Besides, I have not forgotten my promise.
'Tis true the story you wished me to give you,
is more easily communicated by the pen, than
by the lips. I admit your claim to be acquainted
with all the incidents of my life, be they momentous
or trivial. I have often told you that
the retrospect is very mournful, but that ought
not to prevent me from making it, when so
useful a purpose as that of thoroughly disclosing
to you the character of one, on whom
your future happiness is to depend, will be effected
by it. I am not surprized that calumny has
been busy wish my life, and am very little
anxious to clear myself from unjust charges,
except to such as you.
But let me lay down the pen for the present.
Let me take my favourite and lonely path, and
by a deliberate review of the past, refresh my
memory and methodize my recollections. Adieu
till I return.
LETTER III.
To Henry Colden.
Tuesday Morning, 11 o'clock.
I am glad I left not word how soon I meant
to return, for here has been, it seems, during
my short absence, a pair of gossips. They
have just gone, lamenting the disappointment,
and leaving me a world of complimentary condolances.
I shall take care to prevent future interruption
by shutting up the house and retiring to my
chamber, where I am resolved to remain till I
have fully disburthened my heart. Disburthen
it, said I? I shall load it, I fear, with sadness,
but I will not regret an undertaking which my
duty to you makes indispensible.
One of the earliest incidents that I remember,
is an expostulation with my father. I saw
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several strange people enter the chamber where
my mother was. Somewhat suggested to my
childish fancy that these strangers meant to
take her away, and that I should never see her
again. My terror was violent, and I thought of
nothing but seizing her gown or hand, and
holding her back from the rude assailants. My
father detained me in his arms, and endeavoured
to soothe my fears, but I would not be appeased.
I struggled and shrieked, and, hearing
some movements in my mothers room, that
seemed to betoken the violence I so much
dreaded, I leaped, with a sudden effort from
my father's arms, but fainted before I reached
the door of the room.
This may serve as a specimen of the impetuosity
of my temper. It was always fervent
and unruly; unacquainted with moderation in
its attachments, violent in its indignation, and
its enmity, but easily persuaded to pity and forgiveness.
When I recovered from my swoon, I ran to
my mother's room, but she was gone. I rent
the air with my cries, and shocked all about
me with importunities to know whither they
had carried her. They had carried her to the
grave, and nothing would content me, but to
visit the spot three or four times a day, and to
sit in the room in which she died, in stupid
and mopeful silence all night long.
At this time I was only five years old, an
age at which, in general, a deceased parent is
quickly forgotten; but, in my attachment to my
mother, I shewed none of the volatility of childhood.
While she livid, I was never at ease but
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when seated at her knee, or with my arms
round her neck. When dead, I cherished her
remembrance for years, and have paid, hundreds
of times, the tribute of my tears at the foot of
her grave.
My brother, who was three years older than
myself, behaved in a very different manner. I
used to think the difference between us was
merely that of sex; that every boy was boisterous,
ungrateful, imperious, and inhuman, as
every girl was soft, pliant, affectionate. Time
has cured me of that mistake, and as it has
shewn me females, unfeeling and perverse, so
it has introduced me to men full of gentleness
and sensibility. My brother's subsequent conduct
convinced me that he was at all times,
selfish and irascible beyond most other men,
and that his ingratitude and insolence to his
mother were only congenial parts of the character
he afterwards displayed at large.
My brother and I, passed our infancy in one
unintermitted quarrel. We were never together,
but he played some cruel and mischievous
prank, which I never failed to resent
to the utmost of my little power. I soon found
that my tears only increased his exultation,
and my complaints only grieved my mother. I,
therefore, gave word for word and blow for
blow, but being always worsted in such conflicts
I shunned him whenever it was possible, and
whatever his malice made me suffer, I endeavoured
to conceal it from her.
My mother, on her death-bed, was anxious
to see him, but he had strolled away after
some boyish amusement, with companions as
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thoughtless as himself. The news of her death
scarcely produced an hour's seriousness. He
made my affliction a topic of sarcasm and contempt.
To soften my grief, my father consented to
my living under the care of her whom I now
call my mother. Mrs. Fielder was merely the
intimate from childhood of my own mother,
with whom, however, since her marriage, contracted
against Mrs. Fielder's inclination and
remonstrances, she had maintained but little
intercourse. My mother's sudden death and
my helpless age, awakened all her early tenderness,
and induced her to offer an asylum to
me. Having a considerable fortune and no
family, her offer, notwithstanding ancient
jealousies, was readily accepted by my father.
My new residence was, in many respects,
the reverse of my former one. The treatment
I received from my new parent, without erasing
the memory of the old one, quickly excited
emotions as filial and tender as I had ever experienced.
Comfort and quiet, peace and harmony,
obsequious and affectionate attendants
and companions, I had never been accustomed
to under the paternal roof.
From this period till I was nearly sixteen
years of age, I merely paid occasional visits to
my father. He loved me with as much
warmth as his nature was capable of feeling,
which I repaid him in gratitude and reverence.
I never remitted my attention to his affairs,
and studied his security and comfort as far as
these were within my power.
My brother was not deficient in talents, but
he wanted application. Very early he shewed
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strong propensities to active amusements and
sensual pleasures. The school and college were
little attended to, and the time that ought to
have been appropriated to books and study, was
wasted in frolics and carousals. As soon as he
was able to manage a gun and a horse, they
were procured, and these and the company to
which they introduced him, afforded employment
for all his attention and time.
My father had devoted his early years to
the indefatigable pursuit of gain. He was
frugal and abstemious, though not covetous,
and amassed a large property. This property
he intended to divide between his two children
and to secure my portion to his nephew, whom
his parents had left an orphan in his infancy,
and whom my father had taken and treated as
his own child by marrying him to me. This nephew
passed his childhood among us. His temper
being more generous than my brother's, and
being taught mutually to regard each other as
destined to a future union, our intercourse was
cordial and affectionate.
We parted at an age at which nothing like
passion could be felt. He went to Europe, in
circumstances very favourable to his improvement,
leaving behind him the expectation of
his returning in a few years. Meanwhile, my
father was anxious that we should regard each
other, and maintain a correspondence as persons
betrothed. In persons at our age, this
scheme was chimerical. As soon as I acquired
the power of reflection, I perceived the folly of
such premature bonds, and though I did not
openly oppose my father's wishes, held
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myself entirely free to obey any new impulse
which circumstances might produce. My
mother, so let me still call Mrs. Fielder, fully
concurred in my views.
You are acquainted, my friend, with many
events of my early life. Most of those not connected
with my father and his nephew, I have
often related. At present, therefore, I shall
omit all collateral and contemporary incidents,
and confine myself entirely to those connected
with these two persons.
My father, on the death of his wife, retired
from business, and took a house in an airy
and secluded situation. His household consisted
of an house keeper, and two or three
servants, and apartments were always open for
his son.
My brother's temper grew more unmanageable
as he increased in years. My father's
views with regard to him were such as parental
foresight and discretion commonly dictate.
He wished him to acquire all possible advantages
of education, and then to betake himself
to some liberal profession, in which he might
obtain honor as well as riches. This sober
scheme by no means suited the restless temper
of the youth. It was his maxim that all restraints
were unworthy of a lad of spirit, and
that it was far more wise to spend freely what
his father had painfully acquired, than by
the same plodding and toilsome arts, to add to
the heap.
I scarcely know how to describe my feelings
in relation to this young man. My affection
for him was certainly without that tenderness
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which a good brother is sure to excite: I do
not remember a single direct kindness that I
ever received from him, but I remember innumerable
ill offices and contempts. Still there
was some inexplicable charm in the mere tie of
kindred, which made me more deplore his
errors, exult in his talents, rejoice in his success,
and take a deeper interest in his concerns
than in those of any other person.
As he advanced in age, I had new cause for
my zeal in his behalf. My father's temper was
easy and flexible: my brother was at once vehement
and artful. Frank's arguments and
upbraidings created in his father an unnatural
awe, an apprehension and diffidence in thwarting
his wishes and giving advice which usually
distinguish the filial character. The youth
perceived his advantages, and employed them
in carrying every point on which his inclination
was set.
For a long time this absurd indulgence was
shewn in allowing his son to employ his time
as he pleased: in refraining from all animadversions
on his idleness and dissipation, and
supplying him with a generous allowance of
pocket money. This allowance required now
and then to be increased. Every year and
every month, by adding new sources of expense,
added something to the stipend.
My father's revenue was adequate to a very
splendid establishment, but he was accustomed
to live frugally, and thought it wise to add
his savings to the principal of his estate. These
savings gradually grew less and less, till at
length my brother's numerous excursions, a
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French girl whom he maintained in expensive
lodgings, his horses, dogs, and friends, consumed
the whole of it.
I never met my brother but by accident.
These interviews were, for the most part, momentary,
either in the street or at my father's
house, but I was too much interested in all that
befel him, not to make myself, by various
means, thoroughly acquainted with his situation.
I had no power to remedy the evil, as my
elder brother and as a man he thought himself
entitled to govern and despise me. He always
treated me as a frivolous girl, with whom it
was waste of time to converse, and never spoke
to me at all except to direct or admonish.
Hence I could do nothing but regret his
habits. Their consequences to himself it was
beyond my power to prevent.
For a long time I was totally unaware of the
tendencies of this mode of life. I did not
suspect that my brother's passions would carry
him beyond the bound of vulgar prudence, or
induce him to encroach on those funds, from
which his present enjoyments were derived. I
knew him to be endowed with an acute understanding,
and imagined that this would point
out, with sufficient clearness, the wisdom of
limiting his expences to his income.
In my daily conversations with my father, I
never voluntarily introduced Frank as our
topic, unless by the harmless and trite questions
of “when was he here?” “where has he
gone?” and the like. We met only by accident,
at his lodgings: when I entered the room
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where he was, he never thought of bestowing
more than a transient look on me, just to
know who it was that approached. Circumstances,
at length, however, occurred, which
put an end to this state of neutrality.
I heard, twice or thrice a year, from my cousin
Risberg. One day a letter arrived in which
he obscurely intimated that the failure of remittances
from my father, for more than half a year,
had reduced him to great distress. My father
had always taught him to regard himself as entitled
to all the privileges of a son; had sent him
to Europe, under express conditions of supplying
him with a reasonable stipend, till he should
come of age, at which period it was concerted
that Risberg should return and receive a portion
with me, enabling him to inter advantageously
on the profession of the law, to which he
was now training. This stipend was far from being
extravagant; or more than sufficient for
the decent maintenance of a student at the temple,
and Risberg's conduct had always been represented
by those under whose eye he had been
placed, as regular and exemplary.
This intimation surprised me a good deal, I
could easily imagine the embarrassments to
which a failure of this kind must subject a generous
spirit, and thought it my duty to remove
them as soon as possible. I supposed that some
miscarriage or delay had happened to the money
and that my father would instantly rectify any
error or supply any deficiency. I hastened, therefore,
to his house, with the opened letter. I found
him alone and immediately shewed him that page
of the letter which related to this affair. I anxiously
watched his looks while he read it.
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I observed marks of great surprise in his
countenance, and as soon as he laid down the
Letter I began to expatiate on the inconveniences
which Risberg had suffered. He listened
to me, in gloomy silence, and when I had done,
made no answer but by a deep sigh and downcast
look.
Pray, dear sir, continued I, what could have
happened to the money which you sent. You
had not heard, I suppose, of its miscarriage.
No, I had not heard of it before. I will look
into it and see what can be done. Here further
conversation was suspended by a visitant. I
waited with impatience till the guest had retired,
but he had scarcely left the room when my
brother entered. I supposed my father would
have immediately introduced this subject, and
as my brother usually represented him in every
affair of business, and could of course throw some
light upon the present mystery, I saw no reason
why I should be excluded from a coference
in which I had some interest, and was,
therefore, somewhat surprised when my father
told me he had no need of my company for the
rest of the day, and wished to be alone with
Francis. I rose, instantly to depart, but said,
pray, sir, tell my brother what has happened.
Perhaps he can explain the mystery.
What, cryed my Brother, with a laugh, has
thy silly brain ingendered a mystery which I am
to solve? Thou mayest save thyself the trouble
of telling me, for, really, I have no time to
throw away on thee or thy mysteries.
There was always something in my brother's
raillery which my infirm soul could never support,
I ought always to have listened and
-- 017 --
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replied without emotion, but a fluttering indignation
usually deprived me of utterance. I found my best
expedient was flight, when I could fly, and silence
when obliged to remain; I therefore, made
no answer to this speech, but hastily withdrew.
Next morning earlier than usual, I went to
my father. He was thoughtful and melancholy.
I introduced the subject that was nearest my
heart, but he answered me reluctantly, and in general
terms, that he had examined the affair,
and would take the necessary measures.
But dear sir, said I, how did it happen? How
did the money miscarry?
Never mind, said he, a little peevishly, we shall
see things put to rights, I tell you, and let that
satisfy you.
I am glad of it. Poor fellow! Young, generous,
disdaining obligation, never knowing the
want of money, how must he have felt on being
left quite destitute, penniless, running in arrear
for absolute necessaries: in debt to a good woman
who lived by letting lodgings, and who dunned
him after so long a delay, in so indirect and
delicate a manner—What must he have suffered,
accustomed to regard you as a father, and
knowing you had no personal calls for your
large revenue, and being so solemnly enjoined
by you not to stint himself in any rational
pleasure, for you would be always ready to exceed
your stated remittances, when there
should be just occasion. Poor fellow! my heart
bleeds for him. But how long will it be before
he hears from you? his letter is dated seven
weeks ago. It will be another six or eight
weeks before he receives an answer, at least
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three months in all, and during all this time
he will be without money. But perhaps he will
receive it sooner.
My father frequently changed countenance,
and shewed great solicitude. I did not wonder
at this, as Risberg had always been loved as a
son. A little consideration therefore ought to
have shewed me the impropriety of thus
descanting on an evil without remedy: yet I
still persisted; at length, I asked to what causes
I might ascribe his former disappointments,
in the letter to Risberg, which I proposed
writing immediately.
This question threw him into much confusion.
At last he said, peevishly, “I wish, Jane,
you would leave these matters to me, I don't
like your interferance.”
This rebuke astonished me. I had sufficient
discernment to suspect something extraordinary,
but was for a few minutes quite puzzled
and confounded. He had generally treated me
with tenderness and even deferance, and I saw
nothing peculiarly petulent or improper in
what I had said.
“Dear sir, forgive me, you know I write to
my cousin, and as he stated his complaint to
me, it will be natural to allude to them in my
answer to his letter, but I will only tell him
that all difficulties are removed, and refer him
to your letter for further satisfaction; for you
will no doubt write to him.”
I wish you would drop the subject. If you
write, you may tell him—but tell him what
you please, or rather it would be best to say
nothing on the subject—but drop the subject I
beseech you.
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Certainly, if the subject displeases you, I
will drop it.—Here a pause of mutual embarrasment
succeeded, which was, at length
broken by my father.
I will speak to you to-morrow, Jane, on this
subject. I grant your curiosity is natural, and
will then gratify it. To-morrow, I may possibly
explain why Risberg has not received what, I
must own, he had a right to expect. We'll
think no more of it at present, but play a game
at draughts.
I was impatient, you may be sure, to have a
second meeting. Next day my father's embarrassment
and perplexity was very evident. It
was plain that he had not forgot the promised
explanation, but that something made it a very
irksome task. I did not suffer matters to remain
long in suspense, but asked him in direct
terms what had caused the failure of
which my cousin complained, and whether he
was hereafter to receive the stipulated allowance?
He answered hesitatingly and with downcast
eyes—why—he did not know. He was sorry. It
had not been his fault. To say truth, Francis
had received the usual sums to purchase the
bills. Till yesterday, he imagined they had
actually been purchased and sent. He always
understood them to have been so from Francis.
He had mentioned, after seeing Risberg's complaining
letter, he had mentioned the affair to
Francis. Francis had confessed that he had
never sent the bills. His own necessities compelled
him to apply the money given him
for this purpose to his own use. To be
sure, Risberg was his nephew; had always
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depended on him for his maintenance, but
some how or another the wants of Francis had
increased very much of late years, and swallowed
up all that he could rap and rend without
encroaching on his principal. Risberg was
but his nephew, Frank was his own and only son.
To be sure, he once thought that he had enough
for his three children, but times, it seems, were
altered. He did not spend on his own wants more
than he used to do; but Frank's expenses were
very great and swallowed up every thing. To
be sure he pitied the young man, but he was
enterprising and industrious, and could, no
doubt, shift for himself; yet he would be quite
willing to assist him, were it in his power, but
really it was no longer in his power.
I was, for a time, at a loss for words to express
my surprise and indignation at my brother's
unfeeling selfishness. I could no longer maintain
my usual silence on his conduct, but inveighed
against it, as soon as I could find
breath, with the utmost acrimony.
My father was embarrassed, confounded,
grieved. He sighed and even wept.—Francis,
said he, at last, to be sure has not acted quite
right. But what can be done? Is he not my
child, and if he has faults, is he altogether without
virtue? No, if he did not find a lenitent and
forgiving judge in me, his father, in whom could
he look for one. Besides the thing is done, and
therefore without remedy. This year's income
nearly exhausted, and I really fear before another
quarter comes round, I shall want myself.
I again described in as strong and affecting
terms as I could, Risbergs' expectations and
-- 021 --
[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]
disappointment, and insinuated to him, that, in a
case like this, there could be no impropriety in
selling a few shares of his bank stock.
This hint was extremely displeasing, but I urged
him so vehemently that he said, Francis
will perhaps consent to it; I will try him this
evening.
Alas! said I, my brother will never consent
to such a measure. If he has found occafion
for the money you had designed for my poor
cousin, and of all your current income, his necessities
will not fail to lay hold of this.
Very true, (glad, it seemed of an excuse for
not thwarting his son's will,) Frank will never
consent. So you see, it will be impossible to
do any thing.
I was going to propose that he should execute
this business without my brother's knowledge,
but instantly perceived the impossibility of that.
My father had for some years devolved on his
son the management of all his affairs, and habit
had made him no longer qualified to act for
himself. Frank's opinion of what was proper
to be done, was infallible, and absolute in all
cases.
I returned home with a very sad heart. I was
deeply afflicted with this new instance of my
brother's selfishness and of my father's infatuation—
poor Risberg! faid I, what will become of
thee. I love thee as my brother. I feel for thy
distresses. Would to heaven I could remove
them. And cannot I remove them? As to contending
with my brother's haughtiness in thy
favour, that is an hopeless task. As to my father,
he will never fubmit to my guidance.
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After much fruitless meditation, it occurred
to me that I might supply Risberg's wants from
my own purse. My mother's indulgence to me
was without bounds. She openly considered and
reprefented me as the heiress of her fortunes,
and confided fully in my difcretion. The chief
ufes I had hitherto found for money were charitable
ones. I was her almoner. To stand in the
place of my father, with respect to Risberg, and
supply his customary stipend from my own
purse, was an adventrous undertaking for a young
creature like me. It was impossible to do this
clandestinely; at leaft, without the knowledge
and consent of Mrs. Fielder. I therefore resolved
to declare what had happened, and request
her counsel. An opportunity suitable to this did
not immediately offer.
Next morning, as I was sitting alone in the
parlour, at work, my brother came in. Never before
had I received a visit from him. My furprife,
therefore, was not fmall. I started up with
the confusion of a stranger, and requested him,
very formally, to be feated.
I instantly saw in his looks marks of displeasure,
and though unconscious of meriting it, my
trepidation increased. He took a seat without
speaking, and after some pause addressed me
thus.
So girl, I hear you have been meddling with
things that do not concern you; sowing dissention
between the old man and me; presuming
to dictate to us how we are to manage our own
property. He retailed to me, last night, a parcel
of impertinence with which you had been
teazing him about, this traveller Risberg,
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[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
assuming, long before your time, the province of
his care-taker. Why, do you think, continued
he, contemptuously, he'll ever return to marry
you? Take my word for't, he's no such fool. I
know that he never will.
The infirmity of my temper, has been a subject
of eternal regret to me; yet it never displayed
itself with much force, except under the
lash of my brother's sarcasms. My indignation
on those occasions had a strange mixture of fear
in it, and both together suffocated my speech.
I made no answer to this boistrous arrogance.
But come, continued he, pray let us hear
your very wise objections to a man's applying
his own property to his own use. To rob himself,
and spend the spoil upon another is thy
sage maxim, it seems, for which, thou deservest
to be dubbed a she Solomon, but let's see if thou
art as cunning in defending as in coining maxims.
Come, there is a chair; lay it on the
floor, and suppose it a bar or rostrum, which
thou wilt, and stand behind it, and plead the
cause of foolish prodigality against common
sense.
I endeavoured to muster up a little spirit,
and replied, I could not plead before a more
favourable judge. An appeal to my brother
on behalf of foolish prodigality, could hardly
fail of success. Poor common sense must look
for justice at some other tribunal.
His eyes darted fire. Come, girl, none of
your insolence. I did not come here to be insulted.
No, you rather came to commit than receive
an insult.
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Paltry distinguisher! to jest with you, and
not chide you for your folly, is to insult you, is
it? Leave off romance, and stick to common
sense, and you will never receive any thing but
kindness from me. But come, if I must humour
you, let me hear how you have found yourself
out to be wiser than your father and brother.
I do not imagine, brother, any good will result
frem our discussing this subject. Education,
or sex, if you please, has made a difference
in our judgments, which argument will never
reconcile.
With all my heart. A truce everlasting let
there be, but in truth, I merely came to caution
you against intermeddling in my affairs, to
tell you to beware of sowing jealousy and ill
will between the old man and me. Prate away
on other subjects as much as you please, but on
this affair of Risberg's, hold your tongue for
the future.
I thank you for your brotherly advice, but I
am afraid I never shall bring myself to part with
the liberty of prating on every subject that
pleases me: at least, my forbearance will flow
from my own discretion, and not from the imperious
prohibition of another.
He laughed. Well said, oddity. I am not
displeased to see you act with some spirit: but
I repeat my charge: be quiet. Your interferance
will do no good.
Indeed, I firmly believe that it will not; and
that will be a motive for my silence, that shall
always have its due weight within me. Risberg,
I see, must look elsewhere for a father and a
brother.
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Poor thing! do; put its finger in its eye and
weep. Ha! ha! ha! poor Risberg! how would
he laught to see these compassionate tears. It
seems he has written in a very doleful strain to
thee: talked very pathetically about his debts,
to his laundress and his landlady. I have a
good mind to leave thee in this amiable ignorance,
but I'll prove for once a kind brother,
by telling you that Risberg is a profligate and
prodigal; that he neglects every study, but
that of dice: that this is the true reason why
I have stood in the way of the old man's bounty
to him. I have unquestionable proofs of his
worthlessness, and see no reason to throw away
money upon London prostitutes and gamblers.
I never mentioned this to the old man, because
I would not needlessly distress him, for I
know he loves Jack at least as well as his own
children. I tell it you to justify my conduct,
and hope that I may for once trust to your
good sense not to disclose it to your father.
My heart could not restrain its indignation
at these words.
'Tis false, I exclaimed, 'tis an horrid calumny
against one who cannot defend himself; I will
never believe the depravity of my absent
brother, till I have as good proof of it, as my
present brother has given me of his.
Bravo! my girl, who could have thought
you could give the lie with such a grace? why
don't you spit in the face of the vile calumnia
tor?—But I am not angry with you, Jane: I
only pity you: yet I'll not leave you before I
tell you my mind. I have no doubt Risberg
means to return. He knows on what footing
-- 026 --
[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
you are with Mrs. Fielder, and will take care
to return; but, mind me; Jane, you shall never
throw yourself and your fortune away upon
Risberg, while I have a voice or an arm to
prevent it; and now—good bye to you.
So ended this conversation. He left me in
an hurry and confusion of spirits not to be described.
For a time I felt nothing but indignation
and abhorrence for what, I thought, a
wicked and cruel calumny, but in proportion
as I regained my tranquillity, my reflections
changed. Did not my brother speak truth?
Was there not something in his manner very
different from those of an impostor? How unmoved
was he by the doubts which I ventured to
insinuate of his truth? Alas! I fear 'tis too true.
I told you before that we parted at an age
when love could not be supposed to exist between
us. If I know myself, I felt no more for
him than for a mere brother; but then I felt
all the solicitude and tenderness of a sister. I
knew scarcely how to act in my present situation;
but at length determined to disclose the
whole affair to my mother. With her approbation
I enclosed an order on a London merchant
in a letter to this effect:
“I read your letter, my friend, with the sentiments
of one who is anxious for your happiness.
The difficulties you describe, will, I am afraid,
be hereafter prevented only by your own industry.
My father's and brother's expenses consume
the whole of that income in which you have
hitherto had a share, and I am obliged to apprize
you that the usual remittances will no longer be
made. You are now advancing to manhood, and,
-- 027 --
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
I hope will soon be able to subsist upon the fruits
of your own learning and industry.
“I have something more to say to your, which
I scarcely know how to communicate. Somebody
here has loaded your character with very
heavy imputations. You are said to be addicted
to gaming, sensuality and the lowest vices. How
much grief this intelligence has given to all who
love you, you will easily imagine. To find you
innocent of these charges would free my heart
from the keenest solicitude it has hitherto felt.
I leave to you the proper means of doing this,
if you can do it, without violation of truth.
“I am very imperfectly acquainted with your
present views. You originally designed, after
having compleated your academical and legal
education, to return to America. If this should
still be your intention, the enclosed will obviate
some of your pecuniary embarrassments, and
my mother enjoins me to tell you that, as you
may need a few months longer to make the necessary
preparations for returning, you may
draw on her for an additional sum of five hundred
dollars. Adieu.”
My relation to Risberg was peculiarly delicate.
His more lively imagination had deceived him
already into belief that he was in love. At least,
in all his letters, he seemed fond of recognizing
that engagement which my father had established
between us, and exaggerated the importance to
his happiness of my regard. Experience had
already taught me to set their just value on such
professions. I knew that men are sanguine and
confident, and that the imaginary gracefulnefs
of passion naturally prompts them to make their
-- 028 --
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
words outstrip their feelings. Though eager in
their present course, it is easy to divert them
from it, and most men of an ardent temper can
be dying of love for half a dozen different women
in the course of a year.
Women feel deeply, but boast not. The supposed
indecency of forwardness makes their
words generally fall short of their sentiments,
and passion, when once thoroughly imbibed, is
as hard to be escaped from, as it was difficultly
acquired. I felt no passion, and endeavoured
not to feel any for Risberg, till circumstances
should make it proper and discreet. My attachment
was to his interest, his happiness, and not
to his person, and to convince him of this, was
extremely difficult. To persuade him that his
freedom was absolute and entire: that no tie of
honour or compassion bound him to me, but that
on the contrary, to dispose of his affections elsewhere,
would probably be most conductive to the
interest of both.
These cautious proceedings were extremely
unpleasing to my Cousin, who pretended to be
deeply mortified at any thing betokening indifference
and terribly alarmed at the possibility of
losing me. On the whole, I confess to you that
I thought my Cousin and I were destined for
each other, and felt myself, if I may so speak,
not in love with him, but prepared, at the bidding
of discretion, to love him.
My brother's report therefore greatly distressed
me. Should my Cousin prove a reprobate,
no power on earth should compel me to be
his. If his character should prove blameless,
and my heart raise no obstacles, at a proper time,
-- 029 --
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I should act with absolute independence of my
brother's inclinations. The menace, that while
he had voice or arm he would hinder my choice
of Risberg, made the less impression as it related
to an event, necessarily distant and which
probably might never happen.
The next letter from Risberg put an end to
all further intercourse between us. It informed
us of his being on the eve of marriage into an opulent
family. It expressed much indignation
at the calumny which had prevailed with my father
to withdraw his protection: declared that he
deemed himself by no means equitably or respectfully
treated by him: Expressed gratitude
to my mother for the supply she had remitted,
which had arrived very seasonably and prevented
him from stooping to humiliations which might
have injured his present happy prospects; and
promised to repay the sum as soon as possible.
This promise was punctually performed, and Risberg
assured me that he was as happy as a lovely
and rich wife could make him.
I was satisfied with this result, and bestowed no
further thought on that subject. From morn
to midnight have I written, and have got but little
way in my story. Adieu.
-- 030 --
LETTER IV.
To Henry Colden.
Wednesday Morning, October 5.
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
I continued my visits to my father as usual.
Affairs proceeded nearly in their old channel.
Frank and I never met but by accident, and our
interviews began and ended merely with a good
morrow. I never mentioned Risberg's name to
my father, and observed that he as studiously avoided
lighting on the same topic.
One day a friend chanced to mention the greatness
of my fortune, and congratulated me on my
title to two such large patrimonies as those of
Mrs. Fielder and my father. I was far from
viewing my condition in the same light with my
friend. My mother's fortune, was indeed large
and permament, but my claim to it was merely
through her voluntary favour, of which a thousand
accidents might bereave me. As to my
father's property, Frank had taken care very
early to suggest to him that I was amply provided
for in Mrs. Fielder's good graces, and
that it was equitable to bequeath the whole inheritance
to him. This disposition indeed was
not made without my knowledge; but tho' I was
sensible that I held of my maternal friend by a
very precarius tenure; that my character and
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
education were likely to secure a much wiser
and more useful application of money than my
brother's habits, it was impossible for me openly
to object to this arrangement; so that as
things stood, tho' the world, in estimating my
merits, never forgot that my father was rich,
and that Frank and I were his only children, I
had in reality no prospect of inheriting a farthing
from him.
Indeed, I always entertained a presentiment that
I should one day be poor, and have to rely for subsistence
on my own labour. With this persuasion,
I frequently busied my thoughts in imagining
the most lucrative and decent means of
employing my ingenuity, and directed my enquiries
to many things of little or no use, but on
the irksome supposition that I should one day
live by my own labour. But this is a digression.
In answer to my friend's remarks, I observed
that my father's property was much less consi
derable than some people imagined, that time
made no accession to it, and that my brother's
well known habits, were likely to reduce it
much below its present standard, long before it
would come to a division.
There, Jane, you are mistaken, said my friend,
or rather you are willing to mislead me; for
you must know that tho' your father appears to
be idle, yet your brother is speculating with
his money at an enormous rate.
And pray, said I, for I did not wish to betray
all the surprise that this intelligence gave me,
in what speculations is he engaged?
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
How should I tell you, who scarcely know the
meaning of the word. I only heard my father
say that young Talbot, though seemingly swallowed
up in pleasure, knew how to turn a penny
as well as another, and was employing his father's
wealth in speculation; That, I remember,
was his word, but I never, for my part, took the
trouble to enquire what speculation meant. I
know only that it is some hazardous or complicated
way of getting money.
These hints, tho' the conversation passed immediately
to other subjects, made a deep impression
on my mind. My brother's character,
I knew to be incompatible with any sort of industry,
and had various reasons for believing
my father's property to be locked up in bank
stock. If my friend's story were true, there was
a new instance of the influence which Frank had
acquired over his father. I had very indistinct
ideas of speculation, but was used to regard it as
something very hazardous, and almost criminal.
I told my mother all my uneasiness. She
thought it worth while to take some means of
getting at the truth, in conversation with my father.
Agreeably to her advice, on my next visit,
I opened the subject, by repeating exactly
what I heard. I concluded by asking if it were
true.
Why yes, said he, it is partly true, I must
confess. Some time ago Frank laid his projects
before me, and they appeared so promising and
certain of success, that I ventured to give him
possession of a large sum.
And what scheme, sir, was it, if I may venture
to ask.
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
Why child, these are subjects so much out of
thy way, that thou wouldst hardly comprehend
any explanation that I could give.
Perhaps so: but what success, dear sir, have
you met with?
Why I can't but say, that affairs have not
been quite as expeditious in their progress as
I had reason, at first, to expect. Unlooked for
delays and impediments will occur in the prosecution
of the best schemes, and these, I must
own, have been well enough accounted for.
But, dear sir, the scheme I doubt not was
very beneficial that induced you to hazard your
whole fortune. I thought you had absolutely
withdrawn yourself from all the hazards and solicitudes
of business.
Why indeed, I had so, and should never have
engaged again in them, of my own accord. Indeed,
I trouble not myself with any details at
present. I am just as much at my ease as I used
to be. I leave every thing to Frank.
But sir, the hazard; the uncertainty of all
projects. Would you expose yourself at this
time of life, to the possibility of being reduced
to distress. And had you not enough already?
Why what you say, Jane, is very true; these
things did occur to me, and they strongly disinclined
me, at first, from your brother's proposals;
but, I don't know how it was, he made
out the thing to be so very advantageous; the
success of it so infallible; and his own wants
were so numerous that my whole income was
insufficient to supply them: the Lord knows
how it has happened. In my time, I could
live upon a little. Even with a wife and family;
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
my needs did not require a fourth of the sum
that Frank, without wife or child, contrives to
spend, yet I can't object neither. He makes it
out that he spends no more than his rank in
life, as he calls it, indispensibly requires.
Rather than encroach upon my funds, and the
prospects of success being so very flattering,
and Frank so very urgent and so very sanguine,
whose own interest it is to be sure of his footing,
I even, at last, consented.
But I hope, dear sir, your prudence provided
in some degree against the possibility of
failure. No doubt, you reserved something
which might serve as a stay to your old age in
case this hopeful project miscarried. Absolutely
to hazard all on the faith of any project
whatever, was unworthy of one of your experience
and discretion.
My father, Henry, was a good man. Humane,
affectionate, kind, and of strict integrity,
but I scarcely need to add, after what I have
already related, that his understanding was far
from being vigorous, or his temper firm. His
foibles, indeed, acquired strength as he advanced
in years, while his kindness and benevolence
remained undiminished.
His acquiescence in my brother's schemes
can hardly be ranked with follies; you, who
know what scheme it was, who know the intoxicating
influence of a specious project, and
especially, the wonderful address and plausibility
of Catling, the adventurer, who was my
brother's prime minister and chief agent in
that ruinous transaction, will not consider their
adopting the phantom as any proof of the folly
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
of either father or son. But let me return. To
my compliment to his experience and discretion,
my father replied—why, truly, I hardly
know how it may turn out in the long run. At
first indeed, I only consented to come down
with a few thousands, the total loss of which
would not break my heart; but this, it seems,
though it was all they at first demanded, did
not prove quite sufficient. Some debts they
were obliged to contract, to no great amount,
indeed, and these must be paid or the scheme
relinquished. Having gone so far into the scheme
it was absurd to let a trifle stop me. I must
own, had I foreseen all the demands that have
been made, from time to time, I should never
have engaged in it, but I have been led on
from one step to another, till I fear, it would
avail me nothing to hesitate or hold back: and
Frank's representations are so very plausible?
Does your whole subsistence then, my dear sir,
depend on the success of this scheme? Suppose
it should utterly fail, what will be the consequences
to yourself.
Fail! That is impossible. It cannot fail, but
through want of money, and I am solemnly assured
that no more will be necessary.
But how often, Sir, has this assurance been
given? No doubt with as much solemnity the
first time as the last.
My father began to grow impatient—It is useless,
Jane, to start difficulties and objections now.
It is too late to go back, even if I were disinclined
to go forward, and I have no doubt of
ultimate success. Be a good girl, and you shall
come in for a share of the profit. Mrs. Fielder
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
and I, between us, will make you the richest
heiress in America. Let that consideration reconcile
you to the scheme.
I could not but smile at this argument. I well
knew that my brother's rapacity was not to be
satisfied with millions. To sit down and say, “I
have enough” was utterly incompatible with his
character. I dropped the conversation for the
present.
My thoughts were full of uneasiness. The
mere sound of the word “project” alarmed me.
I had little desire of knowing the exact nature
of the scheme, being no wise qualified to judge
of its practicability; but a scheme in which my
brother was the agent, in which my father's
whole property was hazarded, and which appeared,
from the account I had just heard, at
least, not to have fulfilled the first expectations,
could not be regarded with tranquillity.
I took occasion to renew the subject with my
father, some time after this. I could only deal
in general observations on the imprudence of
putting independence and subsistence to hazard;
though the past was not to be recalled, yet the
future was his own, and it would not be unworthy
of him to act with caution. I was obliged to
mingle this advice with much foreign matter,
and convey it in the most indirect and gentle
terms. His pride was easily offended at being
thought to want the council of a girl.
He replied to my remarks with confidence,
that no farther demand would be made upon
him. The last sum was given with extreme reluctance,
and nothing but the pofitive assurance
that it would absolutely be the last, had prevailed
with him.
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
Suppose, sir, said I, what you have already
given should prove insufficient. Suppose some
new demand should be made upon you.
I cannot suppose that, after so many solemn
and positive assurances.
But were not assurances as positive and solemn
on every former occasion as the last.
Why yes, I must own they were, but new circumstances
arose that could not be foreseen.
And, dear sir, may not new circumstances
arise hereafter that could not be foreseen.
Nay, nay (with some impatience) I tell you
there cannot be any.
I said no more on this subject at this time,
but my father, notwithstanding the confidence
he expressed, was far from being at ease.
One day I found him in great perturbation. I
met my brother, who was going out as I entered,
and suspected the cause of his disquiet. He
spoke less than usual, and sighed deeply. I endeavoured,
by various means, to prevail on
him to communicate his thoughts, and, at last
succeeded. My brother, it seems had made a
new demand upon his purse, and he had been
brought reluctantly, to consent to raise the necessary
sum by a Mortgage on his house, the
only real property he possessed. My brother
had gone to procure a lender and prepare the
deeds.
I was less surprised at this intelligence than
grieved. I thought I saw my father's ruin was
inevitable, and knew not how to prevent or
procrastinate it. After a long pause, I ventured
to insinuate that, as the thing was yet to be
done, as there was still time for deliberation—
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
No, no, interrupted he, I must go on. It is
too late to repent. Unless new funds are supplied,
all that we have hitherto done will go for
nothing, and Frank assures me that one more
sacrifice, and all will be well.
Alas! sir, are you still deceived by that language.
Can you still listen to assurances,
which experience has so often shewn to be falacious.
I know nothing of this fine project,
but I can see, too clearly, that unless you hold
your hand you will be undone. Would to heaven
you would hesitate a moment—I said a
great deal more to the same purpose, and was
at length interrupted by a message from my
brother, who desired to see me a few minutes in
the parlour below. Tho' at a loss as to what
could occasion such an unusual summons, I hastened
down.
I found my brother with a strange mixture
of pride, perplexity and solicitude in his looks.
His “how d'ye” was delivered in a graver tone
than common, and he betrayed a disposition to
conciliate my good will, far beyond what I had
ever witnessed before. I waited with impatience
to hear what he had to communicate.
At last, with many pauses and much hesitation
he said;—Jane, I suppose your legacy is
untouched. Was it two or three thousand Mrs.
Mathews put you down for in her will?
The sum was three thousand dollars. You
know that, though it was left entirely at my
own disposal, yet the bequest was accompanied
with advice to keep it unimpaired till I should
want it for my own proper subsistence. On
that condition I received, and on that condition
shall keep it
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
I am glad of it with all my heart, replied he,
with affected vivacity. I was afraid you had
spent it by this time on dolls, trinkets, and baby-things.
The sum is entire you say? In your
drawer? I am surprised you could resist the
temptation to spend it. I wonder nobody
thought of robbing you.
You cannot suppose brother, I would keep
that sum in my possession. You know it was
in Bank at my Aunt's death, and there it has remained.
At what bank pr'y thee?
I told him.
Well, I am extremely glad thou hadst wit enough
to keep it snug, for now the time has
come to put it to some use. My father and I
have a scheme on foot by which we shall realize
immense profit. The more engines we set
to work, the greater and more speedy will be
the ultimate advantage. It occurred to me that
you had some money, and that, unless it were
better employed, it would be but justice to allow
you to throw it into stock. If therefore,
you are willing, it shall be done. What say
you Jane?
This proposal was totally unexpected. I harboured
not a moment's doubt as to the conduct
it became me to pursue, but how to declare my
resolutions, or state my reasons for declining
his offer, I knew not.
At last, I stammered out, that, my Aunt had
bequeathed me this money, with views as to the
future disposition of it, from which I did not
think myself at liberty to swerve.
And pray, said he, with some heat, what
were these profound views?
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
They were simple and obvious views. She
knew my sex and education laid me under peculiar
difficulties as to subsistence. As affairs
then stood, there was little danger of my ever
being reduced to want or dependance, but still
there was a possibility of this. To ensure me against
this possible evil she left me this sum,
to be used only for subsistence, and when I
should be deprived of all other means.
Go on, said my brother. Repeat the clause
in which she forbids you, if at any time the opportunity
should be offered of doubling or trebling
your money, and thereby effectually securing
that independence which she wished to bequeath
to you, to profit by the offer. Pray, repeat
that clause.
Indeed, said I, innocently, there is no such
clause.
I am glad to hear it. I was afraid that she
was silly enough to insert some such prohibition.
On the contrary, the scheme I propose
to you, will merely execute your Aunt's great
purpose. Instead of forbidding, she would
have earnestly exhorted you, had she been a
prophetess, as well as a saint, to close with such
an offer as I now make you, in which, I can
assure you, I have your own good as well as
my own in view.
Observing my silent and perplexed air—
Why Jane, said he, surely you cannot hesitate.
What is your objection? Perhaps you are one
of those provident animals who look before
they leap, and having gained a monopoly of
wisdom, will take no scheme upon trust. You
must examine with your own eyes, I will
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
explain the affair to you if you chuse, and convince
you beyond controversy that your money may
be trebled in a twelvemonth.
You know brother, I can be no judge of any
scheme that is at all intricate.
There is no intricacy here. All is perfectly
simple and obvious. I can make the case as
plain to you, in three minutes, as that you have
two thumbs. In the English Cottons, in the
first place, there is—
Nay, Brother, it is entirely unnecessary to
explain the scheme. My determinations will
not be influenced by a statement which no
mortal eloquence will make intelligible to me.
Well then, you consent to my proposal?
I would rather you would look elsewhere for
a partner in your undertaking.
The girl's a fool—Why? what do you fear?
suspect? You surely cannot doubt my being
faithful to your interest. You will not insult
me so much as to suppose that I would defraud
you of your money. If you do, for, I know,
I do not stand very high in your opinion, if you
doubt my honesty, I will give you the common
proofs of having received your money. Nay,
so certain am I of success, that I will give you
my note; bond; what you please; for thrice
the amount, payable in one year.
My brother's bond will be of no use to me;
I shall never go to law with my brother.
Well then, what will satisfy you?
I am easily satisfied, Brother. I am contented
with things just as they are. The sum, indeed,
is a trifle, but it will answer all my humble
purposes.
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
Then you will, replied he, struggling with
his rage, you will not agree?
My silence was an unequivocal answer.
You turn out to be what I always thought
you, a little, perverse, stupid, obstinate—but
take time (softening his tone, a little,) take
time to consider of it.
Some unaccountable oddity, some friek must
have taken hold of you, just now, and turned
your wits out of door. 'Tis impossible you
should deliberately reject such an offer. Why,
girl, three thousand dollars has a great sound,
perhaps, to your ears, but you'll find it a most
wretched pittance, if you should ever be obliged
to live upon it. The interest would hardly
buy you garters and topknots. You live, at
this moment, at the rate of six times the sum.
You are now a wretched and precarious dependant
on Mrs. Fielder, her marriage, (a very
likely thing for one of her habits, fortune and
age,) will set you afloat in the world, and then
where will be your port. Your legacy, in any
way you can employ it, will not find you bread.
Three times the sum might answer, perhaps,
and that, if you will fall on my advice, you
may now attain in a single twelvemonth. Consider
these things, and I will call on you in the
evening for your final answer.
He was going, but I mustered resolution enough
to call him back. Brother one word.
All deliberation in this case is superfluous.
You may think my decision against so plausible
a scheme, perverse and absurd, but, in
this instance, I am fully sensible that I have
a right to do as I please, and shall exert that
right whatever censure I may incur.
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
So, then, you are determined not to part
with your paltry legacy?
I am determined not to part with it.
His eyes sparkled with rage, and stamping
on the floor, he exclaimed—Why then let me
tell you, Miss, you are a damned idiot. I
knew you were a fool, but could not believe
that your folly would ever carry you to these
lengths—much more in this style did poor
Frank utter on this occasion. I listened trembling,
confounded, vexed; and as soon as I
could recover presence of mind, hastened out
of his presence.
This dialogue occupied all my thoughts during
that day and the following. I was sitting,
next evening, at twilight pensively, in my own
apartment, when, to my infinite surprise, my
brother was announced. At parting with him
the day before, he swore, vehemently, that he
would never see my face again if he could help
it. I suppose this resolution had given way to
his anxiety to gain my concurrence with his
schemes, and would fain have shunned a second
interview. This however was impossible. I
therefore composed my tremours as well as I
was able, and directed him to be admitted.
The angry emotions of yesterday had disappeared
from his countenance, and he addressed
me, with his customary carelessness. After
a few trifling preliminaries, he asked me, if
I had considered the subject of our yesterday's
conversation. I answered that I had supposed
that subject to have been dismissed forever.
It was not possible for time or argument to
bring us to the same way of thinking on it. I
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
hoped therefore that he would not compel me
to discuss it a second time.
Instead of flying into rage, as I expected, he
fixed his eyes thoughtfully on the floor, and after
a melancholy pause, said—I expected to find
you invincible on that head. To say truth, I
came not to discuss that subject with you anew.
I came merely to ask a trifling favour—Here he
stopt. He was evidently at a loss how to proceed.
His features became more grave, and he
actually sighed.
My heart, I believe, thou knowest, Harry,
is the sport, the mere plaything of gratitude
and pity. Kindness will melt my firmest resolutions
in a moment. Intreaty will lead me to
the world's end. Gentle accents, mournful looks
in my brother, was a claim altogether irresistible.
The mildness, the condescension which I
now witnessed, thrilled to my heart. A grateful
tear rushed to my eye, and I almost articulated,
“dear, dear brother, be always thus kind and
thus good, and I will lay down my life for you.”
It was well for us both that my brother had
too much pride or too little cunning to profit
by the peculiarities of my temper. Had he put
a brotherly arm around me, and said, in an
affectionate tone, “dear sister, oblige me,” I
am afraid I should have instantly complied
with the most indiscreet and extravagant of his
requests.
Far otherwise, however, was his deportment.
This condescension was momentary. The words
had scarcely escaped him before he seemed to
recollect them as having been unworthy of his
dignity. He reassumed his arrogant and
-- 045 --
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careless air, half whistled “Ca ira” and glanced at
the garden, with “a tall poplar, that. How old?”
Not very old, for I planted it.
Very likely. Just such another giddy head
and slender body as the planter's.—But now I
think of it, Jane, since your money is idle,
suppose you lend me five hundred dollars of it
till to-morrow. Upon my honor, I'll repay it
then. My calls just now are particularly
urgent. See here, I have brought a check ready
filled. It only wants your signature.
I felt instant and invincible repugnance to
this request. I had so long regarded my
brother as void of all discretion, and as habitually
misapplying money to vicious purposes,
that I deemed it a crime of no inconsiderable
degree, to supply the means of his prodigality.
Occasions were daily occurring in which
much good was effected by a few dollars, as
well as much evil produced by the want of
them. My imagination pondered on the evils
of poverty much oftener than perhaps was
useful, and had thence contracted a terror of it
not easily controuled. My legacy I had always
regarded as a sacred deposit; an asylum
in distress which nothing but the most egregious
folly would rob or dissipate. Yet now I
was called upon to transfer, by one stroke of
the pen, to one who appeared to me to be engaged
in ruinous vices or chimerical projects,
so large a portion as five hundred dollars.
I was no niggardly hoarder of the allowance
made me by my mother, but so diffident was I
of my own discernment, that I never laid out
twenty dollars without her knowledge and
-- 046 --
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concurrence. Could I then give away five hundred
of this sacred treasure, bestowed on me for
very different purposes, without her knowledge?
It was useless to acquaint her with my brother's
request, and solicit her permission. She would
never grant it.
My brother, observing me hesitate, said—
Come, Jane; make haste. Surely this is no
such mighty favour that you should stand a
moment. 'Twill be all the same to you, since
I return it to-morrow. May I perish, if I
don't.
I still declined the offered pen—For what
purpose, brother, surely I may ask? so large a
sum.
He laughed; a mere trifle, girl. 'Tis a bare
nothing; but much or little, you shall have it
again, I tell you, to-morrow. Come; time flies.
Take the pen, I say, and make no more words
about the matter.
