The Coquette by Hannah Webster Foster (books to read in your 20s txt) 📕

Your truly romantic letter came safe to hand. Indeed, my dear, it would make a very pretty figure in a novel. A bleeding heart, slighted love, and all the et ceteras of romance enter into the composition.

Excuse this raillery, and I will now write more seriously. You refer yourself to my friendship for consolation. It shall be exerted for the purpose. But I must act the part of a skilful surgeon, and probe the wound which I undertake to heal.

Where, O Eliza Wharton, where is that fund of sense and sentiment which once animated your engaging form? Where that strength of mind, that independence of soul, that alacrity and sprightliness of deportment, which formerly raised you superior to every adverse occurrence? Why have you resigned these valuable endowments, and suffered yourself to become the sport of contending passions?

You have now emerged from that mist of fanciful folly which in a measure obscured the brilliance of your youthful days.

True, you figured among the first-rate coquettes, while your friends, who knew your accomplishments, lamented the misapplication of them; but now they rejoice at the returning empire of reason.

True, you have erred; misled by the gayety of your disposition, and that volatility and inconsideration which were incident to your years; but you have seen and nobly confessed your errors. Why do you talk of slighted love? True, Mr. Boyer, supposing you disregarded him, transferred his affections to another object; but have you not your admirers still among men of real merit? Are you not esteemed and caressed by numbers who know you capable of shining in a distinguished sphere of life? Turn then, my friend, from the gloomy prospect which your disturbed imagination has brought into view. Let reason and religion erect their throne in your breast; obey their dictates, and be happy. Past experience will point out the quicksands which you are to avoid in your future course.

Date then, from this, a new era of life; and may every moment be attended with felicity. Follow Mr. Boyer's advice and forget all former connections.

Julia accepts your invitation. Nothing short of your request could induce me to part with her. She is a good girl, and her society will amuse and instruct you. I am, &c.,

My Julia Granby has arrived. She is all that I once was—easy, sprightly, debonnaire. Already has she done much towards relieving my mind. She endeavors to divert and lead my thoughts into a different channel from that to which they are now prone. Yesterday we had each an invitation to a ball. She labored hard to prevail on me to go, but I obstinately refused. I cannot yet mix with gay and cheerful circles. I therefore alleged that I was indisposed, and persuaded her to go without me.

The events of my life have always been unaccountably wayward. In many instances I have been ready to suppose that some evil genius presided over my actions, which has directed them contrary to the sober dictates of my own judgment. I am sometimes tempted to adopt the sentiment expressed in the following lines of the poet:—

  "To you, great gods, I make my last appeal;
  O, clear my conscience, or my crimes reveal!
  If wandering through the paths of life I've run,
  And backward trod the steps I sought to shun,
  Impute my errors to your own decree;
  My feet were guilty, but my heart was free."

I suppose you will tell me that the fate I accuse through the poet is only the result of my own imprudence. Well, be it what it may,—either the impulse of my own passions or some higher efficiency,—sure I am that I pay dear for its operation.

I have heard it remarked that experience is the preceptor of fools, but that the wise need not its instruction. I believe I must be content to rank accordingly, and endeavor to reap advantage from its tuition.

Julia urges me to revisit the scenes of amusements and pleasure, in which, she tells me, she is actuated by selfish motives. She wishes it for her own sake. She likes neither to be secluded from them nor to go alone. I am sometimes half inclined to seek in festive mirth a refuge from thought and reflection. I would escape, if possible, from the idea of Mr. Boyer. This I have never been able to accomplish since he dropped a tear upon my hand and left me. I marked the spot with my eye, and twenty times in a day do I view it, and fondly imagine it still there. How could I give him pain! I hope his happy Maria never will. I hope she will reward that merit which I have slighted. But I forbear. This theme carries away my pen if I but touch upon it. And no wonder, for it is the sole exercise of my thoughts. Yet I will endeavor to divert them. Send me some new books; not such, however, as will require much attention. Let them be plays and novels, or any thing else that will amuse or extort a smile. Julia and I have been rambling in the garden. She insisted upon my going with her into the arbor, where I was surprised with Major Sanford. What a crowd of painful ideas rushed upon my imagination! I believe she repented of her rashness. But no more of this. I must lay aside my pen, for I can write nothing else.

Dear madam: You commanded me to write you respecting Miss Wharton, and I obey. But I cannot describe to you the surprising change which she has undergone. Her vivacity has certainly forsaken her; and she has actually become, what she once dreaded above all things, a recluse. She flies from company as eagerly as she formerly sought it; her mamma is exceedingly distressed by the settled melancholy which appears in her darling child; but neither of us think it best to mention the subject to her. We endeavor to find means to amuse her; and we flatter ourselves that the prospect of success rather increases. It would add greatly to my happiness to contribute, in any degree, to restore her to herself, to her friends, and to society.

