My fairest
prospects have been blasted. My enemy has shown himself inaccessible to
entreaties, and untired in persecution. My fame, as well as my
happiness, has become his victim. Every one, as far as my story has been
known, has refused to assist me in my distress, and has execrated my
name. I have not deserved this treatment. My own conscience witnesses in
behalf of that innocence, my pretensions to which are regarded in the
world as incredible. There is now, however, little hope that I shall
escape from the toils that universally beset me. I am incited to the
penning of these memoirs only by a desire to divert my mind from the
deplorableness of my situation, and a faint idea that posterity may by
their means be induced to render me a justice which my contemporaries
refuse. My story will, at least, appear to have that consistency which
is seldom attendant but upon truth.
I was born of humble parents, in a remote county of England. Their
occupations were such as usually fall to the lot of peasants, and they
had no portion to give me, but an education free from the usual sources
of depravity, and the inheritance, long since lost by their unfortunate
progeny! of an honest fame.
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