Impossible! till I know the purpose. Do
not urge me to a wrong thing.
His face reddened with indignation. A wrong
thing! you are fool enough to tire the patience
of a saint. What do I ask, but the loan of a
few dollars, for a single day? Money that is
absolutely idle; for which you have no use.
You know that my father's property is mine;
that my possessions are twenty times greater
than your own: yet you refuse to lend this
paltry sum for one day. Come, Jane, sister;
you have carried your infatuation far enough.
Where a raw girl should gain all these scruples
and punctilios I can't imagine. Pray, what is
your objection?
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In these contests with my brother, I was
never mistress of my thoughts. His boisterous,
negligent, contemptuous manners, awed, irritated,
embarrassed me. To say any thing which
implied censure of his morals or his prudence,
would be only raising a storm which my
womanish spirit could not withstand. In answer
to his expostulations, I only repeated—impossible!
I cannot.
Finding me inflexible, he once more gave
way to indignation—What a damn'd oaf! to be
thus creeping and cringing to an idiot; a child;
an ape. Nothing but necessity, cruel necessity
would have put me on this task. Then turning
to me, he said in a tone half supplicating; half
threatening; let me ask you once more; will you
sign this check? Do not answer hastily: for
much, very much depends on it. By all that
is sacred I will return it to you to-morrow. Do
it, and save me and your father from infamy;
from ruin; from a prison; from death. He may
have cowardice enough to live and endure his
infamy, but I have spirit enough to die and
escape it.
This was uttered with an impetuosity that
startled me. The words ruin, prison, death,
rung in my ears, and almost out of breath, I exclaimed—
what do you mean? my father go to
prison? my father ruined? what do you mean?
I mean what I say. Your signing this check
may save me from irretrievable ruin. This trifling
supply, which I can no where else procure, if
it comes to night, may place us out of danger.
If delayed till to-morrow morning, there will
be no remedy. I shall receive an adequate sum
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to-morrow afternoon, and with that I will replace
this.
My father ruined! In danger of a goal!
Good Heaven! Let me fly to him. Let me
know from himself the full extent of the evil—
I left my seat with this purpose, but he stopped
me. Are you mad, girl? He does not know
the full extent of the evil. Indeed the evil
will be perfectly removed by this trifling loan.
He need not know it.
Ah! my poor father, said I, I see thy ruin,
indeed. Too fatally secure hast thou been;
too doating in thy confidence in others. These
words half articulated, did not escape my
brother. He was, at once, astonished and enraged
by them, and even in these circumstances
could not suppress his resentment.
He had, however, conjured up a spirit in me
which made me deaf to his invective. I made
towards the door.
Where are you going? You shall not leave
the room till you have signed this paper.
Nothing but force shall keep me from my
father. I will know his true situation, this instant
from his own lips. Let me go. I will go.
I attempted to rush by him, but he shut the
door and swore I should not leave the room till I
had complied with his request.
Perceiving me thoroughly in earnest, and
indignant in my turn at his treatment, he attempted
to soothe me, by saying, that I had
misunderstood him in relation to my father;
that he had uttered words at random; that he
was really out of cash at this moment: I should
inexpressibly oblige him by lending him this
trifling sum to-morrow evening.
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Brother, I will deal candidly with you. You
think me childish, ignorant and giddy. Perhaps,
I am so, but I have sense enough to resolve,
and firmness enough to adhere to my resolution,
never to give money without thoroughly
knowing and fully approving of the purposes
to which it is to be applied. You tell me, you
are in extreme want of an immediate supply. Of
what nature is your necessity? What has occasioned
your necessity? I will not withhold, what
will really do you good; what I am thoroughly
convinced will do you good, but I must first be
convinced.
What, would you have more than my word?
I tell you it will save your—I tell you it will
serve me essentially. It is surely, needless to
enter into long and intricate details, which, ten
to one, you will not understand.
As you please, said I. I have told you that I
will not act in the dark.
Well then, I will explain my situation to you
as clearly as possible.
He then proceeded to state transactions of
which I understood nothing. All was specious
and plausible, but I easily perceived the advantages
under which he spoke, and the gross folly
of suffering my conduct to be influenced by representations,
of whose integrity I had no
means of judging.
I will not detain you longer by this conversation.
Suffice it to say, that I positively refused
to comply with his wishes. The altercation that
ensued was fortunately interrupted by the entrance
of two or three visitants, and after
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lingering a few minutes, he left the house
gloomy and dissatisfied.
I have gone into these incidents with a
minuteness that I fear has tired you; but I
will be more concise for the future. These incidents
are chiefly introductory to others of a
more affecting nature, and to those I must now
hasten. Meanwhile I will give some little
respite to my fingers.
LETTER VI.
To Henry Colden.
Thursday Morning, October 6.
As soon as my visitants had gone, I hastened
to my father's. I immediately introduced
the subject of which my heart was full. I related
the particulars of my late interview with
my brother; intreated him with the utmost
earnestness to make the proper enquiries into
the state of my brother's affairs, with whose
ate it was too plain, that his own was inextricably
involved.
He was seized with extreme solicitude on
hearing my intelligence. He could not keep
his chair one moment at a time, but walked
about the floor trembling. He called his
-- 051 --
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servant, and directed him in a faultering voice to
go to my brother's house and request him to
come immediately.
I was sensible that what I had done was
violently adverse to my brother's wishes. Nevertheless,
I urged my father to an immediate explanation,
and determined to be present at the
conference.
The messenger returned. My brother was
not at home. We waited a little while, and then
dispatched the messenger again, with directions
to wait till his return. We waited, in
vain, till nine; ten; eleven o'clock. The messenger
then came back, informing us that
Frank was still abraod. I was obliged to
dismiss the hope of a conference this night,
and returned in an anxious and melancholy
mood to Mrs. Fielder's.
On my way, while ruminating on these
events, I began to fear that I had exerted an
unjustifiable degree of caution: I knew that
those who embark in pecuniary schemes are
often reduced to temporary streights and difficulties:
that ruin and prosperity frequently
hang on the decision of the moment: that a
gap may be filled up by a small effort seasonably
made, which if neglected, rapidly widens
and irrevocably swallows up the ill-fated adventurer.
It was possible that all my brother had said
was literally true; that he merited my confidence
in this instance, and that the supply he
demanded would save both him and my father
from the ruin that impended over them. The
more I pondered on the subject, the more
-- 052 --
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dissatisfied I became with my own scruples. In
this state of mind I reached home. The servant,
while opening the door, expressed her surprise
at my staying out so late, telling me, that my
brother had been waiting my return for several
hours, with marks of the utmost impatience. I
shuddered at this intelligence, though just before
I had almost formed the resolution of going
to his house and offering him the money he
wanted.
I found him, in my apartment.—Good God!
cried he, where have you been till this time of
night?
I told him frankly where I had been, and
what had detained me. He was thunderstruck.
Instead of that storm of rage and invective
which I expected, he grew pale with consternation:
and said in a faint voice:
Jane you have ruined me beyond redemption.
Fatal, fatal rashness. It was enough to have refused
me a loan which tho' useless to you, is as
indispensible to my existence as my heart's
blood. Had you quietly lent me the trifling
pittance I asked, all might yet have been well;
my father's peace have been saved and my own
affairs been compleatly re-established.
All arrogance and indignation were now laid
aside. His tone and looks betokened the deepest
distress. All the firmness, reluctance and
wariness of my temper vanished in a moment.
My heart was seized with an agony of compunction.
I came close to him and taking his hand
involuntarily said—Dear brother! Forgive me.
Strange what influence calamity possesses in
softening the character. He made no answer,
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
but putting his arms around me, pressed me to
his breast while tears stole down his cheek.
Now was I thoroughly subdued. I am quite
an April girl, thou knowest, Harry, and the
most opposite emotions fill, with equal certainty
my eyes. I could scarcely articulate—O! my
dear brother, forgive me. Take what you ask.
If it can be of any service to you, take all I have.
But how, shall I see my father. Infinite pains
have I taken to conceal from him a storm which
I thought could be easily averted; which his
knowledge of it would only render more difficult
to resist, but my cursed folly, by saying
more than I intended to you, has blasted my designs.
I again expressed my regret for the rashness
of my conduct, and intreated him to think better
of my father, than to imagine him invincible
to argument. I promised to go to him in
the morning, and counteract, as much as I
could, the effects of my evening conversation.
At length he departed, with somewhat renovated
spirits, and left me to muse upon the strange
events of this day.
I could not free myself from the secret apprehension
of having done mischief rather than
good, by my compliance. I had acted without
consulting my mother, in a case where my
youth and inexperience stood in the utmost
need of advice. On the most trivial occasions I
had hitherto held it a sacred duty, to make her
the arbitress and judge of my whole conduct,
and now shame for my own precipitance and
regard for my brother's feelings seemed to join
in forbidding me to disclose what had passed.
A most restless and unquiet night did I pass.
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
Next morning was I to go to my father, to
repair as much as possible the breach I had
thoughtlessly made in his happiness. I knew
not what means to employ for this purpose.
What could I say? I was far from being satisfied,
myself, with my brother's representations.
I hoped, but had very little confidence that any
thing in my power to do, would be of permanent
advantage.
These doubts did not make me defer my visit.
I was greatly surprised to find my father as cheerful
and serene as usual, which he quickly accounted
for, by telling me that he had just had
a long conversation with Frank, who had convinced
him that there was no ground for the
terrors I had inspired him with the night before.
He could not forbear a little acrimony on the
impropriety of my interference, and I tacitly
acquiesced in the censure. I found that he knew
nothing of the sum I had lent, and I thought
not proper to mention it.
That day, notwithstanding his promises of
payment, passed away without hearing from
my brother. I had never laid any stress upon
the promise, but drew a bad omen from this
failure.
A few days elapsed without any material incident.
The next occasion on which my brother
was introduced into conversation with Mrs. Fielder,
took place one evening after my friend
had returned from spending the day abroad.
After a pause in which there was more significance
than usual-pray have you seen Frank lately?
I made some vague answer.
He had been talked about this afternoon very
little, as usual, to his advantage.
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
I trembled from head to foot.
I fear continued she, he is going to ruin, and
will drag your father down the same precipice.
Dearest madam! what new circumstance.—
Nothing very new. It seems Mr. Frazer—
his wife told the story—sold him, a twelve
month ago, a curricle and pair of horses. Part
of the money after some delay, was paid. The
rest was dunned for unavailingly a long time.
At length, Curricle and horses scoured the
roads under the management of Monsr. Petitgrave,
brother to Frank's housekeeper, the handsome
mustee. This gave Frazer uneasiness and
some importunity extorted from Frank a note,
which being due last Tuesday was at Frank's
importunity, withdrawn from bank to prevent
protest. Next day however it was paid.
I ventured to ask if Mrs. Frazer had mentioned
any sum.
Yes: a round sum: five hundred dollars.
Fortunately, the dark prevented my mother
from perceiving my confusion. It was Tuesday
Evening on which I had lent the money to
Frank. He had given me reason to believe that
his embarrassments arose from his cotton-weaving
scheme, and that the sum demanded from
me was to pay the wages of craving but worthy
labourers.
While in the first tumult of these reflections,
some one brought a letter. It was from my brother;
this was the tenour—
“I fear, Jane, I have gained but little credit
with you for punctuality. I ought to have fulfilled
my promise, you will say. I will not excuse
my breach of it, by saying, (though I
might say so, perhaps, with truth,) that you
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
have no use for the money: that I have pressing
use for it, and that a small delay, without being
of any importance to you, will be particularly
convenient to me: no. The true and all
sufficient reason why I did not return the money,
was—because I had it not. To convince
you that I am really in need, I enclose you a
check for another five hundred, which you'll
much oblige me by signing. I can repay
you both sums together by Saturday-if you
needs must have it so soon. The bearer waits.”
In any state of my thoughts, there was little
likelihood of my complying with a request made
in these terms. With my present feelings, it
was difficult to forbear returning an angry and
reproachful answer. I sent him back these lines.
“I am thoroughly convinced that it is not in
my power to afford you any effectual aid in your
present difficulties. It will be very easy to injure
myself. The request you make can have no
other tendency. I must therefore decline complying.”
The facility with which I had yielded up my
first resolutions, probably encouraged him to
this second application, and I formed very solemn
resolutions not to be seduced a second
time.
In a few minutes after dispatching my answer,
he appeared. I need not repeat our conversation.
He extorted from me without much
difficulty, what I had heard thro' my mother,
and methinks, I am ashamed to confess it—by
exchanging his boisterous airs for pathetic ones—
by appealing to my sisterly affection, and
calling me his angel and Saviour; and
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
especially by solemnly affirming that Frazer's story
was a calumny I, at length, did as he would
have me: yet only for three hundred; I would
not go beyond that sum.
The moment he left me, I perceived the
weakness and folly of my conduct in the strongest
light. I renewed all my prudent determinations:
yet strange to tell, within less than a
week, the same scene of earnest importunity on
his side, and of foolish flexibility on mine was
re-acted.
With every new instance of folly, my shame
and self condemnation increased, and the more
difficult I found it to disclose the truth to my
mother.
In the course of a very few days, one half of
my little property, was gone. A sum sufficient,
according to my system of economy, to
give me decent independence of the world for,
at least, three years, had been dissipated by the
prodigality of a profligate woman. At the time,
indeed, I was ignorant of this. It was impossible
not to pay some regard to the plausible statements
and vehement asseverations of my brother,
and to suffer them to weigh something
against charges which might possibly be untrue.
As soon as accident had put me in full possession
of the truth on this head, I was no longer
thus foolishly obsequious.
The next morning after our last interview I
set out, as usual, to bid good morrow to my father.
My uneasy thoughts led me unaware to
extend my walk, till I reached the door of a
watch-maker with whom my servant had some
time before, left a watch to be repaired. It
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
occurred to me that since I was now on the spot,
I might as well stop and make some enquiry about
it. On entering the shop I almost repented
of my purpose, as two persons were within
the bar, if I may call it so, seated in a lounging
posture, by a small stove, smoking segars and
gazing at me with an air of indolent impertinence.
I determined to make my stay as short
as possible, and hurried over a few questions
to the artist, who knew me only as the owner
of the watch. My attention was quickly roused
by one of the loungers, who, having satisfied
his curiosity, by gazing at me, turned to the
other and said; well; you have hardly been to
Frank's this morning, I suppose.
Indeed, but I have; was the reply.
Why, damn it, you pinch too hard. Well,
and what success.
Why, what do you think?
Another put-off, another call-again, to be sure.
I would not go till he downed with the stuff.
No! (with a broad stare) it an't possible.
Seeing is believing I hope—producing a piece
of paper.
Why so it is. A check—but—what's that
name?—let's see, stooping to examine the signature—
“Fane Talbot” who the Devil is she?
Don't you know her? She's his sister. A
devilish rich girl.
But how? does she lend him money?
Yes, to be sure. She's his sister you know.
But how does she get money? Is &longs;he a widow?
No, She is a girl, I've heard, not eighteen.
'Tis not my look out how she gets money,
so as her check's good, and that I'll fix as soon
as the door's open.
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
Why damn it, if I dont think it a forgery.
How should such a girl as that get so much
money.
Can't conceive. Coax or rob her aunt of it,
I suppose. If she's such another as Frank, she
is able to outwit the devil. I hope it may be
good. If it isn't, he shan't be his own man one
day longer.
But how did you succeed so well.
He asked me yesterday, to call once more.
So I called, you see, by times, and finding
that he had a check for a little more than my
debt I teazed him out of it, promising to give
him the balance. I pity the fellow from my soul.
It was all for trinkets and furniture bought by
that prodigal jade, Mademoiselle Couteau.
She would ruin a prince if she had him as much
at her command as she has Frank. Little does
the sister know for what purpose she gives her
money; however, that, as I said before, be her
look out.
During this dialogue my eye was fixed upon
the artist, who with the watch open in one hand,
and a piece of wire in the other, was describing,
with great formality, the exact nature of
the defect, and the whole process of the cure;
but though I looked stedfastly at him, I heard
not a syllable of his dissertation. I broke away
when his first pause allowed me.
The strongest emotion in my heart was resentment.
That my name should be prostituted
by the foul mouths of such wretches, and my
money be squandered for the gratification of a
meritricious vagabond, were indignities not to
be endured. I was carried involuntarily
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
towards my brother's house. I had lost all that
awe in his presence, and trepidation at his scorn
which had formerly been so troublesome. His
sarcasms or revilings had become indifferent to
me, as every days experience had of late convinced
me that, in no valuable attribute was he,
any wise, superior to his sister. The consciousness
of having been deceived and wronged by
him, set me above both his anger and his flattery.
I was hastening to his house to give vent to my
feelings, when a little consideration turned my
steps another way. I recollected that I should
probably meet his companion, and that was an
encounter which I had hitherto carefully avoided—
I went according to my first design, to my
father's—I was in hopes of meeting Frank
there, some time in the day, or of being visited
by him at Mrs. Fielder's.
My soul was in a tumult that unfitted me for
conversation. I felt hourly increasing remorse
at having concealed my proceedings from my
mother. I imagined that had I treated her
from the first, with the confidence due to her,
I should have avoided all my present difficulties.
Now the obstacles to confidence appeared
insurmountable, and my only consolation
was, that by inflexible resolution, I might shun
any new cause for humiliation and regret.
I had purposed to spend the greater part of
the day at my father's, chiefly in the hope of
a meeting with my brother, but, after dinner,
my mother sent for me home. Something
methought very extraordinary, must have happened,
as my mother was well; as, according
to the messenger's account, she had just parted
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
with a gentleman who seemed to have visited
her on private business, my heart misgave me.
As soon as I got home, my mother took me
into her chamber, and told me, after an affecting
preface, that a gentleman in office at —
Bank, had called on her and informed her
that checks of my signing to a very large amount
had lately been offered, and that the last
made its appearance to day and was presented
by a man with whom it was highly disreputable
for one in my condition to be thought to have
any sort of intercourse.
You may suppose that after this introduction,
I made haste to explain every particular. My
mother was surprised and grieved. She rebuked
me, with some asperity, for my reserves.
Had I acquainted her with my brother's
demands, she could have apprised me
of all that I had since discovered. My brother,
she asserted was involved beyond any one's
power to extricate him, and his temper, his
credulity were such, that he was forever doomed
to poverty.
I had scarcely parted with my mother, on
this occasion, to whom I had promised to refer
every future application, when my brother
made his appearance. I was prepared to overwhelm
him with upbraidings for his past conduct,
but I found my tongue tied in his presence.
I could not bear to inflict so much shame and
mortification, and besides, the past being irrevocable,
it would only aggravate the disappointment
which I was determined every future application
should meet with. After some vague
apology for nonpayment, he applied for a new
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
loan. He had borrowed he said, of a deserving
man, a small sum, which he was now unable
to repay. The poor fellow was in narrow
circumstances: was saddled with a numerous
family: had been prevailed upon to lend,
after extreme urgency on my brother's part; was
now driven to the utmost need and by a prompt
repayment would probably be saved from ruin.
A minute and plausible account of the way in
which the debt originated, and his inability to re
pay it shewn to have proceeded from no fault
of his.
I repeatedly endeavoured to break off the
conversation, by abruptly leaving the room,
but he detained me by importunity; by holding
my hand; by standing against the door.
How irresistible is supplication! The glossings
and plausibilities of eloquence are inexhaustible.
I found my courage wavering. After
a few ineffectual struggles, I ceased to contend.
He saw that little remained to compleat
his conquest, and to effect that little, by convincing
me that his tale was true, he stepped
out a moment, to bring in his creditor, whose
anxiety had caused him to accompany Frank
to the door.
This momentary respite gave me time to reflect.
I ran thro' the door now no longer guarded;
up stairs I flew into my mother's chamber,
and told her from what kind of persecution I
had escaped.
While I was speaking, some one knocked at
the door. It was a servant, dispatched by my
brother to summon me back. My mother
went in my stead. I was left, for some minutes,
alone.
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So persuasive had been my brother's Rhetorick,
that I began to regret my flight.
I felt something like compunction at having
deprived him of an oppertunity to prove his assertions.
Every gentle look and insinuating accent
reappeared to my memory, and I more
than half repented my inflexibility.
While buried in these thoughts, my mother
returned. She told me that my brother was
gone, after repeatedly requesting an interview
with me, and refusing to explain his business
to any other person.
Was there any body with him, madam?
Yes. One Clarges: a Jeweller. An ill looking
suspicious person.
Do you know any thing of this Clarges?
Nothing, but what I am sorry to know. He
is a dissolute fellow, who has broken the
hearts of two wives, and thrown his children
for maintenance on their maternal relations.
'Tis the same who carried your last check to
the Bank.
I, just then, faintly recollected the name of
Clarges, as having occurred in the conversation
at the Watchmaker's, and as being the
name of him who had produced the paper.
This, then, was the person who was to have
been introduced to me as the friend in need,
the meritorious father of a numerous family,
whom the payment of a just debt was to relieve
from imminent ruin! How loathsome;
how detestible; how insecure, are fraud and
treachery. Had he been confronted with me,
no doubt he would have recognized the person
whom he stared at, at the watchmaker's.
Next morning I received a note, dated on
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the preceding evening. These were the terms
of it.
“I am sorry to say, Jane, that the ruin of a
father and brother may justly be laid at your
door. Not to save them, when the means
were in your power, and when entreated to use
the means, makes you the author of their ruin.
The crisis has come. Had you shewn a little
mercy, the crisis might have terminated favourably.
As it is, we are undone. You do
not deserve to know the place of my retreat.
Your unsisterly heart will prompt you to intercept,
rather than to aid or connive at my
flight. Fly, I must, whither, it is pretty certain,
will never come to your knowledge. Farewell.”
My brother's disappearance, the immediate
ruin of my father, whose whole fortune was
absorbed by debts contracted in his name, and
for the most part without his knowledge, the
sudden affluence of the adventurer who had
suggested his projects to my brother, were the
immediate consequences of this event. To a
man of my father's habits and views, no calamity
can be conceived greater than this. Never
did I witness a more sincere grief; a more
thorough dispair. Every thing he once possessed,
was taken away from him and sold.
My mother however, prevented all the most opprobrious
effects of poverty, and all in my power
to alleviate his solitude, and console him in
his distress, was done.
Would you have thought, after this simple
relation, that there was any room for malice
and detraction to build up their inventions?
My brother was enraged that I refused to
-- 065 --
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comply with any of his demands; not grateful
for the instances in which I did comply.
Clarges resented the disappointment of his
scheme as much as if honour and integrity had
given him a title to success.
How many times has the story been told, and
with what variety of exaggeration, that the sister
refused to lend her brother money, when
she had plenty at command, and when a
seasonable loan would have prevented the ruin
of her family, while, at the same time, she had
such an appetite for toys and baubles, that ere
yet she was eighteen years old, she ran in
debt to Clarges the Jeweller, for upwards of
five hundred dollars worth.
You are the only person to whom I have
thought myself bound to tell the whole truth.
I do not think my reluctance to draw the follies
of my brother from oblivion, a culpable one.
I am willing to rely, for my justification from
malicious charges, on the general tenour of
my actions, and am scarcely averse to buy my
brother's reputation at the cost of my own. The
censure of the undistinguishing, and undistinguished
multitude, gives me little uneasiness.
Indeed the disapprobation of those who have
no particular connection with us, is a very faint,
dubious, and momentary feeling. We are
thought of, now and then, by chance, and immediately
forgotten. Their happiness is unaffected
by the sentence casually pronounced
on us, and we suffer nothing since it scarcely
reaches our ears, and the interval between the
judge and the culprit, hinders it from having
any influence on their actions. Not so, when
-- 066 --
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the censure reaches those who love us. The
charge engrosses their attention, influences
their happiness, and regulates their deportment
towards us. My self-regard, and my regard
for you, equally leads me to vindicate myself
to you, from any charge, however chimerical
or obsolete it may be.
My brother went to France. He seemed disposed
to forget that he ever had kindred or
country: never informed us of his situation
and views. All our tidings of him came to us
indirectly. In this way we heard that he procured
a commission in the republican troops,
had made some fortunate campaigns, and had
enriched himself by lucky speculations in the
forfeited estates.
My mother was informed, by some one lately
returned from Paris, that Frank had attained
possession of the whole property of an emigrant
Compte de Puysegur, who was far from
being the poorest of the ancient nobles: that
he lived, with princely luxury in the Count's
hotel; that he had married, according to the
new mode, the Compte's sister, and was, probably,
for the remainder of his life, a Frenchman.
He is attentive to his countrymen, and
this reporter partook of several entertainments
at his house.
Methinks the memory of past incidents
must sometimes intrude upon his thoughts.
Can he have utterly forgotten the father whom
he reduced to indigence; whom he sent to a
premature grave? Amidst his present oppulence
one would think it would occur to him
to enquire into the effects of his misconduct,
-- 067 --
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not only to his own family but on others
What a strange diversity there is among human
characters. Frank is, I question not, gay, volatile,
impetuous as ever. The jovial carousal
and the sound sleep are never molested, I dare
say, by the remembrance of the incidents I have
related to you.
Methinks had I the same heavy charges to
make against my conscience, I should find no
refuge but death, from the goadings of remorse.
To have abandoned a father to the
goal or the hospital, or to the charity of
strangers; a father too who had yielded him
an affection and a trust without limits; to have
wronged a sister out of the little property on
which she relied for support, to her unprotected
youth or helpless age. A sister who was
virtually an orphan; who had no natural
claim upon her present patroness, but might be
dismissed pennyless from the house that sheltered
her, without exposing the self-constituted
mother to any reproach.
And has not this event taken place already?
What can I expect but that, at least, it will take
place as soon as she hears of my resolution
with regard to thee? She ought to know it immediately.
I myself ought to tell it, and this
was one of the tasks which I designed to
perform in your absence; yet, alas! know not
how to set about it.
My fingers are for once thoroughly weary. I
must lay down the pen—But first—why don't I
hear from you? Every day since Sunday, when
you left me, have I dispatched an enormous
pacquet; and have not received a sentence in
-- 068 --
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answer. 'Tis not well done, my friend, to
forget and neglect me thus. You gave me
some reason, indeed, to expect no very sudden
tidings from you, but there is inexpiable
treason in the silence of four long days. If
you do not offer substantial excuses for this
delay, woe be to thee.
Take this letter, and expect not another
syllable from my pen till I hear from you.
LETTER VII.
To Henry Colden.
Thursday Night.
What a little thing subverts my peace;
dissipates my resolutions:—am I not an honest
foolish creature, Hal? I uncover this wayward
heart to thy view as promptly as if the disclosure
had no tendency to impair thy esteem,
and forfeit thy love: that is, to devote me to
death; to ruin me beyond redemption.
And yet, if the unveiling of my follies should
have this effect, I think I should despise thee
for stupidity, and hate thee for ingratitude; for
whence proceed my irresolution, my vicissitudes
of purpose, but from my love, and, that
man's heart must be made of strange stuff that
-- 069 --
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can abhor or contemn a woman for loving him
too much. Of such stuff the heart of my
friend, thank heaven, is not made. Though I
love him far—far too much, he will not trample
on, or scoff at me.
But how my pen rambles.—No wonder! for
my intellects are in a strange confusion. There
is an acute pain just here. Give me your hand
and let me put it on the very spot. Alas! there is
no dear hand within my reach. I remember feeling
just such a pain but once before: then you
chanced to be seated by my side. I put your
hand to the spot, and, strange to tell, a moment
after I looked for the pain and 'twas gone—
utterly vanished! Cannot I imagine so strongly
as to experience that relief which your hand
pressed to my forehead would give? Let me lay
down the pen and try.—
Ah! my friend! when present, thou'rt an excellent
physician, but as thy presence is my cure,
so thy absence is my only, my fatal malady.
My desk is, of late, always open: my paper
spread: my pen moist. I must talk to you, tho'
you give me no answer, though I have nothing
but gloomy forebodings to communicate, or
mournful images to call up. I must talk to you,
even when you cannot hear; when invisible; when
distant many a mile. It is some relief even to
corporeal agonies. Even the pain, which I just
now complained of, is lessened since I took up
the pen—O! Hal! Hal! If you ever prove ungrateful
or a traitor to me, and there be a
state retributive hereafter, terrible will be thy
punishment.
But why do I talk to thee thus wildly? why
deal I in such rueful prognostics? I want to tell
-- 070 --
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you why, for I have a reason for my present
alarms: They all spring from one source—my
doubts of thy fidelity. Yes, Henry, since your
arrival at Wilmington, you have been a frequent
visitant of Miss Secker, and have kept a profound
silence towards me.
Nothing can be weaker and more silly than
these disquiets. Cannot my friend visit a deserving
woman a few times, but my terrors must
impertinently intrude—Cannot he forget the
pen, and fail to write to me, for half a week
together, but my rash resentments must conjure
up the phantoms of ingratitude and perfidy.
Pity the weakness of a fond heart, Henry, and
let me hear from you, and be your precious and
long withheld letter my relief from every disquiet.
I believe, and do not believe what I have
heard, and what I have heard teems with a
thousand mischiefs, or is fair and innocent
according to my reigning temper.—Adieu; but
let me hear from you immediately.
-- 071 --
LETTER VIII.
To Jane Talbot.
Wilmington, Saturday, October 9.
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
I thought I had convinced my friend,
that a letter from me ought not to be expected
earlier than Monday. I left her to gratify no
fickle humour, or because my chief pleasure
lay any where but in her company. She
knew of my design to make some stay at this
place, and that the business that occasioned my
stay, would leave me no leisure to write.
Is it possible that my visits to Miss Secker
have given you any concern? why must the
source of your anxiety be always so mortifying
and opprobrious to me? that the absence of a
few days and the company of another woman,
should be thought to change my sentiments,
and make me secretly recant those vows which
I offered to you, is an imputation on my common
sense which—I suppose I deserve. You
judge of me from what you know of me. How
can you do otherwise? If my past conduct
naturally creates such suspicions, whom am I
to blame but myself? reformation should precede
respect, and how should I gain confidence
in my integrity, but as the fruit of perseverance
in well doing.
Alas! how much has he lost who has forfeited
his own esteem!
-- 072 --
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As to Miss Secker, your ignorance of her, and
I may add, of yourself, has given her the preferance.
You think her your superior, no
doubt, in every estimable and attractive quality,
and therefore suspect her influence on a being
so sensual and volatile as poor Hal. Where
she really more lovely, the faithless and giddy
wretch might possibly forget you, but Miss
Secker is a woman whose mind and person are
not only inferior to yours, but wholly unfitted
to inspire love. If it were possible to smile in
my present mood, I think I should indulge one
smile at the thought of falling in love with a
woman who has scarcely had education enough
to enable her to write her name; who has been
confined to her bed about eighteen months, by
a rhumatism contracted by too assiduous application
to the wash-tub, and who often boasts,
that she was born not above forty-five years
ago, in an upper story of the mansion at Mount
Vernon.
You do not tell me who it was that betrayed
me to you. I suspect however it was Miss
Jessup. She was passing through this town in
her uncle's carriage on Wednesday, on her
way home. Seeing me come out of the poor
woman's lodgings, she stopped the coach,
prated for five minutes, and left me with ironical
menaces of telling you of my frequent visits
to a single lady, of whom it appeared that she
had some knowledge. Thus you see that your
disquiets have had no foundation but in the
sportive malice of your talkative neighbour.
Hannah Secker chanced to be talked of at
Mr. Henshaw's as a poor creature, who was
-- 073 --
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sick and destitute, and lay, almost deserted, in a
neighbouring hovel. She existed on charity,
which was the more scanty and reluctant, as
she bore but an indifferent character either for
honesty or gratitude.
The name, when first mentioned, struck my
ear as something that had once been familiar,
and, in my solitary evening walk, I stopped at
her cottage. The sight of her, though withered
by age and disease, called her fully to
mind. Three years ago she lived in the city,
and had been very serviceable to me in the
way of her calling. I had dismissed her, however,
after receiving several proofs that a pair
of silk stockings and a muslin cravat offered
too mighty a temptation for her virtue. You
know I have but little money to spare from
my own necessities, and all the service I could
render her was to be her petitioner and advocate
with some opulent families in this place—
but enough, and too much of Hannah Secker.
Need I say that I have read your narrative,
and that I fully acquit you of the guilt laid to
your charge. That was done, indeed, before I
heard your defence, and I was anxious to hear
your story, merely because all that relates to
you is, in the highest degree, interesting to
me.
This letter, notwithstanding my engagements,
should be longer, if I were not in danger, by
writing on, of losing the post. So, dearest
love, farewell, and tell me in your next, which
I shall expect on Tuesday, that every pain has
vanished from your head and from your heart.
You may as well delay writing to your mother
-- 074 --
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till I return. I hope it will be permitted me to
do so very shortly. Again, my only friend,
farewell.
Henry Colden.
LETTER IX.
To Henry Colden.
Philadelphia, Monday October 11.
I am ashamed of myself, Henry. What an
inconsistent creature am I? I have just placed
this dear letter of your's next my heart. The
sensation it affords, at this moment, is delicious:
almost as much so as I once experienced
from a certain somebody's hand, placed on the
same spot. But that somebody's hand was never
(if I recollect aright) so highly honoured
as this paper. Have I not told you that your
letter is deposited next my heart?
And with all these proofs of the pleasure
your letter affords me, could you guess at the
cause of those tears which even now, have not
ceased flowing? Your letter has so little tenderness—
is so very cold—but let me not be ungrateful
for the preference you grant me,
merely because it is not so enthusiastic and unlimited
as my own.
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
I suppose, if I had not extorted from you
some account of this poor woman, I should never
have heard a syllable of your meeting with
her. It is surely possible for people to be
their own calumniators, to place their own
actions in the worst light; to exaggerate their
faults and conceal their virtues. If the fictions
and artifices of vanity be detestible, the
concealment of our good actions is surely not
without guilt. The conviction of our guilt is
painful to those that love us; wantonly and
needlessly to give this pain is very perverse
and unjustifiable. If a contrary deportment
argue vanity, self detraction seems to be the
offspring of pride.
Thou art the strangest of men, Henry.
Thy whole conduct, with regard to me has
been a tissue of self-upbraidings. You have
disclosed not only a thousand misdeeds (as you
have thought them) which could not possibly
have come to my knowledge by any other
means, but have laboured to ascribe even your
commendable actions to evil or ambiguous motives.
Motives are impenetrable, and a thousand
cases have occurred in which every rational
observer would have supposed you to be influenced
by the best motives, but where if credit
be due to your own representations, your
motives were far from being laudable.
Why is my esteem rather heigtened than depressed
by this deportment. In truth, there is
no crime which remorse will not expiate, and
no more shining virtue in the whole catalogue
than sincerity. Besides, your own account of
yourself, with all the exaggerations of humility,
-- 076 --
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
proved you, on the whole, and with the allowances
necessarily made by every candid person,
to be a very excellent man.
Your deportment to me ought chiefly to govern
my opinion of you, and have you not been
uniformly generous, sincere and upright? not
quite passionate enough, perhaps; no blind and
precipitate enthusiast; Love has not banished discretion,
or blindfolded your sagacity, and as I
should forgive a thousand errors on the score
of love, I cannot fervently applaud that wisdom
which tramples upon love. Thou hast a thousand
excellent qualities, Henry, that is certain,
yet a little more impetuosity and fervour in thy
tenderness would compensate for the want of
the whole thousand. There is a frank confession
for thee! I am confounded at my own temerity
in making it. Will it not injure me,
in thy esteem, and of all evils which it is possible
for me to suffer, the loss of that esteem,
would soonest drive me to desperation.
The world has been liberal of its censure,
but surely a thorough knowledge of my conduct
could not condemn me. When my father and
mother united their entreaties to those of Talbot,
my heart had never known a preference.
The man of their choice was perfectly indifferent
to me, but every individual of his sex was
regarded with no less indifference. I did not
conceal from him the state of my feelings, but
was always perfectly ingenuous and explicit.
Talbot acted like every man in love. He was
eager to secure me on these terms, and fondly
trusted to his tenderness and perseverance, to
gain those affections, which I truly
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
acknowledged to be free. He would not leave me for
his Eropean voyage till he had extorted a solemn
promise.
During his absence, I met you. The nature
of those throbs, which a glance of your
very shadow was sure to produce, even previous
to the exchange of a single word between
us, was entirely unknown to me. I had no experience
to guide me. The effects of that intercourse
which I took such pains to procure,
could not be foreseen. My heart was too pure
to admit even such a guest as apprehension,
and the only information I possessed respecting
you, impressed me with the notion that your
heart already belonged to another.
I sought nothing but your society and your
esteem. If the fetters of my promise to Talbot,
became irksome after my knowledge of
you, I was unconscious of the true cause. This
promise never for a moment lost its obligation
with me. I deemed myself as much the wife of
Talbot, as if I had stood with him at the altar.
At the prospect of his return, my melancholy
was excruciating, but the cause was unknown
to me. I had nothing to wish, with regard to
you, but to see you occasionally; to hear your
voice, and to be told that you were happy. It
never occurred to me that Talbot's return would
occasion any difference in this respect. Conscious
of nothing but rectitude in my regard
for you; always frank and ingenuous in disclosing
my feelings, I imagined that Talbot
would adopt you as warmly for his friend as I
had done.
-- 078 --
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
I must grant that I erred in this particular,
but my error sprung from ignorance unavoidable.
I judged of others by my own heart and
very sillily imagined that Talbot would continue
to be satisfied with that cold and friendly
regard for which only my vows made me
answerable—Yet my husband's jealousies and
discontents were not unreasonable. He loved
me with passion, and if that sentiment can endure
to be unrequited, it will never tolerate the
preference of another, even if that preference
be less than love.
In compliance with my husband's wishes—
Ah! my friend! why cannot I say that I did
comply with them; what a fatal act is that of
plighting hands, when the heart is estranged.
Never, never let the placable and compassionate
spirit, be seduced into an union, to which
the affections are averse. Let it not confide
in the after birth of love. Such an union is
the direst cruelty even to the object who is intended
to be benefited.
I have not yet thoroughly forgiven you for
deserting me. My heart swells with anguish
at the thought of your setting more lightly by my
resentment than by that of another; of your willingness
to purchase any one's happiness at the
cost of mine. You are too wise; too dispassionate
by far. Don't dispise me for this accusation,
Henry, You know my unbiassed judgment
has always been with you. Repeated
proofs have convinced me that my dignity and
happiness are safer in your keeping than in
my own.
You guess right my friend. Miss Jessup told
me of your visits to this poor sick woman.
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
There is something mysterious in the character
of this Polly Jessup. She is particularly solicitous
about every thing which relates to you. It
has occurred to me, since reading your letter,
that she is not entirely without design in her
prattle. Something more, methinks, more than
the mere tatling, gossipping, inquisitive propensity,
in the way in which she introduces you into
conversation.
She had not alighted ten minutes before she
ran into my apartment, with a face full of intelligence.
The truth respecting the wash-woman
was very artfully disguised, and yet so managed
as to allow her to elude the imputation of
direct falsehood. She will, no doubt, in this,
as in former cases cover up all under the appearance
of a good natured jest; yet, if she be in
jest, there is more of malice, I suspect, than
of good nature in her merriment.
Make haste back, my dear Hal. I cannot
bear to keep my mother in ignorance of our resolutions,
and I am utterly at a loss in what manner
to communicate them, so as to awaken the
least reluctance. O! what would be wanting to
my felicity if my mother could be won over to
my side. And is so inestimable a good utterly
hopeless. Come, my friend, and dictate such
a letter as may subdue those prejudices, which,
while they continue to exist, will permit me to
chuse only among deplorable evils.
Jane Talbot.
-- 080 --
LETTER X
To Jane Talbot.
New-York, October 13.
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
I have just heard something which has made
me very uneasy. I am afraid of seeming to
you impertinent. You have declared your resolution
to persist in conduct which my judgment
disapproved. I have argued with you and
admonished you, hitherto, in vain, and you have
(tacitly indeed) rejected my interference: yet I
cannot forbear offering you my counsel once
more.
To say truth, it is not so much with a view
to change your resolution, that I now write, as
to be informed what your resolution is. I
have heard what I cannot believe, yet, considering
your former conduct, I have misgivings
that I cannot subdue. Strangely as you have acted
of late I am willing to think you incapable
of what is laid to your charge. In few words,
Jane, they tell me that you mean to be actually
married to Colden.
You know what I think of that young man.
You know my objections to the conduct you
thought proper to pursue in relation to Colden,
in your husband's life time. You will judge
then with what emotions such intelligence was
received.
-- 081 --
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
I discreet as you have been, there are I hope,
bounds which your education will not permit
you to pass. Some regard, I hope, you will
have for your own reputation. If your conscience
object not to this proceeding, the dread
of infamy, at least, will check your career.
You may think that I speak harshly, and that
I ought to wait, at least, till I knew your resolution,
before I spoke of it in such terms; but
if this report be groundless, my censures cannot
affect you. If it be true, they may serve, I hope,
to deter you from persisting in your scheme.
What more can I say? You are my nearest
relation; not my daughter, it is true, but, since
I have not any other kindred, you are more than
a daughter to me. That love which a numerous
family or kindred would divide among
themselves, is all collected and centered in you.
The ties between us have long ceased to be artificial
ones, and I feel, in all respects, as if you
actually owed your being to me.
You have hitherto consulted my pleasure but
little. I have all the rights, in regard to you,
of a mother, but these have been hitherto despised
or unacknowledged. I once regarded you
as the natural successor to my property, and
tho' your conduct has forfeited these claims, I
now tell you, and you know that my word is sacred,
that all I have shall be yours, on condition
that Colden is dismissed.
More than this I will do. Every assurance
possible I will give, that all shall be your's at
my death, and all I have, I will share with you,
equally, while I live. Only give me your word
that, as soon as the transfer is made, Colden
shall be thought of and conversed with, either
-- 082 --
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
personally or by letter, no more. I want only
your promise; on that I will absolutely rely.
Mere lucre ought not perhaps, to influence
you, in such a case, and if you comply, through
regard to my peace, or your own reputation,
I shall certainly esteem you more highly than
if you are determined by the present offer, yet,
such is my aversion to this alliance, that the
hour in which I hear of your consent to the
conditions which I now propose to you, will be
esteemed one of the happiest of my life.
Think of it, my dear Jane, my friend, my
child, think of it. Take time to reflect, and
let me have a deliberate answer, such as will
remove the fears that at present afflict, beyond
my power of expression, your
H. Fielder.
LETTER XI.
To Mrs. Fielder.
Philadelphia, October 15.
I have several times taken up the pen, but
my distress has compelled me to lay it down
again. Heaven is my witness that the happiness
of my revered mamma is dearer to me
than my own; no struggle was ever greater
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
between my duty to you and the claims of
another.
Will you not permit me to explain my conduct?
will you not acquaint me with the reasons
of your aversion to my friend?—let me
call him by that name. Such indeed, has he
been to me: the friend of my understanding
and my virtue. My soul's friend; since, to
suffer, without guilt, in this world, entitles us
to peace in another, and since to him I owe
that I have not been a guilty, as well as an unfortunate
creature.
Whatever conduct I pursue with regard to
him, I must always consider him in this light:
at least, till your proofs against him are heard.
Let me hear them I beseech you. Have compassion
on the anguish of your poor girl, and
reconcile, if possible, my duty to your inclination,
by stating what you know to his disadvantage.
You must have causes for your enmity,
which you hide from me. Indeed, you tell me
that you have: you say that if I knew them
they would determine me. Let then every motive
be set aside through regard to my happiness,
and disclose to me this secret.
While I am ignorant of these charges; while
all that I know of Colden tends to endear his
happiness to me, and while his happiness depends
upon my acceptance of his vows, can I, ought I,
to reject him?
Place yourself in my situation. You once loved
and was once beloved. I am, indeed, your child.
I glory in the name which you have had the
goodness to bestow upon me. Think and feel
for your child, in her present unhappy
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
circumstances; in which she does not balance between
happiness and misery; that alternative, alas! is
not permitted; but is anxious to discover which
path has fewest thorns, and in which her duty
will allow her to walk.
How greatly do you humble me! and how
strongly evince your aversion to Colden, by
offering, as the price of his rejection, half your
property. How low am I fallen in your esteem,
since you think it possible for such a bribe to
prevail, and what calamities must this alliance
seem to threaten, since the base selfishness of
accepting this offer, is better in your eyes, than
my marriage!
Sure I never was unhappy till now. Pity me,
my mother. Condescend to write to me again,
and by disclosing all your objections to Colden,
reconcile, I earnestly intreat you, my duty to
your inclination.
Jane Talbot.
-- 085 --
LETTER XII.
To Mrs. Fielder.
Philadelphia, October 15.
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
You will not write to me. Your messenger
assures me that you have cast me from your
thoughts forever, you will speak to me and see
me no more.
That must not be. I am preparing, inclement
as the season is, to pay you a visit. Unless
you shut your door against me I will see
you. You will not turn me out of doors, I hope.
I will see you and compel you to answer me,
to tell me why you will not admit my friend to
your good opinion.
J. Talbot.
LETTER XIII
To Jane Talbot.
New York, October 19.
You need not come to see me, Jane. I will
not see you. Lay me not under the cruel necessity
of shutting my door against you, for that
must be the consequence of your attempt.
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
After reading your letter, and seeing full
proof of your infatuation, I resolved to throw
away my care no longer upon you. To think
no more of you. To act just as if you never had
existence. Whenever it was possible, to shun
you. When I met you, by chance or perforce,
to treat you merely as a stranger. I write this
letter to acquaint you with my resolution. Your
future letters cannot change it, for they shall
all be returned to you unopened.
I know you better than to trust to the appearance
of half yielding reluctance which your letter
contains. Thus it has always been, and as
often as this dutious strain flattered me with
hopes of winning you to reason, have I been deceived
and disappointed.
I trust to your discernment: your seeming
humility no longer. No child are you of mine.
You have, henceforth, no part in my blood, and
may I very soon forget that so lost and betrayed
a wretch ever belonged to it.
I charge you, write not to me again.
H. F.
-- 087 --
LETTER XIV.
To Mrs. Fielder.
Philadelphia, October 24.
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
Impossible! Are you not my mother?
more to me than any mother. Did I not receive
your protection and instruction in my infancy and
my childhood? When left an orphan by my own
mother, your bosom was open to receive me.
There was the helpless babe cherished, and there
was it taught all that virtue, which it has since endeavoured
to preserve unimpaired in every trial.
You must not cast me off. You must not
hate me. You must not call me ungrateful and
a wretch. Not to have merited these names is
all that enables me to endure your displeasure.
As long as that belief consoles me, my heart will
not break.
Yet that, even that, will not much avail me.
The distress that I now feel, that I have felt ever
since the receipt of your letter cannot be
increased.
You forbid me to write to you, but I cannot
forbear as long as there is hope of extorting from
you the cause of your aversion to my friend. I
solicit not this disclosure with a view or even in
the hope of repelling your objections. I want,
I had almost said, I want to share your antipathies.
I want only to be justified in obeying
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
you. When known, they will, perhaps, be found
sufficient. I conjure you, once more, tell me
your objections to this marriage.
As well as I can, I have examined myself.
Passion may influence me, but I am unconscious
of its influence. I think I act with no exclusive
regard to my own pleasure, but as it flows
from and is dependant on the happiness of
others.
If I am mistaken in my notions of duty, God
forbid that I should shut my ears against good
counsel. Instead of loathing or shunning it, I
am anxious to hear it. I know my own shortsighted
folly: my slight experience. I know
how apt I am to go astray. How often my
own heart deceives me, and hence I always am
in search of better knowledge: hence I listen
to admonition, not only with docility but gratitude.
My inclination ought perhaps to be absolutely
neuter, but if I know myself, it is with
reluctance that I withhold my assent from the
expostulator. I am delighted to receive conviction
from the arguments of those that love
me.
In this case, I am prepared to hear and
weigh, and be convinced by any thing you think
proper to urge.
I ask not pardon for my faults, nor compassion
on my frailty. That I love Colden I will
not deny, but I love his worth; his merits real
or imaginary enrapture my soul. Ideal his
virtues may be, but to me they are real, and
the moment they cease to be so, that the illusion
disappears, I cease to love him, or, at least,
I will do all in my power to do. I will forbear
-- 089 --
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
all intercourse or correspondence with him—
for his, as well as my own sake.
Tell me then, my mother, what you know
of him. What heinous offence has he committed,
that makes him unworthy of my regard.
