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326 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1783
Alas! madam, this night of promised peace proved the aera in my life.
After a long and painful journey through life, with a heart exhausted by afflictions, and eyes which can no longer supply tears to lament them, I turn my every thought toward that grave on the verge of which I hover. Oh! why then, too generous friend, require me to live over my misfortunes? Such has been the peculiarity of my fate, that though tortured with the possession and the loss of every tye and hope that exalts or endears humanity, let but this feeble frame be covered with the dust from which it sprung, and no trace of my ever having existed would remain, except in the wounded consciences of those who marked me out a solitary victim to the crimes of my progenitors: For surely I could never merit by my own the misery of living as I have done—of dying as I must do.
Alas! your partial affection demands a memorial which calls back to being all the sad images buried in my bosom, and opens anew every vein of my heart. Yet consummate misery has a moral use, and if ever these sheets reach the publick, let the repiner at little evils learn to be juster to his God and himself, by unavoidable comparison. But am I not assuming an insolent consequence in thus admonishing? Alas, it is the dear-bought privilege of the unfortunate to be tedious!
A terrible calm succeeded my intense desperation — the blood which had tumultuously burnt along every vein, now returned in torrents, to choak up, and drown my heart. — The black fumes mounted thence to my brain. — With a grief-glazed eye, I contemplated the pale and precious cheek from whose rich colouring I of late drew life, till ignorant that I either suffered, or existed.