Her shade will perpetually
haunt me; the image of her--as she appeared when mounting the carriage
which conveyed her forever from my sight, waving her hand in token of a
last adieu--will always be present to my imagination; the solemn counsel
she gave me before we parted, never more to meet, will not cease to
resound in my ears.
While my being is prolonged, I must feel the disgraceful and torturing
effects of my guilt in seducing her. How madly have I deprived her of
happiness, of reputation, of life! Her friends, could they know the
pangs of contrition and the horrors of conscience which attend me,
would be amply revenged.
It is said she quitted the world with composure and peace. Well she
might. She had not that insupportable weight of iniquity which sinks me
to despair. She found consolation in that religion which I have
ridiculed as priestcraft and hypocrisy. But, whether it be true or
false, would to Heaven I could now enjoy the comforts which its votaries
evidently feel.
My wife has left me. As we lived together without love, we parted
without regret.
Now, Charles, I am to bid you a long, perhaps a last farewell. Where I
shall roam in future, I neither know nor care. I shall go where the name
of Sanford is unknown, and his person and sorrows unnoticed.
In this happy clime I have nothing to induce my stay. I have not money
to support me with my profligate companions, nor have I any relish, at
present, for their society.
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