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 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 impaired.  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 divinity to take an interest in any thing else.  True, I have lately suffered myself to be somewhat engaged 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 expended 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 continuation.  Now, there’s a girl, Charles, I should never attempt to seduce; yet she is a most alluring object, 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 thought derogatory to her honor, and tells you plainly that the first insinuation of the kind would be punished with eternal banishment and displeasure.  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.

O 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 unspeakably distress your benevolent heart.  Eliza—­O, the ruined, lost Eliza!

I want words to express the emotions of indignation and grief which oppress me.  But I will endeavor to compose myself, and relate the circumstances as they came to my knowledge.

After my last letter Eliza remained much in the same gloomy situation as I found her.  She refused 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.