pierrepont, (Lady 
 Mary Wortley Montague.) 
 
 Through his whole ancestral line we trace the 
 " laying on of hands " in the most conspicuous as 
 in the divinest order ; and thus might he be truly 
 called a child of prayer and consecration. What 
 pity that his biographer should have been compelled 
 to record, " The most remarkable feature of his 
 character was his unbridled licentiousness " ! But 
 we cannot drop the curtain here. We would re 
 lieve the picture by this somewhat lighter shade. 
 " His intellectual energies were gigantic. As a 
 pleader and a determined and artful advocate, he 
 had few equals. Hence, as a lawyer, he scarcely 
 ever lost a case in his whole practice." An amusing 
 anecdote is related of him in his professional career.
 
 HISTORICAL PREFACE. 35 
 
 " In an insurance case, the evidence of whicl was 
 strongly against him, he went in disguise to New 
 London, where the witnesses, mostly sailos, re 
 sided. In a loafer-like swagger he proposed and 
 secured bets from every material evidence in the 
 case, and thus disqualified them from bearing 
 testimony, on the ground that they were interested 
 witnesses." In his old age he married his house 
 keeper, and closed an eventful and unblessed life 
 at Bridgeport, April 14, 1826. Tis well to memo 
 rize him here, and thus register birth and death on 
 the very page that records the most mysterious 
 chapter of his history. 
 
 Let us return to unite and conclude our story. 
 In June, 1788, a female of uncommon beauty of 
 person, yet with an oppressed and melancholy 
 bearing, suddenly appeared at the old Bell Tav 
 ern in Danvers, Massachusetts, (a drawing of 
 which is here introduced.) She was habited in 
 black, and \yas seldom seen abroad, never except 
 alone, and at twilight, when she was observed to 
 wander as far as the old burying ground hard by, 
 and there to pause at its entrance, gazing long and 
 earnestly upon its silent, scattered mounds, at 
 length retracing her steps with the same melan 
 choly gait and air. 
 
 Here she remained nearly a month, discovering
 
 36 HISTORICAL PREFACE. 
 
 to none her real name or situation. She passed 
 her time in writing, and occasionally playing upon 
 a guitar, which was the only companion of her soli 
 tude. After remaining there about two weeks a 
 chaise was seen to pause before the door, upon the 
 lintel of which had secretly been traced in chalk, 
 as it afterwards appeared, the letters " E. W." A 
 gentleman hastily alighted, and was also observed 
 through the darkness of the evening to examine the 
 casing of the door, and then return to the chaise 
 and drive rapidly away. 
 
 The opinion was, by those who were cognizant 
 of the fact, that this was a secret, preconcerted 
 sign by which the lover should recognize the place 
 of her retreat ; and being too faintly drawn, through 
 the darkness of the night he failed to discover the 
 characters. 
 
 From this time, however, the spirits of the stran 
 ger evidently sunk ; and in two weeks more birth 
 and death had followed each other, and the grave 
 had closed over all. 
 
 This stranger had, in her peculiar situation, 
 tenderly won upon the sympathies of a few kind- 
 hearted individuals who had made their way to 
 her, one of whom, a Mrs. Southwick, lived directly 
 opposite the Bell Tavern. These were with her in 
 her last great agony, in which all sense of guilt
 
 HISTORICAL PREFACE. 37 
 
 was lost in pity. Mrs. S. has related that no word 
 of complaint or accusation was heard to fall from 
 her lips, while the spirit seemed brightening with an 
 unearthly hope, till what was charming in life was 
 indescribably lovely in death. Thus they laid the 
 beautiful stranger in the saintly robes of the sepul 
 chre without censure and without accusation, not 
 knowing how painfully she was mourned and 
 missed, as a star shut out of vision by clouds 
 and storm, in the home of her childhood and in 
 the heart of a widowed mother. 
 
 She had passed under the assumed name of 
 Walker while at the Bell Tavern of Danvers, and 
 her wardrobe was found marked with the corre 
 sponding initials, " E. W.," although applying to 
 her real name as well. These facts, in connec 
 tion with her death, were immediately published 
 in the Boston and Salem journals, and her friends 
 advertised to appear ; and thus were her real name 
 and place of residence elicited. 
 
 A short time afterwards, and a stranger came 
 and caused to be erected in the old burying ground 
 in Danvers, on the spot where she was interred, 
 two "gray stones," after the manner of Ossian, 
 with the touching inscription which this volume 
 records ; and the feet of strangers, moved by pity 
 and humanity, have worn a path to her grave
 
 38 HISTORICAL PREFACE. 
 
 which he who covets most in the world s memory 
 might even envy. 
 
 The tombstones (which the lathers of that ancient 
 town should shame to have recorded) have been 
 battered and broken for relics, till much of the in 
 scription is gone already, and the footstone entirely 
 removed. 
 
 But I have noted that Elizabeth, Whitman was 
 of superior merit, and had been recognized as a 
 child of genius in its most earnest sense. From 
 her earliest childhood she had been remarkable for 
 a deeply poetic temperament, and it appears she 
 was recognized as a poet of no common order by 
 the most distinguished writers of the day Bar 
 low, Trumbull, and others. Why her name and 
 writings have not been handed down to us by 
 those who have essayed to make careful compila 
 tions of the literature of the past century, I am un 
 able to divine. She was a relative as well of the 
 last-named poet, Trumbull, on the side of his 
 mother, who was Sarah Whitman, a sister of Rev. 
 Elnathan Whitman, the father of Elizabeth. 
 
 I find in the journals of that time the following 
 poem, which, though not the best of her produc 
 tions, certainly gives evidence of much poetic 
 power :
 
 HISTORICAL PREFACE. 39 
 
 TO Mil. BA11LOW. 
 By his Friend ELIZABETH WHITMAN, on New Year s Day, 1783. 
 
 Should every wish the heart of friendship knows 
 
 Be to your ear conveyed in rustic prose, 
 
 Lost in the wonders of your Eastern clime, 
 
 Or rapt in vision to some unborn time, 
 
 Th unartful tale might no attention gain ; 
 
 For Friendship knows not, like the Muse, to feign. 
 
 Forgive her, then, if in this weak essay 
 
 She tries to emulate thy daring lay, 
 
 And give to truth and warm affection s glow 
 
 The charms that from the tuneful sisters flow. 
 
 On this blest morning s most auspicious rise, 
 
 Which finds thee circled with domestic joys, 
 
 May thy glad heart its grateful tribute pay 
 
 To Him who shaped thy course and smoothed thy way 
 
 That guardian Power, who, to thy merit kind, 
 
 Bestowed the bliss most suited to thy mind 
 
 Retirement, friendship, leisure, learned ease, 
 
 All that the philosophic mind can please ; 
 
 All that the Muses love, th harmonious nine, 
 
 Inspire thy lays, and aid the great design. 
 
 But more than all the world could else bestow, 
 
 All pleasures that from fame or fortune flow, 
 
 To fix secure in bliss thy future life, 
 
 Heaven crowned thy blessings with a lovely wife 
 
 Wise, gentle, good, with every grace combined 
 
 That charms the sense or captivates the mind ; 
 
 Skilled every soft emotion to improve. 
 
 The joy of friendship, and the wish of love ; 
 
 To soothe the heart which pale Misfortune s train 
 
 Invades with grief or agonizing pain ;
 
 40 HISTORICAL PREFACE. 
 
 To point through devious paths the narrow road 
 That leads the soul to virtue or to God. 
 
 O friend ! O sister ! to my bosom dear 
 
 By every tie that binds the soul sincere ; 
 
 O, while I fondly dwell upon thy name, 
 
 Why sinks my soul, unequal to the theme ? 
 
 Eut though unskilled thy various worth to praise, 
 
 Accept my wishes, and excuse my lays. 
 
 May all thy future days, like this, be gay, 
 
 And love and fortune blend their kindest ray ; 
 
 Long in their various gifts mayst thou be blessed, 
 
 And late ascend the realms of endless rest. 
 
 Among her papers, also, after her decease, was 
 found a pastoral on " Disappointment," which here 
 follows, evidently written during her seclusion in 
 Danvers, with this brief and pathetic letter in 
 stenographic characters : 
 
 "Must I die alone?.. Shall 1 never see you 
 more ? I know that you will come ; but you will 
 come too late. This is, I fear, my last ability. 
 Tears fall so fast I know not how to write. Why 
 did you leave me in such distress ? But I will not 
 reproach you. All that was dear I forsook for 
 you, but do not regret it. May God forgive in 
 both what was amiss. When I go from here, I 
 will leave you some way to find me. If I die, will 
 you come and drop a tear over rny grave?" 
 
 The poem, which continues in the same moving
 
 HISTORICAL PREFACE. 41 
 
 strain, is touching and tender, and betrays a heart 
 lull of refinement and sensibility. 
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 With i ond impatience, all the tedious day 
 
 I sighed, and wished the lingering hours away ; 
 
 For when bright Hespcr led the starry train, 
 
 My shepherd swore to meet me on the plain. 
 
 With eager haste to that dear spot I flew, 
 
 And lingered long, and then in tears withdrew. 
 
 Alone, abandoned to love s tenderest woes, 
 
 l)own my pale checks the tide of sorrow flows ; 
 
 Dead to all joy that Fortune can bestow, 
 
 In vain for me her useless bounties flow. 
 
 Take back each envied gift, ye powers divine, 
 
 And only let me call Fidelio mine. 
 
 Ah, wretch ! what anguish yet thy soul must prove ! 
 
 For thou canst hope to lose thy care in love ; 
 
 And when Fidelio meets thy tearful eye, 
 
 Pale fear and cold despair his presence fly. 
 
 With pensive steps I sought thy walks again, 
 
 And kissed thy token on the verdant plain ; 
 
 With fondest hope, through many a blissful hour, 
 
 We gave our souls to Fancy s pleasing power. 
 
 Lost in the magic of that sweet employ, 
 
 To build gay scenes and fashion future joy, 
 
 We saw mild Peace over fair Canaan rise, 
 
 And shower her pleasures from benignant skies. 
 
 On airy hills our happy mansion rose, 
 
 Built but for joy no room for future woes. 
 
 Hound the calm solitude with ceaseless song, 
 
 * -* * * # * 
 
 Sweet as the sleep of innocence the day, 
 By transports measured, lightly danced away ;
 
 42 HISTORICAL I RKFACK. 
 
 To love, to bliss, the unioued soul was given, 
 
 And ah, too happy ! asked no brighter heaven. 
 
 And must the hours in ceaseless anguish roll ? 
 
 Will no soft sunshine cheer my clouded soul ? 
 
 Can this dear earth no transient joy supply ? 
 
 Is it my doom to hope, despair, and die ? 
 
 O, come once more, with soft endearments come ; 
 
 Burst the cold prison of the sullen tomb ; 
 
 Through favored walks thy chosen maid attend 
 
 Where well-known shades their pleasing branches bend ; 
 
 Shed the soft poison of thy speaking eye, 
 
 And look those raptures lifeless words deny. 
 
 Still he, though late, reheard what ne er could tire, 
 
 But, told each eve, fresh pleasures would inspire ; 
 
 Still hope those scones which love and fancy drew, 
 
 But, drawn a thousand times, were ever new. 
 
 Can fancy paint, can words express, 
 Can aught on earth my woes redress ? 
 E en thy soft smiles can ceaseless prove 
 Thy truth, thy tenderness, and love. 
 Once thou couldst every bliss inspire, 
 Transporting joy and gay desire ; 
 Now cold Despair her banner rears, 
 And Pleasure flies when she appears ; 
 Fond Hope within my bosom dies, 
 And Agony her place supplies. 
 O thou, for whose dear sake I bear 
 A doom so dreadful, so severe, 
 May happy fates thy footsteps guide, 
 And o er thy peaceful home preside ; 
 
 Nor let E a s early tomb 
 
 Infect thcc with its baleful gloom. 
 
 iStill another poem, of more genuine beauty and
 
 HISTORICAL, PREFACE. ! P> 
 
 strength than either oi these, has been preserved 
 in her own handwriting, which I doubt not the 
 reader will thank me for introducing here, although 
 it bears more of recrimination than the others. 
 
 Thy presents to some happier lover send ; 
 Content thyself to be Lucinda s friend. 
 The soft expression of thy gay design 
 111 suits the sadness of a heart like mine 
 A heart like mine, forever doomed to prove 
 Each tender woe, but not one joy of love. 
 
 First from my arms a dying lover torn, 
 In early life it was my fate to mourn. 
 A father next, by fate s relentless doom, 
 With heartfelt woe I followed to the tornb. 
 Now all was lost ; no friends remained to guide 
 My erring step, or calm life s boisterous tide. 
 
 Again th admiring youths around me bowed ; 
 And one I singled from the sighing crowd. 
 Well skilled he was in every winning art 
 To warm the fancy, or to touch the heart. 
 Why must my pen the noble praise deny, 
 Which virtue, worth, and honor should supply ? 
 
 youth beloved ! what pangs my breast has borne 
 To find thee false, ungrateful, and forsworn ! 
 
 A shade and darkness o er my prospect spreads, 
 The damps of night and death s eternal shades. 
 The scorpion s sting, by disappointment brought, 
 And all the horrors of despairing thought, 
 Sad as they arc, I might, perhaps, endure, 
 And bear with patience what admits no cure. 
 But here my bosom is to madness moved ; 
 
 1 suffer by the wrongs of him I loved.
 
 11 HISTORICAL PREPACK. 
 
 O, had I died by pitying Heaven s decree, 
 Nor proved so black, so base, a mind in thee ! 
 
 But vaiii the wish ; ray heart was doomed to prove 
 
 * 
 Each torturing pang, but not one joy of love. 
 
 AVouldst thou again fallacious prospects spread, 
 
 And woo me from the confines of the dead ? 
 
 The pleasing scenes that charmed me once retrace 
 
 Gay scenes of rapture and ecstatic bliss ? 
 
 How did my heart embrace the dear deceit, 
 
 And fondly cherish the deluding cheat ! 
 
 Delusive hope, and wishes sadly vain, 
 
 Unless to sharpen disappointment s pain. 
 
 These are., but the fragmentary proofs of her 
 poetic ability; still they are the most ttiat have 
 been preserved bearing full authenticity ; yet these 
 betray a skilful and accustomed pen, though 
 stamped with the bitterness of woe. 
 
 Here, then, we will take up the idea which we 
 left several pages back, in order to introduce a 
 quotation from a volume of singular power in be 
 half of those thus gifted, who are every where 
 looked upon with some degree of suspicion at 
 least, as I find our heroine was even long before 
 she wandered from the path of virtue. I quote it 
 only to soften the harsher judgment of the world, 
 ever eager to condemn what it cannot compre 
 hend; yet must it by no means be made to apolo 
 gize for any sin. 
 
 While I am willing to be known as believing
 
 HISTORICAL PREFACE. 4f> 
 
 that genius can be governed by no conventional 
 laws, but is ever a law unto itself, I am also in 
 the full belief of the independent moral power of 
 every individual to regulate his own acts accord 
 ing to the purest code of morality. But to the 
 quotation, which, with the above remarks, the 
 reader would find pertinent to time and place had 
 he turned over the historical pages having a bear 
 ing on this romance which I have. 
 
 " The strong seductions and fierce trials of the 
 heart of genius who shall estimate? * * * 
 What does an ordinary mind know of the inner 
 storm and whirlwind, as it were, of restlessness ; 
 the craving after excitement and high action ; the 
 inability to calm the breast and repose in fixity ; 
 the wild beatings and widowed longings after 
 sympathy ? * * * It is the severe lot of genius 
 that its blessedness should be its bane ; that that 
 wherein its heavenly franchise gives it to excel 
 mankind is the point wherein it should be cursed 
 above Us brethren!" 
 
 More I might quote ; but these few extracts 
 are sufficient for my purpose ; and I hasten to con 
 clude this chapter with what may to the general 
 reader appear more relevant. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Not many years ago the Bell Tavern, as it
 
 40 HISTORICAL PREFACE. 
 
 was ever named, was razed to its foundation, and 
 a new building erected on the spot where it stood. 
 At this time a pleasant je.u (f esprit from the hu 
 morous and ready pen which has failed not to 
 make its mark in the world of Fitch Poole, Esq., 
 of Danvers, was published, which gained a wide 
 credence in its authenticity. This curious witti 
 cism affected to have discovered in the wall of 
 the room which " Eliza Wharton " occupied an 
 original letter from her to Mr. Edwards, dated 
 May, 1778, besides various articles of her wearing 
 apparel, such as slippers, &c., and also her guitar, 
 all of which had been concealed in the ceiling 
 since the sad close of her history. Numbers 
 flocked to see them ; but, as it was a mere pleas 
 antry, the hoax was well received, and ended in 
 the neighborhood of Danvers with the privileged 
 "April fool s day" of its date, although it may 
 even yet have believers in distant places. 
 
 Thus, kind reader, have I accomplished the task 
 assigned me with fidelity to truth and to human 
 ity, and here lay the offering on the altar of uni 
 versal love without excuse. 
 
 JANE E. LOCKE. 
 
 NOTE. For important facts which, have greatly aided me in pre 
 paring this prefatory chapter I am much indebted, as I would here 
 gratefully acknowledge, to Ezekiel White, Esq., of Easthampton, and 
 Mrs. H. V. Cheney, of Montreal. J. E. L.
 
 THE COQUETTE; 
 
 OR, THE 
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OE ELIZA WHAETOK 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 To Miss LUCY FREEMAN. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 AN unusual sensation possesses my breast a 
 sensation which I once thought could never per 
 vade it on any occasion whatever. It is pleasure, 
 pleasure, my dear Lucy, on leaving my paternal 
 roof. Could you have believed that the darling 
 child of an indulgent and dearly-beloyed mother 
 would feel a gleam of joy at leaving her? But so 
 it is. The melancholy, the gloom, the condolence 
 which surrounded rne for a month after the death 
 of Mr. Haly had depressed my spirits, and palled 
 every enjoyment of life. Mr. Haly was a man of 
 worth a man of real and substantial merit. He 
 is, therefore, deeply and justly regretted by his 
 
 (4?)
 
 48 , THE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 friends. He was chosen to be a future guardian 
 and companion for me, and was, therefore, beloved 
 }jy mine. As their choice, as a good man, and a 
 faithful friend, I esteemed him ; but no one ac 
 quainted with the disparity of our tempers and dis 
 positions, our views and designs, can suppose my 
 heart much engaged in the alliance. Both nature 
 and education had instilled into my mind an im 
 plicit obedience to the will and desires of my parents. 
 To them, of course, I sacrificed my fancy in this 
 affair, determined that my reason should concur 
 with theirs, and on that to risk my future hap 
 piness. I was the more encouraged, as I saw, from 
 our first acquaintance, his declining health, and 
 expected that the event would prove as it has. 
 Think not, however, that I rejoice in his death. 
 No ; far be it from me ; for though I believe that I 
 never felt the passion of love for Mr. Haly, yet a 
 habit of conversing with him, of hearing daily the 
 most virtuous, tender, and affectionate sentiments 
 from his lips, inspired emotions of the sincerest 
 friendship and esteem. 
 
 He is gone. His fate is unalterably, and I trust 
 happily, fixed. He lived the life, and died the death, 
 of the righteous. O that my last end may be like 
 his ! This event will, I hope, make a suitable and 
 abiding impression upon my mind, teach me the
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 49 
 
 fading nature of all sublunary enjoyments, and the 
 little dependence which is to be placed on earthly 
 felicity. Whose situation was more agreeable, 
 whose prospects more flattering, than Mr. Haly s ? 
 Social, domestic, and connubial joys were fondly^ 
 anticipated, and friends and fortune seemed ready 
 to crown every wish ; yet, animated by still brighter 
 hopes, he cheerfully bade them all adieu. In con 
 versation with me but a few days before his exit, 
 " There is," said he, " but one link in the chain of 
 life undissevered ; that, rny dear Eliza, is my at 
 tachment to you. But God is wise and good in 
 all his ways ; and in this, as in all other respects, I 
 would cheerfully say, His will be done." 
 
 You, my friend, were witness to the concluding 
 scene ; and, therefore, I need not describe it. 
 
 I shall only add on the subject, that if I have 
 wisdom and prudence to follow his advice and ex 
 ample, if his prayers for my temporal and eternal wel 
 fare be heard and answered, 1 shall be happy indeed. 
 
 The disposition of mind which I now feel I 
 wish to cultivate. Calm, placid, and serene, 
 thoughtful of my duty, and benevolent to all 
 around me, I wish for no other connection than 
 that of friendship. 
 
 This letter is all an egotism. I have even 
 
 neglected to mention the respectable and happy 
 4
 
 50 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 friends with whom I reside, but will do it in my 
 next. Write soon and often ; and believe me sin 
 cerely yours, 
 
 ELIZA WHARTON. 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 To THE SAME. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 Time, which effaces every occasional impression, 
 I find gradually dispelling the pleasing pensiveness 
 which the melancholy event, the subject of my last, 
 had diffused over my mind. Naturally cheerful, vol 
 atile, and unreflecting, the opposite disposition I 
 have found to contain sources of enjoyment which 
 I was before unconscious of possessing. 
 
 My friends here are the picture of conjugal 
 felicity. The situation is delightful the visit 
 ing parties perfectly agreeable. Every thing tends 
 to facilitate the return of my accustomed vivacity. 
 I have written to my mother, and received an an 
 swer. She praises my fortitude, and admires the 
 philosophy which I have exerted under what she 
 calls my heavy bereavement. Poor woman ! she 
 little thinks that my heart was untouched; and 
 when that is unaffected, other sentiments and pas-
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELTZA WHARTON. 51 
 
 sions make but a transient impression. I have 
 been, for a month or two, excluded from the gay 
 world, and, indeed, fancied myself soaring above it. 
 It is now that I begin to descend, and find my nat 
 ural propensity for mixing in the busy scenes and 
 active pleasures of life returning. I have received 
 your letter your moral lecture rather ; and be as 
 sured, my dear, your monitorial lessons and advice 
 shall be attended to. I believe I shall never again 
 resume those airs which you term coquettish, but 
 which I think deserve a softer appellation, as they 
 proceed from an innocent heart, and are the effu 
 sions of a youthful and cheerful mind. We are all 
 invited to spend the day to-morrow at Colonel 
 Farington s, who has an elegant seat in this neigh 
 borhood. Both he and his lady are strangers to 
 me ; but the friends by whom I am introduced 
 will procure me a welcome reception. Adieu. 
 
 ELIZA WHARTON. 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 To THE SAME. 
 
 NEW HA YEN. 
 
 Is it time for me to talk again of conquests ? 
 or must I only enjoy them in silence ? I must
 
 52 TTIK COQUETTE ; OP., THE 
 
 write to you the impulses of my mind, or I must 
 not write at all. You are not so morose as to wish 
 me to become a nun, would our country and re 
 ligion allow it. I ventured, yesterday, to throw 
 aside the habiliments of mourning, and to array 
 myself in those more adapted to my taste. We 
 arrived at Colonel Farington s about one o clock. 
 The colonel handed me out of the carriage, and 
 introduced me to a large company assembled in 
 the hall. 
 
 My name was pronounced with an emphasis, 
 and I was received with the most flattering to 
 kens of respect. When we were summoned to 
 dinner, a young gentleman in a clerical dress 
 offered me his hand, and led me to a table fur 
 nished with an elegant and sumptuous repast, with 
 more gallantry and address than commonly fall to 
 the share of students. He sat opposite me at 
 table ; and whenever I raised my eye, it caught 
 his. The ease and politeness of his manners, with 
 his particular attention to me, raised my curi 
 osity, and induced me to ask Mrs. Laiton who he 
 was. She told me that his name was Boyer; that 
 he was descended from a worthy family; had 
 passed with honor and applause through the uni 
 versity where he was educated ; had since studied 
 divinity with success; and now had a call to
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHAKTON. 
 
 settle as a minister in one of the first parishes in a 
 
 neighboring state. 
 
 The gates of a spacious garden were thrown 
 open at this instant, and I accepted with avidity 
 an invitation to walk in it. Mirth and hilarity pre 
 vailed, and the moments fled on downy wings, 
 while we traced the beauties of Art and Nature, so 
 liberally displayed and so happily blended in this 
 delightful retreat. An enthusiastic admirer of 
 scenes like these, I had rambled some way from 
 the company, when I was followed by Mrs. Laiton 
 to offer her condolence on the supposed loss which 
 I had sustained in the death of Mr. Haly. My 
 heart rose against the woman, so ignorant of hu 
 man nature as to think such conversation accept 
 able at such a time. I made her little reply, and 
 waved the subject, though I could not immediately 
 dispel the gloom which it excited. 
 
 The absurdity of a custom authorizing people 
 at a first interview to revive the idea of griefs 
 which time has lulled, perhaps obliterated, is in 
 tolerable. To have our enjoyments arrested by the 
 empty compliments of unthinking persons for no 
 other reason than a compliance with fashion, is to 
 be treated in a manner which the laws of human 
 ity forbid. 
 
 We were soon joined by the gentlemen, who
 
 64 THE COQUETTE ; OR THE 
 
 each selected his partner, and the walk was pro 
 longed. 
 
 Mr. Boyer offered me his arm, which I gladly ac 
 cepted, happy to be relieved from the impertinence 
 of my female companion. We returned to tea ; 
 after which the ladies sung, and played by turns 
 on the piano forte ; while some of the gentlemen 
 accompanied with the flute, the clarinet, and the 
 violin, forming in the whole a very decent concert. 
 An elegant supper, and half an hour s conversation 
 after it, closed the evening ; when we returned 
 home, delighted with our entertainment, and 
 pleased with ourselves and each other. My im 
 agination is so impressed with the festive scenes 
 of the day that Morpheus waves his ebon wand 
 in vain. The evening is fine beyond the power 
 of description; all Nature is serene and harmo 
 nious, in perfect unison with my present disposi 
 tion of mind. I have been taking a retrospect of 
 my past life, and, a few juvenile follies excepted, 
 which I trust the recording angel has blotted out 
 with a tear of charity, find an approving con 
 science and a heart at ease. Fortune, indeed, has 
 not been very liberal of her gifts to me ; but I pre 
 sume on a large stock in the bank of friendship, 
 which, united with health and innocence, give me 
 some pleasing anticipations of future felicity.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHAKTON. 55 
 
 Whatever rny fate may be, I shall always continue 
 your 
 
 ELIZA WHARTON. 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 To MR. SELBY. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 You ask me, my friend, whether I am in pursuit 
 of truth, or a lady. I answer, Both. I hope and 
 trust they are united, and really expect to find 
 Truth, and the Virtues and Graces besides, in a fair 
 form. If you mean by the first part of your ques 
 tion whether I am searching into the sublimer doc 
 trines of religion, to these I would by no means 
 be inattentive ; but, to be honest, my studies of that 
 kind have been very much interrupted of late. 
 The respectable circle of acquaintances with 
 which I am honored here has rendered my visits 
 very frequent and numerous. In one of these I 
 was introduced to Miss Eliza Wharton a young 
 lady whose elegant person, accomplished mind, and 
 polished manners have been much celebrated. Her 
 fame has often reached me ; but, as the Queen of 
 Sheba said to Solomon, the half was not told me. 
 You will think that I talk in the style of a lover
 
 56 THE COQUETTE; OK, THE 
 
 I confess it; nor am I ashamed to rank myself 
 among the professed admirers of this lovely fair 
 one. I am in no danger, however, of becoming 
 an enthusiastic devotee. No ; I mean I act upon 
 just and rational principles. Expecting soon to 
 settle in an eligible situation, if such a companion 
 as I am persuaded she will make me may fall to 
 my lot, I shall deem myself as happy as this state 
 of imperfection will admit. She is now resident 
 at General Richman s. The general and his lady 
 are her particular friends ; they are warm in her 
 praises. They tell me, however, that she is nat 
 urally of a gay disposition. No matter for that ; 
 it is an agreeable quality, where there is discretion 
 sufficient for its regulation. C.A cheerful friend, 
 much more a cheerful wife, is peculiarly necessary 
 to a person of a studious and sedentary life. 
 They dispel the gloom of retirement, and exhila 
 rate the spirits depressed by intense application. 
 She was formerly addressed by the late Mr. Haly, 
 of Boston. He was not, it seems, the man of her 
 choice ; but her parents were extremely partial to 
 him, and wished the connection to take place. 
 She, like a dutiful child, sacrificed her own inclina 
 tion to their pleasure so far as to acquiesce in his 
 visits. This she more easily accomplished, as his 
 health, which declined from their first acquaint-
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 57 
 
 ance, led her to suppose, as the event has proved, 
 that he would not live to enter into any lasting en 
 gagements. Her father, who died some months 
 before him, invited him to reside at his house for 
 the benefit of a change of air, agreeably to the ad 
 vice of his physicians. She attended him during 
 his last illness with all the care and assiduity of a 
 nurse and with all the sympathizing tenderness 
 of a sister. 
 
