diff options
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 3 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 8404-h.zip | bin | 0 -> 191705 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 8404-h/8404-h.htm | 9776 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 8404.txt | 9876 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 8404.zip | bin | 0 -> 189187 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/jntlb10.txt | 9834 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/jntlb10.zip | bin | 0 -> 188523 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/jntlb10h.htm | 9733 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/jntlb10h.zip | bin | 0 -> 191049 bytes |
11 files changed, 39235 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/8404-h.zip b/8404-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c8972b0 --- /dev/null +++ b/8404-h.zip diff --git a/8404-h/8404-h.htm b/8404-h/8404-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d4a3883 --- /dev/null +++ b/8404-h/8404-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9776 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8" ?> +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Jane Talbot, by Charles Brockden Brown</title> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"/> +<style type="text/css"> + <!-- + h1,h2,h3,h4 { text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-variant: small-caps } + h1 { margin-top: 2em } + .smallcaps { font-variant: small-caps } + img { border-style: none } + --> +</style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Jane Talbot, by Charles Brockden Brown + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + +Title: Jane Talbot + +Author: Charles Brockden Brown + +Posting Date: February 11, 2015 [EBook #8404] +Release Date: July, 2005 +First Posted: July 7, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JANE TALBOT *** + + + + +Produced by Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + +</pre> + + +<h1>Jane Talbot</h1> + +<p align="center" class="smallcaps">by</p> + +<h2>Charles Brockden Brown.</h2> + + + + + +<h1>Letter I</h1> + + + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, Monday Evening, October 3.</p> + +<p>I am very far from being a wise girl. So conscience whispers me, and, +though vanity is eager to refute the charge, I must acknowledge that she +is seldom successful. Conscience tells me it is folly, it is guilt, to +wrap up my existence in one frail mortal; to employ all my thoughts, to +lavish all my affections, upon one object; to dote upon a human being, +who, as such, must be the heir of many frailties, and whom I know to be +not without his faults; to enjoy no peace but in his presence, to be +grateful for his permission to sacrifice fortune, ease, life itself, for +his sake.</p> + +<p>From the humiliation produced by these charges, vanity endeavours to +relieve me by insinuating that all happiness springs from affection; that +nature ordains no tie so strong as that between the sexes; that to love +without bounds is to confer bliss not only on ourselves but on another; +that conjugal affection is the genuine sphere not only of happiness but +duty.</p> + +<p>Besides, my heart will not be persuaded but that its fondness for you +is nothing more than simple justice. Ought I not to love excellence, and +does my poor imagination figure to itself any thing in human shape more +excellent than thou?</p> + +<p>But yet there are bounds beyond which passion cannot go without +counteracting its own purposes. I am afraid mine goes beyond those bounds. +So far as it produces rapture, it deserves to be cherished; but when +productive of impatience, repining, agony, on occasions too that are +slight, trivial, or unavoidable, 'tis surely culpable.</p> + +<p>Methinks, my friend, I would not have had thee for a witness of the +bitterness, the tumult of my feelings, during this day; ever since you +left me. You cannot conceive any thing more forlorn, more vacant, more +anxious, than this weak heart has been and still is. I was terrified at my +own sensations, and, with my usual folly, began to construe them into +omens of evils; so inadequate, so disproportioned was my distress to the +cause that produced it.</p> + +<p>Ah! my friend! a weak--very weak--creature is thy Jane. From excess of +love arises that weakness; <i>that</i> must be its apology with thee, for, +in thy mind, my fondness, I know, needs an apology.</p> + +<p>Shall I scold you a little? I have held in the rein a long time, but my +overflowing heart must have relief, and I shall find a sort of comfort in +chiding you. Let me chide you, then, for coldness, for insensibility: but +no; I will not. Let me enjoy the rewards of self-denial and forbearance, +and seal up my accusing lips. Let me forget the coldness of your last +salute, your ill-concealed effort to disengage yourself from my +foolishly-fond arms. You have got at your journey's end, I hope. Farewell.</p> + +<p>J. TALBOT.</p> + + + +<h1>Letter II</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Tuesday Morning, October 4.</p> + +<p>I must write to you, you said, frequently and copiously: you did not +mean, I suppose, that I should always be scribbling, but I cannot help it. +I can do nothing but converse with you. When present, my prate is +incessant; when absent, I can prate to you with as little intermission; +for the pen, used so carelessly and thoughtlessly as I use it, does +<i>but</i> prate.</p> + +<p>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 +affected by it. I am not surprised that calumny has been busy with my +life, and am very little anxious to clear myself from unjust charges, +except to such as you.</p> + +<p>At this moment, I may add, my mood is not unfriendly to the +undertaking. I can do nothing in your absence but write to you. To write +what I have ten thousand times spoken, and which can be perfectly +understood only when accompanied by looks and accents, seems absurd. +Especially while there is a subject on which my <i>tongue</i> can never +expatiate, but on which it is necessary that you should know all that I +can tell you.</p> + +<p>The prospect of filling up this interval with the relation of the most +affecting parts of my life somewhat reconciled me to your necessary +absence, yet I know my heart will droop. Even this preparation to look +back makes me shudder already. Some reluctance to recall tragical or +humiliating scenes, and, by thus recalling to endure them, in some sense, +a second time, I must expect to feel.</p> + +<p>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. J. T.</p> + + + +<h1>Letter III</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Tuesday Morning, 11 o'clock.</p> + +<p>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 condolences.</p> + +<p>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 disburdened my heart. Disburden it, said I? I shall load it, I +fear, with sadness, but I will not regret an undertaking which my duty to +you makes indispensable.</p> + +<p>One of the earliest incidents that I remember is an expostulation with +my father. I saw 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 mother's 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 showed none of the volatility of childhood. While she lived, I was never +at ease but 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.</p> + +<p>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 shown 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.</p> + +<p>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 +from her.</p> + +<p>My mother, on her death-bed, was anxious to see him, but he had +strolled away after some boyish amusement, with companions as thoughtless +as himself. The news of her death scarcely produced an hour's seriousness. +He made my affliction a topic of sarcasm and contempt.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>My brother was not deficient in talents, but he wanted application. +Very early he showed strong propensities to active amusement 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 a +housekeeper and two or three servants, and apartments were always open for +his son.</p> + +<p>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 honour 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.</p> + +<p>I scarcely know how to describe my feelings in relation to this young +man. My affection for him was certainly without that tenderness 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>For a long time this absurd indulgence was shown 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.</p> + +<p>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 French girl whom +he maintained in expensive lodgings, his horses, dogs, and <i>friends</i>, +consumed the whole of it.</p> + +<p>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 befell him, not to make myself, by +various means, thoroughly acquainted with his situation.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>For a long time I was totally unaware of the tendencies of this mode of +life. I did not suspect that a 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 expenses to his +income.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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 enter 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.</p> + +<p>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 showed him that page of the letter which +related to this affair. I anxiously watched his looks while he read +it.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Pray, dear sir," continued I, "what could have happened to the money +which you sent? You had not heard, I suppose, of its miscarriage."</p> + +<p>"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 conference 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."</p> + +<p>"What!" cried my brother, with a laugh, "has thy silly brain engendered +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."</p> + +<p>There was always something in my brother's raillery which my infirm +soul could never support. I ought always to have listened and replied +without emotion, but a fluttering indignation usually deprived me of +utterance. I found my best expedient was flight, when I <i>could</i> fly, +and silence when obliged to remain: I therefore made no answer to this +speech, but hastily withdrew.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"But, dear sir," said I, "how did it happen? How did the money +miscarry?"</p> + +<p>"Never mind," said he, a little peevishly: "we shall see things put to +rights, I tell you; and let that satisfy you."</p> + +<p>"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 stir 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 three +months in all; and during all this time he will be without money. But +perhaps he will receive it sooner."</p> + +<p>My father frequently changed countenance, and showed great solicitude. +I did not wonder at this, as Risberg had always been loved as a son. A +little consideration, therefore, ought to have shown 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.</p> + +<p>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 interference."</p> + +<p>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 +deference, and I saw nothing peculiarly petulant or improper in what I had +said.</p> + +<p>"Dear sir, forgive me: you know I write to my cousin, and, as he stated +his complaints 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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Certainly, if the subject displeases you, I will drop it." Here a +pause of mutual embarrassment succeeded, which was, at length, broken by +my father:--</p> + +<p>"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 +<i>draughts</i>."</p> + +<p>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 forgotten 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?</p> + +<p>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 depended on him for his +maintenance; but somehow or another the wants of Francis had increased +very much of late years, and swallowed up all that he could <i>rap</i> and +<i>rend</i> 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 <i>three</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>My father was embarrassed, confounded, grieved. He sighed, and even +wept.--"Francis," said he, at last, "to-be-sure, has not acted quite +right. Bat 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 lenient 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 is +nearly exhausted, and I really fear, before another quarter comes round, I +shall want myself."</p> + +<p>I again described, in as strong and affecting terms as I could, +Risberg's expectations and 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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Alas!" said I, "my brother will never consent to such a measure. If he +has found occasion 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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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!" said 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 a hopeless task. As to my father, he will never +submit to my guidance."</p> + +<p>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 represented me as the heiress of +her fortunes, and confided fully in my discretion. The chief uses 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 adventurous undertaking for a +young creature like me. It was impossible to do this clandestinely; at +least, 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.</p> + +<p>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 +surprise, therefore, was not small. I started up with the confusion of a +stranger, and requested him, very formally, to be seated.</p> + +<p>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:--</p> + +<p>"So, girl, I hear that you have been meddling with things that do not +concern you,--sowing dissension 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 teasing him, +about this traveller Risberg, 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 <i>know</i> that he never will."</p> + +<p>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 boisterous arrogance.</p> + +<p>"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 <i>she Solomon</i>. 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."</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>His eyes darted fire. "Come, girl; none of your insolence. I did not +come here to be insulted."</p> + +<p>"No; you rather came to commit than to receive an insult."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"I do not imagine, brother, that any good will result from our +discussing this subject. Education, or sex, if you please, has made a +difference in our judgments, which argument will never reconcile."</p> + +<p>"With all my heart. A truce everlasting let there be; but, in truth, I +merely came to caution you against inter-meddling in <i>my affairs</i>, to +tell you to beware of sowing jealousy and ill-will between the <i>old +man</i> 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."</p> + +<p>"I thank you for your brotherly advice, but I am afraid I never shall +bring myself to part with the liberty of <i>prating</i> on every subject +that pleases me; at least, my forbearance will flow from my own +discretion, and not from the imperious prohibition of another."</p> + +<p>He laughed. "Well said, oddity. I am not displeased to see you act with +some spirit: but I repeat my charge; <i>be quiet</i>. Your interference +will do no good."</p> + +<p>"Indeed, I firmly believe that it will not; and <i>that</i> will be a +motive for my silence that shall always have its due weight with me. +Risberg, I see, must look elsewhere for a father and a brother."</p> + +<p>"Poor thing! do; put its finger in its eye and weep. Ha! ha! ha! poor +Risberg! how would he laugh to see these compassionate tears! It seem she +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 proof 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."</p> + +<p>My heart could not restrain its indignation at these words.</p> + +<p>"'Tis false!" I exclaimed; "'tis a 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."</p> + +<p>"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 calumniator? 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 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-by to you."</p> + +<p>So ended this conversation. He left me in a 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 that of an impostor? How unmoved was he by the doubts which +I ventured to insinuate of his truth! Alas! I fear 'tis too true.</p> + +<p>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 not 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:--</p> + +<p>"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, +I hope, will soon be able to subsist upon the fruits of your own learning +and industry.</p> + +<p>"I have something more to say to you, 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.</p> + +<p>"I am very imperfectly acquainted with your present views. You +originally designed, after having completed 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."</p> + +<p>My relation to Risberg was peculiarly delicate. His more lively +imagination had deceived him already into a belief that he was in love. At +least, in all his letters, he seemed fond of recognising 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 gracefulness of passion +naturally prompts them to make their 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.</p> + +<p>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 conducive to the interests of both.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + + + +<h1>Letter IV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Wednesday Morning, October 5.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +permanent, 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 though I was sensible that I held of my +maternal friend but a very precarious tenure, that my character and +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, though 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.</p> + +<p>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 +inquiries 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.</p> + +<p>In answer to my friend's remarks, I observed that my father's property +was much less considerable 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.</p> + +<p>"There, Jane, you are mistaken," said my friend, "or rather you are +willing to mislead me; for you must know that, though your father appears +to be idle, yet your brother is speculating with his money at an enormous +rate."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"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 <i>speculation</i>; that, I remember, was +his word, but I never, for my part, took the trouble to inquire what +<i>speculation</i> meant. I know only that it is some hazardous or +complicated way of getting money."</p> + +<p>These hints, though 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"And what scheme, sir, was it, if I may venture to ask?"</p> + +<p>"Why, child, these are subjects so much out of thy way, that thou +wouldst hardly comprehend any explanation that I could give."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps so; but what success, dear sir, have you met with?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"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, 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, indispensably 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."</p> + +<p>"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 <i>all</i> on the faith of any project whatever was +unworthy of one of your experience and discretion."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 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!"</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Fail! That is impossible. It cannot fail but through want of money, +and I am solemnly assured that no more will be necessary."</p> + +<p>"But how often, sir, has this assurance been given? No doubt with as +much solemnity the first time as the last."</p> + +<p>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 and I, between us, will make you the richest heiress in America. +Let that consideration reconcile you to the scheme."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 nowise 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.</p> + +<p>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 counsel of a +girl.</p> + +<p>He replied to my remarks with confidence, that no further demand would +be made upon him. The last sum was given with extreme reluctance, and +nothing but the positive assurance that it would absolutely be the last +had prevailed with him.</p> + +<p>"Suppose, sir," said I, "what you have already given should prove +insufficient. Suppose some new demand should be made upon you."</p> + +<p>"I cannot suppose that, after so many solemn and positive +assurances."</p> + +<p>"But were not assurances as positive and solemn on every former +occasion as the last?"</p> + +<p>"Why, yes, I must own they were; but new circumstances arose that could +not be foreseen?"</p> + +<p>"And, dear sir, may not new circumstances arise hereafter that could +not be foreseen?"</p> + +<p>"Nay, nay," (with some impatience;) "I tell you there cannot be +any."</p> + +<p>I said no more on this subject at this time; but my father, +notwithstanding the confidence he expressed, was far from being at +ease.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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----</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Alas, sir, are you still deceived by that language? Can you still +listen to assurances which experience has so often shown to be fallacious? +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. Though at a loss as to what could occasion +such an unusual summons, I hastened down.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>At last, with many pauses and much hesitation, he said, "Jane, I +suppose your legacy is untouched. Was it two or three thousand Mrs. +Matthews put you down for in her will?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"At what bank, pr'ythee?"</p> + +<p>I told him.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"And pray," said he, with some heat, "what were these profound +views?"</p> + +<p>"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 dependence; +but still there was a possibility of this. To insure 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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Indeed," said I, innocently, "there is no such clause."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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 explain the affair to you, if you choose, and convince you +beyond controversy that your money may be trebled in a twelvemonth."</p> + +<p>"You know, brother, I can be no judge of any scheme that is at all +intricate."</p> + +<p>"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----"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Well, then, you consent to my proposal?"</p> + +<p>"I would rather you would look elsewhere for a partner in your +undertaking."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"My brother's bond will be of no use to me; I shall never go to law +with my brother."</p> + +<p>"Well, then, what will satisfy you?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Then you will," replied he, struggling with his rage, "you will not +agree?"</p> + +<p>My silence was an unequivocal answer.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Some unaccountable oddity, some freak, 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."</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"So, then, you are determined not to part with your paltry legacy?"</p> + +<p>"I am determined not to part with it."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 supposed 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 tremors 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 hoped, therefore, that he +would not compel me to discuss it a second time.</p> + +<p>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 stopped. He was evidently at a loss how to proceed. His +features became more grave, and he actually sighed.</p> + +<p>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. Entreaty 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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 resumed his +arrogant and careless air, half whistled "ça ira," and glanced at the +garden, with, "A tall poplar that. How old?"</p> + +<p>"Not very old, for <i>I</i> planted it."</p> + +<p>"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 honour, +I'll repay it then. My calls just now are particularly urgent. See here; I +have brought a <i>check</i> ready filled. It only wants your +signature."</p> + +<p>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 controlled. 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.</p> + +<p>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 concurrence. Could I then give away +<i>five hundred</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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!"</p> + +<p>I still declined the offered pen:--"For what purpose, brother, surely I +may ask?--so large a sum?"</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Impossible, till I know the purpose. Do not urge me to a wrong +thing."</p> + +<p>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, and 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?"</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>Finding me inflexible, he once more gave way to indignation:--"What a +damned 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. <i>He</i> may have cowardice +enough to live and endure his infamy, but <i>I</i> have spirit enough to +die and escape it."</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>"I mean what I say. Your signing this check may save me from +irretrievable ruin. This trifling supply, which I can nowhere 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 to-morrow afternoon, and with that I will replace this."</p> + +<p>"My father ruined! In danger of a jail! 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 doting 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.</p> + +<p>He had, however, conjured up a spirit in me which made me deaf to his +invective. I made towards the door.</p> + +<p>"Where are you going? You shall not leave the room till you have signed +this paper."</p> + +<p>'"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 <i>will</i> +go."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 till to-morrow evening.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"As you please," said L "I have told you that I will not act in the +dark."</p> + +<p>"Well, then, I will explain my situation to you as clearly as +possible."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 lingering a few minutes, he left the house gloomy +and dissatisfied.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter VI</h1> + +<blockquote>[<i>Editorial note: The observant reader will have +noted there is no Letter V. The original text did not contain +one, and we have chosen to let the letters retain their original +numbers, rather than renumber them.</i>]</blockquote> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Thursday Morning, October 6.</p> + +<p>As soon as my visitants had gone, I hastened to my father. I +immediately introduced the subject of which my heart was full. I related +the particulars of my late interview with my brother; entreated him with +the utmost earnestness to make the proper inquiries into the state of my +brother's affairs, with whose fate it was too plain that his own were +inextricably involved.</p> + +<p>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 servant, and directed him, in a faltering voice, +to go to my brother's house and request him to come immediately.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The messenger returned. My brother was not at home. We waited a little +while, and then despatched 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 Prank was still abroad. I was +obliged to dismiss the hope of a conference this night, and returned in an +anxious and melancholy mood to Mrs. Fielder's.</p> + +<p>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 straits 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.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>I found him in my apartment. "Good God!" cried he; "where have you been +till this time of night?"</p> + +<p>I told him frankly where I had been, and what had detained me. He was +thunder-struck. Instead of that storm of rage and invective which I +expected, he grew pale with consternation, and said, in a faint voice,--</p> + +<p>"Jane, you have ruined me beyond redemption. Fatal, fatal rashness! It +was enough to have refused me a loan which, though useless to you, is as +indispensable 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 completely re-established."</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>Strange what influence calamity possesses in softening the character! +He made no answer, but, putting his arms around me, pressed me to his +breast, while tears stole down his cheek.</p> + +<p>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, "Oh, my dear brother, forgive me. Take what +you ask. If it can be of any service to you, take all I have."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>I again expressed my regret for the rashness of my conduct, and +entreated 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>I made some vague answer.</p> + +<p>"He has been talked about this afternoon, very little, as usual, to his +advantage."</p> + +<p>I trembled from head to foot.</p> + +<p>"I fear," continued she, "he is going to ruin, and will drag your +father down the same precipice."</p> + +<p>"Dearest madam! what new circumstance?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing very new. It seems Mr. Frazer--his wife told the story--sold +him, a twelvemonth 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 Monsieur Petitgrave, brother to Frank's <i>housekeeper</i>, the +handsome mustec. This gave Frazer uneasiness, and some importunity +extorted from Frank a note, which, being due <i>last Tuesday</i>, was, at +Frank's importunity, withdrawn from bank to prevent protest. Next day, +however, it was paid."</p> + +<p>I ventured to ask if Mrs. Frazer had mentioned any sum. "Yes; a round +sum,--<i>five hundred dollars</i>."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>While in the first tumult of these reflections, some one brought a +letter. It was from my brother. This was the tenor:--</p> + +<p>"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 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."</p> + +<p>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:--</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>In a few minutes after despatching my answer, he appeared. I need not +repeat our conversation. He extorted from me, without much difficulty, +what I had heard through 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 especially +by solemnly affirming that Frazer's story was a calumny, I at length did +as he would have me: yet only for <i>three</i> hundred; I would not go +beyond that sum.</p> + +<p>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 +reacted.</p> + +<p>With every new instance of folly, my shame and selfcondemnation +increased, and the more difficult I found it to disclose the truth to my +mother.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 watchmaker with whom my servant had, +some time before, left a watch to be repaired. It occurred to me that, +since I was now on the spot, I might as well stop and make some inquiry +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 cigars 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?"</p> + +<p>"Indeed, but I have," was the reply.</p> + +<p>"Why, damn it, you pinch too hard. Well, and what success?"</p> + +<p>"Why, what do you think?"</p> + +<p>"Another <i>put-off</i>; another <i>call-again</i>, to-be-sure."</p> + +<p>"I would not go till he downed with the stuff."</p> + +<p>"No!" (with a broad stare;) "it a'n't possible."</p> + +<p>"Seeing is believing, I hope;" (producing a piece of paper.)</p> + +<p>"Why, so it is. A check!--but--what's that name?--let's see," +(stooping to examine the signature:)--"<i>Jane Talbot</i>. Who the devil +is she?"</p> + +<p>"Don't you know her? She's his sister. A devilish rich girl."</p> + +<p>"But how? does <i>she</i> lend him money?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, to-be-sure. She's his sister, you know."</p> + +<p>"But how does she get money? Is she a widow?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Why, damn it if I don't think it a forgery. How should such a girl as +that get so much money?"</p> + +<p>"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 sha'n't be his own man one day longer."</p> + +<p>"But how did you succeed so well?"</p> + +<p>"He asked me yesterday to call once more. So I called, you see, +betimes, and, finding that he had a check for a little more than my debt, +I teased 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."</p> + +<p>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 steadfastly at him, I heard not a +syllable of his dissertation. I broke away when his first pause allowed +me.</p> + +<p>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 meretricious vagabond, were +indignities not to be endured. I was carried involuntarily 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 day's experience had of +late convinced me that in no valuable attribute was he anywise 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 with a gentleman who seemed to have visited +her on private business, my heart misgave me.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 apprized 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.</p> + +<p>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 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 non-payment, he applied for a new 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 +repay it shown to have proceeded from no fault of his.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +complete 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.</p> + +<p>This momentary respite gave me time to reflect. I ran through 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.</p> + +<p>While I was speaking, some one knocked at the door. It was a servant, +despatched by my brother to summon me back. My mother went in my stead. I +was left, for some minutes, alone.</p> + +<p>So persuasive had been my brother's rhetoric, that I began to regret my +flight.</p> + +<p>I felt something like compunction at having deprived him of an +opportunity to prove his assertions. Every gentle look and insinuating +accent reappeared to my memory, and I more than half repented my +inflexibility.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Was there anybody with him, madam?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. One Clarges,--a jeweller,--an ill-looking, suspicious +person."</p> + +<p>"Do you know any thing of this Clarges?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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 detestable, how insecure, are fraud and +treachery! Had he been confronted with me, no doubt he would have +recognised the person whom he stared at at the watch-maker's.</p> + +<p>Next morning I received a note, dated on the preceding evening. These +were the terms of it:--</p> + +<p>"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 shown 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."</p> + +<p>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 despair. 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.</p> + +<p>Would you have thought, after this simple relation, that there was any +room for malice and detraction to build up their inventions?</p> + +<p>My brother was enraged that I refused to 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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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 tenor 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 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 lead me to vindicate myself to you from any +charge, however chimerical or obsolete it may be.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 opulence, +one would think it would occur to him to inquire into the effects of his +misconduct, not only to his own family, but on others.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 jail 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 penniless from the house that +sheltered her, without exposing the self-constituted mother to any +reproach.</p> + +<p>And has not this event taken place already? What can I expect but that, +at <i>least</i>, 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! I know not how to set about it.</p> + +<p>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 despatched an enormous packet, and have not received a sentence +in 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!</p> + +<p>Take this letter, and expect not another syllable from my pen till I +hear from you.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter VII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Golden</i></p> + +<p>Thursday Night.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 can abhor +or contemn a woman for loving him too much. Of such stuff the heart of my +friend, thank Heaven, is <i>not</i> made. Though I love him far--<i>far</i> too much, he will not trample on or scoff at me.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>My desk is, of late, always open; my paper spread; my pen moist. I must +talk to you, though 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 corporal agonies. Even the pain which I +just now complained of is lessened since I took up the pen. Oh, Hal! Hal! +if you ever prove ungrateful or a traitor to me, and there be a state +retributive hereafter, terrible will be thy punishment.</p> + +<p>But why do I talk to thee thus wildly? Why deal I in such rueful +prognostics? I want to tell 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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 <i>not</i> 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.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter VIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Jane Talbot</i></p> + +<p>Wilmington, Saturday, October 9.</p> + +<p>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, +nor because my chief pleasure lay anywhere 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.</p> + +<p>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, who 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?</p> + +<p>Alas! how much has he lost who has forfeited his own esteem!</p> + +<p>As to Miss Secker, your ignorance of her, and, I may add, of yourself, +has given her the preference. 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. Were 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 <i>one smile</i> 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 rheumatism 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Hannah Secker chanced to be talked of at Mr. Henshaw's as a poor +creature, who was 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 till I return. I hope it will be +permitted me to do so very shortly. Again, my only friend, farewell.</p> + +<p>HENRY COLDEN.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter IX</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, Monday, October 11.</p> + +<p>I am ashamed of myself, Henry. What an inconsistent creature am I! I +have just placed this dear letter of yours 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 +<i>next</i> my heart?</p> + +<p>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 <i>very</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 detestable, 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Why is my esteem rather heightened 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, proved you, +on the whole, and with the allowances necessarily made by every candid +person, to be a very excellent man.</p> + +<p>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. <i>There</i> 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 <i>that</i> +esteem would soonest drive me to desperation.</p> + +<p>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 acknowledged to be +free. He would not leave me for his European voyage till he had extorted a +solemn promise.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>In compliance with my husband's wishes--Ah! my friend! why cannot I say +that I <i>did</i> 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 a union to which the affections are +averse. Let it not confide in the afterbirth of love. Such a union is the +direst cruelty even to the object who is intended to be benefited.</p> + +<p>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 despise 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.</p> + +<p>You guess right, my friend. Miss Jessup told me of your visits to this +poor sick woman. 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, +than the mere tattling, gossiping, inquisitive propensity in the way in +which she introduces you into conversation.</p> + +<p>She had not alighted ten minutes before she ran into my apartment, with +a face full of intelligence. The truth respecting the washwoman 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.</p> + +<p>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. Oh, 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 choose only among deplorable evils.</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter X</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Jane Talbot</i></p> + +<p>New York, October 13.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 lifetime. You will judge, then, with what emotions such +intelligence was received.</p> + +<p>Indiscreet 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 centred 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.</p> + +<p>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, though 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.</p> + +<p>More than this I will do. Every assurance possible I will give, that +all shall be yours at my death, and all I have I will share with you +<i>equally</i> while I live. Only give me your word that, <i>as soon</i> +as the transfer is made, Colden shall be thought of and conversed with, +either personally or by letter, no more. I want only your promise; on that +I will absolutely rely.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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</p> + +<p>H. FIELDER.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Fielder</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, October 15.</p> + +<p>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 +between my duty to you and the claims of another.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, <i>my</i> duty to <i>your</i> +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.</p> + +<p>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, <i>can</i> I, <i>ought</i> I, to reject +him?</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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 entreat you, my duty to your inclination.</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Fielder</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, October 17.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>will</i> see you. +You will not turn me out of doors, I hope.</p> + +<p>I will see you and compel you to answer me, and to tell me why you will +not admit my friend to your good opinion.</p> + +<p>J. TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Jane Talbot</i></p> + +<p>New York, October 19.</p> + +<p>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 <i>that</i> must +be the consequence of your attempt.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 duteous strain flattered me with hopes of winning you to +reason, have I been deceived and disappointed.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>I charge you, write not to me again. H.F.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XIV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Fielder</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, October 24.</p> + +<p>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. <i>There</i> was the helpless babe cherished, and there was it +taught all that virtue which it has since endeavoured to preserve +unimpaired in every trial.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>want</i> to share your +antipathies. I want only to be justified in obeying you. When known, they +will, perhaps, be found sufficient. I conjure you once more, tell me your +objections to this marriage.</p> + +<p>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 dependent on the happiness +of others.</p> + +<p>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 short-sighted 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.</p> + +<p>In this case, I am prepared to hear and weigh, and be convinced by, any +thing you think proper to urge.</p> + +<p>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 that is in my power to do. +I will forbear all intercourse or correspondence with him,--for his as +well as my own sake.</p> + +<p>Tell me then, my mother, what you know of him. What heinous offence has +he committed, that makes him unworthy of my regard?</p> + +<p>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 a 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.</p> + +<p>I have told him this, and he joins with me to entreat 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 <i>one</i> action of +his life.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 tale must want something to complete 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>cannot</i>--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 hers who had it in her power to prevent the +evil and would not?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Jane Talbot</i></p> + +<p>New York, October 27.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Thy perseverance in wickedness, thy inflexible imposture, amazes me +beyond all utterance. Thy effrontery in boasting of thy innocence, in +calling this wretch thy <i>friend</i>, thy <i>soul's</i> friend, the means +of securing the favour of a pure and all-seeing Judge, exceeds all that I +supposed possible in 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!</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I have hitherto been silent through 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.</p> + +<p>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 harass me +with importunity, 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 showed 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.</p> + +<p>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 fantastic character; and whence you +imbibed this perverse spirit, at so early an age, is, to me, +inconceivable. It cost me many a gloomy foreboding.</p> + +<p>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 keeping your happiness might safely +be intrusted. Talbot was such a 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 tastes and habits suitable and common to his +education and age. He was addicted to industry, was regular and frugal in +his manner and economy. He had nothing of that specious and glossy texture +which captivates inexperience and youth, and serves as a substitute for +every 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.</p> + +<p>He was just such a 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, though 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.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>It was not enough that this man had 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 fantastic notions of our +duty or our happiness; that his religion had produced all its practical +effects, in honest, regular, sober, and consistent conduct.</p> + +<p>You wanted a zealot; a sectary; one that should enter into all the +trifling distinctions and minute subtleties that make one Christian the +mortal foe of another, while, in their social conduct, there is no +difference to be found between them.</p> + +<p>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, gave you a still greater interest in our +affections.</p> + +<p>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 connection with Colden. To +that connection must be traced every misfortune and depravity that has +attended you since.</p> + +<p>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 <i>very</i> frequent visits, such +<i>very</i> 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 inquire 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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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 +apprehensions at rest. I was deceived by the confidence you expressed in +your own caution, and the seeming readiness there was to be governed by my +advice.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>In all this there was nothing formidable. Such a man might surely be a +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I reflected that the victory over these chimeras, which you gained by +marriage with Talbot, might be merely temporary; and that, in order to +call these dormant feelings into action, it was only requisite to meet +with one contemplative, bookish, and romantic as yourself.</p> + +<p>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 practice; accustomed to intoxicate the women with melodious +flattery; fond of being <i>intimate</i>; avowedly devoted to the sex; +eloquent in his encomiums upon female charms; and affecting to select his +<i>friends</i> only from that sex.</p> + +<p>What effect might such a character have upon your peace, even without +imputing any ill intention 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.</p> + +<p>These apprehensions were raised to the highest pitch by more accurate +information of Colden's character, which I afterwards received. I found, +on inquiring 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.</p> + +<p>I met this friend of Colden's (Thomson his 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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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 handwriting could in such a case, be +credited.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But widely and deplorably different was Colden's case. A most +fascinating book [Footnote: Godwin's Political Justice.] 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.</p> + +<p>Colden had lived before this without examination or inquiry. 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.</p> + +<p>Such was the man whom you had admitted to your confidence; whom you had +adopted for your bosom friend. I knew your 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 abhorred.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 detestable sect adopted!</p> + +<p>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 poison was already swallowed.</p> + +<p>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, <i>could</i> possess no weight, in your +understanding. What was it to me whether he was ruffian or madman? +whether, in destroying 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?</p> + +<p>But I will not renew the subject. The same motives that induced me to +attempt to reason with you then no longer exist. 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.</p> + +<p>Yet how shall I tell it thee, Jane? I am afraid to intrust 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?</p> + +<p>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 +sacrifice of Colden cost thee thy life, I shall yet rejoice. As the wife +of Colden thou wilt be worse than dead to me.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Shall I shock, shall I wound thee, my child, by lifting the veil from +thy misconduct, behind which thou thinkest thou art screened from every +human eye? How little dost thou imagine that I know <i>so much</i>!</p> + +<p>Now will thy expostulations and reasonings have an end. Surely they +<i>will</i> have an end. Shame at last, shame at last, will overwhelm thee +and make thee dumb.