You have raised, without knowing it, perhaps,
or designing to effect it in this way, a bar to
this detested alliance. While you declare, that
Colden has been guilty of base actions, it is impossible
to grant him my esteem as fully as an
husband should claim. Till I know what the
actions are which you impute to him, I never
will bind myself to him by indissoluble bands.
I have told him this and he joins with me to
intreat you to communicate your charges to
me. He believes that you are misled by some
misapprehension; some slander. He is conscious
that many of his actions have been, in some
respects, ambiguous, capable of being mistaken
by careless or distant or prejudiced observers.
He believes that you have been betrayed into
some fatal error in relation to one action of his
life.
If this be so, he wishes only to be told his
fault, and will spare no time and no pains to remove
your mistake, if you should appear to be
mistaken.
How easily, my good mamma, may the most
discerning and impartial be misled! The ignorant
and envious have no choice between truth
and error. Their tales must want something
to compleat it, or must possess more than
the truth demands. Something you have heard
of my friend injurious to his good name, and
you condemn him unheard.
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
Yet this displeases me not. I am not anxious
for his justification, but only to know so much
as will authorize me to conform to your wishes.
You warn me against this marriage for my
own sake. You think it will be disastrous to
me.—The reasons of this apprehension would,
you think, appear just in my eyes should they
be disclosed, yet you will not disclose them.
Without disclosure I cannot,—as a rational creature,
I cannot change my resolution. If then I
marry and the evil come that is threatened,
whom have I to blame? at whose door must
my misfortunes be laid if not at her's, who had
it in her power to prevent the evil and would
not?
Your treatment of me can proceed only from
your love, and yet all the fruits of the direst
enmity may grow out of it. By untimely concealments
may my peace be forfeited forever.
Judge then between your obligations to me,
and those of secrecy into which you seem to
have entered with another.
My happiness, my future conduct are in
your hand. Mould them; govern them as you
think proper. I have pointed out the means,
and once more conjure you, by the love which
you once bore; which you still bear to me, to
use them.
Jane Talbot.
-- 091 --
LETTER XV.
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
To Jane Talbot.
New-York, October 27.
Insolent creature that thou art, Jane,
and cunning as insolent! To elude my just determination
by such an artifice! To counterfeit
a strange hand, in the direction of thy letter,
that I might thereby be induced to open it.
Thou wilt not rest, I see, till thou hast torn
from my heart every root; every fibre of my
once cherished tenderness: Till thou hast laid
my head low in the grave. To number the tears
and the pangs which thy depravity has already
cost me—but thy last act is destined to surpass
all former ones.
Thy perseverance in wickedness, thy inflexible
imposture amazes me beyond all utterance.
Thy effrontery in boasting of thy innocence;
in calling this wretch thy friend, thy soul's
friend, the means of securing the favour of a
pure and all-seeing judge, exceeds all that I
supposed possible to human nature. And that
thou, Jane, the darling of my heart, and the object
of all my care and my pride, should be
this profligate, this obdurate creature!
When very young you were ill of a fever.
The physician gave up, for some hours, all
hope of your life. I shall never forget the
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
grief which his gloomy silence gave me. All
that I held dear in the world, I then thought, I
would cheerfully surrender to save your life.
Poor short-sighted wretch that I was. That
event, which, had it then happened, would,
perhaps have bereaved me of reason, would
have saved me from a portion far more bitter. I
should have never lived to witness the depravity
of one, whom my whole life had been employed
in training to virtue.
Having opened your letter, and somewhat
debated with myself, I consented to read. I
will do more than read: I will answer it minutely.
I will unfold that secret, by which, you
truly think, my aversion to your present scheme
has been chiefly caused.
I have hitherto been silent thro' compassion
to you; through the hope that all might yet
be well; that you might be influenced by my persuasions
to forbear an action, that will insure
forever your ruin. I now perceive the folly of
this compassion and these hopes. I need not be
assiduous to spare you the shame and mortification
of hearing the truth. Shame is as much a
stranger to your heart as remorse. Say what I
will; disclose what I will, your conduct will be
just the same. A show of much reluctance and
humility will, no doubt, be made, and the tongue
will be busy in imploring favour which the heart
disdains.
In the foresight of this, I was going to forbid
your writing, but you care not for my forbidding.
As long as you think it possible to reconcile me
to your views, and make me a partaker in your
infamy, you will harrass me with importunity;
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
with feigned penitence and preposterous arguments—
But one thing at least is in my power.
I can shun you, and I can throw your unopened
letters into the fire, and that, believe me,
Jane, I shall do.
But I am wasting time. My indignation carries
me away from my purpose. Let me return
to it, and having told you all my mind, let me
dismiss the hateful subject forever.
I knew the motives that induced you to marry
Lewis Talbot. They were good ones.
Your compliance with mine and your father's
wishes in that respect, shewed that force of understanding
which I always ascribed to you.
Your previous reluctance: your scruples, were
indeed unworthy of you, but you conquered
them and that was better; perhaps, it evinced
more magnanimity than never to have had them.
You were happy, I long thought, in your union
with a man of probity and good sense. You
may be sure, I thought of you often, but only
with pleasure. Certain indications, I early saw
in you of a sensibility that required strict government:
an inattention to any thing but feeling:
a proneness to romantic friendship and a
pining after good not consistent with our nature.
I imagined that I had kept at a distance all such
books and companions as tend to produce this
phantastic character, and whence you imbibed
this perverse spirit, at so early an age, is, to
me, inconceivable. It cost me many a gloomy
foreboding.
My disquiets increased as you grew up, and
that age arrived when the heart comes to be entangled
with what is called love. I was anxious
to find for you a man of merit, to whose
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
keeping your happiness might safely be entrusted.
Talbot was such an one, but the wayward heart
refused to love him. He was not all your fancy
had conceived of excellent and lovely. He was
a mere man, with the taste and habits suitable
and common to his education and age. He was
addicted to industry, was regular and frugal in
his manners and economy. He had nothing of
that specious and glossy texture which captivates
inexperience and youth, and serves as a
substitute for evey other virtue. While others
talked about their duty he was contented with
performing it, and he was satisfied with ignorance
of theories as long as his practice was
faultless.
He was just such an one as I wished for the
darling of my heart, but you thought not so.
You did not object to his age, though almost
double your own: to his person or aspect, tho'
they were by no means worthy of his mind: to
his profession or condition; but your heart sighed
after one who could divide with you your
sympathies. Who saw every thing just as you
saw it. Who could emulate your enthusiasm,
and echo back every exclamation which chance
should dictate to you.
You even pleaded religion as one of your objections.
Talbot, it seems, had nothing that deserved
to be called religion. He had never reasoned
on the subject. He had read no books
and had never looked into his bible since he was
fifteen years old. He seldom went to Church,
but because it was the fashion, and when there,
seldom spared a thought from his own temporal
concerns, to a future state and a
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
governing deity. All those expansions of soul, produced
by meditation on the power and goodness
of our maker, and those raptures that flow from
accommodating all our actions to his will, and
from consciousness of his approbation and presence,
you discovered to be strangers to his
breast, and, therefore, you scrupled to unite
your fate with his.
It was not enough that this man has never
been seduced into disbelief. That his faith was
steadfast and rational, without producing those
fervours and reveries and rhapsodies, which unfit
us for the mixed scenes of human life, and
breed in us absurd and phantastic notions of
our duty or our happiness: that his religion had
produced all its practical effects, in honest, regular,
sober and consistent conduct.
You wanted a zealot; a sectary: one that
should enter into all the trifling distinctions and
minute subtilties that make one christian the
mortal foe of another, while, in their social conduct,
there is no difference to be found between
them.
I do not repeat these things to upbraid you for
what you then were, but merely to remind you
of the inconsistency of these notions with your
subsequent conduct. You then, at the instance
of your father and at my instance gave them up,
and that compliance, supposing your scruples
to have been undissembled, made you a still
greater interest in our affections.
You never gave me reason to suppose that you
repented of this compliance. I never saw you
after your engagement, but you wore a cheerful
countenance; at least, till your unfortunate
-- 096 --
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
connection with Colden. To that connection must
be traced every misfortune and depravity that
has attended you since.
When I heard from Patty Sinclair, of his frequent
visits to you during your retirement at
Burlington, I thought of it but little. He was,
indeed, a new acquaintance. You were unacquainted
with his character and history, except
so far as you could collect them from his conversation,
and no confidence could of course, be placed
in that. It was therefore, perhaps, somewhat
indiscreet, to permit such very frequent visits;
such very long walks. To neglect the friends
whom you lived with, for the sake of exclusive
conversations and lonely rambles, noon and
night, with a mere stranger. One, not regularly
introduced to you. Whose name you were
obliged to enquire of himself. You too, already
a betrothed woman: your lover absent: yourself
from home, and merely on terms of hospitality!
all this did not look well.
But the mischief, it was evident, was to be
known by the event. Colden might have probity
and circumspection. He might prove an
agreeable friend to your future husband and a
useful companion to yourself. Kept within due
limits, your complacency for this stranger; your
attachment to his company, might occasion no
inconvenience: How little did I then suspect to
what extremes you were capable of going, and
even then had actually gone!
The subject was of sufficient importance to
induce me to write to you. Your answer was
not quite satisfactory; yet on the whole, laid
my apprehensi ns at rest. I was deceived by
-- 097 --
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
the confidence you expressed in your own caution,
and the seeming readiness there was to be
governed by my advice.
Afterwards, I heard, through various channels,
without any efforts on my part, intelligence
of Colden. At first I was not much alarmed.
Colden, it is true, was not a faultless
or steadfast character. No gross or enormous
vices were ascribed to him. His habits, as far
as appearances enabled one to judge, were temperate
and chaste. He was contemplative and
bookish and was vaguely described as being
somewhat visionary and romantic.
In all this there was nothing formidable.
Such a man might surely be an harmless companion.
Those with whom he was said to associate
most intimately were highly estimable.
Their esteem was a test of merit, not to be disposed
or hastily rejected.
Things, however, quickly took a new face.
I was informed that after your return to the city,
Colden continued to be a very constant visitant.
Your husband's voyage left you soon after at liberty,
and your intercourse with this person,
only became more intimate and confidential-
Reflecting closely on this circumstance, I
began to suspect some danger lurking in your
path. I now remembered that impetuosity of
feeling which distinguished your early age:
those notions of kindred among souls: of
friendship and harmony of feelings which, in
your juvenile age, you loved to indulge.
I reflected that the victory over these chimeras,
which you gained by marriage with Talbot,
might be merely temporary: and that in order
-- 098 --
[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
to call these dormant feelings into action, it
was only requisite to meet with one, contemplative,
bookish and romantic as yourself.
Such a one, it was greatly to be feared, you
had now found in this young man; just such qualities
he was reported to possess, as would render
him dangerous to you, and you dangerous to him.
A poet, not in theory only, but in practise:
accustomed to intoxicate the women with melodious
flattery; fond of being intimate; avowedly
devoted to the sex: eloqueut in his encomiums
upon female charms; and affecting
to select his friends only from that sex.
What effect might such a character have upon
your peace, even without imputing any ill
attention to him? both of you might work
your own ruin, while you designed nothing but
good, and even supposing that your intercourse
should be harmless, or even beneficial with
respect to yourselves, what was to be feared
for Talbot? An intimacy of this kind could
hardly escape his observation on his return.
It would be criminal, indeed, to conceal it
from him.
These apprehensions were raised to the highest
pitch by more accurate information of Colden's
character which I afterwards received.
I found, on enquiring of those who had the
best means of knowing, that Colden had imbibed
that pernicious philosophy which is now so
much in vogue. One who knew him perfectly;
who had long been in habits of the closest
intimacy with him, who was still a familiar
correspondent of his, gave me this account.
I met this friend of Colden's, Thomson his
-- 099 --
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
name is, of whom I suppose you have heard
something, in this city. His being mentioned
as the intimate companion of Colden, made me
wish to see him, and fortunately I prevailed
upon him to be very communicative.
Thomson is an excellent young man: he
loves Colden much, and describes the progress
of his friend's opinions with every mark of regret.
He even showed me letters that had passed
between them, and in which every horrid
and immoral tenet was defended by one and
denied by the other. These letters showed
Colden as the advocate of suicide; a scoffer at
promises; the despiser of revelation, of providence
and a future state; an opponent of marriage,
and as one who denied (shocking!) that
any thing but mere habit and positive law, stood
in the way of marriage; nay, of intercourse
without marriage, between brother and sister,
parent and child!
You may readily believe that I did not credit
such things on slight evidence. I did not
rely on Thomson's mere words, solemn and
unaffected as these were; nothing but Colden's
hand-writing could in such a case, be credited.
To say truth, I should not be much surprised
had I heard of Colden, as of a youth whose
notions, on moral and religious topics, were,
in some degree, unsettled: that in the fervour
and giddiness incident to his age, he had not
tamed his mind to investigation: had not subdued
his heart to regular and devout thoughts:
that his passions or his indolence had made the
truths of religion somewhat obscure, and shut
them out, not properly from his conviction
but only from his attention.
-- 100 --
[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
I expected to find, united with this vague
and dubious state of mind, tokens of the influence
of a pious education: a reverence, at least,
for those sacred precepts on which the happiness
of men rests, and at least, a practical observance
of that which, if not fully admitted by
his understanding, was yet very far from having
been rejected by it.
But widely and deplorably different was Colden's
case. A most facinating book[1] fell at length
into his hands, which changed, in a moment,
the whole course of his ideas. What he had
before regarded with reluctance and terror,
this book taught him to admire and love. The
writer has the art of the grand deceiver; the
fatal art of carrying the worst poison under the
name and appearance of wholesome food; of
disguising all that is impious or blasphemous
or licentious under the guise and sanctions of
virtue.
Colden had lived before this without examination
or enquiry. His heart, his inclination
was, perhaps, on the side of religion and true
virtue, but this book carried all his inclination,
his zeal and his enthusiasm, over to the adversary,
and so strangely had he been perverted,
that he held himself bound, he conceived it to
be his duty, to vindicate, in private and public,
to preach, with vehemence, his new faith. The
rage for making converts seized him, and that
Thomson was not won over to the same cause,
proceeded from no want of industry in Colden.
Such was the man whom you had admitted
to your confidence; whom you had adopted
for your bosom friend. I knew your
-- 101 --
[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]
pretensions to religion, the stress which you laid upon
piety as the basis of morals. I remembered
your objections to Talbot on this score, not
only as a husband, but as a friend. I could,
therefore, only suppose that Colden had joined
dissimulation to his other errors, and had
gained and kept your good opinion by avowing
sentiments which his heart secretly abhored.
I cannot describe to you, Jane, my alarms
upon this discovery. That your cook had intended
to poison you, the next meat which you
should eat in your own house, would have alarmed
me I assure you, much less. The preservation
of your virtue was unspeakably of
more importance in my eyes than of your life.
I wrote to you, and what was your reply? I
could scarcely believe my senses. Every horrid
foreboding realized! already such an adept
in this accursed sophistry! the very cant of
that detestible sect adopted!
I had plumed myself upon your ignorance.
He had taken advantage of that, I supposed,
and had won your esteem by counterfeiting a
moral and pious strain. To make you put
him forever at a distance, it was needed only
to tear off his mask. This was done, but, alas,
too late for your safety. The paison was already
swallowed.
I had no patience with you, to listen to your
trifling and insidious distinctions; such as,
though you could audaciously urge them to
me, possessed no weight; could possess no
weight in your understanding. What was it to
me whether he was ruffian or madman;
-- 102 --
[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]
whither in desroying you, he meant to destroy or
to save? Is it proper to expose your breast to a
sword, because the wretch that wields it, supposes
madly that it is a straw, which he holds in
his hand?
But I will not renew the subject. The same
motives that induced me to attempt to reason
with you then, no longer exists. The anguish,
the astonishment which your letters, as they
gradually unfolded your character, produced
in me, I endeavoured to show you at the time.
Now I pass them over to come to a more important
circumstance.
Yet how shall I tell it thee, Jane. I am afraid
to entrust it to paper. Thy fame is still
dear to me. I would not be the means of irretrievably
blasting thy fame. Yet what may
come of relating some incidents on paper?
Faint is my hope, but I am not without some
hope, that thou canst yet be saved: be snatched
from perdition. Thy life I value not in comparison
with something higher. And if, through
an erring sensibility, the sacrafice of Colden
cost thee thy life, I shall yet rejoice. As the
wife of Colden, thou wilt be worse than dead to
me.
What has come to me, I wonder? I began
this letter with a firm and as I thought inflexible
soul. Despair had made me serene, yet
now thy image rises before me, with all those
bewitching graces which adorned thee when
thou wast innocent and a child. All the mother
seizes my heart and my tears suffocate me.
Shall I shock, shall I wound thee, my child,
by lifting the veil from thy mis-conduct, behind
-- 103 --
[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]
which thou thinkest thou art screened from every
human eye? How little dost thou imagine
that I know so much!
Now will thy expostulations and reasonings
have an end. Surely they will have an end.
Shame at last; Shame at last will overwhelm
thee and make thee dumb.
Yet my heart sorely misgives me. I shudder
at the extremes to which thy accursed seducer
may have urged thee. What thou hast failed
in concealing, thou mayest be so obdurately
wicked as to attempt to justify.
Was it not the unavoiable result of confiding
in a man avowedly irreligious and immoral:
Of exposing thy understanding and thy heart to
such stratagems as his philosophy made laudable
and necessary? But I know not what I would
say. I must lay down the pen, till I can reason
myself into some composure. I will write again
to-morrow.
H Fielder.
eaf032.n1[1] Godwins Political Justice.
-- 104 --
LETTER XVI.
[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
O MY lost child! In thy humiliations at this
moment I can sympathize. The shame that
must follow the detection of it is more within
my thoughts at present, than the negligence
or infatuation that occasioned thy faults.
I know all. Thy intended husband knew it
all. It was from him that the horrible tidings
of thy unfaithfulness to marriage vows first came.
He visited this city on purpose to obtain an
interview with me. He entered my apartment
with every mark of distress. He knew well the
effect of such tidings on my heart. Most eagerly
would I have laid down my life to preserve
thy purity spotless.
He demeaned himself as one who loved thee,
with a rational affection, and who, however
deeply he deplored the loss of thy love, accounted
thy defection from virtue of infinitely greater
moment.
I was willing to discredit even his assertion.
Far better it was that the husband should prove
the defamer of his wife, than that my darling child
should prove a profligate? but he left me no
room to doubt by shewing me a letter
He shewed it me on condition of my being everlastingly
silent to you in regard to its
-- 105 --
[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
contents. He yielded to a jealousy which would
not be conquered, and had gotten this letter by
surreptitious means. He was ashamed of an
action which his judgment condemned as ignoble
and deceitful.
Far more wise and considerate was this excellent
and injured man than I. He was afraid,
by disclosing to you the knowledge he had thus
gained, of rendering you desperate and hardened.
As long as reputation was not gone, he
thought your errors were retrievable. He distrusted
the success of his own efforts, and besought
me to be your guardian: As to himself
he resigned the hope of even gaining your love,
and entreated me to exert myself for dissolving
your connection with Colden, merely for your
own sake.
To show me the necessity of my exertions
he had communicated this letter, believing
that my maternal interest in your happiness,
would prevent me from making any but a salutary
use of it. Yet he had not put your safety
into my hands, without a surety. He was so
fully persuaded of the ill consequences of your
knowing how much was known, that he had
given me the proofs of your guilt, only on my
solemn promise to conceal them from you.
I saw the generosity and force of his representations,
and while I endeavoured by the
most earnest remonstrances, to break your union
with Colden, I suffered no particle of the
truth to escape me. But you were hard as a
rock. You would not forbid his visits, nor reject
his letters.
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I need not repeat to you what followed; by what
means I endeavoured to effect that end, which
your obstinate folly refused.
When I gave this promise to Talbot, I foresaw
not his speedy death and the consequences
to Colden and yourself. I have been affrighted
at the rumour of your marriage, and to justify
the conduct I mean to pursue, I have revealed
to you, what I promised to conceal, merely because
I foresaw not the present state of your
affairs.
You will not be surprised that on your marriage
with this man, I should withdraw from
you what you now hold from my bounty. No
faultiness in you shall induce me to leave you without
the means of decent subsistence, but I owe
no benevolence to Colden. My duty will not
permit me to give any thing to your paramour.
When you change your name you must change
your habitation and leave behind you whatever
you found.
Think not, Jane, that I cease to love thee.
I am not so inhuman as to refuse my forgiveness
to a penitent; yet I ask not thy penitence
to insure thee my affection. I have told thee
my conditions and adhere to them still.
To preclude all bickerings and cavils, I enclose
the letter which attests your fall.
H. Fielder.
-- 107 --
LETTER XVII.
To Henry Colden.
Tuesday Morning.
[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]
(Enclosed letter.)
You went away this morning before I was
awake, I think you might have staid to
breakfast, yet on second thoughts, your early
departure was best. Perhaps, it was so.
You have made me very thoughtful, to day.
What passed last night has left my mind at no
liberty to read and to scribble as I used to do.
How your omens made me shudder!
I want to see you. Can't you come again
this evening? but no, you must not. I must
not be an encroacher. I must judge of others,
and of their claims upon your company,
by myself and my own claims. Yet I should
be glad to see that creature who would dare to
enter into competition with me.
But I may as well hold my peace. My rights
will not be admitted by others. Indeed no soul
but yourself can know them in all their extent,
and, what is all I care for, you are far from being
strictly just to me.
Don't be angry, Hall. Skip the last couple
of sentences, or think of them as not mine. I
disown them, to-morrow, at six, the fire shall
be stirred, the candles lighted, and the sofa placed
in order due. I shall be at home to nobody;
mind that.
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“I am loath to mention one thing, however,
“but I must. Though nothing be due to the absent
“man, somewhat is due to myself. I have been ex
“cessively uneasy the whole day. I am terrified at
“certain consequences. What may not happen if,
“No; the last night's scene must not be repeated;
“atl east, for a month to come. The sweet obliv
“ion of the future and past lasted only for the
“night. Now I have liesure to look forward, and
“am resolved (dont laugh at my resolves; I am
“quite in earnest.—) to keep thee at a distance
“for at least a fortnight to come. It shall be a
“whole month, if thou dost not submit with a
“good grace.”
Jane Talbot.
LETTER XVIII.
To Mr. Henry Colden.
New York, October 22.
Sir.
I ADDRESS myself to you as the mother of
an unhappy girl, who has put herself into your
power, But I write not to upbraid you or indulge
my own indignation, but merely to beseech
-- 109 --
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your compassion for her whom you profess to
love.
I cannot apologize for the manner in which I
have acted in regard to your connection with Jane
Talbot. In that respect, I must take to myself
all the blame you may chuse to impute to
me.
I call not into question the disinterestedness
of your intentions in proposing marriage to this
woman, nor, if the information which I am going
to give you, should possess any influence,
shall I ascribe that influence to any thing but a
commendable attention to your true interest
and a generous regard to the welfare of my
daughter.
Be it known to you, then, sir, that Mrs. Talbot
possesses no fortune in her own right. Her
present dwelling, and her chief means of subsistence,
are derived from me; she holds them
at my option, and they will be instantly and entirely
withdrawn, on her marriage with you.
You cannot be unacquainted with the habits
and views in which my daughter has been educated.
Her life has passed at ease and in luxury
and you cannot but perceive the effect of any
material change in her way of life.
It would be a wretched artifice to pretend any
particular esteem for you, or to attempt to persuade
you that any part of this letter is dictated
by any regard to your interest, except as that
is subservient to the interest of one, whom I can
never cease to love.
Yet I ardently hope that this circumstance
may not hinder you from accepting bills upon
London to the amount of three hundred pounds
-- 110 --
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sterling. They shall be put into your hands the
moment I am properly assured that you have
engaged your passage to Europe, and are determined
to be nothing more than a distant wellwisher
to my daughter.
I am anxious that you should draw from the
terms of this offer, proof of that confidence in
your word, which you might not perhaps have
expected from my conduct towards you in other
respects. Indeed, my conscience acquits me of
any design to injure you. On the contrary, it
would give me sincere pleasure to hear of your
success in every laudable pursuit.
I know your talents and the direction which
they have hitherto received. I know that London
is a theatre best adapted to the lucrative display
of these talents, and that the sum I offer
you will be an ample fund, till your own exertions
may be turned to account.
If this offer be accepted, I shall not only
hold myself everlastingly obliged to you, but I
shall grant you an higher place in my esteem.
Yet, through deference to scruples, which you
may possibly possess, I most cheerfully plight
to you my honor, that this transaction shall be
concealed from Mrs. Talbot, and from all the
world.
Though property is necessary to our happiness,
and my daughter's habits render the continuance
of former indulgences, necessary to
her content, I will not be so unjust to her, as
to imagine that this is all which she regards.
Respect from the world and the attachment of
her ancient friends are, also, of some value in
her eyes. Reflect, sir, I beseech you, whether
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you are qualified to compensate her for the loss
of property; of good name—my own justification,
in case she marries you, will require me
to be nothing more than just to her—and of all
her ancient friends, who will abhor in her, the
faithless wife and the ungrateful child. I need
not inform you that your family will never receive
into their bosom one whom her own kindred
have rejected.
I am, &c.
H. Fielder.
LETTER XIX.
To Mrs. Fielder.
Philadelphia, October 28.
I need not hesitate a moment to answer
this letter. I will be all that my revered mamma,
wishes me to be. I have vowed an eternal
separation from Colden, and to enable me to
keep this vow, I entreat you to permit me to
come to you.
I will leave this house in any body's care you
direct. My Molly and the boy Tom I shall find
it no easy task to part with, but, I will, nevertheless,
send the former to her mother, who is
thrifty and well to live. I beg you to permit me
to bring the boy with me. I wait your answer.
Jane Talbot.
-- 112 --
LETTER XX.
To Henry Colden.
Philadelphia, October 28.
[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]
O my friend! where are you at this trying
moment? why did you desert me? now, if ever,
does my feeble heart stand in need of your
counsel and courage.
Did I ever lean these throbbing brows against
your arm, and pour my tears into your bosom,
that I was not comforted. Never did that
adored voice fail to whisper sweet peace to my
soul. In every storm, thy calmer and more
strenuous spirit, has provided me the means of
safety.—But now I look around for my stay,
my monitor; my encourager, in vain.
You will make haste to dispatch the business
that detains you. You will return, and fly, on
the wings of love, to thy Jane, Alas! she will
not be found. She will have fled far away, and
in her stead will she leave this sullen messenger
to tell thee that thy Jane has parted from thee
forever!
Do not upbraid me, Hal. Do not call me ungrateful
or rash. Indeed, I shall not be able to
bear thy reproaches. I know they will kill me
quite.
And don't expostulate with me. Confirm me
rather in my new resolution. Even if you think
-- 113 --
[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]
it cruel or absurd, aver that it is just. Persuade
me that I have done my duty to my mother,
and assure me of your cheerful acquiescence.
Too late is it now, even if I would, to recall
my promise.
I have promised to part with you. In the
first tumult of my soul, on receiving the inclosed
letters, I wrote an answer, assuring Mrs. Fielder
of my absolute concurrence with her will.
Already does my heart, calling up thy beloved
image; reflecting on the immense debt which
I owe to your generosity; on the disappointment
which the tidings of my journey will give you;
already do I repent of my precipitation.
I have sought repose but I find it not. My
pillow is moist with the bitterest tears that I
ever shed. To give vent to my swelling heart,
I write to you, but I must now stop. All my
former self is coming back upon me, and while
I think of you as of my true and only friend, I
shall be unable to persist. I will not part with
thee my friend. I cannot do it. Has not my
life been solemnly devoted to compensate thee
for thy unmerited love? For the crosses and vexations
thou hast endured for my sake?
Why shall I forsake thee? To gratify a wayward
and groundless prejudice. To purchase
the shortlived and dubious affection of one who
loves me in proportion as I am blind to thy merit;
as I forget thy benefits: as I countenance
the envy and slander that pursue thee.
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Yet what shall I bring to thy arms: A blasted
reputation, poverty: contempt. The indignation
of mine and of thy friends. For thou art
poor and so am I. Thy kindred have antipathies
for me as strong as those that are fostered
against thyself—
Jane Talbot.
LETTER XXI.
To Henry Colden.
October 28, Evening.
I will struggle for sufficient composure to
finish this letter. I have spent the day in reflection,
and am now, I hope, calm enough to
review this most horrid and inexplicable charge.
Look, my friend at the letter she has sent
me. It is my hand writing. The very same
which I have so often mentioned to you as having
been, after so unaccountable a manner, mislaid.
I wrote some part of it, alone, in my own parlour.
You recollect the time. The day after
that night which an heavy storm of rain, and my
fatal importunity prevailed on you to spend under
this roof.
Mark the deplorable consequences of an act,
which the coldest charity would not have declined.
On such a night I would have opened
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my doors to my worst enemy. Yet because I
turned not forth my best friend, on such a night,
see to what a foul accusation I have exposed
myself.
I had not finished, but it came into my mind
that something in that which I had a little before
received from you, might be seasonably
noticed, before I shut up my billet. So I
left my paper on the table open, while I ran up
stairs to get your letter which I had left in a
drawer in my chamber.
While turning over cloaths and papers I
heard the street door open, and some one enter.
This did not hinder me from continuing
my search. I thought it was my gossipping
neighbour, Miss Jessup, and had some hopes
that, finding no one in the parlour, she would
withdraw, with as little ceremony as she entered.
My search was longer than I expected, but
finding it at last, down I went, fully expecting
to find a visitant, not having heard any steps
returning to the door.
But no visitant was there, and the paper was
gone! I was surprised, and a little alarmed.
You know my childish apprehensions of robbers.
I called up Molly who was singing at her
work in the kitchen. She had heard the street
door opened and shut, and footsteps over head,
but she imagined them to be mine. A little heavier
too, she recollected them to be, than mine.
She likewise heard a sound as if the door had been
opened and shut softly. It thus appeared that
my unknown visitant had hastily and secretly
withdrawn and my paper had disappeared.
I was confounded at this incident. Who it
was that could thus purloin an unfinished
-- 116 --
[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]
letter and retire in order to conceal the theft, I
could not imagine. Nothing else had been displaced.
It was no ordinary thief; no sordid villain.
For a time, I thought perhaps, it might be
some facetious body, who expected to find amusement
in puzzling or alarming me. Yet I
was not alarmed; for what had I to fear or to
conceal? the contents were perfectly harmless,
and being fully satisfied with the purity of my
own thoughts, I never dreamed of any construction
being put on them, injurious to me.
I soon ceased to think of this occurrence. I
had no cause as I then thought, to be anxious
about consequences. The place of the lost letter
was easily supplied by my loquacious pen,
and I came, at last, to conjecture that I had
carelessly whisked it into the fire, and that the
visitant had been induced to withdraw, by finding
the apartment empty. Yet I never discovered
any one who had come in and gone out in
this manner. Miss Jessup, whom I questioned
afterwards, had spent that day elsewhere. And
now, when the letter and its contents were almost
forgotten, does it appear before me,
and is offered in proof of this dreadful charge.
After reading my mother's letter, I opened
with trembling hand that which was inclosed.
I instantly recognized the long lost billet. All
of it appeared, on the first perusal, to be mine.
Even the last mysterious paragraph was acknowledged
by my senses. In the first confusion
of my mind, I knew not what to believe
or reject, my thoughts were wandering, and my
repeated efforts had no influence in restoring
them to order.
-- 117 --
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Methinks, I then felt as I should have felt if
the charge had been true. I shuddered as if to
look back would only furnish me with proofs
of a guilt of which I had not hitherto been conscious:
proofs that had merely escaped remembrance,
or had failed to produce their due
effect, from some infatuation of mind.
When the first horror and amazement were
passed, and I took up the letter and pondered
on it once more, I caught a glimpse suddenly:
suspicion darted all at once into my mind: I
strove to recollect the circumstances attending
the writing of this billet.
Yes: it was clear. As distinctly as if it were
the work of yesterday, did I now remember,
that I stopped at the words nobody; mind that.
The following sentences are strange to me.
The character is similar to what precedes, but
the words were never penned by me.
And could Talbot—Yet what end? a fraud
so—Ah! let me not suspect my husband of such
a fraud. Let me not have reason to abhor his
memory.
I fondly imagined that with his life, my causes
of disquiet were at an end, yet now are my
eyes open to an endless series of calamities
and humiliations which his decease has made
sure.
I cannot escape from them. There is no help
for me. I cannot disprove. What testimony
can I bring to establish my innocence: to prove
that another hand has added these detestable
confessions?
True it is you passed that night under my roof.
Where was my caution? you, Henry, knew
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mankind better than I: why did you not repel my
importunities, and leave me in spite of my urgencies
for your stay?
Poor thoughtless wretch that I was, not to be
aware of the indecorum of allowing one of your
sex, not allied to me by kindred—I, too, alone,
without any companion but a servant, to pass the
night in the same habitation.
What is genuine of this note, acknowledges
your having lodged here. Thus much I cannot,
and need not deny; yet how shall I make
those distinctions visible to Mrs. Fielder; how
shall I point out that spot in my billet, where
the forgery begins? and at whose expense must
I vindicate myself? Better incur the last degree
of infamy myself, since it will not be deserved,
than to load him that is gone with reproach.
Talbot sleeps, I hope, in peace, and let me not,
for any selfish or transitory good, molest his ashes.
Shall I not be contented with the approbation
of a pure and all-seeing judge?
But if I would vindicate myself, I have not the
power: I have forfeited my credit with my mother.
With her my word will be of no weight:
surely it ought to weigh nothing. Against evidence
of this kind, communicated by an husband,
shall the wild and improbable assertion of the
criminal be suffered to prevail? I have only my
assertion to offer.
Yet, my good God! in what a maze hast thou
permitted my unhappy feet to be entangled!
With intentions void of blame, have I been pursued
by all the consequences of the most attrocious
guilt.
In an evil hour, Henry, was it that I saw thee
first. What endless perplexities have beset me
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[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]
since that disasterous moment. I cannot pray
for their termination, for prayer implies hope.
For thy sake, God is my witness, more than
for my own, have I determined to be no longer
thine. I hereby solemnly absolve you from all
engagements to me. I command you, I beseech
you, not to cast away a thought on the
illfated Jane. Seek a more worthy companion,
and be happy.
Perhaps you will feel, not pity, but displeasure,
in recieving this letter. You will not
deign to answer me, perhaps, or will answer
me with sharp rebuke. I have only lived to
trouble your peace, and have no claim to your
forbearance: yet, methinks, I would be spared
the misery of hearing your reproaches, reechoed
as they will be by my own conscience.
I fear they will but the more unfit me for the
part that I wish henceforth to act.
I would carry, if possible, to Mrs. Fielder's
presence a cheerful aspect. I would be to her
that companion which I was in my brighter
days. To study her happiness shall be henceforth
my only office, but this, unless I can
conceal from her an aching heart, I shall be
unable to do. Let me not carry with me the insupportable
weight of your reproaches.
Jane Talbot.
-- 120 --
LETTER XXII.
To Jane Talbot.
Baltimore, October 31.
[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]
You had reason to fear my reproaches, yet
you have strangely erred in imagining the
cause for which I should blame you. You are
never tired, my good friend, of humbling me
by injurious suppositions.
I do, indeed, reproach you for conduct that
is rash; unjust; hurtful to yourself; to your
mother; to me; to the memory of him who,
whatever were his faults, has done nothing to
forfeit your reverence.
You are charged with the blackest guilt that
can be imputed to woman. To know you guilty
produces more anguish in the mind of your
accuser, than any other evil could produce,
and to be convinced of your innocence, would
be to remove the chief cause of her sorrow, yet
you are contented to admit the charge: to
countenance her error by your silence. By
stating the simple truth, circumstantially and
fully; by adding earnest and pathetic assurances
of your innocence; by shewing all the
letters that have passed between us, the contents
of which will shew that such guilt was
impossible; by making your girl bear witness
to the precaution you used on that night, to
-- 121 --
[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]
preclude misconstructions, surely you may hope
to disarm her suspicions.
But this proceeding has not occurred to you.
You have mistrusted the power of truth, and even
are willing to perpetuate the error. And why?
because you will not blast the memory of the
dead. The loss of your own reputation: the
misery of your mother, whom your imaginary
guilt makes miserable, are of less moment in
your eyes than—what? let not he, my girl,
who knows the best, have most reason to blush
for thee.
Talbot, you imagine, forged this calumny. It
was a wrong thing and much unhappiness has
flowed from it. This calumny, you have it, at
length, in your power to refute. Its past effects
cannot be recalled, but here the evil may end,
the mistake may be cleared up, and be hindered
from destroying the future peace of your mother.
Yet you forbear from tenderness to his memory,
who, if you are consistent with yourself, you
must believe to look back on that transaction with
remorse, to lament every evil which it has
hitherto occasioned, and to rejoice in the
means of stopping the disastrous series.
My happiness is just of as little value. Your
mother's wishes, though allowed to be irrational
and groundless, are to be gratified by the disappointment
of mine, which appear to be just
and reasonable, and since one must be sacrificed,
that affection with which you have inspired me;
and those benefits you confess to owe to me;
those sufferings believed by you to have been incurred
by me for your sake, do not, it seems, entitle
me to preference.
-- 122 --
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On this score, however, my good girl, set
your heart at ease. I never assumed the merits
you attributed to me. I never urged the claims
you were once so eager to admit. I desire not
the preference. If, by abjuring me, your happiness
could be secured; if it were possible for
you to be that cheerful companion of your mother,
which you seem so greatly to wish: if, in
her society, you could stifle every regret, and
prevent your tranquillity from being invaded by
self-reproach, most gladly would I persuade
you to go to her, and dismiss me from your
thoughts forever.
But I know, Jane, that this cannot be. You
never will enjoy peace under your mother's
roof. The sighing heart and the saddened
features, will forever upbraid her, and bickering
and repining will mar every domestic scene.
Your mother's aversion to me is far from irreconcileable,
but that which will hasten reconcilement
will be marriage. You cannot forfeit her love
as long as you preserve your integrity, and
those scruples which no argument will dissipate,
will yield to reflection on an evil (as she will
regard it) that cannot be remedied.
Admitting me, in this respect, to be mistaken,
your mother's resentment will ever give you
disquiet. True, but will your union with me,
console you nothing? in pressing the hoped-for
fruit of that union to your breast; in that tenderness
which you will hourly receive from me,
will there be nothing to compensate you for sorrows
in which there is no remorse, and which,
indeed, will owe their poignancy to the generosity
of your spirit?
-- 123 --
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You cannot unite yourself to me, but with
some view to my happiness. Will your contributing
to that happiness be nothing?
Yet I cannot seperate my felicity from your's.
I can enjoy nothing at the cost of your peace.
In whatever way you decide, may the fruit be
content.
I ask you not for proofs of love; for the sacrifice
of others to me. My happiness demands
it not. It only requires you to seek your own
good. Nothing but ceaseless repinings can follow
your compliance with your mother's wishes;
but there is something in your power to do.
You can hide these repinings from her, by living
at a distance from her. She may know you
only through the medium of your letters, and
these may exhibit the brightest side of things.
She wants nothing but your divorce from me,
and that may take place without living under
her roof.
You need not stay here. The world is wide
and she will eagerly consent to the breaking of
your shackles by change of residence. Much
and the best part of your country you have never
seen. Variety of objects will amuse you,
and new faces and new minds eraze the deep
impressions of the past. Colden and his merits
may sink into forgetfulness, or be thought
of with no other emotion than regret that a being
so worthless was ever beloved—But I wander
from the true point. I meant not to introduce
myself into this letter—Self! That vile
debaser whom I detest as my worst enemy, and
who assumes a thousand shapes and practises a
thousand wiles to entice me from the right path.
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Ah! Jane. Could thy sagacity discover no
other cause of thy mother's error than Talbot's
fraud? Could thy heart so readily impute to him
so black a treachery? Such a prompt and undoubting
conclusion, it grieves me to find thee
capable of.
How much more likely that Talbot was himself
deceived. For it was not by him that thy
unfinished letter was purloined. At that moment
he was probably some thousands of miles
distant. It was five weeks before his return
from his Hamburg voyage, when that mysterious
incident happened.
Be of good cheer, my sweet girl. I doubt
not all will be well. We shall find the means
of detecting and defeating this conspiracy, and
of re-establishing thee in thy mother's good opinion.
At present, I own, I do not see the
means; but to say truth, my mind is clouded by
anxieties; enfeebled by watching and fatigue.
You know why I came hither. I found my
friend in a very bad way, and have no hope but
that his pangs, which must end within a few
days, may, for his sake, terminate very soon.
He will not part with me, and I have seldom left
his chamber since I came.
Your letter has disturbed me much, and I
seize this interval when the sick man has gained
a respite from his pain to tell you my thoughts
upon it. I fear I have not reasoned very clearly.
Some peevishness, I doubt, has crept into
my style. I rely upon your wonted goodness
to excuse it.
I have much to say upon this affecting subject,
but must take a future opportunity.
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I also have received a letter from Mrs. Fielder,
of which I will say no more, since I send
you enclosed that, and my answer. I wish it
had come at a time when my mind was more at
ease, as an immediate reply seemed to be necessary.
Adieu.
Henry Colden.
LETTER XXIII.
To Mrs. Fielder.
Baltimore, November 2.
Madam.
It would indeed be needless to apologize for
your behaviour to me. I not only acquit you of
any enmity to me, but beg leave to return you
my warmest thanks for the generous offers
which you make me in this letter.
I should be grosly wanting in that love for
Mrs. Talbot which you believe me to possess,
if I did not partake in that gratitude and reverence
which she feels for one, who has performed
for her every parental duty. The esteem of
the good is only of less value in my eyes than
the approbation of my own conscience. There
is no price which I would not pay for your good
-- 126 --
[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]
opinion, consistent with a just regard to that of
others and to my own.
I cannot be pleased with the information
which you give me. For the sake of my friend,
I am grieved that you are determined to make
her marriage with me, the forfeiture of that
provision which your bounty has hitherto supplied
her.
Forgive me if I say that in exacting this forfeiture
you will not be consistent with yourself.
On her marriage with me, she will stand in
much more need of your bounty than at present,
and her merits, however slender you may deem
them, will then be, at least, not less than they
now are.
If there were any methods by which I might
be prevented from sharing in gifts bestowed upon
my wife, I would eagerly concur in them.
I fully believe that your motive in giving me
this timely warning was a generous one. Yet,
in justice to myself and your daughter, I must
observe that the warning was superfluous, since
Jane never concealed from me the true state of
her affairs, and since I never imagined you
would honour with your gifts a marriage contracted
against your will.
Well do I know the influence of early indulgences.
Your daughter is a strong example of
that influence, nor will her union with me, if,
by that union she forfeit your favour, be any
thing more than a choice among evils, all of
which are heavy.
My own education and experience sufficiently
testify the importance of riches, and I should
be the last to despise r depreciate their value.
Still, much as habit has endeared to me the
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goods of fortune, I am far from setting them
above all other goods.
You offer me, Madam, a large alms. Valuable
to me as that sum is, and eagerly as I would
accept it in any other circumstances, yet, at
present, I must, however reluctantly, decline
it. A voyage to Europe and such a sum, if
your daughter's happiness were not in question,
would be the utmost bound of my wishes.
“Shall I be able to compensate her—” you
ask.
No, indeed, Madam, I am far from deeming
myself qualified to compensate her for the loss
of property, reputation and friends. I aspire to
nothing but to console her under that loss, and
to husband as frugally as I can, those few meagre
remnants of happiness which shall be left to us.
I have seen your late letter to her. I should
be less than man if I were not greatly grieved
at the contents; yet, Madam, I am not cast
down below the hope of convincing you that
the charge made against your daughter is
false. You could not do otherwise than believe
it. It is for us to show you by what means, you,
and, probably, Talbot himself, have been deceived.
To suffer your charge to pass, for a moment,
uncontradicted, would be unjust, not more to
ourselves than to you. The mere denial will
not, and ought not to change your opinion. It
may even tend to raise higher the acrimony of
your aversion to me. It must ever be irksome to a
generous spirit to deny, without the power of
disproving, but a tacit admission of the charge
would be unworthy of those who know themselves
innocent.
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Beseeching your favourable thoughts, and
grateful for the good which, but for the interference
of higher duties, your heart would
prompt you to give, and mine would not scruple
to accept,
I am &c.
Henry Colden.
LETTER XXIV.
To Henry Colden.
Philadelphia, November 2.
AH! My friend! how mortifying are those
proofs of thy excellence. How deep is
that debasement into which I am sunk, when I
compare myself with thee.
It cannot be the want of love that makes thee
so easily give me up. My feeble and jealous
heart is ever prone to suspect; yet I ought at
length to be above these ungenerous surmises.
My own demerits; my fickleness: my precipitation
are so great, and so unlike thy inflexible
spirit, that I am ever ready to impute to
thee that contempt for me, which I know I
so richly deserve. I am astonished that so poor
a thing as I am, thus continually betraying her
weakness, should retain thy affection; yet at
any proof of coldness or indifference in thee, do
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I grow impatient; melancholy: a strange mixture
of upbraiding for myself, and resentment
for thee, occupies my feelings.
I have read thy letter. I shuddered when I
painted to myself thy unhappiness on receiving
tidings of my resolution to join my mother. I
felt that thy reluctance to part with me, would
form the strongest obstacle to going, and yet,
being convinced that I must go, I wanted thee
to counterfeit indifference, to feign compliance.
And such a wayward heart is mine that now
these assurances of thy compliance have come
to hand, I am not satisfied. The poor contriver
wished to find in thee an affectation of indifference.
Her humanity would be satisfied with
that appearance, but her pride demanded that
it should be no more than a veil, behind
which the inconsolable, the bleeding heart
should be distinctly seen.
You are too much in earnest in your equanimity.
You study my exclusive happiness with too
unimpassioned a soul. You are pleased when I
am pleased; but not, it seems, the more so from
any relation which my pleasure bears to you:
no matter what it is that pleases me: so I am
but pleased, you are content.
I don't like this oblivion of self. I want to be
essential to your happiness. I want to act with a
view to your interests and wishes; these wishes
requiring my love and my company for your
own sake.
But I have got into a maze again. Puzzling
myself with intricate distinctions. I can't be satisfied
with telling you that I am not well, but I
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must be inspecting with these careful eyes into
causes, and labouring to tell you of what nature
my malady is.
It has always been so. I have always found
an unaccountable pleasure in dissecting, as it
were, my heart; uncovering, one by one, its many
folds, and laying it before you, as a country is
shewn in a map. This voluble tongue, and this
prompt pen! what volumes have I talked to you
on that bewitching theme myself?
And yet, loquacious as I am, I never interrupted
you when you were talking. It was always
such a favour when these rigid fibres of yours
relaxed: and yet I praise myself for more forbearance
than belongs to me. The little impertinent
has often stopped your mouth; at times
too when your talk charmed her most; but then
it was not with words.
But have I not said this a score of times before?
and why do I indulge this prate now?
To say truth, I am perplexed and unhappy.
Your letter has made me so. My heart flutters
too much to allow me to attend to the subject of
your letter. I follow this rambling leader merely
to escape from more arduous paths, and I
send you this scribble because I must write to
you. Adieu.
Jane Talbot.
-- 131 --
LETTER XXV.
To the Same.
Nov. 3.
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What is it, my friend, that makes thy influence
over me so absolute? No resolution of
mine can stand against your remonstrances. A single
word, a look, approving or condemning, transforms
me into a new creature. The dread of
having offended you, gives me the most pungent
distress. Your “Well done” lifts me above all
reproach. It is only when you are distant, when
your verdict is uncertain, that I shrink from contumely,
that the scorn of the world, though unmerited,
is a load too heavy for my strength.
Methinks I should be a strange creature, if left
to myself. A very different creature, doubtless,
I should have been, if placed under any other
guidance. So easily swayed am I by one that is
the lord of my affections. No will, no reason
have I of my own.
Such sudden and total transitions! in solitude
I ruminate and form my schemes. They seem
to me unalterable, yet a word from you scatters
all my laboured edifices, and I look back upon
my former state of mind, as on something that
passed when I was a lunatic or dreaming.
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It is but a day since I determined to part with
you; since a thousand tormenting images engrossed
my imagination; yet now am I quite
changed: I am bound to you by links stronger
than ever. No, I will not part with you.