 I have had several opportunities of conversing 
 with her. She discovers an elevated mind, a ready 
 apprehension, and an accurate knowledge of the 
 various subjects which have been brought into 
 view. I have not yet introduced the favorite sub 
 ject of my heart. Indeed, she seems studiously to 
 avoid noticing any expression which leads towards 
 it ; but she must hear it soon. I am sure of the 
 favor and interest of the friends with whom she re 
 sides. They have promised to speak previously in 
 my behalf. I am to call, as if accidentally, this 
 afternoon just as they are to ride abroad. They 
 are to refer me to Miss "Wharton for entertainment 
 till their return. What a delightful opportunity for 
 my purpose ! I am counting the hours nay, the 
 very moments. Adieu. You shall soon again 
 hear from your most obedient, 
 
 J. BOYER.
 
 68 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 To Miss LUCY FREEMAN. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 These bewitching charms of mine have a ten 
 dency to keep my mind in a state of perturbation. 
 I am so pestered with these admirers ! Not that I 
 am so very handsome neither; but, I don t know how 
 it is, I am certainly very much the taste of the 
 other sex. Followed, flattered, and caressed, I have 
 cards and compliments in profusion. But I must 
 try to be serious ; for I have, alas ! one serious 
 lover. As I promised you to be particular in my 
 writing, I suppose I must proceed methodically. 
 Yesterday we had a party to dine. Mr. Boyerwas 
 of the number. His attention was immediately 
 engrossed ; and I soon perceived that every word, 
 every action, and every look was studied to gain 
 my approbation. As he sat next me at dinner, his 
 assiduity and politeness were pleasing ; and as we 
 walked together afterwards, his conversation was 
 improving. Mine was sentimental and sedate 
 perfectly adapted to the taste of my gallant. 
 Nothing, however, was said particularly expres 
 sive of his apparent wishes. I studiously avoided 
 every kind of discourse which might lead to this 
 topic. I wish not for a declaration from any one,
 
 LIFE AND LETTEES OF ELIZA WHARTON. 5i* 
 
 especially from one whom I could not repulse and 
 do not intend to encourage at present. His con 
 versation, so similar to what I had often heard 
 from a similar character, brought a deceased friend 
 to mind, and rendered me somewhat pensive. I 
 retired directly after supper. Mr. Boyer had just 
 taken leave. 
 
 Mrs. Richman came into my chamber as she 
 was passing to her own. " Excuse my intrusion, 
 Eliza," said she. " I thought I would just step in 
 and ask you if you have passed a pleasant day." 
 
 " Perfectly so, madam ; and I have now retired to 
 protract the enjoyment by recollection." " What, my 
 dear, is your opinion of our favorite, Mr. Boyer ? " 
 " Declaring him your favorite, madam, is sufficient 
 to render me partial to him ; but to be frank, inde 
 pendent of that, I think him an agreeable man." 
 " Your heart, I presume, is now free." " Yes, and I 
 hope it will long remain so." " Your friends, my dear, 
 solicitous for your welfare, wish to see you suitably 
 and agreeably connected." " I hope my friends will 
 never again interpose in my concerns of that nature. 
 You, madam, who have ever known my heart, are 
 sensible that, had the Almighty spared life in a 
 certain instance, I must have sacrificed my own 
 happiness or incurred their censure. I am young,
 
 60 THE COQUETTE ; OB, THE 
 
 gay, volatile. A melancholy event has lately 
 extricated me from those shackles which parental 
 authority had imposed on my mind. Let me, then, 
 enjoy that freedom which I so highly prize. Let me 
 have opportunity, unbiased by opinion, to gratify 
 my natural disposition in a participation of those 
 pleasures which youth and innocence afford." " Of 
 such pleasures, no one, my dear, would wish to de 
 prive you ; but beware, Eliza ! Though strewed 
 with flowers, when contemplated by your lively 
 imagination, it is, after all, a slippery, thorny path. 
 The round of fashionable dissipation is dangerous. 
 A phantom is often pursued, which leaves its de 
 luded votary the real form of wretchedness." She 
 spoke with an emphasis, and, taking up her candle, 
 wished me a good night. I had not power to re 
 turn the compliment. Something seemingly pro 
 phetic in her looks and expressions cast a moment 
 ary gloom upon my mind; but I despise those 
 contracted ideas which confine virtue to a cell. I 
 have no notion of becoming a recluse. Mrs. Rich- 
 man has ever been a beloved friend of mine ; yet 
 I always thought her rather prudish. Adieu. 
 
 ELIZA WHARTON.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 61 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 To THE SAME. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 I had scarcely seated myself at the breakfast 
 table this morning when a servant entered with a 
 card of invitation from Major Sanford, requesting 
 the happiness of my hand this evening at a ball 
 given by Mr. Atkins, about three miles from this. 
 I showed the billet to Mrs. Richman, saying, " I have 
 not much acquaintance with this gentleman, mad 
 am ; but I suppose his character sufficiently re 
 spectable to warrant, an affirmative answer." " He is 
 a gay man, my dear, to say no more ; and such are 
 the companions we wish when we join a party 
 avowedly formed for pleasure." I then stepped into 
 my apartment, wrote an answer, and despatched 
 the servant. When I returned to the parlor, some 
 thing disapprobating appeared in the countenances 
 of both my friends. I endeavored, without seeming 
 to observe, to dissipate it by chitchat; but they 
 were better pleased with each other than with me, 
 and, soon rising, walked into the garden, and left 
 me to amuse myself alone. My eyes followed 
 them through the window. " Happy pair ! " said I. 
 " Should it ever be my fate to wear the hymeneal 
 chain, may I be thus united ! The purest and
 
 62 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 most ardent affection, the greatest consonance of 
 taste and disposition, and the most congenial vir 
 tue and wishes distinguish this lovely couple. 
 Health and wealth, with every attendant blessing, 
 preside over their favored dwelling, and shed their 
 benign influence without alloy." The conscious 
 ness of exciting their displeasure gave me pain ; 
 but I consoled myself with the idea that it was ill 
 founded. 
 
 " They should consider," said I, " that they have 
 no satisfaction to look for beyond each other; 
 there every enjoyment is centred ; but I am a 
 poor solitary being, who need some amusement be 
 yond what I can supply myself. The mind, after 
 being confined at home for a while, sends the im 
 agination abroad in quest of new treasures ; and 
 the body may as well accompany it, for aught I 
 can see." 
 
 General Richman and lady have ever appeared 
 solicitous to promote my happiness since I have 
 resided with them. They have urged my accept 
 ance of invitations to join parties; though they 
 have not been much themselves of late, as Mrs. 
 Richman s present circumstances render her fond 
 of retirement. What reason can be assigned for 
 their apparent reluctance to this evening s enter 
 tainment is to me incomprehensible ; but I shall
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 83 
 
 apply the chemical powers of friendship, and ex 
 tract the secret from Mrs. Richman to-morrow, if 
 not before. Adieu. I am now summoned to din 
 ner, and after that shall be engaged in preparation 
 till the wished-for hour of hilarity and mirth en 
 grosses every faculty of your 
 
 ELIZA WHARTON. 
 
 LETTER VII. 
 
 i o MR. SELBY. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 Divines need not declaim, nor philosophers ex 
 patiate, on the disappointments of human life. 
 Are they not legibly written on every page of our 
 existence ? Are they not predominantly prevalent 
 over every period of our lives ? 
 
 When I closed my last letter to you, my heart 
 exulted in the pleasing anticipation of promised 
 bliss ; my wishes danced on the light breezes of 
 hope ; and my imagination dared to arrest the 
 attention of, and even claim a return of affection 
 from, the lovely Eliza Wharton. But imagination 
 only it has proved, and that dashed with the bit 
 ter ranklings of jealousy and suspicion. 
 
 But to resume my narrative. I reached the
 
 64 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 mansion of my friend about four. I was disagree 
 ably struck with the appearance of a carriage at 
 the door, as it raised an idea of company which 
 might frustrate my plan ; but still more disagree 
 able were my sensations when, on entering the 
 parlor, I found Major Sanford evidently in a wait 
 ing posture. I was very politely received ; and 
 when Eliza entered the room with a brilliance of 
 appearance and gayety of manner which I had 
 never before connected with her character, I rose, 
 as did Major Sanford, who offered his hand and 
 led her to a chair. I forgot to sit down again, 
 but stood transfixed by the pangs of disappoint 
 ment. Miss Wharton appeared somewhat con 
 fused, but, soon resuming her vivacity, desired me 
 to be seated, inquired after my health, and made 
 some commonplace remarks on the weather; then, 
 apologizing for leaving me, gave her hand again 
 to Major Sanford, who had previously risen, and 
 reminded her that the time and their engagements 
 made it necessary to leave the good company ; 
 which, indeed, they both appeared very willing 
 to do. General Richman and lady took every 
 method in their power to remove my chagrin and 
 atone for the absence of my fair one ; but ill did 
 they succeed. They told me that Miss Wharton 
 had not the most distant idea of my visiting there
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHAETON. 65 
 
 this afternoon, much less of the design of my visit; 
 that for some months together she had been lately 
 confined by the sickness of Mr. Haly, whom she at 
 tended during the whole of his last illness; which 
 confinement had eventually increased her desire 
 of indulging her natural disposition for gayety. 
 She had, however, they said, an excellent heart 
 and reflecting mind, a great share of sensibility, 
 and a temper peculiarly formed for the enjoy 
 ments of social life. " But this gentleman, madam, 
 who is her gallant this evening, is his charac 
 ter unexceptionable ? Will a lady of delicacy 
 associate with an immoral, not to say profligate, 
 man?" "The rank and fortune of Major San- 
 ford," said Mrs. Richman, " procure him respect ; 
 his specious manners render him acceptable in 
 public company; but I must own that he is not 
 the person with whom I wish my cousin to be 
 connected even for a moment. She never con 
 sulted me so little on any subject as that of his 
 card this morning. Before I had time to object, 
 she dismissed the servant; and I forbore to de 
 stroy her expected happiness by acquainting her 
 with my disapprobation of her partner. Her omis 
 sion was not design ; it was juvenile indiscretion. 
 "We must, my dear sir," continued she, " look with 
 
 a candid eye on such eccentricities. Faults, not 
 5
 
 66 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 foibles, require the severity of censure." " Far, 
 madam, be it from me to censure any conduct 
 which as yet I have observed in Miss Wharton , 
 she has too great an interest in my heart to admit 
 of that." 
 
 We now went into more general conversation. 
 Tea was served; and I soon after took leave. 
 General Richman, however, insisted on my dining 
 with him on Thursday ; which I promised. And 
 here I am again over head and ears in the hypo 
 a disease, you will say, peculiar to students. I 
 believe it peculiar to lovers ; and with that class 1 
 must now rank myself, though I did not know, 
 until this evening, that I was so much engaged as 
 I find I really am. I knew, indeed, that I was ex- 
 ^emely pleased with this amiable girl ; that I was 
 interested in her favor ; that I was happier in her 
 company than any where else ; with innumerable 
 other circumstances, which would have told me 
 the truth had I examined them. But be that as it 
 may, I hope and trust that I am, and ever shall be, 
 a reasonable creature, and not suffer my judgment 
 to be misled by the operations of a blind passion. 
 
 I shall now lay aside this subject ; endeavor to 
 divest even my imagination of the charmer ; and 
 return, until Thursday, to the contemplation of those 
 truths and duties which have a happy tendency
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 67 
 
 io calm the jarring elements which compose our 
 mortal frame. Adieu. 
 
 J. BOYER. 
 
 LETTER VIII. 
 
 To MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 We had an elegant ball, last night, Charles ; 
 and what is still more to the taste of your old friend, 
 I had an elegant partner ; one exactly calculated to 
 please my fancy gay, volatile, apparently thought 
 less of every thing but present enjoyment. It was 
 Miss Eliza Wharton a young lady whose agree 
 able person, polished manners, and refined talents 
 have rendered her the toast of the country around 
 for these two years ; though for half that time she 
 has had a clerical lover imposed on her by her 
 friends ; for I am told it was not agreeable to her 
 inclination. By this same clerical lover of hers 
 she was for several months confined as a nurse. 
 But his death has happily relieved her ; and she 
 now returns to the world with redoubled lustre. 
 At present she is a visitor to Mrs. Richman, who 
 is a relation. I first saw her on a party of pleas 
 ure at Mr. Frazier s, where we walked, talked,
 
 68 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 sang, and danced together. I thought her cousin 
 watched her with a jealous eye ; for she is, you 
 must know, a prude ; and immaculate more so 
 than you or I must be the man who claims ad 
 mission to her society. But I fancy this young 
 lady is a coquette ; and if so, I shall avenge my 
 sex by retaliating the mischiefs she meditates 
 against us. Not that I have any ill designs, but 
 only to play off her own artillery by using a little 
 unmeaning gallantry. And let her beware of the 
 consequences. A young clergyman came in at 
 General Richman s yesterday, while I was waiting 
 for Eliza, who was much more cordially received 
 by the general and his lady than was your hum 
 ble servant ; but I lay that up. 
 
 When she entered the room, an air of mutual 
 embarrassment was evident. The lady recovered 
 her assurance much more easily than the gentle 
 man. I am just going to ride, and shall make it 
 in my way to call and inquire after the health of 
 my dulcinea. Therefore, adieu for the present. 
 
 PETER SANFORD.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 60 
 
 LETTER IX. 
 
 To Miss LUCY FREEMAN. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 I am not so happy to-day in the recollection of 
 last evening s entertainment as I was in the en 
 joyment. 
 
 The explanation which I promised you from 
 Mrs. Richman yesterday I could not obtain. When 
 I went down to dinner some friends of General 
 Richman s had accidentally dropped in, which pre 
 cluded all particular conversation. I retired soon 
 to dress, and saw Mrs. Richman no more till I 
 was informed that Major Sanford waited for me. 
 But I was surprised, on going into the parlor, to find 
 Mr. Boyer there. 1 blushed and stammered ; but I 
 know not why ; for certain I am that I neither love 
 nor fear the good man yet, whatever I may do some 
 future day. I would not be understood that I do 
 not respect and esteem him ; for I do both. But 
 these are calm passions, which soothe rather than 
 agitate the mind. It was not the consciousness 
 of any impropriety of conduct ; for I was far from 
 feeling any. The entertainment for which I was 
 prepared was such as virtue would not disapprove, 
 and my gallant was a man of fortune, fashion, 
 and, for aught I knew, of unblemished character.
 
 70 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 But Mr. Boyer was much more disconcerted 
 than myself. Indeed, he did not recover his phi 
 losophy while I staid. I believe, by some hints I 
 have received since, that he had some particular 
 views in which he was disappointed. 
 
 Our ball had every charm which could render a 
 ball delightful. My partner was all ease, polite 
 ness, and attention ; and your friend was as much 
 flattered and caressed as vanity itself could wish. 
 We returned to General Rich man s about two. 
 Major Sanford asked leave to call and inquire after 
 my health this morning ; and I am now expecting 
 him. I rose to breakfast. The late hour of retiring 
 to rest had not depressed, but rather exhilarated, 
 my spirits. My friends were waiting for me in 
 their parlor. They received me sociably, inquired 
 after my health, my last evening s entertainment, 
 the company, &c. ; when, after a little pause, Mrs. 
 llichman said, " And how do you like Major San- 
 ford, Eliza ? " " Very well indeed, madam ; I 
 think him a finished gentleman. Will you, who 
 are a connoisseur, allow him that title?" "No, 
 my dear; in my opinion he falls far below it, 
 since he is deficient in one of the great essentials 
 of the character; and that is virtue" "I am sur 
 prised," said I; "-but how has he incurred so 
 severe a censure ?" "By being a professed liber-
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTOX. 71 
 
 tine; by having but too successfully practised the 
 arts of seduction ; by triumphing in the destruction 
 of innocence and the peace of families." " O, 
 why was I not informed of this before ? But 
 perhaps these are old affairs the effects of juvenile 
 folly crimes of which he may have repented, and 
 which charity ought to obliterate." " No, my dear, 
 they are recent facts facts which he dares not 
 deny facts for which he ought to be banished 
 from all virtuous society. I should have intimated 
 this to you before ; but your precipitate acceptance 
 of his invitation deprived me of an opportunity 
 until it was too late to prevent your going with 
 him ; and we thought it best to protract your en 
 joyment as long as possible, not doubting but your 
 virtue and delicacy would, in future, guard you 
 against the like deception." 
 
 " Must I, then, become an avowed prude at 
 once, and refuse him admission if he call in com 
 pliance with the customary forms ? " " By no 
 means. I am sensible that even the false maxims 
 of the world must be complied with in a degree. 
 But a man of Major Sanford s art can easily dis 
 tinguish between a forbidding and an encouraging 
 reception. The former may, in this o,ase, be given 
 without any breach of the rules of politeness." 
 Astonished and mortified, I knew not what further
 
 72 THE COQUETTE; OK, THE 
 
 to say. I had been so pleased with the man that 
 I wished to plead in his favor; but virtue and pru 
 dence forbade. I therefore rose and retired. He 
 is this moment, I am told, below stairs ; so that J 
 must bid you adieu until the next post. 
 
 ELIZA WHARTON. 
 
 LETTER X. 
 
 To THE SAME. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 Upon closing my last, I walked down, and 
 found Major Sanford alone. He met me at the 
 door of the parlor, and, taking my hand with an 
 air of affectionate tenderness, led me to a seat, and 
 took one beside me. I believe the gloom of sus 
 picion had not entirely forsaken my brow. He 
 appeared, however, not to notice it, but, after the 
 compliments of the day had passed, entered into 
 an easy and agreeable conversation on the pleas 
 ures of society a conversation perfectly adapted 
 to my taste, and calculated to dissipate my cha 
 grin and pass the time imperceptibly. He inquired 
 the place of my native abode; and, having in 
 formed him, he said he had thoughts of purchasing 
 the seat of Captain Pribble, in that neighborhood,
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 73 
 
 for his residence ; and could he be assured of my so 
 ciety and friendship, his resolution would be fixed. 
 I answered his compliment only by a slight bow. 
 He took leave, and I retired to dress for the day, 
 being engaged to accompany my cousin to dine at 
 Mr. Lawrence s a gentleman of fortune and fash 
 ion in this vicinity. Mr. Lawrence has but one 
 daughter, heiress to a large estate, with an agree 
 able form, but a countenance which, to me, indi 
 cates not much soul. I was surprised in the after 
 noon to see Major Sanford alight at the gate. 
 He entered with the familiarity of an old acquaint 
 ance, and, after accosting each of the company, 
 told me, with a low bow, that he did not expect 
 the happiness of seeing me again so soon. I re 
 ceived his compliment with a conscious awkward 
 ness. Mrs. Richman s morning lecture still rang 
 ia my head ; and her watchful eye now traced 
 every turn of mine and every action of the major s. 
 Indeed, his assiduity was painful to me ; yet I 
 found it impossible to disengage myself a moment 
 from him, till the close of the day brought our 
 carriage to the door ; when he handed me in, and, 
 pressing my hand to his lips, retired. 
 
 What shall I say about this extraordinary man ? 
 Shall I own to you, my friend, that he is pleasing 
 to me? His person, his manners, his situation, all
 
 74 THE COQUETTE ; OR THE 
 
 combine to charm my fancy, and, to my lively 
 imagination, strew the path of life with flowers. 
 What a pity, my dear Lucy, that the graces and 
 virtues are not oftener united ! They must, how 
 ever, meet in the man of my choice ; and till I find 
 such u one, I shall continue to subscribe my name 
 
 ELIZA WHARTON. 
 
 LETTER XI. 
 
 To MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 Well, Charles, I have been manoeuvring to 
 day a little revengefully. That, you will say, is 
 out of character. So baleful & passion does not 
 easily find admission among those softer ones 
 which you well know I cherish. However, I am a 
 mere Proteus, and can assume any shape that will 
 best answer rny purpose. 
 
 I called this afternoon, as I told you I intended, 
 at General Richman s. I waited some time in 
 the parlor alone before Eliza appeared ; and when 
 she did appear, the distant reserve of her manners 
 and the pensiveness of her countenance convinced 
 me that she had been vexed, and I doubted not 
 but Peter Sanford was the occasion. Her wise
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 75 
 
 cousin, I could have sworn, had been giving her a 
 detail of the vices of her gallant, and warning her 
 against the dangers of associating with him in 
 future. Notwithstanding, I took no notice of any 
 alteration in her behavior, but entered with the 
 utmost facetiousness into a conversation which I 
 thought most to her taste. By degrees she as- 
 
 / 
 
 sumed her risual vivacity; cheerfulness and good 
 humor again animated her countenance. I tarried 
 as long as decency would admit. She having in 
 timated that they were to dine at my friend Law 
 rence s, I caught at this information, and deter 
 mined to follow them, and tease the jealous Mrs. 
 Richman by playing off all the gallantry I was 
 master of in her presence. 
 
 I went, and succeeded to the utmost of my 
 wishes, as I read in the vexation visible in the one, 
 and the ease and attention displayed by the other. 
 I believe, too, that I have charmed the eye, at least, 
 of the amiable Eliza. Indeed, Charles, she is a 
 fine girl. I think it would hurt my conscience to 
 wound her mind or reputation. Were I disposed 
 to marry, I am persuaded she would make an ex 
 cellent wife ; but that, you know, is no part of my 
 plan, so long as I can keep out of the noose. 
 Whenever I do submit to be shackled, it must be 
 from a necessity of mending my fortune. This
 
 76 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 gir] wouid be fur from doing that. However, I am 
 pleased with her acquaintance, and mean not to 
 abuse her credulity and good nature, if I can help it. 
 
 PETER SANFORD. 
 
 LETTER XII. 
 
 To Miss LUCY FREEMAN. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 The heart of your friend is again besieged. 
 Whether it will surrender to the assailants or not 
 I am unable at present to determine. Sometimes 
 I think of becoming a predestinarian, and submit 
 ting implicitly to fate, without any exercise of free 
 will ; but, as mine seerns to be a wayward one, I 
 would counteract the operations of it, if possible. 
 
 Mrs. Richman told me this morning that she 
 hoped I should be as agreeably entertained this 
 afternoon as I had been the preceding; that she 
 expected Mr. Boyer to dine and take tea, and 
 doubted not but he would be as attentive and sin 
 cere to me, if not as gay and polite, as the gentle 
 man who obtruded his civilities yesterday. I 
 replied that I had no reason to doubt the sincerity 
 of the one or the other, having never put them to 
 the test, nor did I imagine I ever should. " Your
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON". 77 
 
 friends, Eliza," said she, " would be very happy to 
 see you united to a man of Mr. Boyer s worth, 
 and so agreeably settled as he has a prospect of 
 being." " I hope," said T, " that my friends are 
 not so weary of my company as to wish to dis 
 pose of me. I am too happy in my present con 
 nections to quit them for new ones. Marriage is 
 the tomb of friendship. It appears to me a very 
 selfish state. Why do people in general, as soon 
 as they are married, centre all their cares, their 
 concerns, and pleasures in their own families ? 
 Former acquaintances are neglected or forgotten ; 
 the tenderest ties between friends are weakened 
 or dissolved ; and benevolence itself moves in a 
 very limited sphere." " It is the glory of the mar 
 riage state," she rejoined, " to refine by circum 
 scribing our enjoyments. Here we can reoose in 
 safety. 
 
 The friendships of the world are oft 
 Confed racies in vice, or leagues in pleasure : 
 Ours has the purest virtue for its basis ; 
 And such a friendship ends not but with life. 
 
 True, we cannot always pay that attention to 
 former associates which we may wish ; but the 
 little community which we superintend is quite 
 as important an object, and certainly renders us 
 more beneficial to the public. True benevolence,
 
 78 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 though it may change its objects, is not limited 
 by time or place. Its effects are the same, and, 
 aided by a second self, arc rendered more diffusive 
 and salutary." 
 
 Some pleasantry passed, and we retired to dress. 
 When summoned to dinner, I found Mr. Boyer 
 below. If what is sometimes said be true, that 
 love is diffident, reserved, and unassuming, this 
 man must be tinctured with it. These symptoms 
 were visible in his deportment when I entered the 
 room. However, he soon recovered himself, and 
 the conversation took a general turn. The festive 
 board was crowned with sociability, and we found 
 in reality " the feast of reason and the flow of 
 soul." After we rose from table, a walk in the 
 garden was proposed an amusement we are 
 all peculiarly fond of. Mr. Boyer offered me his 
 arm. When at a sufficient distance from our 
 company, he begged leave to congratulate him 
 self on having an opportunity, which he had 
 ardently desired for some time, of declaring to 
 me his attachment, and of soliciting an interest 
 in my favor ; or, if he might be allowed the term, 
 affection. I replied, " That, sir, is indeed laying 
 claim to an important interest. I believe you 
 must substitute some more indifferent epithet for 
 the present." " Well, then," said he, " if it must
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 79 
 
 be so, let it be esteem or friendship." " Indeed, 
 sir," said I, " you are entitled to them both. Merit 
 has always a share in that bank ; and I know of 
 none who lias a larger claim on that score than 
 Mr. Boyer." I suppose my manner was hardly 
 serious enough for what he considered a weighty 
 cause. He was a little disconcerted, but, soon re 
 gaining his presence of mind, entreated me, with 
 an air of earnestness, to encourage his suit, to ad 
 mit his addresses, and, if possible, to reward his 
 love, I told him that this was rather a sudden 
 affair to me, and that I could not answer him 
 without consideration. " Well, then," said he, 
 " take what time you think proper ; only relieve my 
 suspense as soon as may be. Shall I visit you again 
 to-morrow ? " " O, not so soon," said I ; " next Mon 
 day, I believe, will be early enough. I will endeavor 
 to be at home." He thanked me even for that favor, 
 recommended himself once more to my kindness, 
 and we walked towards the company, returned 
 with them to the house, and he soon took leave. I 
 immediately retired to write this letter, which I 
 shall close without a single observation on the sub 
 ject until I know your opinion. 
 
 ELJZA WHARTON.
 
 80 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THK 
 
 LETTER XIII. 
 To Miss ELIZA WHARTON. 
 
 HARTFORD. 
 
 And so you wish to have my opinion before you 
 know the result of your own. 
 
 This is playing a little too much with my pa 
 tience ; but, however, I will gratify you this once, 
 in hopes that my epistle may have a good effect. 
 You will ask, perhaps, whether I would influence 
 your judgment. I answer, No, provided you will 
 exercise it yourself; but I am a little apprehensive 
 that your fancy will mislead you. Methinks I can 
 gather from your letters a predilection for this Ma 
 jor Sanford. But he is a rake, my dear friend ; and 
 can a lady of your delicacy and refinement think 
 of forming a connection with a man of that char 
 acter ? I hope not ; nay, I am confident you do 
 not. You mean only to exhibit a few more girlish 
 airs before you turn matron ; but I am persuaded, 
 if you wish to lead down the dance of life with 
 regularity, you will not find a more excellent part 
 ner than Mr. Boyer. Whatever you can reasonably 
 expect in a lover, husband, or friend, you may per 
 ceive to be united in this worthy man. His taste is 
 undebauched, his manners not vitiated, his morals 
 uncorrupted. His situation in life is, perhaps, as
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 81 
 
 elevated as you have a right to claim. Forgive 
 my plainness, Eliza. It is the task of friendship, 
 sometimes, to tell disagreeable truths. I know 
 your ambition is to make a distinguished figure in 
 the first class of polished society, to shine in the 
 gay circle of fashionable amusements, and to bear 
 off the palm amidst the votaries of pleasure. But 
 these are fading honors, unsatisfactory enjoy 
 ments, incapable of gratifying those immortal 
 principles of reason and religion which have been 
 implanted in your rnind by Nature, assiduously 
 cultivated by the best of parents, and exerted, I 
 trust, by yourself. Let me advise you, then, in 
 conducting this affair, an affair big, perhaps, with 
 your future fate, to lay aside those coquettish airs 
 which you sometimes put on ; and remember that 
 you are not dealing with a fop, who will take ad 
 vantage of every concession, but with a man of 
 sense and honor, who will properly estimate your 
 condescension and frankness. Act, then, with that 
 modest freedom, that dignified unreserve, which be 
 speak conscious rectitude and sincerity of heart. 
 
 I shall be extremely anxious to hear the process 
 and progress of this business. Relieve my impa 
 tience as soon as possible ; and believe me yours 
 with undissembled affection. 
 
 LUCY FREEMAN.
 
 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 LETTER XIV. 
 