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Was it not the unavoidable 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.</p> + +<p>H. FIELDER.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XVI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To the same</i></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +showing me a letter.</p> + +<p>He showed it me on condition of my being everlastingly silent to you in +regard to its 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.</p> + +<p>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 ever gaining your love, and entreated me to exert +myself for dissolving your connection with Colden, merely for your own +sake.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I need not repeat to you what followed; by what means I endeavoured to +effect that end which your obstinate folly refused.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>To preclude all bickerings and cavils, I enclose the letter which +attests your fall.</p> + +<p>H. FIELDER.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XVII</h1> + +(ENCLOSED LETTER.) + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Tuesday Morning.</p> + +<p>You went away this morning before I was awake. I think you might have +stayed to breakfast; yet, on second thoughts, your early departure was +best. <i>Perhaps</i> 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!</p> + +<p>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 +<i>me</i>.</p> + +<p>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, <i>you</i> are far from being strictly just +to me!</p> + +<p>Don't be angry, Hal. 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 <i>nobody; mind that</i>.</p> + +<p><i>I am loath to mention one thing, however, but I must. Though nothing +be due to the absent man, somewhat is</i> <i>due to myself. I have been +excessively 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; +at least for a month to come. The sweet oblivion of the future and past +lasted only for the night. Now I have leisure to look forward, and am +resolved (don't 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</i>.</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XVIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mr. Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>New York, October 22.</p> + +<p>SIR:--</p> + +<p>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 your compassion for her whom you +profess to love.</p> + +<p>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 choose to impute to me.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>You cannot be unacquainted with the habits and views in which my +daughter has been educated. Her life has passed in ease and luxury, and +you cannot but perceive the effect of any material change in her way of +life.</p> + +<p>It would be a wretched artifice to pretend to 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.</p> + +<p>Yet I ardently hope that this circumstance may not hinder you from +accepting bills upon London to the amount of three hundred pounds +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 well-wisher to my daughter.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 those talents, and that the sum I offer will be an ample fund, +till your own exertions may be turned to account.</p> + +<p>If this offer be accepted, I shall not only hold myself everlastingly +obliged to you, but I shall grant you a higher place in my esteem. Yet, +through deference to scruples which you may possibly possess, I most +cheerfully plight to you my honour, that this transaction shall be +concealed from Mrs. Talbot and from all the world.</p> + +<p>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 <i>all</i> 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 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 <i>just</i> to her,--and of <i>all</i> her +ancient friends, who will abhor in her the faithless wife and the +ungrateful child. I need not inform <i>you</i> that <i>your</i> family +will never receive into their bosom one whom her own kindred have +rejected. I am, &c.</p> + +<p>H. FIELDER.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XIX</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Fielder</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, October 28.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I will leave this house in anybody'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.</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XX</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, October 28.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>You will make haste to despatch 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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>And don't expostulate with me. Confirm me rather in my new resolution. +Even if you think 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.</p> + +<p>Too late is it now, even if I would, to recall my promise.</p> + +<p>I have promised to part with you. In the first tumult of my soul, on +receiving the enclosed letters, I wrote an answer, assuring Mrs. Fielder +of my absolute concurrence with her will.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Why shall I forsake thee? To gratify a wayward and groundless +prejudice. To purchase the short-lived 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.</p> + +<p>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----</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>October 28, Evening.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Look, my friend, at the letter she has sent me. It is my handwriting,--the very same which I have so often mentioned to you as having been, after +so unaccountable a manner, mislaid.</p> + +<p>I wrote some part of it, alone, in my own parlour. You recollect the +time;--the day after that night which a heavy storm of rain and my fatal +importunity prevailed on you to spend under this roof.</p> + +<p>Mark the deplorable consequences of an act which the coldest charity +would not have declined. On such a night I would have opened 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>While turning over clothes 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 gossiping neighbour, Miss Jessup, and had some hopes +that, finding no one in the parlour, she would withdraw with as little +ceremony as she entered.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But no visitant was there, and the paper was gone! I was surprised, and +a little alarmed. You know my childish apprehensions of robbers.</p> + +<p>I called up Molly, who was singing at her work in the kitchen. She had +heard the street-door open and shut, and footsteps overhead, 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.</p> + +<p>I was confounded at this incident. Who it was that could thus purloin +an unfinished 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>After reading my mother's letter, I opened with trembling hand that +which was enclosed. I instantly recognised 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Yes; it was clear. As distinctly as if it were the work of yesterday, +did I now remember that I stopped at the words <i>nobody; mind that</i>. +The following sentences are strange to me. The character is similar to +what precedes, but the words were never penned by me.</p> + +<p>And could Talbot--Yet what end? a fraud so--Ah! let me not suspect my +<i>husband of such</i> a fraud. Let me not have reason to abhor his +memory.</p> + +<p>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 had made sure.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>True it is, you passed that night under my roof. Where was my caution? +You, Henry, knew mankind better than I: why did you not repel my +importunities, and leave me in spite of my urgencies for your stay?</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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 has 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?</p> + +<p>But, if I <i>would</i> 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 a husband, shall the wild and improbable assertion of the +criminal be suffered to prevail? I have only my assertion to offer.</p> + +<p>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 atrocious guilt.</p> + +<p>In an evil hour, Henry, was it that I saw thee first. What endless +perplexities have beset me since that disastrous moment! I cannot pray for +their termination, for prayer implies hope.</p> + +<p>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 ill-fated Jane. Seek a more worthy companion, and be +happy.</p> + +<p>Perhaps you will feel, not pity, but displeasure, in receiving 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, re-echoed 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXII</h1> + + +<p align="center"><i>To Jane Talbot</i></p> + +<p>Baltimore, October 31.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 showing all the letters that have passed +between us, the contents of which will show that such guilt was +impossible; by making your girl bear witness to the precaution you used on +that night to preclude misconstructions, surely you may hope to disarm her +suspicions.</p> + +<p>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 him, my +girl, who knows thee best, have most reason to blush for thee.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Yet you forbear from tenderness to <i>his</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 irreconcilable, but that +which will hasten reconcilement will be <i>marriage</i>. 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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>You cannot unite yourself to me but with some view to my happiness. +Will your contributing to that happiness be nothing?</p> + +<p>Yet I cannot separate my felicity from yours. I can enjoy nothing at +the cost of your peace. In whatever way you decide, may the fruit be +content!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 erase 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +not, has crept into my style. I rely upon your wonted goodness to excuse +it.</p> + +<p>I have much to say upon this affecting subject, but must take a future +opportunity.</p> + +<p>I also have received a letter from Mrs. Fielder, of which I will say no +more, since I send you enclosed <i>that</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>HENRY GOLDEN.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Fielder</i></p> + +<p>Baltimore, November 2.</p> + +<p>MADAM:--</p> + +<p>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 have made me in this +letter.</p> + +<p>I should be grossly 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 opinion, consistent with a just regard to that of others and +to my own.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, <i>not less</i> than they now +are.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>My own education and experience sufficiently testify the importance of +riches, and I should be the last to despise or depreciate their value. +Still, much as habit has endeared to me the goods of fortune, I am far +from setting them above all other goods.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Shall I be able to compensate her? you ask.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>HENRY COLDEN.</p> + +<h1>Letter XXIV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, Nov. 2.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>It cannot be 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.</p> + +<p>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 I grow impatient, melancholy; a strange mixture of upbraiding for +myself, and resentment for thee, occupies my feelings.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 must be inspecting with these careful eyes into causes, and +labouring to tell you of what nature my malady is.</p> + +<p>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 shown in a map. This voluble +tongue and this prompt, pen! what volumes have I talked to you on that +bewitching theme,--myself!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But have I not said this a score of times before? and why do I indulge +this prate now?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To the Same</i></p> + +<p>Nov. 3.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 lord of my +affections. No will, no reason, have I of my own.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>Is there no method of removing this aversion? of outrooting this deadly +prejudice? And must I, in giving myself to thee, forfeit her +affection?</p> + +<p>And now--this dreadful charge! no wonder that her affectionate heart +was sorely wounded by such seeming proofs of my wickedness.</p> + +<p>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 <i>him</i> with the guilt of this plot against me, and imagined there +was duty in forbearing to detect it.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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 yours it shall occupy the chief place in my heart. The time, the +manner, be it yours to prescribe. My happiness, on that event, will surely +want but little to complete it; and, if you bid me not despair of my +mother's acquiescence, I <i>will</i> not despair.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I am very often on the brink of hating myself. So much thoughtlessness +of others; such callousness 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, were changed into half-vindictive reluctance,--not quite a +frown,--and upbraidings, in which tenderness was almost turned out of door +by anger.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><i>And yet</i>--See now, Vanity, the cunning advocate, entering with +his <i>And yet</i>. 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>And yet--the prater Vanity once more, you see: but I will let him speak +out this time. Here his apology is yours, and myself am only flattered +indirectly.</p> + +<p>And yet, when I have extorted from you any secret sorrow, you have +afterwards acknowledged that the disclosure was of use:--that my +sympathizing 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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</p> + +<p>JANE.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXVI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Fielder</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, November 4.</p> + +<p>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 some time able to disprove +the charge brought against me.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 handwriting was counterfeited, and for what end, +I know not. I cannot name any one who deserves to be suspected.</p> + +<p>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 beforehand, will effect nothing, +unless it be to aggravate, in your eyes, my imaginary guilt.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 flown 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 supply +the mere needs of nature, my debt to you could never be paid.</p> + +<p>But how much more than this have you done for me! You have given me, by +your instructions and example, an understanding and a heart. You have +taught me to value a fair fame beyond every thing but the peace of virtue; +you have made me capable of a generous affection for a benefactor equal to +yourself; capable of acting so as at once to <i>deserve</i> and to +<i>lose</i> your esteem; and enabled me to relinquish cheerfully those +comforts and luxuries which cannot be retained but at the price of my +integrity.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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</p> + +<p>Your ever-grateful</p> + +<p>JANE.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXVII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Talbot</i></p> + +<p>Baltimore, November 5.</p> + +<p>I highly approve of your letter. It far exceeded the expectations I had +formed of you. You are indeed a surprising creature.</p> + +<p>One cannot fail to be astonished at the differences of human +characters; at the opposite principles by which the judgments of men are +influenced.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 in a continued series of falsehoods +and frauds.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 shown 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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Villain as he is; a villain not by habit or by passion, but by +<i>principle;</i> a cool-blooded, systematic villain; yet she will give +him affluence 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 <i>you</i> of so black a deed, or me of such abominable +tenets?</p> + +<p>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 <i>will +do</i>, provided we enter into such engagements; but, if we should embrace +her offers, is it certain that she would not hesitate, repent, and +retract?</p> + +<p>Passion may dictate large and vehement offers upon paper, which +deliberating prudence would never allow to be literally adhered to.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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, show how deeply she abhors this connection, and hence dispose +us to do that, for pity's sake, which mere lucre would never +recommend.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 a hypocrite: I cannot dissemble that I +have <i>once</i> 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 waves of habit, or to be motionless amidst the hurricane of +passions.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>I am not obdurate. I am not ungrateful. With you I never was a +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>You say I <i>can</i>. The image of myself in my own mind is a sorry +compound of hateful or 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Should you give yourself to me, and rely upon my <i>labour</i> for +shelter and food, deplorable and complete 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>possible</i>.</p> + +<p>Hence it is that, if by marriage you should become wholly dependent 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; occasionally I might murmur. But my days would glide along +with fewer obstacles, at least, than if I were that infirm and +disconsolate wretch, <i>your husband</i>.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 prattler herself, had she been +talking to me all this tenderness instead of writing it.</p> + +<p>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 +scribble, but I cannot write more just now, and this will show you, at +least, that I am not unmindful of you. Adieu.</p> + +<p>COLDEN.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXVIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Talbot</i></p> + +<p>Baltimore, November 6.</p> + +<p>Let me see! this is the beginning of November. Yes; it was just a +twelvemonth 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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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 +eyelids.</p> + +<p>"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----</p> + +<p>"Not now; some other time. To-morrow. What can I write about? Haven't +two ideas that hang together intelligibly. 'Twill be commonplace trite +stuff. Besides, writing always plants a thorn in my breast.</p> + +<p>"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!</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The damage is easily repaired, and I sit down, with unspeakable +alacrity, to a business that tires my muscles, sets a <i>gnawer</i> at +work upon my lungs, fatigues my brain, and leaves me listless and +spiritless.</p> + +<p>How you have made yourself so absolute a mistress of the goose-quill, I +can't imagine; 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>By-and-by I shall have as voluble a pen as thy own. And yet to +<i>that</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>But this, thou'lt 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</p> + +<p>COLDEN.</p> + +<h1>Letter XXIX</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To the Same</i></p> + +<p>10 o'clock at night.</p> + +<p>Now let us take a view of what is to come. Too often I endeavour to +escape from foresight when it presents to me nothing but evils, but now I +must, for thy sake, be less a coward.</p> + +<p>In six weeks Jane becomes mine. Till then, thy mother will not cast +thee out of her protection. And will she <i>then</i>? 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 +<i>indeed</i> 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 inflict +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?</p> + +<p>More than ever will she see that thou needest her bounty; and, since +she cannot recall what is past, will she not relent and be willing to +lessen the irremediable evil all she can?</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>The wedded pair must live together, she will think; and shall this +hated encroacher find refuge from beggary and vileness under <i>her</i> +roof,--be lodged and banqueted at <i>her</i> expense? <i>That</i> her +indignant heart will never suffer.</p> + +<p>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 steadfast 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 <i>her</i> 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.</p> + +<p>And where shall <i>be</i> thy home? You love the comforts, the ease, +the independence of a 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 as is +going. You must learn to bear the humours and accommodate yourself to the +habits of your inmates.</p> + +<p>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 <i>my</i> wife. And how will this do, Jane? Is +not the price too great?</p> + +<p>And my company will not solace thee under these inconveniences. I must +not live with thee; only an occasional visitor; one among a half-dozen at +a common fire; with witnesses of all we say. Thy pittance will do no more +than support thyself. <i>I</i> must house myself and feed elsewhere. +<i>Where</i>, I know not. <i>That</i> will depend upon the species of +employment I shall be obliged to pursue for my subsistence. Scanty and +irksome it will be, at best.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Adieu.</p> + +<p>HENRY COLDEN.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXX</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To the same</i></p> + +<p>Wilmington, November 7.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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----</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 says, evinces a pathetic +earnestness for my conviction.</p> + +<p>I listen to him with a 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.</p> + +<p>I argue not with him. I say nothing but to persuade him that I am far +from being that contumacious enemy to his faith which he is prone to +imagine me to be.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>His conduct, indeed, on that occasion, as far as we know it, seems +irregular and injudicious. 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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>For past faults and rectified errors, are not remorse and amendment +adequate atonements? If any one despise me for what I <i>was</i>, let me +not shrink from the penalty. Let me not find pleasure in the praise of +those whose approbation is founded on ignorance of what I <i>am</i>. 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Yet I could never write to him or talk to him on this subject. My +tongue, my pen, will be sure to falter. I know that he will boldly justify +his conduct, and I feel that he ought to justify; yet the attempt to +justify would awaken--indignation, selfishness. In spite of the +suggestions of my better reason, I know we should quarrel.</p> + +<p>We should not quarrel <i>now</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Write to me, my love. Daily, hourly, and cheerfully, if possible. +Borrow not; be not thy letters tinged with the melancholy hue of this.</p> + +<p>Write speedily and much, if thou lovest thy</p> + +<p>COLDEN.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXXI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, Nov. 9.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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-encumbered alley, be my +nuptial lot?</p> + +<p>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--<i>kiss</i> or <i>two</i>. My blundering pen! I recall the word. I meant +<i>cuff</i>; but my saucy pen, pretending to know more of my mind than I +did myself, turned (as its mistress, mayhap, would have done, hadst thou +been near me, <i>indeed</i>) her <i>cuff</i> into a <i>kiss</i>.</p> + +<p>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 <i>black usurping mist</i> stole it away, and all was dreary +as it is wont to be.</p> + +<p>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 <i>will</i> 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 <i>wife's</i> title to thy company, a conjugal +share in thy concerns, and claim to reign over thee.</p> + +<p>Make haste, and atone, by the future brightness of thy epistolary +emanations, for the pitchy cloud that overspreads these sick man's +dreams.</p> + +<p>How must thou have rummaged the cupboard of thy fancy for musty scraps +and flinty crusts to feed thy spleen withal,--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.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>plant</i> around us. I have tasted nectarines of her raising, and I +find her, let me tell thee, an admirable <i>horticulturist</i>.</p> + +<p>Thou art so far off, there is no sending thee a basketful, 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>In the autumn of <i>ninety-seven</i>, 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 despatch +and affability.</p> + +<p>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 counter, I usually went back, and found on every interview +new cause for 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.</p> + +<p>This was in the summer you left us, and, the malady breaking out a few +months after, and all <i>shopping</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 counsel to assist her in the new state of her +affairs.</p> + +<p>Laying aside ceremony, I inquired 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 been industrious and thrifty, and his death left her +enough to support her and her Sally in the way they wished.</p> + +<p>Inquiring 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.</p> + +<p>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 unspoiled water, and a kitchen, below the ground indeed, +but light, wholesome, and warm.</p> + +<p>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 with me on my own account, could not +reject my application in favour of my good widow.</p> + +<p>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 in completing this affair, +and in seeing my good woman quietly settled in her new abode, with her +daughter Sally and her servant <i>Alice</i>, who had come with her from +Europe, and had lived with her the dear knows how long.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 of charity to her +neighbours and thankfulness to God.</p> + +<p>Much--indeed, all--of these comforts she ascribes to me; yet her +gratitude is not loquacious. It shows 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 entreating 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 advances to intimacy but when expressly invited and +encouraged.</p> + +<p>It was a good while before all her new arrangements were completed. +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>She showed 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.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, 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 +don't 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 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."</p> + +<p>"But might you not accommodate a good quiet kind of body in this room, +at so much a year or week?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"So it does, ma'am; and I can't 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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Oh, 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 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."</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>One who, like Mrs. Henning, had only <i>one</i> friend upon earth. Whom +her former associates refused to commune with or look upon. Whose +loneliness was uncheered, except by her own thoughts and her books,--perhaps now and then, at times when oceans did not sever her from him, by +that one earthly friend.</p> + +<p>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 summer-time, to join her at her chamber-window and +pass away the starlight hour in the unwitnessed community of fond +hearts?</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Suppose her hours are not embittered by the feelings of dependence? 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.</p> + +<p>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, thinkest thou?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Perhaps, rich as she is in books, she is an economist of pleasure, and +tears 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 +benignity she resigns herself as she used to do to the fond arms of that +parent she has lost.</p> + +<p>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 outdone in taste and expertness at the needle by any female in the +land.</p> + +<p>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 +separate 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.</p> + +<p>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 lies in the mental powers of the artist, and the direction +accidentally given to these powers.</p> + +<p>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 tributes upon others that were +levied on her, and make a business of her sports?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Dost 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----</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Why, how now, Jane? whence all this interest in the scene thou +portrayest? One would fancy that this happy outcast, this self-dependent +wife, was no other than <i>thyself</i>.</p> + +<p>A shrewd conjecture, truly. I suppose, Hal, thou wilt be fond enough to +guess so, too. By 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 choose to inflict.</p> + +<p>I will not say what it is, lest the <i>fear</i> of it should keep thee +away.</p> + +<p>And, now that I have finished the history of Mrs. Henning and her +boarder, I will bid thee--good-night.</p> + +<p>Good----good-night, my love.</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXXI</h1> + +<blockquote>[<i>Editorial note: The observant reader will have +noticed this is the second letter bearing the number XXXI. The +original text contained two Letters XXXI, and we have chosen to let +the letters retain their original numbers, rather than renumber them. +</i>]</blockquote> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, November 11.</p> + +<p>How shall I tell you the strange--<i>strange</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"A gentleman!" thought I. "An odd hour this" (it was past ten) "for any +man but one to visit <i>me</i>. 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.</p> + +<p>A tall and noble figure, in a foreign uniform, arose from the sofa at +my entrance. The half-extinct lamp on the mantel could not conceal from +me--<i>my brother</i>!</p> + +<p>My surprise almost overpowered me. I should have sunk upon the floor, +had he not stepped to me and sustained me in his arms.</p> + +<p>"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 mere 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 a 'How +d'ye' to the little girl for whom I have still some regard."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>To my rapid and half-coherent questions, he replied, "I landed--you +need not know where. My commission requires secrecy, and you know I have +personal reasons for wishing to pass through this city without notice. My +business did not bring me farther 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?"</p> + +<p>I answered this question vaguely.</p> + +<p>"Pray," (with much earnestness,) "are you married yet?"</p> + +<p>The confusion with which I returned an answer to this did not escape +him.</p> + +<p>"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 probable 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?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>How could I explain on such a subject, thus abruptly introduced to +<i>him</i>? 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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"It is long since the common destiny has ended all Talbot's +engagements."</p> + +<p>"Dead, is he? Well, a new aspirer, I suppose, has succeeded, and he is +the bone of contention. Who's he?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Change the subject? With all my heart, if we can find any more +important; but that's impossible. So we must even 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 a husband; and, for my part, +I am easily pleased."</p> + +<p>"This is a subject, brother, on which it is impossible that we should +think alike; nor is it necessary. Let us then talk of something in which +we have a common concern; something that has a claim to interest you."</p> + +<p>"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 +<i>brother</i> candidly what are your prospects."</p> + +<p>After some hesitation,--"My real brother--one who had the tenderness +becoming that relation--would certainly deserve my confidence. But----"</p> + +<p>"But what? Come; never mince the matter, I scarcely been half a brother +hitherto, I grant you 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."</p> + +<p>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 inquiry 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 splendour.</p> + +<p>"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?</p> + +<p>"Come, come; I know thou art a romantic being,--one accustomed to +<i>feed on thoughts</i> instead of pudding. Contentment and a cottage are +roast beef and a palace to thee; but, take my word for it, this inamorata +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-by;' 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."</p> + +<p>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 splendour of his new rank. He +endeavoured to seduce my vanity by the prospect of the conquest 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 +him to America. He insinuated that brothership and eldership gave him +something like a title to paternal authority, and insisted on +obedience.</p> + +<p>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 Newport, 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>my man</i> +was equally obstinate and stupid; but he would soon see of what stuff +<i>he</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Till I hear from you I shall have no peace. Would to Heaven there was +some speedier conveyance!</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXXII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Jane Talbot</i></p> + +<p>Baltimore, November 14.</p> + +<p>Let me overlook your last letter [Footnote A: Letter XXX.] 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.</p> + +<p>I had strolled to the bank of the river, and was leaning idly on a +branch of an apple-tree 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.</p> + +<p>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 inquired 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. Such, in about as many words, was his +introduction to me, and he waited for my answer with much impatience.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But what were my claims? what my merits, my profession, my fortune? On +all these heads a brother would naturally require to be thoroughly +informed.</p> + +<p>"As to my character, sir, you will hardly expect any satisfactory +information from <i>my</i> 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."</p> + +<p>"Then, pray, sir, on what are built your pretensions to my sister?"</p> + +<p>"Really, sir, they are built on <i>nothing</i>. I am, in every respect, +immeasurably her inferior. I possess not a single merit that entitles me +to grace from her."</p> + +<p>"I have surely not been misinformed. She tacitly admitted that she was +engaged to be your wife."</p> + +<p>"'Tis very true. She is so."</p> + +<p>"But what, then, is the basis of this engagement?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"You know, sir, what I mean."</p> + +<p>"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 a hundred +times."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>I was obliged to stifle a laugh which this whimsical proposal excited. +I continued, through this whole dialogue, to regard my companion with a +steadfast and cheerful gravity.</p> + +<p>"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 whatever path she +points out to me, I will walk in it."</p> + +<p>"But <i>this</i> is the path in which her true interest requires you to +walk."</p> + +<p>"I have not yet discovered that to be <i>her</i> opinion; the moment I +do, I will walk in it accordingly."</p> + +<p>"No matter what <i>her</i> 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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"This is insolence. You trifle with me. You pretend to misconstrue my +meaning."</p> + +<p>"When you charge me with insolence, I think you afford pretty strong +proof that you mistake <i>my</i> meaning. I have not the least intention +to offend you."</p> + +<p>"Let me be explicit with you. Do you instantly and absolutely resign +all pretensions to my sister?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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 a union between us, +unsanctioned by the approbation of our common friends.</p> + +<p>"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 <i>with</i> me."</p> + +<p>It was.</p> + +<p>"Happiness is mere matter of opinion; perhaps Jane thinks already as +you do."</p> + +<p>He allowed that he had talked with you ineffectually on that +subject.</p> + +<p>"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. +<i>That</i>, sir, is my decision."</p> + +<p>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 carriage 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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>I look with impatience for your next letter, in which you will tell +what has happened.</p> + +<h1>Letter XXXIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, November 17.</p> + +<p>I have just sent you a letter, but my restless spirit can find no +relief but in writing.</p> + +<p>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 some time grant me the power to compensate yon for all that I have +culpably or innocently made you suffer.</p> + +<p>What's this? A letter from my brother! The superscription is his.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>Let me hasten, my friend, to give you a copy of this strange epistle. +It has neither date nor signature.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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. <i>There</i> 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, porringers, 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 delectable amusements of mending your husband's +stockings at one time, and serving a neighbour with a pennyworth of snuff +at another.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>What think you of this letter? The enclosed 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 repairing 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 +sincere 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.</p> + +<p>Methinks I am sorry he is 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 brother +would have been kept in melancholy, sweet remembrance.</p> + +<p>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, considerate, 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.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXXIV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, November 18.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I sat alone on the sofa below, for a whole hour. Not once was the bell +rung; not once 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.</p> + +<p>Yet, deceived by my fond heart into momentary forgetfulness of the +interval of a hundred miles that lies between us, more than once I cast a +glance behind me, and started, as if the hoped-for peal had actually been +rung.</p> + +<p>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, "though I cannot talk to him, yet I can write."</p> + +<p>But first, I read over again this cruel letter of my mother. I weighed +all the contents, and especially those heavy charges against you.</p> + +<p>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 dote +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!</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I seldom trusted myself to inquire 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.</p> + +<p>But what now is the change that time and passion have wrought! I have +found a man 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 <i>love</i> the man, and that fills +me with unconquerable zeal to rescue him from this calamity.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 dishonours 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.</p> + +<p>"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 +candour and humility, has his pride and his passions engaged on the side +of his opinions.</p> + +<p>"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 show you +that only grace from above can reach his obdurate heart, or dart a ray +into his benighted faculties."</p> + +<p>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 reconsider anew +the motives that have made me act as I have acted.</p> + +<p>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, +irresistible in whatever direction they are bent; capable of giving the +highest degree of misery or happiness to yourself and to others. At +present they are misdirected or inactive; they are either pernicious or +useless.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Of what stuff must that heart be made which can behold, unmoved, genius +and worth, destitute of the joys and energies of religion; wandering in a +maze of passions and doubts; devoured by fantastic 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?</p> + +<p>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 may put on solemn visages and mutter +holy names. We may abstain from profane amusements or unauthorized words; +we may shun, as infections, the company of unbelievers. We may study +homilies and creeds; but all this, without <i>rational</i> activity for +others' good, is not religion. I see, in all this, nothing that I am +accustomed to call by that name.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 inquired 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.</p> + +<p>Now, I entertain no reverence for such a bubble. In some sense, the +religion of the timorous 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.</p> + +<p>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 +safeguard of every virtue, but even as the test of a good understanding. +The name of <i>infidel</i> 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 steadfast or sincere. +An adverse fortune or a death-bed usually put an end to the illusion.</p> + +<p>Thus I grew up, never beset by any doubts, never venturing on inquiry. +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 demeanour 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.</p> + +<p>From my remonstrances you never averted your ear. Every proof of an +unprejudiced attention, and even of a bias favourable 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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 inquiry. How could I +hope to work on your convictions without a suitable foundation for my +own?</p> + +<p>And see now, my friend, the blindness of our judgments. 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. 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 +knowledge?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 irresistible claims to our help.</p> + +<p>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 inquiries; delicately 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 steadfast and bright +flame the spark that my wayward fancy, left to itself, would have +instantaneously emitted and lost.--</p> + +<p>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 +falters, and the characters it traces run into an illegible scrawl.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>Adieu.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXXV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Talbot</i></p> + +<p>Baltimore, November 20.</p> + +<p>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 steadfastness and virtue, but the power also!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Every one has ways of his own. A transient glance at the post satisfies +the mob of passengers. 'Tis my choice to stand a while and gaze.</p> + +<p>The only post, indeed, which I closely examine, is myself, because my +station is most convenient for inspecting <i>that</i>. Yet, though I have +a fuller view of myself than any other can have of me, my imperfect +<i>sight</i>--that is, my erring judgment--is continually blundering.</p> + +<p>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 call mine!</p> + +<p>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 produced, not only something new or unexpected, but +something in seeming contradiction to my previous knowledge.</p> + +<p>"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 wretch as I am."</p> + +<p>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?--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.</p> + +<p>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 idolizes, 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.</p> + +<p>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 +dwelling and its comforts, to make thee a tenant of thy good widow, and a +seamstress for me!</p> + +<p>"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!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, either. +None but she that loves me can make such constructions and allowances as +you do.</p> + +<p>Why may she not be induced to give up the hope of disuniting us, and, +while she hates me, continue her affection for thee? Why rob thee of those +bounties hitherto dispensed to thee, merely because <i>I</i> must share in +them? My partaking with thee contributes indispensably to thy happiness. +Not for my own sake, then, but merely for thine, ought competence to be +secured to thee.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>There is a strange inconsistency and contradiction in thy mother's +conduct.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>And then there is such an irresistible crowd of evidence in favour of +the accusation! When I first read Mrs. Fielder's letter, the consciousness +of my innocence gave me courage; but the 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.</p> + +<p>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 +enchantments of those eyes, and the pleadings of that melting voice.</p> + +<p>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 entreaty, so absolutely forbidding my +departure.</p> + +<p>And was I such a short-sighted 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.</p> + +<p>As it was, no contrivance could be more unfortunate, since it merely +enabled her the more distinctly to remark the hour when you came up. Was +it <i>three</i>, or <i>four</i>, when you left the parlour?</p> + +<p>The unbosoming of souls which that night witnessed, so sweetly as it +dwelt upon my memory, I now regard with horror, since it has involved you +in such evil.</p> + +<p>But the letter,--that was a most disastrous accident. I had read very +frequently this fatal billet. Who is it that could imitate your hand 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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Pray, my friend, sit down to the recollection of your past life, and +inquire who it was that possessed your husband's confidence; who were his +intimate companions, endeavour 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.</p> + +<p>Thomson is no better, yet grows worse hardly perceptibly. Adieu.</p> + +<p>HENRY COLDEN.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXXVI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, November 23.</p> + +<p>You impose on me a painful task. Persuaded that reflection was useless, +I have endeavoured 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 +endeavour to shun the scrutiny.</p> + +<p>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 a helpless woman of her reputation,--introduces mortal enmity +between her and those whose affection is necessary to render life +tolerable!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 soothing it +into apathy, only adds a new sting.</p> + +<p>A spotless reputation was once dear to me, but I have 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 labour but reiterated mortification and +disappointment?</p> + +<p>An upright demeanour, a self-acquitting conscience, are not sufficient +for our safety. Calumny and misapprehension have no bounds to their rage +and their activity.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 favourable 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.</p> + +<p>Heaven knows how much I value the favour and affection of my mother; +but, clear as it is, I must give it up. How can I retain it? I cannot +confute the charge. I must not acknowledge a guilt that does not belong to +me. Added, therefore, to her belief of my guilt, must be the persuasion of +my being a hardened and obdurate criminal.</p> + +<p>What will she think of my last two 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 honourable compunction, left to operate +without your control. 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I am placed in a very painful situation. 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 begone from her doors? Ought I to lay her +under the necessity of declaring her will?</p> + +<p>Yet if I change my lodgings immediately, without waiting her +directions, will she not regard my conduct as contemptuous? Shall I not +then be a rebel indeed?--one that scorns her favour, and is eager to get +rid of all my obligations?</p> + +<p>How painful is such a situation! yet there is no escaping from it, that +I can see. I must, perforce, remain as I am. But perhaps her next letter +will throw some light upon my destiny. I suppose my positive assertions +will show her that a change of purpose cannot be hoped for from me.</p> + +<p>The bell rings. Perhaps it is the postman, and the intelligence I wish +for has arrived. Adieu.</p> + +<p>J. TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXXVII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To the Same</i></p> + +<p>November 26.</p> + +<p>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 a heart which has, at length, permitted all +selfish regards to be swallowed up by a disinterested consideration of thy +good?</p> + +<p>Why did you conceal from me your father's treatment of you, and the +consequences which 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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Dear and welcome as those features and that voice once were, now would +I rather have encountered the eyes of a basilisk and the notes of the ill-boding raven.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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 +acquiescence, 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.</p> + +<p>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 demeanour betrayed. Fatigued and indisposed as she was, +she made preparation to depart; she refused to pass one night under the +same roof,--her <i>own</i> roof,--and determined to begone, on her return +home, the very next morning.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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; your treatment of the +Woodbury girl; your correspondence with Thomson; your ignoble sloth; your +dependence upon others; your helplessness.