We are all invited to dine abroad to-morrow; and, to oblige me, she has consented to go.

Pray, madam, write to her often. Your letters may do much for her. She is still feelingly alive to the power of friendship; and none can exercise it upon her to greater acceptance or with more advantage than yourself.

Major Sanford's house is undergoing a complete repair. The report is, that he is soon to be married. Miss Wharton has heard, but does not believe it. I hope for her sake it will prove true; for, at any rate, he is about returning; and from her mamma's account of his past conduct towards Eliza, were he to return unconnected, he would probably renew his attentions; and though they might end in marriage, her happiness would not be secured. She has too nice a sense of love and honor to compound with his licentious principles. A man who has been dissolute before marriage will very seldom be faithful afterwards.

I went into Eliza's chamber the other day, and found her with a miniature picture in her hand. "You pretend to be a physiognomist, Julia," said she. "What can you trace in that countenance?" I guessed whose it was; and looking wistfully at it, replied, "I believe the original is an artful, designing man. He looks to me like a Chesterfieldian. Pray who is he?" "Major Sanford," said she; "and I am afraid you have hit his character exactly. Sure I am that the appearance of those traits in it has made my heart ache." She wept as she spoke it.

Poor girl, I wish he may never give you greater cause to weep! She is strongly blind to the vices and imperfections of this man. Though naturally penetrating, he has somehow or other cast a deceptious mist over her imagination with respect to himself. She professes neither to love nor esteem him, and owns that his ungenerous artifice misled her in her treatment of Mr. Boyer. Yet she has forgiven him, and thinks him a pleasing companion.

How prone to error is the human mind! how much lighter than the breath of zephyrs the operations of fancy! Strange, then, it should ever preponderate over the weightier powers of the understanding.

But I will not moralize. My business here is to dissipate, not to collect, ideas; and I must regulate myself accordingly.

I am endeavoring to prepare Eliza, by degrees, to accompany me to Boston the ensuing winter, but think it doubtful whether I shall succeed. I shall, however, return myself: till when, I am, &c.,

My dear Eliza: I received yours of the 24th ult., and thank you for it, though it did not afford me those lively sensations of pleasure which I usually feel at the perusal of your letters. It inspired me both with concern and chagrin—with concern lest your dejection of mind should affect your health, and with chagrin at your apparent indulgence of melancholy. Indeed, my friend, your own happiness and honor require you to dissipate the cloud which hangs over your imagination.

Rise then above it, and prove yourself superior to the adverse occurrences which have befallen you. It is by surmounting difficulties, not by sinking under them, that we discover our fortitude. True courage consists not in flying from the storms of life, but in braving and steering through them with prudence. Avoid solitude. It is the bane of a disordered mind, though of great utility to a healthy one. Your once favorite amusements court your attention. Refuse not their solicitations. I have contributed my mite by sending you a few books, such as you requested. They are of the lighter kind of reading, yet perfectly chaste, and, if I mistake not, well adapted to your taste.

You wish to hear from our theatre. I believe it will be well supplied with performers this winter. Come and see whether they can afford you any entertainment. Last evening I attended a tragedy; but never will I attend another. I have not yet been able to erase the gloom which it impressed upon my mind. It was Romeo and Juliet. Distressing enough to sensibility this! Are there not real woes (if not in our own families, at least among our own friends and neighbors) sufficient to exercise our sympathy and pity, without introducing fictitious ones into our very diversions? How can that be a diversion which racks the soul with grief, even though that grief be imaginary? The introduction of a funeral solemnity upon the stage is shocking indeed!

Death is too serious a matter to be sported with. An opening grave cannot be a source of amusement to any considerate mind. The closing scene of life can be no pastime when realized. It must therefore awaken painful sensations in the representation.

The circus is a place of fashionable resort of late, but not agreeable to-me. I think it inconsistent with the delicacy of a lady even to witness the indecorums which are practised there, especially when the performers of equestrian feats are of our own sex. To see a woman depart so far from the female character as to assume the masculine habit and attitude, and appear entirely indifferent even to the externals of modesty, is truly disgusting, and ought not to be countenanced by our attendance, much less by our approbation. But, setting aside the circumstance, I cannot conceive it to be a pleasure to sit a whole evening trembling with apprehension lest the poor wight of a horseman, or juggler, or whatever he is to be called, should break his neck in contributing to our entertainment.

With Mr. Bowen's museum I think you were much pleased. He has made a number of judicious additions to it since you were here. It is a source of rational and refined amusement. Here the eye is gratified, the imagination charmed, and the understanding improved. It will bear frequent reviews without palling on the taste. It always affords something new; and, for one, I am never a weary spectator. Our other public and private places of resort are much as you left them.

I am happy in my present situation; but when the summer returns, I intend to visit my native home. Again, my Eliza, will we ramble together in those retired shades which friendship has rendered so delightful to us. Adieu, my friend, till then. Be cheerful, and