ion, horror, and despair are the portion of your wretched, unhappy
friend. O Deighton, I am undone. Misery irremediable is my future lot.
She is gone; yes, she is gone forever. The darling of my soul, the
centre of all my wishes and enjoyments, is no more. Cruel fate has
snatched her from me, and she is irretrievably lost. I rave, and then
reflect; I reflect, and then rave. I have no patience to bear this
calamity, nor power to remedy it. Where shall I fly from the upbraidings
of my mind, which accuse me as the murderer of my Eliza? I would fly to
death, and seek a refuge in the grave; but the forebodings of a
retribution to come I cannot away with. O that I had seen her! that I
had once more asked her forgiveness! But even that privilege, that
consolation, was denied me! The day on which I meant to visit her, most
of my property was attached, and, to secure the rest, I was obliged to
shut my doors and become a prisoner in my own house. High living, and
old debts incurred by extravagance, had reduced the fortune of my wife
to very little, and I could not satisfy the clamorous demands of my
creditors.

I would have given millions, had I possessed them, to have been at
liberty to see, and to have had the power to preserve Eliza from death.
But in vain was my anxiety; it could not relieve, it could not liberate
me. When I first heard the dreadful tidings of her exit, I believe I
acted like a madman; indeed, I am little else now. I have compounded
with my creditors, and resigned the whole of my property. Thus that
splendor and equipage, to secure which I have sacrificed a virtuous
woman, is taken from me. That poverty, the dread of which prevented my
forming an honorable connection with an amiable and accomplished
girl,--the only one I ever loved,--has fallen with redoubled vengeance
upon my guilty head, and I must become a vagabond on the earth.

I shall fly my country as soon as possible. I shall go from every object
which reminds me of my departed Eliza; but never, never shall I
eradicate from my bosom the idea of her excellence, nor the painful
remembrance of the injuries I have done her. 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.

Wh