 To Miss LUCY FREEMAN. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 I have received, and read again and again, your 
 friendly epistle. My reason and judgment entirely 
 coincide with your opinion ; but my fancy claims 
 some share in the decision ; and I cannot yet tell 
 which will preponderate. This was the day fixed for 
 deciding Mr. Boyer s cause. My friends here gave 
 me a long dissertation on his merits. Your let 
 ter, likewise, had its weight; and I was candidly 
 summoning up the pros and cons in the garden, 
 whither I had walked, (General Rich man and lady 
 having rode out,) when I was informed that he was 
 waiting in the parlor. I went immediately in, (a 
 good symptom, you will say,) and received him 
 very graciously. After the first compliments were 
 over, he seemed eager to improve the opportunity to 
 enter directly on the subject of his present visit. It is 
 needless for me to recite to you, who have long been 
 acquainted with the whole process of courtship, the 
 declarations, propositions, protestations, entreaties, 
 looks, words, and actions of a lover. They are, I be 
 lieve, much the same in the whole sex, allowing for 
 their different dispositions, educations, and charac 
 ters; but you are impatient, I know, for the conclusion.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 83 
 
 You have hastily perused the preceding lines, and 
 are straining your eye forward to my part of the 
 farce ; for such it may prove, after all. Well, then, 
 not to play too long with the curiosity which I 
 know to be excited and actuated by real friend 
 ship, I will relieve it. I think you would have been 
 pleased to have seen my gravity on this important 
 occasion. With all the candor and frankness 
 which I was capable of assuming, I thus answered 
 his long harangue, to which I had listened with 
 out interrupting him : " Self-knowledge, sir, that 
 most important of all sciences, I have yet to learn. 
 Such have been my situations in life, and the nat 
 ural volatility of my temper, that I have looked 
 but little into my own heart in regard to its future 
 wishes and views. From a scene of constraint and 
 confinement, ill suited to my years and inclination, 
 I have just launched into society. My heart beats 
 high in expectation of its fancied joys. My san 
 guine imagination paints, in alluring colors, the 
 charms of youth and freedom, regulated by virtue 
 and innocence. Of these I wish to partake. 
 While I own myself under obligations for the 
 esteem which you are pleased to profess for me, 
 and, in return, acknowledge that neither your per 
 son nor manners are disagreeable to me, I recoil 
 at the thought of immediately forming a connec-
 
 84 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 tion which must confine me to the duties of do 
 mestic life, and make me dependent for happiness, 
 perhaps, too, for subsistence, upon a class of peo 
 ple who will claim the right of scrutinizing every 
 part of my conduct, and, by censuring those foi 
 bles which I am conscious of not having prudence 
 to avoid, may render me completely miserable. 
 While, therefore, I receive your visits, and culti 
 vate towards you sentiments of friendship and 
 esteem, I would not have you consider me as 
 confined to your society, or obligated to a future 
 connection. Our short acquaintance renders it 
 impossible for me to decide what the operations 
 of my mind may hereafter be. You must either 
 quit the subject, or leave me to the exercise of my 
 free will, which, perhaps, may coincide with your 
 present wishes." " Madam," said he, " far is the wish 
 from me to restrain your person or mind. In your 
 breast I will repose my cause. It shall be my 
 study to merit a return of affection ; and I doubt 
 not but generosity and honor will influence your 
 conduct towards me. I expect soon to settle 
 among a generous and enlightened people, where 
 I flatter myself I shall be exempt from those dif 
 ficulties and embarrassments to which too many 
 of my brethren are subject. The local situation is 
 agreeable, the society refined and polished ; and
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 86 
 
 if, in addition, I may obtain that felicity which you 
 are formed to bestow in a family connection, I 
 shall be happy indeed." 
 
 He spoke with emphasis. The tear of sensibil 
 ity sparkled in his eye. I involuntarily gave him my 
 hand, which he pressed with ardor to his lips ; 
 then, rising, he walked to the window to conceal 
 his emotion. I rang the bell and ordered tea, 
 during and after which we shared that social con 
 verse which is the true zest of life, and in which I am 
 persuaded none but virtuous minds can participate. 
 General Richman and lady returned with the 
 shades of the evening. The penetrating eye of 
 my cousin traced in our countenances the progress 
 of the cause, and the smile of approbation animat 
 ed hers. Mr. Boyer asked the favor of my com 
 pany to ride to-morrow morning; which was 
 granted. He tarried to supper, and took his leave. 
 1 retired immediately to my chamber, to which I 
 was followed by Mrs. Richman. I related to her 
 the conversation and the encouragement which I 
 had given to Mr. Boyer. She was pleased, but 
 insisted that I should own myself somewhat en 
 gaged to him. This, I told her, I should never do 
 to any man before the indissoluble knot was tied. 
 " That," said I, " will be time enough to resign my 
 freedom." She replied, that I had wrong ideas of
 
 . 86 / THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 freedom and matrimony; but she hoped that Mr. 
 Boyer would happily rectify them. 
 
 I have now, my dear friend, given you an ac 
 count of my present situation, and leave you to 
 judge for yourself concerning it. Write me your 
 opinion, and believe me ever yours, 
 
 ELIZA WHARTON. 
 
 LETTER XV. 
 
 To Miss ELIZA WHARTON. 
 
 HARTTORD. 
 
 I congratulate you, my dear Eliza, on the sta 
 bility of your conduct towards Mr. Boyer. Pur- 
 sue the system which you have adopted, and I 
 dare say that happiness will crown your future 
 days. You are indeed very tenacious of your 
 freedom, as you call it ; but that is a play about 
 words. A man of Mr. Beyer s honor and good 
 sense will never abridge any privileges which vir 
 tue can claim. 
 
 When do you return to embellish our society 
 here ? I am impatient to see you, and likewise 
 this amiable man. I am much interested in his 
 favor. By the way, I am told that Major Sanford 
 has been to look at the seat of Captain Pribble,
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OP ELIZA WHARTON, 87 
 
 which is upon sale. It is reported that he will 
 probably purchase it. Many of our gentry are 
 pleased with the prospect of such a neighbor. 
 " As an accomplished gentleman," say they, 
 " he will be an agreeable addition to our social 
 parties ; and as a ma_n of property and public 
 spirit, he will be an advantage to the town." 
 But from what I have heard of him, I am far from 
 supposing him a desirable acquisition in either of 
 these respects. A man of a vicious character can 
 not be a good member of society. In order to 
 that, his principles and practice must be uncor- 
 rupted ; in his morals, at least, he must be a man 
 of probity and honor. Of these qualifications, if I 
 mistake not, this gallant of yours cannot boast. 
 But I shall not set up for a censor. I hope neither 
 you nor I shall have much connection with him. 
 My swain interests himself very much in your 
 affairs. You will possibly think him impertinent; 
 but I give his curiosity a softer name. Should I 
 own to you that I place great confidence in his 
 integrity and honor, you would, perhaps, laugh at 
 my weakness ; but, my dear, I have pride enough 
 to keep me above coquetry or prudery, and dis 
 cretion enough, I hope, to secure me from the er 
 rors of both. With him I am determined to walk 
 the future round of life. What folly, then, would
 
 THE COQUEtTE ; OB, THE 
 
 it be to affect reserve and distance relative to an 
 affair in which I have so much interest! Not that 
 I am going to betray your secrets ; these I have 
 no right to divulge ; but I must be the judge what 
 may, and what may not, be communicated. I am 
 very much pressed for an early day of consumma 
 tion ; but I shall not listen to a request of that 
 kind till your return. Such is my regard for you, 
 that a union of love would be imperfect if friend 
 ship attended not the rites. Adieu. 
 
 LUCY FREEMAN. 
 
 LETTER XVI. 
 
 To Miss LUCY FREEMAN. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 We go on charmingly here, almost as soft and 
 smooth as your ladyship. It seems to me that 
 love must stagnate if it have not a light breeze of 
 discord once in a while to keep it in motion. We 
 have not tried any yet, however. We had a lovely 
 tour this forenoon, were out three long hours, and 
 returned to dinner in perfect harmony. 
 
 Mr. Boyer informed me that he should set out 
 to-morrow morning for his future residence, and 
 soon put on the sacred bands. He solicited an
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 89 
 
 epistolary correspondence, at the same time, as an 
 alleviation of the care which that weighty charge 
 would bring on his . mind. 1 consented, telling 
 him that he must not expect any thing more than 
 general subjects from me. 
 
 We were somewhat interrupted in, our confiden 
 tial intercourse, in the afternoon, by the arrival of 
 Major Sanford. I cannot say that I was not agree 
 ably relieved. So sweet a repast, for several hours 
 together, was rather sickening to my taste. My 
 inamorato looked a little mortified at the cheer 
 ful reception which I gave the intruder, and joined 
 not so placidly in the social conversation as 1 
 could have wished. 
 
 When Mr. Boyer, after the major took leave, 
 pressed me to give him some assurance of my 
 constancy, I only reminded him of the terms of 
 our engagement. Seeing me decided, he was 
 silent on the subject, and soon bade me an affec 
 tionate adieu, not expecting, as he told me, the 
 pleasure of a personal interview again for two or 
 three months. 
 
 Thus far we have proceeded in this sober busi 
 ness. A good beginning, you will say. Perhaps 
 it is. I do not, however, feel myself greatly inter 
 ested in the progress of the negotiation. Time 
 may consolidate my affections, and enable me to
 
 90 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 fix them on some particular object. At present 
 the most lively emotions of my heart are those of 
 friendship, that friendship which I hope you will 
 soon participate with your faithful 
 
 ELIZA WUARTON. 
 
 LETTER XVII. 
 
 To MR. SELBY. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 I have succeeded in my addresses to the lovely 
 Eliza Wharton as far, at least, as I had any 
 reason to expect from our short acquaintance. I 
 find the graces of her person and mind rise in my 
 esteem, and* have already enjoyed in her society 
 some of the happiest hours of my life. She is 
 kind, affable, and condescending ; yet I must own 
 that I have not been able to infuse into her bosom 
 the ardor which I feel in my own. I know that 
 the native modesty of the sex would restrain the 
 discovery; but there is an animation of counte 
 nance, which betrays the sensations of the heart, 
 that I find wanting in hers on this occasion. 
 
 I have just taken leave of my fair, and propose 
 returning to-morrow morning to take upon me the 
 solemn charge which lies with such weight upon
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHAKTON. 91 
 
 my mind that I need every support, both human 
 and divine. Eliza has promised to correspond 
 with me. . From this I anticipate a source of 
 pleasure which alone can atone for her absence. 
 
 I am, &c., 
 
 J. BOYER. 
 
 LETTER XVIII. 
 
 To MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 Do you know, Charles, that I have commenced 
 lover ? I was always a general one, but now I am 
 somewhat particular. I shall be the more inter 
 ested, as I am likely to meet with difficulties ; and 
 it is the glory of a rake, as well as of a Christian, 
 to combat obstacles. This same Eliza, of whom 
 I have told you, has really made more impression 
 on my heart than I was aware of, or than the sex, 
 take them as they rise, are wont to do. But she 
 is besieged by a priest a likely lad though. I 
 know not how it is, but they are commonly suc 
 cessful with the girls, even the gayest of them. 
 This one, too, has the interest of all her friends, as 
 I am told. I called yesterday at General Rich- 
 man s, and found this pair together, apparently too
 
 92 THE COQUETTE; OB, THE 
 
 happy in each other s society for my wishes. I 
 must own that I felt a glow of jealousy, which I 
 never experienced before, and vowed revenge for 
 the pain it gave me, though but momentary. Yet 
 Eliza s reception of me was visibly cordial ; nay, 
 I fancied my company as pleasing to her as that 
 which she had before. I tarried not long, but left 
 him to the enjoyment of that pleasure which I 
 flatter myself will be but shortlived. O, I have 
 another plan in my head a plan of necessity, 
 which, you know, is the mother of invention. It 
 is this : I am very much courted and caressed by 
 the family of Mr. Lawrence, a man of large prop 
 erty in this neighborhood. He has only one child 
 a daughter, with whom I imagine the old folks 
 intend to shackle me in the bonds of matrimony. 
 The girl looks very well ; she has no soul, though, 
 that I can discover ; she is heiress, nevertheless, 
 to a great fortune, and that is all the soul I wish 
 for in a wife. In truth, Charles, I know of no 
 other way to mend my circumstances. Bat lisp 
 not a word of my embarrassments for your life. 
 Show and equipage are my hobby horse ; and if 
 any female wishes to share them with me, and 
 will furnish me with the means of supporting 
 them, I have no objection. Could I conform to 
 the sober rules of wedded life, and renounce those
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 93 
 
 dear enjoyments of dissipation in which I have 
 so long indulged, I know not the lady in the 
 world with whom I would sooner form a connec 
 tion of this sort than with Eliza "Wharton. But 
 it will never do. If my fortune or hers were better, 
 I would risk a union ; but as they are, no idea of the 
 kind can be admitted. I shall endeavor, notwith 
 standing, to enjoy her company as long as possible. 
 Though I cannot possess her wholly myself, I 
 will not tamely see her the property of another. 
 
 I am now going to call at General Richman s, in 
 hopes of an opportunity to profess my devotion to 
 her. I know I am not a welcome visitor to the 
 family ; but I am independent of their censure or 
 esteem, and mean to act accordingly. 
 
 PETER SAN FORD. 
 
 LETTER XIX. 
 
 To Miss LUCY FREEMAN. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 I find the ideas of sobriety and domestic soli 
 tude I have been cultivating for three days past 
 somewhat deranged by the interruption of a vis 
 itor, with whom I know you will not be pleased. 
 It is no other than Major Sanford. I was walk-
 
 94 THE COQUETTE ; OR THE 
 
 ing alone in the garden yesterday, when he sud 
 denly appeared to my view. " How happy am I," 
 said he, seizing my hand, " in this opportunity of 
 finding you alone an opportunity, Miss Wharton, 
 which I must improve in expatiating on a theme 
 that fills my heart and solely animates my frame ! " 
 Twas startled at his impetuosity, and displeased 
 with his freedom. Withdrawing my hand, I 
 told him that my retirement was sacred. He 
 bowed submissively ; begged pardon for his intru 
 sion ; alleged that he found nobody but the ser 
 vants in the house; that they informed him I was 
 alone in the garden which intelligence was too 
 pleasing for him to consult any forms of ceremony 
 for the regulation of his conduct. He then went 
 on rhapsodically to declare his passion ; his sus 
 picions that I was forming a connection with Mr. 
 Boyer, which would effectually destroy all his hopes 
 of future happiness. He painted the restraint, 
 the confinement, the embarrassments to which a 
 woman connected with a man of Mr. Boyer s pro 
 fession must be subjected, however agreeable his 
 person might be. He asked if my generous mind 
 could submit to cares and perplexities like these ; 
 whether I could not find greater sources of en 
 joyment in a more elevated sphere of life, or share 
 pleasures better suited to my genius and di.spo-
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 95 
 
 sition, even in a single state. I listened to him 
 involuntarily. My heart did not approve his sen 
 timents ; but my ear was charmed with his rhetoric, 
 and my fancy captivated by his address. 
 
 He invited my confidence by the most ardent 
 professions of friendship, and labored to remove my 
 suspicions by vows of sincerity. I was induced 
 by his importunity gradually to disclose the state of 
 affairs between Mr. Boyer and myself. He listened 
 eagerly ; wished not, he said, to influence me un 
 duly ; but if I were not otherwise engaged, might 
 he presume to solicit a place in my friendship and 
 esteem, be admitted to enjoy my society, to visit me 
 as an acquaintance, and to attend my excursions 
 and amusements as a brother, if not more ? I 
 replied that I was a pensioner of friendship at 
 present ; that friends were extremely refined in 
 their notions of propriety ; and that I had no 
 right to receive visitants independent of them. " I 
 understand you, madam," said he. " You inti 
 mate that my company is not agreeable to them ; 
 but I know not why. Surely my rank in life is as 
 elevated, and my knowledge of and acceptance in 
 the world arc as extensive, as General Richman s." 
 " I hope," said I, " since we are engaged in the 
 conversation, that you will excuse my frankness 
 if I tell you that the understanding and virtue of
 
 96 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 this worthy couple induce them, without any re 
 gard to rank, to bestow their esteem wherever it is 
 merited. I cannot say that you are not a sharer. 
 Your own heart can best determine whether upon 
 their principles you are or not." He appeared 
 mortified and chagrined ; and we had walked 
 some distance without exchanging a word or a 
 look. At last he rejoined, " I plead guilty to the 
 charge, madam, which they have undoubtedly 
 brought against me, of imprudence and folly in 
 many particulars ; yet of malignancy and vice I 
 am innocent. Brought up in affluence, inured 
 from my infancy to the gratification of every pas 
 sion, the indulgence of every wish, it is not strange 
 that a life of dissipation and gayety should prove 
 alluring to a youthful mind which had no care but 
 to procure what is deemed enjoyment. In this 
 pursuit I have, perhaps, deviated from the rigid 
 rules of discretion and the harsher laws of morality. 
 But let the veil of charity be drawn over my 
 faults ; let the eye of candor impartially examine 
 my present behavior ; let the kind and lenient 
 hand of friendship assist in directing my future 
 steps; and perhaps I may not prove unworthy 
 of associating with the respectable inhabitants of 
 this happy mansion ; for such I am sure it must 
 be while honored with Miss Wharton s presence.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON". 97 
 
 Bui, circumstanced as you and I are at present, I 
 will not sue for your attention as a lover, but rest 
 contented, if possible, with that share of kindness 
 and regard which your benevolence may afford me 
 as a friend." I bowed in approbation of his reso 
 lution. He pressed my hand with ardor to his 
 lips ; and at that instant General Richman entered 
 the garden. He approached us cheerfully, offered 
 Major Sanford his hand with apparent cordiality, 
 and told us pleasantly that he hoped he should not 
 be considered as an intruder. " By no means, sir," 
 said Major Sanford; "it is I who have incurred 
 that imputation. I called this afternoon to pay 
 you my respects, when, being informed that you 
 and your lady were abroad, and that Miss Whar- 
 ton was in the garden, I took the liberty to invade 
 her retirement. She has graciously forgiven my 
 crime, and I was just affixing the seal to my par 
 don as you entered." 
 
 We then returned into the house. Mrs. Richman 
 received us politely. During tea, the conversation 
 turned on literary subjects, in which I cannot say 
 that the major bore a very distinguished part. 
 After he was gone, Mrs. Richman said, " I hope 
 you have been agreeably entertained, Miss Whar- 
 ton." " I did not choose my company, madam," 
 said I. " Nor," said she, " did you refuse it, I 
 6
 
 98 THE COQUETTE; OB, THE 
 
 presume." " Would you not have me respect the 
 rights of hospitality towards your guests when you 
 are absent, madam ? " " If you had acted from 
 that motive, I own my obligations to you, my 
 dear ; but even that consideration can hardly rec 
 oncile me to the sacrifice of time which you have 
 made to the amusement of a seducer." " I hope, 
 madam, you do not think me an object of seduc 
 tion." " I do not think you seducible ; nor was 
 Richardson s Clarissa till she made herself the vic 
 tim by her own indiscretion. Pardon me, Eliza 
 this is a second Lovelace. I am alarmed by his 
 artful intrusions. His insinuating attentions to 
 you are characteristic of the man. Come, I pre 
 sume you are not interested to keep his secrets if 
 you know them ; will you give me a little sketch 
 of his conversation ? " " Most willingly," said I, 
 and accordingly related the whole. When 1 had 
 concluded, she shook her head, and replied, " Be 
 ware, my friend, of his arts. Your own heart is 
 too sincere to suspect treachery and dissimulation 
 in another ; but suffer not your ear to be charmed 
 by the siren voice of flattery, nor your eye to be 
 caught by the phantom of gayety and pleasure. 
 Remember your engagements to Mr. Boyer. Let 
 sincerity and virtue be your guides, and they will 
 lead you to happiness and peace." She waited
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 99 
 
 not for an answer, but, immediately rising, begged 
 leave to retire, alleging that she was fatigued. 
 General Richman accompanied her, and I hastened 
 to my apartment, where I have written thus far, 
 and shall send it on for your comments. I begin 
 to think of returning soon to your circle. One in- 
 ducement is, that I may be free from the intrusions 
 of this man. Adieu. 
 
 ELIZA WHARTON. 
 
 LETTER XX. 
 
 To MRS. M. WHARTON. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 From the conversation of the polite, the sedate, 
 the engaging, and the gay, from corresponding 
 with the learned, the sentimental, and the refined, 
 my heart and my pen turn with ardor and alacrity 
 to a tender and affectionate parent, the faithful 
 guardian and guide of my youth, the unchanging 
 friend of my riper years. The different dispo 
 sitions of various associates sometimes perplex the 
 mind which seeks direction ; but in the disinterest 
 ed affection of the maternal breast we fear no dis 
 sonance of passion, no jarring interests, no disunion 
 of love. In this seat of felicity is every enjoyment
 
 100 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 which fancy can form, or friendship, with afflnoneo, 
 bestow; but still my mind frequently returns to 
 the happy shades of my nativity. I wish there to 
 impart my pleasures, and share the counsels of my 
 best, my long-tried, and experienced friend. At 
 this time, my dear mamma, I am peculiarly so 
 licitous for your advice. I am again importuned 
 to listen to the voice of love ; again called upon to 
 accept the addresses of a gentleman of merit and 
 respectability. You will know the character of 
 the man when I tell you it is Mr. Boyer. But his 
 situation in life ! I dare not enter it. My dispo 
 sition is not calculated for that sphere. There are 
 duties arising from the station which I fear I 
 should not be able to fulfil, cares and restraints 
 to which I could not submit. This man is not 
 disagreeable to me ; but if I must enter the connu 
 bial state, are there not others who may be equally 
 pleasing in their persons, and whose profession 
 may be more conformable to my taste ? You, mad 
 am, have passed through this scene of trial with 
 htmor and applause. But, alas ! can your volatile 
 daughter ever acquire your wisdom ever possess 
 your resolution, dignity, and prudence ? 
 
 I hope soon to converse with you personally 
 upon the subject, and to profit by your precepts 
 and example. I anticipate the hour of my return to
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 101 
 
 your bosom with impatience. My daily thoughts 
 and nightly dreams restore me to the society of 
 my beloved mamma ; and, till I enjoy in reality, I 
 subscribe myself your dutiful daughter, 
 
 ELIZA WHARTON. 
 
 LETTER XXI. 
 
 To Miss ELIZA WHARTON. 
 
 HARTFORD. 
 
 How welcome to me, my dear Eliza, are the 
 tidings of your return ! My widowed heart has 
 mourned your absence, and languished for the 
 company of its now dearest connection. When 
 stripped of one dependence, the mind naturally 
 collects and rests itself in another. Your father s 
 death deprived me, for a while, of every enjoyment. 
 But a reviving sense of the duties which I owed to 
 a rising family roused me from the lethargy of grief. 
 In my cares I found an alleviation of my sorrows. 
 The expanding virtues of my children soothed and 
 exhilarated my drooping spirits, and my attention 
 ID their education and interest was amply reward 
 ed by their proficiency and duty. In them every 
 hope, every pleasure, now centres. They are the 
 axis on which revolves the temporal felicity of
 
 102 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 their mother. Judge, then, my dear, how anxious 
 ly I must watch, how solicitously I must regard, 
 every circumstance which relates to their welfare 
 and prosperity ! Exquisitely alive to these sensa 
 tions, your letter awakens my hopes and my fears. 
 As you are young and charming, a thousand dan 
 gers lurk unseen around you. I wish you to find 
 a friend and protector worthy of being rewarded 
 by your love and your society. Such a one I 
 think Mr. Boyer will prove. I am, therefore, sorry, 
 since there can be no other, that his profession 
 should be an objection in your mind. You say 
 that I have experienced the scenes of trial con 
 nected with that station. I have, indeed ; and I 
 will tell you the result of this experience. It is, 
 that I have found it replete with happiness. No 
 class of society has domestic enjoyment more at 
 command than clergymen. Their circumstances 
 are generally a decent competency. They are re 
 moved alike from the perplexing cares of want 
 and from the distracting parade of wealth. They 
 are respected by all ranks, and partakers of the 
 best company. With regard to its being a de 
 pendent situation, what one is not so ? Are we 
 not all links in the great chain of society, some 
 more, some less important, but each upheld by 
 others, throughout the confederated whole ? In
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WIIAUTON. 10<J 
 
 whatever situation we are placed, our greater or 
 less degree of happiness must be derived from our 
 selves. Happiness is in a great measure the result 
 of our own dispositions and actions. Let us con 
 duct uprightly and justly; with propriety and 
 steadiness ; not servilely cringing for favor, nor 
 arrogantly claiming more attention and respect 
 than our due ; let us bear with fortitude the provi 
 dential and unavoidable evils of life, and we shall 
 spend our days with respectability and content 
 ment at least. 
 
 I will not expatiate on the topic of your letter 
 till we have a personal interview, for which I am 
 indeed impatient. Return, my daughter, as soon 
 as politeness will allow, to your expecting friends ; 
 more especially to the fond embraces of your affec 
 tionate mother. 
 
 M. WHARTON. 
 
 LETTER XXII. 
 
 To Miss ELIZA WIIAUTON. 
 
 HAMPSHIRE. 
 
 Can time, can distance, can absence allay or ex 
 tinguish the sentiments of refined affection, the 
 ardor of true love ? No, my dear Eliza. If I may
 
 104 THE COQUETTE ; OB, THE 
 
 judge by my own heart, I shall say they cannot. 
 Amidst the parade which has attended me, the in 
 teresting scenes in which I have been engaged, and 
 the weighty cares which have occupied my attention, 
 your idea has been the solace of my retired mo 
 ments, the soother of every anxious thought. I 
 recall with pleasure the conversation which we 
 have shared. I dwell with rapture on the marks 
 of favor which I have received from you. My first 
 wish is the continuance and increase of these fa 
 vors; my highest ambition, to deserve them. I 
 look forward and anticipate with impatience the 
 future enjoyment of your society, and hope we 
 shall one day experience the reality of those beau 
 tiful lines of Thomson : 
 
 " an elegant sufficiency, 
 
 Content, retirement, rural quiet, friendship, 
 Books, ease, and alternate labor ; useful life, 
 Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven ; 
 These are the matchless joys of virtuous love. 
 
 Mr. Selby, my particular friend, will have the 
 honor of delivering this letter. He will be able to 
 give you any information, relative to our public 
 transactions, which you may wish. May I solicit 
 the favor of a line, through him, in return ? It will 
 relieve, in some measure, the tediousness of this 
 separation. I intend to pay my respects to you
 
 LTFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 105 
 
 personally in about a fortnight; till when I sub 
 scribe myself your sincere and affectionate friend, 
 
 J. BOYER. 
 
 LETTER XXIII. 
 
 To THE REV. J. BOYER. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 I have executed your commission, and been am 
 ply rewarded for my trouble by the pleasures I en 
 joyed in the society of the agreeable family to 
 which I was introduced ; especially of the amiable 
 and accomplished lady who is the object of your 
 particular regard. I think she fully justifies your 
 partiality to her. She appears to possess both the 
 virtues and the graces. Her form is fine, and her 
 countenance interests us at once in her favor. 
 There is a mixture of dignity and ease which com 
 mands respect and conciliates affection. After 
 these encomiums, will you permit me to say there 
 is an air of gayety in her appearance and deport 
 ment which savors a little of coquetry? I am 
 persuaded, however, that she has too much good 
 sense to practise its arts. She received your letter 
 very graciously, asked leave to retire a few mo-
 
 106 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 merits, and returned with a smile of complacency 
 on her brow, which I construe favorably to you. 
 
 There was a Mr. Lawrence, with his lady and 
 daughter, and a certain Major Sanford, at the 
 hou.sc. The latter, I believe, in the modern sense 
 of the phrase, s much of a gentleman ; that is, a 
 man of show and fashion. 
 
 Miss Wharton asked me when I should leave 
 town, and when I should return, or have an oppor 
 tunity of conveyance to Hampshire. I told her 
 I should write by the next post, and, if she had any 
 commands, would be happy to execute them. 
 She would send a line to her friend, she said, if 
 I would take the trouble to enclose it in my let 
 ter. I readily consented, and told her that 1 
 would call and receive her favor to-morrow 
 morning. This chitchat was a little aside ; but 
 I could not but observe that the aforesaid Major 
 Sanford had dropped his part in the conversation 
 of the rest of the company, and was attending to 
 us, though he endeavored to conceal his attention 
 by looking carelessly over a play which lay on the 
 window by him. Yet he evidently watched every 
 word and action of Miss Wharton, as if he were 
 really interested in her movements. 
 
 It is said she has many admirers, and I conceive
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 107 
 
 it very possible that this may be one of them ; 
 though, truly, I do not think that she would esteem 
 such a conquest any great honor. I now joined in 
 the general topic of conversation, which was pol 
 itics ; Mrs. Richman and Miss Wharton judicious 
 ly, yet modestly, bore a part; while the other 
 ladies amused themselves with Major Sanford, who 
 was making his sage remarks on the play, which 
 he still kept in his hand. General Richman at 
 length observed that we had formed into parties. 
 Major Sanford, upon this, laid aside his book. 
 Miss Lawrence simpered, and looked as if she was 
 well pleased with being in a party with so fine a 
 man; while her mother replied that she never 
 meddled with politics. " Miss Wharton and I," 
 said Mrs. Richman, " must beg leave to differ from 
 you, madam. We think ourselves interested in the 
 welfare and prosperity of our country; and, con 
 sequently, claim the right of inquiring into those 
 affairs which may conduce to or interfere with the 
 common weal. We shall not be called to the sen 
 ate or the field to assert its privileges and defend 
 its rights, but we shall feel for the honor and safety 
 of our friends and connections who are thus em 
 ployed. If the community flourish and enjoy 
 health and freedom, shall we not share in the hap 
 py effects ? If it be oppressed and disturbed, shall
 
 108 THE COQUETTE; OE, THE 
 
 we not endure our proportion of the evil ? Why, 
 then, should the love of our country be a masculine 
 passion only? Why should government, which 
 involves the peace and order of the society of 
 which we are a part, be wholly excluded from our 
 observation ? " Mrs. Lawrence made some slight 
 reply, and waived the subject. The gentlemen ap 
 plauded Mrs. Richman s sentiments as truly Ro 
 man, and, what was more, they said, truly re 
 publican. 
 
 1 rose to take leave, observing to Miss Wharton 
 that I should call to-morrow, as agreed. Upon 
 this, General Richman politely requested the favor 
 of my company at dinner. I accepted his invita 
 tion, and bade them good nigjht. I shall do the 
 same to you for the present, as I intend, to-mor 
 row, to scribble the cover, which is to enclose your 
 Eliza s letter. 
 
 T. SELBY. 
 
 LETTER XXIV. 
 
 To THE REV. J. BOYER. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 i resume my pen, having just returned from 
 General Richman s ; not with an expectation,
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTOIT. 109 
 
 howcvor, of your reading this till you have pe 
 rused and reperused the enclosed. I can bear such 
 neglect in this case, as I have been alike interested 
 myself. 
 
