Mr. and Mrs. Valeer—
Again I resume the pleasing task of addressing you,
and once more beg an immediate answer to my many salutations.
From every circumstance that has taken place, I feel
in duty bound to comply with my obligations; to forfeit
my word would be more than I dare do; to break my pledge,
and my vows that have been witnessed, sealed, and delivered
in the presence of an unseen Deity, would be disgraceful
on my part, as well as ruinous to Ambulinia.
I wish no longer to be kept in suspense about this
matter. I wish to act gentlemanly in every particular.
It is true, the promises I have made are unknown to
any but Ambulinia, and I think it unnecessary to here
enumerate them, as they who promise the most generally
perform the least. Can you for a moment doubt
my sincerity or my character? My only wish is,
sir, that you may calmly and dispassionately look
at the situation of the case, and if your better judgment
should dictate otherwise, my obligations may induce
me to pluck the flower that you so diametrically opposed.
We have sword by the saints—by the gods
of battle, and by that faith whereby just men are
made perfect—to be united. I hope,
my dear sir, you will find it convenient as well as
agreeable to give me a favorable answer, with the
signature of Mrs. Valeer, as well as yourself.
With very great esteem,
your humble servant,
J. I. Elfonzo.
The moon and stars had grown pale when Ambulinia had
retired to rest. A crowd of unpleasant thoughts
passed through her bosom. Solitude dwelt in her
chamber—no sound from the neighboring world
penetrated its stillness; it appeared a temple of silence,
of repose, and of mystery. At that moment she
heard a still voice calling her father. In an
instant, like the flash of lightning, a thought ran
through her mind that it must be the bearer of Elfonzo’s
communication. “It is not a dream!”
she said, “no, I cannot read dreams. Oh!
I would to Heaven I was near that glowing eloquence—that
poetical language—it charms the mind in
an inexpressible manner, and warms the coldest heart.”
While consoling herself with this strain, her father
rushed into her room almost frantic with rage, exclaiming:
“Oh, Ambulinia! Ambulinia!! undutiful,
ungrateful daughter! What does this mean?
Why does this letter bear such heart-rending intelligence?
Will you quit a father’s house with this debased
wretch, without a place to lay his distracted head;
going up and down the country, with every novel object
that many chance to wander through this region.
He is a pretty man to make love known to his superiors,
and you, Ambulinia, have done but little credit to
yourself by honoring his visits. Oh, wretchedness!
can it be that my hopes of happiness are forever blasted!
Will you not listen to a father’s entreaties,
and pay some regard to a mother’s tears.