Yet how shall I excuse my non-compliance to
my mother? I have told her that I would come
to her, that I waited only for her directions as to
the disposal of her property. What will be her
disappointment when I tell her that I will not
come: when she finds me, in spite of her remonstrances,
still faithful to my engagements to
thee.
Is there no method of removing this aversion?
of outrooting this deadly prejudice? And must
I, in giving myself to thee, forfeit her affection.
And now this dreadful charge! no wonder that
her affectionate heart was sorely wounded by
such seeming proofs of my wickedness.
I thought at first—shame upon my inconsistent
character! my incurable blindness! I should
never have doubted the truth of my first thoughts,
if you had not helped me to a more candid conjecture.
I was unjust enough to load him with
the guilt of this plot against me, and imagined
there was duty in forbearing to detect it.
Now, by thy means, do I judge otherwise. Yet
how my friend shall I unravel this mystery?
my heart is truly sad. How easily is my woman's
courage lowered, and how prone am I to
despond.
Lend me thy aid, thy helping hand, my beloved.
Decide and act for me, and be my weakness
fortified; my hope restored by thee. Let
me lose all separate feelings, all separate
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existence, and let me know no principle of action,
but the decision of your judgment; no motive
or desire but to please; to gratify you.
Our marriage, you say, will facilitate reconcilement
with my mother. Do you think so?
then let it take place, my dear Hal. Heaven
permit that marriage may tend to reconcile;
but let it reconcile or not, if the wish be your's,
it shall occupy the chief place in my heart. The
time, the manner, be it your's to prescribe. My
happiness, on that event will surely want but
little to compleat it, and if you bid me not despair
of my mother's acquiescence, I will not despair.
I am to send your letter, after reading, to my
mother, I suppose. I have read it, Hal, more
than once. And for my sake thou declinest her
offers. When you thus refuse no sacrifice on
my account, shall I hesitate, when it becomes
my turn? shall I ever want gratitude, thinkest
thou? shall I ever imagine that I have done
enough to evince my gratitude?
But how do I forget thy present situation.
Thy dying friend has scarcely occurred to me.
Thy afflictions, thy fatigues, are absorbed in my
own selfish cares.
I am very often on the brink of hating myself.
So much thoughtlessness of others; such calousness
to sorrows not my own: my hard heart
has often reproached thee for sparing a sigh or a
wish from me: that every gloom has not been
dispelled by my presence, was treason, forsooth,
against my majesty, and the murmurs that delighted
love should breathe, to welcome thy return,
was changed into half vindictive reluctance;
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not quite a frown, and upbraidings in which tenderness
was almost turned out of door by anger.
In the present case, for instance, I have
scarcely thought of thy dying friend once. How
much thy disquiets would be augmented by the
letters which I sent thee never entered my
thoughts. To hide our sorrows from those who
love us, seems to be no more than generous.
Yet I never hid any thing from thee. All was
uttered that was felt. I considered not attending
circumstances. The bird, as soon as it was
scared, flew into the bosom that was nearest, and
merely occupied with dangers of its own, was
satisfied to find a refuge there.
And yet,—See now, Vanity, the cunning advocate,
entering with his—And yet. Would I
listen to him, what a world of palliations and
apologies would he furnish. How would he remind
me of cases in which my sympathy was always
awakened with attention. How often—
But I will not listen to the flatterer.
And now I think of it, Hal, you differ from
me very much in that respect. Every mournful
secret must be wrung from you. You hoard
up all your evil thoughts, and brood over them
alone. Nothing but earnest importunity ever
got from you any of your griefs.
Now this is cruel to yourself and unjust to
me. It is denying my claim to confidence. It
is holding back from me a part of yourself. It
is setting light by my sympathy.
And yet—the prater Vanity once more, you
see—but I will let him speak out this time.
Here his apology is your's, and myself am only
flattered indirectly.
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And yet when I have extorted from you any
secret sorrow, you have afterwards acknowledged
that the disclosure was of use. That my
sympathising love was grateful to you, and my
counsel of some value: that you drew from my
conduct on those occasions new proofs of my
strength of mind, and of my right, a right
which my affection for you gave me, to share
with you all your thoughts.
Yet on the next occasion that offers, you are
sure to relapse into your habitual taciturnity,
and my labours to subdue it, are again to be repeated.
I have sometimes been tempted to retaliate
and convince you, by the effects of my
concealments upon you, of the error of your
own scheme.
But I never could persist, in silence, for five
minutes together. Shut up as the temple of
my heart is, to the rest of mankind, all its
doors fly open of their own accord, when you
approach.
Now am I got into my usual strain: in which
I could persevere forever. No wonder it charms
me so much, since, while thus pursuing it,
I lose all my cares in a sweet oblivion, but I
must stop, at last, and recall my thoughts to a
less welcome subject.
Painful as it is, I must write to my mother. I
will do it now, and send you my letter. I will
endeavour, hereafter, to keep alive, a salutary
distrust of myself, and do nothing without your
approbation and direction. Such submission
becomes thy
Jane.
-- 136 --
LETTER XXVI.
To Mrs. Fielder.
Philadelphia, November 4.
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I TREMBLE thus to approach my honoured
mother, once more, since I cannot bring into
her presence the heart that she wishes to find.
Instead of acknowledgment of faults, and penitence
suitable to their heinous nature, I must
bring with me a bosom free from self-reproach,
and a confidence which innocence only can
give, that I shall be sometime able to disprove
the charge brought against me.
Ah my mother! could such guilt as this ever
stain a heart, fashioned by your tenderest care!
did it never occur to you that possibly some
mistake might have misled the witness against
me!
The letter which you sent me is partly mine.
All that is honest and laudable is mine, but
that which confesses dishonour has been added
by another hand. By whom my hand writing
was counterfeited, and for what end, I know
not. I cannot name any one, who deserves to be
suspected.
I might proceed to explain the circumstances
attending the writing and the loss of this letter
so fatal to me: but I forbear to attempt to
justify myself by means which I know before
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hand, will effect nothing; unless it be to aggravate,
in your eyes, my imaginary guilt.
If it were possible for you to suspend your
judgment: if the most open and earnest and
positive averments of my innocence could induce
you, not to reverse, but merely to postpone
your sentence, you would afford me unspeakable
happiness.
You tell me, that the loss of your present
bounty will be the consequence of my marriage.
My claims on you are long ago at an end. Indeed,
I never had any claims. Your treatment
of me has flowed from your unconstrained benevolence.
For what you have given: for the
tenderness which you continually bestowed on
me, you have received only disappointment and
affliction.
For all your favours, I seem to you ungrateful:
yet long after that conduct was known,
which, to you, proves my unworthiness, your
protection has continued, and you are so good
as to assure me that it shall not be withdrawn as
long as I have no protector but you.
Dear as my education has made the indulgences
of competence to me, I hope, I shall
relinquish them without a sigh. Had you done
nothing more than screen my infancy and youth
from hardship and poverty, than supplied the
mere needs of nature, my debt to you could never
be paid.
But how much more than this have you done
for me? you have given me, by your instructions
and example, an understanding and an
heart. You have taught me to value a fair
fame beyond every thing but the peace of
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virtue; you have made me capable of a generous
affection for a benefactor equal to yourself; capable
of acting so as, at once, to deserve, and
to lose your esteem: and enabled me to relinquish
cheerfully those comforts and luxuries
which cannot be retained but at the price of my
integrity.
I look forward to poverty without dismay.
Perhaps I make light of its evils, because I
have never tried them. I am indeed a weak and
undiscerning creature. Yet nothing but experience
will correct my error, if it be an error.
So sanguine am I, that I even cherish the belief
that the privation of much of that ease
which I have hitherto enjoyed, will strengthen
my mind, and somewhat qualify me for enduring
those evils which I cannot expect always
to escape.
You know, my mother, that the loss of my
present provision, will not leave me destitute.
If it did, I know your generosity too well, to imagine
that you would withdraw from me all the
means of support.
Indeed my own fund, slender as it is, in comparison
with what your bounty supplies me, is
adequate to all my personal wants; I am sure it
would prove so on the trial. So that I part with
your gifts with less reluctance, though with no
diminution of my gratitude.
If I could bring to you, my faith unbroken,
and were allowed to present to you my friend,
I would instantly fly to your presence: but, that
is a felicity too great for my hope. The alternative,
however painful, must be adopted by
Your ever grateful
Jane.
-- 139 --
LETTER XXVII.
To Mrs Talbot.
Baltimore, November 5.
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I HIGHLY approve of your letter. It far exceeded
the expectations I had formed of you. You
are, indeed, a surprising creature.
One cannot fail to be astonished at the differences
of human characters; at the opposite
principles by which the judgments of men are
influenced.
Experience, however, is the antidote of wonder.
There was a time when I should have
reflected on the sentiments of your mother,
with a firm belief that no human being could
be practically influenced by them.
She offers, and surely with sincerity, to divide
her large property with you: to give away
half her estate during her own life, and while,
indeed, she is yet in her prime; and to whom
give it? to one who has no natural relation to
her: who is merely an adopted child: who has
acted for several years, in direct repugnance to
her will: in a manner she regards as not only
indiscreet, but flagrantly criminal. Whom one
guilty act has (so it must appear to your mamma)
involved her in a continued series of
falsehoods and frauds.
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She offers this immense gift to you, on no condition
but a mere verbal promise to break off
intercourse with the man you love, and with
whom you have been actually criminal.
She seems not aware how easily promises are
made that are not designed to be performed:
how absurd it would be to rely upon your integrity
in this respect, when you have shewn yourself
(so, it must appear to her) grossly defective
in others of infinitely greater moment. How easily
might a heart like yours be persuaded to recall
its promises; or violate this condition, as
soon as the performance of her contract has
made you independent of her and of the world.
You promise;—it is done in half a dozen
syllables—that you will see the hated Colden
no more. All that you promise, you intend.
To-morrow she enriches you with half her fortune.
Next day, the seducer comes, and may
surely expect to prevail on you to forget this
promise, since he has conquered your firmness
in a case of unspeakably greater importance.
This offer of hers surely indicates, not only
love for you, but reverence for your good faith
inconsistent with the horrid imputation she has
urged against you.
As to me, what a portrait does her letter exhibit.
And yet this scoffer at the obligation of
a promise, is offered four or five thousand dollars
on condition that he plights his word to
embark for England, and to give up all his
hopes of you.
Villain as he is; a villain not by habit or by
passion, but by principle; a cool blooded systematic
villain; yet she will give him affluence
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and the means of depraving thousands, by his
example and his rhetoric, on condition that
he refuses to marry the woman whom he has
made an adulteress. Who has imbibed, from
the contagion of his discourse, all the practical
and speculative turpitude which he has to impart.
This conduct might be considered only as
proving her aversion to me. So strong is it, as
to impel her to indiscreet and self-destructive
expedients: and so I should likewise reason if
these very expedients did not argue a confidence
in my integrity somewhat inconsistent
with the censure passed on my morals.
After all, is there not reason to question the
sincerity of her hatred? Is not thy mother a
dissembler, Jane? does she really credit the
charge she makes against thee? does she really
suppose me that insane philosopher which her
letter describes?
Yet this is only leaping from a ditch into a
quicksand. It is quite as hard to account for
her dissimulation, as for her sincerity. Why
should she pretend to suspect you of so black a
deed, or me of such abominable tenets?
And yet, an observer might say, it is one
thing to promise and another to perform in her
case as well as in ours. She tells us what she
will do, provided we enter into such engagements,
but, if we should embrace her offers, is
it certain that she would not hesitate, repent,
and retract.
Passion may dictate large and vehement offers
upon paper, which deliberating prudence
would never allow to be literally adhered to.
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Besides, may not these magnificent proposals
be dictated by a knowledge of our characters,
which assured her that they would never be accepted.
But, with this belief, why should the
offers be made?
The answer is easy. These offers, by the
kindness and respect for us which they manifest,
engage our esteem and gratitude, and by
their magnitude, shew how deeply she abhors
this connection, and hence dispose us to do that,
for pity's sake, which mere lucre would never
recommend.
And here is a string of guesses to amuse thee
Jane. Their truth or falsehood is of little moment
to us, since these offers ought not to influence
our conduct.
One thing is sure; that is, thy mother's aversion
to me. And yet I ought not to blame her.
That I am an Atheist in morals, the Seducer
of her daughter, she fully believes, and these
are surely sufficient objections to me. Would
she be a discerning friend; or virtuous mother
if she did not with this belief remonstrate against
your alliance with one so wicked.
The fault lies not with her. With whom
then does it lie? Or, what only is important,
where is the remedy? Expostulation and remonstrance
will avail nothing. I cannot be an hypocrite,
I cannot dissemble that I have once
been criminal; and that I am, at present, conscious
of a thousand weaknesses and self distrusts.
There is but one meagre and equivocal
merit that belongs to me. I stick to the truth:
Yet this is a virtue of late growth. It has not
yet acquired firmness to resist the undermining
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waves of habit, or to be motionless amidst the
hurricane of passions.
You offer me yourself. I love you. Shall I
not then accept your offer? Shall my high conception
of your merits, and my extreme contempt
and distrust of myself, hinder me from
receiving so precious a boon? Shall I not make
happy by being happy? Since you value me so
much beyond my merits: since my faults though
fully disclosed to you, do not abate your esteem,
do not change your views in my favour, shall I
withhold my hand?
I am not obdurate. I am not ungrateful.
With you I never was an hypocrite. With the
rest of the world I have ceased to be so. If I
look forward without confidence, I look back
with humiliation and remorse. I have always
wished to be good, but till I knew you, I despaired
of ever being so, and even now my hopes
are perpetually drooping.
I sometimes question, especially since your actual
condition is known, whether I should accept
your offered hand: But mistake me not, my beloved
creature. My distrust does not arise from
any doubts of my own constancy. That I shall
grow indifferent or forgetful or ungrateful to
you, can never be.
All my doubts are connected with you. Can
I compensate you for those losses which will
follow your marriage. The loss of your mother's
affection; the exchange of all that splendour
and abundance you have hitherto enjoyed
for obscurity and indigence.
You say I can. The image of myself in my
own mind is a sorry compound of hateful or
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despicable qualities. I am even out of humour with
my person, my face. So absurd am I in my
estimates of merit, that my homely features and
my scanty form, had their part in restraining me
from aspiring to one supreme in loveliness, and
in causing the surprise that followed the discovery
of your passion.
In your eyes, however, this mind and this person
are venerable and attractive. My affection,
my company, are chief goods with you. The
possession of all other goods cannot save you from
misery, if this be wanting. The loss of all others
will not bereave you of happiness if this be possessed.
Fain would I believe you. You decide but
reasonably. Fortune's goods ought not to be so
highly prized, as the reason of many prizes them,
and as my habits, in spite of reason's dissent, and
remonstrances compel me to prize them. They
contribute less to your happiness, and that industry
and frugality which supplies their place, you
look upon without disgust; with even some degree
of satisfaction.
Not so I; I cannot labour for bread; I cannot
work to live. In that respect I have no parallel.
The world does not contain my likeness.
My very nature unfits me for any profitable
business. My dependence must ever be on
others or on fortune.
As to the influence of some stronger motive
to industry than has yet occurred: I am without
hope. There can be no stronger ones to a generous
mind, than have long been urgent with
me: being proof against these, none will ever
conquer my reluctance.
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I am not indolent, but my activity is vague;
profitless; capricious. No lucrative or noble purpose
impels me. I aim at nothing but selfish
gratification. I have no relish, indeed, for sensual
indulgences. It is the intellectual taste that
calls for such banquets as imagination and science
can furnish; but though less sordid than
the epicure, the voluptuary, or the sportsman,
the principle that governs them and me, is the
same: equally limited to self; equally void of
any basis in morals or religion.
Should you give yourself to me, and rely upon
my labour for shelter and food, deplorable and
compleat would be your disappointment. I know
myself too well to trust myself with such an office.
My love for you would not strengthen
my heart or my hands. No; it would only sink
me, with more speed, into despair. Quickly,
and by some fatal deed, should I abandon you,
my children, and the world.
Possibly, I err. Possibly I underrate my
strength of mind and the influence of habit, which
makes easy to us every path; but I will not trust
to the possible.
Hence it is that, if by marriage you should
become wholly dependant on me, it could never
take place. Some freak of fortune may indeed
place me above want, but my own efforts never
will. Indeed, in this forbearance; in this self-denial,
there is no merit. While admitted to
the privileges of a betrothed man; your company,
your confidence, every warrantable proof
of love mine; I may surely dispense with the
privileges of wedlock. Secretly repine I might:
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occasionally I might murmur. But my days
would glide along, with fewer obstacles, at least,
than if I were that infirm and disconsolate wretch—
your husband.
But this unhappy alternative is not ours.
Thou hast something which thy mother cannot
take away: sufficient for thy maintenance: thy
frugal support. Meaner, and more limited indeed
than thy present and former affluence: such
as I, of my own motion, would never reduce
thee to: such as I can object to only on thy
own account.
How has the night run away! my friend's
sister arrived here yesterday. They joined in
beseeching me to go to a separate chamber and
strive for some refreshment. I have slept a
couple of hours, and that has sufficed. My
mind, on waking, was thronged with so many
images, connected with my Jane, that I started
up, at last, and betook myself to the pen.
Yet how versatile and fleeting is thought! In
this long letter I have not put down one thing
that I intended. I meant not to repeat what
has been so often said before, and especially I
meant not to revolve, if I could help it, any
gloomy ideas.
Thy letters gave me exquisite pleasure. They
displayed all thy charming self to my view. I
pressed every precious line to my lips with
nearly as much rapture as I would have done
the pratler herself, had she been talking to me
all this tenderness instead of writing it.
I took up the pen that I might tell thee my
thanks, yet rambled almost instantly into mournful
repetitions. I have half a mind to burn the
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scribble, but I cannot write more just now, and
this will show you, at least, that I am not unmindful
of you. Adieu.
Colden.
LETTER XXVIII.
To Mrs. Talbot.
Baltimore, November 6.
Let me see! this is the beginning of November.
Yes; it was just a twelve-month ago,
that I was sitting at this silent hour, at a
country fire just like this. My elbow, then as
now, was leaning on a table, supplied with
books and writing tools.
What shall I do, thought I, then, to pass
away the time till ten. Can't think of going to
bed till that hour, and if I sit here, idly basking
in the beams of this cheerful blaze, I shall fall
into a listless, uneasy doze, that without refreshing
me, as sleep would do, will unfit me
for sleep.
Shall I read? nothing here that is new.
Enough that is of value, if I could but make
myself inquisitive; treasures which, in a curious
mood, I would eagerly rifle, but now the tedious
page only adds new weight to my eye-lids.
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Shall I write? what? to whom? there are Sam
and Tom, and brother Dick, and sister Sue—
they all have epistolary claims upon me still
unsatisfied. Twenty letters that I ought to
answer. Come, let me briskly set about the
task—
Not now: some other time. To-morrow. What
can I write about? havn't two ideas that hang
together intelligibly. 'Twill be common-place
trite stuff. Besides, writing always plants a
thorn in my breast.
Let me try my hand at a reverie: a meditation—
on that hearth-brush. Hair—what sort
of hair? of a hog—and the wooden handle — of
poplar or cedar or white oak. At one time a
troop of swine munching mast in a grove of
oaks, transformed by those magicians, carpenters
and butchers, into hearth-brushes. A whimsical
metamorphosis upon my faith.
Pish! what stupid musing! I see I must betake
myself to bed at last, and throw away upon
oblivion one more hour than is common.
So it once was, but how is it now? no wavering
and deliberating what I shall do to—lash
the drowsy moments into speed. In my haste
to set the table and its gear in order for scribble,
I overturn the inkhorn, spill the ink and stain
the floor.
The damage is easily repaired, and I sit
down, with unspeakable alacrity, to a business
that tires my muscles, sets a gnawer at work upon
my lungs, fatigues my brain and leaves me
listless and spiritless.
How you have made yourself so absolute a
mistress of the goose-quill, I can't imagine;
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how you can maintain the writing posture, and
pursue the writing movement for ten hours together,
without benumbed brain, or aching fingers,
is beyond my comprehension.
But you see what zeal will do for me. It has
enabled me to keep drowsiness, fatigue and languor
at bay, during a long night. Converse
with thee, heavenly maid, is an antidote even to
sleep, the most general and inveterate of all
maladies.
By and bye, I shall have as voluble a pen as
thy own. And yet to that, my crazy constitution
says—nay. 'Twill never be to me other than
an irksome, ache-producing implement. It need
give pleasure to others, not a little, to compensate
for the pain it gives myself.
But this, thoul't say, is beside the purpose.
It is, and I will lay aside the quill a moment to
consider. I left off my last letter, with a head
full of affecting images, which I have waited
impatiently for the present opportunity of putting
upon paper. Adieu then, for a moment,
says thy
Colden.
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LETTER XXIX.
To The Same.
10 o'Clock at Night.
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Now let us take a view of what is to come.
Too often I endeavour to escape from fore
sight when it presents to me nothing but evils,
but now I must, for thy sake, be less a coward.
In six weeks Jane becomes mine. Till then,
thy mother will not cast thee out of her protection,
and will she then? will she not allow of thy
continuance in thy present dwelling? and
though so much displeased as to refuse thee
her countenance and correspondence, will she,
indeed, turn thee out of doors? She threatens it,
we see, but, I suspect, it will never be more than
a threat, employed, perhaps, only to intimidate
and deter; not designed to be enforced; or, if
made in earnest, yet, when the irrevocable deed
is done, will she not hesitate to inffict the penalty?
Will not her ancient affection; thy humility,
thy sorrow, thy merits—such as, in spite of
this instance of contumacy, she cannot deny thee—
will not these effectually plead for thee?
More than ever will she see that thou needest
her bounty: and since she cannot recall what is
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past, will she not relent and be willing to lessen
the irremediable evil all she can.
There is one difficulty that I know not how to
surmount. Giving to the wife will be only giving
to the husband. Shall one whom she so much
abhors, be luxuriously supplied from her bounty?
The wedded pair must live together, she will
think: and shall this hated encroacher find refuge
from beggary and vileness under her roof?
be lodged and banqueted at her expense? that,
her indignant heart will never suffer.
Would to Heaven she would think of me with
less abhorrence. I wish for treatment conformable
to her assumed relation to thee, for all our
sakes. As to me, I have no pride; no punctilio, that will stand in the way of reconciliation. At
least there is no deliberate and stedfast sentiment
of that kind. When I reason the matter with
myself, I perceive a sort of claim to arise from
my poverty and relation to thee, on the one
hand, and, on the other, from thy merit, thy affinity
to her, and her capacity to benefit.
Yet I will never supplicate—not meanly supplicate
for an alms. I will not live, nor must
thou, when thou art mine, in her house. Whatever
she will give thee, money, or furniture, or
clothes, receive it promptly, and with gratitude:
but let thy home be thy own. For lodging and
food, be thou the payer.
And where shall be thy home? You love the
comforts, the ease, the independence of an household.
Your own pittance will not suffice for
this. All these you must relinquish for my sake.
You must go into a family of strangers. You
must hire a chamber, and a plate of such food
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as is going—You must learn to bear the humours,
and accommodate yourself to the habits of your
inmates.
Some frugal family and humble dwelling
must content thee. A low roof, a narrow chamber
and an obscure avenue, the reverse of all
the specious, glossy and abundant that surround
thee now, will be thy portion: all that thou must
look for as my wife. And how will this do, Jane?
Is not the price too great?
And my company will not solace thee under
these inconveniences. I must not live with thee;
only an occasional visitor; one among an half dozen
at a common fire: With witnesses of all we
say. Thy pittance will do no more than support
thyself. I must house myself and feed
elsewhere. Where, I know not. That will depend
upon the species of employment I shall be
obliged to pursue for my subsistence. Scanty
and irksome it will be, at best.
Once a day, I may see thee. Most of my
evenings may possibly be devoted to thy company.
A Soul harassed by unwelcome toil, eyes
dim with straining at tiresome or painful objects,
shall I bring to thee. If, now and then, we are
alone, how can I contribute to thy entertainment.
The day's task will furnish me with nothing
new. Instead of alleviating by my cheerful
talk, thy vexations and discomforts, I shall
demand consolation from thee.
And yet imperious necessity may bereave us
even of that joy. I may be obliged to encounter
the perils of the seas once more. Three-fourths
of the year, the ocean may divide us,
thou in solitude, the while, pondering on
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the dangers to which I may be exposed, and I,
a prey to discontent, and tempted in some evil
hour, to forget thee, myself and the world.
How my heart sinks at this prospect! Does
not thine Jane? Dost thou not fear to take
such a wretched chance with me? I that know
myself; my own imbecility; I ought surely
to rescue thee from such a fate, by giving thee
up.
I can write no more, just now. I wonder
how I fell into this doleful strain. It was silly
in me to indulge it. These images are not my
customary inmates. Yet now that they occur
to me, they seem but rational and just. I want,
methinks, to know how they appear to thee.
Adieu.
Henry Colden.
LETTER XXX.
To The Same.
Wilmington, November 7.
I have purposely avoided dwelling on the incidents
that are passing here. They engross my
thoughts at all times, but those devoted to the
pen, and to write to thee is one expedient for
loosening their hold.
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An expedient not always successful. My
mind wanders in spite of me, from my own
concerns and from thine, to the sick bed of my
friend. A reverie, painful and confused, invades
me, now and then: my pen stops, and I am
obliged to exert myself anew to shake off the
spell.
Till now, I knew not how much I loved this
young man. Strange beings we are? separated
as we have been, for many a-year; estranged
as much by difference of sentiments as
local distance, his image visiting my memory
not once a month, and then a transitory, momentary
visit: had he died a year ago, and I not
known it, the stream of my thoughts would not
have been ruffled by a single impediment. Yet
now that I stand over him, and witness his decay—
Many affecting conversations we have had.
I cannot repeat them now. After he is gone, I
will put them all upon paper and muse upon
them often.
His closing hour is serene. His piety now
stands him in some stead. In calling me hither,
he tells me that he designed, not his own gratification,
but my good. He wished to urge
upon me the truths of religion, at a time when
his own conduct might visibly attest their value.
By their influence in making that gloomy path
which leads to the grave, joyous and lightsome;
he wishes me to judge of their excellence.
His pains are incessant and sharp. He can
seldom articulate without an effort that increases
his pangs: yet he talks much: in cogent terms,
and with accurate conceptions; and in all he
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says, evinces a pathetic earnestness for my conviction.
I listen to him with an heart as unbiassed as I
can prevail on it to be: as free, I mean, from its
customary bias; for I strive to call up feelings
and ideas similar to his. I know how pure to
him would be the satisfaction of leaving the
world, with the belief of a thorough change in
me.
I argue not with him. I say nothing but to
persuade him that I am far from being that contum
acious enemy to his faith, which he is prone
to imagine me to be.
Thy mother's letter has called up more vividly
than usual, our ancient correspondence, and the
effects of that disclosure. Yet I have not mentioned
the subject to him. I never mentioned
it. I could not trust myself to mention it.
There was no need. The letters were written
by me. I did not charge him to secrecy, and if
I had, he would not have been bound to compliance.
It was his duty to make that use of
them which tended to prevent mischief; which
appeared, to him, to have that tendency; and
this he has done. His design, I have no doubt,
was benevolent and just.
He saw not all the consequences that have followed,
'tis true; but that ignorance would justify
him, even if these consequences were unpleasing
to him; but they would not have displeased,
had they been foreseen. They would
only have made his efforts more vigorous; his
disclosures more explicit.
His conduct, indeed, on that occasion, as far
as we know it, seems irregular and injudicious.
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To lay before a stranger private letters from
his friend, in which opinions were avowed and
defended, that he knew would render the
writer detestable to her that read.
He imagined himself justified in imputing to
me atrocious and infamous errors. He was
grieved for my debasement, and endeavoured,
by his utmost zeal and eloquence, to rectify
these errors. This was generous and just; but
needed he to proclaim these errors, and blazon
this infamy?
Yet ought I to wish to pass upon the world for
other than I am? can I value that respect which
is founded in ignorance? can I be satisfied with
caresses from those, who, if they knew me fully,
would execrate and avoid me?
For past faults and rectified errors, are not
remorse and amendment adequate atonements?
If any one despise me for what I was, let me
not shrink from the penalty. Let me not find
pleasure in the praise of those whose approbation
is founded in ignorance of what I am. It
is unjust to demand, it is sordid to retain praise
that is not merited, either by our present conduct
or our past. Why have I declined such
praise? Because I value it not.
Thus have I endeavoured to think in relation
to Thomson. My endeavour has succeeded.
My heart entirely acquits him. It even applauds
him for his noble sincerity.
Yet I could never write to him, or talk to
him on this subject. My tongue; my pen will
be sure to faulter. I know that he will boldly justify
his conduct, and I feel that he ought to justify,
yet the attempt to justify would awaken—
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indignation, selfishness. In spite of the suggestions
of my better reason, I know we should
quarrel.
We should not quarrel now, if the topic were
mentioned. Of indignation against him, even for
a real fault: much less for an imaginary one, I
am, at this time, not capable; but it would be
useless to mention it. There is nothing to explain;
no misapprehensions to remove; no
doubts to clear up. All that he did, I, in the
same case, ought to have done.
But I told you, I wished not to fill my letters
with the melancholy scene before me. This is
a respite, a solace to me; and thus, and in reading
thy letters, I employ all my spare moments.
Write to me, my love. Daily, hourly, and
cheerfully, if possible. Borrow not; be not thy
letters tinged with the melancholy hue of this.
Write speedily and much, if thou lovest thy
Colden.
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LETTER XXXI.
[figure description] Page 158.[end figure description]
To Henry Colden.
Philadelphia, Nov. 9.
What do you mean, Hal, by such a strain
as this? I wanted no additional causes of disquiet.
Yet you tell me to write cheerfully; I
would have written cheerfully, if these letters,
so full of dark forebodings, and rueful prognostics,
had not come to damp my spirits.
And is the destiny that awaits us so very
mournful? Is thy wife necessarily to lose so
many comforts, and incur so many mortifications?
are my funds so small, that they will
not secure to me the privilege of a separate
apartment, in which I may pass my time with
whom, and in what manner I please?
Must I huddle with a dozen squalling children
and their notably noisy, or sluttishly indolent
dam, round a dirty hearth, and meagre
winter's fire? must sooty rafters, a sorry truckle
bed, and a mud incumbered alley be my
nuptial lot.
Out upon thee, thou egregious painter! Well
for thee thou art not within my arm's length.
I should certainly bestow upon thee a hearty—
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kiss or two.—My blundering pen! I recall the
word. I meant cuff; but my saucy pen, pretending
to know more of my mind than I did
myself, turned (as its mistress, may hap, would
have done, hadst thou been near me, indeed) her
cuff into a kiss.
What possessed thee, my beloved, to predict
so ruefully. A very good beginning too! more
vivacity than common! But I hardly had time
to greet the sunny radiance—'tis a long time
since my cell was gilded by so sweet a beam:—
when a black usurping mist stole it away, and all
was dreary as it wont to be.
Perhaps thy being in a house of mourning
may account for it. Fitful and versatile, I know
thee to be. Changeable with scene and circumstance.
Thy views are just what any eloquent
companion pleases to make them. She, thou
lovest, is thy deity; her lips thy oracle. And
hence my cheerful omens of the future: the
confidence I have in the wholesome efficacy of
my government. I that have the will to make
thee happy, have the power too. I know I
have: and hence my promptitude to give away
all for thy sake: to give myself a wife's title to
thy company: a conjugal share in thy concerns:
and claim to reign over thee.
Make haste and atone, by the future brightness
of thy epistolary emanations, for the pitchy
cloud that overspreads these sick man's dreams.
How must thou have rummaged the cupboard
of thy fancy for musty scraps and flinty crusts to
feed thy spleen withall: inattentive to the dainties
which a blue-eyed Hebe had culled in the
garden of Hope, and had poured from out her
basket into thy ungrateful lap.
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While thou wast mumbling these refractory
and unsavoury bits, I was banqueting on the rosy
and delicious products of that Eden, which
love, when not scared away by evil omens, is
always sure (the poet says) to plant around us.
I have tasted nectarines of her raising, and I
find her, let me tell thee, an admirable Horticulturist.
Thou art so far off, there is no sending thee
a basket full, or I would do it. They would
wilt and wither ere they reached thee; the atmosphere
thou breathest would strike a deadly
worm into their hearts before thou couldst get
them to thy lips.
But to drop the basket and the bough, and
take up a plain meaning—I will tell thee how I
was employed when thy letter came: but first
I must go back a little.
In the autumn of ninety seven and when death
had spent his shafts in my own family, I went
to see how a family fared, the father and husband
of which kept a shop in Front street,
where every thing a lady wanted was sold, and
where I had always been served with great dispatch
and affability.
Being one day (I am going to tell you how
our acquaintance began)—Being one day detained
in the shop by a shower, I was requested
to walk into the parlour. I chatted ten minutes
with the good woman of the house, and
found in her so much gentleness and good sense,
that, afterwards, my shopping visits were always,
in part, social ones. My business being
finished at the compter, I usually went back,
and found, on every interview, new cause for
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esteeming the family. The treatment I met
with was always cordial and frank, and though
our meetings were thus merely casual, we
seemed, in a short time, to have grown into a
perfect knowledge of each other.
This was in the summer you left us, and the
malady breaking out a few months after, and
all shopping being at an end, and alarm and
grief taking early possession of my heart, I
thought but seldom of the Hennings'. A few
weeks after death had bereaved me of my friend,
I called these and others, whose welfare was
dear to me, to my remembrance; and determined
to pay them a visit and discover how it
fared with them. I hoped they had left the city,
yet Mrs. Henning had told me that her
husband, who was a devout man, held it criminal
to fly on such occasions, and that she, having
passed safely through the pestilence of former
years, had no apprehensions from staying.
Their house was inhabited, but I found the
good woman in great affliction. Her husband
had lately died after a tedious illness, and her
distress was augmented by the solitude in which
the flight of all her neighbours and acquaintances
had left her. A friendly visit could at no
time have been so acceptable to her, and my
sympathy was not more needed to console her,
than my council to assist her in the new state
of her affairs.
Laying aside ceremony, I enquired freely into
her condition, and offered her my poor services.
She made me fully acquainted with her
circumstances, and I was highly pleased at finding
them so good. Her husband had always
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been industrious and thrifty, and his death left
her enough to support her and her Sally in the
way they wished.
Enquiring into their views and wishes. I
found them limited to the privacy of a small but
neat house, in some cleanly and retired corner
of the city. Their stock in trade, I advised
them to convert into money, and placing it in
some public fund, live upon its produce. Mrs.
Henning knew nothing of the world. Though
an excellent manager within doors, any thing
that might be called business was strange and
arduous to her, and without my direct assistance
she could do nothing.
Happily, at this time, just such a cheap and
humble, but neat, new and airy dwelling as my
friend required, belonging to Mrs. Fielder, was
vacant. You know the house. 'Tis that where
the Frenchman Catineau lived. Is it not a
charming abode? at a distance from noise, with
a green field opposite, and a garden behind; of
two stories; a couple of good rooms on each
floor; with unspoilt water, and a kitchen, below
the ground, indeed, but light, wholesome and
warm.
Most fortunately too that incorrigible creole
had deserted it. He was scared away by the fever,
and no other had put in a claim. I made
haste to write to my mother, who, though angry
at me on my own account, could not reject
my application in favour of my good widow.
I even prevailed on her to set the rent forty
dollars lower than she might have gotten from
another, and to give a lease of it at that rate for
five years. You can't imagine my satisfaction
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in compleating this affair, and in seeing my
good woman quietly settled in her new abode,
with her daughter Sally, and her servant Alice,
who had come with her from Europe, and had
lived with her the dear knows how long.
Mrs. Henning is no common woman, I assure
you. Her temper is the sweetest in the world.
Not cultivated or enlightened is her understanding,
but naturally correct. Her life has
always been spent under her own roof; and
never saw I a scene of more quiet and order
than her little homestead exhibits. Though
humbly born, and perhaps, meanly brought up,
her parlour and chamber add to the purest
cleanliness, somewhat that approaches to elegance.
The mistress and the maid are nearly of the
same age, and though equally innocent and
good humoured, the former has more sedateness
and reserve than the latter. She is devout
in her way, which is methodism, and acquires
from this source nothing but new motives to
charity to her neighbours, and thankfulness to
God.
Much; indeed, all these comforts she ascribes
to me: Yet her gratitude is not loquacious.
It shews itself less in words than in the pleasure
she manifests on my visits; the confidence
with which she treats me; laying before me all
her plans and arrangements, and intreating my
advice in every thing. Yet she has brought
with her, from her native country, notions of
her inferiority to the better born and the better
educated, but too soothing to my pride. Hence
she is always diffident, and never makes
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advances to intimacy but when expressly invited and
encouraged.
It was a good while before all her new arrangements
were compleated. When they were, I
told her, I would spend the day with her, for
which she was extremely grateful. She
sent me word, as soon as she was ready to receive
me, and I went.
Artless and unceremonious was the good woman
in the midst of all her anxiety to please. Affectionate,
yet discreet in her behaviour to her
Sally and her Alice, and of me as tenderly observant
as possible.
She shewed me all her rooms from cellar to
garret, and every thing I saw delighted me.
Two neat beds in the front room above, belong
to her and Sally. The back room is decked in
a more fanciful and costly manner.
Why this, my good friend, said I, on entering
it, is quite superb. Here is carpet and coverlet
and curtains that might satisfy a prince; You
are quite prodigal; and for whose accommodation
is all this?
O! any lady that will favour me with a visit.
It is a spare room, and the only one I have, and I
thought I would launch out a little for once.
One wishes to set the best they have before a
guest, though indeed, I dont expect many to
visit me, but it is some comfort to think one has it
in one's power to lodge a friend, when it happens
so, in a manner that may not discredit
one's intentions. I have no relations in this
country, and the only friend I have in the world,
besides God, is you, Madam. But still, it
may sometimes happen you know that one may
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have occasion to entertain somebody. God be
thanked I have enough, and what little I have
to spare, I have no right to hoard up.
But might you not accomodate a good quiet
kind of body in this room, at so much a-year or
week?
Why, Ma'am, if you think that's best; but I
thought one might indulge one's self in living
one's own way. I have never been used to
strangers, and always have had a small family.
It would be a very new thing to me, to have an
inmate. I am afraid I should not please such
a one. And then, Ma'am, if this room's occupied,
I have no decent place to put any accidental
person in. It would go hard with me to be
obliged to turn a good body away, that might
be here on a visit, and might be caught by a
rain or a snow storm.
Very true. I did not think of that; and yet
it seems a pity that so good a room should be
unemployed: perhaps for a year together.
So it does, Ma'am, and I cant but say, if a
proper person should offer, who wanted to be
snug and quiet, I should have no great objection.
One that could put up with our humble ways,
and be satisfied with what I could do to make
them comfortable. I think I should like such
a one well enough.
One, said I, who would accept such accommodation
as a favour. A single person for example.
A woman: A young woman. A stranger
in the country, and friendless like yourself.
O! very true, Madam, said the good woman,
with sparkling benignity, I should have no objection
in the world to such a one. I should like
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it of all things. And I should not mind to be
hard with such a one. I should not stickle
about terms. Pray, Ma'am, do you know any
such. If you do, and will advise me to take
her, I would be very glad to do it.”
Now, Hal, what thinkest thou? cannot I light
on such a young, single, slenderly provided woman
as this. One whose heart pants for just
such a snug retreat, as Mrs. Henning's roof
would afford her.
This little chamber, set out with perfect neatness;
looking out on a very pretty piece of verdure
and a cleanly court yard; with such a good couple
to provide for her; with her privacy unapproachable
but at her own pleasure; Her quiet
undisturbed by a prater, a scolder, a bustler,
or a whiner. No dirty children to offend the
eye or squalling ones to wound the ear. With
admitted claims to the gratitude, confidence and
affection of her hostess; might not these suffice
to make a lowly, unambitious maiden happy?
One who, like Mrs. Henning, had only one
friend upon earth. Whom her former associates
refused to commune with or look upon. Whose
loneliness was uncheered, except by her own
thoughts, and by her books. Perhaps now and
then at times when oceans did not sever her
from him, by that one earthly friend.
Might she not afford him as many hours of
her society as his engagements would allow him
to claim. Might she not, as an extraordinary
favour, admit him to partake with her the comforts
of her own little fire, if winter it be;
or, in summertime, to join her at her chamber
window, and pass away the starlight hour in the
unwitnessed community of fond hearts?
-- 167 --
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Suppose, to obviate unwelcome surmises and
too scrupulous objections, the girl makes herself
a wife, but because their poverty will not
enable them to live together, the girl merely
admits the chosen youth on the footing of a visitor.
Suppose her hours are not embittered by the
feelings of dependance. She pays an ample
compensation for her entertainment, and by
her occasional company, her superior strength
of mind and knowledge of the world's ways,
she materially contributes to the happiness and
safety of her hostess.
Suppose, having only one visitor, and he
sometimes wanting in zeal and punctuality,
much of her time is spent alone. Happily she
is exempt from the humiliating necessity of
working to live; and is not obliged to demand
a share of the earnings of her husband. Her
task, therefore, will be to find amusement. Can
she want the means, think'st thou
The sweet quiet of her chamber; the wholesome
airs from abroad; or the cheerful blaze
of her hearth, will invite her to mental exercise.
Perhaps, she has a taste for books, and besides
that pure delight which knowledge on its own
account affords her, it possesses tenfold attractions
in her eyes, by its tendency to heighten
the esteem of him whom she lives to please.
Perhaps, rich as she is in books, she is an economist
of pleasure, and tares herself away from
them, to enjoy the vernal breezes, or the landscape
of Autumn in a twilight ramble. Here
she communes with bounteous nature, or lifts
her soul in devotion to her God, to whose
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benignity she resigns herself as she used to do to the
fond arms of that parent she has lost.
If these do not suffice to fill up her time, she
may chance to reflect on the many ways in
which she may be useful to herself. She may
find delight in supplying her own wants; by
maintaining cleanliness and order all about her;
by making up her own dresses, especially as
she disdains to be out done in taste and expertness
at the needle by any female in the land.
By limiting in this way, and in every other,
which her judgment may recommend, her own
expenses, she will be able to contribute somewhat
to relieve the toils of her beloved. The
pleasure will be hers of reflecting, not only that
her love adds nothing to his fatigues and cares;
not only that her tender solicitudes and seasonable
counsel, cherish his hopes and strengthen
his courage, but that the employment of her
hands makes his own seperate subsistence an
easier task. To work for herself will be no trivial
gratification to her honest pride, but to
work for her beloved, will, indeed, be a cause
of exultation.
Twenty things she may do for him which
others must be paid for doing, not in caresses,
but in money; and this service, though not
small, is not perhaps the greatest she is able to
perform. She is active and intelligent, perhaps,
and may even aspire to the profits of some trade.
What is it that makes one calling more lucrative
than another? Not superior strength of
shoulders or sleight of hand; not the greater
quantity of brute matter that is reduced into
form or set into motion? No. The difference
-- 169 --
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lies in the mental powers of the artist, and the
direction accidentally given to these powers.
What should hinder a girl like this from
growing rich by her diligence and ingenuity.
She has, perhaps, acquired many arts with no
view but her own amusement. Not a little did
her mother pay to those who taught her to draw
and to sing. May she not levy the same tribute
upon others that were levied on her, and make
a business of her sports.
There is, indeed, a calling that may divert
her from the thoughts of mere lucre. She may
talk and sing for another and dedicate her best
hours to a tutelage, for which there is a more
precious requital than money can give.
Dos't not see her, Hal. I do—as well as this
gushing sensibility will let me—rocking in her
arms and half stifling with her kisses or delighting
with her lullaby, a precious little creature—
Why my friend, do I hesitate? do I not write
for thy eye, and thine only? and what is there
but pure and sacred in the anticipated transports
of a mother.
The conscious heart might stifle its throbs in
thy presence, but why not indulge them in thy
absence, and tell thee its inmost breathings,
not without a shame-confessing glow, yet not
without drops of the truest delight that were
ever shed.
Why, how now, Jane? whence all this interest
in the scene thou pourtrayest? one would
fancy that this happy outcast, this self dependant
wife was no other than thyself?
A shrewd conjecture truly. I suppose, Hal,
thou wilt be fond enough to guess so too. By
-- 170 --
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what penalty shall I deter thee from so rash a
thing? yet thou art not here—I say it to my
sorrow—to suffer the penalty which I might
chuse to inflict.
I will not say what it is, lest the fear of it
should keep thee away.
And now that I have finished the history of
Mrs. Henning and her boarder, I will bid thee—
good night.
Good—good night, my love.
Jane Talbot.
LETTER XXXI.
To Henry Colden.
Philadelphia, Nov. 11.
How shall I tell you the strange—strange
incident! every fibre of my frame still trembles.
I have endeavoured, during the last hour, to
gain tranquillity enough for writing, but without
success: yet I can forbear no longer; I
must begin.
I had just closed my last to you, when somebody
knocked. I heard footsteps below, as the
girl ushered in the visitant, which were not quite
unknown to me. The girl came up.—“A gentleman
is waiting.”
-- 171 --
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A gentleman! thought I. An odd hour this—
it was past ten—for any man but one to visit me.
His business must be very urgent. So, indeed,
he told the girl, it was, for she knew me averse
to company at any time, and I had withdrawn
to my chamber for the night; but he would not
be eluded. He must see me, he said, this night.
A tall and noble figure, in a foreign uniform,
arose from the sofa at my entrance. The half
extinct lamp on the mantle, could not conceal
from me—my brother!
My surprise almost overpowered me. I should
have sunk upon the floor, had he not stepped to
me, and sustained me in his arms.
I see you are surprised, Jane, said he, in a tone
not without affection in it. You did not expect,
I suppose, ever to see me again. It was a more
chance brought me to America. I shall stay
here a moment and then hie me back again. I
could not pass through the city without an “How
d'ye” to the little girl for whom I have still some
regard.
The violence of my emotions found relief in
a flood of tears. He was not unmoved, but embracing
me with tenderness, he seated me by
him on the sofa.
When I had leisure to survey his features, I
found that time had rather improved his looks.
They were less austere; less contemptuous
than they used to be; perhaps, indeed, it was
only a momentary remission of his customary
feelings.
To my rapid and half coherent questions, he
replied:—I landed—you need not know where.
My commission requires secrecy, and you
-- 172 --
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know I have personal reasons for wishing to pass
thro' this city without notice. My business did
not bring me further southward than New-London;
but I heard your mother resided in New-York,
and could not leave the country without
seeing you. I called on her yesterday, but she
looked so grave and talked so obscurely about
you, that I could not do less than come hither.
She told me you were here. How have been
affairs since I left you?
I answered this question vaguely.
Pray, with much earnestness, are you married
yet?
The confusion with which I returned an
answer to this, did not escape him.
I asked Mrs. Fielder the same question, and
she talked as if it were a doubtful point. She
could not tell, she said, with a rueful physiognomy.
Very probably it might be so—I could
not bring her to be more explicit. As I proposed
to see you, she said, you were the fittest
person to explain your own situation. This
made me the more anxious to see you. Pray,
Jane, how do matters stand between you and
Mrs. Fielder? are you not on as good terms as
formerly?
I answered, that some difference had unhappily
occurred between us, that I loved and
revered her as much as ever, and hoped that
we should soon be mother and daughter again.
But the cause—the cause, Jane. Is a lover the
bone of contention between you? that's the rock
on which family harmony is sure to be wrecked.
But tell me, what have you quarrelled
about?
-- 173 --
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How could I explain on such a subject, thus
abruptly introduced, to him? I told him it was
equally painful and useless to dwell on my contentions
with my mother, or on my own affairs.
Rather let me hear, said I, how it fares with
you; what fortunes you have met with in this
long absence.
Pretty well; pretty well. Many a jade's trick
did fortune play me before I left this spot, but,
ever since, it has been all smooth and bright
with me—But this marriage—Art thou a wife
or not? I heard I think some talk about a Talbot.
What's become of him? they said you
were engaged to him.
It is long since the common destiny has ended
all Talbot's engagements.
Dead, is he? well; a new aspirer, I suppose,
has succeeded, and he is the bone of contention.
Who's he?
I could not bear that a subject of such deep
concern to me, should be discussed thus lightly,
and, therefore, begged him to change the
subject.
Change the subject? with all my heart, if we
can find any more important; but that's impossible.
