The Coquette | Page 9

fancy in
this affair, determined that my reason should concur with theirs, and on
that to risk my future happiness. I was the more encouraged, as I saw,

from our first acquaintance, his declining health, and expected that the
event would prove as it has. Think not, however, that I rejoice in his
death. No; far be it from me; for though I believe that I never felt the
passion of love for Mr. Haly, yet a habit of conversing with him, of
hearing daily the most virtuous, tender, and affectionate sentiments
from his lips, inspired emotions of the sincerest friendship and esteem.
He is gone. His fate is unalterably, and I trust happily, fixed. He lived
the life, and died the death, of the righteous. O that my last end may be
like his! This event will, I hope, make a suitable and abiding
impression upon my mind, teach me the fading nature of all sublunary
enjoyments, and the little dependence which is to be placed on earthly
felicity. Whose situation was more agreeable, whose prospects more
flattering, than Mr. Haly's? Social, domestic, and connubial joys were
fondly anticipated, and friends and fortune seemed ready to crown
every wish; yet, animated by still brighter hopes, he cheerfully bade
them all adieu. In conversation with me but a few days before his exit,
"There is," said he, "but one link in the chain of life undissevered; that,
my dear Eliza, is my attachment to you. But God is wise and good in
all his ways; and in this, as in all other respects, I would cheerfully say,
His will be done."
You, my friend, were witness to the concluding scene; and, therefore, I
need not describe it.
I shall only add on the subject, that if I have wisdom and prudence to
follow his advice and example, if his prayers for my temporal and
eternal welfare be heard and answered, I shall be happy indeed.
The disposition of mind which I now feel I wish to cultivate. Calm,
placid, and serene, thoughtful of my duty, and benevolent to all around
me, I wish for no other connection than that of friendship.
This letter is all an egotism. I have even neglected to mention the
respectable and happy friends with whom I reside, but will do it in my
next. Write soon and often; and believe me sincerely yours,
ELIZA WHARTON.
LETTER II.
TO THE SAME.
NEW HAVEN.
Time, which effaces every occasional impression, I find gradually
dispelling the pleasing pensiveness which the melancholy event, the

subject of my last, had diffused over my mind. Naturally cheerful,
volatile, and unreflecting, the opposite disposition I have found to
contain sources of enjoyment which I was before unconscious of
possessing.
My friends here are the picture of conjugal felicity. The situation is
delightful--the visiting parties perfectly agreeable. Every thing tends to
facilitate the return of my accustomed vivacity. I have written to my
mother, and received an answer. She praises my fortitude, and admires
the philosophy which I have exerted under what she calls my heavy
bereavement. Poor woman! she little thinks that my heart was
untouched; and when that is unaffected, other sentiments and passions
make but a transient impression. I have been, for a month or two,
excluded from the gay world, and, indeed, fancied myself soaring
above it. It is now that I begin to descend, and find my natural
propensity for mixing in the busy scenes and active pleasures of life
returning. I have received your letter--your moral lecture rather; and be
assured, my dear, your monitorial lessons and advice shall be attended
to. I believe I shall never again resume those airs which you term
coquettish, but which I think deserve a softer appellation, as they
proceed from an innocent heart, and are the effusions of a youthful and
cheerful mind. We are all invited to spend the day to-morrow at
Colonel Farington's, who has an elegant seat in this neighborhood. Both
he and his lady are strangers to me; but the friends by whom I am
introduced will procure me a welcome reception. Adieu.
ELIZA WHARTON.
LETTER III.
TO THE SAME.
NEW HAVEN.
Is it time for me to talk again of conquests? or must I only enjoy them
in silence? I must write to you the impulses of my mind, or I must not
write at all. You are not so morose as to wish me to become a nun,
would our country and religion allow it. I ventured, yesterday, to throw
aside the habiliments of mourning, and to array myself in those more
adapted to my taste. We arrived at Colonel Farington's about one
o'clock. The colonel handed me out of the carriage, and introduced me
to a large company assembled in the hall.
My name was