But for your arts I might have remained a blessing to society, as well as the delight and comfort of my friends.  You being a married man unspeakably aggravates both your guilt and mine.  This circumstance annexes indelible shame to our crime.  You have rent asunder the tenderest ties of nature.  You have broken the bonds of conjugal love, which ought ever to be kept sacred and inviolate.  You have filled with grief and discontent the heart of your amiable wife, whom gratitude, if no other principle, should have induced you to cherish with tenderness; and I, wretch that I am, have been your accomplice.  But I cease to reproach you.  You have acted but too consistently with the character which I was sufficiently apprised you sustained.  The blame, then, may be retorted on myself, for disregarding the counsels, warnings, and admonitions of my best friends.  You have prided yourself in the character of a libertine.  Glory no longer in your shame.  You have accomplished your designs, your dreadful designs, against me.  Let this suffice.  Add not to the number of those deluded creatures who will one day rise up in judgment against you and condemn you.”

By this time we had nearly reached the inn, and were soon to part.  I seized her hand, and exclaimed, “You must not leave me, Eliza, with that awful anathema on your lips.  O, say that you will forget my past faults.”  “That,” said she, “I shall soon do; for in the grave there is no remembrance.”  This, to my mind, was a harsher sentence than the other, and almost threw me into despair.  Never was I so wrought upon before.  I knew not what to say or do.  She saw my distress, and kindly softened her manner.  “If I am severe,” said she, “it is because I wish to impress your mind with such a sense of your offences against your Maker, your friends, and society in general, as may effect your repentance and amendment.  I wish not to be your accuser, but your reformer.  On several accounts, I view my own crime in a more aggravated light than yours; but my conscience is awakened to a conviction of my guilt.  Yours, I fear, is not.  Let me conjure you to return home, and endeavor, by your future kindness and fidelity to your wife, to make her all the amends in your power.  By a life of virtue and religion, you may yet become a valuable member of society, and secure happiness both here and hereafter.”

I begged leave to visit her retirement next week, not in continuation of our amour, but as a friend solicitous to know her situation and welfare.  Unable to speak, she only bowed assent.  The stage being now ready, I whispered some tender things in her ear, and kissing her cheek, which was all she would permit, suffered her to depart.

My body remains behind; but my soul, if I have any, went with her.

This was a horrid lecture, Charles.  She brought every charge against me which a fruitful and gloomy imagination could suggest.  But I hope when she recovers she will resume her former cheerfulness, and become as kind and agreeable as ever.  My anxiety for her safety is very great.  I trust, however, it will soon be removed, and peace and pleasure be restored to your humble servant,