JULIA GRANBY.

LETTER LXVIII.

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 subject required its exertion.  Repentance comes too late, when it cannot prevent the evil lamented:  for your kindness, your more than maternal affection towards me, from my infancy to the present moment, a long life of filial duty and unerring rectitude could hardly compensate.  How greatly deficient in gratitude must I appear, then, while I confess 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 sacrificing it.  The various emotions of shame and remorse, penitence and regret, which torture and distract 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 libertine, who is the husband of another.  She is polluted, 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 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 am amply provided for.

I have no claim even upon your pity; but from my 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 compassionate 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 repentance; 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,