 I went to General Richman s at twelve o clock. 
 About a mile from thence, upon turning a comer, 
 I observed a gentleman and lady on horseback, 
 some way before me, riding at a very moderate pace, 
 and seemingly in close conversation. I kept at the 
 same distance from them till I saw them stop at 
 the general s gate. I then put on, and, coming up 
 with them just as they alighted, was surprised 
 to find them no other than Major Sanford and 
 Miss Wharton. They were both a little discon 
 certed at my salutation : I know not why. Miss 
 Wharton invited him in ; but he declined, being en 
 gaged to dine. General Richman received us at 
 the door. As I handed Miss Wharton in, he ob 
 served, jocosely, that she had changed company. 
 " Yes, sir," she replied, " more than once since I 
 went out, as you doubtless observed." " I was 
 not aware," said Mrs. Richman, " that Major San- 
 ford was to be of your party to-day." " It was 
 quite accidental, madam," said Miss Wharton. 
 " Miss Lawrence and I had agreed, last evening, 
 to take a little airing this forenoon. A young
 
 110 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 gentleman, a relation of hers, who is making 
 them a visit, was to attend us. 
 
 " We had not rode more than two miles when 
 we were overtaken by Major Sanford, who very 
 politely asked leave to join our party. Miss Law 
 rence very readily consented ; and we had a very 
 sociable ride. The fineness of the day induced me 
 to protract the enjoyment of it abroad ; but Miss 
 Lawrence declined riding so far as I proposed, as 
 she had engaged company to dine. We therefore 
 parted till the evening, when we are to meet 
 again." " What, another engagement ! " said Mrs. 
 Rich man. " Only to the assembly, madam." 
 " May I inquire after your gallant, my dear ? But I 
 have no right, perhaps, to be inquisitive," said Mrs. 
 Rlchman. Miss Wharton made no reply, and the 
 conversation took a general turn. Miss Wharton 
 sustained her part with great propriety. Indeed, 
 she discovers a fund of useful knowledge and ex 
 tensive reading, which render her peculiarly enter 
 taining ; while the brilliancy of her wit, the fluency 
 of her language, the vivacity and ease of her man 
 ners are inexpressibly engaging. I am going my 
 self to the assembly this evening, though I did not 
 mention it to General Richman. I therefore took 
 my leave soon after dinner.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. Ill 
 
 I have heard so much in praise of Miss Whar- 
 ton s penmanship, in addition to her other endow 
 ments, that 1 am almost tempted to break the seal 
 of her letter to you ; but I forbear. Wishing you 
 much happiness in the perusal of it, and more in 
 the possession of its writer, I subscribe myself 
 yours, &c., 
 
 T. SELBY. 
 
 LETTER XXV. 
 
 To THE REV. J. BOYEJR. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 Sir: Your favor of the 4th instant came to hand 
 yesterday. I received it with pleasure, and embrace 
 this early opportunity of contributing my part to 
 a correspondence tending to promote a friendly 
 and social intercourse. An epistolary communica 
 tion between the sexes has been with some a sub 
 ject of satire and censure; but unjustly, in my 
 opinion. With persons of refinement and infor 
 mation, it may be a source of entertainment and 
 utility. The knowledge and masculine virtues of 
 your sex may be softened and rendered more dif 
 fusive by the inquisitiveness, vivacity, and docility 
 of ours, drawn forth and exercised by each other.
 
 112 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 In regard to the particular subject of yours, I 
 shall be silent. Ideas of that kind are better con 
 veyed, on my part, by words than by the pen. 
 
 I congratulate you on your agreeable settle 
 ment, and hope it will be productive of real and 
 lasting happiness. I am convinced that felicity 
 is not confined to any particular station or con 
 dition in life ; yet, methinks, some are better cal 
 culated to afford it to me than others. 
 
 Your extract from a favorite poet is charmingly 
 descriptive ; but is it not difficult to ascertain what 
 we can pronounce " an elegant sufficiency " ? 
 Perhaps you will answer, as some others have 
 done, we can attain it by circumscribing our wishes 
 within the compass of our abilities. I am not very 
 avaricious ; yet I must own that I should like to 
 enjoy it without so much trouble as that would 
 cost me. 
 
 Excuse my seeming levity. You have flattered 
 my cheerfulness by commending it, and must, 
 therefore, indulge me in the exercise of it. I 
 cannot conveniently be at the pains of restrain 
 ing its sallies when I write in confidence. 
 
 Is a sprightly disposition, in your view, indica 
 tive of a giddy mind or an innocent heart ? Of 
 the latter, I presume ; for I know you are not a 
 misanthrope.
 
 LIFE AXD LETTERS OF ELTZA WHAETON. 113 
 
 We expect the pleasure of Mr. Selby s company 
 to dinner. You are certainly under obligations to 
 his friendship for the liberal encomiums he be 
 stowed on yon and your prospects yesterday 
 Mrs. llichmaii rallied me, after he was gone, on 
 rny listening ear. The general and she unite in 
 requesting me to present their respects. 
 
 Wishing you health and happiness, I subscribe 
 myself your friend, 
 
 ELIZA WIIARTON. 
 
 LETTER XXVI. 
 
 To Miss LUCY FREEMAN. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 1 am perplexed and embarrassed, my friend, by 
 the assiduous attentions of this Major Sanford. I 
 shall write circumstantially and frankly to you, 
 that I may have the benefit of your advice. He 
 came here last Monday in company with Mr. 
 Lawrence, his wife, and daughter, to luake us a 
 visit. While they were present, a Mr. Selby, a 
 particular friend of Mr. Boyer, came in, and deliv 
 ered me a letter from him. I was really happy in 
 the reception of this proof of his affection. His
 
 114 THE COQUETTE ; OR THE 
 
 friend gave a very flattering account of his situa 
 tion and prospects. 
 
 The watchful eye of Major Sanford traced every 
 word and action respecting Mr. Boyer with an at 
 tention which seemed to border on anxiety. That, 
 however, did not restrain, but rather accelerated, 
 my vivacity and inquisitiveness on the subject; for 
 I wished to know whether it would produce any 
 real effect upon him or not. 
 
 After Mr. Selby s departure, he appeared pensive 
 and thoughtful the remainder of the evening, and 
 evidently sought an opportunity of speaking to me 
 aside, which I studiously avoided. Miss Law 
 rence and I formed an engagement to take an 
 airing in the morning on horseback, attended by 
 a relation of hers who is now with them. They 
 called for me about ten, when we immediately 
 set out upon our preconcerted excursion. We 
 had not proceeded far before we were met by 
 Major Sanford. He was extremely polite, and 
 finding our destination was not particular, begged 
 leave to join our party. This was granted ; and 
 we had an agreeable tour for several miles, the 
 time being passed in easy and unstudied remarks 
 upon obvious occurrences. Major Sanford could 
 not, however, conceal his particular attention to
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELTZA WHARTON. 115 
 
 me, which rather nettled Miss Lawrence. She 
 grew somewhat serious, and declined riding so far 
 as we had intended, alleging that she expected 
 company to dine. 
 
 Major Sanford, understanding that she was going 
 to the assembly in the evening with Mr. Gordon, 
 solicited me to accept a ticket, and form a party 
 with them. The entertainment was alluring, and 
 I consented. When we had parted with Miss 
 Lawrence, Major Sanford insisted on my riding a 
 little farther, saying he must converse with me on 
 a particular subject, and if I refused him this op 
 portunity, that he must visit me at my residence, 
 let it offend whom it would. 1 yielded to his im 
 portunity, and we rode on. He then told me that 
 his mind was in a state of suspense and agitation 
 which was very painful to bear, and which I only 
 could relieve ; that my cheerful reception of Mr. 
 Boyer s letter yesterday, and deportment respect 
 ing him, had awakened in his breast all the pangs 
 of jealousy which the most ardent love could feel; 
 that my treatment of Mr.yBoyer s friend convinced 
 him that I was more interested in his affairs than 
 I was willing to own ; that he foresaw himself to 
 be condemned to an eternal separation, and the 
 total loss of my favor and society, as soon as time 
 and circumstances would allow.
 
 116 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 His zeal, his pathos, alarmed me. I begged him 
 to be calm. " To you," said I, " as a friend, I 
 have intrusted my situation in relation to Mr. 
 Boyer. You know that I am under no special 
 obligation to him, and I do not intend to form any 
 immediate connection." " Mr. Boyer must have 
 different ideas, madam ; and he has reason for 
 them, if I may judge by appearances. When do 
 you expect another visit from him?" "In about a 
 fortnight." " And is my fate to be then decided ? 
 and so decided, as I fear it will be, through the 
 influence of your friends, if not by your own in 
 clination ? " " My friends, sir, will not control, 
 they will only advise to what they think most for 
 my interest, and I hope that my conduct will not 
 be unworthy of their approbation." " Pardon me, 
 my dear Eliza," said he, " if I am impertinent ; it 
 is my regard for you which impels me to the pre 
 sumption. Do you intend to give your hand to 
 Mr. Boyer ? " "I do not intend to give my hand 
 to any man at present. I have but lately entered 
 society, and wish, for a while, to enjoy my free 
 dom in the participation of pleasures suited to my 
 age and sex." " These," said he, " you are aware, 
 I suppose, when you form a connection with that 
 man, you must renounce, and content yourself 
 with a confinement to the tedious round of do-
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON". 117 
 
 mestic duties, the pedantic conversation of schol 
 ars, and the invidious criticisms of a whole town." 
 " I have been accustomed," said I, " and am there 
 fore attached, to men of letters; and as to the 
 praise or censure of the populace, I hope always 
 to enjoy that approbation of conscience which will 
 render me superior to both. But you forget your 
 promise not to talk in this style, and have deviated 
 far from the character of a friend and brother, with 
 which you consented to rest satisfied." " Yes ; but 
 I find myself unequal to the task. I am not stoic 
 enough tamely to make so great a sacrifice. I 
 must plead for an interest in your favor till you 
 banish me from your presence, and tell me plainly 
 that you hate me." We had by this time reached 
 the gate, and as we dismounted, were unexpect 
 edly accosted by Mr. Selby, who had come, agree 
 ably to promise, to dine with us, and receive my 
 letter to Mr. Boyer. 
 
 Major Sanford took his leave as General Rich- 
 man appeared at the door. The general and his 
 lady rallied me on my change of company, but 
 very prudently concealed their sentiments of Major 
 Sanford while Mr. Selby was present. Nothing 
 material occurred before and during dinner, soon 
 after which Mr. Selby went away. I retired to 
 dress for the assembly, and had nearly completed
 
 118 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 the labor of the toilet when Mrs. Richman entered. 
 " My friendship for you, my dear Eliza," said she, 
 " interests me so much in your affairs that I can 
 not repress my curiosity to know who has th ( - 
 honor of your hand this evening." " If it be an 
 honor," said I, "it will be conferred on Major San- 
 ford." " I think it far too great to be thus be 
 stowed," returned she. " It is perfectly astonishing 
 to me that the virtuous part of my sex will coun 
 tenance, caress, and encourage those men whose 
 profession it is to blast their reputation, destroy 
 their peace, and triumph in their infamy." " Is 
 this, madam, the avowed design of Major San- 
 ford ? " "I know not what he avows, but his 
 practice too plainly bespeaks his principles and 
 views." " Does he now practise the arts you men 
 tion? or do you refer to past follies ? " "I cannot 
 answer for his present conduct ; his past has estab 
 lished his character." " You, madam, are an ad 
 vocate for charity; that, perhaps, if exercised in 
 this instance, might lead you to think it possible 
 for him to reform, to become a valuable member 
 of society, and, when connected with a lady of 
 virtue and refinement, to be capable of making a 
 good husband." " I cannot conceive that such a 
 lady would be willing to risk her all upon the 
 slender prospect of his reformation. I hope the
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 119 
 
 one with whom I am conversing has no inclina 
 tion to so hazardous an experiment." " Why, not 
 much." " Not much ! If you have any, why do 
 you continue to encourage Mr. Boyer s address 
 es ?" "I am not sufficiently acquainted with 
 either, yet, to determine which to take. At pres 
 ent, I shall not confine myself in any way. In 
 regard to these men, my fancy and my judgment 
 are in scales ; sometimes one preponderates, some 
 times the other ; which will finally prevail, time 
 alone can reveal." " O my cousin, beware of the 
 delusions of fancy ! Reason must be our guide if 
 we would expect durable happiness." At this in 
 stant a servant opened the door, and told me that 
 Major Sanford waited in the parlor. Being ready, 
 I wished Mrs. Richman a good evening, and went 
 down. Neither General Richman nor his lady ap 
 peared. He therefore handed me immediately 
 into his phaeton, and we were soon in the assem 
 bly room. 
 
 I was surprised, on my entrance, to find Mr. 
 Selby there, as he did not mention, at dinner, his 
 intention of going. He attached himself to our 
 party, and, in the intervals of dancing, took every 
 opportunity of conversing with me. These, how 
 ever, were not many ; for Major Sanford assidu 
 ously precluded the possibility of my being much
 
 120 THE COQUETTE- OR, THE 
 
 engaged by any one else. We passed the evening 
 very agreeably ; but the major s importunity was 
 rather troublesome as we returned home. He in 
 sisted upon my declaring whether Mr. Boyer really 
 possessed my affections, and whether I intended 
 to confer myself on him or not. " If," said he, 
 " you answer me in the affirmative, I must de 
 spair ; but if you have not absolutely decided 
 against me, I will still hope that my persevering 
 assiduity, my faithful love, may at last be reward 
 ed." I told him that I was under no obligation to 
 give him any account of my disposition towards 
 another, and that he must remember the terms of 
 our present association to which he had subscribed. 
 I therefore begged him to waive the subject now, 
 if not forever. He asked my pardon, if he had 
 been impertinent, but desired leave to renew his 
 request that I would receive his visits, his friendly 
 visits. I replied that I could not grant this, and 
 that he must blame himself, not me, if he was an 
 unwelcome guest at General Richman s. He la 
 mented the prejudices which my friends had im 
 bibed against him, but nattered himself that I was 
 more liberal than to be influenced by them with 
 out any positive proof of demerit, as it was im 
 possible that his conduct towards me should ever 
 deviate from the strictest rules of honor and love.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON". 121 
 
 What shall I say now, rny friend ? This man 
 to an agreeable person has superadded graceful 
 manners, an amiable temper, and a fortune suf 
 ficient to insure the enjoyments of all the pleasing 
 varieties of social life. Perhaps a gay disposition 
 and a lax education may have betrayed him into 
 some scenes of dissipation. But is it not an adage 
 generally received, that " a reformed rake makes 
 the best husband " ? My fancy leads me for happi 
 ness to the festive haunts of fashionable life. I am 
 at present, and know not but I ever shall be, too 
 volatile for a confinement to domestic avocations 
 and sedentary pleasures. I dare not, therefore, 
 place myself in a situation where these must be 
 indispensable. Mr. Boyer s person and character 
 are agreeable. I really esteem the man. My rea 
 son and judgment, as I have observed before, de 
 clare for a connection with him, as a state of tran 
 quillity and rational happiness. But the idea of 
 relinquishing those delightful amusements and flat 
 tering attentions which wealth and equipage be 
 stow is painful. Why were not the virtues of the 
 one and the graces and affluence of the other 
 combined ? I should then have been happy in 
 deed. But, as the case now stands, I am loath to 
 give up either ; being doubtful which will conduce 
 most to my felicity.
 
 122 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 Pray write me impartially ; let me know your 
 real sentiments, for I rely greatly upon your opin 
 ion. I am, &c., 
 
 ELIZA WHARTON. 
 
 LETTER XXVII. 
 
 To THE REV. MR. BOYER. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 I am quite a convert to Pope s assertion, that 
 
 " Every woman is at heart a rake." 
 
 How else can we account for the pleasure which 
 they evidently receive from the society, the flattery, 
 the caresses of men of that character ? Even the 
 most virtuous of them seem naturally prone to 
 gayety, to pleasure, and, I had almost said, to dis 
 sipation. How else shall we account for the ex 
 istence of this disposition in your favorite fair? 
 It cannot be the result of her education. Such a 
 one as she has received is calculated to give her a 
 very different turn of mind. You must forgive me, 
 my friend, for I am a little vexed and alarmed on 
 your account. I went last evening to the assem 
 bly, as I told you in my last that I intended. I 
 was purposely without a partner, that I might have
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 123 
 
 the liberty to exercise rny gallantry as circum 
 stances should invite. Indeed I must own that 
 my particular design was to observe Miss Whar- 
 ton s movements, being rather inclined to jealousy 
 in your behalf. She was handed into the assembly 
 room by Major Sanford. The brilliance of their 
 appearance, the levity of their manners, and the 
 contrast of their characters I found to be a gen 
 eral subject of speculation. I endeavored to asso 
 ciate with Miss Wharton, but found it impossible 
 to detach her a moment from the coxcomb who 
 attended her. If she has any idea of a connection 
 with you, why does she continue to associate with 
 another, especially with one of so opposite a de 
 scription ? I am seriously afraid that there is 
 more intimacy between them than there ought to 
 be, considering the encouragement she has given 
 you. 
 
 I hope you will not be offended by my freedom 
 in this matter. It originates in a concern for your 
 honor and future happiness. I am anxious lest 
 you should be made the dupe of a coquette, and 
 your peace of mind fall a sacrifice to an artful 
 debauchee. Yet I must believe that Miss Whar 
 ton has, in reality, all that virtue and good sense 
 of which she enjoys the reputation ; but her pres 
 ent conduct is mysterious.
 
 124 THE COQUETTE ; OB, THE 
 
 I have said enough (more than I ought, perhaps) 
 to awaken your attention to circumstances which 
 may lead to important events. If they appear of 
 little or no consequence to you, you will at least 
 ascribe the mention of them to motives of sincere 
 regard in your friend and humble servant, 
 
 T. SELBY. 
 
 LETTER XXVIII. 
 
 To MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON. 
 
 NEW HAVBH. 
 
 I go on finely with my amour. *1 have every en 
 couragement that I could wish. Indeed my fair 
 one does not verbally declare in my favor; but 
 then, according to the vulgar proverb, that "ac 
 tions speak louder than words" I have no reason 
 to complain ; since she evidently approves my gal 
 lantry, is pleased with my company, and listens to 
 my flattery. Her sagacious friends have undoubt 
 edly given her a detail of my vices. If, therefore, 
 my past conduct has been repugnant to her notions 
 of propriety, why does she not act consistently, and 
 refuse at once to associate with a man whose char 
 acter she cannot esteem ? But no ; that, Charles, 
 is no part of the female plan ; our entrapping a
 
 LIFE AND LETTEES OF ELIZA WHARTON. 125 
 
 few of their sex only discovers the gayety of our 
 dispositions, the insinuating graces of our man 
 ners, and the irresistible charms of our persons and 
 address. These qualifications are very alluring to 
 the sprightly fancy of the fair. They think to en 
 joy the pleasures which result from this source, 
 while their vanity and ignorance prompt each one 
 tp imagine herself superior to delusion, and to 
 anticipate the honor of reclaiming the libertine and 
 reforming the rake. I don t know, however, but 
 this girl will really have that merit with me ; for I 
 am so much attached to her that I begin to sus 
 pect I should sooner become a convert to sobriety 
 than lose her. I cannot find that I have made 
 much impression on her heart as yet. Want of 
 success in this point mortifies me extremely, as it 
 is the first time I ever failed. Besides, I am ap 
 prehensive that she is prepossessed in favor of the 
 other swain, the clerical lover, whom I have men 
 tioned to you before. The chord, therefore, upon 
 which I play the most, is the dissimilarity of their 
 dispositions and pleasures. I endeavor to detach 
 her from him, and disaffect her towards him ; 
 knowing that, if I can separate them entirely, I 
 shall be more likely to succeed in my plan. Not 
 that I have any thoughts of marrying her myself ; 
 
 4* 1 
 
 that will not do at present. But I love her too
 
 126 THE COQUETTE; OB 7 THE 
 
 well to see her connected with another for life. T 
 must own myself a little revengeful, too, in this af 
 fair. I wish to punish her friends, as she cails 
 them, for their malice towards me, for their cold 
 and negligent treatment of me whenever I go to 
 the house. T know that to frustrate their designs 
 of a connection between Mr. Boyer and Eliza 
 would be a grievous disappointment. I have not 
 yet determined to seduce her, though, with all her 
 pretensions to virtue, I do not think it impossible. 
 And if I should, she can blame none but herself, 
 since she knows my character, and has no reason 
 to wonder if I act consistently with it. If she wiL 
 play with a lion, let her beware of his paw, I say. 
 At present, I wish innocently to enjoy her society; 
 it is a luxury which I never tasted before. She 
 is the very soul of pleasure. The gayest circle is 
 irradiated by her presence, and the highest enter 
 tainment receives its greatest charms from her 
 smiles. Besides, I have purchased the seat of 
 Captain Pribble, about a mile from her mother s ; 
 and can I think of suffering her to leave the neigh 
 borhood just as I enter it ? I shall exert every 
 nerve to prevent that, and hope to meet with the 
 usual success of 
 
 PF.TF.R SANFORD.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 127 
 
 LETTER XXIX. 
 
 To Miss ELIZA WHARTON. 
 
 HARTFORD. 
 
 You desire me to write to you, my friend ; but 
 if you had not, I should by no means have re 
 frained. I tremble at the precipice on which you 
 stand, and must echo and reecho the seasonable 
 admonition of the excellent Mrs. Richman, " Be 
 ware of the delusions of fancy." You are 
 strangely infatuated by them ! Let not the magic 
 arts of that worthless Sanford lead you, like an 
 ignis fatuus, from the path of rectitude and virtue. 
 
 I do not find, in all your conversations with 
 him, that one word about marriage drops from 
 his lips. This is mysterious. No, it is charac 
 teristic of the man. Suppose, however, that his 
 views are honorable ; yet what can you expect, 
 what can you promise yourself, from such a con 
 nection ? "A reformed rake," you say, " makes 
 the best husband" a trite, but a very erroneous 
 maxim, as the fatal experience of thousands of 
 our sex can testify. In the first place, I believe 
 that rakes very seldom do reform while their for 
 tunes and constitutions enable them to pursue 
 their licentious pleasures. Rut even allowing this 
 to happen ; can a woman of refinement and deli-
 
 128 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 cacy enjoy the society of a man whose mind has 
 been corrupted, whose taste has been vitiated, and 
 who has contracted a depravity, both of sentiment 
 and manners, which no degree of repentance can 
 wholly efface ? Besides, of true love they are ab 
 solutely incapable. Their passions have been much 
 too hackneyed to admit so pure a flame. You can 
 not anticipate sincere and lasting respect from 
 them. They have been so long accustomed to 
 the company of those of our sex who deserve no 
 esteem, that the greatest dignity and purity of 
 character can never excite it in their breasts. 
 They are naturally prone to jealousy. Habitu 
 ated to an intercourse with the baser part of the 
 sex, they level the whole, and seldom believe any 
 to be incorruptible. They are always hardhearted 
 and cruel. How else could they triumph in the 
 miseries which they frequently occasion ? Their 
 specious manners may render them agreeable com 
 panions abroad, but at home the evil propensities 
 of their minds will invariably predominate. They 
 are steeled against the tender affections which 
 render domestic life delightful ; strangers to the 
 kind, the endearing sympathies of husband, father, 
 and friend. The thousand nameless attentions 
 which soften the rugged path of life are neglected, 
 and deemed unworthy of notice, by persons who
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTOTf. 129 
 
 have been inured to scenes of dissipation and de 
 bauchery. And is a man of this description to be 
 the partner, the companion, the bosom friend of 
 my Eliza ? Forbid it, Heaven ! Let not the noble 
 qualities so lavishly bestowed upon her be thus 
 unworthily sacrificed ! 
 
 You seem to be particularly charmed with the 
 fortune of Major Sanford, with the gayety of his 
 appearance, with the splendor of his equipage, 
 with the politeness of his manners, with what you 
 call the graces of his person. These, alas! are 
 superficial, insnaring endowments. As to fortune, 
 prudence, economy, and regularity are necessary to 
 preserve it when possessed. Of these Major San- 
 ford is certainly destitute unless common fame 
 (which more frequently tells the truth than some 
 are willing to allow) does him great injustice. As 
 to external parade, it will not satisfy the rational 
 mind when it aspires to those substantial pleasures 
 for which yours is formed. And as to the graces 
 of person and manners, they are but a wretched 
 substitute for those virtues which adorn and dig 
 nify human life. Can you, who have always been 
 used to serenity and order in a family, to rational, 
 refined, and improving conversation, relinquish 
 them, and launch into the whirlpool of frivolity, 
 
 where the correct taste and the delicate sensibil- 
 
 8
 
 130 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 ity which you possess must constantly be wounded 
 by the frothy and illiberal sallies of licentious wit? 
 
 This, my dear, is but a faint picture of the sit 
 uation to which you seem inclined. Reverse the 
 scene, and you will perceive the alternative which 
 is submitted to your option in a virtuous connec 
 tion with Mr. Boyer. Remember that you are act 
 ing for life, and that your happiness in this world, 
 perhaps in the next, depends on your present 
 choice. 
 
 I called last evening to see your mamma. She 
 is fondly anticipating your return, and rejoicing in 
 the prospect of your agreeable and speedy settle 
 ment. I could not find it in my heart to distress 
 her by intimating that you had other views. I 
 wish her benevolent bosom nevermore to feel the 
 pangs of disappointed hope. 
 
 I am busily engaged in preparing for my nup 
 tials. The solemn words, n As long as ye both 
 shall live," render me thoughtful and serious. I 
 hope for your enlivening presence soon, which will 
 prove a seasonable cordial to the spirits of your 
 
 LUCY FREEMAN.
 
 LTFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTOK. 131 
 
 LETTER XXX. 
 
 To Miss LUCY FREEMAN. 
 
 NEW HAVKH. 
 
 I believe your spirits need a cordial indeed, my 
 dear Lucy, after drawing so dreadful a portrait of 
 my swain. But I call him mine no longer. I re 
 nounce him entirely. My friends shall be grat 
 ified; and if their predictions are verified, I shall 
 be happy in a union with a man of their choice. 
 General Richman and lady have labored abun 
 dantly to prove that my ruin was inevitable if I 
 did not immediately break all intercourse with 
 Major Sanford. I promised a compliance with 
 their wishes, and have accomplished the task, 
 though a hard one I found it. Last Thursday 
 he was here, and desired leave to spend an hour 
 with me. I readily consented, assuring my friends 
 it should be the last hour which I would ever spend 
 in his company. 
 
 He told me that he was obliged to leave town 
 for a few days ; and as I should probably see Mr. 
 Boyer before his return, he could not depart in 
 peace without once more endeavoring to interest 
 me in his favor, to obtain some token of esteem, 
 some glimpse of hope that I would not utterly re 
 ject him, to support him in his absence. I thanked
 
 132 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 him for the polite attention he had paid me since 
 our acquaintance, told him that I should ever re 
 tain a grateful sense of his partiality to me, that 
 he would ever share my best wishes, but that all 
 connection of the kind to which he alluded must 
 from that time forever cease. 
 
 He exerted all his eloquence to obtain a retrac 
 tion of that sentence, and ran with the greatest, 
 volubility through all the protestations, prayers, 
 entreaties, professions, and assurances which love 
 could feel or art contrive. I had resolution, how 
 ever, to resist them, and to command my own 
 emotions on the occasion better than my natural 
 sensibility gave me reason to expect. 
 
 Finding every effort vain, he rose precipitately, 
 and bade me adieu. I urged his tarrying to tea ; 
 but he declined, saying that he must retire to his 
 chamber, being, in his present state of mind, unfit 
 for any society, as he was banished from mine. I 
 offered him my hand, which he pressed with ardor 
 to his lips, and, bowing in silence, left the room. 
 
 Thus terminated this affair an affair which, 
 perhaps, was only the effect of mere gallantry on 
 his part, and of unmeaning pleasantry on mine, 
 and which, I am sorry to say, has given my friends 
 so much anxiety and concern. I am under obliga 
 tions to them for their kind solicitude, however 
 causeless it may have been.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 133 
 
 As an agreeable companion, as a polite and fin 
 ished gallant, Major Sanford is all that the most 
 lively fancy could wish. And as you have always 
 affirmed that I was a little inclined to coquetry, 
 can you wonder at my exercising it upon so happy 
 a subject ? Besides, when I thought more seri 
 ously, his liberal fortune was extremely alluring 
 to me, who, you know, have been hitherto confined 
 to the rigid rules of prudence and economy, not to 
 say necessity, in my finances. 
 
 Miss Lawrence called on me yesterday, as she 
 was taking the air, and asked me whether Major 
 Sanford took leave of me when he left town. " He 
 was here last week," said I, " but I did not know 
 that he was gone away." " O, yes," she replied, 
 " he is gone to take possession of his seat which 
 he has lately purchased of Captain Pribble. I am 
 told it is superb ; and it ought to be, if it has the 
 honor of his residence." " Then you have a great 
 opinion of Major Sanford," said I. " Certainly ; 
 and has not every body else ?" said she. "I am 
 sure he is a very fine gentleman." Mrs. Richman 
 smiled rather contemptuously, and I changed the 
 subject. I believe that the innocent heart of this 
 simple; girl is a little taken in. 
 
 1 have just received a letter from Mr. Boyer in 
 the usual style. He expects the superlative hap-
 
 134 THE COQUETTE ; OR THE 
 
 piness of kissing my hand next week. O, dear! 
 I believe I must begin to fix my phiz. Let me 
 run to the glass, and try if I can make up one that 
 will look madamish. Yes, I succeeded very well. 
 
