O my friend, I am undone. I am slighted, rejected, by the man who once
sought my hand, by the man who still retains my heart. And what adds an
insupportable poignancy to the reflection is self-condemnation. From
this inward torture where shall I flee? Where shall I seek that
happiness which I have madly trifled away?
The enclosed letters[A] will show you whence this tumult of soul arises.
But I blame not Mr. Boyer. He has acted nobly. I approve his conduct,
though it operates my ruin.
He is worthy of his intended bride, and she is---what I am not--worthy
of him. Peace and joy be their portion both here and hereafter. But what
are now my prospects? What are to be the future enjoyments of my life?
O that I had not written to Mr. Boyer! By confessing my faults, and by
avowing my partiality to him, I have given him the power of triumphing
in my distress; of returning to my tortured heart all the pangs of
slighted love. And what have I now to console me? My bloom is
decreasing, my health is sensibly impaired. Those talents, with the
possession of which I have been flattered, will be of little avail when
unsupported by respectability of character. My mamma, who knows too well
the distraction of my mind, endeavors to soothe and compose me on
Christian principles; but they have not their desired effect. I dare not
converse freely with her on the subject of my present uneasiness, lest I
should distress her.
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