to elude the invidious eye of curiosity.  This night, therefore, I leave your hospitable mansion.  This night I become 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 conviction 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 forgive me, you say.  O, the harmonious, the transporting 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.

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 designs for me I know not, but I have my forebodings 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 commonly 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 separates us, perhaps, forever.  I have not resolution to encounter the tears of my friends, and therefore seek shelter among strangers, where none knows or is interested in my melancholy story.  The place of my seclusion I studiously conceal; yet I shall take measures that you may be apprised 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 offences.  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.