ted nobly. I approve his conduct,
though it operates my ruin.

He is worthy of his intended bride, and she is---what I am not--worthy
of him. Peace and joy be their portion both here and hereafter. But what
are now my prospects? What are to be the future enjoyments of my life?

O that I had not written to Mr. Boyer! By confessing my faults, and by
avowing my partiality to him, I have given him the power of triumphing
in my distress; of returning to my tortured heart all the pangs of
slighted love. And what have I now to console me? My bloom is
decreasing, my health is sensibly impaired. Those talents, with the
possession of which I have been flattered, will be of little avail when
unsupported by respectability of character. My mamma, who knows too well
the distraction of my mind, endeavors to soothe and compose me on
Christian principles; but they have not their desired effect. I dare not
converse freely with her on the subject of my present uneasiness, lest I
should distress her. I am therefore obliged to conceal my disquietude,
and appear as cheerful as possible in her company, though my heart is
ready to burst with grief. O that you were near me, as formerly, to
share and alleviate my cares!. To have some friend in whom I could
repose confidence, and with whom I could freely converse and advise on
this occasion, would be an unspeakable comfort. Such a one, next to
yourself, I think Julia Granby to be. With your leave and consent, I
should esteem it a special favor if she would come and spend a few
months with me. My mamma joins in this request. I would write to her on
the subject, but cannot compose myself at present. Will you prefer my
petition for me?

If I have not forfeited your friendship, my dear Mrs. Sumner, write to
me, and pour its healing balm into the wounded mind of your

ELIZA WHARTON.

[Footnote A: See the two preceding letters.]

LETTER XLIX.

TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.

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

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

Where, O Eliza Wharton, where is that fund of sense and sentiment which
once an