University of Virginia Library

LETTER XLVI.

It is partly in compliance with your
desire, in your last letter to me, in which you
tell me, “that when I am convinced of the justice
of your conduct, and become a convert to
your advice, you shall be happy to hear it;”
and partly from a wish to inform you, that such
is in truth my present state of mind, that I now
write to you.

I cannot but hope that this letter coming
from the hand which you once sought, will not
be unacceptable.

Pope very justly observes, “that every year
is a critic on the last.” The truth of this observation
is fully exeplified in my years! How
severely this condemns the follies of the preceding,
my own heart alone can testify!

I shall not offer any palliation, or apology
for my misconduct. You told me it admitted
none. I frankly confess it; and if the most
humble acknowledgement of my offences,
with an assurance that they have cost me the
deepest repentance, can in any degree atone
for them, I now make that atonement. Casting
off the veil of dissimulation, I shall write
with frankness; believing you possessed of more
honor than to make any ungenerous use of the
confidence reposed in you.

To say that I ever esteemed you, may, perhaps,
appear paradoxical, when compared with
certain circumstances which occurred during
our acquaintance; but to affert that I loved
you, may be deemed still more so. Yet these
are real facts, facts of which I was then sensible,
and by which I am now more than ever
affected.

I think you formerly remarked, that absence
served but to heighten real love. This I find
by experience. Need I blush to declare these
sentiments, when occasion like this, calls for the

avowal? I will go even further, and offer you
that heart which once you prized; that hand
which you once solicited. The sentiments of
affection, which you then cultivated, though
suppressed, I flatter myself are not wholly obliterated.
Suffer me then to rekindle the latent
flame; to revive that friendship and tenderness,
which I have so foolishly neglected.
The endeavor of my future life shall be to reward
your benevolence, and perhaps we may
yet be happy together.

But let not this offer of myself constrain you.
Let not pity influence your conduct. I would
have your return, if that pleasing event take
place, a voluntary act. Receive, or consent
not to confer happiness.

I thought it a duty which I owed to you, and to
myself, to make this expiation; this sacrifice of
female reserve, for the wrongs I have done you.
As such I wish you to accept it; and if your
affections are intirely alienated, or otherwise engaged;
if you cannot again command the respect
and love which I would recal, do not despise
me for the concessions I have made. Think
as favorably of my past faults, and of my present
disposition, as charity will allow. Continue,
if possible, to be my friend, though you
cease to be my lover.

Should this letter find you in the full possession
of happiness, let not the idea of your once
loved Eliza, thus intruding itself again upon

your thoughts, interrupt your enjoyments.
May some distinguished female, as deserving,
as fair, partake with you of that bliss which I
have forfeited.

Whatever may be my destiny, my best wishes
shall ever attend you, and a pleasing remembrance
of your honorable attentions preside,
till death, in the breast of