So, we must ev'n stick to this; a little
longer. Come, what's his parentage; fortune;
age; character; profession; 'Tis not likely I
shall find fault where Mrs. Fielder does. Young
men and old women seldom hit upon the same
choice in an husband, and, for my part, I am
easily pleased.
This is a subject, brother, on which it is impossible
that we should think alike; nor is it
-- 174 --
[figure description] Page 174.[end figure description]
necessary. Let us then talk of something in
which we have a common concern: something
that has a claim to interest you.
What subject, girl, can have a stronger claim
on my attention than the marriage of my sister—
I am not so giddy and unprincipled as to
be unconcerned on that head. So make no
more ado, but tell your brother candidly what
are your prospects?
After some hesitation—My real brother; one
who had the tenderness becoming that relation,
would certainly deserve my confidence. But—
But what? come, never mince the matter. I
have scarcely been half a brother hitherto I grant
you. More of an enemy, perhaps, than friend,
but no reason why I should continue hostile or
indifferent. So tell me who the lad is and what
are his pretensions?
I endeavoured to draw him off to some other
subject, but he would not be diverted from this.
By dint of interrogatories he, at last, extorted
from me a few hints respecting you. Finding
that you were without fortune or profession,
and that my regard for you had forfeited all
favour with my mother: the enquiry was obvious.
How we meant to live? it was impossible to
answer this question in any manner satisfactory
to him. He has no notion of existence unconnected
with luxury and splendor.
Have you made any acquisitions, continued
he, since I saw you? has any good old aunt
left you another legacy?—this was said with
the utmost vivacity and self-possession. A
strange being is my brother. Could he have
forgotten by whom I was robbed of my former
legacy?
-- 175 --
[figure description] Page 175.[end figure description]
Come, come, I know thou art a romantic being.
One accustomed to feed on thoughts instead
of pudding. Contentment and a cottage
are roast beef and a palace to thee; but, take
my word for it, this inamorato of thine will
need a more substantial diet. By marrying
him you will only saddle him with misery. So
drop all thoughts of so silly a scheme; write
him a “good bye;” make up your little matters,
and come along with me. I will take you to my
country; introduce you to a new world; and
bring to your feet hundreds of generous souls,
the least of whom is richer, wiser, handsomer
than this tame-spirited droning animal—what's
his name? but no matter. I suppose I know nothing
of him.
I was rash enough to tell him your name and
abode, but I treated his proposal as a jest. I
quickly found that he was serious. He soon became
extremely urgent. Recounted the advantages
of his condition; the charming qualities of
his wife; the security and splendor of his new
rank. He endeavoured to seduce my vanity by
the prospect of the conquests I should make in
that army of colonels, philosophers, and commissioners,
that formed the circle of his friends—
any man but a brother, said he, must own that
you are a charming creature. So you need only
come and see, in order to conquer.
His importunities increased as my reluctance
became more evident. Thoughtless as I supposed
him to be, he said, the wish to find me
out, carry me to France, and put me in fortune's
way, was no inconsiderable inducement with
him to accept the commission which brought
-- 176 --
[figure description] Page 176.[end figure description]
him to America. He insinuated that brothership
and eldership gave him something like a title
to paternal authority, and insisted on obedience.
The contest became painful. Impatience and
reproach on his side awakened the like sentiments
in me, and it cost me many efforts to restrain
my feelings. Alternately he commanded
and persuaded: was willing to be governed
by my mother's advice; would carry me forthwith
to New-York: would lay before her his
proposal; and be governed by her decision.
The public vessel that brought him lay at New-port
waiting his return. Every possible accommodation
and convenience was possessed by the
ship. It was nothing but a sailing palace, in
which the other passengers were merely his
guests selected by himself.
I was a fool for refusing his offer. A simpleton.
The child of caprice, whom no time could
render steadfast except in folly: into whom no
counsel or example could instil an atom of
common sense. He supposed my man was equally
obstinate and stupid, but he would soon see of
what stuff he was made. He would hurry to
Baltimore, and take the boy to task for his
presumption and insolence in aspiring to Jane
Talbot without her brother's consent.
He snatched up his hat, but this intimation
alarmed me. Pray, stay one moment, brother.
Be more considerate. What right can you possibly
have to interfere with Mr. Colden's concerns.
Talk to me, as much and in what style
you please, but I beseech you insult not a man
who never offended you.
-- 177 --
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Perceiving my uneasiness on this head, he
took advantage of it to renew his solicitations
for my company to France. Swore solemnly
that no man should have his sister without his
consent, and that he would force the boy to
give me up.
This distressing altercation ended by his going
away, declaring, in spite of my entreaties,
that he would see you, and teach your insolence
a lesson not easily forgotten.
To sleep after this interview was impossible.
I could hardly still my throbbing heart sufficiently
to move the pen. You cannot hear from
me in time to avoid this madman, or to fortify
yourself against an interview. I cannot confute
the false or cunning glosses he may make upon
my conduct. He may represent me to you as
willing to accompany him; as detained only by
my obligation to you from which it is in your
power to absolve me.
Till I hear from you I shall have no peace.
Would to heaven there was some speedier conveyance.
Jane Talbot.
-- 178 --
LETTER XXXII.
[figure description] Page 178.[end figure description]
To Jane Talbot.
Baltimore, Nov. 14.
Let me overlook your last[2] letter for the
present, while I mention to you a most unexpected
and surprising circumstance. It has
just happened. I have parted with my visitant
but this moment.
I had strolled to the bank of the river, and
was leaning idly on a branch of an appletree
that hung pretty low, when I noticed some one
coming hastily towards me: there was something
striking and noble in the air and figure
of the man.
When he came up, he stopped. I was surprised
to find myself the object of which he was
in search. I found afterwards that he had enquired
for me at my lodgings, and had been
directed to look for me in this path. A distinct
view of his features saved him the trouble of
telling me that he was your brother. However,
that was information that he thought proper
immediately to communicate. He was your
brother, he said: I was Colden: I had pretensions
to you, which your brother was entitled
to know, to discuss, and to pronounce upon.
-- 179 --
[figure description] Page 179.[end figure description]
Such, in about as many words, was his introduction
to me, and he waited for my answer
with much impatience.
I was greatly confused by these sudden and unceremonious
intimations; at last I told him that
all that he had said respecting my connection
with his sister, was true. It was a fact that all
the world was welcome to know. Of course I had
no objection to her brother's knowing it.
But what were my claims; what my merits;
my profession; my fortune! On all these h eads
a brother would naturally require to be thoroughly
informed.
As to my character, sir, you will hardly expect
any satisfactory information from my own
mouth. However, it may save you the trouble
of applying to others, when I tell you, that my
character has as many slurs and blots in it as
any you ever met with. A more versatile, inconsistent,
prejudiced and faulty person than
myself, I do not believe the earth to contain.
Profession, I have none, and am not acquiring
any, nor expect ever to acquire. Of fortune I
am wholly destitute; not a farthing have I, either
in possession or reversion.
Then pray, sir, on what are built your pretensions
to my sister?
Really, sir, they are built on nothing. I am,
in every respect, immeasurably her inferior. I
possess not a single merit that entitles me to
grace from her.
I have surely not been misinformed. She
tacitly admitted that she was engaged to be your
wife.
'Tis very true. She is so.
-- 180 --
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But what, then, is the basis of this engagement.
Mutual affection, I believe, is the only basis.
Nobody who knows Jane Talbot will need to ask
why she is beloved? Why she requites that passion
in the present case is a question which she
only can answer.
Her passion, sir, (contemptuously) is the freak
of a child; of folly and caprice. By your own
confession you are beggarly and worthless, and
therefore it becomes you to relinquish your
claim.
I have no claim to relinquish. I have urged
no claims. On the contrary, I have fully disclosed
to her every folly and vice that cleaves
to my character.
You know, fir, what I mean.
I am afraid not perfectly. If you mean that
I should profess myself unworthy of your sister's
favour, 'tis done. It has been done an
hundred times.
My meaning, sir, is simply this: that you,
from this moment, give up every expectation of
being the husband of Mrs. Talbot. That you
return to her every letter, and paper that has
passed between you; that you drop all intercourse
and correspondence.
I was obliged to stifle a laugh which this
whimsical proposal excited. I continued, through
this whole dialogue, to regard my companion
with a stedfast, and cheerful gravity.
These are injunctions, said I, that will hardly
meet with compliance, unless, indeed, they were
imposed by the lady herself. I shall always
have a supreme regard for her happiness, and
-- 181 --
[figure description] Page 181.[end figure description]
whatever path she points out to me, I will walk
in it.
But this is the path in which her true interest
requires you to walk.
I have not yet discovered that to be her opinion:
the moment I do, I will walk in it accordingly.
No matter what her opinion is. She is froward
and obstinate. It is my opinion that her
true happiness requires all connection between
you to cease from this moment.
After all, sir, though, where judgments differ,
one only can be right, yet each person must be
permitted to follow his own. You would hardly,
I imagine, allow your sister to prescribe to
you in your marriage choice, and I fear she
will lay claim to the same independence for
herself. If you can convert her to your way of
thinking, it is well. I solemnly engage to do
whatever she directs.
This is insolence. You trifle with me. You
pretend to misconstrue my meaning.
When you charge me with insolence, I think
you afford pretty strong proof that you mistake
my meaning. I have not the least intention to
offend you.
Let me be explicit with you. Do you instantly
and absolutely resign all pretensions to my
sister?
I will endeavour to be explicit in my turn.
Your sister, notwithstanding my defects and
disadvantages, offers me her love: vows to be
mine. I accept her love; She is mine: nor
need we to discuss the matter any further.
-- 182 --
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This, however, by no means put an end to
altercation. I told him I was willing to hear
all that he had to say upon the subject. If
truth were on his side, it was possible he might
reason me into a concurrence with him. In compliance
with this concession, he dwelt on the
benefits which his sister would receive from accompanying
him to France, and the mutual
sorrow, debasement and perplexity likely to
flow from an union between us, unsanctioned by
the approbation of our common friends.
The purpose of all this is to prove, said I, that
affluence and dignity without me, will be more
conducive to your sister's happiness, than obscurity
and indigence with me.
It was.
Happiness is mere matter of opinion; Perhaps
Jane thinks already as you do.
He allowed that he had talked with you ineffectually
on that subject.
I think myself bound to believe her in a case
where she is the proper judge, and shall eagerly
consent to make her happy in her own way.
That, fir, is my decision.
I will not repeat the rest of our conversation.
Your letters have given me some knowledge of
your brother, and I endeavoured by the mildness,
sedateness and firmness of my carrriage
to elude those extremes to which his domineering
passions were likely to carry him. I carefully
avoided every thing that tended in the least
to exasperate. He was prone enough to
rage, but I quietly submitted to all that he
could say. I was sincerely rejoiced when the
conference came to an end.
-- 183 --
[figure description] Page 183.[end figure description]
Whence came your brother thus abruptly?
Have you seen him? Yet he told me that you
had. Alas! what must you have suffered from
his impetuosity.
I look with impatience for your next letter,
in which you will tell what has happened.
eaf032.n2[2] Letter XXX.
LETTER XXXIII.
To Henry Colden.
Philadelphia, November 17.
I have just sent you a letter, but my restless
spirit can find no relief but in writing.
I torment myself without end in imagining
what took place at your meeting with my brother.
I rely upon your equanimity, yet to
what an insupportable test will my brother's
passions subject you. In how many ways have
I been the cause of pain and humiliation to
you! Heaven, I hope, will sometime grant me
the power to compensate you for all that I have
culpably, or innocently made you suffer.—
What's this? A letter from my brother! The
superscription is his
Let me hasten, my friend, to give you a copy
of this strange epistle. It has neither date nor
signature.
-- 184 --
[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]
“I have talked with the man whom you have
chosen to play the fool with. I find him worthy
of his mistress: a tame, coward-hearted, infatuated
blockhead.
It was silly to imagine that any arguments
would have weight with you or with him. I have
got my journey for my pains. Fain would I
have believed that you were worthy of a different
situation, but I dismiss that belief, and shall
henceforth leave you to pursue your own dirty
road, without interruption.
Had you opened your eyes to your true interest,
I think I could have made something of
you. My wealth and my influence should not
have been spared, in placing you in a station
worthy of my sister. Every one however, must
take his own way—though it lead him into a
slough or a ditch.
I intended to have virtually divided my fortune
with you: to have raised you to princely
grandeur; but no: you are enamoured of the
dirt, and may cling to it as closely as you
please.
It is but justice, however, to pay what I owe
you. I remember I borrowed several sums of
you: the whole amounted to fifteen hundred dollars.
There they are, and much good may they
do you. That sum and the remnant which I
left you may perhaps set the good man up in a
village shop: may purchase an assortment of
tapes, poringers and twelve-to-the-pound candles.
The gleanings of the year may find you in
skimmed milk and hasty pudding three times a
day, and you may enjoy between whiles the
dilectable amusements of mending your
-- 185 --
[figure description] Page 185.[end figure description]
husband's stockings at one time, and serving a
neighbour with a pennyworth of snuff at another.
Fare thee well, Jane. Farewell forever:
for it must be a stronger inducement than can
possibly happen, that shall ever bring me back
to this land. I would see you ere I go, but we
shall only scold: So, once more, farewell, simpleton.”
What think you of this letter? The inclosed
bills were most unexpected and acceptable presents.
I am now twice as rich as I was. This
visit of my brother I was disposed to regret, but
on the whole I ought, I think, to regard it with
satisfaction. By thus completely reparing the
breach made in my little patrimony, it has placed
me in as good a situation as I ever hoped
to enjoy; Besides, it has removed from my
brother's character some of the stains which used
to discolour it. Ought I not to believe him fincere
in his wishes to do me service. We cannot
agree exactly in our notion of duty or happiness,
but that difference takes not away from
him the merit of a generous intention. He
would have done me good in his way.
Methinks, I am sorry he has gone. I would
fain have parted with him as a sister ought.
A few tears and a few blessings were not unworthy
such an occasion. Most fervently should
I have poured my blessings upon him. I wish
he had indulged me with another visit; Especially
as we were to part, it seems, forever. One
more visit and a kind embrace from my only
-- 186 --
[figure description] Page 186.[end figure description]
brother would have been kept in melancholy,
sweet remembrance.
Perhaps we shall meet again. Perhaps, some
day, thou and I shall go to France. We will
visit him together, and witness, with our own
eyes, his good fortune. Time may make him
gentle; kind; confiderate; brotherly. Time
has effected greater wonders than that; for I
will always maintain that my brother has a noble
nature: stifled and obscured it may be, but
not extinguished.
LETTER XXXIV.
To Henry Colden.
Philadelphia, Nov. 18.
How little is the equanimity or patience
that nature has allotted me? thy entrance now
would find me quite peevish. Yet I do not fear
thy entrance. Always anxious as I am to be
amiable in your eyes, I am at no pains to conceal
from you that impatience which now
vexes my soul, because it is your absence that
occasions it.
I sat alone on the sofa below, for a whole
hour. Not once was the bell rung—not once
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[figure description] Page 187.[end figure description]
did my fluttering heart answer to footsteps in the
passage. I had no need to start up at the opening
of the parlour door, and to greet, as distinctly
as the joyous tumult of my bosom would
suffer me, the much loved, long expected visitant.
Yet deceived, by my fond heart, into momentary
forgetfulness of the interval of an
hundred miles that lies between us, more than
once cast I a glance behind me, and started,
as if the hoped for peal had actually been
rung.
Tired, at length, of my solitude, where I had
enjoyed your company so often, I covered up
the coals, and withdrew to my chamber. And
here, said I, tho' I cannot talk to him, yet I can
write.
But first, I read over again this cruel letter of
my mother. I weighed all the contents, and
especially those heavy charges against you.
How does it fall out that the same object is
viewed by two observers with such opposite
sensations. That what one hates, the other
should doat upon? two of the same sex: one
cherished from infancy; reared; modelled;
taught to think; feel, and even to speak, by the
other: acting till now, and even now, acting, in
all respects, but one, in inviolable harmony;
that two such should jar and thwart each other,
in a point, too, in respect to which, the whole
tendency and scope of the daughter's education
was to produce a fellow feeling with the mother.
How hard to be accounted for! how deeply
to be rued!
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I sometimes catch myself trembling with
solicitude lest I should have erred. Am I not
betrayed by passion? can I claim the respect
due to that discernment which I once boasted?
I cannot blame my mother. She acts and determines,
as I sometimes believe, without the
benefits of my knowledge. Did she know as
much as I know, surely she would think as I
do.
In general, this conclusion seems to be just;
but there are moments when doubts insinuate
themselves. I cannot help remembering the
time when I reasoned like my mother: when
the belief of a christian seemed essential to
every human excellence. All qualities, without
that belief, were not to be despised as useless,
but to be abhorred as pernicious. There
would be no virtue, no merit, divorced from religion.
In proportion to the speciousness of his
qualities was he to be dreaded. The fruit, whatever
form it should assume, was nothing within
but bane, and was to be detested and shunned
in proportion as the form was fair and its promises
delicious.
I seldom trusted myself to enquire how it
was my duty to act towards one whom I loved,
but who was destitute of this grace, for of such
moment was the question to me, that I imagined
the decision would necessarily precede all
others. I could not love, till I had investigated
this point, and no force could oblige me to hold
communion with a soul, whom this defect despoiled
of all beauty and devoted to perdition.
But what now is the change that time and
passion have wrought. I have found a man
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without religion. What I supposed impossible, has
happened. I love the man. I cannot give him up.
The mist that is before my eyes, does not
change what was once vice into virtue. I do not
cease to regard unbelief as the blackest stain;
as the most deplorable calamity that can befall
a human creature, but still I love the man, and
that fills me with unconquerable zeal to rescue
him from this calamity.
But my mother interferes. She reminds me
of the horror which I once entertained for men
of your tenets. She enjoins me to hate you,
or to abhor myself for loving one worthy of nothing
but hatred.
I cannot do either. My heart is still yours,
and it is a voluntary captive. I would not free it
from its thraldom, if I could. Neither do I think
its captivity dishonors it. Time, therefore, has
wrought some change. I can now discover
some merit: something to revere and to love,
even in a man without religion. I find my
whole soul penetrated with zeal for his welfare.
There is no scheme which I muse upon with
half the constancy or pleasure, as that of curing
his errors, and I am confident of curing
them.
“Ah Jane!” says my mother; “rash and
presumptuous girl! What a signal punishment
hangs over thee. Thou wilt trust thyself within
the toils of the grand deceiver. Thou wilt enter
the list with his subtleties. Vain and arrogant,
thou fearest not thy own weakness. Thou wilt
stake thy eternal lot upon thy triumph in argument
against one, who, in spite of all his
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candour and humility, has his pride and his
passions engaged on the side of his opinions.
“Subtle wretch!” does she exclaim, “accomplished
villain! How nicely does he select:
how adroitly manage his tools! He will oppose,
only to yield more gracefully. He will argue
only that the rash simpleton may the more congratulate
herself upon her seeming victory!
How easy is the verbal assent! the equivocating
accent! The hesitating air! These he will assume
whenever it is convenient to lull your fears
and gratify your vanity, and nothing but the
uniformity of his conduct, his continuance in
the same ignominious and criminal path, will
open your eyes, and shew you that only grace
from above can reach his obdurate heart, or dart
a ray into his benighted faculties.”
Will you be surprised that I shudder when my
mother urges me in this strain, with her customary
energy. Always wont to be obsequious
to the very turn of her eye, and to make her will,
not only the regulator of my actions, but the
criterion of my understanding; it is impossible
not to hesitate; to review all that has passed between
us, and re-consider anew the motives
that have made me act as I have acted.
Yet the review always confirms me in my first
opinion. You err, but are not obstinate in error.
If your opinions be adverse to religion,
your affections are not wholly estranged from it.
Your understanding dissents, but your heart is
not yet persuaded to refuse. You have powers,
irresistable in whatever direction they are bent:
capable of giving the highest degree of misery
or happiness to yourself and to others. At
-- 191 --
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present they are mis-directed or inactive. They
are either pernicious or useless.
How can I, who have had ample opportunities
of knowing you, stand by with indifference while
such is your state? I love you, it is true. All
your felicity and all your woe become mine.
I have a selfish interest in your welfare. I cannot
bear the thought of passing through this
world, or of entering any future world, without
you. My heart has tried in vain to create a separate
interest: to draw consolation from a
different source. Hence indifference to your
welfare is impossible. But would not indifference,
even if no extraordinary tie subsisted
between us, be criminal? What becomes of our
obligation to do good to others, if we do not exert
ourselves, when all the means are in our
power, to confer the most valuable of all benefits:
to remove the greatest of all ills?
Of what stuff must that heart be made which
can behold, unmoved, genius and worth, destitue
of the joys and energies of religion; wandering
in a maze of passions and doubts; devoured
by phantastic repinings and vague regrets:
Drearily conscious of wanting a foundation
whereon to repose; a guide in whom to
trust. What heart can gaze at such a spectacle
without unspeakable compassion.
Not to have our pity and our zeal awakened,
seems to me to argue the utmost depravity of
heart. No stronger proof can be given that we
ourselves are destitute of true religion. The
faith or the practice must be totally wanting.
We may talk devoutly; we may hie, in due season,
to the house of prayer; while there, we
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may put on solemn visages and mutter holy
names. We may abstain from profane amusements,
or unauthorised words; we may shun,
as infectious, the company of unbelievers. We
may study homilies and creeds; but all this,
without rational activity for others good, is not
religion. I see, in all this, nothing that I am accustomed
to call by that name.
I see nothing but a narrow selfishness: sentiments
of fear degrading to the Deity: a bigotry
that contracts the view; that freezes the
heart; that shuts up the avenues to benevolent
and generous feeling. This buckram stiffness
does not suit me. Out upon such monastic parade.
I will have none of it.
But then, it seems, there is danger to ourselves
from such attempts. In trying to save
another from drowning, may we not sometimes
be drawn in ourselves? Are we not taught to
deprecate, not only evil, but temptation to evil?
What madness to trust our convictions, in a
point of such immense importance, to the contest
of argument with one of superior subtlety and
knowledge. Is there not presumption in such
a trust?
Excellent advice is this to the mass of women:
to those to whom habit or childish fear
or parental authority has given their faith:
who never doubted or enquired or reasoned for
themselves. How easily is such a fabric to be
overturned. It can only stand by being never
blown upon. The least breath disperses it in
air; The first tide washes it away.
Now, I entertain no reverence for such a bubble.
In some sense, the religion of the timorous
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and uninquisitive, is true. In another sense it
is false. Considering the proofs on which it
reposes, it is false, since it merely originates
in deference to the opinions of others, wrought
into belief by means of habit. It is on a level,
as to the proof which supports it, with the wildest
dreams of savage superstition, or the fumes
of a dervise's fanaticism.
As to me, I was once just such a pretty fool
in this respect, as the rest of my sex. I was
easily taught to regard religion not only as the
safe-guard of every virtue, but even as the test
of a good understanding. The name of infidel
was never mentioned but with abhorrence or
contempt. None but a profligate, a sensualist,
a ruffian, could disbelieve. Unbelief was a
mere suggestion of the grand deceiver, to palliate
or reconcile us to the unlimited indulgence
of our appetites, and the breach of every moral
duty. Hence it was never stedfast or sincere.
An adverse fortune or a death-bed, usually put
an end to the illusion.
Thus I grew up, never beset by any doubts;
never venturing on enquiry. My knowledge of
you, put an end to this state of superstitious ignorance.
In you I found, not one that disbelieved,
but one that doubted. In all your demeanor
there was simplicity and frankness.
You concealed not your sentiments; you obtruded
them not upon my hearing. When called
upon to state the history of your opinions,
it was candidly detailed; with no view of gaining
my concurrence, but merely to gratify my
curiosity.
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From my remonstrances you never averted
your ear. Every proof of an unprejudiced attention,
and even of a bias favorable to my opinions,
was manifest. Your own experience had
half converted you already. Your good sense
was for a time the sport of a specious theory.
You became the ardent and bold champion of
what you deemed truth. But a closer and longer
view insensibly detected flaws and discords
where all had formerly been glossy smoothness
and ravishing harmony. Diffidence and caution,
worthy of your youth and inexperience,
had resumed their place; and those errors, of
which your own experience of their consequences
had furnished the antidote, which your
own reflections had partly divested of illusion,
had only been propitious to your advancement
in true wisdom.
What had I to fear from such an adversary?
What might I not hope from perseverance?
What expect but new clearness to my own convictions;
new and more accurate views of my
powers and habits?
In order to benefit you, I was obliged to scrutinize
the foundation of my own principles. I
found nothing but a void. I was astonished and
alarmed; and instantly set myself to the business
of enquiry. How could I hope to work on
your convictions without a suitable foundation
for my own?
And see now my friend the blindness of our
judgements. I who am imagined to incur such
formidable perils from intercourse with you,
am, in truth, indebted to you alone for all my
piety: all of it that is permanent and rational.
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Without those apprehensions which your example
inspired, without that zeal for your conversion
which my attachment to you has produced,
what would now have been my claims to religious
knowldege?
Had I never extorted from you your doubts,
and the occasion of these doubts; had I never
known the most powerful objections to religion
from your lips, I should have been no less ignorant
of the topics and arguments favourable
to it.
And I think I may venture to ascribe to myself
no less a progress in candour than in knowledge.
My belief is stronger than it ever was,
but, I no longer hold in scorn or abhorrence
those who differ from me. I perceive the speciousness
of those fallacies by which they are
deluded. I find it possible for men to disbelieve
and yet retain their claims to our reverence,
our affection, and especially our good offices.
Those whom I once thought were only to be hated
and shunned, I now find worthy of compassionate
efforts for their good. Those whom I
once imagined sunk beneath the reach of all
succour, and to merit scarcely the tribute of a
sigh for their lost estate, now appear to be easily
raised to tranquillity and virtue, and to have
irresistable claims to our help.
In no respect has your company made me a
worse, in every respect it has made me a better
woman. Not only my piety has become more
rational and fervent, but a new spring has been
imparted to my languishing curiosity. To find a
soul, to whom my improvement will give delight;
eager to direct and assist my enquiries;
-- 196 --
[figure description] Page 196.[end figure description]
delcately liberal no less of censure when merited,
than of praise where praise is due; entering,
almost without the help of language from me,
into my inmost thoughts: assisting me, if
I may so speak, to comprehend myself; and
raising to a stedfast and bright flame, the
spark that my wayward fancy, left to itself,
would have instantaneously emitted and lost—
But why do I again attempt this impossible
theme. While reflecting on my debt to thee,
my heart becomes too big for its mansion.
My hand faulters, and the characters it traces,
run into an illegible scrawl.
My tongue only is fitted for such an office; and
Heaven grant that you may speedily return to
me, and put an end to a solitude which every
hour makes more irksome. Adieu.
LETTER XXXV.
To Mrs. Talbot.
Baltimore, November 20.
How Truly did my Angel say, that she
whom I love is my deity, and her lips my oracle
and that to her pertains not only the
will to make me happy, by giving me stedfastness
and virtue, but the power also!
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I have read your letter oftener than a dozen
times already, and at every reading my heart
burns more and more. That weight of humiliation
and despondency, which without your arm
to sustain me, would assuredly sink me to the
grave, becomes light as a feather, and while I
crush your testimonies of love in my hand, I
seem to have hold of a stay of which no storm
can bereave me.
One of my faults, thou sayest, is a propensity to
reason. Not satisfied with looking at that side
of the post that chances to be near me, I move
round and round it, and pause and scrutinize till
those whose ill fate it is to wait upon my motions,
are out of patience with me.
Every one has ways of his own. A transient
glance at the post, satisfies the mob of passengers.
'Tis my choice to stand awhile and
gaze.
The only post indeed, which I closely examine
is myself, because my station is most convenient
for inspecting that. Yet though I have
a fuller view of myself than any other can have
of me, my imperfect sight, that is, my erring
judgement, is continually blundering.
If all my knowledge relate to my own character,
and that knowledge is egregiously defective,
how profound must be my ignorance of others,
and especially of her, whom I presume to cail
mine?
No paradox ever puzzled me so much as your
conduct. On my first interview with you I loved
you, yet what kind of passion was that, which
knew only your features and the sound of your
voice. Every successive interview has
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produced, not only something new or unexpected,
but something in seeming contradicion to my
previous knowledge.
She will act, said I, in such and such circumstances,
as those of her delicate and indulgent
education must always act. That wit, that eloquence,
that knowledge, must only make her despise
such a witless, unendowed, unaccomplished,
wavering and feeble a wretch as I am.
To be called your friend: to be your occasional
companion; to be a tolerated visitor was
more than I expected. When I found all this
anxiously sought and eagerly accepted I was
lost in astonishment. At times, may I venture
to confess, that your regard for me,
brought your judgment into question! It failed
to inspire me with more respect, for myself, and
not to look at me with my own eyes degraded
you in my opinion.
How have you laboured to bestow on me that
inestimable gift Self confidence! And some
success has attended your efforts. My deliverance
from my chains is less desperate than once
it was. I may judge of the future, perhaps, by
the past. Since I have already made such progress
in exchanging distant veneration for familiar
tenderness, and in persuading myself
that he must possess some merit whom a soul
like thine idolises, I may venture to anticipate
the time when all my humiliation may vanish,
and I shall come to be thought worthy of thy
love, not only by thee, but by myself.
What a picture is this thou drawest? Yet such
is my weakness, Jane, that I must shudder at
the prospect. To tear thee from thy present
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dwelling and its comforts; to make thee a tenant
of thy good widow, and a seamstress for
me!
Yet what (thou sayest,) is a fine house, and
a train of servants, music and pictures? What
silly prejudice to connect dignity and happiness
with high ceilings and damask canopies, and
golden superfluity.
Yet so silly am I, when reason deserts the
helm, and habit assumes it. The change thou
hast painted, deceives me for a moment, or rather
is rightly judged of, while I look at nothing
but thy colouring, but when I withdraw my eye
from that, and the scene rises before me in the
hues it is accustomed to derive from my own
fancy, my soul droops, and I pray heaven to
avert such a destiny.
I tell thee all my follies, Jane. Art thou
not my sweet physician, and how canst thou
cure the malady, when thou knowest not all its
symptoms?
I love to regard myself in this light. As one
owing his virtue, his existence, his happiness
his every thing to thee, and as proposing no
end to himself, but thy happiness in turn: but
the discharge of an endless debt of gratitude.
On my account, Jane, I cannot bear you
should lose any thing. It must not be. Yet
what remedy? How is thy mother's aversion to
be subdued—how can she be made to reason on
my actions as you reason? yet not so, neither.
None but she that loves me, can make such constructions
and allowances as you do.
Why may she not be induced to give up the
hope of disuniting us, and while she hates me,
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continue her affection for thee. Why rob thee of
those bounties hitherto dispensed to thee, merely
because I must share in them. My partaking
with thee contributes indispensibly to
thy happiness. Not for my own sake, then,
but merely for thine, ought competence to be
secured to thee.
But is there no method of excluding me from
all participation. She may withhold from me
all power of a landlord, but she cannot prevent
me from subsisting on thy bounty.
Yet why does she now allow you to possess
what you do? can she imagine that my happiness
is not as dear to you now, as it will be in
consequence of any change? If I share nothing
with you now, it is not from any want of benevolent
importunity in you.
There is a strange inconsistency and contradiction
in thy mother's conduct.
But something may surely be done to lighten
her antipathies. I may surely confute a false
charge. I may convince her of my innocence in
one respect.
Yet see my friend the evils of which one
error is the parent. My conduct towards the
poor Jessy appears to your mother a more enormous
wickedness than this imputed injustice
to Talbot. The frantic indiscretion of my correspondence
with Thomson, has ruined me, for
he that will commit the greater crime, will not
be thought to scruple the less.
And then there is such an irresistible crowd
of evidence in favor of the accusation! when I
first read Mrs. Fielder's letter the consciousness
of my innocence gave me courage, but the
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longer I reflect upon the subject, the more
deeply I despond. My own errors will always
be powerful pleaders against me at the bar of
this austere judge.
Would to heaven I had not yielded to your urgency.
The indecorum of compliance stared me
in the face at the time. Too easily I yielded to the
inchantments of those eyes, and the pleadings
of that melting voice.
The charms of your conversation: the midnight
hour whose security was heightened by
the storm that raged without: so perfectly
screened from every interruption: and the subject
we had been talking on so affecting and attractive
to me, and so far from being exhausted;
And you so pathetically earnest in intreaty, so
absolutely forbidding my departure.
And was I such a shortsighted fool as not to
insist on your retiring at the usual hour! The
only thing that could make the expedient suggested
by me effectual, was that. Your Molly lying
with you, could avail you nothing, unless
you actually passed the night in your chamber.
As it was, no contrivance could be more unfortunate,
fince it merely enabled her the more
distinctly to remark the hour when you came
up. Was it three or four when you left the
parlour?
The unbosoming of souls which that night
witneffed, so sweetly as it dwelt upon my memory,
I now regard with horror, since it has
involved you in such evil.
But the letter—that was a most disastrous accident.
I have read very frequently this fatal
billet. Who is it that could imitate your hand
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so exactly? The same fashion in the letters, the
same colour in the ink, the same style, and the
sentiments expressed, so fully and accurately
coalescing with the preceding and genuine passages—
no wonder that your mother, being so
well acquainted with your pen, should have no
doubt as to your guilt, after such testimony.
There must be a perpetrator of this iniquity.
Talbot it could not be; for where lay the letter
in the interval between its disappearance and his
return; and what motive could influence him
to commit or to countenance such a forgery?
Without doubt there was some deceiver—
Some one stole the letter, and by his hand was
this vile conclusion added, and by him was it
communicated to Talbot. But hast thou such
an enemy in the world? Whom have you offended,
capable of harbouring such deadly vengeance?
Pray my friend, fit down to the recollection
of your past life, and enquire who it was that
possessed your husband's confidence; who were
his intimate companions, endeavor to discover;
tell me the names and characters of all those
who were accustomed to visit your house, either
on your account or his. Strange if among all
these, there is no foundation for some conjecture,
however shadowy.
Thomson is no better, yet grows worse hardly
perceptibly. Adieu.
Henry Colden.
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LETTER XXXVI.
To Henry Colden.
Philadelphia, Nov. 23.
[figure description] Page 203.[end figure description]
You impose on me a painful task. Persuaded
that reflection was useless, I have endeavored
to forget this fatal letter and all its consequences.
I see you will not allow me to forget
it; but I must own it is weakness to endeavor
to shun the scrutiny.
Some one, my friend, must be in fault; and
what fault can be more atrocious than this. To
defraud, by forgery, your neighbour of a few
dollars, is a crime which nothing but a public
and ignominious death will expiate: Yet how
trivial is that offence, compared with a fraud
like this, which robs an helpless woman of her
reputation; introduces mortal enmity between
her and those whose affection is necessary to
render life tolerable.
Whenever I think of this charge, an exquisite
pain seizes my heart. There must be the
blackest perfidy somewhere. I cannot bear to
think that any human creature is capable of such
a deed. A deed which the purest malice must
have dictated, since there is none surely in the
world, whom I have ever intentionally injured.
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I cannot deal in conjectures. The subject, I
find, by my feelings since I began this letter, is
too agonizing—too bewildering. It carries back
my thoughts to a time of misery, to which distance,
instead of smoothing it into apathy, only
adds a new sting.
A spotless reputation was once dear to me,
but have I now torn the passion from my heart.
I am weary of pursuing a phantom. No one
has pursued it with more eagerness and perseverance
than I; and what has been the fruit
of my labor but reiterated mortification and disappointment?
An upright demeanor, a self-acquitting conscience,
are not sufficient for our safety. Calumny
and misapprehension have no bounds to
their rage and their activity.
How little did my thoughtless heart imagine
the horrid images which beset the minds of my
mother and my husband. Happy ignorance!
Would to Heaven it had continued! Since knowledge
puts it not in my power to remove the error,
it ought to be avoided as the greatest evil.
While I know my own motives, and am convinced
of their purity, let me hold in contempt
the opinions of the world respecting me. They
can never have a basis in truth. Be they favorable
or otherwise, they cannot fail to be built
on imperfect knowledge. The praise of others
is therefore as little to be sought or prized as
their censure to be dreaded or shunned.
Heaven knows how much I value the favor
and affection of my mother, but dear as it is, I
must give it up. How can I retain it? I cannot
confute the charge. I must not acknowledge a
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guilt that does not belong to me. Added, therefore,
to her belief of my guilt, must be the persuasion
of my being an hardened and obdurate
criminal.
What will she think of my two last letters?
The former tacitly confessing my unworthiness,
and promising compliance with all her wishes:
the next asserting my innocence, and refusing
her generous offers. My first, she will probably
ascribe to an honorable compunction, left to
operate without your controul. In the second
she will trace your influence. Left to myself,
she will imagine me capable of acting as she
wishes; but, guided by you, she will lose all
hopes of me, and resign me to my fate.
Indeed I have given up my mother. There
is no other alternative but that of giving up you;
and in this case I can hesitate, indeed, but I cannot
decide against you.
I am placed in a very painful fituation. I feel
as if every hour spent under this roof was an
encroachment on another's rights. My mother's
bounty is not withheld, merely because
my rebellion against her will is not completed; but
I that feel no doubt, and whom mere consideration
of her pleasure, important as it is, will
never make swerve from my purpose; ought I
to enjoy goods to which I have forfeited all title?
Ought I to wait for an express command to be
gone from her doors? Ought I to lay her under
the necessity of declaring her will?
Yet if I change my lodgings immediately,
without waiting her directions, will she not regard
my conduct as contemptuous? Shall I not
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[figure description] Page 206.[end figure description]
then be a rebel indeed; one that scorns her favor,
and is eager to get rid of all my obligations?
How painful is such a situation: yet there is
no escaping from it that I can see. I must, per
force, remain as I am. But perhaps her next
letter will throw some light upon my destiny.
I suppose my positive affertions will shew her
that a change of purpose cannot be hoped for
from me.
The bell rings. Perhaps it is the post-man,
and the intelligence I wish for has arrived—
Adieu.
J. Talbot.
LETTER XXXVII.
To the Same.
November 26.
What shall I say to thee, my friend. How
shall I communicate a resolution fatal, as thy
tenderness will deem it, to thy peace; yet a
resolution suggested by an heart which has, at
length, permitted all selfish regards to be swallowed
up by a disinterested consideration of thy
good.
Why did you conceal from me your father's
treatment of you, and the consequences which
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[figure description] Page 207.[end figure description]
your fidelity to me has incurred from his rage?
I will never be the cause of plunging you into
poverty so hopeless. Did you think I would;
and could you imagine it possible to conceal from
me forever his aversion to me.
How much misery would your forbearance
have laid up in store for my future life. When
fate had put it out of my power to absolve you
from his curses, some accident would have
made me acquainted with the full extent of the
sufferings and contumelies with which, for my
sake, he had loaded you.
But, thanks to Heaven, I am apprized in time
of the truth. Instead of the bearer of a letter
from my mother, whose signal at the door put
an end to my last letter, it was my mother herself.
Dear and welcome as those features and that
voice once were, now would I rather have encountered
the eyes of a basalisk and the notes
of the ill-boding raven.
She hastened with all this expedition to thank
me; to urge me to execute; to assist me in
performing the promises of my first letter. The
second, in which these promises were recalled,
never reached her hand. She left New-York,
as it now appeared, before its arrival. The interval
had been spent on the road, where she
had been detained by untoward and dangerous accidents.
Think, my friend, of the embarrassments attending
this unlooked for and inauspicious meeting.
Joy at my supposed compliance with her
wishes, wishes that imaged to themselves my
happiness, and only mine, enabled her to
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support the hardships of this journey. Fatigue and
exposure, likely to be fatal to one of so delicate,
so infirm a constitution, so lately and imperfectly
recovered from a dangerous malady, could
not deter her.
Fondly, rapturously did she fold to her bosom,
the long lost and late recovered child. Tears
of joy she shed over me, and thanked me for
the tranquil and serene close which my return
to virtue, as she called my acquiescene, had
secured to her life. That life would at all events
be short, but my compliances, if they could not
much protract it, would at least render its approaching
end peaceful.
All attempts to reason with my mother were
fruitless. She fell into alarming agonies when
she discovered the full import of that coldness
and dejection which my demeanor betrayed.
Fatigued and indisposed as she was, she made
preparation to depart: she refused to pass one
night under the same roof; her own roof; and
determined to be gone, on her return home,
the very next morning.
Will not your heart comprehend the greatness
of this trial, and pity and excuse a momentary
wavering; a yielding irresolution? Yet it
was but momentary. An hour's solitude and
deep reflection fortified my heart against the
grief and supplication even of my mother.
Next day she was more calm. She condescended
to reason, to expostulate. She carefully
shunned the mention of atrocious charges.
She dwelt only on the proofs which your past
life and your own confessions had afforded of
unsteady courage and unwarrantable principles
-- 209 --
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your treatment of the Woodbury girl; your
correspondence with Thomson; your ignoble
floth; your dependance upon others; your helplessness.
From these accusations, I defended you in
silence. My heart was your secret advocate.
I did not verbally repell any of these charges.
That of inglorious dependance for subsistence
upon others, I admitted; but I could not forbear
urging that this dependance was on a father. A
father who was rich; who had no other child
than yourself; whose own treatment of you,
had planted and reared in you this indisposition
to labor; to whose property, your title, ultimately,
could not be denied.
And has he then, she exclaimed, deceived
you in that particular? Has he concealed from
you his father's resolutions? That his engagement
with you, has already drawn down his father's
anger, and even his curses. On his persisting
to maintain an inviolable faith to you,
he was ignominioufly banished from his father's
roof. All kindred and succour were disclaimed,
and on you depends the continuance of that decree,
and whether that protection and subsistence
which he has hitherto enjoyed, and of
which his character stands in so much need,
shall be lost to him forever.
You did not tell me this, my friend. In claiming
your love, far was I from imagining that I
tore you from your father's house, and plunged
you into that indigence which your character
and education so totally unfit you for sustaining
or escaping from.
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My mother removed all doubt which could
not but attend such unwelcome tidings, by shewing
me her own letter to your father, and his
answer to it.
Well do I recollect your behaviour on the
evening when my mother's letter was received
by your father. At that time, your deep dejection
was inexplicable. And did you not—my
heart bleeds to think how much my love has cost
you—Did you not talk of a fall on the ice when
I pointed to a bruize on your forehead. That
bruize, and every token of dismay, your endeavors
at eluding or diverting my attention from
your sorrow and solemnity, are now explained.
Good Heaven! And was I indeed the cause of
that violence, that contumely; the rage, and
even curses of a father? And why concealed
you these maledictions and this violence from me?
Was it not because you well knew that I would
never consent to subject you to such a penalty?
Hasten then, I beseech you, to your father;
lay this letter before him; let it inform him of
my solemn and irrevocable resolution to sever
myself from you forever.
But this I will, myself, do. I will acquaint
him with my resignation to his will and that of
my mother, and beseech him to restore you to
his favor.
Farewell, my friend. By that name, at least,
I may continue to call you. Yet no. I must
never see you nor hear from you again; unless
it be in answer to this letter.
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Let your pity stifle the emotions of indignation
or grief, and return me such an answer as
may tend to reconcile me to the vow, which,
whether difficult or easy, must not be broken.
J. T.
LETTER XXXVIII.
To Henry Colden, Senior.
November 26.
S I R,
I was not informed till to-day, of the correspondence
that has passed between you and
my mother, nor of your aversion to the alliance
which was designed to take place between your
son and me.
It is my duty to inform you that, in my opinion,
your approbation was absolutely necessary
to such an union; and consequently, since your
concurrence is withheld, it will never take place.
Every tie or engagement between us, is, from
this moment dissolved, and all intercourse, by
letter or otherwise will here end.
-- 212 --
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Your son, in opposing your wishes, imagined
himself consulting my happiness. In that he
was mistaken; and I have now removed his error,
by acquainting him with my present determination.
I am deeply grieved that his attachment to
me has forfeited your favor. I hope that there
is no other obstacle to reconcilement, and that
the termination of all intercourse between us
may remove that obstacle.
Jane Talbot.
I join my daughter in assuring you that the
alliance for which a mutual aversion was entertained,
cannot take place; and that all her engagements
with your son are dissolved. I join
her likewise in entreating you to forget his disobedience,
and restore him to your protection
and favor.
M. Fielder.
-- 213 --
LETTER XXXIX.
To Mrs. Talbot.
November 28.
[figure description] Page 213.[end figure description]
It becomes me to submit without a murmur
to a resolution dictated by a disinterested regard
to my happiness.
That you may find in that persuasion; in your
mother's tenderness and gratitude; in the affluence
and honor, which this determination
has secured to you; abundant consolation for
every evil that may befall yourself or pursue
me, are my only wishes.
Far was I from designing to conceal from
you entirely my father's aversion to our views.
I frequently apprised you of the inferences to be
naturally drawn from his known character, but
I trusted to his generosity, to the steadiness of
my own deportment—to your own merits, when
he should become personally acquainted with
you: to his good sense, when reflecting on an
evil in his power to lessen, though not wholly
to remove—for a change in his opinions; or, at
least, in his conduct.
There was sufficient resemblance in the
characters of both our parents to make me rely
on the influence of time and reflection in our
favour. Your mother could not cease to love
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you. I could not by any accident be wholly bereaved
of my father's affection. No conduct of
theirs had robbed them of my esteem. Why
then did I persist in thwarting their wishes? why
encourage you in your opposition? because I
imagined that, in thwarting their present views,
which were founded in error, I consulted their
lasting happiness, and made myself a title to
their future gratitude, by challenging their
present rebukes.
I told you not of my father's passionate violences,
disgraceful to himself and productive of
unspeakable anguish to me. Why should I revive
the scene? why be the historian of my
father's dishonor? why needlessly add to my
own and to your affliction?
My concealments arose not from the fear
that the disclosure would estrange you from
me. I supposed you willing to grant me the
same independence of a parents controul which
you claimed for yourself. I saw no difference
between forbearing to consult a parent in a
case where we know that his answer will condemn
us, and slighting his express forbidding.
I say thus much to account for, and, if possible,
excuse that concealment with which you
reproach me. Tender and reluctant, indeed,
are these reproaches, but as I deem it a sacred
duty to reveal to you the utmost of my follies,
what but injustice to you would be the tacit admission
of injurious but groundless charges.
My actual faults are of too deep a dye to allow
me to sport with your good opinion, or permit
me to be worse thought of by you than I deserve.
You exhort me to seek reconcilement, with
my father. What mean you? I have not been
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the injurer. Not an angry word, accusing look
or vengeful thought has come from me. I have
exercised the privilege of a rational and moral being.
I have loved, not according to another's estimate
of merit, but my own. Of what then am I
to repent? where lies my transgression? if his
treatment of me be occasioned by antipathy for
you, must I adopt his antipathy, and thus creep
again into favour? Impossible! if it arise
from my refusing to give up an alliance which
his heart abhors, your letter to him, which you tell
me you mean to write, and which will inform
him that every view of that kind is at an end,
will remove the evil.
Fear not for me, my friend. Whatever be
my lot, be assured that I never can taste pure
misery while the thought abides with me that
you are not unhappy.
And what now remains but to leave with you the
blessing of a grateful and devoted heart, and to
submit, with what humility I can, to the destiny
which you have prescribed.
I should not deserve your love, if I did not now
relinquish it with an anguish next to despair:
neither should I have merit in my own eyes, if I
did not end this letter with acquitting you, the
author of my loss, of all shadow of blame.
Farewell—forever.
H. Colden.
-- 216 --
LETTER XL.
To James Montford.
November 28.
[figure description] Page 216.[end figure description]
I told you of your brother Stephen's talk
with me about accompanying him on his North-west
voyage. I mentioned to you what were
my objections to the scheme. It was a desperate
adventure: a sort of forlorn hope: to be pursued
in case my wishes in relation to Jane should be
crossed. I had not then any, or much apprehension
of change in her resolutions. So many
proofs of a fervent and invincible attachment to
me had she lately given, that I could not imagine
any motive strong enough to change her purpose.
Yet now, my friend, have I arranged
matters with your brother, and expect to bid
an everlasting farewell to my native shore some
day within the ensuing fortnight.
I call it an everlasting farewell, for I have,
at present, neither expectation nor desire of returning.
A three years wandering among boistrous
seas, and through various climates, added
to that inward care, that spiritless dejected
heart which I shall ever bear about me, would
surely never let me return, even if I had
the wish; but I have not the wish. If I live at
all, it must be in a scene far different and distant
from that in which I have been hitherto reluctantly
detained.