</p> + +<p>From these accusations I defended you in silence. My heart was your +secret advocate. I did not verbally repel any of these charges. That of +inglorious dependence for subsistence upon others I admitted; but I could +not forbear urging that this dependence 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 labour; to whose property +your title, ultimately, could not be denied.</p> + +<p>"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 ignominiously +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."</p> + +<p>You did not tell me <i>this</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>My mother removed all doubt which could not but attend such unwelcome +tidings, by showing me her own letter to your father, and his answer to +it.</p> + +<p>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 +bruise on your forehead? That bruise, and every token of dismay, your +endeavours at eluding or diverting my attention from your sorrow and +solemnity, are now explained.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But this I will myself do. I will acquaint him with my resignation to +<i>his</i> will and that of my mother, and beseech him to restore you to +his favour.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>J. T.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXXVIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden, Senior</i></p> + +<p>November 26.</p> + +<p>Sir:--</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>It is my duty to inform you that, in my opinion, your approbation was +absolutely necessary to such a 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I am deeply grieved that his attachment to me has forfeited your +favour. I hope that there is no other obstacle to reconcilement, and that +the termination of all intercourse between us may remove that +obstacle.</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + +<p>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 +favour.</p> + +<p>M. FIELDER.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXXIX</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Talbot</i></p> + +<p>November 28.</p> + +<p>IT becomes me to submit without a murmur to a resolution dictated by a +disinterested regard to my happiness.</p> + +<p>That you may find in that persuasion, in your mother's tenderness and +gratitude, in the affluence and honour which this determination has +secured to you, abundant consolation for every evil that may befall +yourself or pursue me, are my only wishes.</p> + +<p>Far was I from designing to conceal from you entirely my father's +aversion to our views. I frequently apprized 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.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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 dishonour? why needlessly +add to my own and to your affliction?</p> + +<p>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 parent's control 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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>You exhort me to seek reconcilement with my father. What mean you? I +have not been the injurer. Not an angry word, accusing look, or revengeful +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.</p> + +<p>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 +happy.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Farewell----<i>forever</i>.</p> + +<p>H. COLDEN.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XL</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To James Montford</i></p> + +<p>November 28.</p> + +<p>I TOLD you of your brother Stephen's talk with me about accompanying +him on his northwest 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.</p> + +<p>I call it an everlasting farewell, for I have, at present, neither +expectation nor desire of returning. A three years' wandering among +boisterous 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.</p> + +<p>And why have I embraced this scheme? There can be but one cause.</p> + +<p>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 friend's 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.</p> + +<p>There never occurred an event in my life which did not, someway, 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.</p> + +<p>I begin to think it is vain to strive against maternal influence. What +but momentary victory can I hope to attain? What but poverty, dependence, +ignominy, will she share with me? And if her strenuous spirit set naught +by these, (and I know she is capable of rising above them,) how will she +support her mother's indignation and grief?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I have already written an answer; I hope such a one as, when the +present tumults of passion have subsided, when the eye sedately +scrutinizes, and the heart beats in an even tenor, may be read without +shame or remorse.</p> + +<p>I shall 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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Adieu, my friend. There will be time enough to hear from you ere my +departure. Let me hear, then, from you.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XLI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, December 3.</p> + +<p>Sir:--</p> + +<p>My daughter informs me that the letter she has just despatched 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 enemy, you will +rank me among your benefactors.</p> + +<p>You have shown 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +enclosed 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</p> + +<p>Your true friend,</p> + +<p>M. FIELDER.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XLII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Fielder</i></p> + +<p>Baltimore, December 5.</p> + +<p>Madam:--</p> + +<p>I pretend not to be raised above any of the infirmities of human +nature; but I 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.</p> + +<p>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 revisit my native land.</p> + +<p>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 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 the one or the +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!</p> + +<p>I regard in its true light what you can say with respect to a +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.</p> + +<p>Truly can I affirm that your daughter's happiness is of all earthly +things most 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 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.</p> + +<p>And now, madam, permit me to conclude with a solemn blessing on your +head and on hers, and with an eternal farewell to you both.</p> + +<p>H. COLDEN.</p> + + +<h1>Letter XLIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To James Montford</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, December 7.</p> + +<p>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 +indispensable 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?</p> + +<p>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, <i>this</i> 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.</p> + +<p>You know the mysterious and inexplicable calumny which has heightened +Mrs. Fielder's antipathy against me.</p> + +<p>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, must not suspicion and +mistrust perpetually rankle in their bosoms, while this imposture is +believed?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 my 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 woman's house, and stopped a moment +just to give me a "How d'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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Oh, 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.</p> + +<p>It was 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.</p> + +<p>After the rhetoric of half an hour, all was wound up, in a kind of +satirical apology, with, "No wonder; for the girl was over head and ears +in love, and her man would have nothing to say to her. A hundred times has +she begged and prayed him 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."</p> + +<p>"Pray," said I, "who was this ungrateful person?"</p> + +<p>"His name was Talbot. Miss Jessup would not give him up, but teased 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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, she had exerted a wonderful +degree of circumspection, and had placed on her lips a guard that had +never once slept.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I inquired 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The proofs of Miss Jessup's passion were continually occurring in her +own family, where she suffered the ill-humour occasioned by her +disappointment to display itself without control. Hannah's curiosity was +not chastened 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 doted 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 inquisitive of mortals. Her neighbour was regarded with no +particular affection; her conversation is usually a vein of impertinence +or levity; her visits were always unsought, 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.</p> + +<p>Jane's life since the commencement of her acquaintance with Miss Jessup +was lonely and secluded. Her friends were not of her neighbour's cast, and +those 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.</p> + +<p>After many vague and fruitless inquiries, I asked Hannah if Miss Jessup +was much addicted to the pen.</p> + +<p>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 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 despatched 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----</p> + +<p>"You say that Miss Jessup was a great scribbler. Did she write well; +fast; neatly?"</p> + +<p>"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 say that Miss Polly 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.</p> + +<p>"What has become of this Tom?"</p> + +<p>He lived 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 Polly had gained +intelligence of Hannah's situation, and of her being succoured, in her +distress, by me.</p> + +<p>"Tom, you say, was her letter-carrier. Did you ever hear from him with +whom she corresponded? Did she eyer write to Talbot?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes. Just before Talbot's marriage, she often wrote to him. Tom +used to talk very freely in the kitchen about his mistress's attachment, +and always told us what reception he met with. Mr. Talbot seldom +condescended to write any answer."</p> + +<p>"I suppose, Hannah, I need hardly ask whether you have any specimen of +Miss Jessup's writing in your possession?"</p> + +<p>This question considerably disconcerted the poor woman. She did not +answer me till I had repeated the question.</p> + +<p>Why--yes; she had--something--she believed.</p> + +<p>"I presume it is nothing improper to be disclosed: if so, I should be +glad to have a sight of it."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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:--</p> + +<p>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 a 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 Polly was preparing to go out unsheltered, when the +officious Tom interfered, and asked her if <i>he</i> could do what she +wanted. At first she refused his offer, but, the mother's 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 +despatch, 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 a hearty draught of +strong beer.</p> + +<p>While quaffing his nectar, and chattering with his usual gayety, +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 inquired of Hannah if a letter had not fallen from his +pocket before he went out.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Every day increased 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.</p> + +<p>She could not read, and was afraid of trusting anybody 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 some importance to her. It had lain, till almost forgotten, in +the bottom of her crazy chest.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 Jessup's ordinary handwriting. Was it rash to infer from these +circumstances that the secret enemy, whose malice had been so active and +successful, was at length discovered?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>After much reflection, I determined to call upon Miss Jessup. I meant +not to restore her 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.</p> + +<p>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 burden almost insupportable. I hastened my pace, and +averted my eyes.</p> + +<p>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 a human being whom I knew.</p> + +<p>What I shall 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 likewise 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 +indispensable; 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.</p> + +<p>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 she took so much pains to gain his favour, even after his +marriage, is it not allowable to question the delicacy and +punctiliousness, at least, of her virtue?</p> + +<p>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>I</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.</p> + +<p>Here is some one coming up the stairs towards my apartment. Surely it +cannot be to me that this visit is intended.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>Good Heaven! What shall I do?</p> + +<p>It was Molly that has just left me.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The poor girl, as soon as she saw me, began to sob bitterly, and could +only exclaim, "Oh, sir! Oh, Mr. Colden!"</p> + +<p>This behaviour was enough to terrify me. I trembled in every joint +while I faltered out, "I hope your mistress is well?"</p> + +<p>After many efforts, I prevailed in gaining a distinct account of my +friend's situation. This good girl, by the sympathy she always 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 +further than to indulge her feelings with less restraint in Molly's +presence than in that of any other person.</p> + +<p>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 endeavoured to comfort Mrs. Talbot, but in +vain.</p> + +<p>Next day she did not rise as early as usual. Her mother came to her +bedside, and inquired 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.</p> + +<p>In this way that and the ensuing day passed. 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.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>All this was I compelled to hear from the communicative Molly.</p> + +<p>My heart bled at this recital. Too well did I predict what effect her +compliance would have on her peace.</p> + +<p>I asked if Jane had not received a letter from me.</p> + +<p>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 showed 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.</p> + +<p>She did not conceal from Molly the object of her solicitude. The good +girl endeavoured to soothe 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."</p> + +<p>The weeping girl timorously suggested that she had already given me +up.</p> + +<p>"True, Molly, in a rash moment I told him that we meet no more; but two +days of misery have 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. I will die. Blessing my mother, and wishing her a less stubborn +child, <i>I will die</i>."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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's +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, 'Oh, +what--what a heart have I madly cast away!'"</p> + +<p>The girl told me much more, which I am unable to repeat. Her visit was +self-prompted. She had caught a glimpse of me as I passed the door, and, +without mentioning her purpose to her mistress, set out as soon as it was +dusk.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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 +pronounced, and no power on earth shall sever me from her side.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>She offered to conduct me to her then. It was easy to effect 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.</p> + +<p>Can I, my friend,--can I, without unappeasable remorse, pursue this +scheme of a distant voyage? Suppose some fatal despair 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.</p> + +<p>Should I not be the most fragrant 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 she whom I +possessed were not happier than a different destiny would make her.</p> + +<p>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 remedy +for all evils; that our efforts to regain the favour of her mother would +be most likely to succeed when that which she endeavoured to prevent was +irretrievable. Yet that persuasion was dissipated by her last letter. +<i>That</i> 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 +inseparable?</p> + +<p>What a fantastic impediment is this aversion of her mother! And yet, +can I safely and deliberately call it fantastic? Let me sever myself +<i>from</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>her</i>, not because <i>my</i> happiness, though my happiness certainly +<i>does</i>, demand it.</p> + +<p>I am then resolved. Jane's decision shall be deliberate. I will not +bias 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.</p> + +<p>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 assurances? +She has banished me. I am preparing to fly. She recalls me, and it is +impossible to depart.</p> + +<p>I must go to Miss Jessup's. I will take up the pen ('tis my sole +amusement) when I return.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>I went to Miss Jessup's; her still sealed letter in my pocket; my mind +confused, perplexed, sorrowful; wholly undetermined 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.</p> + +<p>At length, reproaching myself for this indecision, and leaving my +conduct to be determined by circumstances, I went directly to her +house.</p> + +<p>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 despatch. I was +admitted.</p> + +<p>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 to talk:--</p> + +<p>"I am very unwell; got a terrible cold, coming from Dover; been laid up +ever since; a teasing 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."</p> + +<p>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:--</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Nay," said she, in some little trepidation, "if you have any thing to +communicate, I am already prepared to receive it."</p> + +<p>"Indeed, Miss Jessup, I <i>have</i> 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 establishment of truth would act with more +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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"You may naturally suppose that I am desirous of gaming 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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"What think you, madam," (taking her hand, and eyeing her with +steadfastness;) "she thinks me at once so artful and so wicked that I have +made the wife unfaithful to the husband; that I have persuaded Mrs. Talbot +to forget what was due to herself, her fame, and to trample on her +marriage-vow.</p> + +<p>"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 shown 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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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 <i>our</i> weal or woe? Why +should you be called upon as a counsellor or umpire in the little family +dissensions of Mrs. Talbot and her mother?</p> + +<p>"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 <i>you</i> know, would appear +strange and absurd?</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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; a hectic flush now and then shot across her check. But +these would have been produced by a similar address, delivered with much +solemnity and emphasis, in any one, however innocent.</p> + +<p>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:--</p> + +<p>"Tell me, I conjure you, what you know. Be not deterred by any self-regard; but, indeed, how can your interest be affected by clearing up a +mistake so fatal to the happiness of one for whom you have always +professed a friendly regard?</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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 came 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.</p> + +<p>"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 reconcile her to her daughter's marriage. It will only +remove one insuperable impediment to her reconciliation with her +daughter.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>After a long pause, and a struggle, as it were, for utterance, she +faltered 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?"</p> + +<p>"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 unauthorized 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 contemptuous rejection of your advances,--can you +imagine that these things are not known?</p> + +<p>"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 came 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 <i>public</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>I cannot paint the alarm and embarrassment which these words +occasioned. Tears afforded her some relief, but shame had deprived her of +all utterance.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Impossible!" she exclaimed, in a kind of agony; "I am already sick to +death! I cannot move a step on such a purpose. I don't know Mrs. Fielder, +and can never look her in the face."</p> + +<p>"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 shown 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. Enclose it in a paper, acknowledging the stratagem to be +yours. It is done in a few words, and in half a minute."</p> + +<p>My impetuosity overpowered all opposition and remonstrance. The paper +was before her, the pen in her reluctant fingers; but that was all.</p> + +<p>"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 having blasted +the fame of an innocent woman, and of having sown eternal discord between +mother and child."</p> + +<p>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 to-morrow. She was too unwell to see anybody, to +hold a pen, at present.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>I did not stay for her consent, but, seizing the pen, put down hastily +these words:--</p> + +<p>"Madam: the enclosed 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 paragraph, in a hand as much resembling hers as possible, +and conveyed it to the hands of her husband."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I now produced the letter I received from Hannah Seeker, and said, "I +see, madam, you will compel me to preserve no measures with you. +<i>There</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"No doubt," (showing the superscription, but not permitting her to see +that the seal was unbroken,) "no doubt you recognise the hand; the hand of +that anonymous detractor who had previously taken so much pains to +convince the husband that his wife was an adulteress and a +prostitute."</p> + +<p>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 stayed 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>What, my friend, can this letter contain? The 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 inquired whether the +letter was opened, I should not have deceived her.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But what purpose have I gained? I have effected nothing; I am as far, +perhaps further 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, arid +I cannot force myself into her presence.</p> + +<p>If all this should happen, what will be left for me to do? <i>That</i> +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?</p> + +<p>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 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?</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Jane Talbot is young, lovely, and the heiress, provided she retain the +favour 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?</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>But I can truly aver that my motives are disinterested. Does not my +character make a plentiful and independent provision, 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 <i>no part</i> in +the zeal with which I have cultivated Jane's affections? There are few +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 <i>more</i> desirable than to me.</p> + +<p>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 endeavours 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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But this, with me, is only a momentary elevation. More sober views are +sure to succeed. 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 <i>me</i>,--a poor, unworthy wretch; +deservedly despised by every strenuous and upright mind; a fickle, +inconsiderate, frail mortal, whose perverse habits no magic can +dissolve.</p> + +<p>No. My whole heart implores Jane to forget and abandon <i>me</i>; to +adhere to her mother; since 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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XLIV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, December 1.</p> + +<p>I said I would not write to you again; I would encourage, I would allow +of, no intercourse between 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.</p> + +<p>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 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?</p> + +<p>Never was a creature so bereft of all dignity, all steadfastness. The +slave of every impulse; blown about by the predominant gale; a scene of +eternal fluctuation.</p> + +<p>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 <i>feel</i> as she would have me feel. +My actions must flow, not merely from a sense of duty, but from fervent +inclination.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Oh," 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 <i>thou</i> 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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 etherealized myself from all corporeal passions. I even +set spiritual ministers to work to find 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Oh, comfort me, my friend! plead against yourself; against me. Be my +mother's advocate. Fly away from these 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 corpse +to the grave, by disclaiming, by hating, by forgetting, the +unfortunate</p> + +<p>JANE.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XLV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>December 4.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>"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 requited your unsullied truth, your unlimited devotion to me!</p> + +<p>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. <i>You</i>, whom every +hallowed obligation, every principle of human nature, has placed +<i>next</i> 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!</p> + +<p>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 has +irresistible weight with me--the restoration of your father's kindness--you prove to be a mere delusion, and destroy it without mercy!</p> + +<p>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 <i>my</i> +safety?</p> + +<p>Fly to me. Save me from my mother's irresistible expostulations. I +cannot--<i>cannot</i> withstand her tears. Let me find in your arms a +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.</p> + +<p>Fly to me, therefore. Be at the front-door at <i>ten</i> 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 <i>undo</i>. Already in the sight of Heaven, at the tribunal of my +own conscience, am I <i>thy wife</i>; but somewhat more is requisite to +make the compact universally acknowledged. This is <i>now</i> 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 <i>to-morrow</i> remonstrance and entreaty will avail +nothing.</p> + +<p>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 sunrise 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.</p> + +<p>And shall I--Let me, while the sun lingers, still pour out my soul on +this paper; let me indulge a <i>pleasing, dreadful thought</i>--Shall I, +ere circling time bring back <i>this</i> hour, become thy----</p> + +<p>And shall my heart, after its dreadful languors, its excruciating +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?</p> + +<p><i>Tranquillity</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>I wonder how far sympathy possesses you. No doubt--let me see: <i>ten +minutes after four</i>,--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 <i>my</i> 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 stuccoed ceiling. 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.</p> + +<p>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 near it. 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 <i>here;</i> for is not thy hand already in hers, and is not thy cheek +already wet with her tears? for thy poor girl's eyes are as sure to +overflow with joy as with sorrow.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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,--<i>how</i> she will +act.</p> + +<p>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 <i>every</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"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. 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 <i>you</i> live.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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!"</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Whither, my friend, shall I fly from a scene like this? Into thy arms? +And shall I find comfort <i>there</i>? can I endure life, with the burden +of remorse which generosity like this will lay upon me?</p> + +<p>But I tell you, Henry, I am resolved. I have nothing but evil to +choose. 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 <i>her</i> 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 hatred, be it +<i>her</i> benevolence and tenderness, and not <i>yours</i>, that are thus +requited.</p> + +<p>Once more, then, note well. The hour of <i>ten</i>; 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. <i>Remember</i>.</p> + +<p>J. TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XLVI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To James Montford</i></p> + +<p>December 9.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>She brought two letters from her mistress, and was told to wait for an +answer. Jane traversed her room, half distracted and sleepless 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, was +despatched to me.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>this night</i> to join our hands; will conceal her purpose from her +mother, and resigns to me the providing of suitable means.</p> + +<p>I was overwhelmed with surprise and--shall I not say?--delight at this +unexpected concession. An immediate and <i>consenting</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"What," thought I, "am I going to do? To take advantage of a momentary +impulse in my favour. 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.</p> + +<p>"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?</p> + +<p>"Is it in my power to make Jane Talbot <i>mine</i>? 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 sighs? and, +instead of affording consolation under the distress produced by her +mother's displeasure, should I not need that consolation as much as +she?"</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Molly urged me to come to some determination, as her mistress would +impatiently wait her return. Finding it indispensable to say something, I +at length wrote:--</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>I had but half determined to seek an interview with Mrs. Fielder. What +purpose would it 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?</p> + +<p>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. Today 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.</p> + +<p>Another messenger! with a letter for me! Miss Jessup's servant it is, +perhaps. But let me read it.</p> + +<h1>Letter XLVII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>December 8.</p> + +<p>Sir:--</p> + +<p>Enclosed 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 enclosed satisfy you. It is enough. Never should I have said +so much, if I thought I were long for this world.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Let me know what use you have made of the letter you showed me, and, I +beseech you, return it to me by the bearer.</p> + +<p>M. JESSUP.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XLVIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Fielder</i></p> + +<p>December 8.</p> + +<p>Madam:--</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Jane Talbot never loved the man whom I would have made happy. Her +ingenuous temper easily disclosed her indifference, and she married not to +please herself, but to please others. Her husband's 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>her</i> 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.</p> + +<p>Several anonymous letters were written to you. I thank Heaven that I +was seldom guilty of direct falsehoods 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 +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.</p> + +<p>There is still another confession to make. If suffering and penitence +can atone for any offence, surely mine has been atoned for! But it still +remains that I should, as far as my power goes, repair the mischief.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I called at Mrs. Talbot's at a time when visitants are least expected. +Nobody saw me enter. 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, +candour 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Here I was again favoured by accident. Fortune seemed determined to +accomplish my ruin. My own ingenuity in vain attempted to fall on a +<i>safe</i> mode of putting this letter in Talbot's way, and this had +never been done if chance had not surprisingly befriended my purpose.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Instead of conversing with me, Talbot walked about the room in a +peevish and gloomy humour. 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 <i>five minutes</i>. 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.</p> + +<p>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 their deportment to each +other. Sometimes I feared I had betrayed myself; but no alteration ever +afterwards appeared in their behaviour to me.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Let me now, though late, put an end to the illusion, and again assure +you, madam, that the concluding paragraphs were <i>written by me</i>, and +that those parts of it which truly belong to your daughter are perfectly +innocent.</p> + +<p>If it were possible for you to forgive my misconduct, and to suffer +this confession to go no further than the evil has gone, you will confer +as great a comfort as can now be conferred on the unhappy</p> + +<p>M. JESSUP.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XLIX</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To James Montford</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, December 9.</p> + +<p>I WILL imagine, my friend, that you have read the letter [Footnote: The +preceding one.] which I 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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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:--</p> + +<p>"If you ever injured Mr. Talbot, your motives 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 intrust to me shall be +applied to no purpose but that which you proposed by writing it. Enclosed +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</p> + +<p>"YOUR TRUE FRIEND."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I prepare for it with awe and trembling. The more nearly it approaches, +the more my heart falters. I summon up in vain a tranquil and steadfast +spirit; but perhaps a walk in the clear air will be more conducive to this +end than a day's ruminations in my chamber.</p> + +<p>I will take a walk.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>And am I then--but I will not anticipate. Let me lead you to the +present state of things without confusion.</p> + +<p>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 unceremoniously now. I find her not +on the accustomed sofa, eager to welcome my coming with smiling affability +and arms outstretched. No longer is it <i>home</i> to me, nor she +assiduous to please, familiarly tender and anxiously fond, already +assuming the conjugal privilege of studying my domestic ease."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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. Fielder 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Is Mrs. Fielder at home?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Tell her a gentleman would see her."</p> + +<p>"She will ask, perhaps--Shall I tell her <i>who</i>?"</p> + +<p>"No--Yes. Tell her <i>I</i> wish to see her."</p> + +<p>The poor girl looked very mournfully:--"She has seen your answer which +talks of your intention to visit her. She vows she will not see you if you +come."</p> + +<p>"Go, then, to Jane, and tell her I would see her for five minutes. Tell +her openly; before her mother."</p> + +<p>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 +moment's pause,--</p> + +<p>"Mr. Colden, I presume."</p> + +<p>"Yes, madam."</p> + +<p>"You wish to see my daughter?"</p> + +<p>"I was anxious, madam, to see you. My business here chiefly lies with +<i>you</i>,--not <i>her</i>."</p> + +<p>"With me, sir? And pray, what have you to propose to me?'7</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"This preface, sir," (her motions less and less controllable,) "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."</p> + +<p>"No, madam; <i>thus</i> received, I have not fortitude enough to say +what I came to say. I merely entreat you to peruse this letter."</p> + +<p>"'Tis well, sir," (taking it, with some reluctance, and, after eyeing +the direction, putting it aside.) "And this is all your business?"</p> + +<p>"Let me entreat you, madam, to read it in my presence. Its contents +nearly concern your happiness, and will not leave mine unaffected."</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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 +reflection sometimes diverted from the letter. These tokens somewhat +revived my languishing courage.</p> + +<p>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:--</p> + +<p>"As a mother and a woman I cannot but rejoice at this discovery. To +find my daughter <i>less</i> 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!</p> + +<p>"I cannot but regard <i>you</i>, 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 desist from any future persecution. Your letter to me gave +me no reason to expect the honour of this visit, and contained something +like a promise to shun any further intercourse with Mrs. Talbot."</p> + +<p>"I hope, madam, the contents of <i>this</i> letter will justify me in +bringing it to you?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>At length I stammered out, "Since it is the last--the last interview--if I were allowed-but one moment."</p> + +<p>"No, no, no! what but needless torment to herself and to you can +follow? What do you expect from an interview?"</p> + +<p>"I would see, for a moment, the face of one whom, whatever be <i>my</i> +faults, and whatever be <i>hers</i>, I <i>love</i>."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"True," said she, her eyes flashing fire; "a secret marriage would have +given you the <i>destitute</i> and <i>portionless</i> 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 <i>every</i> past folly, and +especially the <i>last</i>. 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."</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>"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----"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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 as far as ever from +certainty. Expostulation was vain. She would not hear me. All my courage, +even my words were overwhelmed by her vehemence.</p> + +<p>After much hesitation, and several efforts to gain even a hearing of my +pleas, I yielded to the tide. With a drooping heart, I consented to +withdraw with my dearest hope unaccomplished.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>my</i> world--but I will not write another word.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>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.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter L</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mr. Colden</i></p> + +<p>December 11.</p> + +<p>Hereafter I shall be astonished at nothing but that credulity which +could give even momentary credit to your assertions.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I would not leave the city without apprizing you of this detection of +your schemes. If Miss Jessup were wise, she would seek a just revenge for +so atrocious a slander.</p> + +<p>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 <i>you</i> what her anger +and amazement were on finding her name thus abused.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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; <i>and shall</i>.</p> + +<p>H. FIELDER.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To James Montford</i></p> + +<p>December 13.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Let me awake! Let me disabuse my senses! Yes. It is plain. Miss Jessup +repented her of her confession. Something in that unopened 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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 powers combined to force me into the +right path,--the path of duty, honour, and interest: they strive in +vain.</p> + +<p>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 <i>will</i> and the <i>act</i>.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>No. Her happiness requires me to be blotted out of existence. Let me +unfold myself <i>to</i> 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 independent of thy lot? +Canst thou, with a true and fervent zeal, resign her to her mother?</p> + +<p>I can. I do.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 my +happiness; but this shall satisfy me. If fate impel 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,</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, and Miss Jessup--no doubt, to avoid another interview +with me--has precipitately withdrawn into the country.</p> + +<p>I shall not pursue their steps. Let things take their course. No doubt, +a lasting and effectual remorse will, some time 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.</p> + +<h1>Letter LII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Fielder</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, December 16.</p> + +<p>It is not improbable that, as soon as you recognise the hand that wrote +this letter, you will throw it unread into the fire; yet it comes not to +soothe resentment, or to supplicate for mercy. It seeks not a favourable +audience. It wishes not--because the wish would be chimerical--to have its +assertions 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 utterly forgotten. The time will come when it +will be read with a different spirit.</p> + +<p>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 <i>my</i> folly to your own credulity, that was, for +a moment, made the dupe of my contrivances.</p> + +<p>I can say nothing that <i>will</i> or that <i>ought</i>--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 +<i>second</i> as well as her <i>first</i> fraud.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>much</i>, though not <i>all</i> 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 <i>one</i> among the many evils +in which she has been involved by the vices and infirmities of</p> + +<p>H. COLDEN.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To James Montford</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, December 17.</p> + +<p>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 +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.</p> + +<p>I never saw this woman till I met her lately at her brother's bedside. +Her opinions of me were all derived from unfavourable 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.</p> + +<p>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 a hopeless one, yet +exerting a surprising command over her feelings, and performing every +office of a nurse with skill and firmness.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>She was often present when her brother turned the discourse upon +religious subjects. I have 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.</p> + +<p>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 +passions 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 +endeavour 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?</p> + +<p>But, in truth, I was far from thinking him in the wrong. At any time I +should have allowed infinite, plausibility and subtlety 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.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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, +into 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The conversation for a time was vague and trite. Insensibly, the scenes +lately witnessed were recalled, not without many a half-stifled sigh and +ill-disguised tear on her part. Some arrangements as to the letters and +papers of 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>After many tacit intimations, much reluctance and timidity to inquire +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.</p> + +<p>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 thought +forward and impertinent.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>Now and then she made seasonable and judicious comments on what I said. +Was there any subject of inquiry 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.</p> + +<p>If my inquiries 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 inquiry, was more criminal than any kind of opinion candidly +investigated and firmly adopted, and would more effectually debar me 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>H. C.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LIV</h1> + +<p>Philadelphia, December 19.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>She listened favourably to my account of the unhappy misapprehensions +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.</p> + +<p>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 religion; but this +was only a basis whereon to build the hope of future amendment. No present +merit could be founded on my doubts.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 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 irresistible.</p> + +<p>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 Saturday night. In the arms of my +true friends, I will endeavour to forget the vexations that at present +prey upon the peace of</p> + +<p>Your</p> + +<p>H. C.</p> + +<h1>Letter LV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>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 effort of yours.</p> + +<p>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 +mother's government. I have consented to be inaccessible to your visits or +letters.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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 a 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</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + +<h1>Letter LVI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Montford</i></p> + +<p>Madam:--</p> + +<p>Philadelphia, October 7.</p> + +<p>It is with extreme reluctance that I venture to address you in this +manner. I cannot find words to account for or apologize. But, if you be +indeed the sister of Henry Golden, 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.</p> + +<p>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 a little interest; who honoured me with his affection.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 to your brother are well known to you, I +have been able to curb my anxieties no longer.</p> + +<p>Do then, my dearest madam, gratify my curiosity, and tell me, without +delay, what has become of your brother.</p> + +<p>J. TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LVII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Jane Talbot</i></p> + +<p>My dear Madam:--</p> + +<p>New York, October 9.</p> + +<p>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 inquiries in a manner agreeable to you.</p> + +<p>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 he immediately +adopted have put it out of his power to profit by any change in your +views.</p> + +<p>My husband's brother being on the point of embarking in a voyage to the +western coast of America and to China, Mr. Golden 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +inquiry you may be pleased to make respecting one for whom I have +entertained the affection becoming a sister.</p> + +<p>I am, &c.</p> + +<p>M. MONTFORD.</p> + +<p>P.S.--Mr. Montford desires to join me in my offers of service, and in +my good wishes.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LVIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Montford</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, October 12.</p> + +<p>Dear Madam:--</p> + +<p>How shall I thank you for the kind and delicate manner in which you +have complied with my request? You will not be surprised, nor, I hope, +offended, that I am emboldened to address you once more.</p> + +<p>I see that I need not practise 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.</p> + +<p>You have deprived me of some hope by the information you give; but you +have at least put an end to a suspense more painful than the most dreadful +certainty could be.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 a letter; 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 <i>myself</i> the only obstacle to +reconcilement, and was willing, whatever it cost me, to remove that +obstacle.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 <i>now</i> reduce him to +indigence, and, that consequence being precluded, I cannot doubt of his +father's acquiescence.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 twelvemonth has since passed, he has not yet returned. +Hence the boldness of this address to you, whom I know only by rumour.</p> + +<p>You will, I doubt not, easily imagine to yourself my feelings, and will +be good enough to answer my inquiries, if you have any compassion for +your</p> + +<p>J. T.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LIX</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Jane Talbot</i></p> + +<p>New York, October 15.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Having said that all the transactions between you and my brother are +known to me, I need not apologize 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.</p> + +<p>Immediately after the determination of his fate in regard to you, he +came to this city. He 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 unsought-for renunciation as a means +of reconcilement with his father, was no subject of surprise or blame. +These reflections could not occur to you but in consequence of some +intimations from others.</p> + +<p>Henry Colden was no indolent or mercenary creature, No one more +cordially detested the life of dependence 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.</p> + +<p>We could not but deeply regret the particular circumstances under which +he left his father's house; but the mere leaving it, and the necessity +which thence arose of finding employment and subsistence for himself, was +not at all to be regretted.</p> + +<p>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 sought 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.</p> + +<p>You were not aware that this cause of anger could not be removed by any +thing done by you. Golden 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.