 I congratulate you on your new neighbor ; but 
 I advise friend George to have the Gordiazi knot 
 tied immediately, lest you should be insnared by 
 this bewitching squire. 
 
 I have been trying to seduce General Richman 
 to accompany me to the assembly this evening, 
 but cannot prevail. Were Mrs. Richman able to 
 go with us, he would be very happy to wait on us 
 together; but, to tell the truth, he had rather enjoy 
 her company at home than any which is to be 
 found abroad. I rallied him on his old-fashioned 
 taste, but my heart approved and applauded his 
 attachment. I despise the married man or woman 
 who harbors an inclination to partake of separate 
 pleasures. 
 
 I am told that a servant man inquires for me 
 below the messenger of some enamoured swain, 
 I suppose. I will step down and learn what mes 
 sage he brings. 
 
 Nothing extraordinary ; it is only a card of com 
 pliments from a Mr. Emmons, a respectable mer 
 chant of this city, requesting the honor to wait on 
 me to the assembly this evening a welcome
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 135 
 
 request, which 1 made no hesitation to grant. If 
 1 must resign these favorite amusements, let me 
 enjoy as large a share as possible till the time ar 
 rives. I must repair to the toilet, and adorn for a 
 new conquest the person of 
 
 " ELIZA WHARTON. 
 
 LETTER XXXI. 
 
 To Miss ELIZA WHARTON. 
 
 HAETFORD. 
 
 I am very happy to find you are in so good 
 spirits, Eliza, after parting with your favorite 
 swain ; for I perceive that he is really the favor 
 ite of your fancy, though your heart cannot esteem 
 him ; and, independent of that, no sensations can 
 be durable. 
 
 I can tell you some news of this strange man. 
 He has arrived, and taken possession of his seat. 
 Having given general invitations, he has been 
 called upon and welcomed by most of the neigh 
 boring gentry. Yesterday he made an elegant 
 entertainment. Friend George (as you call him) 
 and I were of the number who had cards. Twenty- 
 one couple went, I am told. We did not go. 1 
 consider my time too valuable to be spent in culti-
 
 136 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 vating acquaintance with a person from whom 
 neither pleasure nor improvement is to be ex 
 pected. His profuseness may bribe the unthink 
 ing multitude to show him respect ; but he must 
 know that, though 
 
 " Places and honors have been bought for gold, 
 Esteem and love were never to be sold." 
 
 I look upon the vicious habits and abandoned 
 character of Major Sanford to have more pernicious 
 effects on society than the perpetrations of the rob 
 ber and the assassin. These, when detected, are 
 rigidly punished by the laws of the land. If their 
 lives be spared, they are shunned by society, and 
 treated with every mark of disapprobation and 
 contempt. But, to the disgrace of humanity and 
 virtue, the assassin of honor, the wretch who breaks 
 the peace of families, who robs virgin innocence 
 of its charms, who triumphs over the ill-placed 
 confidence of the inexperienced, unsuspecting, and 
 too credulous fair, is received and caressed, not 
 only by his own sex, to which he is a reproach, but 
 even by ours, who have every conceivable reason 
 to despise and avoid him. Iniluenced by these 
 principles, 1 am neither ashamed nor afraid openly 
 to avow my sentiments of this man, and my rea 
 sons for treating him with the most pointed neglect.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 137 
 
 I write warmly on the subject ; for it is a sub 
 ject in which 1 think the hunor and happiness of 
 my sex concerned. I wish they would more gen 
 erally espouse their own cause. It would conduce 
 to the public weal, and to their personal respecta 
 bility. I rejoice, heartily, that you have had reso 
 lution to resist his allurements, to detect and repel 
 his artifices. Resolution in such a case is abso 
 lutely necessary ; for, 
 
 " In spite of all the virtue we can boast, 
 The woman that deliberates is lost." 
 
 As I was riding out yesterday I met your mam 
 ma. She wondered that I was not .one of the 
 party at our new neighbor s. " The reason, mad 
 am," said I, " is, that I do not like the character 
 of the man." " I know nothing of him," said she ; 
 " he is quite a stranger to me, only as he called at 
 my house last week to pay me his respects, as he 
 said, for the sake of my late husband, whose mem 
 ory he revered, and because I was the mother of 
 Miss Eliza Wharton, with whom he had the honor 
 of some little acquaintance. His manners are en 
 gaging, and I am sorry to hear that his morals are 
 corrupt." 
 
 This, my dear, is a very extraordinary visit. I 
 fear that he has not yet laid aside his arts. Be
 
 138 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 still on your guard, is the advice of your sincere 
 and faithful friend, 
 
 LUCY FREEMAN. 
 
 LETTER XXXII. 
 
 To MR. CHARLES DEIGIITON. 
 
 HARTFORD. 
 
 I am really banished and rejected desired 
 nevermore to think of the girl I love with a view 
 of indulging that love or of rendering it accept 
 able to its object. You will perhaps dispute the 
 propriety of the term, and tell me it is not love 
 it is only gallantry, and a desire to exercise it with 
 her as a favorite nymph. I neither know nor care 
 by what appellation you distinguish it; but it truly 
 gives me pain. I have not felt one sensation of 
 genuine pleasure since I heard my sentence ; yet I 
 acquiesced in it, and submissively took my leave ; 
 though I doubt not but I shall retaliate the indig 
 nity one time or other. 
 
 I have taken possession of my new purchase 
 an elegant and delightful residence. It is rendered 
 more so by being in the vicinity of rny charmer s 
 native abode. This circumstance will conduce 
 much to my enjoyment, if I can succeed in my
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 130 
 
 plan of separating her from Mr. Boyer. I know 
 that my situation and mode of life are far more 
 pleasing to her than his, and shall therefore trust 
 to my appearance and address for a reestablish- 
 ment in her favor. I intend, if possible, to ingra 
 tiate myself with her particular friends. For this 
 purpose I called last week at her mother s to 
 pay my respects to her (so I told the good wo 
 man) as an object of my particular regard, and 
 as the parent of a young lady whom I had the 
 honor to know and admire. She received me 
 very civilly, thanked me for my attention, and 
 invited me to call whenever I had opportunity ; 
 which was the very thing I wanted. I intend, 
 likewise, to court popularity. I don t know but 
 I must accept, by and by, some lucrative office 
 in the civil department ; yet I cannot bear the 
 idea of confinement to business. It appears to 
 me quite inconsistent with the character of a 
 gentleman ; I am sure it is with that of a man of 
 pleasure. But something I must do; for I tell 
 you, in confidence, that I was obliged to mortgage 
 this place because I had not wherewithal to pay 
 for it. But I shall manage matters very well, I 
 have no doubt, and keep up the appearance of 
 allluence till I find some lady in a strait for a hus-
 
 1-10 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 band whose fortune will enable me to extricate 
 myself from these embarrassments. Do come and 
 see me, Charles ; for, notwithstanding all my gay- 
 ety and parade, I have some turns of the hypo, 
 some qualms of conscience, you will call them; 
 but I meddle not with such obsolete words. And 
 so good by to you, says 
 
 PETER SANFORD. 
 
 LETTER XXXIII. 
 
 To Miss LUCY FREEMAN. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 My dear friend : I believe I must begin to as 
 sume airs of gravity ; and they will not be quite 
 so foreign to my feelings now as at some other 
 times. You shall know the reason. I have been 
 associated for three days with sentiment and sobri 
 ety in the person of Mr. Boyer. I don t know but 
 this man will seduce me into matrimony. He is 
 very eloquent upon the subject; and his manners 
 are so solemn that I am strongly tempted yet I 
 dare not to laugh. Really, Lucy, there is some 
 thing extremely engaging, and soothing, too, in 
 virtuous and refined conversation. It is a source
 
 LIFE ATSTT) TETTERS OF ELIZA WJ^ARTON. 141 
 
 of enjoyment which cannot be realized by the dis 
 solute and unreflecting. But then this particular 
 theme of his is not a favorite one to me ; I mean 
 as connected with its consequences care and 
 confinement. However, I have compounded the 
 matter with him, and conditioned that he shall ex 
 patiate on the subject, and call it by what name 
 he pleases, platonic or conjugal, provided he will 
 let me take my own time for the consummation. 
 I have consented that he shall escort me next 
 week to see my mamma and my Lucy. O, how 
 the idea of returning to that revered mansion, to 
 those beloved friends, exhilarates my spirits ! 
 
 General Richman s politeness to me has in 
 duced him to invite a large party of those gentle 
 men and ladies who have been particularly atten 
 tive to me during my residence here to dine and 
 take tea to-morrow. After that, I expect to be en 
 gaged in making farewell visits till I leave the place. 
 I shall, therefore, forego the pleasure of telling you 
 any occurrences subsequent to this date until you 
 see and converse with your sincere friend, 
 
 ELIZA WHARTON.
 
 142 % THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 LETTER XXXIV. 
 
 To MRS. RICHMAN. 
 
 HARTFORD. 
 
 Dear madam : The day after I left your hospita 
 ble dwelling brought me safe to that of my hon 
 ored mamma; to the seat of maternal and filial 
 affection ; of social ease and domestic peace ; of 
 every species of happiness which can result from 
 religion and virtue, from refinement in morals and 
 manners. 
 
 I found my brother and his wife, with Lucy 
 Freeman and Mr. Sumner, waiting to receive and 
 bid me welcome. I flew with ecstasy to the 
 bosom of my mamma, who received me with her 
 accustomed affection, testified by the expressive 
 tears of tenderness which stole silently down her 
 widowed cheek. She was unable to speak. I 
 was equally so. We therefore indulged a moment 
 the pleasing emotions of sympathizing sensibility. 
 When disengaged from her fond embrace, I was 
 saluted by the others in turn ; and, having recov 
 ered myself, I presented Mr. Boyer to each of the 
 company, and each of the company to him. He 
 was cordially received by all, but more especially 
 by my mamma. 
 
 The next day I was called upon and welcomed
 
 LIFE AND LETTEKS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 143 
 
 by several of my neighboring acquaintance ; among 
 whom I was not a little surprised to see Major 
 Sanford. He came in company with Mr. Stod- 
 dard and lady, whom he overtook, as he told me, 
 near by ; and, as they informed him that the de 
 sign of their visit was to welcome me home, he 
 readily accepted their invitation to partake of the 
 pleasure which every one must receive on my re 
 turn. I bowed slightly at his compliment, taking 
 no visible notice of any peculiarity of expression 
 either in his words or looks. 
 
 His politeness to Mr. Boyer appeared to be the 
 result of habit; Mr. Boyer s to him to be forced 
 by respect to the company to which he had gained 
 admission. I dare say that each felt a conscious 
 superiority the one on the score of merit, the 
 other on that of fortune. Which ought to out 
 weigh the judicious mind will easily decide. The 
 scale, as I once observed to you, will turn as fancy 
 or reason preponderates. I believe the esteem 
 which I now have for Mr. Boyer will keep me 
 steady ; except, perhaps, some little eccentricities 
 now and then, just by way of variety. I am going 
 to-morrow morning to spend a few days with 
 Lucy Freeman, to assist in the preparation for, 
 and the solemnization of, her nuptials. Mr. Boyer,
 
 144 THE COQUETTE; OR. 
 
 in the mean time, will tarry among his friends in 
 town. My mamma is excessively partial to him, 
 though I am not yet jealous that she means to ri 
 val me. I am not certain, however, but it might 
 be happy for him if she should ; for I suspect, not 
 withstanding the disparity of her age, that she is 
 better calculated to make him a good wife than I 
 am or ever shall be. 
 
 But to be sober. Please, madam, to make my 
 compliments acceptable to those of your neigh 
 bors, whose politeness and attention to me while 
 at your house have laid me under particular ob 
 ligations of gratitude and respect. My best re 
 gards attend General Richman. Pray tell him 
 that, though I never expect to be so good a wife 
 as he is blessed with, yet I intend, after a while, 
 (when I have sowed, all my wild oats,) to make a 
 tolerable one. 
 
 I am anxious to hear of a wished-for event, and 
 of your safety. All who know you feel interested 
 in your health and happiness, but none more 
 warmly than your obliged and affectionate 
 
 ELIZA WHARTON.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHAHTON. 145 
 
 LETTER XXXV. 
 
 To Miss ELIZA WHARTON. 
 
 NEW HAVEN. 
 
 I write a line, at Mrs. Richman s request, just to 
 inform you, Eliza, that, yesterday, that lovely and 
 beloved woman presented me with a daughter. 
 This event awakens new sensations in my mind, 
 and calls into exercise a kind of affection which 
 had before lain dormant. I feel already the ten 
 derness of a parent, while imagination fondly 
 traces the mother s likeness in the infant form. 
 Mrs. Richman expects to receive your congratula 
 tions in a letter by the next post. She bids me 
 tell you, moreover, that she hopes soon to receive 
 an invitation, and be able to attend, to the consum 
 mation you talk of. Give Mrs. Richman s and my 
 particular regards to your excellent mother and 
 to the worthy Mr. Boyer. With sentiments of 
 esteem and friendship, I am, &c., 
 
 S. RICHMAN.
 
 146 TTTTC COQFTCTTE : OR, TTTTC 
 
 LETTER XXXVI. 
 
 To MRS. RICHMAN. 
 
 HARTFORD. 
 
 From the scenes of festive mirth, from the con 
 viviality of rejoicing friends, and from the dissi 
 pating amusements of the gay world, I retire with 
 alacrity, to hail my beloved friend on the impor 
 tant charge which she has received ; on the acces 
 sion to her family, and, may I not say, on the ad 
 dition to her care? since that care will be more 
 than counterbalanced by the pleasure it confers. 
 Hail, happy babe ! ushered into the world by the 
 best of mothers; entitled by birthright to virtue 
 and honor; defended by parental love from the 
 weakness of infancy and childhood, by guardian 
 wisdom from the perils of youth, and by affluent, 
 independence from the. griping hand of poverty in 
 more advanced life ! May these animating pros 
 pects be realized by your little daughter, and may 
 you long enjoy the rich reward of seeing her all 
 that you wish. 
 
 Yesterday, my dear friend, Lucy Freeman, gave 
 her hand to the amiable and accomplished Mr. 
 George Sumner. A large circle of congratulating 
 friends were present. Her dress was such as wealth 
 and elegance required. Her deportment was every
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 147 
 
 thing that modesty and propriety could suggest. 
 They are, indeed, a charming couple. The con 
 sonance of their dispositions, the similarity of their 
 tastes, and the equality of their ages are a sure 
 pledge of happiness. Every eye beamed with 
 pleasure on the occasion, and every tongue echoed 
 the wishes of benevolence. Mine only was silent. 
 Though not less interested in the felicity of my 
 friend than the rest, yet the idea of a separation, 
 perhaps of an alienation of affection, by means of 
 her entire devotion to another, cast an involuntary 
 gloom over my mind. Mr. Boyer took my hand 
 after the ceremony was past. " Permit me, Miss 
 Wharton," said he, " to lead you to your lovely 
 friend ; her happiness must be heightened by your 
 participation of it." " O, no," said I, " I am too 
 selfish for that. She has conferred upon another 
 that affection which I wished to engross. My love 
 was too fervent to admit a rival." "Retaliate, 
 then," said he, " this fancied wrong by doing like 
 wise." I observed that this was not a proper time 
 to discuss that subject, and, resuming my seat, 
 endeavored to put on the appearance of my ac 
 customed vivacity. I need not relate the remaining 
 particulars of the evening s entertainment. Mr. 
 Boyer returned with my mamrna, and I remained 
 at Mrs. Freeman s.
 
 148 THE COQUETTE ; OR. THE 
 
 We are to have a ball here this evening. Mr. 
 Boyer has been with us, and tried to monopolize 
 my company ; but in vain. I am too much en 
 gaged by the exhilarating scenes around for attend 
 ing to a subject which affords no variety. I shall 
 not close this till to-morrow. 
 
 I am rather fatigued with the amusements of 
 last night, which were protracted to a late hour. 
 Mr. Boyer was present ; and I was pleased to see 
 him not averse to the entertainment, though his 
 profession prevented him from taking an active 
 part. As all the neighboring gentry were invited, 
 Mr. Freeman would by no means omit Major 
 Sanford, which his daughter earnestly solicited. 
 It happened (unfortunately, shall I say?) that I 
 drew him for a partner. Yet I must own that I 
 felt very little reluctance to my lot. He is an excellent 
 dancer, and well calculated for a companion in the 
 hours of mirth and gayety. I regretted Mr. Boy- 
 er s being present, however, because my enjoyment 
 seemed to give him pain. I hope he is not in 
 clined to the passion of jealousy. If he is, I fear 
 it will be somewhat exercised. 
 
 Lucy Freeman, now Mrs. Sumner, removes next 
 week to Boston. I have agreed to accompany her, 
 and spend a month or two in her family. This
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTOTT. 149 
 
 will give variety to the journey of life. Be so 
 kind as to direct your next letter to me there. 
 
 Kiss the dear little babe for me. Give love, 
 compliments, &c., as respectively due ; and believe 
 me, with every sentiment of respect, your affec 
 tionate 
 
 ELIZA WHARTON, 
 
 LETTER XXXVII. 
 
 To MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON. 
 
 HAETFOBD. 
 
 Dear Charles : My hopes begin to revive. I am 
 again permitted to associate with my Eliza in 
 vited to the same entertainment. She does not 
 refuse to join with me in the mazy dance, and par 
 take the scenes of festive mirth. Nay, mor; she 
 allows me to press her hand to my lips, and lis 
 tens to the sighing accents of love. Love her I 
 certainly do. Would to Heaven I could marry 
 her! Would to Heaven I had preserved my for 
 tune, or she had one to supply its place! I am 
 distracted at the idea of losing her forever. I am 
 sometimes tempted to solicit her hand in serious 
 earnest ; but if I should, poverty and want must 
 be the consequence. Her disappointment in tha
 
 150 THE COQUETTE; OR, TJIE 
 
 expectation of affluence and splendor, which I re 
 lieve her ruling passion, would afford a perpetual 
 source of discontent and mutual wretchedness. 
 
 She is going to Boston with her friend, Mrs. 
 Sumner. I must follow her. I must break the 
 connection which is rapidly forming between her 
 and Mr. Boyer, and enjoy her society a while 
 longer, if no more. 
 
 I have had a little intimation from New Ha /en 
 that Miss Lawrence is partial to me, and might 
 easily be obtained, with a handsome property irito 
 the bargain. I am neither pleased with nor averse 
 to the girl ; but she has money, and that may sup 
 ply the place of love, by enabling me to pursue in 
 dependent pleasures. This she must expect, if she 
 marries a man of my cast. She, doubtless, knows 
 my character ; and if she is so vain of her charms 
 or influence as to think of reforming or confining 
 me, she must bear the consequences. 
 
 However, I can keep my head up at present 
 without recourse to the noose of matrimony, and 
 shall therefore defer any particular attention to 
 her till necessity requires it. I am, &c., 
 
 PETER SANFORD.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 151 
 
 LETTER XXXVIII. 
 
 To MRS. M. WHARTON. 
 
 BOSTON. 
 
 You commanded me, my dear mamma, to write 
 to you. That command I cheerfully obey, in testi 
 mony of my ready submission and respect. No 
 other avocation could arrest my time, which is now 
 completely occupied in scenes of amusement. 
 
 Mrs. Sumner is agreeably settled and situated. 
 She appears to be possessed of every blessing 
 which can render life desirable. Almost every day 
 since our arrival has been engrossed by visitants. 
 Our evenings we have devoted to company abroad ; 
 and that more generally than we should otherwise 
 have done, as my stay is limited to so short a 
 period. The museum, the theatres, the circus, and 
 the assemblies have been frequented. 
 
 Mrs. Sumner has made me several presents; 
 notwithstanding which, the articles requisite to a 
 fashionable appearance have involved me in con 
 siderable expense. I fear that you will think me 
 extravagant when you are told how much. 
 
 Mr. Boyer tarried in town about a week, having 
 business. He appeared a little concerned at my 
 taste for dissipation, as he once termed it. He even 
 took the liberty to converse seriously on the subject.
 
 152 THE COQUETTE ; OB, THE 
 
 I was displeased with his freedom, and reminded 
 him that I had the disposal of my own time as 
 yet, and that, while I escaped the censure of my 
 own heart, I hoped that no one else would presume 
 to arraign it. He apologized, and gave up his 
 argument. 
 
 I was much surprised, the first time I went to 
 the play, to see Major Sanford in the very next 
 box. He immediately joined our party; and wher 
 ever I have been since, I have been almost sure to 
 meet him. 
 
 Mr. Boyer has taken his departure ; and I do 
 not expect to see him again till I return home. 
 
 mamma, I am embarrassed about this man. 
 His worth I acknowledge ; nay, I esteem him very 
 highly. But can there be happiness with such a 
 disparity of dispositions ? 
 
 1 shall soon return to the bosom of domestic 
 tranquillity, to the arms of maternal tenderness, 
 where I can deliberate and advise at leisure about 
 this important matter. Till when, I am, &c., 
 
 ELIZA WHARTON.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHAETON. 153 
 
 LETTER XXXIX. 
 
 To MR. T. SELBY. 
 
 HAMPSHIRE. 
 
 Dear sir : I believe that I owe you an apology 
 for my long silence. But my time has been much 
 engrossed of late, and my mind much more so. 
 When it will be otherwise I cannot foresee. I 
 fear, my friend, that there is some foundation 
 for your suspicions respecting my beloved Eliza. 
 What pity it is that so fair a form, so accomplished 
 a mind, should be tarnished in the smallest degree 
 by the follies of coquetry! If this be the fact, 
 which I am loath to believe, all my regard for her 
 shall never make me the dupe of it. 
 
 When I arrived at her residence at New Haven, 
 where I told you in my last I was soon to go, she 
 gave me a most cordial reception. Her whole be 
 havior to me was correspondent with those senti 
 ments of esteem and affection which she modestly 
 avowed. She permitted me to accompany her to 
 Hartford, to restore her to her mother, and to de 
 clare my wish to receive her again from her hand. 
 Thus far all was harmony and happiness. As all 
 my wishes were consistent with virtue and honor, 
 she readily indulged them. She took apparent 
 pleasure in my company, encouraged my hopes of
 
 154 THE COQUETTF ; OR THE 
 
 a future union, and listened to the tender accents 
 of love. 
 
 But the scenes of gayety which invited her 
 attention reversed her conduct. The delightful 
 hours of mutual confidence, of sentimental con 
 verse, and of the interchange of refined affection 
 were no more. Instead of these, parties were 
 formed unpleasing to my taste, and every oppor 
 tunity was embraced to join in diversions in which 
 she knew I could not consistently take a share. I, 
 however, acquiesced in her pleasure, though I 
 sometimes thought myself neglected, and even 
 hinted it to her mother. The old lady apologized 
 for her daughter, by alleging that she had been ab 
 sent for a long time ; that her acquaintances were 
 rejoiced at her return, and welcomed her by striving 
 to promote her amusement. 
 
 One of her most intimate friends was married 
 during my stay, and she appeared deeply interested 
 in the event. She spent several days in assisting 
 her previous to the celebration. I resided, in the 
 mean time, at her mamma s, visiting her at her 
 friend s, where Major Sanford, among others, was 
 received as a guest. Mrs. Sumner acquainted me 
 that she had prevailed on Miss Wharton to go and 
 spend a few weeks with her at Boston, whither 
 she was removing, and urged my accompanying
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WIIARTOX. 155 
 
 them. 1 endeavored to excuse myself, as I had 
 been absent from my people a considerable time, 
 and my return was now expected. But their im 
 portunity was so great, and Eliza s declaration that 
 it would be very agreeable to her so tempting, that 
 I consented. Here I took lodgings, and spent 
 about a week, taking every opportunity to converse 
 with Eliza, striving to discover her real disposition 
 towards me. I mentioned the inconvenience of 
 visiting her so often as I wished, and suggested my 
 desire to enter, as soon as might be, into a family 
 relation. I painted, in the most alluring colors, the 
 pleasures resulting from domestic tranquillity, mu 
 tual confidence, and conjugal affection, and in 
 sisted on her declaring frankly whether she designed 
 to share this happiness with me, and when it 
 should commence. She owned that she intended 
 to give me her hand, but when she should be ready 
 she could not yet determine. She pretended a 
 promise from me to wait her time, to consent 
 that she should share the pleasures of the fashion 
 able world as long as she chose, &c. 
 
 I then attempted to convince her of her mistaken 
 ideas of pleasure ; that the scenes of dissipation, 
 of which she was so passionately fond, afforded no 
 true enjoyment ; that the adulation of the cox 
 comb could not give durability to her charms, or
 
 156 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 secure the approbation of the wise and good ; nor 
 could the fashionable amusements of brilliant as 
 semblies and crowded theatres furnish the mind 
 with 
 
 That which nothing earthly gives or can destroy 
 The soul s calm sunshine and the heartfelt joy." 
 
 These friendly suggestions, I found, were con 
 sidered as the theme of a priest, and my desire 
 to detach her from such empty pursuits as the self 
 ishness of a lover. She was even offended at my 
 freedom, and warmly affirmed that no one had a 
 right to arraign her conduct. I mentioned Major 
 Sanford, who was then in town, and who (though 
 she went to places of public resort with Mr. and 
 Mrs. Sumner) always met and gallanted her home. 
 She rallied me upon my jealousy, as she termed it, 
 wished that I would attend her myself, and then 
 she should need no other gallant. I answered that 
 I had rather resign that honor to another, but 
 wished, for her sake, that he might be a gentleman 
 whose character would not disgrace the company 
 with which he associated. She appeared morti 
 fied and chagrined in the extreme. However, she 
 studiously suppressed her emotions, and even 
 soothed me with the blandishments of female soft 
 ness. We parted amicably. She promised to 
 return soon and prepare for a compliance with my
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 157 
 
 wishes. I cannot refuse to believe her. I cannot 
 cease to love her. My heart is in her posses 
 sion. She has a perfect command of my passions, 
 Persuasion dwells on her tongue. With all the 
 boasted fortitude and resolution of our sex, we are 
 but mere machines. Let love once pervade our 
 breasts, and its object may mould us into any 
 form that pleases her fancy, or even caprice. 
 
 I have just received a letter from Eliza, inform 
 ing me of her return to Hartford. To-morrow I 
 shall set out on a visit to the dear girl ; for, my 
 friend, notwithstanding all her foibles, she is very 
 dear to me. Before you hear from me again I ex 
 pect that the happy day will be fixed the day 
 which shall unite in the most sacred bands this 
 lovely maid and your faithful friend, 
 
 J. BOYER. 
 
 LETTER XL. 
 
 To MR. T. SELBY. 
 
 HAMPSHIRE. 
 
 I have returned ; and the day, indeed, is fixed ; 
 but O, how different from my fond expectations I 
 It is not the day of union, but the day of final 
 separation ; the day which divides me from my
 
 158 TTTE COQUETTE : Oft, TTTE 
 
 charmer ; the day which breaks asunder the bands 
 of love ; the day on which my reason assumes its 
 empire, and triumphs over the arts of a finished 
 coquette. Congratulate me, my friend, that I 
 have thus overcome my feelings, and repelled the 
 infatuating wiles of a deceitful sfirl. I would not 
 
 O O 
 
 be understood to impeach Miss Wharton s virtue; 
 I mean her chastity. Virtue, in the common ac 
 ceptation of the term, as applied to the sex, is con 
 fined to that particular, you know. But in my 
 view, this is of little importance where all other 
 virtues are wanting. 
 
 When I arrived at Mrs. Wharton s, and inquired 
 for Eliza, I was told that she had rode out, but 
 was soon expected home. An hour after, a phae 
 ton stopped at the door, from which my fair one 
 alighted, and was handed into the house by Major 
 Sanford, who immediately took leave. I met her, 
 and offered my hand, which she received wiih ap 
 parent tenderness. 
 
 When the family had retired after supper, and 
 left us to talk on our particular affairs, I found the 
 same indecision, the same loathness to bring our 
 courtship to a period, as formerly. Her previous 
 excuses were renewed, and her wishes to have a 
 union still longer delayed were zealously urged. 
 She could not bear the idea of confinement to the
 
 LIFE AXD LETTERS OF ELIZA TTIIARTON. 159 
 
 cares of a married life at present, and begged me 
 to defer all solicitation on that subject to some fu 
 ture day. I found my temper rise, and told her 
 plainly that I was not thus to be trifled with ; that 
 if her regard for me was sincere, if she really in 
 tended to form a connection with me, she could not 
 thus protract the time, try my patience, and prefer 
 every other pleasure to the rational interchange of 
 affection, to the calm delights of domestic life. But 
 in vain did I argue against her false notions of hap 
 piness, in vain did I represent the dangerous sys 
 tem of conduct which she now pursued, and urge 
 her to accept, before it was too late, the hand and 
 heart which were devoted to her service. That, she 
 said, she purposed ere long to do, and hoped amply 
 to reward my faithful love ; but she could not fix 
 the time this evening. She must consider a little 
 further, and likewise consult her mother. " Is it not 
 Major Sanford whom you wish to consult, madam ? " 
 said I. She blushed, and gave me no answer. 
 " Tell me, Eliza," I continued, "tell me frankly, if he 
 has not supplanted me in your affections if he be 
 not the cause of my being thus evasively, thus 
 cruelly, treated. " Major Sanford, sir," replied she, 
 " has done you no harm. He is a particular friend 
 of mine, a polite gentleman, and an agreeable 
 neighbor, and therefore I treat him with civility;
 
 160 TITE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 but he is not so much interested in my concerns 
 as to alter my disposition towards any other per 
 son." " Why," said I, " do you talk of friendship 
 with a man of his character ? Between his society 
 and mine there is a great contrast. Such opposite 
 pursuits and inclinations cannot be equally pleas 
 ing to the same taste. It is, therefore, necessary 
 that you renounce the one to enjoy the other ; I 
 will give you time to decide which. I am going 
 to a friend s house to spend the night, and will call 
 on you to-morrow, if agreeable, and converse with 
 you further upon the matter." She bowed assent, 
 and I retired. 
 