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And why have I embraced this scheme?
There can be but one cause.
Having just returned from following Thomson's
remains to the grave, I received a letter
from Jane. Her mother had just arrived. She
came, it seems, in consequence of her daughter's
apparent compliance with her wishes. The
letter, retracting my friends precipitate promise,
had miscarried or had lingered by the
way. What I little suspected, my father had
acquainted Mrs. Fielder with his conduct towards
me, and this, together with her mother's
importunities, had prevailed on Jane once more
to renounce me.
There never occurred an event in my life which
did not, some way, bear testimony to the usefulness
and value of sincerity. Had I fully disclosed
all that passed between my father and
me, should I not easily have diverted Jane from
these extremities. Alone; at a distance from
me; and with her mother's eloquence at hand,
to confirm every wayward sentiment, and fortify
her in every hostile resolution, she is easily
driven into paths, and perhaps kept steadily in
them, from which proper explanations and pathetic
arguments, had they been early and seasonably
employed by me, would have led her
easily away.
I begin to think it is vain to strive against
maternal influence. What but momentary victory
can I hope to attain? What but poverty,
dependance, ignominy, will she share with me?
And if her strenuous spirit set nought by these,
and I know she is capable of rising above them,
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how will she support her mother's indignation
and grief.
I have now, indeed, no hope of even momentary
victory. There are but two persons in the
world who command her affections. Either
when present, (the other absent or silent) has
absolute dominion over her. Her mother no
doubt is apprized of this, and has now pursued
the only effectual method of securing submission.
I have already written an answer; I hope such
an one as, when the present tumults of passion
have subsided, when the eye sedately scrutinizes,
and the heart beats in an even tenour, may
be read without shame or remorse.
I &longs;hall also write to her mother. In doing this,
I must keep down the swelling bitterness. It
may occupy my solitude, torment my feelings,
but why should it infect my pen?
I have sometimes given myself credit for impartiality
in judging of others. Indeed I am inclined
to think myself no blind or perverse judge
even of my own actions. Hence indeed, the
greater part of my unhappiness. If my conduct
had always conformed, instead of being adverse,
to my principles, I should have moved on
tranquilly and self satisfied, at least, but, in
truth, the being that goes by my name was never
more thoroughly contemned by another than
by myself—but this is falling into the old strain;
irksome, tiresome and useless to you as to me.
Yet I cannot write just now in any other: therefore
I will stop.
Adieu, my friend. There will be time enough
to hear from you ere my departure. Let me
hear then from you.
-- 219 --
LETTER XLI.
To Henry Colden.
Philadelphia, Dec. 3.
S I R.
[figure description] Page 219.[end figure description]
My Daughter informs me that the letter
she has just dispatched to you, contains her
resolution of never seeing you more. I likewise
discover that she has requested, and expects a
reply from you, in which, she doubts not, you
will confirm her resolution.
You, no doubt, regard me as your worst enemy.
No request from me can hope to be complied
with, yet I cannot forbear suggesting the
propriety of your refraining from making any
answer to my daughter's letter.
In my treatment of you I shall not pretend
any direct concern for your happiness. I am
governed, whether erroneously or not, merely
by views to the true interest of Mrs. Talbot,
which in my opinion, forbids her to unite herself
to you. But if that union be calculated to
bereave her of happiness, it cannot certainly be
conducive to yours. If you consider the matter
rightly, therefore, instead of accounting me an
-- 220 --
[figure description] Page 220.[end figure description]
enemy, you will rank me among your benefactors.
You have shewn yourself, in some instances,
not destitute of generosity. It is but justice to
acknowledge that your late letter to me avows
sentiments such as I by no means expected,
and makes me disposed to trust your candour
to acquit my intention at least of some of
the consequences of your father's resentment.
I was far from designing to subject you to
violence or ignominy, and meant nothing by my
application to him but your genuine and lasting
happiness.
I dare not hope that it will ever be in my
power to appease that resentment which you
feel for me. I cannot expect that you are so
far raised above the rest of men, that any action
will be recommended to you by its tendency
to oblige me: Yet I cannot conceal from you
that your reconcilement with your father will
give me peculiar satisfaction.
I ventured on a former occasion to make you
an offer, on condition of your going to Europe,
which I now beg leave to repeat. By accepting
the inclosed bill, and embarking for a foreign
land without any further intercourse, personally
or by letter, with my daughter, and after reconciliation
with your father, you will confer a
very great favour on one, who, notwithstanding
appearances, has acted in a manner that becomes
Your true friend,
M. Fielder.
-- 221 --
LETTER XLII.
To Mrs. Fielder.
Baltimore, Dec. 5.
Madam,
[figure description] Page 221.[end figure description]
I pretend not to be raised above any of the infirmities
of human nature, but am too sensible
of the errors of my past conduct, and the defects
which will ever cleave to my character, to be
either surprised or indignant at the disapprobation
of a virtuous mind. So far from harbouring
resentment against you, it is with reluctance
I decline the acceptance of your bill. I cannot
consider it in any other light than as an alms
which my situation is far from making necessary,
and by receiving which I should defraud those
whose poverty may plead a superior title.
I hasten to give you pleasure by informing
you of my intention to leave America immediately.
My destiny is far from being certain,
but, at present, I both desire and expect never
to re visit my native land.
I design not to solicit another interview with
Mrs. Talbot. You dissuade me from making any
reply to her letter, from the fear, no doubt,
that my influence will be exerted to change her
-- 222 --
[figure description] Page 222.[end figure description]
resolution. Dismiss, I entreat you, madam, every
apprehension of that kind. Your daughter
has deliberately made her election. If no advantage
be taken of her tenderness and pity,
she will be happy in her new scheme. Shall I,
who pretend to love her, subject her to new
trials and mortifications? Am I able to reward
her, by my affection, for the loss of every other
comfort. What can I say in favour of my own
attachment to her, which may not be urged in
favour of her attachment to her mother. The
happiness of one or other must be sacrificed,
and shall I not rather offer, than demand the
sacrifice! and how poor and selfish should I be
if I did not strive to lessen the difficulties of her
choice, and persuade her that in gratifying her
mother, she inflicts no lasting misery on me?
I regard in its true light, what you say with
respect to reconcilement with my father, and
am always ready to comply with your wishes in
the only way that a conviction of my own rectitude
will permit. I have patiently endured revilings
and blows, but I shall not needlessly expose
myself to new insults. Though willing to
accept apology and grant an oblivion of the past,
I will never avow a penitence which I do not feel,
or confess that I deserved the treatment I received.
Truly can I affirm that your daughter's happiness
is of all earthly things moft dear to me.
I fervently thank Heaven that I leave her exempt
from all the hardships of poverty, and in
the bosom of one who will guard her safety with
a zeal equal to my own. All that I fear is, that
your efforts to console her will fail. I know the
-- 223 --
[figure description] Page 223.[end figure description]
heart, which, if you thought me worthy of the
honour, I should account it my supreme felicity
to call mine. Let it be a precious deposit in your
hands.
And now, Madam, permit me to conclude
with a solemn blessing on your head, and on
her's, and with an eternal farewell to you both.
H. Colden.
LETTER XLIII.
To James Montford.
Philadelphia, Dec. 7.
I hope you will approve of my design to accompany
Stephen. The influence of variety
and novelty will no doubt be useful. Why
should I allow my present feelings, which assure
me that I have lost what is indispensible,
not only to my peace, but my life, to supplant
the invariable lesson of experience, which
teaches that time and absence will dull the edge
of every calamity? And have I not found myself
peculiarly susceptible of this healing influence?
-- 224 --
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Time and change of scene will, no doubt,
relieve me, but, in the mean time, I have not
a name for that wretchedness into which I am
sunk. The light of day, the company of mankind
is, at this moment, insupportable. Of all
places in the world, this is the most hateful to
my soul. I should not have entered the city, I
should not abide in it a moment, were it not
for a thought that occurred just before I left
Baltimore.
You know the mysterious and inexplicable
calumny which has heightened Mrs. Fielder's
antipathy against me. Of late, I have been
continually ruminating on it, and especially
since Mrs. Talbot's last letter. Methinks it is
impossible for me to leave the country till I have
cleared her character of this horrid aspersion.
Can there be any harmony between mother and
child; muft not suspicion and mistrust perpetually
rankle in their bosoms, while this imposture
is believed?
Yet how to detect the fraud—Some clue must
be discernible; perseverance must light on it, at
last. The agent in this sordid iniquity must be
human: must be influenced by the ordinary
motives: must be capable of remorse or of error;
must have moments of repentance or of
negligence.
My mind was particularly full of this subject
in a midnight ramble which I took just before I
left Baltimore. Something, I know not what,
recalled to mind a conversation which I had
with the poor washwoman at Wilmington. Miss
Jessup, whom you well know by my report, passed
through Wilmington just as I left the sick
-- 225 --
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woman's house, and stopped a moment just to
give me an “How'de'ye” and to drop some
railleries, founded on my visits to Miss Secker,
a single and solitary lady. On reaching Philadelphia
she amused herself with perplexing
Jane, by jesting exaggerations on the same subject,
in a way that seemed to argue somewhat
of malignity; yet I thought nothing of it at the
time.
On my next visit to the sick woman, it occurred
to me, for want of other topics of conversation,
to introduce Miss Jessup. Did she know
any thing, I asked, of that lady.
O Yes, was the answer. A great deal. She
lived a long time in the family. She remembered
her well, and was a sufferer by many of her
freaks.
It is always disagreeable to me to listen to
the slanderous prate of servants: I am careful,
whenever it intrudes itself, to discourage and
rebuke it; but just at this time I felt some resentment
against this lady, and hardly supposed
it possible for any slanderer to exaggerate her
contemptible qualities. I suffered her therefore
to run on in a tedious and minute detail of
the capricious, peevish and captious deportment
of Miss Jessup.
After the rhetoric of half an hour, all was
wound up, in a kind of satyrical apology, with—
No wonder, for the girl was over head and ears
in love, and her man would have nothing to
say to her. An hundred times has she begged
and prayed bim to be kind, but he slighted all
her advances, and always after they had been
shut up together, she wreaked her disappointment
and ill humour upon us.
-- 226 --
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Pray, said I, who was this ungrateful person?
His name was Talbot. Miss Jessup would
not give him up, but teazed him with letters
and prayers till the man at last, got married,
ten to one for no other reason than to get rid of
her.
This intelligence was new. Much as I had
heard of miss Jessup, a story like this had never
reached my ears. I quickly ascertained
that the Talbot spoken of was the late husband
of my friend.
Some incident interrupted the conversation
here. The image of Miss Jessup was displaced
to give room to more important reveries, and I
thought no more of her till this night's ramble.
I now likewise recollected that the only person
suspected of having entered the apartment where
lay Mrs. Talbot's unfinished letter, was no other
than Miss Jessup herself, who was always
gadding at unseasonable hours. How was this
suspicion removed? By Miss Jessup herself,
who, on being charged with the theft, asserted
that she was elsewhere engaged at the time.
It was, indeed, exceedingly improbable that
Miss Jessup had any agency in this affair. A
volatile, giddy, thoughtless character, who betrayed
her purposes on all occasions, from a natural
incapacity to keep a secret; and yet had
not this person succeeded in keeping her attachment
to Mr. Talbot from the knowledge, and
even the suspicion of his wife? Their intercourse
had been very frequent since her marriage,
and all her sentiments appeared to be expressed
with a rash and fearless confidence.
Yet, if Hannah Secker's story deserved credit,
-- 227 --
[figure description] Page 227.[end figure description]
she had exerted a wonderful degree of circumspection,
and had placed on her lips a guard
that had never once slept.
I determined to stop at Wilmington next day,
on my journey to you, and glean what further
information Hannah could give. I ran to her
lodgings as soon as I alighted at the inn.
I enquired how long and in what years she
lived with miss Jessup; what reason she had for
suspecting her mistress of an attachment to
Talbot; what proofs Talbot gave of aversion to
her wishes.
On each of these heads, her story was tediously
minute and circumstantial. She lived with
miss Jessup and her mother, before Talbot's
marriage with my friend; after the marriage,
and during his absence on the voyage which occasioned
his death.
The proofs of miss Jessup's passion were continually
occurring in her own family, where she
suffered the ill humor, occasioned by her disappointment,
to display itself without controul.
Hannah's curiosity was not chastised by much
reflection, and some things were overheard
which verified the old maxim, that “Walls have
ears.” In short, it appears that this poor lady
doated on Talbot; that she reversed the usual
methods of proceeding and submitted to his
mercy; that she met with nothing but scorn
and neglect; that even after his marriage with
Jane, she sought his society, pestered him with
invitations and letters, and directed her walks
in such a way as to make their meeting in the
street occur as if by accident.
-- 228 --
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While Talbot was absent she visited his wife
very frequently, but the subjects of their conversation
and the degree of intimacy between the
two ladies were better known to me than to
Hannah.
You may think it strange that my friend never
suspected or discovered the state of Miss Jessup's
feelings. But, in truth, Jane is the least suspicious
or inquifitive of mortals. Her neighbour
was regarded with no particular affection:
her conversation is usually a vein of impertinence
or levity; her visits were always unsaught
and eluded as often as decorum would permit;
her talk was seldom listened to, and she and all
belonging to her were dismissed from recollection
as soon as politeness gave leave. Miss Jessup's
deficiencies in personal and mental graces
and Talbot's undisguised contempt for her, precluded
every sentiment like jealousy.
Jane's life, since the commencement of her
acquaintance with Miss Jessup, was lonely and
secluded. Her friends were not of her neighbours
cast, and these tattlers who knew any
thing of Miss Jessup's follies were quite unknown
to her. No wonder, then, that the troublesome
impertinence of this poor woman had
never betrayed her to so inattentive an observer
as Jane.
After many vague and fruitless inquiries, I
asked Hannah if Miss Jessup was much addicted
to the pen.
Very much. Was always scribbling. Was
never by herself three minutes but the pen was
taken up: would write on any pieces of paper
that offered: was frequently rebuked by her
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[figure description] Page 229.[end figure description]
mother for wasting so much time in this way: the
cause of a great many quarrels between them:
the old lady spent the whole day knitting: supplied
herself in this way, with all the stockings
she herself used; knit nothing but worsted,
which she wore all the year round: all the surplus
beyond what she needed for her own use,
she sold at a good price to a Market street shopkeeper:
Hannah used to be charged with the
commission: always executed it grumblingly:
the old lady had stipulated with a Mr. H—
to take at a certain price, all she made: Hannah
was dispatched with the stockings, but was
charged to go beforehand to twenty other dealers,
and try to get more. Used to go directly
to Mr. H—, and call on her friends by the
way, persuading the old lady that her detention
was occasioned by the number and perseverance
of her applications to the dealers in hose: till,
at last, she fell under suspicion; was once followed
by the old lady, detected in her fraud, and
dismissed from the house with ignominy. The
quondam mistress endeavoured to injure Hannah's
character by reporting that her agent had
actually got a higher price for the stockings
than she thought proper to account for to her
employer; had gained, by this artifice, not less
than three farthings a pair, on twenty-three
pairs: all a base lie as ever was told—
You say that miss Jessup was a great scribbler.
Did she write well: fast: neatly?
They say she did: very well. For her part,
she could not write; and was therefore no
judge, but Tom, the waiter and coachman, was
very fond of reading and writing, and used to
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say that miss Hetty would make a good clerk.
Tom used to carry all her messages and letters;
Was a cunning and insinuating fellow; cajoled
his mistress by flatteries and assiduities: got
many a smile: many a bounty and gratuity,
for which the fellow only laughed at her behind
her back.
What has become of this Tom?
He lives with her still, and was in as high
favour as ever. Tom had paid her a visit, the
day before, being in attendance on his mistress
on her late journey. From him, she supposed
that Miss Hetty had gained intelligence of
Hannah's situation, and of her being succoured,
in her distress, by me.
Tom, you say, was her letter carrier. Did
you ever hear from him with whom she corresponded?
did she ever write to Talbot?
O yes. Just before Talbot's marriage, she
often wrote to him. Tom used to talk very
freely in the kitchen about his mistress' attachment,
and always told us, what reception he met
with. Mr. Talbot seldom condescended to write
any answer.
I suppose, Hannah, I need hardly ask whether
you have any specimen of Miss Jessup's writing
in your possession?
This question considerably disconcerted the
poor woman. She did not answer me till I had
repeated the question.
Why—yes—she had—something—she believed.
I presume it is nothing improper to be disclosed:
if so, I should be glad to have a sight
f it.
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She hesitated: was very much perplexed.
Denied and confessed alternately that she possessed
some of Miss Jessup's writing; at length
began to weep very bitterly.
After some solicitation on my part, to be explicit,
she consented to disclose what she acknowledged
to be a great fault. The substance
of her story was this:
Miss Jessup, on a certain occasion, locked
herself up for several hours in her chamber.
At length she came out, and went to the street
door, apparently with an intention of going
abroad. Just then an heavy rain began to fall.
This incident produced a great deal of impatience,
and after waiting some time, in hopes of
the shower's ceasing, and frequently looking at
her watch, she called for an umbrella. Unhappily,
as poor Hannah afterwards thought, no
umbrella could be found. Her own had been lent
to a friend the preceding evening, and the mother
would have held herself most culpably extravagant
to uncase hers, without a most palpable
necessity. Miss Hetty was preparing to go out
unsheltered, when the officious Tom interfered,
and asked her if he could do what she
wanted. At first, she refused his offer, but the
mothers importunities to stay at home becoming
more clamorous, she consented to commission
Tom to drop a letter at the post office.
This he was to do with the utmost dispatch, and
promised that not a moment should be lost.
He received the letter, but instead of running
off with it immediately, he slipped into the kitchen,
just to arm himself against the storm by
an hearty draught of strong beer.
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While quaffing his nectar, and chattering with
his usual gaiety, Hannah, who had long owed
a grudge both to mistress and man, was tempted
to convey the letter from Tom's pocket,
where it was but half deposited, into her
own. Her only motive was to vex and disappoint
those whose chief pleasure it had
always been to vex and disappoint her. The
tankard being hastily emptied, he hastened
away to the post office. When he arrived
there, he felt for the letter. It was gone: dropped,
as he supposed, in the street. In great confusion
he returned, examining very carefully the
gutters and porches, by the way. He entered
the kitchen in great perplexity, and enquired of
Hannah, if a letter had not fallen from his pocket
before he went out.
Hannah, according to her own statements, was
incapable of inveterate malice. She was preparing
to rid Tom of his uneasiness, when he was
summoned to the presence of his lady. He
thought proper to extricate himself from all
difficulties by boldly affirming that the letter had
been left according to direction, and he afterwards
endeavoured to persuade Hannah that it
had been found in the bottom of his pocket.
Every day encreased the difficulty of disclosing
the truth. Tom and Miss Jessup, talked
no more on the subject, and time, and new
provocations from her mistress, confirmed Hannah in her resolution of retaining the paper.
She could not read, and was afraid of trusting
any body else with the contents of this epistle.
Several times she was about to burn it,
but forbore from the persuasion that a day
might arrive when the possession would be of
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some importance to her. It had laid, till almost
forgotten, in the bottom of her crazy chest.
I rebuked her with great severity, for her
conduct, and insisted on her making all the
atonement in her power, by delivering up the
letter to the writer. I consented to take charge
of it for that purpose.
You will judge my surprise, when I received
a letter, with the seal unbroken, directed to
Mrs. Fielder of New-York. Jane and I had
often been astonished at the minute intelligence
which her mother received of our proceedings:
at the dexterity this secret informant had
displayed in misrepresenting and falsely construing
our actions. The informer was anonymous,
and one of the letters had been extorted
from her mother by Jane's urgent solicitations.
This I had frequently perused and the penmanship
was still familiar to my recollection. It bore
a striking resemblance to the superscription of
this letter, and was equally remote from Miss
Jessups ordinary hand writing. Was it rash to
infer from these circumstances that the secret
enemy, whose malice had been so active and
successful, was at length discovered?
What was I to do? Should I present myself
before Miss Jessup with this letter in my
hand, and lay before her my suspicions, or
should I carry it to Mrs. Fielder, to whom it
was directed? My curiosity was defeated by
the careful manner in which it was folded, and
this was not a case in which I deemed myself
authorized to break a seal.
After much reflection, I determined to call
upon Miss Jessup. I meant not to restore her
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the letter, unless the course our conversation
should take, made it proper. I have already
been at her house. She was not at home. I am
to call again at eight o'clock in the evening.
In my way thither I passed Mrs. Talbot's
house. There were scarcely any tokens of its
being inhabited. No doubt, the mother and
child, have returned together to New-York.
On approaching the house, my heart, too heavy
before, became a burthen almost insupportable.
I hastened my pace, and averted my
eyes.
I am now shut up in my chamber at an Inn.
I feel as if in a wilderness of savages, where all
my safety consisted in solitude. I was glad not
to meet with an human being whom I knew.
What shall I say to miss Jessup when I see
her. I know not. I have reason to believe her
the author of many slanders, but look for no
relief from the mischiefs they have occasioned,
in accusing or upbraiding the slanderer. She has
like wise disclosed many instances of guilty conduct,
which I supposed impossible to be discovered.
I never concealed them from Mrs. Talbot,
to whom a thorough knowledge of my character
was indispensible; but I was unwilling
to make any other my confessor. In this, I cannot
suppose her motives to have been very benevolent,
but, since she adhered to the truth,
it is not for me to arraign her motives.
May I not suspect that she had some hand in
the forgery lately come to light. A mind like
hers, must hate a successful rival. To persuade
Talbot of his wife's perfidy, was at least
to dissolve his alliance with another; and since
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she took so much pains to gain his favor, even
after his marriage, is it not allowable to question
the delicacy and punctiliousness, at least, of her
virtue?
Mrs. Fielder's aversion to me, is chiefly founded
on a knowledge of my past errors. She thinks
them too flagrant to be atoned for, and too inveterate
to be cured. I can never hope to subdue
perfectly that aversion, and though Jane
can never be happy without me, I, alone, cannot
make her happy. On my own account,
therefore, it is of little moment what she believes.
But her own happiness is deeply concerned
in clearing her daughter's character of
this blackest of all stains.
Here is some one coming up the stairs, towards
my apartment. Surely it cannot be to
me that this visit is intended—
Good Heaven! What shall I do?
It was Molly that has just left me.
My heart sunk at her appearance. I had made
up my mind to separate my evil destiny from
that of Jane; and could only portend new trials
and difficulties from the appearance of one
whom I supposed her messenger.
The poor girl, as soon as she saw me, began
to sob bitterly, and could only exclaim—O, sir!
O, Mr. Colden.
This behaviour was enough to terrify me. I
trembled in every joint while I faultered out—
I hope your mistress is well.
After many efforts, I prevailed in gaining a
distinct account of my friend's situation. This
good girl, by the sympathy she always
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expressed in her mistress's fortunes; by her silent assiduities
and constant proofs of discretion and affection,
had gained Mrs. Talbot's confidence;
yet no farther than to indulge her feelings with
less restraint in Molly's presence than in that of
any other person.
I learned that the night after Mrs. Fielder's
arrival, was spent by my friend in sighs and
restlessness. Molly lay in the same chamber,
and her affectionate heart was as much a stranger
to repose as that of her mistress. She frequently
endeavored to comfort Mrs. Talbot, but
in vain.
Next day she did not rise as early as usual.
Her mother came to her bed-side, and enquired
affectionately after her health. The visit was
received with smiling and affectionate complacency.
Her indisposition was disguised, and
she studied to persuade Mrs. Fielder that she
enjoyed her usual tranquillity. She rose, and
attempted to eat, but quickly desisted, and after
a little while retired and locked herself up in her
chamber. Even Molly was not allowed to follow
her.
In this way, that and the ensuing day past.
She wore an air of constrained cheerfulness in
her mother's presence; affected interest in common
topics; and retired at every convenient interval
to her chamber, where she wept incessantly.
Mrs. Fielder's eye was watchful and anxious.
She addressed Mrs. Talbot in a tender and maternal
accent; seemed solicitous to divert her
attention by anecdotes of New-York friends;
and carefully eluded every subject likely to
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recall images which were already too intimately
present. The daughter seemed grateful for
these solicitudes, and appeared to fight with her
feelings the more resolutely because they gave
pain to her mother.
All this was I compelled to hear from the
communicative Molly.
My heart bled at this recital. Too well did I
predict what effect her compliance would have
on her peace.
I asked if Jane had not received a letter from
me.
Yes—Two letters had come to the door at
once, this morning; one for Mrs. Fielder and
the other for her daughter. Jane expected its
arrival, and shewed the utmost impatience when
the hour approached. She walked about her
chamber, listened, with a start, to every sound;
continually glanced from her window at the
passengers.
She did not conceal from Molly the object of
her solicitude. The good girl endeavored to
sooth her, but she checked her with vehemence.
Talk not to me, Molly. On this hour depends
my happiness—my life. The sacrifice my mother
asks, is too much or too little. In bereaving
me of my love she must be content to take my
existence also. They never shall be separated.
The weeping girl timorously suggested that
she had already given me up.
True, Molly, in a rash moment, I told him
that we meet no more: but two days of misery has
convinced me that it cannot be. His answer
will decide my fate as to this world. If he accept
my dismissal, I am thenceforth undone.
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I will die. Blessing my mother, and wishing her
a less stubborn child, I will die.
These last words were uttered with an air the
most desperate, and an emphasis the most solemn.
They chilled me to the heart, and I was
unable longer to keep my seat. Molly, unbidden,
went on.
Your letter at last came. I ran down to receive
it. Mrs. Fielder was at the street door before
me, but she suffered me to carry my mistress'
letter to her. Poor lady! She met me at
the stair-head, snatched the paper eagerly, but
trembled so she could not open it. At last she
threw herself on the bed, and ordered me to
read it to her. I did so. At every sentence
she poured forth fresh tears, and exclaimed,
wringing her hands—O! what—what an heart
have I madly cast away.
The girl told me much more, which I am unable
to repeat. Her visit was self-prompted.
She had caught a glympse of me as I passed the
door, and without mentioning her purpose to
her mistress, set out as soon as it was dusk.
Cannot you do something, Mr. Colden, for my
mistress? continued the girl. She will surely
die if she has not her own way; and to judge
from your appearance, it is as great a cross to
you as to her.
Heaven knows, that, with me, it is nothing but
the choice of dreadful evils. Jane is the mistress
of her own destiny. It is not I that have
renounced her, but she that has banished me.
She has only to recall the sentence, which she
confesses to have been hastily and thoughtlessly
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pronounced—and no power on earth shall sever
me from her side.
Molly asked my permission to inform her
mistress of my being in the city, and conjured
me not to leave it, during the next day, at least.
I readily consented, and requested her to bring
me word in the morning in what state things
were.
She offered to conduct me to her then. It
was easy to affect an interview without Mrs.
Fielder's knowledge: but I was sick of all clandestine
proceedings, and had promised Mrs.
Fielder not to seek another meeting with her
daughter. I was likewise anxious to visit miss
Jessup, and ascertain what was to be done by
means of the letter in my pocket.
Can I, my friend, can I, without unappeasible
remorse, pursue this scheme of a distant voyage.
Suppose some fatal dispair should seize
my friend. Suppose—it is impossible. I will
not stir till she has had time to deliberate; till
resignation to her mother's will, shall prove a
task that is practicable.
Should I not be the most flagrant of villains
if I deserted one that loved me. My own happiness
is not a question. I cannot be a selfish
being and a true lover. Happiness, without her,
is indeed a chimerical thought, but my exile
would be far from miserable, while assured of
her tranquillity, and possession would confer no
peace, if her whom I possessed, were not happier
than a different destiny would make her.
Why have all these thoughts been suspended
for the last two days. I had wrought myself up
to a firm persuasion that marriage was the only
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[figure description] Page 240.[end figure description]
remedy for all evils: that our efforts to regain
the favor of her mother would be most likely to
succeed, when that which she endeavored to
prevent, was irretrievable. Yet that persuasion
was dissipated by her last letter. That convinced
me that her lot would only be made miserable
by being united to mine. Yet now—is
it not evident that our fates must be inseperable?
What a phantastic impediment is this aversion
of her mother? And yet, can I safely and
deliberately call it phantastic? Let me sever
myself from myself, and judge impartially. Be
my heart called upon to urge its claims to such
affluence, such love, such treasures of personal
and mental excellence as Jane has to bestow.
Would it not be dumb. It is not so absurd as
to plead its devotion to her, as an atonement for
every past guilt, and as affording security for
future uprightness.
On my own merit I am, and ever have been
mute. I have plead with Mrs. Fielder not for
myself but for Jane. It is her happiness that
forms the object of my supreme regard. I am
eager to become hers, because her, not because
my happiness, though my happiness certainly
does, demand it.
I am then resolved. Jane's decision shall be
deliberate. I will not biass her by prayers or
blandishments. Her resolution shall spring
from her own judgment, and shall absolutely
govern me. I will rivet myself to her side, or
vanish forever according to her pleasure.
I wish I had written a few words to her by
Molly, assuring her of my devotion to her will:
And yet, stands she in need of any new
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assurrances. She has banished me. I am preparing
to fly. She recalls me, and it is impossible to
depart.
I must go to Miss Jessup's. I will take up the
pen ('tis my sole amusement—)when I return—
I went to Miss Jessup's; her still sealed letter
in my pocket: my mind confused: perplexed:
sorrowful: wholly undertermined as to the manner
of addressing her, or the use to be made of
this important paper. I designedly prolonged
my walk in hopes of forming some distinct conception
of the purpose for which I was going,
but only found myself each moment, sinking into
new perplexities. Once I had taken the resolution
of opening her letter and turned my
steps towards the fields, that I might examine
it at leisure, but there was something disgraceful
in the violation of a seal, which scared me
away from this scheme.
At length, reproaching myself for this indecision
and leaving my conduct to be determined
by circumstances I went directly to her
house.
Miss Jessup was unwell; was unfit to see
company: desired me to send up my name. I
did not mention my name to the servant but replied
I had urgent business, which a few minutes
conversation would dispatch. I was admitted.
I found the lady, in a careless garb, reclining
on a sofa, wan, pale and of a sickly aspect. On
recognising me, she assumed a languidly smiling
air, and received me with much civility. I
took my seat near her. She began the talk.
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I am very unwell; Got a terrible cold, coming
from Dover: been laid up ever since; a teazing
cough; no appetite: and worse spirits than I
ever suffered: Glad you've come to relieve my
solitude: not a single soul to see me; Mrs.
Talbot never favours a body with a visit. Pray
how's the dear girl? Hear her mother's come;
heard, it seems, of your intimacy with Miss
Secker: Determined to revenge your treason to
her goddess! vows she shall, henceforth, have
no more to say to you.
While waiting for admission, I formed hastily
the resolution in what manner to conduct
this interview. My deportment was so solemn,
that the chatterer glancing at my face in the
course of her introductory harangue, felt herself
suddenly chilled and restrained.
Why what now? Colden. You are mighty
grave methinks. Do you repent already of your
new attachment. Has the atmosphere of Philadelphia,
reinstated Jane in all her original
rights?
Proceed, madam. When you are tired of
raillery, I shall beg your attention to a subject
in which your honour is deeply concerned: to
a subject which allows not of a jest.
Nay, said she, in some little trepedation, if
you have any thing to communicate, I am already
prepared to receive it.
Indeed Miss Jessup, I have something to
communicate. A man of more refinement and
address than I can pretend to, would make this
communication in a more circuitous and artful
manner; and a man, less deeply interested in
the e&longs;tablishment of truth, would act with more
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caution and forbearance. I have no excuse to
plead: no forgiveness to ask, for what I am
now going to disclose. I demand nothing from
you, but your patient attention, while I lay before
you the motives of my present visit.
You are no stranger to my attachment to
Mrs. Talbot. That my passion is requited is
likewise known to you. That her mother objects
to her union with me, and raises her objections
on certain improprieties in my character
and conduct, I suppose, has already come
to your knowledge.
You may naturally suppose that I am desirous
of gaining her favour, but it is not by the
practice of fraud and iniquity, and therefore I
have not begun with denying or concealing my
faults. Very faulty: very criminal have I been:
to deny that would be adding to the number of
my transgressions, but I assure you, Miss Jessup,
there have been limits to my follies: there
is a boundary beyond which I have never gone.
Mrs. Fielder imagines me much more criminal
than I really am, and her opinion of me,
which if limited, in the strictest manner by my
merits, would amply justify her aversion to my
marriage with her daughter, is, however, carried
further than justice allows.
Mrs. Fielder has been somewhat deceived
with regard to me. She thinks me capable of
a guilt, of which, vicious as I am, I am yet incapable.
Nay, she imagines I have actually
committed a crime, of which I am wholly innocent.
What think you, madam (taking her hand,
and eying her with stedfastness) she thinks
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me at once so artful and so wicked that I have
made the wife unfaithful to the husband: I have
persuaded Mrs. Talbot to forget what was due to
herself, her fame, and to trample on her marriage
vow.
This opinion is not a vague conjecture on
suspicion. It is founded in what seems to be
the most infallible of all evidence: the written
confession of her daughter. The paper appears
to be a letter which was addressed to the seducer
soon after the guilty interview. This paper
came indirectly into Mrs. Fielder's hands. To
justify her charge, against us, she has shewn it
to us. Now madam, the guilt imputed to us, is
a stranger to our hearts. The crime which this
letter confesses, never was committed, and the
letter which contains the confession, never was
written by Jane. It is a forgery.
Mrs. Fielder's misapprehension, so far as it
relates to me, is of very little moment. I can
hope for nothing from the removal of this error
while so many instances of real misconduct continue
to plead against me, but her daughter's
happiness is materially affected by it, and for
her sake I am anxious to vindicate her fame
from this reproach.
No doubt, Miss Jessup, you have often asked
me in your heart since I began to speak, Why
I have stated this transaction to you. What interest
have you in our concerns? What proofs
of affection or esteem have you received from
us, that should make you zealous in our behalf?
Or, what relation has your interest in any respect
to our weal or woe. Why should you be
called upon as a counsellor or umpire, in the
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little family dissentions of Mrs. Talbot and her
mother?
And do indeed these questions rise in your
heart, Miss Jessup? Does not memory enable
you to account for conduct which, to the distant
and casual observer, to those who know not
what you know, would appear strange and absurd.
Recollect yourself. I will give you a moment
to recall the past. Think over all that has occurred
since your original acquaintance with
Mrs. Talbot or her husband, and tell me solemnly
and truly whether you discern not the
cause of his mistake. Tell me whether you know
not the unhappy person, whom some delusive
prospect of advantage, some fatal passion has
tempted to belie the innocent.”
I am no reader of faces, my friend. I drew no
inferences from the confusion sufficiently visible
in Miss Jessup. She made no attempt to
interrupt me, but quickly withdrew her eye
from my gaze; hung her head upon her bosom:
an hectic flush now and then shot across her
cheek. But these would have been produced
by a similar address delivered with much solemnity
and emphasis, in any one however innocent.
I believe there was no anger in my looks.
Supposing her to have been the author of this
stratagem, it awakened in me not resentment
but pity. I paused: but she made no answer
to my expostulation. At length, I resumed
with augmented earnestness, grasping her hand.
“Tell me, I conjure you what you know.
Be not deterred by any self regard—but, indeed,
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how can your interest be affected by clearing up
a mistake so fatal to the happiness of one for
whom you have always possessed a friendly regard.
Will your own integrity or reputation be
brought into question. In order to exculpate
your friend, will it be necessary to accuse yourself.
Have you been guilty in withholding the
discovery. Have you been guilty in contriving
the fraud? Did your own hand pen the
fatal letter which is now brought in evidence
against my friend. Were you, yourself, guilty
of counterfeiting hands, in order to drive the
husband into a belief of his wife's perfidy?”
A deadly paleness overspread her countenance
at these words. I pitied her distress and
confusion, and waited not for an answer which
she was unable to give.
“Yes, Miss Jessup, I well know your concern
in this transaction. I mean not to distress you:
I mean not to put you to unnecessary shame: I
have no indignation or enmity against you. I
come hither not to injure or disgrace you, but to
confer on you a great and real benefit: to enable
you to repair the evil which your infatuation
has occasioned. I want to relieve your conscience
from the sense of having wronged one
that never wronged you.
Do not imagine that in all this, I am aiming
at my own selfish advantage. This is not the
mother's only objection to me, or only proof
of that frailty she justly ascribes to me. To
prove me innocent of this charge, will not reconeile
her to her daughter's marriage. It will
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[figure description] Page 247.[end figure description]
only remove one insuperable impediment to her
reconciliation with her daughter.
Mrs. Fielder is, at this moment, not many
steps from this spot. Permit me to attend you
to her. I will introduce the subject. I will tell
her that you come to clear her daughter from
an unmerited charge, to confess that the unfinished
letter was taken by you, and that, by additions
in a feigned hand, you succeeded in
making that an avowal of abandoned wickedness,
which was originally innocent, at least, though,
perhaps, indiscreet.”
All this was uttered in a very rapid, but
solemn accent. I gave her no time to recollect
herself: no leisure for denial or evasion. I
talked as if her agency was already ascertained
and the feelings she betrayed at this abrupt and
unaware attack, confirmed my suspicions.
After a long pause, and a struggle, as it were,
for utterance, she faultered out—Mr. Colden—
you see, I am very sick—this conduct has been
very strange—nothing—I know nothing of what
you have been saying. I wonder at your talking
to me in this manner—you might as well
address yourself, in this style, to one you never
saw. What grounds can you have for suspecting
me of any concern in this transaction!
Ah! madam! replied I, I see you have not
strength of mind to confess a fault. Why will
you compel me to produce the proof that you
have taken an unauthorised part in Mrs. Talbot's
concerns. Do you imagine that the love
you bore her husband: even after his marriage:
the efforts you used to gain his favour; his
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[figure description] Page 248.[end figure description]
contemptuous rejection of your advances;—Can
you imagine that these things are not known?
Why you should endeavour to defraud the
wife of her husband's esteem, is a question
which your own heart only can answer. Why
you should watch Mrs. Talbot's conduct, and
communicate your discoveries in anonymous
letters and a hand disguised, to her mother, I
pretend not to say. I came not to inveigh
against the folly or malignity of such conduct.
I come not even to censure it. I am not entitled
to sit in judgment over you. My regard for
mother and daughter makes me anxious to
rectify an error fatal to their peace. There is
but one way of doing this effectually, with the
least injury to your character. I would not be
driven to the necessity of employing public
means to convince the mother that the charge
is false, and that you were the calumniator:
means that will humble and disgrace you infinitely
more than a secret interview and frank
confession from your own lips.
To deny and to prevaricate in a case like this is
to be expected from one capable of acting as
you have acted, but it will avail you nothing. It
will merely compel me to have recourse to
means less favourable to you. My reluctance to
employ them arises from regard to you, for I
repeat that I have no enmity for you, and propose,
in reality, not only Mrs. Talbot's advantage,
but your own.
I cannot paint the alarm and embarrassment
which these words occasioned. Tears afforded
her some relief, but shame had deprived her of
all utterance.
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Let me conjure you, resumed I, to go with
me this moment to Mrs. Fielder. In ten
minutes all may be over. I will save you the
pain of speaking. Only be present, while I explain
the matter. Your silent acquiescence will
be all that I shall demand.
Impossible! she exclaimed, in a kind of agony,
I am already sick to death. I cannot move a
step to such a purpose. I don't know Mrs.
Fielder, and can never look her in the face.
A letter, then, replied I, will do, perhaps, as
well. Here are pen and paper. Send to her, by
me, a few lines. Defer all circumstance and
comment, and merely inform her who the author
of this forgery was. Here, continued I, producing
the letter which Talbot had shewn to Mrs.
Fielder, here is the letter in which my friend's
hand is counterfeited, and she is made to confess
a guilt to the very thought of which she has
ever been a stranger. Inclose it in a paper, acknowledging
the stratagem to be yours. It is
done in a few words, and in half a minute.
My impetuosity overpowered all opposition
and remonstrance. The paper was before her;
the pen in her reluctant fingers; but that was
all.
“There may never be a future opportunity of
repairing your misconduct. You are sick, you
say, and indeed your countenance bespeaks some
deeply rooted malady. You cannot be certain but
that this is the last opportunity you may ever enjoy.
When sunk upon the bed of death, and unable
to articulate your sentiments, you may unavailingly
regret the delay of this confession.
You may die with the excruciating thought of
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having blasted the fame of an innocent woman,
and of having sown eternal discord between mother
and child.”
I said a good deal more in this strain, by
which she was deeply affected, but she demanded
time to reflect. She would do nothing then;
she would do all I wished by tomorrow. She was
too unwell to see any body, to hold a pen, at
present.
All I want, said I, are but few words. You
cannot be at a loss for these I will hold: I will
guide your hand: I will write what you dictate.
Will you put your hand to something which I
will write this moment in your presence, and
subject to your revision.
I did not stay for her consent, but seizing the
pen, put down hastily these words.
“Madam; the inclosed letter has led you into
mistake. It has persuaded you that your daughter
was unfaithful to her vows: but know, madam,
that the concluding paragraph was written
by me. I found the letter unfinished on Mrs. Talbot's
desk. I took it thence without her knowledge,
and added the concluding parapraph, in
an hand as much resembling hers as possible,
and conveyed it to the hands of her husband.”
This hasty scribble I read to her, and urged
her by every consideration my invention could
suggest, to sign it. But no; she did not deny
the truth of the statement it contained, but she
must have time to recollect herself. Her head
was rent to pieces by pain. She was in too
much confusion to allow her to do any thing
just now deliberately
I now produced the letter I received from
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Hannah Secker, and said, I see madam you will
compel me to preserve no measures with you.
There is a letter which you wrote to Mrs. Fielder.
Its contents were so important that you
would not at first trust a servant with the delivery
of it at the office. This however you were
finally compelled to do. A fellow servant however
stole it from your messenger, and instead
of being delivered according to its address it
has lately come into my hands.
No doubt (shewing the superscription, but
not permitting her to see that the seal was unbroken)
no doubt you recognize the hand; the
hand of that anonymous detractor who had previously
taken so much pains to convince the
husband that his wife was an adultress and a
prostitute.
Had I foreseen the effect which this disclosure
would have had, I should have hesitated. After
a few convulsive breathings, she fainted. I was
greatly alarmed and calling in a female servant,
I staid till she revived. I thought it but mercy
to leave her alone, and giving directions to the
servant where I might be found, and requesting
her to tell her mistress that I would call again
early in the morning, I left the house.
I returned hither, and am once more shut up
in my solitary chamber. I am in want of sleep,
but my thoughts must be less tumultuous before
that blessing can be hoped for. All is still
in the house and in the city, and the “cloudy
morning” of the watchman tells me that midnight
is past. I have already written much, but
must write on.
What my friend, can this letter contain? the
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belief that the contents are known and the true
writer discovered, produced strange effects.
I am afraid there was some duplicity in my conduct.
But the concealment of the unbroken
seal, was little more than chance. Had she enquired
whether the letter was opened I should
not have deceived her.
Perhaps however, I ascribe too much to this
discovery. Miss Jessup was evidently very ill.
The previous conversation had put her fortitude
to a severe test. The tide was already so high,
that the smallest increase sufficed to overwhelm
her. Methinks I might have gained my purpose
with less injury to her.
But what purpose have I gained? I have effected
nothing, I am as far, perhaps farther
than ever from vanquishing her reluctance. A
night's reflection may fortify her pride, may furnish
some expedient for eluding my request.
Nay, she may refuse to see me, when I call on
the morrow, and I cannot force myself into her
presence.
If all this should happen, what will be left for
me to do? That deserves some consideration.
This letter of Miss Jessup's may possibly contain
the remedy for many evils. What use shall
I make of it? How shall I get at its contents?
There is but one way. I must carry it to Mrs.
Fielder, and deliver it to her, to whom it is addressed.
Carry it myself? Venture into her
presence, by whom I am so much detested? She
will tremble with mingled indignation and terror,
at the sight of me. I cannot hope a patient
audience. And can I, in such circumstances,
rely on my own equanimity? How can
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I endure the looks of one to whom I am a viper;
a demon; who, not content with hating me for
that which really merits hatred, imputes to me
a thousand imaginary crimes.
Such is the lot of one that has forfeited his
reputation. Having once been guilty, the returning
path to rectitude is forever barred against
him. His conduct will almost always be liable
to a double construction; and who will suppose
the influence of good motives, when experience
has proved the influence, in former cases,
of evil ones?
Jane Talbot is young, lovely, and the heiress,
provided she retain the favor of her adopted
mother, of a splendid fortune. I am poor, indolent,
devoted, not to sensual, but to visionary
and to costly luxuries. How shall such a man
escape the imputation of sordid and selfish motives?
How shall he prove that he counterfeits no
passion; employs no clandestine or illicit means
to retain the affections of such a woman. Will
his averments of disinterested motives be believed?
Why should they be believed? How easily
are assertions made, and how silly to credit
declarations contradicted by the tenor of a
man's whole conduct.
But can I truly aver that my motives are disinterested.
Does not my character make a plentiful
and independent provifion, of more value
to me, more necessary to my happiness than
to that of most other men? Can I place my
hand upon my heart, and affirm that her fortune
has no part in the zeal with which I have
cultivated Jane's affections. There are few
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tenants of this globe, to whom wealth is wholly
undesirable, and very few whose actual poverty,
whose indolent habits, and whose relish for expensive
pleasure, make it more desirable than
to me.
Mrs. Fielder is averse to her daughter's
wishes. While this aversion endures, marriage,
instead of enriching me, will merely reduce
my wife to my own destitute condition.
How are impartial observers, how is Mrs. Fielder
to construe my endeavors to subdue this
aversion, and my declining marriage till this
obstacle is overcome? Will they ascribe it merely
to reluctance to bereave the object of my
love, of that affluence and those comforts without
which, in my opinion, she would not be happy.
Yet this is true. My own experience has
taught me in what degree a luxurious education
endears to us the means of an easy and elegant
subsistence. Shall I be deaf to this lesson?
Shall I rather listen to the splendid visions of
my friend, who thinks my love will sufficiently
compensate her for every suffering: Who seems
to hold these enjoyments in contempt, and describes
an humble and industrious life, as teeming
with happiness and dignity.
These are charming visions. My heart is
frequently credulous, and is almost raised by
her bewitching eloquence, to the belief that, by
bereaving her of friends and property, I confer
on her a benefit. I place her in a sphere where
all the resources of her fortitude and ingenuity
will be brought into use.
But this, with me, is only a momentary elevation.
More sober views are sure to succeed.
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Yet why have I deliberately exhorted Jane to become
mine? Because I trust to the tenderness
of her mother. That tenderness will not allow
her wholly to abandon her beloved child, who
has hitherto had no rival, and is likely to have
no successor in her love. The evil, she will
think, cannot be repaired; but some of its consequences
may be obviated or lightened. Intercession
and submission shall not be wanting.
Jane will never suffer her heart to be estranged
from her mother. Reverence and gratitude will
always maintain their place. And yet—confidence
is sometimes shaken; doubts insinuate
themselves. Is not Mrs. Fielder's temper ardent
and inflexible? Will her anger be so easily
appeased? In a contest like this, will she allow
herself to be vanquished? And shall I, indeed,
sever hearts so excellent? Shall I be the author
of such exquisite and lasting misery to a woman
like Mrs. Fielder; and shall I find that misery
compensated by the happiness of her
daughter? What pure and unmingled joy will
the daughter taste, while conscious of having
destroyed the peace, and perhaps hastened the
end of one, who, with regard to her, has always
deserved and always possessed a gratitude
and veneration without bounds. And for whom
is the tranquillity and affection of the mother
to be sacrificed? For me, a poor unworthy
wretch; deservedly despised by every strenuous
and upright mind; A fickle, inconsiderate,
frail mortal, whose perverse habits no magic
can dissolve.
No. My whole heart implores Jane to forget
and abandon me; to adhere to her mother; Since
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no earthly power and no length of time will
change Mrs. Fielder's feelings with regard to
me: since I shall never obtain, as I shall never
deserve, her regard, and since her mother's
happiness is, and ought to be dearer to Jane
than her own personal and exclusive gratification.
God grant that she may be able to perform
and cheerfully perform her duty.
But how often my friend, have I harped on
this string—Yet I must write, and I must put
down my present thoughts, and these are the
sentiments eternally present.
LETTER XLIV.