</p> + +<p>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>I</i> am not her supreme passion. Her mother is preferred to +me. <i>That</i> her present resolution puts out of all doubt. All +upbraiding and repining from me would be absurd. What can I say in favour +of my attachment to her, which she may not, with equal reason, urge in +favour 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?</p> + +<p>"I am not so blind but that I can foresee the effects on my +tranquillity of time and variety of object. 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."</p> + +<p>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 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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 favour. As several passages were +expected to be made between China and Nootka, that desirable event cannot +be expected to be very near.</p> + +<p>M. M.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LX</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Montford</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, October 20.</p> + +<p>AH, dear madam! how much has your letter afflicted, how much has it +consoled me!</p> + +<p>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----</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 you owe your place in my affections <i>chiefly</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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:--</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"I have wronged thee, Jane. I have wronged the absent; I greatly fear, +I have. Forgive me. If you ever meet, entreat <i>him</i> to forgive me, +and recompense yourself and him for all your mutual sufferings.</p> + +<p>"I hope all, though 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.</p> + +<p>"I leave you affluence and honour at least, I leave you the means of +repairing <i>my</i> injury. <i>That</i> is my comfort; but forgive me, +Jane. Say, my child, you forgive me for what has passed."</p> + +<p>She stretched her hand to me, which I bathed with my tears.--But this +subject afflicts me too much.</p> + +<p>Give my affectionate compliments to Mr. Montford, and tell me that you +wish to see your</p> + +<p>JANE.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LXI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Talbot</i></p> + +<p>New York, October 22.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Tell me the day when you expect to arrive among us, that I may wait on +you as soon as possible.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Accept the fraternal regards of Mr. Montford.</p> + +<p>M.M.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LXII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Montford</i></p> + +<p>Banks of Delaware, September 5.</p> + +<p>Be not anxious for me, Mary. I hope to experience very speedy relief +from the wholesome airs that perpetually fan this spot. Your apprehensions +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 let 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>'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 memory, +the fancy, and the heart. No spot of earth can possibly teem with as many +affecting images as this; for here it was----</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>God bless you, dear Mary, and continue to you all your present +happiness.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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. Besides, 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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 everybody else thought him, a most amiable +and engaging youth, though only twelve or thirteen years old.</p> + +<p>'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 stayed among us, would in time have been united. But he went away +when I was scarcely fourteen. At parting, I remember, we shed a great many +tears and exchanged a great many kisses, and promises <i>not to +forget</i>. And that promise never was broken by me. He was always dear to +my remembrance.</p> + +<p>Time has only improved all the graces of the boy. I will not conceal +from <i>you</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>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 favourite airs, twice a day. We have no strangers; no impertinents +to intermeddle in our conversations and mar our enjoyments.</p> + +<p>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 objects were wholly frivolous and unmeaning in my eyes; but now they +gain my whole attention.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 Frederick across the mountains of Bohemia.</p> + +<p>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 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. <i>Once</i> I should have been just as much puzzled +myself. Adieu.</p> + +<p>J. T.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LXIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Talbot</i></p> + +<p>New York, October 1.</p> + +<p>Be not angry with me, 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.</p> + +<p>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 apartment, at the very moment when I was perusing your last letter. I +was 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I now see that I was guilty of a most culpable breach of confidence in +showing him your delicate confession; but I was bewitched, I think.</p> + +<p>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</p> + +<p>M. MONTFORD.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LXIV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Talbot</i></p> + +<p>New York, December 12.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>But your motive was beneficent and generous. You were content to be +thought unfeeling and ungrateful for the sake of my happiness. 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 honour can redound from it to yourself.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>G. CARTWRIGHT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LXV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To G. Cartwright</i></p> + +<p>Banks of Delaware, October 5.</p> + +<p>My brother:--</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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</p> + +<p>J. T.</p> + + +<h1>Letter LXVI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Jane Talbot</i></p> + +<p>New York, November 15.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Yesterday week, a ship arrived in this port from Batavia, in which my +husband's brother, Stephen Montford, came passenger.</p> + +<p>You will be terrified at these words; but calm your apprehensions. +Harry does <i>not</i> accompany him, it is true, nor are we acquainted +with his present situation.</p> + +<p>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 intrigues among the crew, to a mutiny.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>This scheme was executed as soon, as they came in sight of an outlying +isle or dry sand-bank on the eastern coast of Japan. Here they seized the +two unsuspecting youths, at daybreak, while asleep in their <i>berths</i>, +and, immediately putting out their boat, landed my brother on the shore, +without clothing or provisions of any kind. Montford petitioned to share +the fate of his friend, but they would not listen to it.</p> + +<p>Six days afterwards, they lighted on a Spanish ship bound to Manilla, +which was in want of water. A party of the Spaniards came on board in +search of some supply of that necessary article.</p> + +<p>On their coming, Montford was driven below and disabled from giving, by +his cries, any alarm. The sentinel who guarded him had received orders to +keep him in that situation till the visitants had departed. Prom some +impulse of humanity, or mistake of orders, the sentinel freed him from +restraint a few minutes earlier than had been intended, and he got on deck +before the departing strangers had gone to any considerable distance from +the ship. He immediately leaped into the sea and made for the boat, to +which, being a very vigorous swimmer, he arrived in safety.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I have thus given you, my friend, an imperfect 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 I could not +believe you if you did. Write to me speedily, however.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LXVII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Talbot</i></p> + +<p>New York, November 23.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I have waited from day to day in expectation of a letter; but more than +a week has passed, and none has come. Let me hear from you immediately, I +entreat you.</p> + +<p>I am afraid you are ill; or perhaps you are displeased with me. +Unconsciously I may have given you offence.</p> + +<p>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 anywhere but where you are! Would to Heaven you +were once more with us!</p> + +<p>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 prevailed on him to forbear until I +heard from you.</p> + +<p>Do not, if you have any regard for me, delay answering me a moment +longer.</p> + +<p>M. M.</p> + +<h1>Letter LXVIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Montford</i></p> + +<p>Banks of Delaware, November 26.</p> + +<p>I beseech you, dear Mrs. Montford, take some measures for drawing our +dear Jane from this place. There is no remedy but absence 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.</p> + +<p>I can do nothing for her relief. You know what a poor creature I am. +Instead of 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.</p> + +<p>Come hither yourself, or send somebody immediately. If you do not, I +dread the consequence.</p> + +<h1>Letter LXIX</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mr. Montford</i></p> + +<p>New Haven, February 10.</p> + +<p>My dear friend:--</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 harassed me. If asleep, dreams of agonizing forms +and ever-varying hues have thronged my fancy and driven away peace.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +explore my way back to my native shore, are surely most strange and +incredible achievements. Yet all this, my friend, has been endured and +performed by your Colden.</p> + +<p>Finding it impossible to move immediately from this place, and this +day's 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 <i>her</i>, or rather nearer to certainty of her life +or death, her happiness or misery, has increased my trepidation,--added +new tremors to my heart.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 breathe 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 +encounter and the sufferance will be pleasant to remembrance and +delightful in narration.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Many obstacles, however, in the views which Tekehatsin 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.</p> + +<p>I confess to you, my friend, my heart was not extremely averse to this +condition.</p> + +<p>I left America with very faint hopes, and no expectation, of ever +returning. The longer I resided among this race of men, the melancholy 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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 akin, and, +consequently, that <i>this</i> might afford me some information as to the +character or merits of <i>that</i> Cartwright, made me throw myself in his +way.</p> + +<p>You may easily imagine, what I shall 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.</p> + +<p>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 showed 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.</p> + +<p>Yet, my friend, with all my confidence of a favourable reception from +Jane,--her conduct now exempt from the irresistible control 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 was blemished by none of those +momentous errors with which mine was loaded, since that harmony of opinion +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 +<i>his</i> case,--never should mere passion have seduced me to her feet. +If my reflections and experience had not changed my character,--if all +<i>her</i> views as to the final destiny and present obligations of human +beings had not become <i>mine</i>,--I should have deliberately ratified +the act of my eternal banishment.</p> + +<p>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 <i>my mind +whole</i>. 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.</p> + +<p>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 fears and +suspenses--Yet it would give you pleasure to know every thing as soon as +possible--some time likewise must elapse--<i>You</i> 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 and the depth of my former +degeneracy.</p> + +<p>By what process of reflection I became thus, you shall speedily know: +yet can you be at a loss to imagine it? <i>You</i>, who have passed +through 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 steadfast height of simple and true piety.</p> + +<p>Such, my friend, were my inducements to return; but first it was +necessary to explain, by letter, to Holtz--But my messenger is at the +door, eager to begone. Take this, my friend. Bring yourself, or send back +by the same messenger, without a moment's 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</p> + +<p>H. COLDEN.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LXX</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Golden</i></p> + +<p>New York, February 12.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Oh, 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.</p> + +<p>Can it be that Golden--that selfsame, 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 a +heart full of "ineffable tenderness" for <i>me</i>?</p> + +<p>Unspeakably unworthy am I of your love. Time and grief, dear Hal, have +bereft me of the glossy hues, the laughing graces, which your doting +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 <i>thy</i> +death--shall never dissever that bond.</p> + +<p>Your brother will take this. Your sister--she is the most excellent of +women, and worthy to 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 everything. He has been a brother 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 authorized love, +some recompense for all the evils to which her antipathies subjected you? +She hoped, indeed, that observation and experience would detect the +fallacy 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.</p> + +<p>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. +<i>All</i> my prayers, Henry, have not been <i>merely</i> for your return. +Indeed, whatever might have been the dictates, however absolute the +dominion, of passion, union with you would have been <i>very</i> far from +completing 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 on a union which death will have no +power to dissolve. Oh, what sweet peace, what serene transport, is there +in the persuasion that the selected soul will continue forever to commune +with <i>my</i> soul, mingle with mine in its adoration of the same Divine +Parent, and partake with me in every thought, in every emotion, both +<i>here</i> and <i>hereafter</i>!</p> + +<p>Never, my friend, without <i>this</i> persuasion, <i>never</i> 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 a heart and such a reason as yours could not +fail of success; but <i>till</i> that restoration were accomplished, +never, I repeat, should I have tasted repose even in <i>your</i> arms.</p> + +<p>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, though +unsuspected by me till after her decease, brought her to regard thee with +some compassion and some respect.</p> + +<p>I can write no more; but must not conclude till I have offered thee the +tenderest, most fervent vows of a heart that ever was and always will be +<i>thine own</i>. Witness,</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + + +<p align="center" class="smallcaps">The End.</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Jane Talbot, by Charles Brockden Brown + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JANE TALBOT *** + +***** This file should be named 8404-h.htm or 8404-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/4/0/8404/ + +Produced by Online Distributed Proofreading Team +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive +specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this +eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook +for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, +performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given +away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks +not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the +trademark license, especially commercial redistribution. + +START: FULL LICENSE + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the +person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph +1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the +Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when +you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country outside the United States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work +on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: + + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and + most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no + restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it + under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this + eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the + United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you + are located before using this ebook. + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format +other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain +Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +provided that + +* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation." + +* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm + works. + +* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + +* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The +Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm +trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at +www.gutenberg.org + + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the +mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its +volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous +locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt +Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to +date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and +official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact + +For additional contact information: + + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular +state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search +facility: www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + + +</pre> + +</body> +</html> diff --git a/8404.txt b/8404.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..900df52 --- /dev/null +++ b/8404.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9876 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Jane Talbot, by Charles Brockden Brown + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + +Title: Jane Talbot + +Author: Charles Brockden Brown + +Posting Date: February 11, 2015 [EBook #8404] +Release Date: July, 2005 +First Posted: July 7, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JANE TALBOT *** + + + + +Produced by Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + + +Jane Talbot + +by + +Charles Brockden Brown. + + + + + + + +Letter I + + +_To Henry Colden_ + +Philadelphia, Monday Evening, October 3. + +I am very far from being a wise girl. So conscience whispers me, and, +though vanity is eager to refute the charge, I must acknowledge that she +is seldom successful. Conscience tells me it is folly, it is guilt, to +wrap up my existence in one frail mortal; to employ all my thoughts, to +lavish all my affections, upon one object; to dote upon a human being, +who, as such, must be the heir of many frailties, and whom I know to be +not without his faults; to enjoy no peace but in his presence, to be +grateful for his permission to sacrifice fortune, ease, life itself, for +his sake. + +From the humiliation produced by these charges, vanity endeavours to +relieve me by insinuating that all happiness springs from affection; that +nature ordains no tie so strong as that between the sexes; that to love +without bounds is to confer bliss not only on ourselves but on another; +that conjugal affection is the genuine sphere not only of happiness but +duty. + +Besides, my heart will not be persuaded but that its fondness for you +is nothing more than simple justice. Ought I not to love excellence, and +does my poor imagination figure to itself any thing in human shape more +excellent than thou? + +But yet there are bounds beyond which passion cannot go without +counteracting its own purposes. I am afraid mine goes beyond those bounds. +So far as it produces rapture, it deserves to be cherished; but when +productive of impatience, repining, agony, on occasions too that are +slight, trivial, or unavoidable, 'tis surely culpable. + +Methinks, my friend, I would not have had thee for a witness of the +bitterness, the tumult of my feelings, during this day; ever since you +left me. You cannot conceive any thing more forlorn, more vacant, more +anxious, than this weak heart has been and still is. I was terrified at my +own sensations, and, with my usual folly, began to construe them into +omens of evils; so inadequate, so disproportioned was my distress to the +cause that produced it. + +Ah! my friend! a weak--very weak--creature is thy Jane. From excess of +love arises that weakness; _that_ must be its apology with thee, for, +in thy mind, my fondness, I know, needs an apology. + +Shall I scold you a little? I have held in the rein a long time, but my +overflowing heart must have relief, and I shall find a sort of comfort in +chiding you. Let me chide you, then, for coldness, for insensibility: but +no; I will not. Let me enjoy the rewards of self-denial and forbearance, +and seal up my accusing lips. Let me forget the coldness of your last +salute, your ill-concealed effort to disengage yourself from my +foolishly-fond arms. You have got at your journey's end, I hope. Farewell. + +J. TALBOT. + + + + +Letter II + + +_To Henry Colden_ + +Tuesday Morning, October 4. + +I must write to you, you said, frequently and copiously: you did not +mean, I suppose, that I should always be scribbling, but I cannot help it. +I can do nothing but converse with you. When present, my prate is +incessant; when absent, I can prate to you with as little intermission; +for the pen, used so carelessly and thoughtlessly as I use it, does +_but_ prate. + +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 +affected by it. I am not surprised that calumny has been busy with my +life, and am very little anxious to clear myself from unjust charges, +except to such as you. + +At this moment, I may add, my mood is not unfriendly to the +undertaking. I can do nothing in your absence but write to you. To write +what I have ten thousand times spoken, and which can be perfectly +understood only when accompanied by looks and accents, seems absurd. +Especially while there is a subject on which my _tongue_ can never +expatiate, but on which it is necessary that you should know all that I +can tell you. + +The prospect of filling up this interval with the relation of the most +affecting parts of my life somewhat reconciled me to your necessary +absence, yet I know my heart will droop. Even this preparation to look +back makes me shudder already. Some reluctance to recall tragical or +humiliating scenes, and, by thus recalling to endure them, in some sense, +a second time, I must expect to feel. + +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. J. T. + + + + +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 condolences. + +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 disburdened my heart. Disburden it, said I? I shall load it, I +fear, with sadness, but I will not regret an undertaking which my duty to +you makes indispensable. + +One of the earliest incidents that I remember is an expostulation with +my father. I saw 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 mother's 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 showed none of the volatility of childhood. While she lived, I was never +at ease but 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 shown 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 +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 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 showed strong propensities to active amusement 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 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 a +housekeeper 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 honour 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 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 shown 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 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 befell 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 a 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 expenses 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 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 enter 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 showed him that page of the letter which +related to this affair. I anxiously watched his looks while he read +it. + +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 conference 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!" cried my brother, with a laugh, "has thy silly brain engendered +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 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 stir 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 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 showed great solicitude. +I did not wonder at this, as Risberg had always been loved as a son. A +little consideration, therefore, ought to have shown 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 interference." + +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 +deference, and I saw nothing peculiarly petulant or improper in what I had +said. + +"Dear sir, forgive me: you know I write to my cousin, and, as he stated +his complaints 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." + +"Certainly, if the subject displeases you, I will drop it." Here a +pause of mutual embarrassment 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 forgotten 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 depended on him for his +maintenance; but somehow 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. Bat 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 lenient 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 is +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, +Risberg's expectations and 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 occasion 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!" said 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 a hopeless task. As to my father, he will never +submit to my guidance." + +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 represented me as the heiress of +her fortunes, and confided fully in my discretion. The chief uses 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 adventurous undertaking for a +young creature like me. It was impossible to do this clandestinely; at +least, 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 +surprise, therefore, was not small. I started up with the confusion of a +stranger, and requested him, very formally, to be seated. + +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 that you have been meddling with things that do not +concern you,--sowing dissension 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 teasing him, +about this traveller Risberg, 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 boisterous 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 to receive an insult." + +"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, that any good will result from 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 inter-meddling 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 interference +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 with me. +Risberg, I see, must look elsewhere for a father and a brother." + +"Poor thing! do; put its finger in its eye and weep. Ha! ha! ha! poor +Risberg! how would he laugh to see these compassionate tears! It seem she +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 proof 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 a 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 calumniator? 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 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-by to you." + +So ended this conversation. He left me in a 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 that 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 not 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, +I hope, will soon be able to subsist upon the fruits of your own learning +and industry. + +"I have something more to say to you, 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 completed 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 a belief that he was in love. At +least, in all his letters, he seemed fond of recognising 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 gracefulness of passion +naturally prompts them to make their 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 conducive to the interests 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 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. + + + + +Letter IV + + +_To Henry Colden_ + +Wednesday Morning, October 5. + +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 +permanent, 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 though I was sensible that I held of my +maternal friend but a very precarious tenure, that my character and +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, though 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 +inquiries 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 considerable 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, though 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?" + +"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 inquire what +_speculation_ meant. I know only that it is some hazardous or +complicated way of getting money." + +These hints, though 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?" + +"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, 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, indispensably 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 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 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 nowise 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 counsel of a +girl. + +He replied to my remarks with confidence, that no further demand would +be made upon him. The last sum was given with extreme reluctance, and +nothing but the positive assurance that it would absolutely be the last +had prevailed with him. + +"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---- + +"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 shown to be fallacious? +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. Though 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. +Matthews 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." + +"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'ythee?" + +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?" + +"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 dependence; +but still there was a possibility of this. To insure 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 explain the affair to you, if you choose, 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." + +"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 freak, 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." + +"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 supposed 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 tremors 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 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 stopped. 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. Entreaty 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 resumed his +arrogant and 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 honour, +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 controlled. 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 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, and 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?" + +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 +damned 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 nowhere 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 to-morrow afternoon, and with that I will replace this." + +"My father ruined! In danger of a jail! 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 doting 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 till to-morrow evening. + +"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 L "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 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 + + [Editorial note: The observant reader will have noted there is no + Letter V. The original text did not contain one, + and we have chosen to let the letters retain their + original numbers, rather than renumber them.] + + +_To Henry Colden_ + +Thursday Morning, October 6. + +As soon as my visitants had gone, I hastened to my father. I +immediately introduced the subject of which my heart was full. I related +the particulars of my late interview with my brother; entreated him with +the utmost earnestness to make the proper inquiries into the state of my +brother's affairs, with whose fate it was too plain that his own were +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 servant, and directed him, in a faltering 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 despatched 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 Prank was still abroad. 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 straits 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 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 +thunder-struck. 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, though useless to you, is as +indispensable 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 completely 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, 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, "Oh, 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 +entreated 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. + +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 has been talked about this afternoon, very little, as usual, to his +advantage." + +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 twelvemonth 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 Monsieur Petitgrave, brother to Frank's _housekeeper_, the +handsome mustec. 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 tenor:-- + +"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 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 despatching my answer, he appeared. I need not +repeat our conversation. He extorted from me, without much difficulty, +what I had heard through 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 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 +reacted. + +With every new instance of folly, my shame and selfcondemnation +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 watchmaker with whom my servant had, +some time before, left a watch to be repaired. It occurred to me that, +since I was now on the spot, I might as well stop and make some inquiry +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 cigars 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 a'n'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:)--"_Jane 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 she 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." + +"Why, damn it if I don't 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 sha'n'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, +betimes, and, finding that he had a check for a little more than my debt, +I teased 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 steadfastly 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 meretricious vagabond, were +indignities not to be endured. I was carried involuntarily 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 day's experience had of +late convinced me that in no valuable attribute was he anywise 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 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 apprized 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 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 non-payment, he applied for a new 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 +repay it shown 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 +complete 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 through 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, +despatched by my brother to summon me back. My mother went in my stead. I +was left, for some minutes, alone. + +So persuasive had been my brother's rhetoric, that I began to regret my +flight. + +I felt something like compunction at having deprived him of an +opportunity 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 anybody 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 detestable, how insecure, are fraud and +treachery! Had he been confronted with me, no doubt he would have +recognised the person whom he stared at at the watch-maker's. + +Next morning I received a note, dated on 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 shown 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 despair. 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 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 tenor 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 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 lead 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 opulence, +one would think it would occur to him to inquire into the effects of his +misconduct, 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 jail 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 penniless 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! I 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 despatched an enormous packet, and have not received a sentence +in 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 Golden_ + +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 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, though 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 corporal agonies. Even the pain which I +just now complained of is lessened since I took up the pen. Oh, 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 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. + + + + +Letter VIII + + +_To Jane Talbot_ + +Wilmington, Saturday, October 9. + +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, +nor because my chief pleasure lay anywhere 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, who 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! + +As to Miss Secker, your ignorance of her, and, I may add, of yourself, +has given her the preference. 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. Were 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 rheumatism 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 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 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 yours 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. + +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 detestable, 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 heightened 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, 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 acknowledged to be +free. He would not leave me for his European 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. + +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 a union to which the affections are +averse. Let it not confide in the afterbirth of love. Such a 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 despise 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. 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, +than the mere tattling, gossiping, 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 washwoman 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. Oh, 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 choose only among deplorable evils. + +JANE TALBOT. + + + + +Letter X + + +_To Jane Talbot_ + +New York, October 13. + +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 lifetime. You will judge, then, with what emotions such +intelligence was received. + +Indiscreet 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 centred 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, though 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 yours 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 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 +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 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 entreat you, my duty to your inclination. + +JANE TALBOT. + + + + +Letter XII + + +_To Mrs. Fielder_ + +Philadelphia, October 17. + +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, and 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. + +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 duteous 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. + + + + +Letter XIV + + +_To Mrs. Fielder_ + +Philadelphia, October 24. + +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 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 dependent 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 short-sighted 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 that is in my power to do. +I will forbear 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 a 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 entreat 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 tale must want something to complete 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. + +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 hers 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. + + + + +Letter XV + + +_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 in 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 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 through 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 harass me +with importunity, 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 showed 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 fantastic 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 keeping your happiness might safely +be intrusted. Talbot was such a 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 tastes and habits suitable and common to his +education and age. He was addicted to industry, was regular and frugal in +his manner and economy. He had nothing of that specious and glossy texture +which captivates inexperience and youth, and serves as a substitute for +every 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 a 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, though 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 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 had 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 fantastic 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 subtleties 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, gave 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 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 inquire 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 +apprehensions at rest. I was deceived by 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 a +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 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 practice; accustomed to intoxicate the women with melodious +flattery; fond of being _intimate_; avowedly devoted to the sex; +eloquent 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 intention 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 inquiring 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 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 handwriting 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. + +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 +fascinating book [Footnote: Godwin's Political Justice.] 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 inquiry. 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 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 abhorred. + +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 detestable 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 poison 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? +whether, in destroying 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 exist. 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 intrust 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 +sacrifice 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 misconduct, behind 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 unavoidable 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. + + + + +Letter XVI + + +_To the same_ + +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 +showing me a letter. + +He showed it me on condition of my being everlastingly silent to you in +regard to its 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 ever 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. + +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. + + + + +Letter XVII + + +(Enclosed Letter.) + + +_To Henry Colden_ + +Tuesday Morning. + +You went away this morning before I was awake. I think you might have +stayed 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, Hal. 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_. + +_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 +excessively 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; +at least for a month to come. The sweet oblivion of the future and past +lasted only for the night. Now I have leisure to look forward, and am +resolved (don't 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 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 choose 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 in ease and 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 to 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 +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 well-wisher 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 those talents, and that the sum I offer 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 a higher place in my esteem. Yet, +through deference to scruples which you may possibly possess, I most +cheerfully plight to you my honour, 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 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 anybody'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. + + + + +Letter XX + + +_To Henry Colden_ + +Philadelphia, October 28. + +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 despatch 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 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 enclosed 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 short-lived 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. + +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 handwriting,--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 a 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 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 clothes 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 gossiping 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 open and shut, and footsteps overhead, 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 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 enclosed. I instantly recognised 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. + +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 had 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 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 has 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 a 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 atrocious guilt. + +In an evil hour, Henry, was it that I saw thee first. What endless +perplexities have beset me since that disastrous 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 ill-fated Jane. Seek a more worthy companion, and be +happy. + +Perhaps you will feel, not pity, but displeasure, in receiving 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, re-echoed 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. + + + + +Letter XXII + + +_To Jane Talbot_ + +Baltimore, October 31. + +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 showing all the letters that have passed +between us, the contents of which will show that such guilt was +impossible; by making your girl bear witness to the precaution you used on +that night to 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 him, my +girl, who knows thee 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. + +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 irreconcilable, 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? + +You cannot unite yourself to me but with some view to my happiness. +Will your contributing to that happiness be nothing? + +Yet I cannot separate my felicity from yours. 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 erase 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. + +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 +not, 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. + +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 GOLDEN. + + + + +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 have made me in this +letter. + +I should be grossly 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 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 or depreciate their value. +Still, much as habit has endeared to me the 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. + +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, Nov. 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 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 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 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 shown 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. + + + + +Letter XXV + + +_To the Same_ + +Nov. 3. + +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 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. + +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 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 yours it shall occupy the chief place in my heart. The time, the +manner, be it yours to prescribe. My happiness, on that event, will surely +want but little to complete 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 callousness 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, were changed into half-vindictive reluctance,--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 yours, and myself am only flattered +indirectly. + +And yet, when I have extorted from you any secret sorrow, you have +afterwards acknowledged that the disclosure was of use:--that my +sympathizing 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. + + + + +Letter XXVI + + +_To Mrs. Fielder_ + +Philadelphia, November 4. + +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 some time 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 handwriting 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 beforehand, 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 flown 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 supply +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 a heart. You have +taught me to value a fair fame beyond every thing but the peace of 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. + + + + +Letter XXVII + + +_To Mrs. Talbot_ + +Baltimore, November 5. + +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 in a continued series of falsehoods +and frauds. + +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 shown 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 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. + +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, show 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 a 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 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 a +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 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. + +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 complete 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 dependent 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; 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 prattler 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 +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 +twelvemonth 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 +eyelids. + +"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? Haven't +two ideas that hang together intelligibly. 