 The next afternoon I went, as agreed, and found 
 her mamma and her alone in the parlor. She was 
 very pensive, and appeared to have been in tears. 
 The sight affected me. The idea of having treated 
 her harshly the evening before disarmed me of 
 my resolution to insist on her decision that day. 
 I invited her to ride with me and visit a friend, to 
 which she readily consented. We spent our time 
 agreeably. I forbore to press her on the subject 
 of our future union, but strove rather to soothe her 
 mind, and inspire her with sentiments of tender 
 ness towards me. I conducted her home, and re 
 turned early in the evening to my friend s, who 
 met me at the door, and jocosely told me that he
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 161 
 
 expected that I should now rob them of their 
 agreeable neighbor. " But," added he, " we have 
 been apprehensive that you would be rivalled if 
 you delayed your visit much longer." " I did not 
 suspect a rival," said I. " Who can the happy 
 man be?" "I can say nothing from personal 
 observation," said he ; " but fame, of late, has 
 talked loudly of Major San ford and Miss Wharton. 
 Be not alarmed," continued he, seeing me look 
 grave ; " I presume no harm is intended ; the major 
 is a man of gallantry, and Miss Wharton is a gay 
 lady ; but I dare say that your connection will be 
 happy, if it be formed" 1 noticed a particular em 
 phasis on the word if; and, as we were alone, I 
 followed him with questions till the whole affair 
 was developed. I informed him of my embarrass 
 ment, and he gave me to understand that Eliza s 
 conduct had, for some time past, been a subject 
 of speculation in the town ; that, formerly, her 
 character was highly esteemed ; but that her inti 
 macy with a man of Sanford s known libertinism, 
 more especially as she was supposed to be en 
 gaged to another, had rendered her very censura 
 ble ; that they were often together ; that wherever 
 she went he was sure to follow, as if by appoint 
 ment; that they walked, talked, sung, and danced 
 together in all companies ; that some supposed ho 
 LO
 
 162 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 would marry her ; others that he only meditated 
 adding her name to the black catalogue of deluded 
 wretches whom he had already ruined. 
 
 I rose and walked the room in great agitation. 
 He apologized for his freedom ; was sorry if he 
 had wounded my feelings ; but friendship alone 
 had induced him frankly to declare the truth, that 
 T might guard against duplicity and deceit. I 
 thanked him for his kind intentions, and assured 
 him that I should not quit the town till I had de 
 termined this affair in one way or another. 
 
 I retired to bed, but sleep was a stranger to my 
 eyes. With the dawn I rose, and after breakfast 
 walked to Mrs. Wharton s, who informed me that 
 Eliza was in her chamber, writing to a friend, but 
 would be down in a few minutes. I entered into 
 conversation with the old lady on the subject of 
 her daughter s conduct, hinted my suspicions of 
 the cause, and declared my resolution of knowing 
 my destiny immediately. She endeavored to ex 
 tenuate, and excuse her, as much as possible, but 
 frankly owned that her behavior was mysterious ; 
 that no pains had been wanting, on her part, to 
 alter and rectify it ; that she had remonstrated, ex 
 postulated, advised, and entreated as often as oc 
 casion required. She hoped that my resolution 
 would have a good effect, as she knew that her 
 daughter esteemed me very highly.
 
 LIFE ATP T.FTTFT;" OF KLTZA WHARTON. 163 
 
 In this manner we conversed till the elock struck 
 twelve ; and, Eliza not appearing, I desired her 
 mamma to send up word that I waited to see 
 her. The maid returned with an answer that she 
 was indisposed, and had lain down. Mrs. Whar- 
 ton observed that she had not slept for several 
 nights, and complained of the headache in the 
 morning. The girl added that she would wait on 
 Mr. Boyer in the evening. Upon this information 
 I rose, and abruptly took my leave. I went to 
 dine with a friend, to whom I had engaged myself 
 the day before ; but my mind was too much agi 
 tated to enjoy either the company or the dinner. 
 I excused myself from tarrying to tea, and returned 
 to Miss Wharton s. On inquiry, I was told that 
 Eliza had gone to walk in the garden, but desired 
 that no person might intrude on her retirement. 
 The singularity of the request awakened my curi 
 osity, and determined me to follow her. I sought 
 her in vain in different parts of the garden, till, 
 going towards an arbor, almost concealed from 
 sight by surrounding shrubbery, I discovered her 
 sitting in close conversation with Major Sanford ! 
 My blood chilled in my veins, and I stood petri 
 fied with astonishment at the disclosure of such 
 baseness and deceit. They both rose in visible 
 confusion. I dared not trust myself to accost
 
 164 THE COQUETTE ; OR ; THE 
 
 them. My passions were raised, and I feared that 
 I might say or do something unbecoming my char 
 acter. I therefore gave them a look of indignation 
 and contempt, and retreated to the house. I trav 
 ersed the parlor hastily, overwhelmed with chagrin 
 and resentment. Mrs. Wharlon inquired the cause. 
 I attempted to tell her, but my tongue refused ut 
 terance. While in this situation, Eliza entered the 
 room. She was not less discomposed than myself. 
 She sat down at the window and wept. Her 
 mamma wept likewise. At length she recovered 
 herself, in a degree, and desired me to sit down. 
 I answered, No, and continued walking. " Will 
 you," said she, " permit me to vindicate my con 
 duct, and explain my motives?" "Your con 
 duct," said I, " cannot be vindicated ; your mo 
 tives need no explanation ; they are too apparent. 
 How, Miss Wharton, have I merited this treat 
 ment from you ? But I can bear it no longer. 
 Your indifference to me proceeds from an attach 
 ment to another, and, forgive me if I add, to one 
 who is the disgrace of his own sex and the de 
 stroyer of yours. I have been too long the dupe 
 of your dissimulation and coquetry too long has 
 my peace of mind been sacrificed to the arts of a 
 woman whose conduct has proved her unworthy 
 of my regard; insensible to love, gratitude, and 
 honor.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 165 
 
 " To you, madam/ said I, turning to her mother, 
 " 1 acknowledge my obligations lor your friendship, 
 politeness, and attention. 1 once hoped for the 
 privilege of rocking for you the cradle of declining 
 age. I am deprived of that privilege ; but I pray 
 that you may never want a child whose love and 
 duty shall prove a source of consolation and 
 comfort. 
 
 " Farewell. If we never meet again in this life, 
 I hope and trust we shall in a better where the 
 parent s eye shall cease to weep for the disobedi 
 ence of a child, and the lover s heart to bleed for 
 the infidelity of his mistress." 
 
 I turned to Eliza, and attempted to speak ; but 
 her extreme emotion softened me, and I could not 
 command my voice. I took her hand, and bowing, 
 in token of an adieu, went precipitately out of the 
 house. The residence of my friend, with whom I 
 lodged, was at no great distance, and thither I re 
 paired. As I met him in the entry, I rushed by 
 him, and betook myself to my chamber. The fever 
 of resentment and the tumult of passion began now 
 to give place to the softer emotions of the soul. I 
 found myself perfectly unmanned. I gave free 
 scope to the sensibility of my heart; and the ef 
 feminate relief of tears materially lightened the 
 load which oppressed me.
 
 166 THE COQUETTE; OK, THE 
 
 After this arduous struggle T went to bed, and 
 slept more calmly than for several nights before. 
 The next morning 1 wrote a farewell letter to 
 Eliza, (a copy of which I shall enclose to you,) 
 and, ordering my horse to be brought, left town 
 immediately. 
 
 My resentment of her behavior has much assisted 
 me in erasing her image from my breast. In this 
 exertion I have succeeded beyond my most san 
 guine expectations. The more I reflect on her 
 temper and disposition, the more my gratitude is 
 enlivened towards the wise Disposer of all events 
 for enabling me to break asunder the snares of the 
 deluder. I am convinced that the gayety and ex 
 travagance of her taste, the frivolous levity of her 
 manners, disqualify her for the station in which I 
 wished to have placed her. These considerations, 
 together with that resignation to an overruling 
 Providence which the religion I profess and teach 
 requires me to cultivate, induce me cheerfully to 
 adopt the following lines of an ingenious poet : 
 
 " Since all the downward tracts of time 
 
 God s watchful eye surveys, 
 0, who so wise to choose our lot, 
 Or regulate our ways ? 
 
 " Since none can doubt his equal love, 
 Unmeasurably kind,
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 107 
 
 To his unerring, gracious will 
 Be every wish resigned. 
 
 " Good when he gives, supremely good ; 
 
 Not less when he denies ; 
 E en crosses from his sovereign hand 
 Are blessings in disguise." 
 
 I am, &c., J. BOYER. 
 
 To Miss ELIZA WHARTON. 
 
 [Enclosed in t fie foregoing.] 
 
 HARTFORD. 
 
 Madam : Fearing that my resolution may not 
 be proof against the eloquence of those charms 
 which has so long commanded me, I take this 
 method of bidding you a final adieu. I write not 
 as a lover, that connection between us is forever 
 dissolved, but I address you as a friend; as a 
 friend to your happiness, to your reputation, to 
 your temporal and eternal welfare. I will not re 
 hearse the innumerable instances of your impru 
 dence and misconduct which have fallen under my 
 observation. Your own heart must be your moni 
 tor. Suffice it for me to warn you against the 
 dangerous tendency of so dissipated a life, and to
 
 168 THE COQUETTE ; OK, THE 
 
 tell you that I have traced (I believe aright) the 
 cause of your dissimulation and indifference to me. 
 They are an aversion to the sober, rational, frugal 
 mode of living to which my profession leads ; a 
 fondness for the parade, the gayety, not to say the 
 licentiousness, of a station calculated to gratify 
 such a disposition ; and a prepossession for Major 
 Sanford, infused into your giddy mind by the frip 
 pery, flattery, and artifice of that worthless and 
 abandoned man. Hence you preferred a connec 
 tion with him, if it could be accomplished ; but a 
 doubt whether it could, together with the advice 
 of your friends, who have kindly espoused my 
 cause, has restrained you from the avowal of your 
 real sentiments, and led you to continue your 
 civilities to me. What the result of your coquet 
 ry would have been had I waited for it, I cannot 
 say ; nor have I now any desire or interest to know. 
 I tear from my breast the idea which I have long 
 cherished of future union and happiness with you 
 in the conjugal state. I bid a last farewell to 
 these fond hopes, and leave you forever. 
 
 For your own sake, however, let me conjure 
 you to review your conduct, and, before you have 
 advanced beyond the possibility of returning to 
 rectitude and honor, to restrain your steps from 
 the dangerous path in which you now tread.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 169 
 
 Fly Major Sanforcl. That man is a deceiver. 
 Trust not his professions. They are certainly in 
 sincere, or he would not affect concealment ; he 
 would not induce you to a clandestine intercourse. 
 Many have been the victims to his treachery. O 
 Eliza, add not to the number. Banish him from 
 your society if you wish to preserve your virtue 
 unsullied, your character unsuspicious. It already 
 begins to depreciate. Snatch it from the enven 
 omed tongue of slander before it receive an 
 incurable wound. 
 
 Many faults have been visible to me, over which 
 my affection once drew a veil. That veil is now 
 removed ; and acting the part of a disinterested 
 friend, I shall mention some few of them with 
 freedom. There is a levity in your manners which 
 is inconsistent with the solidity and decorum be 
 coming a lady who has arrived to years of dis 
 cretion. There is also an unwarrantable extrava 
 gance betrayed in your dress. Prudence and econ 
 omy arc such necessary, at least such decent, vir 
 tues, that they claim the attention of every female, 
 whatever be her station or her property. To these 
 virtues you are apparently inattentive. Too large 
 a portion of your time is devoted to the adorning 
 of your person. 
 
 Think not that I write thus plainly from resent-
 
 170 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 ment. No, it is from benevolence. I mention 
 your foibles, not to reproach you with them, but 
 that you may consider their nature and effects, and 
 renounce them. 
 
 \vish you to regard this letter as the legacy of 
 a friend, and to improve it accordingly. I shall 
 leave town before you receive it. O, how different 
 are my sensations at going from what they were 
 when I came ! But I forbear description. Think 
 not, Eliza, that I leave you with indifference. 
 The conquest is great, the trial more than I can 
 calmly support ; yet the consciousness of duty 
 affords consolation a duty I conceive it to be 
 which I owe to myself and to the people of my 
 charge, who are interested in my future connection. 
 
 I wish not for an answer ; my resolution is un 
 alterably fixed. But should you hereafter be con 
 vinced of the justice of my conduct, and become a 
 convert to my advice, I shall be happy to hear it. 
 
 That you may have wisdom to keep you from 
 falling, and conduct you safely through this state 
 of trial to the regions of immortal bliss, is the fer 
 vent prayer of your sincere friend and humble 
 servant, 
 
 J. BOYER.
 
 "LIFE AX1) LETTERS OF ELIZA WHAR LOX. J 7 1 
 
 LETTER XLI. 
 
 To MRS. LUCY SUMNER. 
 
 HABTFOED. 
 
 The retirement of my native home is not so 
 gloomy, since my return from Boston, as I expected, 
 from the contrast between them. Indeed, the cus 
 toms and amusements of this place are materially 
 altered since the residence of Major Sanford among 
 us. The dull, old-fashioned sobriety which for 
 merly prevailed is nearly banished, and cheerful 
 ness, vivacity, and enjoyment are substituted in its 
 stead. Pleasure is now diffused through all ranks 
 of the people, especially the rich ; and surely it 
 ought to be cultivated, since the wisest of men in 
 forms us that a merry heart "doth good like a 
 medicine." As human life hath many diseases 
 which require medicines, are we not right in select 
 ing the most agreeable and palatable ? Major 
 Sanford s example has had great influence upon 
 our society in general , and though some of our 
 old ones think him rather licentious, yet, for aught 
 I can see, he is as strict an observer of decorum as 
 the best of them. True, he seldom goes to church; 
 but what of that ? The Deity is not confined to 
 temples made with hands. He may worship him 
 as devoutly elsewhere, if he chooses ; and who has 
 a right to say he does not ?
 
 172 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 His return from Boston was but a day or two 
 after mine. He paid me an early visit, and, in 
 deed, has been very attentive ever since. My 
 mamma is somewhat precise in her notions of pro 
 priety, and, of course, blames me for associating 
 so freely with him. She says that my engage 
 ments to Mr. Boyer ought to render me more 
 sedate, and more indifferent to the gallantry of 
 mere pleasure hunters^ to use her phrase. But I 
 think otherwise. If I am to become a recluse, let 
 me at least enjoy those amusements which are 
 suited to my taste a short time first. Why should 
 I refuse the polite attentions of this gentleman ? 
 They smooth the rugged path of life, and wonder 
 fully accelerate the lagging wheels of time. 
 
 Indeed, Lucy, he has an admirable talent for 
 contributing to vary and increase amusement. 
 We have few hours unimproved. Some new plan 
 of pleasure and sociability is constantly courting 
 our adoption. He lives in all the magnificence of 
 a prince ; and why should I, who can doubtless 
 share that magnificence if I please, forego the ad 
 vantages and indulgences it odors, merely to grati 
 fy those friends who pretend to be better judges of 
 my happiness than I am myself? I have not yet 
 told my mamma that he entertains me with the 
 lover s theme, or, at least, that I listen to it. Yet
 
 F.T.TZA. TrnARTON". 17 
 
 I must own to you, from whom I have never con 
 cealed an action or idea, that his situation in life 
 charms my imagination ; that the apparent fervor 
 and sincerity of his passion affect my heart. Yet 
 there is something extremely problematical in his 
 conduct. He is very urgent with me to dissolve 
 my connection with Mr. Boyer, and engage not to 
 marry him without his consent, or knowledge, 
 to say no more. He warmly applauds my wish 
 still longer to enjoy the freedom and independence 
 of a single state, and professedly adopts it for his 
 own. While he would disconnect me from anoth 
 er, he mysteriously conceals his own intentions 
 and views. In conversation with him yesterday, 
 I plainly told him that his conduct was unaccount 
 able ; that, if his professions and designs were hon 
 orable, he could not neglect to mention them to 
 my mamma ; that I should no longer consent to 
 carry on a clandestine intercourse with him ; that 
 I hourly expected Mr. Boyer, whom I esteemed, 
 and who was the favorite of my friends ; and that, 
 unless he acted openly in this affair before his ar 
 rival, I should give my hand to him. 
 
 He appeared thunderstruck at this declaration. 
 All his words and actions were indicative of the 
 most violent emotions of mind. He entreated me 
 to recall the sentence ; for I knew not, he said, his
 
 171 THE COQUETTE ; OR THE 
 
 motives for secrecy ; yet he solemnly swore that 
 they were honorable. I replied in the words of 
 the poet, 
 
 " Trust not a man ; they are by nature cruel, 
 False, deceitful, treacherous, and inconstant. 
 When a man talks of love, with caution hear him ; 
 But if he swear, he ll certainly deceive you." 
 
 He begged that he might know by what means he 
 had provoked my suspicions ; by what means he 
 had forfeited my confidence. His importunity 
 vanquished rny fortitude ; and before we parted, I 
 again promised to make him acquainted, from 
 time to time, with the progress of my connection 
 with Mr. Boyer. 
 
 Now, rny dear friend, I want your advice more 
 than ever. I am inadvertently embarrassed by 
 this man ; and how to extricate myself I know 
 not. I am sensible that the power is in my hands ; 
 but the disposition (shall I confess it ?) is wanting. 
 
 " I know the right, and I approve it too; 
 I know the wrong, and yet the wrong pursue." 
 
 I have just received a card from Major Sanford, 
 inviting me to ride this afternoon. At first T 
 thought of returning a negative answer; but, 
 recollecting that Mr. Boyer must soon be here, I
 
 LIFE A XT) LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 175 
 
 concluded it best to embrace this opportunity of 
 talking further with him. I must now prepare to 
 go, but shall not close this letter, for I intend 
 writing in continuation, as events occur, till this 
 important business is decided. 
 
 Tuesday evening. The little tour which I men 
 tioned to you this afternoo n was not productive 
 of a final determination. The same plea was 
 repeated over and over again without closing the 
 cause. On my return I found Mr. Boyer waiting 
 to receive me. My heart beat an involuntary wel 
 come. I received him very cordially, though with 
 a kind of pleasure mixed with apprehension. I 
 must own that his conversation and manners are 
 much better calculated to bear the scrutinizing eye 
 of a refined understanding and taste than Major 
 Sanford s. But whether the fancy ought not to be 
 consulted about our settlement in life, is with me 
 a question. 
 
 When we parted last I had promised Mr. Boyer 
 to inform him positively, at this visit, when my 
 hand should be given. He therefore came, as he 
 told me in the course of our conversation, with the 
 resolution of claiming the fulfilment of this promise. 
 
 I begged absolution, told him that I could not 
 possibly satisfy his claim, and sought still to evade 
 and put off the important decision. He grew
 
 17P> TITE COQUETTE : OR. TTTK 
 
 warm, and affirmed that I treated him ungener 
 ously and made needless delays. He even accused 
 me of indifference towards him, and of partiality 
 to another. Major Sanford, he believed, was the 
 man who robbed him of the affection which he had 
 supposed his due. He warned me against any 
 intercourse with him, and insisted that I must re 
 nounce the society of the one or the other imme 
 diately. 
 
 He would leave me, he said, this evening, and 
 call to-morrow to know the result of my determina 
 tion. It was late before he bade me good night, 
 since which I have written these particulars. It is 
 now time to lay aside my pen, and deliberate what 
 course to take. 
 
 Wednesday evening. Last night I closed not 
 my eyes. I rose this morning with the sun, and 
 went into the garden till breakfast. My mamma 
 doubtless saw the disorder of my mind, but kindly 
 avoided any inquiry about it. She was affection 
 ately attentive to me, but said nothing of my par 
 ticular concerns. I mentioned not my embarrass 
 ment to her. She had declared herself in favor of 
 Mr. Boyer ; therefore I had no expectation that she 
 would advise impartially. I retired to my cham 
 ber, and remained in a kind of revery for more 
 than an hour, when I was roused by the rattling
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WIIARTON. 177 
 
 of a carriage at the door. I hastened to the win 
 dow, and saw Major Sanford just driving away. 
 The idea of his having been to converse with my 
 mamma gave me new sensations. A thousand 
 perplexities occurred to my mind relative to the 
 part most proper for me to act in this critical situa 
 tion. All these might have been avoided, had I 
 gone down and inquired into the matter; but this 
 I delayed till dinner. My mamma then informed 
 me that Major Sanford had been with her, and 
 inquired for me, but that, she thought it unneces 
 sary to call me, as she presumed I had no particu 
 lar business with him. I knew the motives by 
 which she was actuated, and was vexed at her 
 evasions. I told her plainly that she would never 
 carry her point in this way ; that I thought myself 
 capable of conducting my own affairs, and wished 
 her not to interfere, except by her advice, which I 
 should always listen to and comply with when I 
 could possibly make it consistent with my inclina 
 tion and interest. She wept at my undutiful 
 anger, (of which I have severely repented since,) 
 and affectionately replied, that my happiness was 
 the object of her wishes and prayers ; conformably 
 to which she felt constrained freely to speak her 
 mind, though it incurred my displeasure. She 
 then went through again with all the comparative 
 li
 
 178 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 circumstances and merits of the two candidates 
 for my favor, which have perpetually rung in my 
 ears for months. I shed tears at the idea of my 
 embarrassment; and in this condition Mr. Boyer 
 found us. He appeared to be affected by my visi 
 ble disorder, and, without inquiring the cause, 
 endeavored to dissipate it. This was kindly done. 
 He conversed upon indifferent subjects, and invited 
 me to ride, and take tea with your mamma, to 
 which I readily consented. We found her at home, 
 and passed the time agreeably, excepting the alloy 
 of your absence. Mr. Boyer touched lightly on 
 the subject of our last evening s debate, but expa 
 tiated largely on the pleasing power of love, and 
 hoped that we should one day both realize and 
 exemplify it in perfection. When we returned he 
 observed that it was late, and took his leave, tell 
 ing me that he should call to-morrow, and begged 
 that I would then relieve his suspense. As I was 
 retiring to bed, the maid gave me a hint that 
 Major Sanford s servant had been here and left a 
 letter. I turned instantly back to my mamma, and, 
 telling her my information, demanded the letter. 
 She hesitated, but I insisted on having it ; and 
 seeing me resolute, she reluctantly gave it into my 
 hand. It contained the following words :
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON". 179 
 
 " Am I forsaken ? am I abandoned ? O my 
 adorable Eliza, have you sacrificed me to my rival ? 
 have you condemned me to perpetual banishment 
 without a hearing? 
 
 " I came this day to plead my cause at your 
 feet, but was cruelly denied the privilege of seeing 
 you. My mind is all anarchy and confusion. My 
 soul is harrowed up with jealousy. I will be re 
 venged on those who separate us, if that distracting 
 event take place. But it is from your lips only 
 that I can hear my sentence. You must witness 
 its effects. To what lengths my despair may carry 
 me I know not. You are the arbitress of my 
 fate. 
 
 " Let me conjure you to meet me in your garden 
 to-morrow at any hour you shall appoint. My 
 servant will call for an answer in the morning. 
 Deny me not an interview, but have pity on your 
 faithful SANFORD." 
 
 I wrote for answer that I would meet him to 
 morrow, at five o clock in the afternoon. 
 
 I have now before me another night for consid 
 eration, and shall pass it in that employment. I 
 purpose not to see Mr. Boyer till I have conversed 
 with Major Sanford. 
 
 Thursday morning. The morning dawns, and
 
 180 THE COQUETTE ; OE, THE 
 
 ushers in the day a day, perhaps, big with the 
 fate of your friend. What that fate may be is 
 wrapped in the womb of futurity that futurity 
 which a kind Providence has wisely concealed from 
 the penetration of mortals. 
 
 After mature consideration, after revolving and 
 re-revolving every circumstance on both sides of 
 the question, I have nearly determined, in compli 
 ance with the advice of my friends and the dictates 
 of my own judgment, to give Mr. Boyer the pref 
 erence, and with him to tread the future round 
 
 of life. 
 
 
 As to the despair of Major Sanford, it does not 
 
 much alarm me. Such violent passions are sel 
 dom so deeply rooted as to produce lasting effects. 
 I must, however, keep my word, and meet him ac 
 cording to promise. 
 
 Mr. Boyer is below. My mamma has just sent 
 me word that he wished to see me. My reply was, 
 that I had lain down, which was a fact. 
 
 One o clock. My mamma, alarmed by my in 
 disposition, has visited my apartment. I soon 
 convinced her that it was but trifling, owing prin 
 cipally to the want of sleep, and that an airing in 
 the garden, which I intended towards night, would 
 restore me. 
 
 Ten o clock at night. The day is past ; and
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 181 
 
 mich a day it has been as I hope nevermore to 
 Bee. At the hour appointed, I went, tolerably com 
 posed and resolute, into the garden. I had taken 
 several turns, and retired into the little arbor, where 
 you and I have spent so many happy hours, before 
 Major Sanford entered. When he appeared, a 
 consciousness of the impropriety of this clandes 
 tine intercourse suffused my cheek, and gave a 
 coldness to my manners. He immediately pene 
 trated the cause, and observed that my very coun 
 tenance told him he was no longer a welcome guest 
 to me. I asked him if he ought so to be, since 
 his motives for seeking admission were unworthy 
 of being communicated to my friends. That, he 
 said, was not the case, but that prudence in the 
 present instance required a temporary concealment. 
 He then undertook to exculpate himself from 
 blame, assuring me that as soon as I should dis 
 countenance the expectations of Mr. Boyer, and dis 
 continue the reception of his address, his intentions 
 should be made known. He was enlarging upon 
 this topic, when we heard a footstep approaching 
 us, and, looking up, saw Mr. Boyer within a few 
 paces of the arbor. Confusion seized us both. 
 A/Ve rose involuntarily from our seats, but were 
 mute as statues. He spoke not a word, but casting 
 a look of indignant accusation at me, a glance
 
 182 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 wnich penetrated my very soul, turned on his 
 heel, and walked hastily back to the house. 
 
 1 stood a few moments, considering what course 
 to take, though shame and regret had almost taken 
 from me the power of thought. 
 
 Major Sanford took my hand. I withdrew it 
 from him. " I must leave you," said I. " Where 
 will you go ? " said he. " I will go and try to re 
 trieve my character. It has suffered greatly by 
 this fatal interview." 
 
 He threw himself at my feet, and exclaimed, 
 " Leave me not, Eliza ; I conjure you not to 
 leave me." " Let me go now," I rejoined, " or I 
 bid you farewell forever." I flew precipitately by 
 him, and went into the parlor, where I found Mr. 
 Boyer and my mamma, the one traversing the 
 room in the greatest agitation, the other in a flood 
 of tears. Their appearance affected me, and I 
 wept like an infant. When I had a little recov 
 ered myself, I begged him to sit down. He an 
 swered, No. I then told him that however unjusti 
 fiable my conduct might appear, perhaps I might 
 explain it to his satisfaction if he would hear me ; 
 that my motives were innocent, though they doubt 
 less wore the aspect of criminality in his view. 
 He sternly replied, that no palliation could avail ; 
 my motives were sufficiently notorious. He
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 183 
 
 accused me of treating him ill, of rendering him 
 the dupe of coquetting artifice, of having an in 
 trigue with Major Sanford, and declared his de 
 termination 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 ac 
 cusations for me to gainsay them, had his impetu 
 osity suffered me to attempt it. 
 
 But, in truth, I had no inclination to self-defence. 
 My natural vivacity had forsaken me, and I lis 
 tened without interrupting him to the fluency of 
 reproachful language which his resentment in 
 spired. He took a very solemn and affectionate 
 leave of my mamma, thanking her for her polite 
 ness, and wishing her much future felicity. He at 
 tempted 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 
 rue to support. 
 
 When I saw that he was gone, that he had ac 
 tually forsaken me, I fainted. My mamma, with 
 the assistance of the maid, soon restored me. 
 
 When I opened rny eyes and beheld this amiable
 
 184 THE COQUETTE ; OK, THE 
 
 and tender parent watching and attending me with 
 the most anxious concern, without one reproach 
 ful word, without one accusing look, my reflections 
 upon the part I had acted, in defeating her benev 
 olent 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 pre 
 sented itself to my imagination ; whether I had 
 sustained a real loss in Mr. Boyer s departure, re 
 flections 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 mam 
 ma ? To her I will confess my faults, in her ma 
 ternal breast repose my cares, and by her friendly 
 advice regulate my conduct. Had I done this be 
 fore, I might have escaped this trouble, and saved 
 both her and myself many distressing emotions.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA \,HARTON. 185 
 
 Friday evening. I have had a long conversation 
 with my mamma, which has greatly relieved my 
 mind. She has soothed me with the most endear 
 ing 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 
 nad 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 resent 
 ment, that I am inclined not much to regret his 
 avoiding another interview. 
 
 My excuses would be deemed utterly insuf 
 ficient, 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.
 