To Henry Colden.
Philadelphia, Dec 1.
I sand I would not write to you again: I would
encourage, I would allow of no intercourse beween
us. This was my solemn resolution and my
voluntary and no less solemn promise, yet I sit
down to abjure this vow, to break this promise.
What a wretch am I! Feeble and selfish beyond
all example among women; Why, why
was I born, or why received I breath in a
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world and at a period, with whose inhabitants I
can have no sympathy, whose notions of rectitude
and decency, find no answering chord in
my heart?
Never was creature so bereft of all dignity;
all steadfastness. The slave of every impulse:
blown about by the predominant gale: a scene of
eternal fluctuation.
Yesterday my mother pleaded. Her tears
dropped fast into my bosom, and I vowed to be
all she wished: not merely to discard you from
my presence, but to banish even your image
from my thoughts. To act agreeably to her
wishes was not sufficient. I must feel as she would have me feel. My actions must flow,
not merely from a sense of duty, but from fervent
inclination.
I promised every thing. My whole soul
was in the promise. I retired to pen a last letter
to you, and to say something to your father.
My heart was firm: My hand steady. My mother
read and approved—“Dearest Jane! Now,
indeed, are you my child. After this I will
not doubt your constancy. Make me happy, by
finding happiness in this resolution.
O, thought I, as I paced my chamber alone,
what an ample recompense for every self denial;
for every sacrifice are thy smiles, my maternal
friend. I will live smilingly for thy sake, while
thou livest. I will live only to close thy eyes,
and then, as every earthly good has been sacrificed
at thy bidding, will I take the pillow
that sustained thee when dead, and quickly
breathe out upon it my last sigh.
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My thoughts were all lightsome and serene.
I had laid down methought, no life, no joy but
my own. My mother's peace, and your peace
for the safety of either of whom, I would cheerfully
die, had been purchased by the same act.
How did I delight to view you restored to
your father's house. I was still your friend,
though invisible. I watched over you, in quality
of guardian angel. I etherialized myself
from all corporeal passions. I even set spiritual
ministers to work to find out one. worthy of succeeding
me, in the sacred task of making you
happy. I was determined to raise you to affluence,
by employing, in a way unseen and unsuspected
by you, those superfluities which a blind
and erring destiny had heaped upon me.
And whither have these visions flown? Am I
once more sunk to a level with my former self?
Once I thought that religion was a substance
with me: not a shadow; to flit, to mock and to
vanish when its succour was most needed? yet
now does my heart sink.
O comfort me, my friend! plead against yourself:
against me. Be my mother's advocate.
Fly away from those arms that clasp you, and
escape from me, even if your flight be my
death. Think not of me but of my mother,
and secure to her the consolation of following
my unwedded corse to the grave, by disclaiming,
by hating, by forgetting the unfortunate
Jane.
-- 259 --
LETTER XLV.
To Henry Colden.
Dec. 4.
[figure description] Page 259.[end figure description]
Ah! my friend! In what school have you
acquired such fatal skill in tearing the heart of
an offender? Why under an appearance of self
reproach, do you convey the bitterest maledictions.
Why with looks of idolatry, and accents
of compassion, do you aim the deadliest contempts,
and hurl the keenest censures against
me.
“You acquit me of all shadow of blame.”
What! in proving me fickle; inconsistent; insensible
to all your merit; ungrateful for your
generosity; your love. How have I rewarded
your reluctance to give me pain: your readiness
to sacrifice every personal good for my
sake? By reproaching you with dissimulation:
By violating all those vows, which no legal
ceremony could make more solemn or binding,
and which the highest, earliest, and most sacred
voice of heaven has ordained shall supersede
all other bonds: By dooming you to feel
“an anguish next to despair.” Thus have I
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requited your unsullied truth; your unlimited
devotion to me!
By what degrading standard do you measure
my enjoyments! “In my mother's tenderness
and gratitude: in the affluence and honour which
her regard will secure to me” am I to find consolation
for unfaithfulness to my engagements:
for every evil that may befall you. You whom
every hallowed obligation; every principle of
human nature has placed next to myself: whom
it has become, not a fickle inclination, but a
sacred duty, to prefer to all others: whose happiness
ought to be my first and chief care, and
from whose side I cannot sever myself without
a guilt inexpiable.
Ah, cruel friend! You ascribe my resolution
to a disinterested regard to your good. You
wish me to find happiness in that persuasion.
Yet you leave me not that phantom for a comforter.
You convict me, in every line of your
letter, of selfishness and folly. The only consideration
that had irresistible weight with me,
the restoration of your father's kindness, you
prove to be a mere delusion, and destroy it
without mercy!
Can you forgive me, Henry? Best of men!
Will you be soothed by my penitence for one
more rash and inconsiderate act?—But alas!
My penitence is rapid and sincere, but where
is the merit of compunction that affords no security
against the repetition of the fault. And
where is my safety?
Fly to me. Save me from my mother's irresistible
expostulations. I cannot—cannot withstand
her tears. Let me find in your arms, a
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[figure description] Page 261.[end figure description]
refuge from them. Let me no more trust a resolution
which is sure to fail. By making the
tie between us such as even she will allow to be
irrevocable: by depriving me of the power of
compliance, only can I be safe.
Fly to me, therefore. Be at the front door at ten
this night. My Molly will be my only companion.
Be the necessary measures previously
taken, that no delay or disappointment may
occur. One half hour and the solemn rite may
be performed. My absence will not be missed,
as I return immediately. Then will there be
an end to fluctuation for repentance cannot undo.
Already in the sight of heaven, at the tribunal
of my own conscience, am I thy wife, but somewhat
more is requisite to make the compact
universally acknowledged. This is now my resolve.
I shall keep it secret from the rest of
the world. Nothing but the compulsion of
persuasion, can make me waver, and concealment
will save me from that, and to-morrow
remonstrance and entreaty will avail nothing.
My girl has told me of her interview with
you: and where you are to be found. The
dawn is not far distant, and at sun rise she
carries you this. I shall expect an immediate,
and (need I add, when I recollect the invariable
counsel you have given me?) a compliant answer.
And shall I?—Let me, while the sun lingers,
still pour out my soul on this paper—Let me
indulge a pleasing, dreadful thought—Shall I,
ere circling time bring back this hour, become
thy—
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And shall my heart, after its dreadful langours,
its excruiating agonies, know once more,
a rapturous emotion? So lately sunk into despondency:
so lately pondering on obstacles
that rose before me like Alps, and menaced eternal
opposition to my darling projects: so
lately the prey of the deepest anguish, what
spell diffuses through my frame this ravishing
tranquillity?
Tranquillity, said I? That my throbbing heart
gainsays. You cannot see me just now, but the
palpitating heart infects my fingers and the unsteady
pen will speak to you eloquently.
I wonder how far sympathy possesses you. No
doubt—let me see—ten minutes after four—No
doubt you are sound asleep. Care has fled away
to some other head. Those invisible communicants;
those aerial heralds whose existence,
benignity and seasonable succour are parts,
thou knowest, of my creed, are busy in the
weaving of some beatific dream. At their bidding,
the world of thy fancy is circumscribed by
four white walls, a Turkey-carpeted floor, and
a stuckoed cieling. Didst ever see such before?
was't ever, in thy wakeful season, in the same
apartment? never. And what is more, and
which I desire thee to note well, thou art not
hereafter to enter it except in dreams.
A poor taper burns upon the toilet: just bright
enough to give the cognizance of something in
woman's shape, and in negligent attire scribbling
nearit. Thou needst not tap her on the shoulder;
she need not look up and smile a welcome to the
friendly vision. She knows that thou art here,
for is not thy hand already in her's, and is not
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thy cheek already wet with her tears? for thy
poor girl's eyes are us sure to overflow with joy,
as with sorrow.
And will it be always thus, my dear friend?
will thy love screen me forever from remorse?
will my mother's reproaches never intrude
amidst the raptures of fondness and poison my
tranquillity?
What will she say when she discovers the
truth? my conscience will not allow me to dissemble.
It will not disavow the name, or withhold
the duties of a wife. Too well do I conceive
what she will say; how she will act.
I need not apprehend expulsion from her
house. Exile will be a voluntary act.—“You
shall eat, drink, lodge, and dress as well as ever.
I will not sever husband from wife, and I find no
pleasure in seeing those whom I most hate,
perishing with want. I threatened to abandon
you, merely because I would employ every
means of preventing your destruction, but my
revenge is not so sordid as to multiply unnecessary
evils on your head. I shall take from you
nothing but my esteem: my affection: my society.
I shall never see you but with agony:
I shall never think of you without pain. I part
with you forever, and prepare myself for that
grave which your folly and ingratitude have dug
for me.
You have said, Jane, that having lost my favour,
you will never live upon my bounty. That will
be an act of needless and perverse cruelty in
you. It will be wantonly adding to that weight
with which you have already sunk me to the
grave. Besides, I will not leave you an option.
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While I live, my watchful care shall screen you
from penury in spite of yourself. When I die,
my testament shall make you my sole successor.
What I have shall be yours, at least,
while you live.
I have deeply regretted the folly of threatening
you with loss of property. I should have
known you better than to think that a romantic
head like yours would find any thing formidable
in such deprivations. If other considerations
were feeble, this would be chimerical.
Fare you well, Jane, and when you become a
mother, may your tenderness never be requited
by the folly and ingratitude which it has been
my lot to meet with, in the child of my affections.”
Something like this has my mother already
said to me, in the course of an affecting conversation,
in which I ventured to plead for you. And
have I then resolved to trample on such goodness.
Whither, my friend, shall I fly from a scene
like this? into thy arms? and shall I find comfort
there? can I endure life, with the burthen
of remorse, which generosity like this will lay
upon me?
But I tell you, Henry, I am resolved. I have
nothing but evil to chuse. There is but one
calamity greater than my mother's anger. I cannot
mangle my own vitals. I cannot put an impious
and violent end to my own life. Will it be mercy
to make her witness my death, and can I live
without you? if I must be an ingrate, be her
and not you the victim. If I must requite benevolence
with malice, and tenderness with
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[figure description] Page 265.[end figure description]
hatred, be it her benevolence and tenderness, and
not yours that are thus requited.
Once more, then, note well. The hour of
ten; the station near the door: a duly qualified
officiator previously engaged;—and my destiny
in this life fixed beyond the power of recall—
the bearer of this will bring back your answer.
Farewell; remember.
J. Talbot.
LETTER XLVI.
To James Montford.
December 9.
Once more, after a night of painful musing
or troubled repose, I am at the pen. I am
plunged into greater difficulties and embarrassments
than ever.
It was scarcely daylight, when a slumber, into
which I had just fallen, was interrupted by a
servant of the Inn. A girl was below, who wanted
to see me. The description quickly proved
it to be Molly. I rose and directed her to be admitted.
She brought two letters from her mistress,
and was told to wait for an answer. Jane, traversed
her room, half distracted and sleepless
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during most of the night. Towards morning
she sat down to her desk, and finished a letter,
which, together with one written a couple of
days before, were dispatched to me.
My heart throbbed—I was going to say with
transport; but I am at a loss to say whether
anguish or delight was uppermost, on reading
these letters. She recalls every promise of
eternal separation: she consents to immediate
marriage as the only wise expedient: proposes
ten o'clock this night, to join our hands; will
conceal her purpose from her mother, and resigns
to me the providing of suitable means.
I was overwhelmed with surprise, and—shall
I not say?—delight at this unexpected concession.
An immediate and consenting answer
was required. I hurried to give this answer, but
my tumultuous feelings would not let me write
coherently. I was obliged to lay down the pen,
and take a turn across the room, to calm my
tremors. This gave me time to reflect.
What, thought I, am I going to do? To take
advantage of a momentary impulse in my favor.
To violate my promises to Mrs. Fielder—my
letter to her may be construed into promises not
to seek another interview with Jane, and to leave
the country forever. And shall I betray this
impetuous woman into an irrevocable act, which
her whole future life may be unavailingly consumed
in repenting. Some delay, some deliberation
cannot be injurious.
And yet this has always been my advice. Shall
I reject the hand that is now offered me? How
will she regard these new-born scruples, this
drawing back, when the door spontaneously
opens and solicits my entrance?
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Is it in my power to make Jane Talbot mine?
my wife? And shall I hesitate? Ah! would to
Heaven it were a destiny as fortunate for her as
for me; that no tears, no repinings, no compunctions
would follow. Should I not curse the
hour of our union when I heard her fighs, and
instead of affording consolation under the distress
produced by her mother's displeasure,
should I not need that consolation as much as
she?
These reflections had no other effect than to
make me irresolute. I could not return my assent
to her scheme. I could not reject so bewitching
an offer. This offer was the child of a passionate,
a desperate moment. Whither, indeed,
should she fly for refuge from a scene like that
which she describes?
Molly urged me to come to some determination,
as her mistress would impatiently wait
her return. Finding it indispensible to say
something, I at length wrote:—
“I have detected the author of the forgery
which has given us so much disquiet. I propose
to visit your mother this morning, when I shall
claim admission to you. In that interview may
our future destiny be discussed and settled.—
Meanwhile, still regard me as ever ready to
purchase your true happiness by every sacrifice.”
With this billet Molly hastened away. What
cold, repulsive terms were these! My conscience
smote me as she shut the door. But what
could I do?
I had but half determined to seek an interview
with Mrs. Fielder. What purpose would it
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answer while the truth, respecting the counterfeit
letter, still remained imperfectly discovered?
And why should I seek an interview with Jane?
Would her mother permit it; and should I employ
my influence to win her from her mother's
side or rivet her more closely to it?
What, my friend, shall I do? You are too far
off to answer me, and you leave me to my own
destiny. You hear not, and will not seasonably
hear what I say. To day will surely settle
all difficulties, one way or another. This night,
if I will, I may be the husband of this angel,
or I may raise obstacles insuperable between us.
Our interests and persons may be united forever,
or we may start out into separate paths,
and never meet again.
Another messenger! with a letter for me!
Miss Jessup's servant—it is, perhaps—but let
me read it.
-- 269 --
LETTER XLVII.
To M. Colden.
December 8.
SIR,
[figure description] Page 269.[end figure description]
Inclosed is a letter which you may, if you
think proper, deliver to Mrs. Fielder. I am very
ill. Don't attempt to see me again. I cannot
be seen. Let the inclosed satisfy you. It
is enough. Never should I have said so much,
if I thought I were long for this world.
Let me not have a useless enemy in you. I
hope the fatal effects of my rashness have not
gone further than Mrs. Talbot's family. Let
the mischief be repaired, as far as it can be;
but do not injure me unnecessarily. I hope I
am understood.
Let me know what use you have made of the
letter you shewed me, and, I beseech you, return
it to me by the bearer.
M. Jessup.
-- 270 --
LETTER XLVIII.
To Mrs. Fielder.
December 8.
Madam,
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This comes from a very unfortunate and culpable
hand. A hand that hardly knows how to
sign its own condemnation, and which sickness
no less than irresolution, almost deprives of the
power to hold the pen.
Yet I call Heaven to witness, that I expected
not the evil from my infatuation which, it seems,
has followed it. I meant to influence none but
Mr. Talbot's belief. I had the misfortune to
see and to love him long before his engagement
with your daughter. I overstepped the limits
of my sex, and met with no return to my generous
offers, and my weak entreaties, but sternness
and contempt.
You, Madam, are perhaps raised above the
weakness of a heart like mine. You will not
comprehend how an unrequited passion can ever
give place to rage and revenge, and how the
merits of the object preferred to me, should
only embitter that revenge.
Jane Talbot never loved the man, whom I
would have made happy. Her ingenuous temper
easily disclosed her indifference, and she
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married not to please herself, but to please others.
Her husbands infatuation in marrying on such
terms, could be exceeded by nothing but his
folly in refusing one who would have lived for
no other end than to please him.
I observed the progress of the intimacy between
Mr. Colden and her, in Talbot's absence,
and can you not conceive madam that my heart
was disposed to exult in every event that verified
my own predictions, and would convince
Talbot of the folly of his choice? Hence I was
a jealous observer. The worst construction was
put upon your daughter's conduct. That open,
impetuous temper of hers, confident of innocence,
and fearless of ungenerous or malignant
constructions, easily put her into my power.
Unrequited love made me her enemy as well as
that of her husband, and I even saw, in her
unguarded deportment and in the reputed licentiousness
of Mr. Colden's principles, some reason,
some probability in my surmises.
Several anonymous letters were written to
you. I thank heaven that I was seldom guilty
of direct falshoods in these letters. I told you
little more than what a jealous eye and a prying
disposition easily discovered; and I never saw
any thing in their intercourse that argued
more than a temper thoughtless and indiscreet.
To distinguish minutely between truths and exaggerations
in the letters which I sent you,
would be a painful, and I trust, a needless task,
since I now solemnly declare that, on an impartial
review of all that I ever witnessed in the
conduct of your daughter, I remember nothing
that can justify the imputation of guilt. I
-- 272 --
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believe her conduct to Colden was not always limited
by a due regard to appearances; that she
trusted her fame too much to her consciousness
of innocence, and set too lightly by the malignity
of those who would be glad to find her in
fault, and the ignorance of others who naturally
judged of her by themselves. And this, I now
solemnly take Heaven to witness, is the only
charge that can truly be brought against her.
There is still another confession to make—If
suffering and penitence can atone for any offence,
surely my offence has been atoned for!
But it still remains that I should, as far as my
power goes, repair the mischief.
It is no adequate apology, I well know, that
the consequences of my crime were more extensive
and durable than I expected; but is it
not justice to myself to say, that this confession
would have been made earlier, if I had earlier
known the extent of the evil? I never suspected
but that the belief of his wife's infidelity, was
buried with Talbot.
Alas! wicked and malignant as I was, I meant
not to persuade the mother of her child's profligacy.
Why should I have aimed at this? I
had no reason to disesteem or hate you. I was
always impressed with reverence for your character.
In the letters sent directly to you, I
aimed at nothing but to procure your interference,
and make maternal authority declare itself
against that intercourse which was essential to
your daughter's happiness. It was not you, but
her, that I wished to vex and distress.
I called at Mrs. Talbot's at a time when visitants
are least expected. Nobody saw me enter.
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Her parlour was deserted; her writing-desk was
open; an unfinished letter caught my eye. A
sentiment half inquisitive and half mischievous,
made me snatch it up, and withdraw as abruptly
as I entered.
On reading this billet, it was easy to guess
for whom it was designed. It was frank and
affectionate; consistent with her conjugal duty,
but not such as a very circumspect and wary
temper would have allowed itself to write.
How shall I describe the suggestions that led
me to make a most nefarious use of this paper?
Circumstances most unhappily concurred to
make my artifice easy and plausible. I discovered
that Colden had spent most of the preceding
night with your daughter. It is true a
most heavy storm had raged during the evening,
and the moment it remitted, which was not till
three o'clock, he was seen to come out. His
detention, therefore, candor would ascribe to
the storm; but this letter, with such a conclusion
as was too easily made, might fix a construction
on it that no time could remove, and
innocence could never confute.
I had not resolved in what way I should employ
this letter, as I had eked it out, before Mr.
Talbot's return. When that event took place,
my old infatuation revived. I again sought his
company, and the indifference, and even contempt
with which I was treated, filled me anew
with resentment. To persuade him of his wife's
guilt was, I thought, an effectual way of destroying
whatever remained of matrimonial happiness:
and the means were fully in my power.
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Here I was again favored by accident. Fortune
seemed determined to accomplish my ruin.
My own ingenuity in vain attempted to fall on a
safe mode of putting this letter in Talbot's way,
and this had never been done if chance had not
surprizingly befriended my purpose.
One evening I dropped familiarly in upon
your daughter. Nobody was there but Mr.
Talbot and she. She was writing at her desk as
usual, for she seemed never at ease but with a
pen in her fingers; and Mr. Talbot seemed
thoughtful and uneasy. At my entrance the
desk was hastily closed and locked. But first
she took out some papers, and mentioning her
design of going up stairs to put them away, she
tripped to the door. Looking back, however,
she perceived she had dropped one. This she
took up, in some hurry, and withdrew.
Instead of conversing with me, Talbot walked
about the room in a peevish and gloomy humor.
A thought just then rushed into my mind. While
Talbot had his back towards me, and was at a
distance, I dropped the counterfeit, at the spot
where Jane had just before dropped her paper,
and with little ceremony took my leave. Jane
had excused her absence to me, and promised
to return within five minutes. It was not possible,
I thought, that Talbot's eye, as he walked
backward and forward during that interval, could
miss the paper, which would not fail to appear
as if dropped by his wife.
My timidity and conscious guilt hindered me
from attempting to discover by any direct means,
the effects of my artifice. I was mortified extremely
in finding no remarkable difference in
-- 275 --
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their deportment to each other. Sometimes I
feared I had betrayed myself; but no alteration
ever afterwards appeared in their behaviour to
me.
I know how little I deserve to be forgiven.
Nothing can palliate the baseness of this action.
I acknowledge it with the deepest remorse, and
nothing, especially since the death of Mr. Talbot,
has lessened my grief; but the hope that
some unknown cause prevented the full effect
of this forgery on his peace, and that the secret,
carefully locked up in his own breast, expired
with him. All my enmities and restless jealousy
found their repose in the same grave.
You have come to the knowledge of this letter,
and I now find that the fraud was attended
with even more success than I wished it to have.
Let me now, though late, put an end to the illusion,
and again assure you, Madam, that the
concluding paragraphs were written by me, and
that those parts of it which truly belong to your
daughter, are perfectly innocent.
If it were possible for you to forgive my misconduct—
and to suffer this confession to go no
farther than the evil has gone—you will confer
as great a comfort as can now be conferred on
the unhappy
H. Jessup.
-- 276 --
LETTER XLIX.
[figure description] Page 276.[end figure description]
To James Montford.
Philadelphia, Dec. 9.
I will imagine, my friend, that you have
read the letter[3] which 1 have hastily transcribed.
I will not stop to tell you my reflections upon it,
but shall hasten with this letter to Mrs. Fielder.
I might send it; but I have grown desperate.
A final effort must be made for my own happiness
and that of Jane. From their own lips
will I know my destiny. I have conversed too
long at a distance, with this austere lady. I
will mark with my own eyes, the effect of this
discovery. Perhaps the moment may prove a
yielding one. Finding me innocent in one respect,
in which her persuasion of my guilt was
most strong; may she not remit or soften her
sentence on inferior faults? And what may be
the influence of Jane's deportment, when she
touches my hand in a last adieu?
I have complied with Miss Jessup's wish in
one particular. I have sent her the letter which
I got from Hannah, unopened; unread; accompanied
with a few words, to this effect—
“If you ever injured Mr. Talbot, your mo
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tives for doing so, entitle you to nothing but
compassion, while your present conduct lays
claim, not only to forgiveness, but to gratitude.
The letter you entrust to me, shall be applied
to no purpose but that which you proposed by
writing it. Inclosed, is the paper you request,
the seal unbroken and its contents unread. In
this, as in all cases, I have no stronger wish
than to act as
Your true Friend.”
eaf032.n3[3] The preceding one.
And now my friend, lay I down the pen, for
a few hours; Hours the most important, perhaps,
in my eventful life. Surely this interview
with Mrs. Fielder will decide my destiny. After
it, I shall have nothing to hope.
I prepare for it with awe and trembling. The
more nearly it approaches, the more my heart
faulters. I summon up in vain a tranquil and
stedfast spirit: but perhaps, a walk in the clear
air will be more conducive to this end, than a
day's ruminations in my chamber.
I will take a walk—
And am I then—but I will not anticipate. Let
me lead you to the present state of things without
confusion.
With what different emotions did I use to approach
this house! It still contains, thought I,
as my wavering steps brought me in sight of it,
all that I love, but I enter not uncerimoniously
now. I find her not on the accustomed sofa,
eager to welcome my coming with smiling affability
and arms outstretched. No longer is
it home to me, nor she, assiduous to please:
-- 278 --
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familiarly tender and anxiously fond: already assuming
the conjugal privilege of studying my
domestic ease.
I knocked, somewhat timorously at the door:
a ceremony which I had long been in the habit
of omitting—but times are changed. I was
afraid the melancholy which was fast overshadowing
me, would still more unfit me for what
was coming, but, instead of dispelling it, this
very apprehension deepened my gloom.
Molly came to the door. She silently led me
into a parlour. The poor girl was in tears. My
questions as to the cause of her distress drew
from her a very indistinct and sobbing confession
that Mrs. Feilder had been made uneasy
by Molly's going out so early in the morning;
Had taken her daughter to task; and by employing
entreaties and remonstrances in turn,
had drawn from her the contents of her letter to
me and of my answer.
A strange affecting scene had followed; indignation
and grief on the mother's part; obstinacy;
irresolution; sorrowful, reluctant, penitence
and acquiescence on the side of the daughter:
a determination, tacitly concurred in by
Jane, of leaving the city immediately. Orders
were already issued for that purpose.
Is Mrs. Fielder at home?
Yes.
Tell her, a gentleman would see her.
She will ask, perhaps—Shall I tell her,
who?
No—Yes: Tell her, I wish to see her.
The poor girl looked very mournfully—She
has seen your answer which talks of your
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intention to visit her. She vows she will not see you,
if you come.
Go, then to Jane, and tell her I would see her
for five minutes—Tell her openly; before her
mother.
This message, as I expected, brought down
Mrs. Fielder alone. I never saw this lady before.
There was a struggle in her countenance
between anger and patience: an awful and severe
solemnity: a slight and tacit notice of me
as she entered. We both took chairs without
speaking. After a moments pause—
Mr. Colden, I presume.
Yes, madam.
You wish to see my daughter?
I was anxious, madam, to see you. My business
here chiefly lies with you, not her.
With me, sir? And pray, what have you to
propose to me.
I have nothing to solicit madam, but your patient
attention. (I saw the rising vehemence
could scarcely be restrained.) I dare not hope
for your favourable ear: All I ask is an audience
from you of a few minutes.
This preface, sir, (her motions less and less
controulable) is needless. I have very few minutes
to spare at present. This roof is hateful
to me while you are under it. Say what you will,
sir, and briefly as possible.
No, madam, Thus received. I have not fortitude
enough to say what I came to say. I
merely intreat you to peruse this letter.
'Tis well Sir, (taking it, with some reluctance,
and after eying the direction, putting it aside).
And this is all your business?
-- 280 --
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Let me intreat you, madam, to read it in my
presence. Its contents nearly concern your
happiness, and will not leave mine unaffected.
She did not seem, at first, disposed to compliance,
but at length opened and read. What
noble features has this lady! I watched them as
she read, with great solicitude, but discovered
in them nothing that could cherish my hope.
All was stern and inflexible. No wonder at the
ascendency this spirit possesses over the tender
and flexible Jane!
She read with visible eagerness. The varying
emotion played with augmented rapidity
over her face. Its expression became less severe,
and some degree of softness, I thought
mixed itself with those glances which reflexion
sometimes diverted from the letter. These tokens
somewhat revived my languishing courage.
After having gone through it she returned:
read again and pondered over particular passages.
At length, after some pause, she spoke,
but her indignant eye scarcely condescended to
point the address to me.
As a mother and a woman I cannot but rejoice
at this discovery. To find my daughter less
guilty, than appearances led me to believe, cannot
but console me under the conviction of her
numerous errors. Would to heaven she would
stop here, in her career of folly and imprudence.
I cannot but regard you, sir, as the author of
much misery. Still it is in your power to act, as
this deluded woman, Miss Jessup, has acted.
You may disist from any future persecution.
Your letter to me gave me no reason to expect
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[figure description] Page 281.[end figure description]
the honor of this visit, and contained something
like a promise to shun any farther intercourse
with Mrs. Talbot.
I hope, madam, the contents of this letter
will justify me, in bringing it to you.—
Perhaps it has, but that commission is performed.
That, I hope, is all you proposed by
coming hither, and, you will pardon me, if
I plead an engagement for not detaining you
longer in this house.
I had no apology for prolonging my stay, yet
I was irresolute. She seemed impatient at my
lingering: again urged her engagements: I
rose: took my hat: moved a few steps towards
the door: hesitated.
At length, I stammered out—Since it is the
last—the last interview—if I were allowed—
but one moment.
No, no, no—what but needless torment to
herself and to you can follow? What do you expect
from an interview?
I would see, for a moment, the face of one,
whom—whatever be my faults, and whatever be
hers, I love.
Yes. You would profit, no doubt, by your
power over this infatuated girl. I know what
a rash proposal she has made you, and you
seek her presence to insure her adherence to
it.
Her vehemence tended more to bereave me
of courage than of temper, but I could not forbear
(mildly however) reminding her that if I
had sought to take advantage of her daughter's
offer, the easiest and most obvious method was
different from that which I had taken.
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True, (said she, her eyes flashing fire,) a secret
marriage would have given you the destitute
and portionless girl, but your views are far
more solid and substantial. You know your
power over her: and aim at extorting from
compassion for my child what—but why do I
exchange a word with you? Mrs. Talbot knows
not that you are here. She has just given me
the strongest proof of compunction for every
past folly and especially the last. She has
bound herself to go along with me. If your
professions of regard for her be sincere,
you will not increase her difficulties. I command
you, I implore you to leave the house.
I should not have resisted these entreaties on
my own account. Yet to desert her—to be
thought by her to have coldly and inhumanly
rejected her offers!
In your presence, madam—I ask not privacy—
let her own lips confirm the sentence—be renunciation
her own act—for the sake of her
peace of mind—
God give me patience, said the exasperated
lady. How securely do you build on her infatuation.
But you shall not see her. If she
consents to see you, I never will forgive her.
If she once more relapses, she is undone. She
shall write her mind to you—let that serve—I
will permit her—I will urge her to write to
you—let that serve.
I went to this house with a confused perception
that this visit would terminate my suspense.
One more interview with Jane, thought I, and
no more fluctuations or uncertainty. Yet I was
now far as ever from certainty. Expostulation
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was vain. She would not hear me. All my
courage, even my words were overwhelmed by
her vehemence.
After much hesitation, and several efforts
to gain even an hearing to my pleas, I yielded
to the tide. With a drooping heart, I consented
to withdraw, with my dearest hope unaccomplished.
My steps involuntarily brought me back to
my lodgings. Here am I again at my pen.
Never were my spirits lower, my prospects
more obscure, my hopes nearer to extinction.
I am afraid to allow you too near a view of
my heart—at this moment of despondency. My
present feelings are new even to myself. They
terrify me. I must not trust myself longer alone.
I must shake off or try to shake off this excruciating—
this direful melancholy. Heavy:
heavy is my soul: comfortless and friendless
my condition. Nothing is sweet but the prospect
of oblivion.
But, again I say, these thoughts must not lead
me. Dreadful and downward is the course to
which they point. I must relinquish the pen.
I must sally forth into the fields. Naked and
bleak is the face of nature at this inclement
season—but what of that? dark and desolate
will ever be my world—but I will not write another
word—
So, my friend, I have returned from my walk
with a mind more a stranger to tranquillity
than when I sallied forth. On my table lay the
letter, which, ere I seal this, I will enclose
to you. Read it here.
-- 284 --
LETTER L.
To Mr. Colden.
December 11.
[figure description] Page 284.[end figure description]
Hereafter I shall be astonished at nothing
but that credulity which could give even
momentary credit to your assertions.
Most fortunately, my belief lasted only till
you left the house. Then my scruples, which
slept for a moment, revived, and I determined
to clear up my doubts by immediately calling
on Miss Jessup.
If any thing can exceed your depravity, Sir,
it is your folly. But I will not debase myself—
my indignation at being made the subject, and,
for some minutes, the dupe of so gross and so
profligate an artifice, carries me beyond all
bounds. What Sir!—But I will restrain myself.
I would not leave the city without apprising
you of this detection of your schemes. If Miss
Jessup were wise she would seek a just revenge
for so atrocious a slander.
I need not tell you that I have seen her; laid
the letter before her which you delivered to me;
nor do I need to tell you what her anger and amazement
were on finding her name thus
abused.
-- 285 --
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I pity you, Sir; I grieve for you; you have
talents of a certain kind, but your habits, wretchedly
and flagitiously perverse, have made you
act on most occasions like an idiot. Their iniquity
was not sufficient to deter you from impostures
which—but I scorn to chide you.
My daughter is a monument of the success
of your schemes. But their success shall never
be complete. While I live she shall never join
her interests with yours. That is a vow which,
I thank God I am able to accomplish; and shall.
H. Fielder.
LETTER LI.
To James Montford.
December 13.
Is not this strange, my friend! Miss Jessup,
it seems, has denied her own letter. Surely
there was no mistake—no mystery. Let me
look again at the words in the cover.
Let me awake! Let me disabuse my senses!
Yes. It is plain. Miss Jessup repented her of
her confession. Something in that unopened
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letter—Believing the contents of that known,
there were inducements to sincerity which the
recovery of that letter, and the finding it unopened,
perhaps annihilated. Pride resumed its
power. Before so partial a judge as Mrs. Fielder,
and concerning a wretch so worthy of discredit
as I, how easy, how obvious to deny—
and to impute to me the imposture charged on
herself?
Well, and what is now to be done? I will once
more return to Miss Jessup. I will force myself
into her presence, and then—but I have not
a moment to lose—
And this was the night, this was the hour that
was to see my Jane's hand wedded to mine.
That event providence, or fate, or fortune stepped
in to forbid. And must it then pass away
like any vulgar hour?
It deserves to be signalized, to be made memorable.
What forbids but sordid, despicable
cowardice! Not virtue; not the love of universal
happiness; not piety; not sense of duty to my
God or my fellow creatures. These sentiments,
alas! burn feebly or not at all within my bosom.
It is not hope that restrains my hand. For
what is my hope? Independence, dignity, a
life of activity and usefulness, are not within
my reach—And why not? What obstacles arise
in the way.
Have I not youth, health, knowledge, talents?
Twenty professional roads are open before me,
and solicit me to enter them—but no. I shall
never enter any of them. Be all earthly
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[figure description] Page 287.[end figure description]
powers combined to force me into the right path—
the path of duty, honor and interest—they strive
in vain.
And whence this incurable folly? This rooted
incapacity of acting as every motive, generous
and selfish, combine to recommend? Constitution;
habit; insanity; the dominion of some
evil spirit, who insinuates his baneful power between
the will and the act.
And this more congenial good; this feminine
excellence; this secondary and more valuable
self; this woman who has appropriated to herself
every desire, every emotion of my soul—
what hope remains with regard to her? Shall
I live for her sake?
No. Her happiness requires me to be blotted
out of existence. Let me unfold myself to myself;
Let me ask my soul—Canst thou wish to
be rejected, renounced, and forgotten by Jane?
Does it please thee that her happiness should be
placed upon a basis absolutely independant of
thy lot. Canst thou, with a true and fervent
zeal, resign her to her mother.
I can. I do.
I wish I had words, my friend—yet why do I
wish for them. Why sit I here, endeavouring to
give form, substance and duration to images, to
which it is guilty and opprobrious to allow momentary
place in my mind? Why do I thus
lay up for the few that love me, causes of affliction?
Yet perhaps I accuse myself too soon. The
persuasion that I have one friend, is sweet. I
fancy myself talking to one who is interested in
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[figure description] Page 288.[end figure description]
my happiness, but this shall satisfy me. If
fate impell me to any rash and irretrievable act,
I will take care that no legacy of sorrow shall
be left to my survivors. My fate shall be buried
in oblivion. No busy curiosity, no affectionate
zeal shall trace the way that I have gone.
No mourning footsteps shall haunt my grave.
I am, indeed, my friend—never, never before,
spiritless, and even hopeless as I have sometimes
been, have my thoughts been thus gloomy.
Never felt I so enamoured of that which seems
to be the cure-all.
Often have I wished to slide obscurely and
quietly into the grave; but this wish, while it
saddened my bosom, never raised my hand
against my life. It made me willingly expose
my safety to the blasts of pestilence: it made
me court disease, but it never set my imagination
in search after more certain and speedy
means—
Yet I am wonderfully calm. I can still reason
on the folly of despair. I know that a few
days; perhaps, a few hours, will bring me
some degree of comfort and courage; will make
life with all its disappointments and vexations,
endurable at least.
Would to heaven, I were not quite alone.
Left thus to my greatest enemy, myself, I feel
that I am capable of deeds which I fear to
name.
A few minutes ago I was anxious to find Miss
Jessup: to gain another interview with Mrs.
Fielder. Both the one and the other have left
the city. Jane's dwelling is deserted. Shortly
after I left it, they set out upon their journey,
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and Miss Jessup, no doubt, to avoid another interview
with me, has precipitately withdrawn into
the country.
I shall not pursue their steps. Let things
take their course. No doubt, a lasting and
effectual remorse will sometime or other, reach
the heart of Miss Jessup, and this fatal error
will be rectified. I need not live, I need not exert
myself, to hasten the discovery. I can do
nothing.
LETTER LII.
To Mrs. Fielder.
Philadelphia, Dec. 16.
It is not improbable that as soon as you recognize
the hand that wrote this letter, you will
throw it unread into the fire, yet it comes not
to sooth resentment or to supplicate for mercy.
It seeks not a favourable audience. It wishes
not, because the wish would be chimerical, to
have its affertions believed. It expects not
even to be read. All I hope is that, though neglected,
despised and discredited for the present,
it may not be precipitately destroyed or
-- 290 --
[figure description] Page 290.[end figure description]
utterly forgotten. The time will come, when
it will be read with a different spirit.
You inform me that Miss Jessup has denied
her letter, and imputes to me the wickedness
of forging her name to a false confession. You
are justly astonished at the iniquity and folly
of what you deem my artifice. This astonishment,
when you look back upon my past
misconduct, is turned from me to yourself: from
my folly to your own credulity, that was, for a
moment, made the dupe of my contrivances.
I can say nothing that will or that ought—that
is my peculiar misery;—that ought, considering
the measure of my real guilt, to screen me
from this charge. There is but one event that
can shake your opinion. An event that is barely
possible; that may not happen, if it happen
at all, till the lapse of years; and from which,
even if I were alive, I could not hope to derive
advantage. Miss Jessup's conscience may awaken
time enough to enable her to undeceive you,
and to repent of her second, as well as her first fraud.
If that event ever takes place, perhaps this letter
may still exist to bear testimony to my rectitude.
Thrown aside and long forgotten, or
never read, chance may put it in your way,
once more. Time, that soother of resentment
as well as lessener of love, and the perseverance
of your daughter in the way you prescribe, may
soften your asperities even towards me. A generous
heart like yours, will feel an emotion of
joy that I have not been quite as guilty as you
had reason to believe.
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Give me leave, Madam, to anticipate that
moment. The number of my consolations
are few. Your enmity I rank among my chief
misfortunes, and the more so because I deserve
much, though not all your enmity. The persuasion
that the time will come when you will acquit
me of this charge, is, even now, a comforter.
This is more desirable to me since it
will relieve your daughter from one among the
many evils in which she has been involved by
the vices and infirmities of
H. Colden.
LETTER LIII.
To James Montford.
Philadelphia, Dec. 17.
I sought relief a second time, to my drooping
heart by a walk in the fields. Returning, I
met Harriet Thomson in the street. The meeting
was somewhat unexpected. Since we parted
at Baltimore, I imagined she had returned to
her old habitation in Jersey. I knew she was
pretty much a stranger in this city. Night had
already come on, and she was alone. She
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greeted me with visible satisfaction; and though I
was very little fit for society, especially of those
who loved me not, I thought common civility
required me to attend her home.
I never saw this woman till I met her lately
at her brother's bed-side. Her opinions of me
were all derived from unfavorable sources, and
I knew from good authority, that she regarded
me as a dangerous and hateful character. I
had even, accidentally, heard her opinion of
the affair between Jane and me. Jane was severely
censured for credulity and indiscretion,
but some excuse was allowed to her on the
score of the greater guilt that was placed to
my account.
Her behaviour when we first met, was somewhat
conformable to these impressions. A
good deal of coldness and reserve in her deportment,
which I was sometimes sorry for, as
she seems an estimable creature; meek, affectionate,
tender, passionately loving her brother;
convinced from the hour of her first arrival,
that his disease was an hopeless one, yet exerting
a surprising command over her feelings, and
performing every office of a nurse with skill
and firmness.
Insensibly the distance between us grew less.
A participation in the same calamity, and the
counsel and aid which her situation demanded,
forced her to lay aside some of her reserve.
Still, however, it seemed but a submission to
necessity; and all advances were made with an
ill grace.
She was often present when her brother turned
the discourse upon religious subjects. I have
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long since abjured the vanity of disputation.
There is no road to truth, but by meditation;
severe, intense, candid and dispassionate.—
What others say on doubtful subjects, I shall
henceforth lay up as materials for meditation.
I listened to my dying friend's arguments and
admonitions, I think I may venture to say, with
a suitable spirit. The arrogant or disputatious
passion could not possibly find place in a scene
like this. Even if I thought him in the wrong,
what but brutal depravity could lead me to endeavor
to shake his belief at a time when sickness
had made his judgment infirm, and when
his opinion supplied his sinking heart with confidence
and joy?
But, in truth, I was far from thinking him in
the wrong. At any time I should have allowed
infinite plaufibility and subtilty to his reasonings,
and at this time, I confessed them to be weighty.
Whether they were most weighty in the
scale, could be only known by a more ample and
deliberate view and comparison, than it was possible,
with the spectacle of a dying friend before
me, and with so many solicitudes and suspenses
about me respecting Jane, to bestow on
them. Meanwhile I treasured them up, and
determined, as I told him, that his generous efforts
for my good, should not be thrown away.
At first, his sister was very uneasy when her
brother entered on the theme nearest to his
friendly heart. She seemed apprehensive of
dispute and contradiction. This apprehension
was quickly removed, and she thenceforth encouraged
the discourse. She listened with
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delight and eagerness, and her eye, frequently,
when my friend's eloquence was most affecting,
appealed to me. It sometimes conveyed a
meaning far more powerful than her brother's
lips, and expressed, at once, the strongest conviction
of the truth of his words, and the most
fervent desire that they might convince me.
Her natural modesty, joined, no doubt, to her
disesteem of my character, prevented her from
mixing in discourse.
She greeted me at this meeting, with a frankness
which I did not expect. A disposition to
converse, and attentiveness to the few words that
I had occasion to say, were very evident. I was
just then in the most dejected and forlorn state
imaginable. My heart panted for some friendly
bosom, in which I might pour my cares. I
had reason to esteem the purity, sweetness, and
amiable qualities of this good girl. Her aversion
to me naturally flowed from these qualities,
while an abatement of that aversion was flattering
to me, as the triumph of feeling over judgment.
I should have left her at the door of her lodgings,
but she besought me to go in so earnestly
that my facility, rather than my inclination,
complied. She saw that I was absent and disturbed.
I never read compassion and (shall I
say) good will, in any eye more distinctly than
in hers.
The conversation for a time was vague and
trite. Insensibly, the scenes lately witnessed
were recalled, not without many an half stifled
sigh and ill disguised tear on her part. Some
arrangements as to the letters and papers of
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her brother were suggested. I expressed a wish
to have my letters restored to me: I alluded to
those letters written in the sanguine insolence of
youth and with the dogmatic rage upon me, that
have done me so much mischief with Mrs.
Fielder. I had not thought of them before,
but now it occurred to me that they might as
well be destroyed.
This insensibly led the conversation into
more interesting topics. I could not suppress
my regret that I had ever written some things
in those letters, and informed her that my view
in taking them back was to doom them to that
oblivion from which it would have been happy
for me if they never had been called.
After many tacit intimations; much reluctance
and timidity to enquire and communicate,
I was greatly surprised to discover that these
letters had been seen by her; that Mrs. Fielder's
character was not unknown to her; that she was no
stranger to her brother's disclosures to that lady.
Without directly expressing her thoughts, it
was easy to perceive that her mind was full of
ideas produced by these letters; by her brother's
discourse; and by curiosity as to my present
opinions. Her modesty laid restraint on her
lips. She was fearful, I supposed, of being tho't
forward and impertinent.
I endeavoured to dissipate these apprehensions.
All about this girl was, on this occasion,
remarkably attractive. I loved her brother,
and his features still survive in her. The only
relation she has left is a distant one, on whose
regard and protection she has therefore but
slender claims. Her mind is rich in all the
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graces of ingenuousness and modesty. The
curiosity she felt respecting me, made me
grateful as for a token of regard. I was therefore
not backward to unfold the true state of
my mind.
Now and then she made seasonable and judicious
comments on what I said. Was there
any subject of enquiry more momentous than
the truth of religion? If my doubts and heresies
had involved me in difficulties, was not the remedy
obvious and easy? why not enter on regular
discussions, and having candidly and deliberately
formed my creed, adhere to it frankly,
firmly and consistently. A state of doubt
and indecision was in every view, hurtful,
criminal and ignominious. Conviction, if it
were in favour of religion, would insure me every
kind of happiness. It would forward even those
schemes of temporal advantage on which I
might be intent. It would reconcile those
whose aversion arose from difference of opinion:
and in cases where it failed to benefit my worldly
views, it would console me for my disappointment.
If my enquiries should establish an irreligious
conviction, still any form of certainty was
better than doubt. The love of truth and the
consciousness of that certainty would raise me
above hatred and slander. I should then have
some kind of principle by which to regulate my
conduct; I should then know on what foundation
to build. To fluctuate, to waver, to
postpone enquiry, was more criminal than any
kind of opinion, candidly investigated and firmly
adopted; and would more effectually debar me
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[figure description] Page 297.[end figure description]
from happiness. At my age, with my talents,
and inducements it was sordid; it was ignoble;
it was culpable to allow indifference or indolence
to slacken my zeal.
These sentiments were conveyed in various
broken hints, and modest interrogatories. While
they mortified. They charmed me, they enlightened
me while they perplexed. I came
away with my soul roused by a new impulse. I
have emerged from a dreary torpor, not indeed
to tranquillity or happiness, but to something
less fatal, less dreadful.
Would you think that a ray of hope has broken
in upon me? am I not still, in some degree, the
maker of my fortune? why mournfully ruminate
on the past, instead of looking to the future?
how wretched, how criminal, how infamous are
my doubts?
Alas! and is this the first time that I have been
visited by such thoughts? how often has this
transient hope, this momentary zeal, started into
being, hovered in my fancy, and vanished.
Thus will it ever be.
Need I mention—but I will not look back. To
what end? Shall I grieve or rejoice at that
power of now and then escaping from the past?
Could it operate to my amendment, memory
should be ever busy, but I fear that it would only
drive me to desperation or madness.
H. C.
-- 298 --
LETTER LIV.
Philadelphia, Dec. 19
[figure description] Page 298.[end figure description]
I have just returned from a visit to my new
friend. I begin to think that if I had time to
cultivate her good opinion I should gain as
much of it as I deserve. Her good will; her
sympathy at least might be awakened in my
favour.
We have had a long conversation. Her distance
and reserve are much less than they were.
She blames, yet pities me. I have been very
communicative, and have offered her the perusal
of all the letters that I have lately received
from Mrs. Talbot as vouchers for my sincerity.
She listened favourably to my account of the
unhappy misapprehension into which Mrs. Fielder
had fallen. She was disposed to be more
severe on Miss Jessup's imposture, than even
my irritated passions had been.
She would not admit that Mrs. Fielder's antipathy
to my alliance with her daughter, was
without just grounds. She thought that everlasting
separation was best for us both. A total
change of my opinions on moral subjects, might,
perhaps, in time subdue the mother's aversion
to me, but this change must necessarily be slow
and gradual. I was indeed already, from my own
account, far from being principled against
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[figure description] Page 299.[end figure description]
religion, but this was only a basis whereon to
build the hope of future amendment. No present
merit could be founded on my doubts.
I spared not myself in my account of former
follies. The recital made her very solemn. I
had—I had, indeed, been very faulty: My present
embarrassments were the natural and just
consequences of my misconduct. I had not merited
a different destiny. I was unworthy of the
love of such a woman as Jane. I was not qualified
to make her happy. I ought to submit to
banishment, not only as to a punishment justly
incurred, but in gratitude to one whose genuine
happiness, taking into view her mother's character
and the sacrifices to which her choice of
me would subject her, would be most effectually
consulted by my exile.
This was an irksome lesson. She had the
candour not to expect my cordial concurrence
in such sentiments, yet endeavoured in her artless
manner to enforce them. She did not content
herself with placing the matter in this
light. She still continued to commend the design
of a distant voyage, even should I intend
one day to return. The scheme was likely to
produce health and pleasure to me. It offered
objects which a rational curiosity must hold dear.