'Twill be commonplace 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; 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-by 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, thou'lt 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. + + + + +Letter XXIX + + +_To the Same_ + +10 o'clock at night. + +Now let us take a view of what is to come. Too often I endeavour to +escape from foresight 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 inflict +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 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 steadfast 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 a 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 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 a 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 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. + +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 says, evinces a pathetic +earnestness for my conviction. + +I listen to him with a 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 contumacious 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. 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 on 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 falter. I know that he will boldly justify +his conduct, and I feel that he ought to justify; yet the attempt to +justify would awaken--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. + + + + +Letter XXXI + + +_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-encumbered 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--_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, mayhap, 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 is 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 withal,--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. + +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 basketful, 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 despatch +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 counter, I usually went back, and found on every interview +new cause for 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 counsel to assist her in the new state of her +affairs. + +Laying aside ceremony, I inquired 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 been industrious and thrifty, and his death left her +enough to support her and her Sally in the way they wished. + +Inquiring 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 unspoiled 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 with 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 in completing 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 of charity to her +neighbours and thankfulness to God. + +Much--indeed, all--of these comforts she ascribes to me; yet her +gratitude is not loquacious. It shows 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 entreating 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 advances to intimacy but when expressly +invited and encouraged. + +It was a good while before all her new arrangements were completed. +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 showed 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?" + +"Oh, 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 +don't 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 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 accommodate 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 can't 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." + +"Oh, 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 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 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 summer-time, to join her at her chamber-window and +pass away the starlight hour in the unwitnessed community of fond +hearts? + +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 dependence? 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, thinkest 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 +tears 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 +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 outdone 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 +separate 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 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 tributes 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. + +Dost 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 +portrayest? One would fancy that this happy outcast, this self-dependent +wife, was no other than _thyself_. + +A shrewd conjecture, truly. I suppose, Hal, thou wilt be fond enough to +guess so, too. By 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 choose 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 + + [Editorial note: The observant reader will have noticed this is the + second letter bearing the number XXXI. The original + text contained two Letters XXXI, and we have chosen + to let the letters retain their original numbers, + rather than renumber them.] + + +_To Henry Colden_ + +Philadelphia, November 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." + +"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 mantel 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 mere 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 a '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 know I have +personal reasons for wishing to pass through this city without notice. My +business did not bring me farther 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 probable 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?" + +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 even 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 a 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 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 scarcely been half a brother +hitherto, I grant you 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 inquiry 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 splendour. + +"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? + +"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 inamorata +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-by;' 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 splendour of his new rank. He +endeavoured to seduce my vanity by the prospect of the conquest 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 +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 Newport, 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." + +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. + + + + +Letter XXXII + + +_To Jane Talbot_ + +Baltimore, November 14. + +Let me overlook your last letter [Footnote A: Letter XXX.] 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 apple-tree 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 inquired 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. 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 heads 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." + +"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, sir, 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 a 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 +steadfast 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 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." + +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 a 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_, sir, 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 carriage 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. + +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. + + + + +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 some time grant me the power to compensate yon 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. + +"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, porringers, 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 delectable amusements of mending your 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 enclosed 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 repairing 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 +sincere 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 is 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 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, considerate, 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, November 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 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 a hundred miles that lies between us, more than once I cast 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, "though 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 dote +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! + +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 inquire 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 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 dishonours 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 +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 show 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 reconsider 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, +irresistible in whatever direction they are bent; capable of giving the +highest degree of misery or happiness to yourself and to others. At +present they are misdirected 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, destitute of the joys and energies of religion; wandering in a +maze of passions and doubts; devoured by fantastic 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 may put on solemn visages and mutter +holy names. We may abstain from profane amusements or unauthorized words; +we may shun, as infections, 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 inquired 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 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 +safeguard 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 steadfast 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 inquiry. +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 demeanour 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. + +From my remonstrances you never averted your ear. Every proof of an +unprejudiced attention, and even of a bias favourable 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 inquiry. 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 judgments. 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. 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 +knowledge? + +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 irresistible 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 inquiries; delicately 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 steadfast 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 +falters, 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 steadfastness and virtue, but the power also! + +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 a while 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 judgment--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 call 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 produced, not only something new or unexpected, but +something in seeming contradiction 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 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?--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 idolizes, 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 +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, either. +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, 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 indispensably 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 favour of +the accusation! When I first read Mrs. Fielder's letter, the consciousness +of my innocence gave me courage; but the 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 +enchantments 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 entreaty, so absolutely forbidding my +departure. + +And was I such a short-sighted 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, since 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 witnessed, 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 had read very +frequently this fatal billet. Who is it that could imitate your hand 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, sit down to the recollection of your past life, and +inquire who it was that possessed your husband's confidence; who were his +intimate companions, endeavour 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. + + + + +Letter XXXVI + + +_To Henry Colden_ + +Philadelphia, November 23. + +You impose on me a painful task. Persuaded that reflection was useless, +I have endeavoured 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 +endeavour 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 a 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. + +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 soothing it +into apathy, only adds a new sting. + +A spotless reputation was once dear to me, but I have 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 labour but reiterated mortification and +disappointment? + +An upright demeanour, 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 favourable 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 favour and affection of my mother; +but, clear as it is, I must give it up. How can I retain it? I cannot +confute the charge. I must not acknowledge a guilt that does not belong to +me. Added, therefore, to her belief of my guilt, must be the persuasion of +my being a hardened and obdurate criminal. + +What will she think of my last two 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 honourable compunction, left to operate +without your control. 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 situation. 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 begone 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 +then be a rebel indeed?--one that scorns her favour, 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, perforce, remain as I am. But perhaps her next letter +will throw some light upon my destiny. I suppose my positive assertions +will show her that a change of purpose cannot be hoped for from me. + +The bell rings. Perhaps it is the postman, 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 a 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 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 basilisk 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 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 +acquiescence, 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 demeanour 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 begone, 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; your treatment of the +Woodbury girl; your correspondence with Thomson; your ignoble sloth; your +dependence upon others; your helplessness. + +From these accusations I defended you in silence. My heart was your +secret advocate. I did not verbally repel any of these charges. That of +inglorious dependence for subsistence upon others I admitted; but I could +not forbear urging that this dependence 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 labour; 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 ignominiously +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. + +My mother removed all doubt which could not but attend such unwelcome +tidings, by showing 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 +bruise on your forehead? That bruise, and every token of dismay, your +endeavours 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 favour. + +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. + +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. + +Sir:-- + +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 a 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. + +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 +favour. 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 +favour. + +M. FIELDER. + + + + +Letter XXXIX + + +_To Mrs. Talbot_ + +November 28. + +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 honour 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 apprized 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 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 dishonour? 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 parent's control 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 the injurer. Not an angry word, accusing look, or revengeful +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 +happy. + +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. + + + + +Letter XL + + +_To James Montford_ + +November 28. + +I TOLD you of your brother Stephen's talk with me about accompanying +him on his northwest 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 +boisterous 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. + +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 friend's 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, someway, 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, dependence, +ignominy, will she share with me? And if her strenuous spirit set naught +by these, (and I know she is capable of rising above them,) 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 a one as, when the +present tumults of passion have subsided, when the eye sedately +scrutinizes, and the heart beats in an even tenor, may be read without +shame or remorse. + +I shall 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. + + + + +Letter XLI + + +_To Henry Colden_ + +Philadelphia, December 3. + +Sir:-- + +My daughter informs me that the letter she has just despatched 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 enemy, you will +rank me among your benefactors. + +You have shown 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 +enclosed 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. + + + + +Letter XLII + + +_To Mrs. Fielder_ + +Baltimore, December 5. + +Madam:-- + +I pretend not to be raised above any of the infirmities of human +nature; but I 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 revisit 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 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 the one or the +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 can say with respect to a +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 most 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 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 hers, and with an eternal farewell to you both. + +H. COLDEN. + + + + +Letter XLIII + + +_To James Montford_ + +Philadelphia, December 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 +indispensable 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? + +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, must 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 my 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 woman's house, and +stopped a moment just to give me a "How d'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? + +Oh, 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 was 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 +satirical apology, with, "No wonder; for the girl was over head and ears +in love, and her man would have nothing to say to her. A hundred times has +she begged and prayed him 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." + +"Pray," said I, "who was this ungrateful person?" + +"His name was Talbot. Miss Jessup would not give him up, but teased 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, 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 inquired 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-humour occasioned by her +disappointment to display itself without control. Hannah's curiosity was +not chastened 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 doted 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. + +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 inquisitive of mortals. Her neighbour was regarded with no +particular affection; her conversation is usually a vein of impertinence +or levity; her visits were always unsought, 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 neighbour's cast, and +those 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 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 despatched 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 say that Miss Polly 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 lived 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 Polly 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 eyer write to Talbot?" + +"Oh, yes. Just before Talbot's marriage, she often wrote to him. Tom +used to talk very freely in the kitchen about his mistress's 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 of it." + +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 a 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 Polly 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 mother's 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 +despatch, 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 a hearty draught of +strong beer. + +While quaffing his nectar, and chattering with his usual gayety, +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 inquired 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 increased 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 anybody 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 some importance to her. It had lain, 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 Jessup's ordinary handwriting. 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 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 burden 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 a human being whom I knew. + +What I shall 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 likewise 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 +indispensable; 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 she took so much pains to gain his favour, 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, "Oh, sir! Oh, Mr. Colden!" + +This behaviour was enough to terrify me. I trembled in every joint +while I faltered 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 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 +further 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 endeavoured to comfort Mrs. Talbot, but in +vain. + +Next day she did not rise as early as usual. Her mother came to her +bedside, and inquired 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 passed. 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 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 showed 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 endeavoured to soothe 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 have 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. 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's +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, 'Oh, +what--what a 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 glimpse 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 +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 effect 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 unappeasable remorse, pursue this +scheme of a distant voyage? Suppose some fatal despair 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 fragrant 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 she 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 remedy +for all evils; that our efforts to regain the favour of her mother would +be most likely to succeed when that which she endeavoured 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 +inseparable? + +What a fantastic impediment is this aversion of her mother! And yet, +can I safely and deliberately call it fantastic? 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 +bias 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 assurances? +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 undetermined 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 despatch. 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 to talk:-- + +"I am very unwell; got a terrible cold, coming from Dover; been laid up +ever since; a teasing 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 trepidation, "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 establishment of truth would act with more +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 gaming 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 eyeing her with +steadfastness;) "she thinks me at once so artful and so wicked that I have +made the wife unfaithful to the husband; that 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 shown 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 little family +dissensions 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; a hectic flush now and then shot across her check. 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, how can your interest be affected by clearing +up a mistake so fatal to the happiness of one for whom you have always +professed 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 came 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 reconcile her to her daughter's marriage. It will 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 +faltered 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 unauthorized 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 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 came 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. + +"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 on 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 shown 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. Enclose 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 +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 to-morrow. She was too unwell to see anybody, 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 enclosed 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 paragraph, in a 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 Hannah Seeker, 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," (showing the superscription, but not permitting her to see +that the seal was unbroken,) "no doubt you recognise the hand; the hand of +that anonymous detractor who had previously taken so much pains to +convince the husband that his wife was an adulteress 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 stayed 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 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 inquired 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 further 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, arid +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 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 +favour 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 I can truly aver that my motives are disinterested. Does not my +character make a plentiful and independent provision, 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 +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 endeavours 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. 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 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, December 1. + +I said I would not write to you again; I would encourage, I would allow +of, no intercourse between 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 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 a 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." + +"Oh," 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." + +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 etherealized myself from all corporeal passions. I even +set spiritual ministers to work to find 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. + +Oh, comfort me, my friend! plead against yourself; against me. Be my +mother's advocate. Fly away from these 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 corpse +to the grave, by disclaiming, by hating, by forgetting, the +unfortunate + +JANE. + + + + +Letter XLV + + +_To Henry Colden_ + +December 4. + +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 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 has +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 +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 sunrise 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---- + +And shall my heart, after its dreadful languors, its excruciating +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 stuccoed ceiling. 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 near it. 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 hers, and is not thy cheek +already wet with her tears? for thy poor girl's eyes are as 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. 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 burden +of remorse which generosity like this will lay upon me? + +But I tell you, Henry, I am resolved. I have nothing but evil to +choose. 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 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 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, was +despatched 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 favour. 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? + +"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 sighs? 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 indispensable 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 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. Today 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. + + + + +Letter XLVII + + +_To Henry Colden_ + +December 8. + +Sir:-- + +Enclosed 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 enclosed 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 showed me, and, I +beseech you, return it to me by the bearer. + +M. JESSUP. + + + + +Letter XLVIII + + +_To Mrs. Fielder_ + +December 8. + +Madam:-- + +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 married not to +please herself, but to please others. Her husband's 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 falsehoods 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 +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 mine 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. 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, +candour 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. + +Here I was again favoured 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 surprisingly 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 humour. 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 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 further than the evil has gone, you will confer +as great a comfort as can now be conferred on the unhappy + +M. JESSUP. + + + + +Letter XLIX + + +_To James Montford_ + +Philadelphia, December 9. + +I WILL imagine, my friend, that you have read the letter [Footnote: The +preceding one.] which I 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 motives 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 intrust to me shall be +applied to no purpose but that which you proposed by writing it. Enclosed +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." + +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 falters. I summon up in vain a tranquil and steadfast +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 unceremoniously 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, 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. Fielder 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 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 +moment's 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?'7 + +"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 controllable,) "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 entreat you to peruse this letter." + +"'Tis well, sir," (taking it, with some reluctance, and, after eyeing +the direction, putting it aside.) "And this is all your business?" + +"Let me entreat 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 +reflection 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 desist from any future persecution. Your letter to me gave +me no reason to expect the honour of this visit, and contained something +like a promise to shun any further 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. + +"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 as far as ever from +certainty. Expostulation 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 a hearing of 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. + + + + +Letter L + + +_To Mr. Colden_ + +December 11. + +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 apprizing 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. + +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 +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 powers combined to force me into the +right path,--the path of duty, honour, 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 independent 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 my +happiness; but this shall satisfy me. If fate impel 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, 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, some time 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, December 16. + +It is not improbable that, as soon as you recognise the hand that wrote +this letter, you will throw it unread into the fire; yet it comes not to +soothe resentment, or to supplicate for mercy. It seeks not a favourable +audience. It wishes not--because the wish would be chimerical--to have its +assertions 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 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. + +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, December 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 +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 bedside. +Her opinions of me were all derived from unfavourable 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 a 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 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 +passions 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 +endeavour 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, plausibility and subtlety 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 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, +into 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 a half-stifled sigh and +ill-disguised tear on her part. Some arrangements as to the letters and +papers of 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 inquire +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 thought +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 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 inquiry 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 inquiries 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 inquiry, was more criminal than any kind of opinion candidly +investigated and firmly adopted, and would more effectually debar me 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. + + + + +Letter LIV + + +Philadelphia, December 19. + +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 misapprehensions +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 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 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 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 irresistible. + +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 Saturday night. In the arms of my +true friends, I will endeavour to forget the vexations that at present +prey 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 effort 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 +mother's 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 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 a 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 + +JANE TALBOT. + + + + +Letter LVI + + +_To Mrs. Montford_ + +Madam:-- + +Philadelphia, October 7. + +It is with extreme reluctance that I venture to address you in this +manner. I cannot find words to account for or apologize. But, if you be +indeed the sister of Henry Golden, 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 a little interest; who honoured 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 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_ + +My dear Madam:-- + +New York, October 9. + +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 inquiries 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 he immediately +adopted have 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. Golden 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 +inquiry you may be pleased to make respecting one for whom I have +entertained the affection becoming 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. + + + + +Letter LVIII + + +_To Mrs. Montford_ + +Philadelphia, October 12. + +Dear Madam:-- + +How shall I thank you for the kind and delicate manner in which you +have complied with my request? You will not be surprised, nor, I hope, +offended, that I am emboldened to address you once more. + +I see that I need not practise 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 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 a letter; 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. + +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 twelvemonth has since passed, he has not yet returned. +Hence the boldness of this address to you, whom I know only by rumour. + +You will, I doubt not, easily imagine to yourself my feelings, and will +be good enough to answer my inquiries, 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 apologize 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 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 unsought-for renunciation as a means +of reconcilement with his father, was no subject of surprise or 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 dependence 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 necessity +which thence arose of finding employment 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 sought 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. Golden 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 me would be absurd. What can I say in favour +of my attachment to her, which she may not, with equal reason, urge in +favour 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 object. 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 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 favour. As several passages were +expected to be made between China and Nootka, that desirable event cannot +be expected to be very near. + +M. M. + + + + +Letter LX + + +_To Mrs. Montford_ + +Philadelphia, October 20. + +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 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, entreat _him_ to forgive me, +and recompense yourself and him for all your mutual sufferings. + +"I hope all, though 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 passed." + +She stretched her hand to me, which I bathed 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. Talbot_ + +New York, October 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. + +Accept the fraternal regards of Mr. Montford. + +M.M. + + + + +Letter LXII + + +_To Mrs. Montford_ + +Banks of Delaware, September 5. + +Be not anxious for me, Mary. I hope to experience very speedy relief +from the wholesome airs that perpetually fan this spot. Your apprehensions +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. + +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 let 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 memory, +the fancy, and the heart. No spot of earth can possibly teem 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. + +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. Besides, 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 everybody 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 stayed among us, would in time have been united. But he went away +when I was scarcely fourteen. At parting, I 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 favourite airs, twice a day. We have no strangers; no impertinents +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 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 Frederick across 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 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, October 1. + +Be not angry with me, 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 apartment, at the very moment when I was perusing your last letter. I +was 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 that I was guilty of a most culpable breach of confidence in +showing 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. + + + + +Letter LXIV + + +_To Mrs. Talbot_ + +New York, December 12. + +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. 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 honour 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, October 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 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. + + + + +Letter LXVI + + +_To Jane Talbot_ + +New York, November 15. + +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 intrigues 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. + +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 outlying +isle or dry sand-bank on the eastern coast of Japan. Here they seized the +two unsuspecting youths, at daybreak, while asleep in their _berths_, +and, immediately putting out their boat, landed my brother on the shore, +without clothing 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, +which 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 sentinel who guarded him had received orders to +keep him in that situation till the visitants had departed. Prom some +impulse of humanity, or mistake of orders, the sentinel freed him from +restraint a few minutes earlier than had been intended, and he got on deck +before the departing strangers had gone to any considerable distance from +the ship. He immediately leaped 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 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 I could not +believe you if you did. Write to me speedily, however. + + + + +Letter LXVII + + +_To Mrs. Talbot_ + +New York, November 23. + +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 passed, and none has come. Let me hear from you immediately, I +entreat 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 anywhere 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 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, November 26. + +I beseech you, dear Mrs. Montford, take some measures for drawing our +dear Jane from this place. There is no remedy but absence 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 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. + + + + +Letter LXIX + + +_To Mr. Montford_ + +New Haven, February 10. + +My dear friend:-- + +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 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 +explore my way back to my native shore, are surely most strange and +incredible achievements. Yet all this, my friend, has been endured and +performed by your Colden. + +Finding it impossible to move immediately from this place, and this +day's 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 breathe 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 +encounter and the sufferance will be pleasant to remembrance and +delightful in narration. + +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 Tekehatsin 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. + +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 melancholy 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 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 akin, 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 shall 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 showed 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 exempt from the irresistible control 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 was blemished by none of those +momentous errors with which mine was loaded, since that harmony of opinion +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 fears and +suspenses--Yet it would give you pleasure to know every thing as soon as +possible--some time 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 and 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 +through 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 steadfast height of simple and true piety. + +Such, my friend, were my inducements to return; but first it was +necessary to explain, by letter, to Holtz--But my messenger is at the +door, eager to begone. Take this, my friend. Bring yourself, or send back +by the same messenger, without a moment's 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 Golden_ + +New York, February 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? + +Oh, 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 Golden--that selfsame, 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 a +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 doting +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 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 everything. He has been a brother 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 authorized love, +some recompense for all the evils to which her antipathies subjected you? +She hoped, indeed, that observation and experience would detect the +fallacy 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 +completing 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 on a union which death will have no +power to dissolve. Oh, 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 mine in its adoration 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 a 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, though +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 a heart that ever was and always will be +_thine own_. Witness, + +JANE TALBOT. + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Jane Talbot, by Charles Brockden Brown + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JANE TALBOT *** + +***** This file should be named 8404.txt or 8404.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/4/0/8404/ + +Produced by Online Distributed Proofreading Team +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive +specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this +eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook +for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, +performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given +away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks +not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the +trademark license, especially commercial redistribution. + +START: FULL LICENSE + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the +person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph +1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the +Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when +you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country outside the United States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work +on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: + + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and + most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no + restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it + under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this + eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the + United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you + are located before using this ebook. + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format +other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain +Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +provided that + +* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation." + +* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm + works. + +* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + +* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The +Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm +trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at +www.gutenberg.org + + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the +mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its +volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous +locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt +Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to +date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and +official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact + +For additional contact information: + + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular +state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search +facility: www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + diff --git a/8404.zip b/8404.