 186 THE COQUETTE; OK, THE 
 
 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, how 
 ever. I have carried my point, and am amply re 
 venged on the whole posse of those dear friends of 
 hers. She was entangled by a promise (not to 
 marry this priest without rny 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 pre 
 ferred 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. 1 
 watched all their motions, and the appearance of 
 harmony between them awakened all my activity 
 and zeal. So great was my infatuation, that I ver 
 ily 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
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OP ELIZA WHAJHON". 187 
 
 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 in 
 sisted 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 my 
 self, " is a good omen." I went home, and was in 
 formed, 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 to 
 wards rne. 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 meet 
 ing 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
 
 188 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 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 dis 
 course. 
 
 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 embar 
 rassments 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 ex 
 penses, and screen me from the importunity of 
 creditors till I can look about me. 
 
 PETER SANFORD.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 189 
 
 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 sep 
 aration 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 con 
 nection. If the conviction of any misconduct on 
 your part gives you pain, dissipate it by the reflec 
 tion 1hat unerring rectitude is not the lot of mor 
 tals ; that few are to be found who have not devi 
 ated, 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
 
 190 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 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 busi 
 ness. 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 depriv 
 ing their helpless offspring of the care and kindness 
 which none but a mother can feel, is to me unac 
 countable. 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
 
 LIFE AXP LETTERS 07 ETJZA TVIIARTON. 191 
 
 expansion of reason and the dawnings of intelli 
 gence ! 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 
 ; ieasure, .and the young idea be capable of direc 
 tion " 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 
 
 My best wishes attend your honored mamma, 
 hile T sabs-o.ribe myself, &c., 
 
 A. RICHMAN.
 
 192 THE COQUETTE; OK, THE 
 
 LETTER XL IV. 
 
 To MRS. LUCY SUMNER. 
 
 HAKTFORI;. 
 
 I am extremely depressed, my dear Lucy. TL- 
 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 tou. v 
 of two or three months. I declined any further 
 conversation with him on the subject of love. Al 
 present I wish not to hear it mentioned by any 
 one. 
 
 I have received a very friendly and consoiatorj 
 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 chang-r 
 of situation and company will dissipate the gloon 
 which hangs over my mind. 
 
 It is a common observation, that we know nut 
 the value of a blessing but by deprivation. This 
 is strictly verified in my case. I \vac insensible of 
 my regard for Mr. Boyer till this fatal separati.".! 
 took place. His merit and worth now appear in 
 the brightest colors. I am convinced of that ex 
 cellence which I once slighted, and the shade of 
 departed happiness haunts me perpetually. I am
 
 LIFE AXP LXTTEKS O7 ELTZ.V WIIAKTOX. 193 
 
 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 af 
 fairs are made a town talk. My mamma per 
 suades me to disregard it; but how can I rise 
 superior to " the world s dread laugh, which 
 scarce the firm philosopher can scorn " 1 
 
 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. 
 
 HARTFOBD. 
 
 I have returned to the once smiling seat of ma 
 ternal affection ; but I find not repose and happi 
 ness even here. 
 
 In the society of my amiable friends at New 
 Haven, I enjoyed every thing that friendship could 
 12
 
 194 THE COQUETTE ; OR THE 
 
 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, foidaken rne ? 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
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 195 
 
 t 
 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 be 
 lieve. 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 WHART iv
 
 196 THE COQUETTE ; OR. THE 
 
 LETTER XLVI. 
 
 To THE REV. J. BOYER. 
 
 HAKTFORD. 
 
 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 un 
 acceptable. 
 
 Pope very justly observes, that " every year is a 
 critic on the last." The truth of this observation 
 is fully exemplified in rny 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 ac 
 knowledgment 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 pos-
 
 LIFE AXD LKTTEJirf OF ELIZA WJIAKTOM". 197 
 
 sessed 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 daring our acquaint 
 ance ; 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 senti 
 ments, 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 neglect 
 ed. 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,
 
 198 TIT 1C COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 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, thrs sacrifice of 
 female reserve, for the wrongs I have done you. 
 As such I wish you to accept it ; and if your af 
 fections are entirely alienated or otherwise en 
 gaged, 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 dis 
 position as charity will allow. Continue, if possi 
 ble, to be my friend, though you cease to be my 
 lover. 
 
 Should this letter find you in the full pos 
 session 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 WIIARTON.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 199 
 
 LETTER XL VII. 
 
 To Miss ELIZA WHARTON. 
 
 HAMPSHIRE. 
 
 Madam : As I was sitting last evening in rny 
 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 incon 
 sistent, I conceived, with that artifice and dissimu 
 lation 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
 
 200 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 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 au 
 injured man. 
 
 The parting scene you remember. I reluctantly 
 bade you adieu. I tore myself from you, deter 
 mined to eradicate your idea from my breast. 
 Long and severe was the struggle ; at last I van 
 quished, 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 disappoint 
 ed in love. But they are again called into exer 
 cise. The virtuous, the amiable, Ihe 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 retro 
 spect of the past, that neither of us shall have rea 
 son to regret our separation. 
 
 Permit me to add, that for your own sake, and 
 for the sake of your ever-valued friends, I sincerely
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHAKTON. 201 
 
 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 con 
 jure 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 hap- 
 ness of all around you. 
 
 I shall ever cherish sentiments of kindness to 
 wards you, and with gratitude remember your con 
 descension 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 wel-
 
 202 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 fare, and my ardent prayers will daily arise for 
 your temporal and eternal felicity. 
 
 .1. BOYER. 
 
 LETTER XLVIII. 
 
 To MRS. LUCY SUMNER. 
 
 HARTFORD. 
 
 Health, placid serenity, and every domestic pleas 
 ure 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, re 
 jected, 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 hap 
 piness which I have madly trifled away ? 
 
 The enclosed letters* 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. 
 
 * See the two preceding letters.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 20H 
 
 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 par 
 tiality to him, I have given him the power of tri 
 umphing in my distress ; of returning to my tor 
 tured 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, en 
 deavors to soothe and compose me on Christian 
 principles ; but they have not their desired effect. 
 I dare not converse freely w r ith her on the subject 
 of my present uneasiness, lest I should distress 
 her. I am therefore obliged to conceal my dis 
 quietude, 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
 
 204 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 occasion, \vould 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 re 
 quest. 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. 
 
 LETTER XLIX. 
 
 To Miss ELIZA WHARTON. 
 
 BOSTON. 
 
 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 cetcras 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.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 205 
 
 Whe-re, 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 spright- 
 liness of deportment, which formerly raised you 
 superior to every adverse occurrence ? Why have 
 you resigned these valuable endowments, and suf 
 fered yourself to become the sport of contending 
 passions ? 
 
 You have now emerged from that mist of fanci 
 ful 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 accomplish 
 ments, 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 inconsid- 
 eration 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 distin 
 guished sphere of life ? Turn then, my friend,
 
 206 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 from tne 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 connec 
 tions. 
 
 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. 
 
 HAETFORD. 
 
 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 rny thoughts into 
 a different channel from that to which they are now 
 prone. Yesterday we had each an invitation to a
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHAKTON. 207 
 
 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 with 
 out me. 
 
 The events of my life have always been unac 
 countably wayward. In many instances I have 
 been ready to suppose that some evil genius pre 
 sided over my actions, which has directed them 
 contrary to the sober dictates of my own judg 
 ment. I am sometimes tempted to adopt the senti 
 ment 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 im 
 prudence. Well, be it what it may, either the im 
 pulse 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. T believe T must be content to rank
 
 208 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 accordingly, and endeavor to reap advantage from 
 its tuition. 
 
 Julia urges me to revisit the scenes of amuse 
 ments 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 in 
 clined to seek in festive mirth a refuge from 
 thought and reflection. I would escape, if possi 
 ble, 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 re 
 quire 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 San-
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELTZA WHARTON. 209 
 
 ford. 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 1 can write nothing else. 
 
 ELI/A WHARTON. 
 
 LETTER LI. 
 
 To MRS. LUCY SUMNER. 
 
 HARTFOKD. 
 
 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 cer 
 tainly 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. 
 13
 
 210 THE COQUETTE; OT?. Tl .F. 
 
 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 ad 
 vantage than yourself. 
 
 Major Sanford s house is undergoing a complete 
 repair. The report is, that he is soon to be mar 
 ried. Miss Wharton has heard, but does not be 
 lieve 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 
 Elixa, 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 charr oer 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, de 
 signing man. He looks to me like a Chesterfield-
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 211 
 
 ian. 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 
 c^use to weep ! She is strongly blind to the vices 
 and imperfections of this man. Though naturally 
 penetrating, he has somehow or other cast a de- 
 ceptious 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 opera- 
 lions of fancy ! Strange, then, it should ever 
 preponderate over the weightier powers of the un 
 derstanding. 
 
 But I will not moralize. My business here is 
 to dissipate, not to collect, ideas ; and I must regu- 
 latc myself accordingly. 
 
 I am endeavoring to prepare Eliza, by degrees, 
 lo 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.,
 
 212 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 LETTER LIT 
 
 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 indul 
 gence of melancholy. Indeed, rny 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 solicita 
 tions. 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
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 213 
 
 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 en 
 tertainment. 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 introduc 
 tion of a funeral solemnity upon the stage is shock 
 ing indeed ! 
 
 Death is too serious a matter to be sported with. 
 An opening grave cannot be a source of amuse 
 ment to any considerate mind. The closing scene 
 of life can be no pastime when realized. It must 
 therefore awaken painful sensations in the repre 
 sentation. 
 
 The circus is a place of fashionable resort of 
 late, but not agreeable to me. I think it incon 
 sistent with the delicacy of a lady even to witness
 
 214: THE COQUETTE ; OR THE 
 
 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 attend 
 ance, 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 judi 
 cious 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 ren-
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 215 
 
 dered so delightful to us. Adieu, my friend, till 
 then. Be cheerful, and you will yet be happy. 
 
 LUCY SUMNER. 
 
 LETTER LI 1 1. 
 
 To MRS. LUCY SUMNER. 
 
 HARTFOKD. 
 
 Gracious Heaven ! What have I heard ? Major 
 Sanford is married ! Yes ; the ungrateful, the de 
 ceitful wretch is married. He has forsworn, he 
 has perjured and given himself to another. That, 
 you will say, is nothing strange. It is character 
 istic 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 de 
 ceived me ; but now I defy his arts. 
 
 They tell me he has married a woman of for 
 tune. 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 over-
 
 216 THE COQUKTTK; OR, THE 
 
 comes 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 al 
 most 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 suffi 
 ciently melancholy without any additional cause 
 to increase it. 
 
 ELIZA WHARTON.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 217 
 
 LETTER LIV. 
 
 To MK. CHARLES BRIGHTON. 
 
 HARTFORD. 
 
 Dear Dcighton : Who do you think is writing 
 to you ? Why, it is your old friend, metamor 
 phosed into a married man ! You stare, and can 
 hardly credit the assertion. I cannot, realize it my 
 self ; 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 impo 
 sition. 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 in 
 clination for a while, because I was a stranger, 
 and rather too gay for their taste. But she had
 
 218 THE CQQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 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 com 
 pensate 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 Law 
 rence girl I told you of with half the sum. Be 
 sides, my Nancy is a handsomer and more agree 
 able 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 thou 
 sand 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,
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 219 
 
 " 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 con- 
 duet 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 alle 
 viate 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 equi 
 page ! They may talk of their virtue, their learn 
 ing, and what not ; but, without either of them, I 
 shall bear oft 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 con 
 vey me to her presence. 
 
 PETER SANFORD.
 
 220 THE COQUETTE ; OB, THE 
 
 LETTER LV. 
 
 To MRS. LUCY SUMNER. 
 
 HABTFORD. 
 
 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 sit 
 ting together in the chamber. Miss Granby was 
 entertaining us by reading aloud in Millet s El 
 ements 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 ac 
 quaintance, 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. " Per 
 haps it may remove some disagreeable thoughts 
 which now oppress and give you pain. And as he
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 221. 
 
 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. 1 withdrew it. " O Miss 
 Wharton," said he, " despise me not. I am con 
 vinced 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
 
 222 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 own house, therefore, I shall treat you with civil 
 ity." " 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 under 
 stand," said I ; " and I hope you will never treat 
 your wife with that dissimulation and falsehood 
 which you have exercised towards me." " Would 
 t6 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 pre 
 cluded the possibility of acting as I wished. Lov 
 ing 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 mo 
 tives of my delay ; and I left you to see if I could 
 place myself in a situation worthy of your accept 
 ance. This I could not effect, and, therefore,
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELTZA YTTTARTOX. 22. 
 
 have run the risk of my future happiness by mar 
 rying 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 dis 
 tress. The only alleviation of which my banish 
 ment from you is capable, is your forgiveness. In 
 compassion, then, refuse it not. It cannof injure 
 you. To me it will be worth millipns." He 
 wept. Yes, Lucy, this libertine, this man of pleas 
 ure and gallantry, 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 in 
 famous passion. Yes, infamous I call it; for 
 what softer appellation can be given to such pro 
 fessions 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 pre 
 sume 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.
 
 224 THE COQUETTE ; OK, THE 
 
 "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 daugh 
 ter," 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 predi 
 lection 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 inde 
 pendence which I fondly anticipated! I knew 
 not my own heart, when T contemplated a connec-
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTOJST. 225 
 
 tion \vith him. Little did I think that my regard 
 for Mr. Boyer was so deeply rooted as I now find 
 it, I foolishly imagined that T could turn rny af- 
 i ections into what channel I pleased. What, then, 
 must have been my feelings, when I found myself 
 deprived both of inward peace and outward enjoy 
 ment! 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 conspic 
 uous 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. 
 
 HAKTFORD. 
 
 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 
 M
 
 226 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 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 agree 
 able 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
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 227 
 
 see them till they were very near us. She started, 
 turned pale, and then colored like crimson. I can 
 not but think a little envy rankled in her heart. 
 Major San ford very politely accosted us, and con 
 gratulated 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 to 
 gether, 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 what 
 ever. 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 marry 
 ing her for her money. She intends, she says, to 
 visit her soon, and wishes me to accompany her.
 
 228 THE COQUETTE; OR THE 
 
 This, for her own sake, I shall defer as long as 
 possible. I am, &c., 
 
 JULIA GRANBY. 
 
 LBTTBK LVII. 
 To MRS. LUCY SUMNER. 
 
 HARTFORD. 
 
 By Julia s advice we have neglected the repeat 
 ed invitations of Major Sanford to visit and com 
 mence neighborhood with them till yesterday, 
 when we received a polite billet requesting the 
 honor of our company to dine. My mamma de 
 clined 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 po 
 lite 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 eve or regale the
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 229 
 
 taote of the most luxurious epicure. The conver 
 sation turned on various subjects literary, po 
 litical, 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 con 
 versing with his wife and me together, hoped she 
 would be honored with my friendship and acquaint 
 ance, 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 sup 
 ply their place if I would generously undertake the 
 task. She joined in expressing the same senti 
 ments 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 J had been, contrasted
 
 230 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 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 re 
 turned home ; but she approved it not. 
 
 She thought Major Sanford too particularly at- 
 
 > 
 tentive 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 sacri 
 fice my friends to its opinion. Were Major San- 
 ford a single man, I should avoid his society ; but 
 since he is married, since his wife is young, beau 
 tiful, and lovely, he can have no temptation to in 
 jure 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 in 
 dulged in selecting that which is most agreeable to 
 my taste, to prevent my becoming quite a misan 
 thrope."
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 231 
 
 I thank you, my dear Mrs. Surnner, for your 
 kind letter. It was a seasonable cordial to rny 
 mind, and I will endeavor to profit by your ad 
 vice. 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 man 
 agers for the theatre. I believe it would be under 
 much better regulations thaji at present. 
 
 With cordial respects to Mr. Sumner, I sub 
 scribe myself, yours in sincerity, 
 
 ELIZA WHARTON. 
 
 LETTER LVIII. 
 
 To MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON. 
 
 HAKTFORD. 
 
 Rejoice with rrie, my friend, that I have made 
 my peace with the mistress of my heart. No 
 devotee could have been more sincere in his peni 
 tence 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 weak 
 est 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.
 
 232 THE COQUETTE; OK, THE 
 
 The dear girl was not inexorable ; she was as 
 placable and condescending as I could expect, con 
 sidering the nature of the crime, which was ap 
 parently slighting her person and charms by mar 
 rying 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, cheer 
 fulness, and activity which formerly animated her 
 appearance and deportment, struck me very dis 
 agreeably. 
 
 With all my gallantry and fluency in love mat 
 ters, I was unable to acquit myself tolerably, or to 
 address her with any degree of ease and confi 
 dence. She was very calm, and spoke with great 
 indifference about my marriage, &c., which moHi- 
 fied me exceedingly. Yet I cannot consent to bo-
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELTZA WHARTON. 233 
 
 lievc 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 re 
 covering 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 opin 
 ion 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. Bat 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,
 
 234 THE COQUETTE ; OR THE 
 
 and I think the name of wife becomes more and 
 more distasteful to me every day. 
 
 In my rnind, Eli/a 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 sup 
 portable. 
 
 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 L1X. 
 
 To MRS. LUCY SUMNER. 
 
 HARTFORD. 
 
 Dear Lucy : I intended this week to have jour 
 neyed to Boston with Julia Granby; but my reso 
 lution fails me. I find it painful even to think of 
 mixing again with the gay multitude. I believe 
 the melancholy reflections by which I am op 
 pressed will be more effectually, if not more easily, 
 surmounted by tarrying where they are rendered 
 familiar, than by going from them awhile and then 
 returning.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 23- r > 
 
 Julia will therefore go without me. I envy her 
 no enjoyment there, except your company. 
 
 The substitution of friendship, in the place of 
 love, for Major Sanford, I find productive of agree 
 able sensations. With him, he assures me, it is a 
 far more calm and rational pleasure. He treats 
 me with the affection and tenderness of a brother, 
 arid his wife, who exceeds him in professions of 
 regard, with all the consoling softness and atten 
 tion of a sister. Indeed, their politeness has greatly 
 contributed to revive the cheerfulness of my natu 
 ral disposition. I believe the major s former par 
 tiality to me as a lover is entirely obliterated ; and 
 for my part, I feel as little restraint in his company 
 and his lady s as in that of any other in the neigh 
 borhood. 
 
 I very much regret the departure of Julia, and 
 hope you will permit her to return to me again as 
 soon as possible. She is a valuable friend. Her 
 mind is well cultivated, and she has treasured up 
 a fund of knowledge and information which ren 
 ders her company both agreeable and useful in 
 every situation of life. We lately spent the after 
 noon and evening at Mr. Smith s. They had a 
 considerable number of visitants, and among the 
 rest Major Sanford. His wife was expected, but 
 did not come, being indisposed.
 
 236 THE COQUKTTE; OR, THE 
 
 I believe, my friend, yon must excuse me if my 
 letters are shorter than formerly. Writing is not 
 so agreeable to me as it used to be. 1 love my 
 friends as well as ever, but I think they must be 
 weary of the gloom and dulness which pervade 
 rny present correspondence. When my pen shall 
 have regained its original fluency and alertness, I 
 will resume and prolong the pleasing task. 
 
 I am, my dear Lucy, yours most affectionately, 
 
 ELIZA WIIAKTON. 
 
 LETTER LX. 
 
 To THE SAME. 
 
 HARTFORD. 
 
 Dear madam : Agreeably to your desire every 
 art has been tried, every allurement held out, every 
 argument used, and every plan adopted, which 
 Mrs. Wharton and I could devise to induce Eliza 
 to accompany me to Boston ; but all in vain. 
 Sometimes she has been almost persuaded to a 
 compliance with our united request, but soon has 
 resolutely determined against it. I have observed 
 her sentiments to be suddenly changed after being 
 in company with Major Sanford. This alarms us 
 exceedingly. Indeed, the major seems to have in-
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 237 
 
 sinuatecl himself into her good opinion more than 
 ever. She is flattered into the belief that his at 
 tention to her is purely the result of friendship and 
 benevolence. 
 
 I have not so favorable an opinion of the man 
 as to suppose him capable of either. He has be 
 come very familiar here. He calls in almost every 
 day. Sometimes he but just inquires after our 
 health, and sometimes makes long visits. The 
 latter is his invariable practice when he finds Eliza 
 alone. Mrs. Wharton always avoids seeing him 
 if she can. She dreads, she says, his approaching 
 the house. 
 
 I entered the parlor the other day, somewhat 
 suddenly, and found him sitting very near Eliza, 
 in a low conversation. They both rose in apparent 
 confusion, and he soon retired. 
 
 When he was gone, " I suspect," said I, " that 
 the major was whispering a tale of love, Eliza." 
 " Do you imagine," said she, " that I would listen 
 to such a theme from a married man ?" "I hope 
 not," said I, " but his conduct towards you indi 
 cates a revival of his former sentiments, at least." 
 " I was not aware of that," said she. " As yet 1 
 have observed nothing in his behavior to me in 
 consistent with the purest friendship." 
 
 We drank tea not long since at Mr. Smith s.
 
 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 Late in the afternoon Major Sanford made his ap 
 pearance, to apologize, as he said, for Mrs. Sanford, 
 who was indisposed, and could not enjoy the 
 pleasure of the visit she had contemplated. He 
 was very gay the whole evening ; and when the 
 company separated, he was the first to present his 
 arm to Eliza, who accepted it without hesitation. 
 A Mr. Newhall attended me, and we endeavored 
 to keep them company ; but they evidently chose 
 to walk by themselves. Mr. Newhall observed, 
 that if Major Sanford were not married he should 
 suspect he still intended a union with Miss Whar- 
 ton. I replied, that their former intercourse, having 
 terminated in friendship, rendered them more fa 
 miliar with each other than with the generality of 
 their acquaintance. 
 
 When we reached the house, Mr. Newhall chose 
 not to go in, and took his leave. I waited at the 
 door for Eliza and Major Sanford. At some little 
 distance, I saw him press her hand to his lips. It 
 vexed me exceedingly ; and no sooner had they 
 come up, than I sullenly bade them good night, 
 and walked directly in. Eliza soon followed me. 
 I sat down by the fire in a thoughtful posture. 
 She did the same. In this situation we both re 
 mained for some time without speaking a word. 
 At length she said, " You seem not to have en-
 
 LIFK AXI) LETTERS OF ELIZA WIIARTON. 239 
 
 joyed yonr walk, Miss Granby : did you not like 
 your gallant ? " " Yes," said J, " very well ; but I 
 am mortified that you were not Better provided 
 for." " 1 make no complaint," rejoined she; "I 
 was very well entertained." " That is what dis 
 pleases me," said T ; " T mean your visible fond 
 ness for the society of sueh a man. Were you 
 averse to it, as you ought to be, there would be no 
 danger. But he has an alluring tongue and a 
 treacherous heart. How can you be pleased and 
 entertained by his conversation ? To me it ap 
 pears totally repugnant to that refinement and 
 delicacy for which you have always been esteemed. 
 " His assiduity and obtrusion ought to alarm 
 you. You well know what his character has been. 
 Marriage has not changed his disposition. It is 
 only a cloak which conceals it. Trust him not, 
 then, my dear Eliza ; if you do, depend upon it 
 you will find his professions of friendship to be 
 mere hypocrisy and deceit. I fear that he is act 
 ing over again the same unworthy arts which for 
 merly misled you. Beware of his wiles. Your 
 friends are anxious for you. They tremble at 
 your professed regard and apparent intimacy with 
 that unprincipled man." " My friends," said she, 
 " are very jealous of me lately. I know not how 
 T have forfeited their confidence, or incurred their
 
 240 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 suspicion." " By encouraging that attention," I 
 warmly replied, " and receiving those caresses, from 
 a married man which are due from him to none 
 but his wife. He is a villain if he deceived her into 
 marriage by insincere professions of love. If he 
 had then an affection for her, and has already dis 
 carded it, he is equally guilty. Can you expect 
 sincerity from the man who withholds it from an 
 amiable and deserving wife ? No, Eliza ; it is not 
 love which induces him to entertain you with the 
 subject. It is a baser passion ; and if you disdain 
 not his artifice, if you listen to his flattery, you will, 
 I fear, fall a victim to his evil machinations. If 
 he conducted like a man of honor, he would merit 
 your esteem ; but his behavior is quite the reverse : 
 yet, vile as he is, he would not dare to lisp his in 
 solent hopes of your regard if you punished his 
 presumption with the indignation it deserves; if 
 you spurned from your presence the ungrateful 
 wretch who would requite your condescension by 
 triumphing in your ruin." 
 
 She now burst into tears, and begged me to 
 drop the subject. Her mind, she said, was racked 
 by her own reflections. She could bear but little. 
 Kindness deceived, and censure distressed her. 
 
 I assured her of my good intentions ; that, as I 
 saw her danger, I thought it a duty of the friend-
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTOJT. 241 
 
 ship and affection I bore her solemnly to warn her 
 against it before we parted. We talked over the 
 matter more calmly, till she professed herself re 
 solved in future to avoid his company, and reject 
 his insinuations. 
 
 The next day, as I walked out, I met Major 
 Sanford. He accosted me very civilly. I barely 
 bade him good morning, and passed on. 
 
 I made it in my way to call at his house, and bid 
 Mrs. Sanford adieu ; not expecting another oppor 
 tunity equally favorable. When I entered the 
 parlor, she was playing a melancholy air on the 
 harpsichord. She rose, and gave me a polite and 
 graceful reception. I told her, as I was soon to 
 leave the town, I called to take my leave of her a 
 compliment which her attention to me required. 
 " Are you going to leave us then, Miss Granby ? " 
 said she. " I shall regret your departure exceedingly. 
 I have so few friends in this part of the country, 
 that it will give me sensible pain to part with one 
 I so highly value." 
 
 I told her, in the course of conversation, that I 
 expected the pleasure of seeing her yesterday at 
 Mr. Smith s, and was very sorry for the indispo 
 sition which prevented her favoring us with her 
 company. " Indeed," said she, " I did not know I 
 
 was expected there. Were you there, pray ? " 
 15
 
 242 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 " Yes," said I ; " and Major Sanford excused your 
 not coming, on the account I have mentioned." 
 " Well," said she, " this is the first word that I ever 
 heard about it ; he told me that business led him 
 abroad. Did he gallant any lady ?" " O," said I, 
 " he was with us all together. We had no particu 
 lar gallants." 
 
 Seeing her curiosity excited, I heartily repented 
 saying any thing of the matter, and waived the 
 subject. Little did I suspect him to have been 
 guilty of so base an artifice. It was evidently con 
 trived to facilitate an interview with Eliza. 
 
 When I returned, I related this affair to Mrs. 
 Wharton and her daughter. The old lady and I 
 expatiated largely on the vileness of this conduct, 
 and endeavored to expose it to Eliza s view in its 
 true colors. She pretended not to justify it ; yet 
 she looked as if she wished it in her power. 
 
 I am now preparing for my journey to Boston, 
 which I must, however, defer another week for the 
 sake of a more agreeable passage in the stage. I 
 regret leaving Eliza. I tremble at her danger. 
 She has not the resolution to resist temptation 
 which she once possessed. Her mind is surpris 
 ingly weakened. She appears sensible of this, 
 yet adds to it by yielding to her own imbecility. 
 You will receive a letter from her with this, though
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 243 
 
 I had much difficulty to persuade her to write. 
 She has unfortunately become very averse to this, 
 her once favorite amusement. 
 
 As I shall soon have the pleasure of conversing 
 with you personally, I conclude without any other 
 addition to this scrawl than the name of your 
 
 obliged 
 
 JULIA GRANBY. 
 
 LETTER LXI. 
 
 To* Miss ELIZA WHARTON. 
 
 BOSTON. 
 
 My dear friend : I have received your letters, 
 and must own to you that the perusal of them 
 gave me pain. Pardon my suspicions, Eliza ; they 
 are excited by real friendship. Julia, you say, ap 
 proves not Major Sanford s particular attention to 
 you. Neither do I. If you recollect and examine 
 his conversation in his conciliatory visit, you will 
 find it replete with sentiments for the avowal of 
 which he ought to be banished from all virtuous 
 society. 
 
 Does he not insidiously declare that you are the 
 only pbject of his affections ; that his union with 
 another was formed from interested views ; and,
 
 244 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 though that other is acknowledged to be amiable 
 and excellent, still he has not a heart to bestow, 
 and expects not happiness with her ? Does this 
 discover even the appearance of amendment? Has 
 he not, by false pretensions, misled a virtuous wo 
 man, and induced her to form a connection with 
 him ? She was a stranger to his manner of life, 
 and doubtless allured, as you have been, by flat 
 tery, deceit, and external appearance, to trust his 
 honor, little thinking him wholly devoid of that 
 sacred tie. What is the reward of her confidence ? 
 Insensibility to her charms, neglect of her person, 
 and professed attachment to another ! 
 
 Is he a man, my dear Eliza, whose friendship 
 you wish to cultivate ? Can that heavenly pas 
 sion reside in a breast which is the seat of treach 
 ery, duplicity, and ingratitude ? You are too 
 sensible of its purity and worth to suppose it 
 possible. The confessions of his own mouth con 
 demn him. They convince me that he is still the 
 abandoned libertine, and that marriage is but the 
 cloak of his intrigues. His officious attentions to 
 you are alarming to your friends. Your own mind 
 weakened, and peculiarly susceptible of tender im 
 pressions, beware how you receive them from him. 
 Listen not a moment to his flattering professions ; 
 it is an insult upon your understanding for him to
 
 LIFE AXD LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 245 
 
 offer them ; it is derogatory to virtue for you to 
 hear them. 
 
