Feed on her damask cheek.
“BLESSED be that Power who has implanted within us that consciousness of reproach, which springs from gentleness and love!—Hail sensibility! Ye eloquent tears of beauty! that add dignity to human nature by correcting its foibles—it was these that corrected my faults when recrimination would have failed of success—it was these that opened every avenue of contrition in my heart, when words would have damned up every sluice of repentance.
“IT was now I appeared fully sensible that my conduct had hitherto been a course of disorder, and that systems of reformation, however well planned, had been overturned by the breath of adulation, before they had been thoroughly carried into execution—that I had been drifting upon a sea of inconsistency, without exercising my judgement; like a ship without a rudder, buffeted on the bosom of the ocean, the sport of winds and waves.
“THE criminality of my connexion with Maria appeared with the most aggravated circumstances; it stung me with remorse—and I instantly determined, however severe the conflict, to tear her from my bosom—to see her no more.—But how was I to inform her of it?—In what manner was I to bring about such a talk?—Maria must be sacrificed to the happiness of Amelia. This was all I had to perform—it was a short lesson, but it was a hard one for me to execute.
“WITH this determination, however, I entered the apartment of Maria—Duty to Amelia and gratitude to Maria interchangeably agitated me—the contention was dubious—but duty prevailed, and I adhered to my former resolution—yet how was I to tell her this would be the last visit?—Conscious she had ever acted in conformity to my wishes—how could I accuse her, without accusing myself?—I threw out a few inconsiderate and ungrateful hints of jealousy, and left the room abruptly. The feelings of Maria must have been injured—but however her sensibility was affected, mine was doubly so; I felt for her—I felt for our infant, and these feelings were added to the afflictions which had already burst upon my devoted head. A few days consideration, however, convinced me of the impropriety and ingratitude of my behaviour to Maria—I hastened to tell her of it—to place her in a situation that should screen her from penury and malice—and to make provision for the child—but she was not to be found. I was informed that she had suddenly disappeared, and that a countryman had, by her order, called and taken away the child but a few hours before. This information burst upon my head like the voice of sudden thunder—I stood motionless, but my agitation was too violent to be of any long duration.—
“A natural tear I shed but wip’d it soon.”
“IT was your goodness, and the humanity of your family, that sheltered the wretched Maria, and provided for the helpless Harriot—Your feelings are your reward.
“FROM all the variegated scenes of my past life, I daily learn some new lesson of humanity. Experience hath been my tutor—I now take a retrospect of my past conduct with deliberation, but not without some serious reflection. Like a sailor, escaped from shipwreck, who sits safely on the shore and views the horrours of the tempest; but as the gale subsides, and the waves hide their heads in the bosom of the deep, he beholds with greater concern the mischief of the storm, and the dangers he hath escaped. From what innate principle does this arise, but from God within the mind!—I assert it for the honour of human nature, that no man, however dissolute, but comes back to the hour of reflection and solemn thoughtfulness—when the actions that are passed return upon the mind, and this internal monitor sits in judgment upon them, and gives her verdict of approbation or dislike.
“HE who listens to its call, views his character in its proper light.—I have attended to its cry, and I see my deformity—I recall my misspent time, but in vain—I reflect on the misery of Maria, and I curse my temerity—I reflect on the state into which I have plunged a once happy female, and am eager to apply a speedy remedy, but this is vain also: Can I restore her that virtue—that innocence—that peace, of which I have unmanfully robbed her?—Let us leave the melancholy subject.—
“I WILL not so far supercede the fruit of your benevolence, as to presume to offer you any other recompense, than my sincere prayers for your happiness.