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0ec109d --- /dev/null +++ b/8404.zip diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9953390 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #8404 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8404) diff --git a/old/jntlb10.txt b/old/jntlb10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..346f62c --- /dev/null +++ b/old/jntlb10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9834 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Jane Talbot, by Charles Brockden Brown + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Jane Talbot + +Author: Charles Brockden Brown + +Release Date: July, 2005 [EBook #8404] +[This file was first posted on July 7, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: utf-8 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, JANE TALBOT *** + + + + +E-text prepared by the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + +Jane Talbot + +by + +Charles Brockden Brown. + + + + + + + +Letter I + + +_To Henry Colden_ + +Philadelphia, Monday Evening, October 3. + +I am very far from being a wise girl. So conscience whispers me, and, +though vanity is eager to refute the charge, I must acknowledge that she +is seldom successful. Conscience tells me it is folly, it is guilt, to +wrap up my existence in one frail mortal; to employ all my thoughts, to +lavish all my affections, upon one object; to dote upon a human being, +who, as such, must be the heir of many frailties, and whom I know to be +not without his faults; to enjoy no peace but in his presence, to be +grateful for his permission to sacrifice fortune, ease, life itself, for +his sake. + +From the humiliation produced by these charges, vanity endeavours to +relieve me by insinuating that all happiness springs from affection; that +nature ordains no tie so strong as that between the sexes; that to love +without bounds is to confer bliss not only on ourselves but on another; +that conjugal affection is the genuine sphere not only of happiness but +duty. + +Besides, my heart will not be persuaded but that its fondness for you +is nothing more than simple justice. Ought I not to love excellence, and +does my poor imagination figure to itself any thing in human shape more +excellent than thou? + +But yet there are bounds beyond which passion cannot go without +counteracting its own purposes. I am afraid mine goes beyond those bounds. +So far as it produces rapture, it deserves to be cherished; but when +productive of impatience, repining, agony, on occasions too that are +slight, trivial, or unavoidable, 'tis surely culpable. + +Methinks, my friend, I would not have had thee for a witness of the +bitterness, the tumult of my feelings, during this day; ever since you +left me. You cannot conceive any thing more forlorn, more vacant, more +anxious, than this weak heart has been and still is. I was terrified at my +own sensations, and, with my usual folly, began to construe them into +omens of evils; so inadequate, so disproportioned was my distress to the +cause that produced it. + +Ah! my friend! a weak--very weak--creature is thy Jane. From excess of +love arises that weakness; _that_ must be its apology with thee, for, +in thy mind, my fondness, I know, needs an apology. + +Shall I scold you a little? I have held in the rein a long time, but my +overflowing heart must have relief, and I shall find a sort of comfort in +chiding you. Let me chide you, then, for coldness, for insensibility: but +no; I will not. Let me enjoy the rewards of self-denial and forbearance, +and seal up my accusing lips. Let me forget the coldness of your last +salute, your ill-concealed effort to disengage yourself from my foolishly- +fond arms. You have got at your journey's end, I hope. Farewell. + +J. TALBOT. + + + + +Letter II + + +_To Henry Colden_ + +Tuesday Morning, October 4. + +I must write to you, you said, frequently and copiously: you did not +mean, I suppose, that I should always be scribbling, but I cannot help it. +I can do nothing but converse with you. When present, my prate is +incessant; when absent, I can prate to you with as little intermission; +for the pen, used so carelessly and thoughtlessly as I use it, does +_but_ prate. + +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 +affected by it. I am not surprised that calumny has been busy with my +life, and am very little anxious to clear myself from unjust charges, +except to such as you. + +At this moment, I may add, my mood is not unfriendly to the +undertaking. I can do nothing in your absence but write to you. To write +what I have ten thousand times spoken, and which can be perfectly +understood only when accompanied by looks and accents, seems absurd. +Especially while there is a subject on which my _tongue_ can never +expatiate, but on which it is necessary that you should know all that I +can tell you. + +The prospect of filling up this interval with the relation of the most +affecting parts of my life somewhat reconciled me to your necessary +absence, yet I know my heart will droop. Even this preparation to look +back makes me shudder already. Some reluctance to recall tragical or +humiliating scenes, and, by thus recalling to endure them, in some sense, +a second time, I must expect to feel. + +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. J. T. + + + + +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 condolences. + +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 disburdened my heart. Disburden it, said I? I shall load it, I +fear, with sadness, but I will not regret an undertaking which my duty to +you makes indispensable. + +One of the earliest incidents that I remember is an expostulation with +my father. I saw 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 mother's 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 showed none of the volatility of childhood. While she lived, I was never +at ease but 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 shown 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 +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 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 marrage, +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 showed strong propensities to active amusement 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 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 a +housekeeper 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 honour 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 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 shown 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 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 befell 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 a 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 expenses 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 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 enter 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 showed him that page of the letter which +related to this affair. I anxiously watched his looks while he read +it. + +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 conference 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!" cried my brother, with a laugh, "has thy silly brain engendered +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 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 stir 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 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 showed great solicitude. +I did not wronder at this, as Risberg had always been loved as a son. A +little consideration, therefore, ought to have shown 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 interference." + +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 +deference, and I saw nothing peculiarly petulant or improper in what I had +said. + +"Dear sir, forgive me: you know I write to my cousin, and, as he stated +his complaints 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." + +"Certainly, if the subject displeases you, I will drop it." Here a +pause of mutual embarrassment 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 forgotten 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 depended on him for his +maintenance; but somehow 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. Bat 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 lenient 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 is +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, +Risberg's expectations and 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 occasion 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!" said 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 a hopeless task. As to my father, he will never +submit to my guidance." + +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 represented me as the heiress of +her fortunes, and confided fully in my discretion. The chief uses 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 adventurous undertaking for a +young creature like me. It was impossible to do this clandestinely; at +least, 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 +surprise, therefore, was not small. I started up with the confusion of a +stranger, and requested him, very formally, to be seated. + +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 that you have been meddling with things that do not +concern you,--sowing dissension 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 teasing him, +about this traveller Risberg, 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 boisterous 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 to receive an insult." + +"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, that any good will result from 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 inter-meddling 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 interference +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 with me. +Risberg, I see, must look elsewhere for a father and a brother." + +"Poor thing! do; put its finger in its eye and weep. Ha! ha! ha! poor +Risberg! how would he laugh to see these compassionate tears! It seem she +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 proof 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 a 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 calumniator? 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 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-by to you." + +So ended this conversation. He left me in a 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 that 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 not 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, +I hope, will soon be able to subsist upon the fruits of your own learning +and industry. + +"I have something more to say to you, 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 completed 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 a belief that he was in love. At +least, in all his letters, he seemed fond of recognising 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 gracefulness of passion +naturally prompts them to make their 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 conducive to the interests 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 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. + + + + +Letter IV + + +_To Henry Colden_ + +Wednesday Morning, October 5. + +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 +permanent, 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 though I was sensible that I held of my +maternal friend but a very precarious tenure, that my character and +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, though 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 +inquiries 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 considerable 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, though 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?" + +"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 inquire what +_speculation_ meant. I know only that it is some hazardous or +complicated way of getting money." + +These hints, though 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 wrere +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?" + +"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, 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, indispensably 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 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 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 nowise 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 counsel of a +girl. + +He replied to my remarks with confidence, that no further demand would +be made upon him. The last sum was given with extreme reluctance, and +nothing but the positive assurance that it would absolutely be the last +had prevailed with him. + +"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---- + +"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 shown to be fallacious? +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. Though 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. +Matthews 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." + +"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'ythee?" + +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?" + +"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 dependence; +but still there was a possibility of this. To insure 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 explain the affair to you, if you choose, 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." + +"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 freak, 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." + +"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 supposed 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 tremors 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 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 stopped. 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. Entreaty 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 resumed his +arrogant and 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 honour, +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 controlled. 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 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, and 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?" + +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 wrhich 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 +damned 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 nowhere 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 to-morrow afternoon, and with that I will replace this." + +"My father ruined! In danger of a jail! 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 doting 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 till to-morrow evening. + +"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 L "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 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 + + [Editorial note: The observant reader will have noted there is no + Letter V. The original text did not contain one, + and we have chosen to let the letters retain their + original numbers, rather than renumber them.] + + +_To Henry Colden_ + +Thursday Morning, October 6. + +As soon as my visitants had gone, I hastened to my father. I +immediately introduced the subject of which my heart was full. I related +the particulars of my late interview with my brother; entreated him with +the utmost earnestness to make the proper inquiries into the state of my +brother's affairs, with whose fate it was too plain that his own were +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 servant, and directed him, in a faltering 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 despatched 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 Prank was still abroad. 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 straits 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 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 +thunder-struck. 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, though useless to you, is as +indispensable 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 completely 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, 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, "Oh, 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 +entreated 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. + +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 has been talked about this afternoon, very little, as usual, to his +advantage." + +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 twelvemonth 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 Monsieur Petitgrave, brother to Frank's _housekeeper_, the +handsome mustec. 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 tenor:-- + +"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 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 despatching my answer, he appeared. I need not +repeat our conversation. He extorted from me, without much difficulty, +what I had heard through 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 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 +reacted. + +With every new instance of folly, my shame and selfcondemnation +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 watchmaker with whom my servant had, +some time before, left a watch to be repaired. It occurred to me that, +since I was now on the spot, I might as well stop and make some inquiry +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 cigars 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 a'n'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:)--"_Jane 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 she 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." + +"Why, damn it if I don't 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 sha'n'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, +betimes, and, finding that he had a check for a little more than my debt, +I teased 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 steadfastly 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 meretricious vagabond, were +indignities not to be endured. I was carried involuntarily 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 day's experience had of +late convinced me that in no valuable attribute was he anywise 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 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 apprized 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 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 non-payment, he applied for a new 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 +repay it shown 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 +complete 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 through 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, +despatched by my brother to summon me back. My mother went in my stead. I +was left, for some minutes, alone. + +So persuasive had been my brother's rhetoric, that I began to regret my +flight. + +I felt something like compunction at having deprived him of an +opportunity 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 anybody 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 detestable, how insecure, are fraud and +treachery! Had he been confronted with me, no doubt he would have +recognised the person whom he stared at at the watch-maker's. + +Next morning I received a note, dated on 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 shown 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 despair. 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 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 tenor 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 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 lead 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 opulence, +one would think it would occur to him to inquire into the effects of his +misconduct, 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 jail 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 penniless 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! I 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 despatched an enormous packet, and have not received a sentence +in 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 Golden_ + +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 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, though 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 corporal agonies. Even the pain which I +just now complained of is lessened since I took up the pen. Oh, 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 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. + + + + +Letter VIII + + +_To Jane Talbot_ + +Wilmington, Saturday, October 9. + +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, +nor because my chief pleasure lay anywhere 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, who 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! + +As to Miss Secker, your ignorance of her, and, I may add, of yourself, +has given her the preference. 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. Were 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 rheumatism 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 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 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 yours 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. + +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 detestable, 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 heightened 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, 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 acknowledged to be +free. He would not leave me for his European 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. + +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 a union to which the affections are +averse. Let it not confide in the afterbirth of love. Such a 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 despise 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. 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, +than the mere tattling, gossiping, 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 washwoman 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. Oh, 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 choose only among deplorable evils. + +JANE TALBOT. + + + + +Letter X + + +_To Jane Talbot_ + +New York, October 13. + +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 lifetime. You will judge, then, with what emotions such +intelligence was received. + +Indiscreet 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 centred 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, though 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 yours 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 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 +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 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 entreat you, my duty to your inclination. + +JANE TALBOT. + + + + +Letter XII + + +_To Mrs. Fielder_ + +Philadelphia, October 17. + +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, and 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. + +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 duteous 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. + + + + +Letter XIV + + +_To Mrs. Fielder_ + +Philadelphia, October 24. + +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 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 dependent 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 short-sighted 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 that is in my power to do. +I will forbear 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 a 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 entreat 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 tale must want something to complete 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. + +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 hers 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. + + + + +Letter XV + + +_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 in 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 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 through 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 harass me +with importunity, 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 showed 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 fantastic 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 keeping your happiness might safely +be intrusted. Talbot was such a 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 tastes and habits suitable and common to his +education and age. He was addicted to industry, was regular and frugal in +his manner and economy. He had nothing of that specious and glossy texture +which captivates inexperience and youth, and serves as a substitute for +every 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 a 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, though 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 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 had 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 fantastic 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 subtleties 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, gave 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 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 inquire 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 +apprehensions at rest. I was deceived by 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 a +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 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 practice; accustomed to intoxicate the women with melodious +flattery; fond of being _intimate_; avowedly devoted to the sex; +eloquent 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 intention 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 inquiring 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 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 handwriting 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. + +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 +fascinating book [Footnote: Godwin's Political Justice.] 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 inquiry. 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 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 abhorred. + +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 detestable 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 poison 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? +whether, in destroying 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 exist. 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 intrust 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 +sacrifice 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 misconduct, behind 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 unavoidable 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. + + + + +Letter XVI + + +_To the same_ + +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 +showing me a letter. + +He showed it me on condition of my being everlastingly silent to you in +regard to its 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 ever 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. + +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. + + + + +Letter XVII + + +(Enclosed Letter.) + + +_To Henry Colden_ + +Tuesday Morning. + +You went away this morning before I was awake. I think you might have +stayed 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, Hal. 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_. + +_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 +excessively 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; +at least for a month to come. The sweet oblivion of the future and past +lasted only for the night. Now I have leisure to look forward, and am +resolved (don't 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 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 choose 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 in ease and 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 to 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 +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 well-wisher 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 those talents, and that the sum I offer 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 a higher place in my esteem. Yet, +through deference to scruples which you may possibly possess, I most +cheerfully plight to you my honour, 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 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 anybody'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. + + + + +Letter XX + + +_To Henry Colden_ + +Philadelphia, October 28. + +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 despatch 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 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 enclosed 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 short-lived 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. + +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 handwriting,-- +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 a 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 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 clothes 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 gossiping 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 open and shut, and footsteps overhead, 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 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 enclosed. I instantly recognised 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. + +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 had 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 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 has 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 a 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 atrocious guilt. + +In an evil hour, Henry, was it that I saw thee first. What endless +perplexities have beset me since that disastrous 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 ill-fated Jane. Seek a more worthy companion, and be +happy. + +Perhaps you will feel, not pity, but displeasure, in receiving 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, re-echoed 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. + + + + +Letter XXII + + +_To Jane Talbot_ + +Baltimore, October 31. + +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 showing all the letters that have passed +between us, the contents of which will show that such guilt was +impossible; by making your girl bear witness to the precaution you used on +that night to 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 him, my +girl, who knows thee 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. + +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 irreconcilable, 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? + +You cannot unite yourself to me but with some view to my happiness. +Will your contributing to that happiness be nothing? + +Yet I cannot separate my felicity from yours. 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 erase 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. + +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 +not, 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. + +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 GOLDEN. + + + + +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 have made me in this +letter. + +I should be grossly 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 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 or depreciate their value. +Still, much as habit has endeared to me the 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. + +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, Nov. 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 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 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 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 shown 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. + + + + +Letter XXV + + +_To the Same_ + +Nov. 3. + +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 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. + +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 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 yours it shall occupy the chief place in my heart. The time, the +manner, be it yours to prescribe. My happiness, on that event, will surely +want but little to complete 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 callousness 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, were changed into half-vindictive reluctance,--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 yours, and myself am only flattered +indirectly. + +And yet, when I have extorted from you any secret sorrow, you have +afterwards acknowledged that the disclosure was of use:--that my +sympathizing 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. + + + + +Letter XXVI + + +_To Mrs. Fielder_ + +Philadelphia, November 4. + +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 some time 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 handwriting 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 beforehand, 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 flown 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 supply +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 a heart. You have +taught me to value a fair fame beyond every thing but the peace of 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. + + + + +Letter XXVII + + +_To Mrs. Talbot_ + +Baltimore, November 5. + +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 in a continued series of falsehoods +and frauds. + +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 shown 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 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. + +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, show 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 a 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 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 a +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 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. + +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 complete 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 dependent 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; 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 prattler 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 +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 +twelvemonth 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 cloze, 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 +eyelids. + +"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? Haven't +two ideas that hang together intelligibly. 'Twill be commonplace 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; 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-by 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, thou'lt 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. + + + + +Letter XXIX + + +_To the Same_ + +10 o'clock at night. + +Now let us take a view of what is to come. Too often I endeavour to +escape from foresight 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 inflict +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 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 steadfast 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 a 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 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 a 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 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. + +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 says, evinces a pathetic +earnestness for my conviction. + +I listen to him with a 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 contumacious 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. 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 on 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 falter. I know that he will boldly justify +his conduct, and I feel that he ought to justify; yet the attempt to +justify would awaken--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. + + + + +Letter XXXI + + +_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-encumbered 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-- +_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, mayhap, 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 is 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 withal,--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. + +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 basketful, 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 despatch +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 counter, I usually went back, and found on every interview +new cause for 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 counsel to assist her in the new state of her +affairs. + +Laying aside ceremony, I inquired 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 been industrious and thrifty, and his death left her +enough to support her and her Sally in the way they wished. + +Inquiring 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 unspoiled 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 with 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 in completing 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 of charity to her +neighbours and thankfulness to God. + +Much--indeed, all--of these comforts she ascribes to me; yet her +gratitude is not loquacious. It shows 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 entreating 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 advances to intimacy but when expressly invited and +encouraged. + +It was a good while before all her new arrangements were completed. +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 showred 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?" + +"Oh, 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 +don't 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 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 accommodate 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 can't 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." + +"Oh, 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 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 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 summer-time, to join her at her chamber-window and +pass away the starlight hour in the unwitnessed community of fond +hearts? + +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 dependence? 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, thinkest 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 +tears 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 +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 outdone 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 +separate 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 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 tributes 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. + +Dost 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 +portrayest? One would fancy that this happy outcast, this self-dependent +wife, was no other than _thyself_. + +A shrewd conjecture, truly. I suppose, Hal, thou wilt be fond enough to +guess so, too. By 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 choose 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 + + [Editorial note: The observant reader will have noticed this is the + second letter bearing the number XXXI. The original + text contained two Letters XXXI, and we have chosen + to let the letters retain their original numbers, + rather than renumber them.] + + +_To Henry Colden_ + +Philadelphia, November 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." + +"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 mantel 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 mere 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 a '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 know I have +personal reasons for wishing to pass through this city without notice. My +business did not bring me farther 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 probable 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?" + +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 even 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 a 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 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 scarcely been half a brother +hitherto, I grant you 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 inquiry 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 splendour. + +"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? + +"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 inamorata +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-by;' 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 splendour of his new rank. He +endeavoured to seduce my vanity by the prospect of the conquest 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 +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 Newport, 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." + +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. + + + + +Letter XXXII + + +_To Jane Talbot_ + +Baltimore, November 14. + +Let me overlook your last letter [Footnote A: Letter XXX.] 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 apple-tree 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 inquired 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. 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 heads 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." + +"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, sir, 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 a 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 +steadfast 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 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." + +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 a 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_, sir, 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 carriage 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. + +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. + + + + +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 some time grant me the power to compensate yon 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. + +"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, porringers, 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 delectable amusements of mending your 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 enclosed 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 repairing 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 +sincere 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 is 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 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, considerate, 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, November 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 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 a hundred miles that lies between us, more than once I cast 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, "though 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 dote +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! + +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 inquire 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 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 dishonours 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 +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 show 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 reconsider 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, +irresistible in whatever direction they are bent; capable of giving the +highest degree of misery or happiness to yourself and to others. At +present they are misdirected 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, destitute of the joys and energies of religion; wandering in a +maze of passions and doubts; devoured by fantastic 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 may put on solemn visages and mutter +holy names. We may abstain from profane amusements or unauthorized words; +we may shun, as infections, 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 inquired 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 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 +safeguard 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 steadfast 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 inquiry. +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 demeanour 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. + +From my remonstrances you never averted your ear. Every proof of an +unprejudiced attention, and even of a bias favourable 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 inquiry. 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 judgments. 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. 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 +knowledge? + +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 irresistible 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 inquiries; delicately 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 steadfast 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 +falters, 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 steadfastness and virtue, but the power also! + +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 a while 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 judgment--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 call 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 produced, not only something new or unexpected, but +something in seeming contradiction 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 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?--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 idolizes, 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 +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, either. +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, 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 indispensably 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 favour of +the accusation! When I first read Mrs. Fielder's letter, the consciousness +of my innocence gave me courage; but the 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 +enchantments 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 entreaty, so absolutely forbidding my +departure. + +And was I such a short-sighted 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, since 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 witnessed, 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 had read very +frequently this fatal billet. Who is it that could imitate your hand 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, sit down to the recollection of your past life, and +inquire who it was that possessed your husband's confidence; who were his +intimate companions, endeavour 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. + + + + +Letter XXXVI + + +_To Henry Colden_ + +Philadelphia, November 23. + +You impose on me a painful task. Persuaded that reflection was useless, +I have endeavoured 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 +endeavour 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 a 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. + +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 soothing it +into apathy, only adds a new sting. + +A spotless reputation was once dear to me, but I have 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 labour but reiterated mortification and +disappointment? + +An upright demeanour, 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 favourable 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 favour and affection of my mother; +but, clear as it is, I must give it up. How can I retain it? I cannot +confute the charge. I must not acknowledge a guilt that does not belong to +me. Added, therefore, to her belief of my guilt, must be the persuasion of +my being a hardened and obdurate criminal. + +What will she think of my last two 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 honourable compunction, left to operate +without your control. 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 situation. 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 begone 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 +then be a rebel indeed?--one that scorns her favour, 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, perforce, remain as I am. But perhaps her next letter +will throw some light upon my destiny. I suppose my positive assertions +will show her that a change of purpose cannot be hoped for from me. + +The bell rings. Perhaps it is the postman, 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 a 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 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 basilisk 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 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 +acquiescence, 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 demeanour 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 begone, 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; your treatment of the +Woodbury girl; your correspondence with Thomson; your ignoble sloth; your +dependence upon others; your helplessness. + +From these accusations I defended you in silence. My heart was your +secret advocate. I did not verbally repel any of these charges. That of +inglorious dependence for subsistence upon others I admitted; but I could +not forbear urging that this dependence 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 labour; 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 ignominiously +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. + +My mother removed all doubt which could not but attend such unwelcome +tidings, by showing 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 +bruise on your forehead? That bruise, and every token of dismay, your +endeavours 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 favour. + +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. + +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. + +Sir:-- + +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 a 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. + +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 +favour. 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 +favour. + +M. FIELDER. + + + + +Letter XXXIX + + +_To Mrs. Talbot_ + +November 28. + +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 honour 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 apprized 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 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 dishonour? 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 parent's control 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 the injurer. Not an angry word, accusing look, or revengeful +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 +happy. + +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. + + + + +Letter XL + + +_To James Montford_ + +November 28. + +I TOLD you of your brother Stephen's talk with me about accompanying +him on his northwest 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 +boisterous 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. + +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 friend's 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, someway, 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, dependence, +ignominy, will she share with me? And if her strenuous spirit set naught +by these, (and I know she is capable of rising above them,) 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 a one as, when the +present tumults of passion have subsided, when the eye sedately +scrutinizes, and the heart beats in an even tenor, may be read without +shame or remorse. + +I shall 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. + + + + +Letter XLI + + +_To Henry Colden_ + +Philadelphia, December 3. + +Sir:-- + +My daughter informs me that the letter she has just despatched 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 enemy, you will +rank me among your benefactors. + +You have shown 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 +enclosed 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. + + + + +Letter XLII + + +_To Mrs. Fielder_ + +Baltimore, December 5. + +Madam:-- + +I pretend not to be raised above any of the infirmities of human +nature; but I 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 revisit 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 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 the one or the +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 can say with respect to a +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 most 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 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 hers, and with an eternal farewell to you both. + +H. COLDEN. + + + + +Letter XLIII + + +_To James Montford_ + +Philadelphia, December 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 +indispensable 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? + +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, must 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 my 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 woman's house, and stopped a moment +just to give me a "How d'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? + +Oh, 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 was 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 +satirical apology, with, "No wonder; for the girl was over head and ears +in love, and her man would have nothing to say to her. A hundred times has +she begged and prayed him 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." + +"Pray," said I, "who was this ungrateful person?" + +"His name was Talbot. Miss Jessup would not give him up, but teased 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, 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 inquired 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-humour occasioned by her +disappointment to display itself without control. Hannah's curiosity was +not chastened 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 doted 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. + +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 inquisitive of mortals. Her neighbour was regarded with no +particular affection; her conversation is usually a vein of impertinence +or levity; her visits were always unsought, 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 neighbour's cast, and +those 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 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 despatched 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 say that Miss Polly 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 lived 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 Polly 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 eyer write to Talbot?" + +"Oh, yes. Just before Talbot's marriage, she often wrote to him. Tom +used to talk very freely in the kitchen about his mistress's 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 of it." + +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 a 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 Polly 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 mother's 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 +despatch, 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 a hearty draught of +strong beer. + +While quaffing his nectar, and chattering with his usual gayety, +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 inquired 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 increased 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 anybody 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 some importance to her. It had lain, 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 Jessup's ordinary handwriting. 