 Slight not the opinion of the world. We are 
 dependent beings ; and while the smallest traces 
 of virtuous sensibility remain, we must feel the 
 force of that dependence in a greater or less de 
 gree. No female, whose mind is uncorrupted, can 
 bo indifferent to reputation. It is an inestimable 
 jewel, the loss of which can never be repaired. 
 While retained, it affords conscious peace to our 
 own minds, and insures the esteem and respect of 
 all around us. 
 
 Blessed with the company of so disinterested 
 and faithful a friend as Julia Granby, some def 
 erence is certainly due to her opinion and advice. 
 To an enlarged understanding, a cultivated taste, 
 and an extensive knowledge of the world, she 
 unites the most liberal sentiments with a benev 
 olence and candor of disposition, which render her 
 equally deserving of your confidence and affection. 
 
 I cannot relinquish my claim to a visit from you 
 this winter. Marriage has not alienated nor weak 
 ened my regard for my friends. Come, then, to your 
 faithful Lucy. Have you sorrows ? I will soothe 
 and alleviate them. Have you cares? I will dispel 
 them. Have you pleasures ? I will heighten them. 
 Come, then, let me fold you to my expecting heart.
 
 246 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 My happiness will be partly suspended till your 
 society renders it complete. Adieu. 
 
 LUCY SUMNER. 
 
 LETTER LXII. 
 
 To Miss JULIA GRANBY. 
 
 HARTFORD. 
 
 Dear Julia : I hope Mrs. Surnner and you will 
 excuse my writing but one letter in answer to the 
 number I have received from you both. Writing 
 is an employment which suits me not at present. 
 It was pleasing to me formerly, and therefore, by 
 recalling the idea of circumstances and events 
 which frequently occupied my pen in happier days, 
 it now gives me pain. Yet I have just written a 
 long consolatory letter to Mrs. Richman. She has 
 buried her babe her little Harriet, of whom she 
 was dotingly fond. 
 
 It was a custom with some of the ancients, we 
 are told, to weep at the birth of their children. 
 Often should we be impelled to a compliance 
 with this custom, could we foresee the future inci 
 dents of their lives. I think, at least, that the un 
 certainty of their conduct and condition in more 
 advanced age may reconcile us to their removal to
 
 LIFE AXD LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 247 
 
 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 neigh 
 borhood 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 dispo 
 sition, I am now trying what a recluse and solitary 
 mode of life will produce. You will call me splen 
 etic. 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 con 
 sciousness 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 hap 
 piness ; and though she fails of promoting it, yet
 
 248 THE COQUETTE; or.. THW 
 
 I endeavor to save her the pangs of disappointment 
 by appearing what she wishes. 
 
 I anticipate, and yet I dread, your return ; a par 
 adox this, which time alone can solve. 
 
 Continue writing to me, and entreat Mrs. Sum- 
 ner, in my name, to do likewise. Your benevo 
 lence 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 flat 
 tered ourselves that the melancholy of your mind 
 was exterminated. I hope no new cause has re 
 vived it. Little did I intend, when I left you, to 
 have been absent so long ; but Mrs. Sumner s dis 
 appointment, 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
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WI1ARTOX. 249 
 
 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 pat 
 tern 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 vir 
 tue, 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 reforma 
 tion" 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 so 
 ciety 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 sin- 
 
 
 
 cerely sympathize with her under her bereavement. 
 I know her fondness for you will render your
 
 250 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 company very consoling to her; and I flatter my 
 self 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. 
 
 HABTFOBD. 
 
 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 re 
 vive 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 pavlor, whither Mrs. Wharton led 
 me ; and, the door being open, I saw Eliza re 
 clined on a settee, in a very thoughtful posture. 
 When I advanced to meet her, she never moved,
 
 LIFE AKD LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 251 
 
 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 dis 
 orders of the mind, Julia ? " " They will have a 
 powerful tendency to remove them, if rightly ap- 
 ulied ; 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 com-
 
 252 THE COQUETTE; OK, THE 
 
 missions from her daughter. We shall be agree 
 ably 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 mam 
 ma, waiting for us. We were all very chatty ; 
 even Eliza resumed, in a degree, her former socia 
 bility. 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 in 
 formed me that her health had been declining for 
 some months ; that she never complained, but stu 
 diously 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 togeth 
 er, 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, 
 arid 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 
 w r as very loath to see company at home; that her 
 chief amusement consisted in solitary walks ; that 
 the dreadful idea of her meeting Major Sanford
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 253 
 
 in these walks had now and then intruded upon 
 her imagination; that she had not the least evi 
 dence 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 DEICIITON. 
 
 HARTFORD. 
 
 Good news, Charles, good news ! I have ar 
 rived 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 1 ever knew. No matter
 
 254 THE COQUETTE ; OR THE 
 
 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 lov,e could suggest, or art invent, was adopt 
 ed. 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 suc 
 cess 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
 
 LIFE AXD LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 255 
 
 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 im 
 paired. 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 divini 
 ty to take an interest in any thing else. True, I 
 have lately suffered myself to be somewhat en 
 gaged 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 ex 
 pended 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 continua 
 tion. Now, there s a girl, Charles, I should never 
 attempt to seduce ; yet she is a most alluring ob 
 ject, 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
 
 256 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 thought derogatory to her honor, and tells you 
 plainly that the first insinuation of the kind would 
 be punished with eternal banishment and displeas 
 ure. 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. 
 
 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 un 
 speakably distress your benevolent heart. Eliza 
 O, the ruined, lost Eliza ! 
 
 1 want words to express the emotions of indig 
 nation and grief which oppress me. But I will 
 endeavor to compose myself, and relate the circum 
 stances as they came to my knowledge. 
 
 After my last letter Eliza remained much in the 
 same gloomy situation as I found her. She re 
 fused 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.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 257 
 
 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 apart 
 ment, little suspecting the real cause. She fre 
 quently walked out, and though I sometimes fol 
 lowed, 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 thirs*ty, 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 lit 
 tle 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 ap 
 proached, 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 vir 
 tue. After a while I recovered myself, and put on 
 
 my clothes. But what to do I knew not whether 
 16
 
 258 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 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 can 
 not 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. An 
 swer 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 de 
 struction, and who will cause my sun to set at 
 noon."
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTOX. 259 
 
 " I shudder," said I, " at your confession ! Wretch 
 ed, deluded girl ! Is this a return for your parent s 
 love and assiduous care ; for your friends solici 
 tude 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 bur 
 den. 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 ex 
 claimed, 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
 
 260 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THii 
 
 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 an.d compassion towards 
 me, aid me through this trying scene. Let my 
 situation call forth your pity, and induce you, un 
 deserving 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, in 
 duces 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
 
 LIFE, *ND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 261 
 
 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, 1 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," resume 
 she, " till I am assured of her forgiveness. I have 
 not strength to support tte appearance of her an 
 ger 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 pos 
 sible, 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
 
 262 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 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 ac 
 cordingly returned for answer to Mrs. Wharton, that 
 Eliza had rested but indifferently, and being some 
 what indisposed, would not come down, but wished 
 me to bring her a bowl^ef chocolate, when we had 
 breakfasted. I was obliged studiously to suppress 
 even my thoughts concerning her, lest the emo 
 tions they excited might be observed. Mrs. Whar 
 ton 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 un 
 known to her ; and she entreated me to extract the 
 secret, if possible. I assured her of my best en 
 deavors, 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 be 
 fore dinner ; at which she commanded herself 
 much better than I expected. She said that a little
 
 LIVE AXD LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 263 
 
 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 accord 
 ingly 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 be 
 coming 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 dispo 
 sition, 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.
 
 264 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 " It is needless for me to rehearse the perfidious 
 arts by which he insinuated himself into my affec 
 tions and gained my confidence. Suffice it to say, 
 he effected his purpose. But not long did I con 
 tinue in the delusive dream of sensual gratification. 
 I soon awoke to a most poignant sense of his base 
 ness, 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 re 
 pentance 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 con 
 stitution. 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
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 265 
 
 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 par 
 taker 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 dread 
 ful 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 for 
 bid," rejoined she. " My breath is in his hands ; 
 let him do what seemet-h good in his sight ! Keep
 
 266 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 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 conceal 
 ment. 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 feel 
 ings on this unhappy occasion are too keen to ad 
 mit 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.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 267 
 
 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 everlast 
 ing 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 com 
 pose 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 im 
 moderate 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
 
 268 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 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 apart 
 ment ; " it is finished." " What," said I, is fin 
 ished ? " " 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-condem 
 nation ! " She wept ; she rung her hands, and 
 walked the room in the greatest agony. Mrs. 
 Wharton was exceedingly distressed by her ap 
 pearance. " Tell me, Eliza," said she, " tell me 
 the cause of your trouble. O, kill me not by your
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 269 
 
 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-mor 
 row 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 par 
 ticipate 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 un 
 touched. 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 for 
 feited your love, your kindness, and your compas 
 sion?" "Surely, Eliza," said she, "you are not 
 that being! No, it is impossible! But however 
 great your transgression, be assured of my forgive 
 ness, rny compassion, and my continued love." 
 Saying this, she threw her arms about her daugh-
 
 270 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 ter 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 evi 
 dently disordered. " Nothing else," continued she, 
 "could impel her to act in this extraordinary man 
 ner." 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 morn 
 ing." " 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
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 271 
 
 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. Hence 
 forth, 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 sup 
 port 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 ;
 
 272 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 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 appar 
 ently asleep. I acquainted Mrs. Wharton with 
 her situation, which was a great consolation to us 
 both, and encouraged us to go to bed : having suf 
 fered 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 ac 
 quaint her mamma with the melancholy discovery, 
 .and, stepping to her apartment for the purpose,
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELTZA WHAETON. 273 
 
 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 forti 
 tude." " What new occurrence demands it? " re 
 joined she. " Eliza has left us." " Left us ! What 
 mean you?" "She has just gone; I saw her 
 handed into a chaise, which instantly disap 
 peared." 
 
 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 with 
 drew. 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 re 
 turned 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, 
 17
 
 274 THE COQUETTE ; OR THE 
 
 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 my 
 self; but I think I could have borne almost any 
 other calamity with greater resignation and com 
 posure than this. With how much comparative 
 ease could I have followed her to the grave at any 
 period since her birth! 0, 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 moth 
 er. But where," continued she, " where can the poor 
 fugitive have fled ? Where can she find that pro 
 tection 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 en 
 deavor 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
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 275 
 
 I am determined, if he return, to see him myself, 
 and extort from him the place of Eliza s conceal 
 ment. Her flight in her present state of health 
 is inexpressibly distressing to her mother ; and un 
 less 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 with 
 out affording us much relief. Last evening, I was 
 told that Major Sanford was at home. I imme 
 diately 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 aflluence can give. 
 
 " Major Sanford has solemnly sworn not to dis 
 cover her retreat. She wishes to avoid the accusa 
 tions of her friends till she is better able to bear 
 them. 
 
 " Her mother may rest assured of immediate infor 
 mation, should any danger threaten her amiable 
 daughter; and also of having seasonable notice 
 of her safety."
 
 27fi THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 Although little dependence can be placed upon 
 this man, yet these assurances have, in a great de 
 gree, calmed our minds. We are, however, con 
 triving means to explore the refuge of the wander 
 er, 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 circum 
 stance as it occurs ; but at present, I shall only en 
 close Eliza s letters to her mamma and me, and 
 subscribe myself your sincere and obliged friend, 
 
 JULIA GRANBY. 
 
 LETTER LXVITT. 
 
 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 sub 
 ject required its exertion. Repentance comes too
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHABTOX. 277 
 
 late, when it cannot prevent the evil lamented : for 
 your kindness, your more than maternal affection 
 towards me, from my infancy to the present mo 
 ment, a long life of filial duty and unerring recti 
 tude could hardly compensate. How greatly defi 
 cient in gratitude must I appear, then, while I con 
 fess 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 sacri 
 ficing it. The various emotions of shame and re 
 morse, penitence and regret, which torture and dis 
 tract 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 lib 
 ertine, who is the husband of another. She is pol 
 luted, 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
 
 278 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 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 arn amply provided for. 
 
 I have no claim even upon your pity ; but from 
 rny 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 compas 
 sionate 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 repent 
 ance ; 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
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 279 
 
 invidious eye of curiosity. This night, therefore, I 
 leave your hospitable mansion. This night I be 
 come 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 con 
 viction 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 for 
 give me, you say. O, the harmonious, the trans 
 porting 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.
 
 280 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 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 de 
 signs for me I know not, but I have my fore 
 bodings 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 com 
 monly 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 sep 
 arates us, perhaps, forever. I have not resolution 
 to encounter the tears of my friends, and there 
 fore seek shelter among strangers, where none 
 knows or is interested in my melancholy story. 
 The place of my seclusion I studiously conceal ;
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON". 281 
 
 yet I shall take measures that you may be ap 
 prised 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 of 
 fences. 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 rnind 
 s> ;<.;gests 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 punish 
 ment, let me conjure you to bury my crimes in
 
 282 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 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 expir 
 ing 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
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 283 
 
 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 
 
 "9 
 
 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 con 
 nected 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 uncomfort 
 able life of late. She has been very suspicious 
 of my amour with Eliza, and now and then ex 
 pressed her jealous sentiments a little more warm 
 ly than my patience would bear. But the news
 
 284 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 of Eliza s circumstances and itiMrement, being pub 
 licly talked of, have reached he^ oars, and rendered 
 her quite outrageous. She td. s me she will no 
 longer brook my indifference and infidelity ; in 
 tends 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 disconso 
 late 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 re 
 venge for their dislike and coldness towards me. Had
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHAETON. 285 
 
 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 se 
 ducing her, alleged my ardent love, and my ina 
 bility 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 for 
 give 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 dan 
 gerous tendency and destructive consequences of 
 associating with men of your character, of destroy 
 ing their time and risking their reputation by the 
 practice of coquetry and its attendant follies.
 
 286 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 But for these I might have been honorably con 
 nected, 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 arn, have been 
 your accomplice. But I cease to reproach you. 
 You have acted but too consistently with the char 
 acter which I was sufficiently apprised you sus 
 tained. The blame, then, may be retorted on my 
 self, 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."
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 287 
 
 By this time we had nearly reached the inn, and 
 were soon to part. I seized her hand, and ex 
 claimed, " You must not leave me, Eliza, \vith 
 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 remem 
 brance." This, to my mind, was a harsher sen 
 tence 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 dis 
 tress, 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 amend 
 ment. 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 kind 
 ness 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,
 
 288 THE COQUETTE; OB, THE 
 
 not in continuation of our amour, but as a friend 
 solicitous to know her situation and welfare. Un 
 able 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
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHAKTON. 289 
 
 with each other, and with her afflicted, bereaved 
 parent ! 
 
 You have doubtless seen the account in the pub 
 lic papers which gave us the melancholy intel 
 ligence. But I will give you a detail of circum 
 stances. 
 
 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, entreat 
 ing him, if possible, to give some intelligence con 
 cerning 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 neigh or 
 (purposely, we since concluded) sent us a E ton 
 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." 18
 
 290 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 " 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 fol 
 lowing day. Such in fact has been her habitual 
 frame ever since ; though the endeavors of her 
 friends, who have sought to console her, have ren 
 dered her somewhat more conversable. My testi 
 mony of Eliza s penitence before her departure is 
 a source of comfort to this disconsolate parent. 
 i-5he 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
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WIIARTOX. 291 
 
 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 evi 
 dently 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 sit 
 uation 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 situa 
 tion, 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.
 
 292 THE COQUETTE ; OK, THE 
 
 " 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 mis 
 chiefs 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 con 
 tinue with Mrs. Wharton till the lenient hand of 
 time has assuaged her sorrows, and then make 
 rny promised visit to you. I will bring Eliza s 
 posthumous papers with rne when I come to Bos 
 ton, as I have not time to copy them now. 
 
 I foresee, my dear Mrs. Sumner, that this disas 
 trous 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 par 
 ent 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
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTOX. 293 
 
 victims at the shrine of libertinism. Detested be 
 the epithet. Let it henceforth bear its true signa 
 ture, and candor itself shall call it lust and brutality. 
 Execrable is the man, however arrayed in mag 
 nificence, crowned with wealth, or decorated with 
 the external graces and accomplishments of fash 
 ionable 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 sup- 
 pr^ess. 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 DKIGHTON. 
 
 HARTFORD. 
 
 Confusion, horror, and despair are the portion 
 of your wretched, unhappy friend. O Deighton, 
 1 am undone. Misery irremediable is my future
 
 294 THE COQUETTE ; OK THE 
 
 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 forebod 
 ings 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 clam 
 orous 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.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 295 
 
 I have compounded with my creditors, and re 
 signed the whole of rny 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 lever 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 erad 
 icate 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 mount 
 ing the carriage which conveyed her forever from 
 my sight, waving her hand in token of a last adieu 
 
 will always be present to rny 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,
 
 296 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 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 hypoc 
 risy. 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 sor 
 rows 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 t<p
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTON. 297 
 
 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 danger 
 ous paths which I have trodden, that you may 
 never be involved in the hopeless ignominy and 
 wretchedness of 
 
 PETER SANFORD. 
 
 i 
 
 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 ma-
 
 298 THE COQUETTE ; OR, THE 
 
 turer judgment most firmly cemented our friend 
 ship. Can I, then, calmly resign her to so severe 
 a fate ? Can I bear the idea of her being lost to 
 honor, to fame, and to life ? No ; she shall still 
 live in the heart of her faithful Lucy, whose expe 
 rience of her numerous virtues and engaging qual 
 ities has imprinted her image too deeply on the 
 memory to be obliterated. However she may have 
 erred, her sincere repentance is sufficient to restore 
 her to charity. 
 
 Your letter gave me the first information of 
 this awful event. I had taken a short excur 
 sion into the country, where I had not seen the 
 papers, or, if I had, paid little or no attention to 
 them. By your directions I found the distressing 
 narrative of her exit. The poignancy of my grief, 
 and the unavailing lamentations which the intelli 
 gence excited, need no delineation. To scenes of 
 this nature you have been habituated in the man 
 sion of sorrow where you reside. 
 
 How sincerely I sympathize with the bereaved 
 parent of the dear, deceased Eliza, I can feel, but 
 have not power to express. Let it be her consola 
 tion that her child is at rest. The resolution which 
 carried this deluded wanderer thus far from her 
 friends, and supported her through her various
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF ELIZA WHAUTOX. 299 
 
 trials, is astonishing. Happy would it have been 
 had she exerted an equal degree of fortitude in re 
 pelling the first attacks upon her virtue. But she 
 is no more, and Heaven forbid that I should ac- 
 euse or reproach her. 
 
 Yet in what language shall I express my abhor 
 rence of the monster whose detestable arts have 
 blasted one of the fairest flowers in creation ? I 
 leave him to God and his own conscience. Al 
 ready is he exposed in his true colors. Vengeance 
 already begins to overtake him. His sordid mind 
 must now suffer the deprivation of those sensual 
 gratifications beyond which he is incapable of en 
 joyment. 
 
 Upon your reflecting and steady mind, my dear 
 Julia, I need not inculcate the lessons which may 
 be drawn from this woe-fraught tale; but for the 
 sake of rny sex in general, I wish it engraved upon 
 every heart, that virtue alone, independent of the 
 trappings of wealth, the parade of equipage, and 
 the adulation of gallantry, can secure lasting felici 
 ty. From the melancholy story of Eliza Wharton 
 let the American fair learn to reject with disdain 
 every insinuation derogatory to their true dignity 
 and honor. Let them despise and forever banish 
 the man who can glory in the seduction of inno-
 
 SCO THE COQUETTE ; OK, THE 
 
 cence and the ruin of reputation. To associate is 
 to approve ; to approve is to be betrayed. 
 I am, &c., 
 
 LUCY SUMNER. 
 
 LETTER LXXIV. 
 
 To MRS. M. WHARTON. 
 
 BOSTON. 
 
 Dear madam : We have paid the last tribute of 
 respect to your beloved daughter. The day after 
 my arrival, Mrs. Sumner proposed that we should 
 visit the sad spot which contains the remains of 
 our once amiable friend. " The grave of Eliza 
 Wharton," said she, " shall not be unbedewed by 
 the tears of friendship." 
 
 Yesterday we went accordingly, and were much 
 pleased with the apparent sincerity of the people in 
 their assurances that every thing in their power 
 had been done to render her situation comfortable. 
 The minutest circumstances were faithfully related ; 
 and, from the state of her mind in her last hours, I 
 think much comfort may be derived to her afflicted 
 friends. 
 
 We spent a mournful hour in the place where
 
 LIFE AXD LETTERS OF ELIZA WHARTOX. 301 
 
 she is interred, and then returned to the inn, while 
 Mrs. Sum tier gave orders for a decent stone to be 
 erected over her grave, with the following inscrip 
 tion : 
 
 THIS HUMBLE STONE, 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 
 ELIZA W HART ON, 
 
 IS INSCRIBED BY HER WEEPING FRIENDS, TO WHOM SHK 
 
 ENDEARED HERSELF 
 
 BY UNCOMMON TENDERNESS AND AFFECTION. 
 ENDOWED WITH SUPERIOR ACQUIREMENTS, SHE WAS STILL MORE 
 
 DISTINGUISHED 
 
 BY HUMILITY AND BENEVOLENCE. 
 1ET CANDOR THROW A VEIL OVER HER FRAILTIES, FOR GREAT WAS 
 
 HER CHARITY TO OTHERS. 
 SHE SUSTAINED THE LAST PAINFUL SCENE 
 
 FAR FROM EVERY FRIEND, 
 AND EXHIBITED AN EXAMPLE OF CALM RESIGNATION. 
 
 HER DEPARTURE WAS ON THE 25TH DAY OF JULY, A. D. , IN 
 
 THE 37TH YEAR OF HER AGE ; 
 AND THE TEARS OF STRANGERS WATERED HER GRAVE. 
 
 I hope, madam, that you will derive satisfaction 
 from these exertions of friendship, and that, united 
 to the many other sources of consolation with
 
 302 THE COQUETTE; OR, THE 
 
 which you are furnished, they may alleviate your 
 grief, and, while they leave the pleasing remem 
 brance of her virtues, add the supporting persua 
 sion that your Eliza is happy. 
 I am, &c., 
 
 JULIA GRANBY. 
 
 THE END.
 
 PETERSONS 
 
 STERLING SERIES OF 
 
 THEY ARE THE CHEAPEST NOVELS IN THE WORLD. 
 Price $1.00 each in morocco cloth ; or 75 cents each in paper cover. 
 
 "PETERSONS STERLING SERIES" OF NEW AND GOOD BOOKS, 
 art each issued in one larye octavo volume, oil of one size, and in uniform style, and 
 are meeting with great success, as the. serifs contain some of the best and most popular 
 novels ever issued. The, volumes are hawiy to hold, and are bound in handsome 
 Morocco cloth, with new design), in gold and black, on side and back, and each book 
 is sold at the uniform and remarkably low price of ONE Dot, LA it A COPY in this style, 
 or in paper covers, with the, fiii/es cut open all round, at SEVENTY-FIVE CENTS A COPY. 
 Here is cheapness and a great deal of good reading matter combined, which is what all 
 persons want these timfg, for each volume issued in "PETERSONS STEELING SERIES" 
 contains as much reading matter as is usually issued in a 1.50, gl.75, or $2.00 volume. 
 
 PETERSONS STERLING SERIES OF GOOD NOVELS JUST READY. 
 
 They are the CJieapest Novels in the World. 
 Price $1.00 each in morocco cloth; or 75 cents each in paper cover. 
 
 flit following works have already been issued in this scries, and a new one will fol 
 low every tivo weeks in the same style, same size, and at the same low price, making 
 Has series of novels the cheapest ever published. The following are their names: 
 
 CHAELES O MALLEY, The Irish Dragoon. By Charles Lever. 
 
 CYRILLA. A Lovo Story. By author of " The Initials." 
 
 THE FLIRT. By Mrs. Grey, author of " The Gambler s Wife." 
 
 EDIN A. A Love Story. By Mrs. Henry Wood. 
 
 HARRY LORREQUER. With His Confessions. By Charles Lever. 
 
 AURORA FLOYD. A Love Story. By Miss M. E. Braddou. 
 
 CORINNE ; or, ITALY. By Madame De Stael. 
 
 POPPING THE QUESTION. Hy author of "The Jilt." 
 
 FIRST AND TRUE LOVE. By George Sand. 
 
 THE COQUETTE. A Charming Love Story. By author of " Jtisserimus." 
 
 THE MYSTERY. A Love Story. By Mrs. Henry Wood. 
 
 THE MAN WITH FIVE WIVES. By Alexander Dumas. 
 
 THE JEALOUS "WIFE. By Miss Julia Fardoe. 
 
 THACKERAY S IRISH SKETCH BOOK. Illustrated. 
 
 THE "WIFE S TRIALS. A Love Story. By Miss Julia Pardoe. 
 
 PICKWICK ABROAD. Illustrated. By George W. M. Reynolds. 
 
 THE DEAD SECRET. By Wilkio Collins. 
 
 CONFESSIONS OF A PRETTY WOMAN. By Mws Pardoe. 
 
 SYLVESTER SOUND. By author of " Valentine Vox." 
 
 BASIL ; or, The Crossed Path. By Wilkio Collins. 
 
 THE RIVAL BEAUTIES. By Miss Julia Pardoo. 
 
 THE STEWARD. By author of " Valentine Vox." 
 
 MARRYING- FOR MONEY. By Mrn. Mackenzie Daniel*. 
 
 THE LOVE MATCH. A Lovo Story. By Henry Cockton. 
 
 FLIRTATIONS IN AMERICA; or, High Life in New York. 
 
 WHITEFRIARS ; or, The Days of Charles the Second. 
 
 HIDE AND SEEK. A Novel. By Wilkie Collins. 
 
 4- The above books are 75 cents each in paper cover, or SI. 00 each in cloth. 
 
 J&g- Above books are for sale by all Bookseller r, or copies of any one, or more, or 
 aft of them, will be sent, post-paid, to any onf, to any place, on remit ing their price to 
 
 T, B, PETERSON & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 SOU C!i< f>l;uit Stmt, rttUtidrlphia, PiV
 
 PETERSONS 1 "DOLLAR SERIES" 
 
 OF GOOD AND NEW NOVELS 
 
 ARE THE BEST, THE LARGEST, THE HANDSOMEST, 
 AND THE CHEAPEST BOOKS IN THE WORLD. 
 
 Price ONE DOLLAR Each, in Morocco Cloth, Slacl: and Gol<(. 
 
 "PETERSONS DOLLAR SERIES " OF GOOD AND NEW 
 NOVELS arc thf. Cheapest Hooks at Oil? Dollar each ever published. They are nil 
 issued in uniform style, in duodecimo form, and are bound in red, tan, or blue vellum, 
 with gold and black sides and back, and are the best, the largest, the handsomest, and th- 
 cheapest bonks in the world, being sold at the low price of Ono Dollar each, while they ar~ 
 as large and as handsome as any books published at $1.75 or $2.00 each. The following 
 popular books have been issued in " Petersons Dollar Series," and a new onu 
 will be added every month, in the same style, same size, and at the same low price. 
 
 A WOMAN S THOUGHTS ABOUT WOMEN. By Miss Mulock. 
 TWO WAYS TO MATRIMONY; or, Is It Love, or, Palse Pride? 
 THE STOKY OF "ELIZABETH." By Miss Thackeray, 
 THE MATCHMAKER. A Society Novel. By Beatrice Reynolds. 
 THE RIVAL BELLES; or, Life in Washington. By J. B. Jones. 
 THE WOMAN IN BLACK. A Companion to The Woman in White 
 FLIRTATIONS IN FASHIONABLE LIFE. By Catharine Sinclair. 
 MY SON S WIFE. By the Author of "Caste." 
 THE DEVOTED BRIDE, By St. George Tucker, of Virginia. 
 THE HEIRESS IN THE FAMILY. By Mrs. Daniels. 
 SARATOGA! AND THE FAMOUS SPRINGS. A Love Story. 
 COUNTRY QUARTERS. By the Countess of Blessington. 
 LOVE AND DUTY. A Love Story. By Mrs. Hubback. 
 SELF-LOVE. A Book for Young Ladies and for Women. 
 THE MAN OF THE WORLD. By William North. 
 THE QUEEN S FAVORITE; or, The Price of a Crown. 
 THE CAVALIER. A Novel. By G. P. R. James. 
 OUT OF THE DEPTHS. The Story of a Woman s Life. 
 COLLEY GIBBER S LIFE OF EDWIN FORREST, with Portrait. 
 HAREM LIFE IN EGYPT AND CONSTANTINOPLE. 
 WOMAN S WRONG. A Book for Women. By Mrs. Eiloart. 
 THE COQUETTE; or, The Life and Letters of Eliza Wharton. 
 THE OLD PATROON; or, The Great Van Broek Property. 
 THE RECTOR S WIFE; or, The Valley of a Hundred Fires. 
 THE PRIDE OF LIFE. A Love Story. By Lady Jane Scott. 
 
 ^&* "Petersons Dollar Series" will be found for sale by all Booksellers, 
 or copies of any one or all of them, will be sent, post-paid, to any one, to any 
 place, on remitting One Dollar for each one wanted, to the Puhlixhers, 
 
 T. B. PETERSOX & BROTHERS, 
 
 3O(> Chestnut St., Philadelphia, Pa.
 
 A 000 674 306 6 
 
 University of California 
 
 SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 305 De Neve Drive - Parking Lot 17 Box 951388 
 
 LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 90095-1388 
 
 Return this material to the library from which it was borrowed. 
 
 JAN 1 3 REC D 
 
 
 
 

 
 I IFF AND LETTERS OF EUZA