My Nancy and I have lived a pretty uncomfortable life of late.  She has been very suspicious of my amour with Eliza, and now and then expressed her jealous sentiments a little more warmly than my patience would bear.  But the news of Eliza’s circumstances and retirement, being publicly talked of, have reached her ears, and rendered her quite outrageous.  She tells me she will no longer brook my indifference and infidelity; intends soon to return to her father’s house, and extricate herself from me entirely.  My general reply to all this is, that she knew my character before we married, and could reasonably expect nothing less than what has happened.  I shall not oppose her leaving me, as it may conduce to the execution of the plan I have hinted above.

To-morrow I shall set out to visit my disconsolate fair one.  From my very soul I pity her, and wish I could have preserved her virtue consistently with the indulgence of my passion.  To her I lay not the principal blame, as in like cases I do the sex in general.  My finesse was too well planned for detection, and my snares too deeply laid for any one to escape who had the least warmth in her constitution, or affection in her heart.  I shall, therefore, be the less whimsical about a future connection, and the more solicitous to make her reparation, should it ever be in my power.

Her friends are all in arms about her.  I dare say I have the imprecations of the whole fraternity.  They may thank themselves in part, for I always swore revenge for their dislike and coldness towards me.  Had they been politic, they would have conducted more like the aborigines of the country, who are said to worship the devil out of fear.

I am afraid I shall be obliged to remove my quarters, for Eliza was so great a favorite in town that I am looked upon with an evil eye.  I pleaded with her, before we parted last, to forgive my seducing her, alleged my ardent love, and my inability to possess her in any other way.  “How,” said she, “can that be love which destroys its object?  But granting what you say, you have frustrated your own purpose.  You have deprived yourself-of my society, which might have been innocently enjoyed.  You have cut me off from life in the midst of my days.  You have rendered me the reproach of my friends, the disgrace of my family and a dishonor to virtue and my sex.  But I forgive you,” added she.  “Yes, Sanford, I forgive you, and sincerely pray for your repentance and reformation.  I hope to be the last wretched female sacrificed by you to the arts of falsehood and seduction.  May my unhappy story serve as a beacon to warn the American fair of the dangerous tendency and destructive consequences of associating with men of your character, of destroying their time and risking their reputation by the practice of coquetry and its attendant follies.  But for these I might have been honorably connected, and capable, at this moment, of diffusing and receiving happiness.