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 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 burden 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 a human being whom I knew. + +What I shall 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 likewise 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 +indispensable; 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 she took so much pains to gain his favour, 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, "Oh, sir! Oh, Mr. Colden!" + +This behaviour was enough to terrify me. I trembled in every joint +while I faltered 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 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 +further 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 endeavoured to comfort Mrs. Talbot, but in +vain. + +Next day she did not rise as early as usual. Her mother came to her +bedside, and inquired 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 passed. 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 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 showed 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 endeavoured to soothe 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 have 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. 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's +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, 'Oh, +what--what a 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 glimpse 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 +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 effect 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 unappeasable remorse, pursue this +scheme of a distant voyage? Suppose some fatal despair 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 fragrant 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 she 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 remedy +for all evils; that our efforts to regain the favour of her mother would +be most likely to succeed when that which she endeavoured 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 +inseparable? + +What a fantastic impediment is this aversion of her mother! And yet, +can I safely and deliberately call it fantastic? 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 +bias 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 assurances? +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 undetermined 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 despatch. 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 to talk:-- + +"I am very unwell; got a terrible cold, coming from Dover; been laid up +ever since; a teasing 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 trepidation, "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 establishment of truth would act with more +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 gaming 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 eyeing her with +steadfastness;) "she thinks me at once so artful and so wicked that I have +made the wife unfaithful to the husband; that 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 shown 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 little family +dissensions 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; a hectic flush now and then shot across her check. 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, how can your interest be affected by clearing up a +mistake so fatal to the happiness of one for whom you have always +professed 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 came 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 reconcile her to her daughter's marriage. It will 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 +faltered 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 unauthorized 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 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 came 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. + +"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 on 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 shown 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. Enclose 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 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 to-morrow. She was too unwell to see anybody, 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 enclosed 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 paragraph, in a 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 Hannah Seeker, 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," (showing the superscription, but not permitting her to see +that the seal was unbroken,) "no doubt you recognise the hand; the hand of +that anonymous detractor who had previously taken so much pains to +convince the husband that his wife was an adulteress 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 stayed 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 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 inquired 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 further 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, arid +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 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 +favour 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 I can truly aver that my motives are disinterested. Does not my +character make a plentiful and independent provision, 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 +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 endeavours 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. 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 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, December 1. + +I said I would not write to you again; I would encourage, I would allow +of, no intercourse between 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 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 a 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." + +"Oh," 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." + +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 etherealized myself from all corporeal passions. I even +set spiritual ministers to work to find 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. + +Oh, comfort me, my friend! plead against yourself; against me. Be my +mother's advocate. Fly away from these 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 corpse +to the grave, by disclaiming, by hating, by forgetting, the +unfortunate + +JANE. + + + + +Letter XLV + + +_To Henry Colden_ + +December 4. + +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 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 has +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 +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 sunrise 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---- + +And shall my heart, after its dreadful languors, its excruciating +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 stuccoed ceiling. 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 near it. 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 hers, and is not thy cheek +already wet with her tears? for thy poor girl's eyes are as 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. 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 burden +of remorse which generosity like this will lay upon me? + +But I tell you, Henry, I am resolved. I have nothing but evil to +choose. 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 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 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, was +despatched 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 favour. 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? + +"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 sighs? 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 indispensable 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 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. Today 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. + + + + +Letter XLVII + + +_To Henry Colden_ + +December 8. + +Sir:-- + +Enclosed 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 enclosed 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 showed me, and, I +beseech you, return it to me by the bearer. + +M. JESSUP. + + + + +Letter XLVIII + + +_To Mrs. Fielder_ + +December 8. + +Madam:-- + +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 married not to +please herself, but to please others. Her husband's 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 falsehoods 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 +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 mine 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. 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, +candour 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. + +Here I was again favoured 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 surprisingly 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 humour. 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 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 further than the evil has gone, you will confer +as great a comfort as can now be conferred on the unhappy + +M. JESSUP. + + + + +Letter XLIX + + +_To James Montford_ + +Philadelphia, December 9. + +I WILL imagine, my friend, that you have read the letter [Footnote: The +preceding one.] which I 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 motives 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 intrust to me shall be +applied to no purpose but that which you proposed by writing it. Enclosed +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." + +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 falters. I summon up in vain a tranquil and steadfast +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 unceremoniously 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, 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. Fielder 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 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 +moment's 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?'7 + +"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 controllable,) "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 entreat you to peruse this letter." + +"'Tis well, sir," (taking it, with some reluctance, and, after eyeing +the direction, putting it aside.) "And this is all your business?" + +"Let me entreat 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 +reflection 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 desist from any future persecution. Your letter to me gave +me no reason to expect the honour of this visit, and contained something +like a promise to shun any further 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. + +"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 as far as ever from +certainty. Expostulation 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 a hearing of 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. + + + + +Letter L + + +_To Mr. Colden_ + +December 11. + +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 apprizing 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. + +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 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 powers combined to force me into the +right path,--the path of duty, honour, 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 independent 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 my +happiness; but this shall satisfy me. If fate impel 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, 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, some time 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, December 16. + +It is not improbable that, as soon as you recognise the hand that wrote +this letter, you will throw it unread into the fire; yet it comes not to +soothe resentment, or to supplicate for mercy. It seeks not a favourable +audience. It wishes not--because the wish would be chimerical--to have its +assertions 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 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. + +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, December 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 +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 bedside. +Her opinions of me were all derived from unfavourable 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 a 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 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 +passions 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 +endeavour 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, plausibility and subtlety 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 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, +into 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 a half-stifled sigh and +ill-disguised tear on her part. Some arrangements as to the letters and +papers of 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 inquire +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 thought +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 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 inquiry 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 inquiries 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 inquiry, was more criminal than any kind of opinion candidly +investigated and firmly adopted, and would more effectually debar me 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. + + + + +Letter LIV + + +Philadelphia, December 19. + +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 misapprehensions +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 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 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 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 irresistible. + +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 Saturday night. In the arms of my +true friends, I will endeavour to forget the vexations that at present +prey 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 effort 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 +mother's 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 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 a 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 + +JANE TALBOT. + + + + +Letter LVI + + +_To Mrs. Montford_ + +Madam:-- + +Philadelphia, October 7. + +It is with extreme reluctance that I venture to address you in this +manner. I cannot find words to account for or apologize. But, if you be +indeed the sister of Henry Golden, 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 a little interest; who honoured 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 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_ + +My dear Madam:-- + +New York, October 9. + +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 inquiries 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 he immediately +adopted have 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. Golden 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 +inquiry you may be pleased to make respecting one for whom I have +entertained the affection becoming 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. + + + + +Letter LVIII + + +_To Mrs. Montford_ + +Philadelphia, October 12. + +Dear Madam:-- + +How shall I thank you for the kind and delicate manner in which you +have complied with my request? You will not be surprised, nor, I hope, +offended, that I am emboldened to address you once more. + +I see that I need not practise 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 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 a letter; 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. + +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 twelvemonth has since passed, he has not yet returned. +Hence the boldness of this address to you, whom I know only by rumour. + +You will, I doubt not, easily imagine to yourself my feelings, and will +be good enough to answer my inquiries, 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 apologize 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 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 unsought-for renunciation as a means +of reconcilement with his father, was no subject of surprise or 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 dependence 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 necessity +which thence arose of finding employment 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 sought 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. Golden 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 me would be absurd. What can I say in favour +of my attachment to her, which she may not, with equal reason, urge in +favour 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 object. 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 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 favour. As several passages were +expected to be made between China and Nootka, that desirable event cannot +be expected to be very near. + +M. M. + + + + +Letter LX + + +_To Mrs. Montford_ + +Philadelphia, October 20. + +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 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, entreat _him_ to forgive me, +and recompense yourself and him for all your mutual sufferings. + +"I hope all, though 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 passed." + +She stretched her hand to me, which I bathed 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. Talbot_ + +New York, October 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. + +Accept the fraternal regards of Mr. Montford. + +M.M. + + + + +Letter LXII + + +_To Mrs. Montford_ + +Banks of Delaware, September 5. + +Be not anxious for me, Mary. I hope to experience very speedy relief +from the wholesome airs that perpetually fan this spot. Your apprehensions +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. + +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 let 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 memory, +the fancy, and the heart. No spot of earth can possibly teem 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. + +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. Besides, 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 everybody 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 stayed among us, would in time have been united. But he went away +when I was scarcely fourteen. At parting, I 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 favourite airs, twice a day. We have no strangers; no impertinents +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 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 Frederick across 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 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, October 1. + +Be not angry with me, 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 apartment, at the very moment when I was perusing your last letter. I +was 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 that I was guilty of a most culpable breach of confidence in +showing 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. + + + + +Letter LXIV + + +_To Mrs. Talbot_ + +New York, December 12. + +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. 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 honour 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, October 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 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. + + + + +Letter LXVI + + +_To Jane Talbot_ + +New York, November 15. + +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 intrigues 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. + +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 outlying +isle or dry sand-bank on the eastern coast of Japan. Here they seized the +two unsuspecting youths, at daybreak, while asleep in their _berths_, +and, immediately putting out their boat, landed my brother on the shore, +without clothing 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, +which 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 sentinel who guarded him had received orders to +keep him in that situation till the visitants had departed. Prom some +impulse of humanity, or mistake of orders, the sentinel freed him from +restraint a few minutes earlier than had been intended, and he got on deck +before the departing strangers had gone to any considerable distance from +the ship. He immediately leaped 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 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 I could not +believe you if you did. Write to me speedily, however. + + + + +Letter LXVII + + +_To Mrs. Talbot_ + +New York, November 23. + +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 passed, and none has come. Let me hear from you immediately, I +entreat 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 anywhere 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 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, November 26. + +I beseech you, dear Mrs. Montford, take some measures for drawing our +dear Jane from this place. There is no remedy but absence 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 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. + + + + +Letter LXIX + + +_To Mr. Montford_ + +New Haven, February 10. + +My dear friend:-- + +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 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 +explore my way back to my native shore, are surely most strange and +incredible achievements. Yet all this, my friend, has been endured and +performed by your Colden. + +Finding it impossible to move immediately from this place, and this +day's 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 breathe 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 +encounter and the sufferance will be pleasant to remembrance and +delightful in narration. + +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 Tekehatsin 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. + +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 melancholy 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 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 akin, 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 shall 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 showed 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 exempt from the irresistible control 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 was blemished by none of those +momentous errors with which mine was loaded, since that harmony of opinion +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 fears and +suspenses--Yet it would give you pleasure to know every thing as soon as +possible--some time 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 and 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 +through 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 steadfast height of simple and true piety. + +Such, my friend, were my inducements to return; but first it was +necessary to explain, by letter, to Holtz--But my messenger is at the +door, eager to begone. Take this, my friend. Bring yourself, or send back +by the same messenger, without a moment's 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 Golden_ + +New York, February 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? + +Oh, 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 Golden--that selfsame, 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 a +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 doting +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 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 everything. He has been a brother 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 authorized love, +some recompense for all the evils to which her antipathies subjected you? +She hoped, indeed, that observation and experience would detect the +fallacy 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 +completing 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 on a union which death will have no +power to dissolve. Oh, 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 mine in its adoration 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 a 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, though +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 a heart that ever was and always will be +_thine own_. Witness, + +JANE TALBOT. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, JANE TALBOT *** + +This file should be named jntlb10.txt or jntlb10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, jntlb11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, jntlb10a.txt + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we usually do not +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance +of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing. +Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections, +even years after the official publication date. + +Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til +midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. +The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at +Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A +preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment +and editing by those who wish to do so. + +Most people start at our Web sites at: +http://gutenberg.net or +http://promo.net/pg + +These Web sites include award-winning information about Project +Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new +eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!). + + +Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement +can get to them as follows, and just download by date. This is +also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the +indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an +announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter. + +http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext05 or +ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext05 + +Or /etext04, 03, 02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, +91 or 90 + +Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want, +as it appears in our Newsletters. + + +Information about Project Gutenberg (one page) + +We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The +time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours +to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright +searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. Our +projected audience is one hundred million readers. If the value +per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2 +million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text +files per month: 1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+ +We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002 +If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total +will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end. + +The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks! +This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers, +which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users. + +Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated): + +eBooks Year Month + + 1 1971 July + 10 1991 January + 100 1994 January + 1000 1997 August + 1500 1998 October + 2000 1999 December + 2500 2000 December + 3000 2001 November + 4000 2001 October/November + 6000 2002 December* + 9000 2003 November* +10000 2004 January* + + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created +to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium. + +We need your donations more than ever! + +As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people +and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut, +Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois, +Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts, +Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New +Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, +Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South +Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West +Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming. + +We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones +that have responded. + +As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list +will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states. +Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state. + +In answer to various questions we have received on this: + +We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally +request donations in all 50 states. If your state is not listed and +you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have, +just ask. + +While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are +not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting +donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to +donate. + +International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about +how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made +deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are +ways. + +Donations by check or money order may be sent to: + + PROJECT GUTENBERG LITERARY ARCHIVE FOUNDATION + 809 North 1500 West + Salt Lake City, UT 84116 + +Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment +method other than by check or money order. + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by +the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN +[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154. Donations are +tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law. As fund-raising +requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be +made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states. + +We need your donations more than ever! + +You can get up to date donation information online at: + +http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html + + +*** + +If you can't reach Project Gutenberg, +you can always email directly to: + +Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com> + +Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message. + +We would prefer to send you information by email. + + +**The Legal Small Print** + + +(Three Pages) + +***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START*** +Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers. +They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with +your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from +someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our +fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement +disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how +you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to. + +*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK +By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept +this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive +a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by +sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person +you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical +medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request. + +ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS +This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks, +is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart +through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project"). +Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright +on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and +distribute it in the United States without permission and +without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth +below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook +under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark. + +Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market +any commercial products without permission. + +To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable +efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain +works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any +medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other +things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged +disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer +codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. + +LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES +But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below, +[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may +receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims +all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including +legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR +UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT, +INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE +OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE +POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES. + +If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of +receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) +you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that +time to the person you received it from. If you received it +on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and +such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement +copy. If you received it electronically, such person may +choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to +receive it electronically. + +THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS +TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A +PARTICULAR PURPOSE. + +Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or +the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the +above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you +may have other legal rights. + +INDEMNITY +You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation, +and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated +with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including +legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the +following that you do or cause: [1] distribution of this eBook, +[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook, +or [3] any Defect. + +DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" +You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by +disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this +"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, +or: + +[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this + requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the + eBook or this "small print!" statement. You may however, + if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable + binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form, + including any form resulting from conversion by word + processing or hypertext software, but only so long as + *EITHER*: + + [*] The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and + does *not* contain characters other than those + intended by the author of the work, although tilde + (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may + be used to convey punctuation intended by the + author, and additional characters may be used to + indicate hypertext links; OR + + [*] The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at + no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent + form by the program that displays the eBook (as is + the case, for instance, with most word processors); + OR + + [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at + no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the + eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC + or other equivalent proprietary form). + +[2] Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this + "Small Print!" statement. + +[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the + gross profits you derive calculated using the method you + already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation" + the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were + legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent + periodic) tax return. Please contact us beforehand to + let us know your plans and to work out the details. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of +public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed +in machine readable form. + +The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time, +public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses. +Money should be paid to the: +"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or +software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at: +hart@pobox.com + +[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only +when distributed free of all fees. Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by +Michael S. Hart. Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be +used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be +they hardware or software or any other related product without +express permission.] + +*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END* + diff --git a/old/jntlb10.zip b/old/jntlb10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d17f773 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/jntlb10.zip diff --git a/old/jntlb10h.htm b/old/jntlb10h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..59bd2f8 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/jntlb10h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9733 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8" ?> +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Jane Talbot, by Charles Brockden Brown</title> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"/> +<style type="text/css"> + <!-- + h1,h2,h3,h4 { text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-variant: small-caps } + h1 { margin-top: 2em } + .smallcaps { font-variant: small-caps } + img { border-style: none } + --> +</style> +</head> +<body> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Jane Talbot, by Charles Brockden Brown</h1> + +<pre> +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Jane Talbot + +Author: Charles Brockden Brown + +Release Date: July, 2005 [EBook #8404] +[This file was first posted on July 7, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: utf-8 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, JANE TALBOT *** + + + + +E-text prepared by the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + +</pre> + + + +<h1>Jane Talbot</h1> + +<p align="center" class="smallcaps">by</p> + +<h2>Charles Brockden Brown.</h2> + + + + + +<h1>Letter I</h1> + + + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, Monday Evening, October 3.</p> + +<p>I am very far from being a wise girl. So conscience whispers me, and, +though vanity is eager to refute the charge, I must acknowledge that she +is seldom successful. Conscience tells me it is folly, it is guilt, to +wrap up my existence in one frail mortal; to employ all my thoughts, to +lavish all my affections, upon one object; to dote upon a human being, +who, as such, must be the heir of many frailties, and whom I know to be +not without his faults; to enjoy no peace but in his presence, to be +grateful for his permission to sacrifice fortune, ease, life itself, for +his sake.</p> + +<p>From the humiliation produced by these charges, vanity endeavours to +relieve me by insinuating that all happiness springs from affection; that +nature ordains no tie so strong as that between the sexes; that to love +without bounds is to confer bliss not only on ourselves but on another; +that conjugal affection is the genuine sphere not only of happiness but +duty.</p> + +<p>Besides, my heart will not be persuaded but that its fondness for you +is nothing more than simple justice. Ought I not to love excellence, and +does my poor imagination figure to itself any thing in human shape more +excellent than thou?</p> + +<p>But yet there are bounds beyond which passion cannot go without +counteracting its own purposes. I am afraid mine goes beyond those bounds. +So far as it produces rapture, it deserves to be cherished; but when +productive of impatience, repining, agony, on occasions too that are +slight, trivial, or unavoidable, 'tis surely culpable.</p> + +<p>Methinks, my friend, I would not have had thee for a witness of the +bitterness, the tumult of my feelings, during this day; ever since you +left me. You cannot conceive any thing more forlorn, more vacant, more +anxious, than this weak heart has been and still is. I was terrified at my +own sensations, and, with my usual folly, began to construe them into +omens of evils; so inadequate, so disproportioned was my distress to the +cause that produced it.</p> + +<p>Ah! my friend! a weak--very weak--creature is thy Jane. From excess of +love arises that weakness; <i>that</i> must be its apology with thee, for, +in thy mind, my fondness, I know, needs an apology.</p> + +<p>Shall I scold you a little? I have held in the rein a long time, but my +overflowing heart must have relief, and I shall find a sort of comfort in +chiding you. Let me chide you, then, for coldness, for insensibility: but +no; I will not. Let me enjoy the rewards of self-denial and forbearance, +and seal up my accusing lips. Let me forget the coldness of your last +salute, your ill-concealed effort to disengage yourself from my foolishly-fond arms. You have got at your journey's end, I hope. Farewell.</p> + +<p>J. TALBOT.</p> + + + +<h1>Letter II</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Tuesday Morning, October 4.</p> + +<p>I must write to you, you said, frequently and copiously: you did not +mean, I suppose, that I should always be scribbling, but I cannot help it. +I can do nothing but converse with you. When present, my prate is +incessant; when absent, I can prate to you with as little intermission; +for the pen, used so carelessly and thoughtlessly as I use it, does +<i>but</i> prate.</p> + +<p>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 +affected by it. I am not surprised that calumny has been busy with my +life, and am very little anxious to clear myself from unjust charges, +except to such as you.</p> + +<p>At this moment, I may add, my mood is not unfriendly to the +undertaking. I can do nothing in your absence but write to you. To write +what I have ten thousand times spoken, and which can be perfectly +understood only when accompanied by looks and accents, seems absurd. +Especially while there is a subject on which my <i>tongue</i> can never +expatiate, but on which it is necessary that you should know all that I +can tell you.</p> + +<p>The prospect of filling up this interval with the relation of the most +affecting parts of my life somewhat reconciled me to your necessary +absence, yet I know my heart will droop. Even this preparation to look +back makes me shudder already. Some reluctance to recall tragical or +humiliating scenes, and, by thus recalling to endure them, in some sense, +a second time, I must expect to feel.</p> + +<p>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. J. T.</p> + + + +<h1>Letter III</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Tuesday Morning, 11 o'clock.</p> + +<p>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 condolences.</p> + +<p>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 disburdened my heart. Disburden it, said I? I shall load it, I +fear, with sadness, but I will not regret an undertaking which my duty to +you makes indispensable.</p> + +<p>One of the earliest incidents that I remember is an expostulation with +my father. I saw 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 mother's 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 showed none of the volatility of childhood. While she lived, I was never +at ease but 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.</p> + +<p>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 shown 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.</p> + +<p>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 +from her.</p> + +<p>My mother, on her death-bed, was anxious to see him, but he had +strolled away after some boyish amusement, with companions as thoughtless +as himself. The news of her death scarcely produced an hour's seriousness. +He made my affliction a topic of sarcasm and contempt.</p> + +<p>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 marrage, +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>My brother was not deficient in talents, but he wanted application. +Very early he showed strong propensities to active amusement 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 a +housekeeper and two or three servants, and apartments were always open for +his son.</p> + +<p>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 honour 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.</p> + +<p>I scarcely know how to describe my feelings in relation to this young +man. My affection for him was certainly without that tenderness 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>For a long time this absurd indulgence was shown 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.</p> + +<p>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 French girl whom +he maintained in expensive lodgings, his horses, dogs, and <i>friends</i>, +consumed the whole of it.</p> + +<p>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 befell him, not to make myself, by +various means, thoroughly acquainted with his situation.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>For a long time I was totally unaware of the tendencies of this mode of +life. I did not suspect that a 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 expenses to his +income.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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 enter 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.</p> + +<p>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 showed him that page of the letter which +related to this affair. I anxiously watched his looks while he read +it.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Pray, dear sir," continued I, "what could have happened to the money +which you sent? You had not heard, I suppose, of its miscarriage."</p> + +<p>"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 conference 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."</p> + +<p>"What!" cried my brother, with a laugh, "has thy silly brain engendered +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."</p> + +<p>There was always something in my brother's raillery which my infirm +soul could never support. I ought always to have listened and replied +without emotion, but a fluttering indignation usually deprived me of +utterance. I found my best expedient was flight, when I <i>could</i> fly, +and silence when obliged to remain: I therefore made no answer to this +speech, but hastily withdrew.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"But, dear sir," said I, "how did it happen? How did the money +miscarry?"</p> + +<p>"Never mind," said he, a little peevishly: "we shall see things put to +rights, I tell you; and let that satisfy you."</p> + +<p>"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 stir 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 three +months in all; and during all this time he will be without money. But +perhaps he will receive it sooner."</p> + +<p>My father frequently changed countenance, and showed great solicitude. +I did not wronder at this, as Risberg had always been loved as a son. A +little consideration, therefore, ought to have shown 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.</p> + +<p>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 interference."</p> + +<p>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 +deference, and I saw nothing peculiarly petulant or improper in what I had +said.</p> + +<p>"Dear sir, forgive me: you know I write to my cousin, and, as he stated +his complaints 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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Certainly, if the subject displeases you, I will drop it." Here a +pause of mutual embarrassment succeeded, which was, at length, broken by +my father:--</p> + +<p>"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 +<i>draughts</i>."</p> + +<p>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 forgotten 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?</p> + +<p>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 depended on him for his +maintenance; but somehow or another the wants of Francis had increased +very much of late years, and swallowed up all that he could <i>rap</i> and +<i>rend</i> 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 <i>three</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>My father was embarrassed, confounded, grieved. He sighed, and even +wept.--"Francis," said he, at last, "to-be-sure, has not acted quite +right. Bat 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 lenient 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 is +nearly exhausted, and I really fear, before another quarter comes round, I +shall want myself."</p> + +<p>I again described, in as strong and affecting terms as I could, +Risberg's expectations and 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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Alas!" said I, "my brother will never consent to such a measure. If he +has found occasion 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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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!" said 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 a hopeless task. As to my father, he will never +submit to my guidance."</p> + +<p>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 represented me as the heiress of +her fortunes, and confided fully in my discretion. The chief uses 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 adventurous undertaking for a +young creature like me. It was impossible to do this clandestinely; at +least, 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.</p> + +<p>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 +surprise, therefore, was not small. I started up with the confusion of a +stranger, and requested him, very formally, to be seated.</p> + +<p>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:--</p> + +<p>"So, girl, I hear that you have been meddling with things that do not +concern you,--sowing dissension 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 teasing him, +about this traveller Risberg, 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 <i>know</i> that he never will."</p> + +<p>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 boisterous arrogance.</p> + +<p>"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 <i>she Solomon</i>. 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."</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>His eyes darted fire. "Come, girl; none of your insolence. I did not +come here to be insulted."</p> + +<p>"No; you rather came to commit than to receive an insult."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"I do not imagine, brother, that any good will result from our +discussing this subject. Education, or sex, if you please, has made a +difference in our judgments, which argument will never reconcile."</p> + +<p>"With all my heart. A truce everlasting let there be; but, in truth, I +merely came to caution you against inter-meddling in <i>my affairs</i>, to +tell you to beware of sowing jealousy and ill-will between the <i>old +man</i> 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."</p> + +<p>"I thank you for your brotherly advice, but I am afraid I never shall +bring myself to part with the liberty of <i>prating</i> on every subject +that pleases me; at least, my forbearance will flow from my own +discretion, and not from the imperious prohibition of another."</p> + +<p>He laughed. "Well said, oddity. I am not displeased to see you act with +some spirit: but I repeat my charge; <i>be quiet</i>. Your interference +will do no good."</p> + +<p>"Indeed, I firmly believe that it will not; and <i>that</i> will be a +motive for my silence that shall always have its due weight with me. +Risberg, I see, must look elsewhere for a father and a brother."</p> + +<p>"Poor thing! do; put its finger in its eye and weep. Ha! ha! ha! poor +Risberg! how would he laugh to see these compassionate tears! It seem she +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 proof 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."</p> + +<p>My heart could not restrain its indignation at these words.</p> + +<p>"'Tis false!" I exclaimed; "'tis a 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."