That, you know, is a favorite amusement of mine. You see I can step out
of myself a little. Afford an assisting hand, and perhaps I may again be
fit for society.
ELIZA WHARTON
LETTER XLVI.
TO THE REV. J. BOYER.
HARTFORD.
Sir: 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 exemplified 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
acknowledgment 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 assert that I loved you may be deemed still more
so.
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