The interval might not pass away unpropitiously
to me. Time might effect desirable changes
in Mrs. Fielder's sentiments and views. A
thousand accidents might occur to level those
obstacles which were now insuperable. Pity
and complacency might succeed to abhorrence
and scorn. Gratitude and admiration for the patience,
meekness and self-sacrifices of the daughter
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[figure description] Page 300.[end figure description]
might gradually bring about the voluntary surrender
of her enmities; besides that event must,
one day come, which will place her above the
influence of all mortal cares and passions.
These conversations have not been without
their influence. Yes, my friend, my mind is
less gloomy and tumultuous than it was. I look
forward to this voyage with stronger hopes.
Methinks, I would hear once more from Jane.
Could she be persuaded cheerfully to acquiesce
in her mother's will: reserve herself for fortunate
contingencies: confide in my fidelity:
and find her content in the improvement of her
time and fortune: in befriending the destitute:
relieving, by her superfluities, the needy, and
consoling the afflicted by her sympathy, advice,
and succour—Would she not derive happiness
from these sources, though disappointed in the
wish nearest her heart.
Might I not have expected a letter ere this?
But she knows not where I am—probably imagines
me at my father's house. Shall I not venture
to write? A last and a long farewell? Yet
have I not said already all that the occasion will
justify? But, if I would write I know not how
to address her. It seems, she has not gone to
New-York. Her mother has a friend in Jersey,
whither she prevailed on Jane to accompany her.
I suppose it would be no arduous undertaking
to trace her footsteps and gain an interview, and
perhaps, I shall find the temptation irresistable.
Stephen has just now told me by letter that
he sails in ten days. There will be time enough
to comply with your friendly invitation. My
sister and you may expect to see me by
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[figure description] Page 301.[end figure description]
Saturday night. In the arms of my true friends, I
will endeavour to forget the vexations that at
present pray upon the peace of
Your
H. C.
LETTER LV.
To Henry Colden.
My mother allows me and even requires me
to write to you. My reluctance to do so is only
overcome by the fear of her displeasure—Yet
do not mistake me, my friend. Infer not from
this reluctance that the resolution of being
henceforward all that my mother wishes, can
be altered by any efforts of yours.
Alas! How vainly do I boast my inflexibility.
My safety lies only in filling my ears with my mother's
remonstrances and shutting them against
your persuasive accents. I have therefore resigned
myself wholly to my mothers government.
I have consented to be inaccessible to
your visits or letters.
I have few claims on your gratitude or generosity,
yet may I not rely on the humanity of
your temper? To what frequent and severe tests
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has my caprice already subjected your affection,
and has it not remained unshaken and undiminished?
Let me hope that you will not withhold
this last proof of your affection for me.
It would greatly console me to know that you
are once more on filial and friendly terms with
your father. Let me persuade you to return
to him; to beseech his favour; I hope the way
to reconcilement has already been paved by the
letter jointly addressed to him by my mother
and myself; that nothing is wanting but submissive
and suitable deportment on your part to restore
you to the station you possessed before you
had any knowledge of me. Let me exact from
you this proof of your regard for me. It is the
highest proof which it will henceforth be in your
power to offer, or that can ever be received by
J. Talbot.
-- 303 --
LETTER LVI.
To Mrs. Montford.
Philadelphia, Oct. 7.
Madam,
[figure description] Page 303.[end figure description]
It is with extreme reluctance that I venture
to address you in this manner. I cannot find
words to account for or apologise. But if you
be, indeed, the sister of Henry Colden, you cannot
be ignorant of me, and of former transactions
between us; and especially, the circumstance
that now compels me to write—you can
be no stranger to his present situation.
Can you forgive this boldness? in an absolute
stranger to your person, but not to your
virtues. I have heard much of you, from one
in whom I once had some little interest; Who
honored me with his affection.
I know that you lately possessed a large share
of that affection. I doubt not that you still retain
it, and are able to tell me what has become
of him.
I have, a long time, struggled with myself
and my fears in silence. I know how unbecoming
this address must appear to you, and yet,
persuaded that my character and my relation
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[figure description] Page 304.[end figure description]
to your brother are well known to you, I have
been able to curb my anxieties no longer.
Do then, my dearest madam, gratify my curiosity,
and tell me without delay, what has become
of your brother.
J. Talbot.
LETTER LVII.
To Jane Talbot.
New-York, October 9.
My dear Madam,
You judge truly when you imagine that your
character and history are not unknown to me;
and such is my opinion of you, that there is probably
no person in the world more solicitous for
your happiness, and more desirous to answer
any enquiries in a manner agreeable to you.
Mr. Colden has made no secret to us of the
relation in which he stood to you. We are well
acquainted with the cause of your late separation.
Will you excuse me for expressing the
deep regret which that event gave me? That
regret is the deeper, since the measures which
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[figure description] Page 305.[end figure description]
he immediately adopted, has put it out of his
power to profit by any change in your views.
My husband's brother being on the point of
embarking in a voyage to the western coast of
America and to China, Mr. Colden prevailed upon
his friends to permit him to embark also,
as a joint adventurer in the voyage. They have
been gone already upwards of a year. We
have not heard of them since their touching at
Tobago and Brazil.
The voyage will be very tedious, but as it
will open scenes of great novelty to the mind
of our friend, and as it may not be unprofitable
to him, we were the more easily disposed to
acquiesce.
Permit me, Madam, to proffer you my warmest
esteem and my kindest services. Your letter
I regard as a flattering proof of your good
opinion, which I shall be most happy to deserve
and to improve, by answering every enquiry
you may be pleased to make respecting one, for
whom I have ever entertained the affection be
coming a sister.
I am, &c.
M. Montford.
P. S. Mr. Montford desires to join me in my
offers of service, and in my good wishes.
-- 306 --
LETTER LVIII.
To Mrs. Montford.
Philadelphia, October 12
Dear Madam,
[figure description] Page 306.[end figure description]
How shall I thank you for the kind and delicate
manner in which you have complied with
my request. You will not be surprized, nor, I
hope, offended, that I am emboldened to address
you once more.
I see that I need not practice towards you a
reserve, at all times foreign to my nature, and
now more painful than at any other time, as my
soul is torn with emotions, which I am at liberty
to disclose to no other human creature. Will
you be my friend? Will you permit me to claim
your sympathy and consolation? As I told you
before, I am thoroughly acquainted with
your merits, and one of the felicities which I
promised myself from a nearer alliance with
Mr. Colden, was that of numbering myself among
your friends.
You have deprived me of some hope, by the
information you give; but you have at least put
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[figure description] Page 307.[end figure description]
an end to a suspense more painful than the most
dreadful certainty could be.
You say that you know all our concerns. In
pity to my weakness, will you give me some particulars
of my friend. I am extremely anxious
to know many things in your power to communicate.
Perhaps you know the contents of my last
letter to him, and of his answer. I know you
condemn me. You think me inconsiderate and
cruel in writing such aletter, and my heart does
not deny the charge. Yet my motives were not
utterly ungenerous. I could not bear to reduce
the man I loved to poverty. I could not
bear that he should incur the violence and curses
of his father. I fondly thought myself the only
obstacle to reconcilement, and was willing,
whatever it cost me, to remove that obstacle.
What will become of me, if my fears should
now be realized, if the means which I used, with
no other view than to reconcile him to his family,
should have driven him away from them and
from his country forever? I thank my God that
I was capable of abandoning him on no selfish
or personal account. The maledictions of my
own mother; the scorn of the world; the loss
of friends, reputation, and fortune, weighed nothing
with me. Great as these evils were, I
could have cheerfully sustained them for his
sake. What I did, was in oblivion of self; was
from a duteous regard to his genuine and lasting
happiness. Alas! I have, perhaps, mistaken
the means, and cruel will, I fear, be the penalty
of my error.
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Tell me, my dear friend, was not Colden reconciled
to his father before he went? When
does he mean to return? What said he, what
thought he of my conduct? Did he call me ungrateful
and capricious? Did he vow never to see
or think of me more?
I have regarded the promise that I made to
the elder Colden, and to my mother, as sacred.
The decease of the latter has, in my own opinion,
absolved me from any obligation except
that of promoting my own happiness, and that
of him whom I love. I shall not now reduce
him to indigence, and that consequence being
precluded, I cannot doubt of his father's acquiescence.
Ah! dear Madam! I should not have been so
long patient, had I not, as it now appears, been
lulled into a fatal mistake. I could not taste repose
till I was, as I thought, certainly informed
that he continued to reside in his father's house.
This proof of reconciliation, and the silence
which, though so near him, he maintained towards
me, both before and subsequently to my
mother's death, contributed to persuade me that
his condition was not unhappy, and especially,
that either his resentment or his prudence had
made him dismiss me from his thoughts.
I have lately, to my utter astonishment, discovered
that Colden, immediately after his last
letter to me, went upon some distant voyage,
whence, though a twelve month has since passed,
he has not yet returned. Hence the boldness
of this address to you, whom I know only by
rumour.
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You will, I doubt not, easily imagine to
yourself my feelings, and will be good enough
to answer my enquiries, if you have any compassion
for your
J. T.
LETTER LIX.
To Jane Talbot.
New-York, October 15.
I hasten, my dear madam, to reply to your
letter. The part you have assigned me, I will
most cheerfully perform to the utmost of my
power; but very much regret that I have not
more agreeable tidings to communicate.
Having said that all the transactions between
you and my brother are known to me, I need
not apologise for alluding to events, which I
could not excuse myself for doing without being
encouraged by the frankness and solicitude
which your own pen has expressed.
Immediately after the determination of his
fate, in regard to you, he came to this city. He
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[figure description] Page 310.[end figure description]
favoured us with the perusal of your letters.
We entirely agreed with him in applauding the
motives which influenced your conduct. We
had no right to accuse you of precipitation or
inconsistency. That heart must, indeed, be
selfish and cold which could not comprehend
the horror which must have seized you, on
hearing of his father's treatment. You acted
in the first tumults of your feelings, as every
woman would have acted. That you did not
immediately perceive the little prospect there
was that a breach of this nature would be
repaired; or that Colden would make use of
your undesired and unsaught for renunciation,
as a means of reconcilement with his father,
was no subject of surprise or of blame. These
reflections could not occur to you but in consequence
of some intimations from others.
Henry Colden was no indolent or mercenary
creature. No one more cordially detested the
life of dependance than he. He always thought
that his father had discharged all the duties of
that relation, in nourishing his childhood and
giving him a good education. Whatever has
been since bestowed, he considered as voluntary
and unrequited bounty; has received it with
irksomeness and compunction, and whatever
you may think of the horrors of indigence, it
was impossible to have placed him in a more
painful situation than under his father's roof.
We could not but deeply regret the particular
circumstances under which he left his father's
house, but the mere leaving it, and the necestsity
which thence arose of finding employment
-- 311 --
[figure description] Page 311.[end figure description]
and subsistence for himself, was not at all to be
regretted.
The consequences of your mother's letter to
the father produced no resentment in the son.
He had refused what he had a right to refuse,
and what had been pressed upon the giver,
rather than saught by him. The mere separation
was agreeable to Colden, and the rage
that accompanied it, was excited by the young
man's steadiness in his fidelity to you.
You were not aware that this cause of anger
could not be removed by any thing done by
you. Colden was not sensible of any fault.
There was nothing, therefore for which he could
crave pardon. Blows and revilings had been
patiently endured, but he was actuated by no
tame or servile spirit. He never would expose
himself to new insults. Though always ready
to accept apology and grant an oblivion of the
past, he never would avow compunction which
he did not feel, or confess that he had deserved
the treatment which he had received.
All this it was easy to suggest to your reflections,
and I endeavoured to persuade him to write
a second letter; but he would not. No, said he,
she has made her election. If no advantage is
taken of her tenderness and pity she will be
happy in her new scheme. Shall I subject her
to new trials: new mortifications? can I flatter
myself with being able to reward her by my
love for the loss of every other comfort? no.
Whatever she feels for me, I am not her supreme
passion. Her mother is preferred to
me. That her present resolution puts out of
all doubt. All upbraiding and repining from
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[figure description] Page 312.[end figure description]
me would be absurd. What can I say in favor
of my attachment to her, which she may not,
with equal reason, urge in favor of her attachment
to her mother? the happiness of one or
other must be forfeited. Shall I not rather
offer, than demand the sacrifice? and what are
my boasts of magnanimity if I do not strive to
lessen the difficulties of her choice, and persuade
her that in gratifying her mother she inflicts
no exquisite or lasting misery on me?
I am not so blind but that I can foresee the
effects on my tranquillity of time and variety
of objects. If I go this voyage, I may hope to
acquire resignation much sooner than by staying
at home. To leave these shores, is, in every
view, best for me. I can do nothing while
here, for my own profit, and every eye I meet
humbles and distresses me. At present, I do
not wish ever to return, but, I suppose the absence
and adventures of a couple of years, may
change my feelings in that respect. My condition
too, by some chance, may be bettered. I
may come back, and offer myself to her, without
offering poverty and contempt at the same time.
Time, or some good fortune, may remove the
mother's prejudices. All this is possible, but,
if it never takes place, if my condition never
improves, I will never return home.
When we urged to him the propriety of apprizing
you of his views, not only for your sake,
but for his own—“what need is there? has she
not prohibited all intercourse between us? have
I not written the last letter she will consent to
receive? on my own account, I have nothing to
hope. I have stated my return as a mere
-- 313 --
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possibility. I do not believe I shall ever return. If
I did expect it, I know Jane too well to have
any fears of her fidelity. While I am living, or
as long as my death is uncertain, her heart will
be mine, and she will reserve herself for me.”
I know you will excuse me, madam, for being
thus particular. I thought it best to state the
views of our friend in his own words. From
these your judgment will enable you to form
the truest conclusions.
The event that has since happened has probably
removed the only obstacle to your mutual
happiness: Nor am I without the hope of seeing
him one day return to be made happy by your
favor. As several passages were expected to be
made between China and Nootka, that desirable
event cannot be expected to be very near.
M. M.
-- 314 --
LETTER LX.
To Mrs. Montford.
Philadelphia, Oct. 20.
[figure description] Page 314.[end figure description]
Ah! dear madam! how much has your
letter afflicted: how much has it consoled
me.
You have then some hope of his return: but,
you say, 'twill be a long time first. He has
gone where I cannot follow him: To the end of
the world: Where even a letter cannot find
him: Into unwholesome climates; through
dangerous elements; among savages—
Alas! I have no hope. Among so many perils
it cannot be expected that he should escape.
And did he not say that he meant not to return?
Yet one thing consoles me. He left not his
curses or reproaches on my head. Kindly, generously,
and justly didst thou judge of my fidelity,
Henry. While thou livest, and as long
as I live, will I cherish thy image.
I am coming to pass the winter in your city.
I adopt this scheme merely because it will give
me your company. I feel as if you were the
only friend I have in the world. Do not think
me forward or capricious. I will not deny that
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you owe your place in my affections chiefly to
your relation to the wanderer: but no matter
whence my attachment proceeds. I feel that it
is strong: merely selfish perhaps: the child of
a distracted fancy: the prop on which a sinking
heart relies in its uttermost extremity.
Reflection stings me to the quick, but it does
not deny me some consolation. The memory
of my mother calls forth tears, but they are
not tears of bitterness. To her, at least, I
have not been deficient in dutiful observance.
I have sacrificed my friend and myself but it
was to her peace. The melancholy of her dying
scene will ever be cheered in my remembrance,
by her gratitude and blessing. Her
last words were these;
“Thou hast done much for me, my child. I
begin to fear that I have exacted too much.
Your sweetness, your patience have wrung my
heart with compunction.
I have wronged thee, Jane. I have wronged
the absent. I greatly fear, I have. Forgive me.
If you ever meet, intreat him to forgive me, and
recompence yourself and him, for all your mutual
sufferings.
I hope, all, tho' sorrowful, has been for the
best. I hope that angelic sweetness, which I
have witnessed, will continue when I am gone.
That belief only can make my grave peaceful.
I leave you affluence and honour at least. I
leave you the means of repairing my injury.
That is my comfort: but forgive me, Jane. Say
my child, you forgive me for what has past”—
She stretched her hand to me, which I bathed
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with my tears—But this subject afflicts me too
much.
Give my affectionate compliments to Mr.
Montford and tell me that you wish to see
your
Jane.
LETTER LXI.
To Mrs. Talboy.
New-York, Oct. 22.
You tell me, my dear Jane, that you are
coming to reside in this city, but you have not
gratified my impatience by saying how soon.
Tell me when you propose to come. Is there
not something in which I can be of service to
you? Some preparations to be made?
Tell me the day when you expect to arrive
among us, that I may wait on you as soon as
possible.
I shall embrace my sister, with a delight
which I cannot express. I will not part with
the delightful hope of one day calling you truly
such—
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Accept the fraternal regards of Mr. Montford.
M. M.
LETTER LXII.
To Mrs. Montford.
Banks of Delaware, Sept. 5.
Be not anxious for me, Mary. I hope to experience
very speedy relief from the wholesome
airs that perpetually fan this spot. Your apprehension
from the influence of these scenes on my
fancy are groundless. They breathe nothing over
my soul but delicious melancholy. I have done
expecting and repining, you know. Four years
have passed since I was here: since I met your
brother, under these shades.
I have already visited every spot which has
been consecrated by our interviews. I have
found the very rail which, as I well remember,
we disposed into a bench, at the skirt of a wood,
bordering a stubble field. The same pathway
through the thicket, where I have often walked
with him, I now traverse morning and night.
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Be not uneasy, I repeat, on my account. My
present situation is happier than the rest of the
world can afford. I tell you, I have done repining.
I have done sending forth my views into
an earthly futurity. Anxiety, I hope, is now at
an end with me.
What do you think I design to do? I assure
you it is no new scheme. Ever since my mother's
death, I have thought of it at times. It
has been my chief consolation. I never mentioned
it to you because I knew you would not
approve it. It is this.
To purchase this farm, and take up my abode
upon it for the rest of my life. I need not become
farmer, you know. I can lett the ground
to some industrious person, upon easy terms. I
can add all the furniture and appendages to this
mansion, which my convenience requires.
Luckily Sandford has for some time, entertained
thoughts of parting with it, and I believe he
could not find a more favourable purchaser.
You will tell me that the fields are sterile;
the barn small: the stable crazy; the woods
scanty. These would be powerful objections
to a mere tiller of the earth, but they are none
to me.
'Tis true, it is washed by a tide-water. The
bank is low and the surrounding country sandy
and flat, and you may think I ought rather to
prefer the beautiful variety of hill and dale,
luxuriant groves, and fertile pastures which
abound in other parts of the country. But you
know, my friend, the mere arrangement of inanimate
objects, wood, grass, and rock, is nothing.
It owes its power of bewitching us to the
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memory, the fancy and the heart. No spot of
earth can possibly team with as many affecting
images as this; for here it was—
But my eyes already overflow. In the midst
of these scenes, remembrance is too vivid to allow
me thus to descant on them. At a distance
I could talk of them without that painful emotion,
and now it would be useless repetition.
Have I not, more than once, related to you every
dialogue; described every interview?
God bless you, dear Mary, and continue to
you all your present happiness.
Don't forget to write to me. Perhaps some
tidings may reach you—down! thou flattering
hope! thou throbbing heart, peace! He is gone.
These eyes will never see him more. Had an
angel whispered the fatal news in my wakeful
ear, I should not more firmly believe it.
And yet—but I must not heap up disappointments
for myself. Would to heaven there was no
room for the least doubt: that, one way or the
other, his destiny was ascertained.
How agreeable is your intelligence, that Mr.
Cartwright has embarked after taking cheerful
leave of you. It grieves me, my friend, that
you do not entirely approve of my conduct towards
that man. I never formally attempted to
justify myself. 'Twas a subject on which I
could not give utterance to my thoughts. How
irksome is blame from those we love! there is
instantly suspicion that blame is merited. A
new process of self-defence is to be gone over,
and ten to one, but that after all our efforts,
there are some dregs at the bottom of the cup.
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I was half willing to found my excuse on the
hope of the wanderer's return; but I am too
honest to urge a false plea. Beside, I know
that certainty, in that respect, would make no
difference, and would it not be fostering in him
a hope, that my mind might be changed in
consequence of being truly informed respecting
your brother's fate?
I persuade myself that a man of Cartwright's
integrity and generosity cannot be made lastingly
unhappy by me. I know but of one human
being more excellent. Though his sensibility
be keen, I trust to his fortitude.
It is true, Mary, what you have heard. Cartwright
was my school-fellow. When we grew
to an age, that made it proper to frequent separate
schools, he did not forget me. The schools
adjoined each other, and he used to resist all
the enticements of prison-base and cricket, for
the sake of waiting at the door of our school,
till it broke up, and then accompanying me
home.
These little gallant offices made him quite
singular among his compeers, and drew on him
and on me, a good deal of ridicule. But he
did not mind it. I thought him, and every
body else thought him, a most amiable and engaging
youth, though only twelve or thirteen
years old.
'Tis impossible to say what might have happened,
had he not gone with his mother to
Europe; or rather, it is likely, I think, that
our fates, had he staid among us, would in
time have been united. But he went away when
I was scarcely fourteen. At parting, I
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[figure description] Page 321.[end figure description]
remember, we shed a great-many tears and exchanged
a great many kisses; and promises not to
forget. And that promise never was broken by
me. He was always dear to my remembrance.
Time has only improved all the graces of
the boy. I will not conceal from you, Mary,
that nothing but a preoccupied heart has been an
obstacle to his wishes. If that impediment had
not existed, my reverence for his worth, my
gratitude for his tenderness would have made
me comply. I will even go further; I will say
to you, though my regard to his happiness will
never suffer me to say it to him, that if three
years more pass away, and I am fully assured that
your brother's absence will be perpetual, and
Cartwright's happiness is still in my hands—
that then—I possibly may—but I am sure
that, before that time, his hand and his heart
will be otherwise disposed of. Most sincerely
shall I rejoice at the last event.
All are well here. My friend is as good
natured and affectionate as ever; and sings as
delightfully and plays as adroitly. She humours
me with all my favorite airs, twice a day. We
have no strangers; no mpertinents to intermeddle
in our conversations and mar our enjoyments.
You know what turn my studies have taken,
and what books I have brought with me. 'Tis
remarkable what unlooked for harvests arise
from small and insignificant germs. My affections
have been the stimulants to my curiosity. What
was it induced me to procure maps and charts,
and explore the course of the voyager over seas
and round capes? there was a time when these
-- 322 --
[figure description] Page 322.[end figure description]
objects were wholly frivolous and unmeaning in
my eyes, but now they gain my whole attention.
When I found that my happiness was embarked
with your brother in a tedious and perilous
voyage, was it possible to forbear collecting
all the information attainable respecting his
route, and the incidents likely to attend it? I
got maps and charts and books of voyages, and
found a melancholy enjoyment in connecting the
incidents and objects which they presented,
with the destiny of my friend. The pursuit of
this chief and most interesting object, has
brought within view, and prompted me to
examine a thousand others, on which, without
this original inducement, I should never have
bestowed a thought.
The map of the world exists in my fancy in
a most vivid and accurate manner. Repeated
meditation on displays of Shoal, Sand-bank and
Water, has created a sort of attachment to Geography
for its own sake. I have often reflected
on the innumerable links in the chain of my
ideas between my first eager examination of
the route by sea between New-York and Tobago
and yesterday's employment, when I was
closely engaged in measuring the Marches of
Frederic acros the mountains of Bohemia.
How freakish and perverse are the rovings of
human curiosity! The surprise which Miss
Betterton betrayed, when, in answer to her inquiries,
as to what study and what book I prized
the most, you told her that I thought of little
else than of the art of moving from shore to
shore across the water, and that I pored over
Cook's voyages so much that I had gotten the
-- 323 --
[figure description] Page 323.[end figure description]
best part of them by rote, was very natural. She
must have been puzzled to conjecture what
charms one of my sex could find in the study of
maps and voyages. Once I should have been
just as much puzzled myself. Adieu.
J. T.
LETTER LXIII.
To Mrs. Talbot.
New-York, Oct. 1.
Be not angry with me, my dear Jane. Yet I
am sure when you know my offence, you will
feel a great deal of indignation. You cannot be
more angry with me than I am with myself. I
do not know how to disclose the very rash
thing I have done. If you knew my compunction
you would pity me.
Cartwright embarked on the day I mentioned,
but remained for some days wind-bound, at the
Hook. Yesterday he unexpectedly made his appearance
in our appartment, at the very moment
when I was perusing your last letter. I was
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[figure description] Page 324.[end figure description]
really delighted to see him, and the images
connected with him, which your letter had just
suggested, threw me off my guard. Finding by
whom the letter was written, he solicited with
the utmost eagerness the sight of it.
Can you forgive me? My heart overflowed
with pity for the excellent man. I knew the
transport one part of your letter would afford
him. I thought that no injury but rather happiness,
would redound to yourself.
I now see thatI was guilty of a most culpable
breach of confidence, in shewing him your delicate
confession: but I was bewitched, I think.
I can write of nothing else just now. Much as
I dread your displeasure, I could not rest till I
had acknowledged my fault and craved your
pardon. Forgive, I beseech you, your
M. Montford.
-- 325 --
LETTER LXIV.
To Mrs. Talbot.
New-York, Dec. 12.
[figure description] Page 325.[end figure description]
I cannot leave this shore without thanking
the mistress of my destiny for all her goodness.
Yet I should not have ventured thus to address
you, had I not seen a letter—Dearest creature!
blame not your friend, for betraying you.
Think it not a rash or injurious confession, that
you have made.
And is it possible that you have not totally
forgotten the sweet scenes of our childhood; that
absence has not degraded me in your opinion;
and that my devotion, if it continue as fervent as
now, may look, in a few years, for its reward?
Could you prevail on yourself to hide these
generous emotions from me? To suffer me to
leave my country in the dreary belief that all
former incidents were held in contempt, and
that so far from being high in your esteem, my
presence was troublesome, my existence was
irksome to you?
But your motive was beneficent and generous.
You were content to be thought unfeeling
and ungrateful for the sake of my happiness.
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I rejoice inexpressibly in that event which has
removed the veil from your true sentiments.
Nothing but pure felicity to me, can flow from it.
Nothing but gratitude and honor can redound
from it to yourself.
I go: but not with anguish and despondency
for my companions. I am buoyed up by the
light wings of hope. The prospect of gaining
your love is not the only source of my present
happiness. If it were, I should be a criminal
and selfish being. No. My chief delight is, that
happiness is yet in store for you; that should
heaven have denied you your first hope, there still
lives one whose claim to make you happy will
not be rejected.
G. Cartwright.
LETTER LXV.
To G. Cartwright.
Banks of Delaware, Oct. 5
My Brother,
It would avail me nothing to deny the confessions
to which you allude. Neither will I
conceal from you that I am much grieved at
-- 327 --
[figure description] Page 327.[end figure description]
the discovery. Far am I from deeming your
good opinion of little value; but in this case, I
was more anxious to deserve it, than possess
it.
Little, indeed, did you know me, when you
imagined me insensible to your merit and forgetful
of the happy days of our childhood; the recollection
of which has a thousand times made
my tears flow. I thank heaven that the evils
which I have suffered, have had no tendency
to deaden my affections; to narrow my heart.
The joy which I felt for your departure was
far from being unmixed. The persuasion that
my friend and brother was going where he was
likely to find that tranquillity of which his stay
here would bereave him, but imperfectly soothed
the pangs of a long and perhaps an eternal
separation.
Farewell: my fervent and disinterested blessings
go with you. Return speedily to your
country, but bring with you a heart devoted to
another, and only glowing with a brotherly affection
for
J. T
-- 328 --
LETTER LXVI.
To Mrs. Talbot.
New-York, Nov. 15.
[figure description] Page 328.[end figure description]
The fear that what I have to communicate
may be imparted more abruptly and with false
or exaggerated circumstances, induces me to
write to you.
Yesterday week, a ship arrived in this port
from Batavia, in which my husband's brother
Stephen Montford came passenger.
You will be terrified at these words; but calm
your apprehensions. Harry does not accompany
him, it is true, nor are we acquainted with
his present situation.
The story of their unfortunate voyage cannot
be minutely related now. Suffice it to say that
a wicked and turbulent wretch, whom they shipped
in the West Indies as mate, the former
dying on the voyage thither, gave rise, by his
intreagues among the crew, to a mutiny.
After a prosperous navigation and some stay
at Nootka, they prepared to cross the ocean to
Asia. They pursued the usual route of former traders,
and after touching at the Sandwich Islands,
they made the land of Japan.
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At this period the mutiny which had long been
hatching, broke out. The whole crew including
the mate, joined the conspiracy. Montford and
my brother were the objects of this conspiracy.
The original design was to murder them both
and throw their bodies into the sea, but this
cruel proposal was thwarted both by compassion
and by policy, and it was resolved to set my
brother ashore on the first inhospitable land they
should meet, and retain Montford to assist them
in the navigation of the vessel, designing to destroy
him when his services should no longer
be necessary.
This scheme was executed as soon as they
came in sight of an out lying isle or dry sand
back, on the eastern coast of Japan. Here they
seized the two unsuspecting youths, at day
break, while asleep in their births, and immediately
putting out their boat landed my brother
on the shore, without cloathing or provisions of
any kind. Montford petitioned to share the fate
of his friend, but they would not listen to it.
Six days, afterwards, they lighted on a Spanish
ship bound to Manilla, who was in want of
water. A party of the Spaniards came on board
in search of some supply of that necessary article.
On their coming, Montford was driven below
and disabled from giving by his cries any alarm.
The centinel who guarded him, had received
orders to keep him in that situation till
the visitants had departed. From some impulse
of humanity, or mistake of orders, the centinel
freed him from restraint a few minutes earlier
than had been intended, and he got on deck before
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[figure description] Page 330.[end figure description]
the departing strangers had gone to any considerable
distance from the ship. He immediately
leapt into the sea and made for the boat,
to which, being a very vigorous swimmer, he
arrived in safety.
The mutineers, finding their victim had escaped,
endeavoured to make the best of their
way, but were soon overtaken by the Spanish
vessel, to whose officers Montford made haste
to explain the true state of affairs. They were
carried to Manilla, where Montford sold his vessel
and cargo on very advantageous terms.
From thence, after many delays, he got to Batavia
and from thence returned home.
I have thus given you, my friend, an imperfect
fect account of their misfortunes. I need not
add that no tidings has been received, or can
reasonably be hoped ever to be received of my
brother.
I could not write on such a subject sooner.
For some days I had thoughts of being wholly
silent on this news. Indeed my emotions would
not immediately permit me to use the pen, but
I have concluded, and it is my husband's earnest
advice, to tell you the whole truth.
Be not too much distressed, my sister, my
friend. Fain would I give you that consolation
which I myself want. I entreat you, let me
hear from you soon, and tell me that you are
not very much afflicted. Yet could I not believe
you if you did. Write to me speedily,
however.
-- 331 --
LETTER LXVII.
To Mrs. Talbot.
New-York, Nov. 23.
[figure description] Page 331.[end figure description]
You do not write to me, my dear Jane.
Why are you silent? Surely you cannot be indifferent
to my happiness. You must know how
painful, at a moment like this your silence must
prove.
I have waited from day to day in expectation
of a letter, but more than a week has past, and
none has come. Let me hear from you, immediately,
I intreat you.
I am afraid you are ill, or perhaps, you are
displeased with me. Unconsciously I may
have given you offence.
But, indeed, I can easily suspect the cause
of your silence. I trembled with terror when
I sent you tidings of our calamity. I know the
impetuosity of your feelings, and the effects of
your present solitude. Would to heaven you
were any where but where you are. Would to
heaven you were once more with us.
Let me beseech you to return to us immediately.
Mr. M. is anxious to go for you. He wanted
to set out immediately, on his brother's arrival,
and to be the bearer of my letter, but I
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[figure description] Page 332.[end figure description]
prevailed on him to forbear until I heard from
you.
Do not, if you have any regard for me, delay
answering me a moment longer.
M. M.
LETTER LXVIII.
To Mrs. Montford.
Banks of Delaware, Nov. 26.
I beseech you, dear Mrs. Montford, take
some measures for drawing our dear Jane
from this place. There is no remedy but absense
from this spot, cheerful company and
amusing engagements, for the sullen grief
which has seized her. Ever since the arrival of
your letter giving us the fatal tidings of your
brother's misfortune, she has been—in a strange
way—I am almost afraid to tell you; I know how
much you love her: but indeed, indeed, unless
somebody with more spirit and skill than I possess,
will undertake to console and divert her,
I am fearful we shall lose her forever.
I can do nothing for her relief. You know
what a poor creature I am. Instead of
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[figure description] Page 333.[end figure description]
summoning up courage to assist another in distress,
the sight of it confuses and frightens me. Never,
I believe was there such another helpless
good-for-nothing creature in existence. Poor
Jane's affecting ways only make me miserable,
and instead of my being of any use to her, her
presence deprives me of all power to attend
to my family and friends. I endeavour to avoid
her, though, indeed, that requires but little
pains to effect, since she will not be seen but
when she cannot choose, for whenever she looks
at me steadily, there is such expression in her
features, something so woeful, so wild, that I
am struck with terror. It never fails to make
me cry heartily.
Come hither yourself, or send somebody immediately.
If you do not, I dread the consequence.
-- 334 --
LETTER LXIX.
To Mr. Montford.
New-Haven, February 10.
My dear friend,
[figure description] Page 334.[end figure description]
This letter is written in extreme pain; yet
no pain that I ever felt, no external pain possible
for me to feel, is equal to the torment I derive
from suspense. Good heaven! what an untoward
accident! to be forcibly immured in a tavern
chamber; when the distance is so small between
me and that certainty after which my soul
pants!
I ought not thus to alarm my beloved friends,
but I know not what I write—my head is in confusion;
my heart in tumults; a delirium more
the effect of a mind stretched upon the rack of
impatience, than of limbs shattered and broken,
whirls me out of myself.
Not a moment of undisturbed repose have I
enjoyed for the last two months. If awake,
omens and conjectures, menacing fears, and
half-formed hopes have haunted and
-- 335 --
[figure description] Page 335.[end figure description]
harassed me. If asleep, dreams of agonizing forms
and ever varying hues, have thronged my fancy
and driven away peace.
In less than an hour after landing at
Boston, I placed myself in the swiftest stage
and have travelled night and day, till within a
mile of this town, when the carriage was overturned
and my left arm terribly shattered. I
was drawn with difficulty hither, and my only
hope of being once more well is founded on
my continuance, for I know not how long, in
one spot and one posture.
By this time, the well known hand has told
you who it is that writes this—the exile; the
fugitive; whom four long years of absence and
silence have not, I hope, erased from your
remembrance, banished from your love, or
even totally excluded from the hope of being
seen again.
Yet that hope, surely, must have been long
ago dismissed. Acquainted as you are with
some part of my destiny; of my being left on
the desert shore of Japan; on the borders of a
new world; a world, civilized, indeed, and peopled
by men, but existing in almost total separation
from the other families of mankind;
with language, manners and policy almost incompatible
with the existence of a stranger among
them: all entrance, or egress from which,
being commonly supposed to be prohibited by
iron laws and inflexible despotism: that I, a
stranger; naked; forlorn; cast upon a sandy
beach; frequented, but at rare intervals, and
by savage fishermen, should find my way into
the heart of this wonderful empire, and finally
-- 336 --
[figure description] Page 336.[end figure description]
explore my way back to my native shore, are
surely most strange and incredible atchievements—
yet all this, my friend, has been endured
and performed by your Colden.
Finding it impossible to move immediately
from this place, and this days post having gone
out before my arrival, I employed a man to
carry you these assurances of my existence and
return, and to bring me back intelligence of
your welfare; and some news concerning—
may I perish if I can, at this moment, write her
name. Every moment, every mile that has
brought me nearer to her, or rather nearer to
certainty of her life or death, her happiness or
misery, has increased my trepidation: added
new tremors to my heart.
I have some time to spare. In spite of my
impatience, my messenger cannot start within
a few hours. I am little fitted, in my present
state of pain and suspense, to write intelligibly.
Yet what else can I do but write, and will you not,
in your turn, be impatient to know by what means
I have once more set my foot in my native land.
I will fill up the interval, till my messenger
is ready, by writing. I will give you some
hints of my adventures. All particulars must
be deferred till I see you. Heaven grant that
I may once more see you and my sister. Four
months ago you were well, but that interval is
large enough to breed ten thousand disasters.
Expect not a distinct or regular story. That, I
repeat, must be deferred till we meet. Many
a long day would be consumed in the telling, and
that which was hazard or hardship in the
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[figure description] Page 337.[end figure description]
encounter and the sufferance, will be pleasant to
remembrance, and delightful in narration.
You know by what accident, and in what remote
and inhospitable region, Stephen and I
were separated. How did I know, you will, perhaps,
ask, the extent of your knowledge? By
strange and unexpected means; but have patience,
and, in due time, I will tell you.
What a scene did I pass through! what uncouth
forms, strange accents, and ferocious
demeanour presented themselves in the fishermen
that found me, half famished, on a sand
bank! My fate, whether death or servitude, depended
on the momentary impulse of untutored
hearts: perhaps, on some adroitness and dexterity
in myself.
They carried me from the solitary shore, into
the heart of a cultivated island. Rumour became
instantly busy, and at length reached the
ears of a sort of feudal or territorial lord. By his
orders, I was brought into his rustic palace.
I found humanity and curiosity in this man. I
passed several months in his house, acquiring
gradually a smattering of the language, and
some insight into the policy and manners of the
people.
I endeavoured to better my condition, and
gain respect to my person by the display of all
the accomplishments of which I was master.
These, alas, were but few: yet some of them
were not altogether useless; and the humane
temper of one whom I may call my patron, se
cured me gentle and even respectful treatment.
After some months this lord, whose name
was Tekehatsin, left his island, and set out on
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a journey to the metropolis. He left me with
promises of the continuance of his favor and protection,
and urged his regard for my safety as
a reason for not taking me along with him. I
heard nothing of him for six weeks after his departure.
Then a messenger arrived, with orders
to bring me up to his master.
The incidents of this journey; the aspects of
the country; of the cities, of the villages thro'
which I passed, will afford an inexhaustible
theme for future conversations—I reached, at
length, the residence of Tekehatsin, in the
chief city of the kingdom, the name of which
is Fedho. Shortly after I was introduced to one
in whom I recognized a native of Europe; and
therefore, in some respects, a countryman.
This person's name was Holtz. He was the
agent of the Dutch East-India company in Japan.
He was then at court in a sort of diplomatic
character. He was likewise a physician and
man of science. He had even been in America,
and found no difficulty in conversing with me
in my native language.
You will easily imagine the surprise and pleasure
which such a meeting afforded me. It likewise
opened a door to my return to Europe, as
a large trade is regularly maintained between
Java and Japan.
Many obstacles, however, in the views which
Tekehastin had formed, of profit and amusement,
from my remaining in his service; and
in the personal interests and wishes of my friend
Holtz, opposed this design, nor was I able to
accomplish it, but on condition of returning.
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I confess to you, my friend my heart was not
extremely averse to this condition.
I left America with very faint hopes, and no
expectation of ever returning. The longer I
resided among this race of men, the melancho
ly and forlornness of my feelings declined.
Prospects of satisfaction from the novelty and
grandeur of the scene into which I had entered,
began to open upon me: Sentiments of affection
and gratitude for Holtz, and even for
the Japanese lord, took root in my heart.
Still however happiness was bound to scenes
and to persons very distant from my new country,
and a restlessness forever haunted me,
which nothing could appease but some direct
intelligence from you and from Jane Talbot.
By returning to Europe I could likewise be of
essential service to Holtz, whose family were
Saxons, and whose commercial interests required
the presence of a trusty agent for a few
months at Hamburg.
Let me carry you, in few words through the
difficulties of my embarkation: and the incidents
of a short stay at Batavia and a long voyage
over half the world to Hamburg.
Shortly after my return to Hamburg, from
an excursion into Saxony to see Holtz's friends,
I met with Mr. Cartwright, an American. After
much fluctuation I had previously resolved to
content myself with writing to you of whom I received
such verbal information from several of our
countrymen, as removed my anxiety on your
account. A very plausible tale, told me by some
one that pretended to know, of Mrs. Talbot's
marriage with a Mr. Cartwright, extinguished
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every new-born wish to revisit my native land,
and I expected to set sail on my return to India,
before it could be possible to hear from you.
I was on the eve of my departure, when the
name of Cartwright, an American, then at
Hamburg, reached my ears. The similarity of
his name to that of the happy man who had supplanted
the poor wanderer in the affections of
Jane, and a suspicion that they might possibly
be a kin, and consequently, that this, might afford
me some information, as to the character
or merits of that Cartwright, made me throw
myself in his way.
You may easily imagine, what I &longs;hall defer
relating, the steps which led us to a knowledge
of each other, and by which I discovered that
this Cartwright was the one mentioned to me,
and that, instead of being already the husband
of my Jane, his hopes of her favour depended
on the certain proof of my death.
Cartwright's behaviour was, in the highest
degree, disinterested. He might easily have
left me in my original error, and a very few
days would have sent me on a voyage, which
would have been equivalent to my death. On
the contrary his voluntary information and a
letter which he shewed me, written in Jane's
hand, created a new soul in my breast. Every
foreign object vanished, and every ancient sentiment,
connected with our unfortunate loves,
was instantly revived. Ineffable tenderness,
and an impatience, next to rage, to see her, reigned
in my heart.
Yet, my friend, with all my confidence of a favourable
reception from Jane; her conduct now
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exempt from the irresistible controul of her
mother and her tenderness for me as fervent as
ever; yet, since so excellent a man as Cartwright
existed; since his claims were, in truth
antecedent to mine; since my death or everlasting
absence would finally insure success to these
claims; since his character were blemished by
none of those momentous errors with which
mine was loaded; since that harmony of opinions
on religious subjects, without which marriage
can never be a source of happiness to
hearts touched by a true and immortal passion,
was perfect in his case; never should mere passion
have seduced me to her feet. If my reflections
and experience had not changed my character;
if all her views, as to the final destiny
and present obligations of human beings, had not
become mine, I should have deliberately ratified
the act of my eternal banishment—
Yes, my friend; this weather-beaten form
and sunburnt face, are not more unlike what
you once knew, than my habits and opinions
now and formerly. The incidents of a long
voyage, the vicissitudes through which I have
passed have given strength to my frame, while
the opportunities and occasions for wisdom
which these have afforded me, have made my
mind whole. I have awakened from my dreams of
doubt and misery, not to the cold and vague
belief, but to the living and delightful consciousness
of every tie that can bind man to his divine
parent and judge.
Again I must refer you to our future interviews.
A broken and obscure tale it would be;
which I could now relate. I am hurried, by my
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fears and suspenses—Yet it would give you pleasure
to know every thing as soon as possible—
sometime likewise must elapse—You and my sister
have always been wise. The lessons of true
piety it is the business of your lives to exemplify
and to teach. Henceforth, if that principle,
which has been my stay and my comfort in all
the slippery paths and unlooked for perils from
which I have just been delivered, desert not my
future steps, I hope to be no mean example and
no feeble teacher of the same lessons. Indefatigable
zeal and strenuous efforts are indeed incumbent
on me in proportion to the extent of
my past misconduct, the depth of my former
degeneracy.
By what process of reflection I became thus,
you shall speedily know: Yet can you be at
a loss to imagine it? You, who have passed
thro' somewhat similar changes; who always
made allowances for the temerity of youth; the
fascinations of novelty: Who always predicted
that a few more years; the events of my peculiar
destiny; the leisure of my long voyage;
and that goodness of intention to which you
were ever kind enough to admit my claims,
would ultimately provide the remedy for all errors
and evils, and make me worthy of the undivided
love of all good men;—You, who have
had this experience, and who have always regarded
me in this light, will not wonder that reflection
has, at length, raised me to the tranquil
and stedfast height of simple and true piety.
Such my friend, were my inducements to return:
but first, it was necessary te explain, by
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letter, to Holtz—but my messenger is at the
door: eager to be gone. Take this my
friend. Bring yourself or send back by the
same messenger, without a moments delay,
tidings of her, and of your safety. As to me,
be not much concerned on my account. I am
solemnly assured by my Surgeon, that nothing
but time, and a tranquil mind are necessary to
restore me to health. The last boon no hand but
yours can confer on your
H. Colden.
LETTER LXX.
To Henry Colden.
New-York, Feb. 12.
And are you then alive? Are you then returned?
Still do you remember, still love the ungrateful
and capricious Jane? Have you indeed
come back to soothe her almost broken heart; to
rescue her from the grave: to cheer her with
the prospect of peaceful and bright days yet to
come?
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O my full heart! Sorrow has not hitherto
been able quite to burst this frail tenement. I
almost fear that joy—so strange to me is joy,
and so far, so very far, beyond my notions of possibility
was your return—I almost fear that joy
will do what sorrow was unable to do—
Can it be that Colden—that self-same, dear,
pensive face; those eyes, benignly and sweetly
mild; and that heart dissolving voice, have
escaped so many storms: so many dangers?
Was it love for me that led you from the extremity
of the world, and have you indeed, brought
back with you an heart full of “ineffable tenderness”
for me?
Unspeakably unworthy am I of your love.
Time and grief, dear Hal, have bereft me of
the glossy hues, the laughing graces which
your doating judgment once ascribed to me—
but what will not the joy of your return effect?
I already feel lightsome and buoyant as a bird.
My head is giddy—But, alas! you are not well;
Yet, you assure us, not dangerously sick. Nothing,
did you not say, but time and repose necessary
to heal you? Will not my presence,
my nursing hasten thy restoration? Tuesday
evening—they say it can't possibly be sooner—
I am with you. No supporters shall you have
but my arms: no pillow but my breast. Every
holy rite, shall instantly be called in to make
us one: And when once united, nothing but
death shall ever part us again. What did I say?
Death itself, at least thy death, shall never dissever
that bond:
Your brother will take this. Your sister—she
is the most excellent of women, and worthy to
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be your sister—She and I will follow him to
morrow. He will tell you much, which my hurried
spirits will not allow me to tell you in this
letter. He knows every thing. He has been,
since my mother's death—She is dead, Henry.
She died in my arms; And will it not give you
pleasure to know, that her dying lips blessed
me, and expressed the hope that you would
one day return to find, in my authorised love,
some recompense for all the evils to which her antipathies
subjected you? She hoped, indeed, that
observation and experience would detect the falacy
of your former tenets: that you would become
wise, not in speculation only, but in practice,
and be in every respect, deserving of the happiness
and honour which would attend the gift
of her daughter's hand and heart.
My words cannot utter but thy own heart
perhaps can conceive the rapture which thy
confession of a change in thy opinions has afforded
me. All my prayers, Henry have not
been merely for your return. Indeed, whatever
might have been the dictates, however absolute
the dominion of passion, union with you would
have been very far from compleating my felicity,
unless our hopes and opinions, as well as our persons
and hearts were united. Now can I look up
with confidence and exultation to the shade of my
revered and beloved mother. Now can I safely invoke
her presence and her blessing to a union,
which death will have no power to dissolve. O what
sweet peace, what serene transport is there in the
persuasion that the selected soul will continue
forever to commune with my soul, mingle with
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mine its adoratian of the same divine parent,
and partake with me in every thought, in every
emotion, both here and hereafter!
Never, my friend, without this persuasion,
never should I have known one moment of true
happiness. Marriage, indeed, instead of losing
its attractions, in consequence of your errors,
drew thence only new recommendations. Since
with a zeal, a tenderness and a faith like mine,
my efforts to restore such an heart and such
a reason as yours, could not fail of success,
but till that restoration were accomplished,
never, I repeat, should I have tasted repose,
even in your arms.
Poor Miss Jessup! She is dead, Henry; Yet
not before she did thee and me, poor justice.
Her death-bed confession removed my mother's
fatal suspicions. This confession, and the perusal
of all thy letters, and thy exile, which I
afterwards discovered was known to her very
early, tho' unsuspected by me till after her decease,
brought her to regard thee with some
compassion and some respect.
I can write no more; but must not conclude
till I have offered thee the tenderest, most fervent
vows of an heart that ever was and always will
be thine own. Witness
Jane Talbot.
THE END.
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Brown, Charles Brockden, 1771-1810 [1801], Jane Talbot (John Conrad & Co., Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf032].