</p> + +<p>"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 calumniator? 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 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-by to you."</p> + +<p>So ended this conversation. He left me in a 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 that of an impostor? How unmoved was he by the doubts which +I ventured to insinuate of his truth! Alas! I fear 'tis too true.</p> + +<p>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 not 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:--</p> + +<p>"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, +I hope, will soon be able to subsist upon the fruits of your own learning +and industry.</p> + +<p>"I have something more to say to you, 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.</p> + +<p>"I am very imperfectly acquainted with your present views. You +originally designed, after having completed 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."</p> + +<p>My relation to Risberg was peculiarly delicate. His more lively +imagination had deceived him already into a belief that he was in love. At +least, in all his letters, he seemed fond of recognising 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 gracefulness of passion +naturally prompts them to make their 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.</p> + +<p>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 conducive to the interests of both.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + + + +<h1>Letter IV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Wednesday Morning, October 5.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +permanent, 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 though I was sensible that I held of my +maternal friend but a very precarious tenure, that my character and +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, though 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.</p> + +<p>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 +inquiries 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.</p> + +<p>In answer to my friend's remarks, I observed that my father's property +was much less considerable 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.</p> + +<p>"There, Jane, you are mistaken," said my friend, "or rather you are +willing to mislead me; for you must know that, though your father appears +to be idle, yet your brother is speculating with his money at an enormous +rate."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"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 <i>speculation</i>; that, I remember, was +his word, but I never, for my part, took the trouble to inquire what +<i>speculation</i> meant. I know only that it is some hazardous or +complicated way of getting money."</p> + +<p>These hints, though 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.</p> + +<p>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 wrere +true.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"And what scheme, sir, was it, if I may venture to ask?"</p> + +<p>"Why, child, these are subjects so much out of thy way, that thou +wouldst hardly comprehend any explanation that I could give."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps so; but what success, dear sir, have you met with?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"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, 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, indispensably 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."</p> + +<p>"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 <i>all</i> on the faith of any project whatever was +unworthy of one of your experience and discretion."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 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!"</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Fail! That is impossible. It cannot fail but through want of money, +and I am solemnly assured that no more will be necessary."</p> + +<p>"But how often, sir, has this assurance been given? No doubt with as +much solemnity the first time as the last."</p> + +<p>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 and I, between us, will make you the richest heiress in America. +Let that consideration reconcile you to the scheme."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 nowise 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.</p> + +<p>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 counsel of a +girl.</p> + +<p>He replied to my remarks with confidence, that no further demand would +be made upon him. The last sum was given with extreme reluctance, and +nothing but the positive assurance that it would absolutely be the last +had prevailed with him.</p> + +<p>"Suppose, sir," said I, "what you have already given should prove +insufficient. Suppose some new demand should be made upon you."</p> + +<p>"I cannot suppose that, after so many solemn and positive +assurances."</p> + +<p>"But were not assurances as positive and solemn on every former +occasion as the last?"</p> + +<p>"Why, yes, I must own they were; but new circumstances arose that could +not be foreseen?"</p> + +<p>"And, dear sir, may not new circumstances arise hereafter that could +not be foreseen?"</p> + +<p>"Nay, nay," (with some impatience;) "I tell you there cannot be +any."</p> + +<p>I said no more on this subject at this time; but my father, +notwithstanding the confidence he expressed, was far from being at +ease.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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----</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Alas, sir, are you still deceived by that language? Can you still +listen to assurances which experience has so often shown to be fallacious? +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. Though at a loss as to what could occasion +such an unusual summons, I hastened down.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>At last, with many pauses and much hesitation, he said, "Jane, I +suppose your legacy is untouched. Was it two or three thousand Mrs. +Matthews put you down for in her will?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"At what bank, pr'ythee?"</p> + +<p>I told him.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"And pray," said he, with some heat, "what were these profound +views?"</p> + +<p>"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 dependence; +but still there was a possibility of this. To insure 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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Indeed," said I, innocently, "there is no such clause."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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 explain the affair to you, if you choose, and convince you +beyond controversy that your money may be trebled in a twelvemonth."</p> + +<p>"You know, brother, I can be no judge of any scheme that is at all +intricate."</p> + +<p>"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----"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Well, then, you consent to my proposal?"</p> + +<p>"I would rather you would look elsewhere for a partner in your +undertaking."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"My brother's bond will be of no use to me; I shall never go to law +with my brother."</p> + +<p>"Well, then, what will satisfy you?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Then you will," replied he, struggling with his rage, "you will not +agree?"</p> + +<p>My silence was an unequivocal answer.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Some unaccountable oddity, some freak, 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."</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"So, then, you are determined not to part with your paltry legacy?"</p> + +<p>"I am determined not to part with it."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 supposed 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 tremors 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 hoped, therefore, that he +would not compel me to discuss it a second time.</p> + +<p>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 stopped. He was evidently at a loss how to proceed. His +features became more grave, and he actually sighed.</p> + +<p>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. Entreaty 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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 resumed his +arrogant and careless air, half whistled "ça ira," and glanced at the +garden, with, "A tall poplar that. How old?"</p> + +<p>"Not very old, for <i>I</i> planted it."</p> + +<p>"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 honour, +I'll repay it then. My calls just now are particularly urgent. See here; I +have brought a <i>check</i> ready filled. It only wants your +signature."</p> + +<p>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 controlled. 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.</p> + +<p>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 concurrence. Could I then give away +<i>five hundred</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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!"</p> + +<p>I still declined the offered pen:--"For what purpose, brother, surely I +may ask?--so large a sum?"</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Impossible, till I know the purpose. Do not urge me to a wrong +thing."</p> + +<p>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, and 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?"</p> + +<p>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 wrhich my womanish spirit could +not withstand. In answer to his expostulations, I only repeated, +"Impossible! I cannot."</p> + +<p>Finding me inflexible, he once more gave way to indignation:--"What a +damned 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. <i>He</i> may have cowardice +enough to live and endure his infamy, but <i>I</i> have spirit enough to +die and escape it."</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>"I mean what I say. Your signing this check may save me from +irretrievable ruin. This trifling supply, which I can nowhere 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 to-morrow afternoon, and with that I will replace this."</p> + +<p>"My father ruined! In danger of a jail! 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 doting 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.</p> + +<p>He had, however, conjured up a spirit in me which made me deaf to his +invective. I made towards the door.</p> + +<p>"Where are you going? You shall not leave the room till you have signed +this paper."</p> + +<p>'"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 <i>will</i> +go."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 till to-morrow evening.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"As you please," said L "I have told you that I will not act in the +dark."</p> + +<p>"Well, then, I will explain my situation to you as clearly as +possible."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 lingering a few minutes, he left the house gloomy +and dissatisfied.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter VI</h1> + +<blockquote>[<i>Editorial note: The observant reader will have +noted there is no Letter V. The original text did not contain +one, and we have chosen to let the letters retain their original +numbers, rather than renumber them.</i>]</blockquote> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Thursday Morning, October 6.</p> + +<p>As soon as my visitants had gone, I hastened to my father. I +immediately introduced the subject of which my heart was full. I related +the particulars of my late interview with my brother; entreated him with +the utmost earnestness to make the proper inquiries into the state of my +brother's affairs, with whose fate it was too plain that his own were +inextricably involved.</p> + +<p>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 servant, and directed him, in a faltering voice, +to go to my brother's house and request him to come immediately.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The messenger returned. My brother was not at home. We waited a little +while, and then despatched 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 Prank was still abroad. I was +obliged to dismiss the hope of a conference this night, and returned in an +anxious and melancholy mood to Mrs. Fielder's.</p> + +<p>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 straits 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.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>I found him in my apartment. "Good God!" cried he; "where have you been +till this time of night?"</p> + +<p>I told him frankly where I had been, and what had detained me. He was +thunder-struck. Instead of that storm of rage and invective which I +expected, he grew pale with consternation, and said, in a faint voice,--</p> + +<p>"Jane, you have ruined me beyond redemption. Fatal, fatal rashness! It +was enough to have refused me a loan which, though useless to you, is as +indispensable 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 completely re-established."</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>Strange what influence calamity possesses in softening the character! +He made no answer, but, putting his arms around me, pressed me to his +breast, while tears stole down his cheek.</p> + +<p>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, "Oh, my dear brother, forgive me. Take what +you ask. If it can be of any service to you, take all I have."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>I again expressed my regret for the rashness of my conduct, and +entreated 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>I made some vague answer.</p> + +<p>"He has been talked about this afternoon, very little, as usual, to his +advantage."</p> + +<p>I trembled from head to foot.</p> + +<p>"I fear," continued she, "he is going to ruin, and will drag your +father down the same precipice."</p> + +<p>"Dearest madam! what new circumstance?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing very new. It seems Mr. Frazer--his wife told the story--sold +him, a twelvemonth 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 Monsieur Petitgrave, brother to Frank's <i>housekeeper</i>, the +handsome mustec. This gave Frazer uneasiness, and some importunity +extorted from Frank a note, which, being due <i>last Tuesday</i>, was, at +Frank's importunity, withdrawn from bank to prevent protest. Next day, +however, it was paid."</p> + +<p>I ventured to ask if Mrs. Frazer had mentioned any sum. "Yes; a round +sum,--<i>five hundred dollars</i>"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>While in the first tumult of these reflections, some one brought a +letter. It was from my brother. This was the tenor:--</p> + +<p>"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 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."</p> + +<p>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:--</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>In a few minutes after despatching my answer, he appeared. I need not +repeat our conversation. He extorted from me, without much difficulty, +what I had heard through 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 especially +by solemnly affirming that Frazer's story was a calumny, I at length did +as he would have me: yet only for <i>three</i> hundred; I would not go +beyond that sum.</p> + +<p>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 +reacted.</p> + +<p>With every new instance of folly, my shame and selfcondemnation +increased, and the more difficult I found it to disclose the truth to my +mother.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 watchmaker with whom my servant had, +some time before, left a watch to be repaired. It occurred to me that, +since I was now on the spot, I might as well stop and make some inquiry +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 cigars 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?"</p> + +<p>"Indeed, but I have," was the reply.</p> + +<p>"Why, damn it, you pinch too hard. Well, and what success?"</p> + +<p>"Why, what do you think?"</p> + +<p>"Another <i>put-off</i>; another <i>call-again</i>, to-be-sure."</p> + +<p>"I would not go till he downed with the stuff."</p> + +<p>"No!" (with a broad stare;) "it a'n't possible."</p> + +<p>"Seeing is believing, I hope;" (producing a piece of paper.)</p> + +<p>"Why, so it is. A check!--but--what's that name?--let's see," +(stooping to examine the signature:)--"<i>Jane Talbot</i>. Who the devil +is she?"</p> + +<p>"Don't you know her? She's his sister. A devilish rich girl."</p> + +<p>"But how? does <i>she</i> lend him money?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, to-be-sure. She's his sister, you know."</p> + +<p>"But how does she get money? Is she a widow?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Why, damn it if I don't think it a forgery. How should such a girl as +that get so much money?"</p> + +<p>"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 sha'n't be his own man one day longer."</p> + +<p>"But how did you succeed so well?"</p> + +<p>"He asked me yesterday to call once more. So I called, you see, +betimes, and, finding that he had a check for a little more than my debt, +I teased 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."</p> + +<p>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 steadfastly at him, I heard not a +syllable of his dissertation. I broke away when his first pause allowed +me.</p> + +<p>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 meretricious vagabond, were +indignities not to be endured. I was carried involuntarily 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 day's experience had of +late convinced me that in no valuable attribute was he anywise 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 with a gentleman who seemed to have visited +her on private business, my heart misgave me.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 apprized 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.</p> + +<p>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 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 non-payment, he applied for a new 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 +repay it shown to have proceeded from no fault of his.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +complete 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.</p> + +<p>This momentary respite gave me time to reflect. I ran through 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.</p> + +<p>While I was speaking, some one knocked at the door. It was a servant, +despatched by my brother to summon me back. My mother went in my stead. I +was left, for some minutes, alone.</p> + +<p>So persuasive had been my brother's rhetoric, that I began to regret my +flight.</p> + +<p>I felt something like compunction at having deprived him of an +opportunity to prove his assertions. Every gentle look and insinuating +accent reappeared to my memory, and I more than half repented my +inflexibility.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Was there anybody with him, madam?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. One Clarges,--a jeweller,--an ill-looking, suspicious +person."</p> + +<p>"Do you know any thing of this Clarges?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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 detestable, how insecure, are fraud and +treachery! Had he been confronted with me, no doubt he would have +recognised the person whom he stared at at the watch-maker's.</p> + +<p>Next morning I received a note, dated on the preceding evening. These +were the terms of it:--</p> + +<p>"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 shown 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."</p> + +<p>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 despair. 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.</p> + +<p>Would you have thought, after this simple relation, that there was any +room for malice and detraction to build up their inventions?</p> + +<p>My brother was enraged that I refused to 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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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 tenor 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 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 lead me to vindicate myself to you from any +charge, however chimerical or obsolete it may be.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 opulence, +one would think it would occur to him to inquire into the effects of his +misconduct, not only to his own family, but on others.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 jail 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 penniless from the house that +sheltered her, without exposing the self-constituted mother to any +reproach.</p> + +<p>And has not this event taken place already? What can I expect but that, +at <i>least</i>, 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! I know not how to set about it.</p> + +<p>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 despatched an enormous packet, and have not received a sentence +in 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!</p> + +<p>Take this letter, and expect not another syllable from my pen till I +hear from you.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter VII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Golden</i></p> + +<p>Thursday Night.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 can abhor +or contemn a woman for loving him too much. Of such stuff the heart of my +friend, thank Heaven, is <i>not</i> made. Though I love him far--<i>far</i> too much, he will not trample on or scoff at me.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>My desk is, of late, always open; my paper spread; my pen moist. I must +talk to you, though 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 corporal agonies. Even the pain which I +just now complained of is lessened since I took up the pen. Oh, Hal! Hal! +if you ever prove ungrateful or a traitor to me, and there be a state +retributive hereafter, terrible will be thy punishment.</p> + +<p>But why do I talk to thee thus wildly? Why deal I in such rueful +prognostics? I want to tell 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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 <i>not</i> 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.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter VIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Jane Talbot</i></p> + +<p>Wilmington, Saturday, October 9.</p> + +<p>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, +nor because my chief pleasure lay anywhere 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.</p> + +<p>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, who 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?</p> + +<p>Alas! how much has he lost who has forfeited his own esteem!</p> + +<p>As to Miss Secker, your ignorance of her, and, I may add, of yourself, +has given her the preference. 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. Were 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 <i>one smile</i> 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 rheumatism 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Hannah Secker chanced to be talked of at Mr. Henshaw's as a poor +creature, who was 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 till I return. I hope it will be +permitted me to do so very shortly. Again, my only friend, farewell.</p> + +<p>HENRY COLDEN.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter IX</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, Monday, October 11.</p> + +<p>I am ashamed of myself, Henry. What an inconsistent creature am I! I +have just placed this dear letter of yours 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 +<i>next</i> my heart?</p> + +<p>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 <i>very</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 detestable, 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Why is my esteem rather heightened 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, proved you, +on the whole, and with the allowances necessarily made by every candid +person, to be a very excellent man.</p> + +<p>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. <i>There</i> 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 <i>that</i> +esteem would soonest drive me to desperation.</p> + +<p>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 acknowledged to be +free. He would not leave me for his European voyage till he had extorted a +solemn promise.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>In compliance with my husband's wishes--Ah! my friend! why cannot I say +that I <i>did</i> 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 a union to which the affections are +averse. Let it not confide in the afterbirth of love. Such a union is the +direst cruelty even to the object who is intended to be benefited.</p> + +<p>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 despise 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.</p> + +<p>You guess right, my friend. Miss Jessup told me of your visits to this +poor sick woman. 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, +than the mere tattling, gossiping, inquisitive propensity in the way in +which she introduces you into conversation.</p> + +<p>She had not alighted ten minutes before she ran into my apartment, with +a face full of intelligence. The truth respecting the washwoman 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.</p> + +<p>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. Oh, 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 choose only among deplorable evils.</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter X</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Jane Talbot</i></p> + +<p>New York, October 13.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 lifetime. You will judge, then, with what emotions such +intelligence was received.</p> + +<p>Indiscreet 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 centred 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.</p> + +<p>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, though 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.</p> + +<p>More than this I will do. Every assurance possible I will give, that +all shall be yours at my death, and all I have I will share with you +<i>equally</i> while I live. Only give me your word that, <i>as soon</i> +as the transfer is made, Colden shall be thought of and conversed with, +either personally or by letter, no more. I want only your promise; on that +I will absolutely rely.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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</p> + +<p>H. FIELDER.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Fielder</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, October 15.</p> + +<p>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 +between my duty to you and the claims of another.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, <i>my</i> duty to <i>your</i> +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.</p> + +<p>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, <i>can</i> I, <i>ought</i> I, to reject +him?</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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 entreat you, my duty to your inclination.</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Fielder</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, October 17.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>will</i> see you. +You will not turn me out of doors, I hope.</p> + +<p>I will see you and compel you to answer me, and to tell me why you will +not admit my friend to your good opinion.</p> + +<p>J. TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Jane Talbot</i></p> + +<p>New York, October 19.</p> + +<p>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 <i>that</i> must +be the consequence of your attempt.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 duteous strain flattered me with hopes of winning you to +reason, have I been deceived and disappointed.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>I charge you, write not to me again. H.F.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XIV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Fielder</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, October 24.</p> + +<p>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. <i>There</i> was the helpless babe cherished, and there was it +taught all that virtue which it has since endeavoured to preserve +unimpaired in every trial.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>want</i> to share your +antipathies. I want only to be justified in obeying you. When known, they +will, perhaps, be found sufficient. I conjure you once more, tell me your +objections to this marriage.</p> + +<p>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 dependent on the happiness +of others.</p> + +<p>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 short-sighted 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.</p> + +<p>In this case, I am prepared to hear and weigh, and be convinced by, any +thing you think proper to urge.</p> + +<p>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 that is in my power to do. +I will forbear all intercourse or correspondence with him,--for his as +well as my own sake.</p> + +<p>Tell me then, my mother, what you know of him. What heinous offence has +he committed, that makes him unworthy of my regard?</p> + +<p>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 a 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.</p> + +<p>I have told him this, and he joins with me to entreat 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 <i>one</i> action of +his life.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 tale must want something to complete 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>cannot</i>--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 hers who had it in her power to prevent the +evil and would not?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Jane Talbot</i></p> + +<p>New York, October 27.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Thy perseverance in wickedness, thy inflexible imposture, amazes me +beyond all utterance. Thy effrontery in boasting of thy innocence, in +calling this wretch thy <i>friend</i>, thy <i>soul's</i> friend, the means +of securing the favour of a pure and all-seeing Judge, exceeds all that I +supposed possible in 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!</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I have hitherto been silent through 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.</p> + +<p>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 harass me +with importunity, 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 showed 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.</p> + +<p>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 fantastic character; and whence you +imbibed this perverse spirit, at so early an age, is, to me, +inconceivable. It cost me many a gloomy foreboding.</p> + +<p>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 keeping your happiness might safely +be intrusted. Talbot was such a 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 tastes and habits suitable and common to his +education and age. He was addicted to industry, was regular and frugal in +his manner and economy. He had nothing of that specious and glossy texture +which captivates inexperience and youth, and serves as a substitute for +every 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.</p> + +<p>He was just such a 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, though 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.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>It was not enough that this man had 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 fantastic notions of our +duty or our happiness; that his religion had produced all its practical +effects, in honest, regular, sober, and consistent conduct.</p> + +<p>You wanted a zealot; a sectary; one that should enter into all the +trifling distinctions and minute subtleties that make one Christian the +mortal foe of another, while, in their social conduct, there is no +difference to be found between them.</p> + +<p>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, gave you a still greater interest in our +affections.</p> + +<p>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 connection with Colden. To +that connection must be traced every misfortune and depravity that has +attended you since.</p> + +<p>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 <i>very</i> frequent visits, such +<i>very</i> 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 inquire 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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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 +apprehensions at rest. I was deceived by the confidence you expressed in +your own caution, and the seeming readiness there was to be governed by my +advice.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>In all this there was nothing formidable. Such a man might surely be a +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I reflected that the victory over these chimeras, which you gained by +marriage with Talbot, might be merely temporary; and that, in order to +call these dormant feelings into action, it was only requisite to meet +with one contemplative, bookish, and romantic as yourself.</p> + +<p>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 practice; accustomed to intoxicate the women with melodious +flattery; fond of being <i>intimate</i>; avowedly devoted to the sex; +eloquent in his encomiums upon female charms; and affecting to select his +<i>friends</i> only from that sex.</p> + +<p>What effect might such a character have upon your peace, even without +imputing any ill intention 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.</p> + +<p>These apprehensions were raised to the highest pitch by more accurate +information of Colden's character, which I afterwards received. I found, +on inquiring 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.</p> + +<p>I met this friend of Colden's (Thomson his 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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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 handwriting could in such a case, be +credited.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But widely and deplorably different was Colden's case. A most +fascinating book [Footnote: Godwin's Political Justice.] 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.</p> + +<p>Colden had lived before this without examination or inquiry. 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.</p> + +<p>Such was the man whom you had admitted to your confidence; whom you had +adopted for your bosom friend. I knew your 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 abhorred.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 detestable sect adopted!</p> + +<p>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 poison was already swallowed.</p> + +<p>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, <i>could</i> possess no weight, in your +understanding. What was it to me whether he was ruffian or madman? +whether, in destroying 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?</p> + +<p>But I will not renew the subject. The same motives that induced me to +attempt to reason with you then no longer exist. 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.</p> + +<p>Yet how shall I tell it thee, Jane? I am afraid to intrust 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?</p> + +<p>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 +sacrifice of Colden cost thee thy life, I shall yet rejoice. As the wife +of Colden thou wilt be worse than dead to me.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Shall I shock, shall I wound thee, my child, by lifting the veil from +thy misconduct, behind which thou thinkest thou art screened from every +human eye? How little dost thou imagine that I know <i>so much</i>!</p> + +<p>Now will thy expostulations and reasonings have an end. Surely they +<i>will</i> have an end. Shame at last, shame at last, will overwhelm thee +and make thee dumb.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Was it not the unavoidable 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.</p> + +<p>H. FIELDER.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XVI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To the same</i></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +showing me a letter.</p> + +<p>He showed it me on condition of my being everlastingly silent to you in +regard to its 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.</p> + +<p>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 ever gaining your love, and entreated me to exert +myself for dissolving your connection with Colden, merely for your own +sake.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I need not repeat to you what followed; by what means I endeavoured to +effect that end which your obstinate folly refused.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>To preclude all bickerings and cavils, I enclose the letter which +attests your fall.</p> + +<p>H. FIELDER.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XVII</h1> + +(ENCLOSED LETTER.) + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Tuesday Morning.</p> + +<p>You went away this morning before I was awake. I think you might have +stayed to breakfast; yet, on second thoughts, your early departure was +best. <i>Perhaps</i> 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!</p> + +<p>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 +<i>me</i>.</p> + +<p>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, <i>you</i> are far from being strictly just +to me!</p> + +<p>Don't be angry, Hal. 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 <i>nobody; mind that</i>.</p> + +<p><i>I am loath to mention one thing, however, but I must. Though nothing +be due to the absent man, somewhat is</i> <i>due to myself. I have been +excessively 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; +at least for a month to come. The sweet oblivion of the future and past +lasted only for the night. Now I have leisure to look forward, and am +resolved (don't 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</i>.</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XVIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mr. Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>New York, October 22.</p> + +<p>SIR:--</p> + +<p>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 your compassion for her whom you +profess to love.</p> + +<p>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 choose to impute to me.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>You cannot be unacquainted with the habits and views in which my +daughter has been educated. Her life has passed in ease and luxury, and +you cannot but perceive the effect of any material change in her way of +life.</p> + +<p>It would be a wretched artifice to pretend to 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.</p> + +<p>Yet I ardently hope that this circumstance may not hinder you from +accepting bills upon London to the amount of three hundred pounds +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 well-wisher to my daughter.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 those talents, and that the sum I offer will be an ample fund, +till your own exertions may be turned to account.</p> + +<p>If this offer be accepted, I shall not only hold myself everlastingly +obliged to you, but I shall grant you a higher place in my esteem. Yet, +through deference to scruples which you may possibly possess, I most +cheerfully plight to you my honour, that this transaction shall be +concealed from Mrs. Talbot and from all the world.</p> + +<p>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 <i>all</i> 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 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 <i>just</i> to her,--and of <i>all</i> her +ancient friends, who will abhor in her the faithless wife and the +ungrateful child. I need not inform <i>you</i> that <i>your</i> family +will never receive into their bosom one whom her own kindred have +rejected. I am, &c.</p> + +<p>H. FIELDER.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XIX</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Fielder</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, October 28.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I will leave this house in anybody'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.</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XX</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, October 28.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>You will make haste to despatch 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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>And don't expostulate with me. Confirm me rather in my new resolution. +Even if you think 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.</p> + +<p>Too late is it now, even if I would, to recall my promise.</p> + +<p>I have promised to part with you. In the first tumult of my soul, on +receiving the enclosed letters, I wrote an answer, assuring Mrs. Fielder +of my absolute concurrence with her will.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Why shall I forsake thee? To gratify a wayward and groundless +prejudice. To purchase the short-lived 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.</p> + +<p>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----</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>October 28, Evening.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Look, my friend, at the letter she has sent me. It is my handwriting,--the very same which I have so often mentioned to you as having been, after +so unaccountable a manner, mislaid.</p> + +<p>I wrote some part of it, alone, in my own parlour. You recollect the +time;--the day after that night which a heavy storm of rain and my fatal +importunity prevailed on you to spend under this roof.</p> + +<p>Mark the deplorable consequences of an act which the coldest charity +would not have declined. On such a night I would have opened 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>While turning over clothes 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 gossiping neighbour, Miss Jessup, and had some hopes +that, finding no one in the parlour, she would withdraw with as little +ceremony as she entered.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But no visitant was there, and the paper was gone! I was surprised, and +a little alarmed. You know my childish apprehensions of robbers.</p> + +<p>I called up Molly, who was singing at her work in the kitchen. She had +heard the street-door open and shut, and footsteps overhead, 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.</p> + +<p>I was confounded at this incident. Who it was that could thus purloin +an unfinished 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>After reading my mother's letter, I opened with trembling hand that +which was enclosed. I instantly recognised 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Yes; it was clear. As distinctly as if it were the work of yesterday, +did I now remember that I stopped at the words <i>nobody; mind that</i>. +The following sentences are strange to me. The character is similar to +what precedes, but the words were never penned by me.</p> + +<p>And could Talbot--Yet what end? a fraud so--Ah! let me not suspect my +<i>husband of such</i> a fraud. Let me not have reason to abhor his +memory.</p> + +<p>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 had made sure.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>True it is, you passed that night under my roof. Where was my caution? +You, Henry, knew mankind better than I: why did you not repel my +importunities, and leave me in spite of my urgencies for your stay?</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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 has 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?</p> + +<p>But, if I <i>would</i> 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 a husband, shall the wild and improbable assertion of the +criminal be suffered to prevail? I have only my assertion to offer.</p> + +<p>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 atrocious guilt.</p> + +<p>In an evil hour, Henry, was it that I saw thee first. What endless +perplexities have beset me since that disastrous moment! I cannot pray for +their termination, for prayer implies hope.</p> + +<p>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 ill-fated Jane. Seek a more worthy companion, and be +happy.</p> + +<p>Perhaps you will feel, not pity, but displeasure, in receiving 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, re-echoed 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXII</h1> + + +<p align="center"><i>To Jane Talbot</i></p> + +<p>Baltimore, October 31.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 showing all the letters that have passed +between us, the contents of which will show that such guilt was +impossible; by making your girl bear witness to the precaution you used on +that night to preclude misconstructions, surely you may hope to disarm her +suspicions.</p> + +<p>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 him, my +girl, who knows thee best, have most reason to blush for thee.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Yet you forbear from tenderness to <i>his</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 irreconcilable, but that +which will hasten reconcilement will be <i>marriage</i>. 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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>You cannot unite yourself to me but with some view to my happiness. +Will your contributing to that happiness be nothing?</p> + +<p>Yet I cannot separate my felicity from yours. I can enjoy nothing at +the cost of your peace. In whatever way you decide, may the fruit be +content!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 erase 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +not, has crept into my style. I rely upon your wonted goodness to excuse +it.</p> + +<p>I have much to say upon this affecting subject, but must take a future +opportunity.</p> + +<p>I also have received a letter from Mrs. Fielder, of which I will say no +more, since I send you enclosed <i>that</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>HENRY GOLDEN.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Fielder</i></p> + +<p>Baltimore, November 2.</p> + +<p>MADAM:--</p> + +<p>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 have made me in this +letter.</p> + +<p>I should be grossly 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 opinion, consistent with a just regard to that of others and +to my own.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, <i>not less</i> than they now +are.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>My own education and experience sufficiently testify the importance of +riches, and I should be the last to despise or depreciate their value. +Still, much as habit has endeared to me the goods of fortune, I am far +from setting them above all other goods.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Shall I be able to compensate her? you ask.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>HENRY COLDEN.</p> + +<h1>Letter XXIV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, Nov. 2.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>It cannot be 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.</p> + +<p>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 I grow impatient, melancholy; a strange mixture of upbraiding for +myself, and resentment for thee, occupies my feelings.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 must be inspecting with these careful eyes into causes, and +labouring to tell you of what nature my malady is.</p> + +<p>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 shown in a map. This voluble +tongue and this prompt, pen! what volumes have I talked to you on that +bewitching theme,--myself!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But have I not said this a score of times before? and why do I indulge +this prate now?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To the Same</i></p> + +<p>Nov. 3.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 lord of my +affections. No will, no reason, have I of my own.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>Is there no method of removing this aversion? of outrooting this deadly +prejudice? And must I, in giving myself to thee, forfeit her +affection?</p> + +<p>And now--this dreadful charge! no wonder that her affectionate heart +was sorely wounded by such seeming proofs of my wickedness.</p> + +<p>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 <i>him</i> with the guilt of this plot against me, and imagined there +was duty in forbearing to detect it.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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 yours it shall occupy the chief place in my heart. The time, the +manner, be it yours to prescribe. My happiness, on that event, will surely +want but little to complete it; and, if you bid me not despair of my +mother's acquiescence, I <i>will</i> not despair.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I am very often on the brink of hating myself. So much thoughtlessness +of others; such callousness 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, were changed into half-vindictive reluctance,--not quite a +frown,--and upbraidings, in which tenderness was almost turned out of door +by anger.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><i>And yet</i>--See now, Vanity, the cunning advocate, entering with +his <i>And yet</i>. 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>And yet--the prater Vanity once more, you see: but I will let him speak +out this time. Here his apology is yours, and myself am only flattered +indirectly.</p> + +<p>And yet, when I have extorted from you any secret sorrow, you have +afterwards acknowledged that the disclosure was of use:--that my +sympathizing 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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</p> + +<p>JANE.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXVI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Fielder</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, November 4.</p> + +<p>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 some time able to disprove +the charge brought against me.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 handwriting was counterfeited, and for what end, +I know not. I cannot name any one who deserves to be suspected.</p> + +<p>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 beforehand, will effect nothing, +unless it be to aggravate, in your eyes, my imaginary guilt.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 flown 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 supply +the mere needs of nature, my debt to you could never be paid.</p> + +<p>But how much more than this have you done for me! You have given me, by +your instructions and example, an understanding and a heart. You have +taught me to value a fair fame beyond every thing but the peace of virtue; +you have made me capable of a generous affection for a benefactor equal to +yourself; capable of acting so as at once to <i>deserve</i> and to +<i>lose</i> your esteem; and enabled me to relinquish cheerfully those +comforts and luxuries which cannot be retained but at the price of my +integrity.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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</p> + +<p>Your ever-grateful</p> + +<p>JANE.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXVII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Talbot</i></p> + +<p>Baltimore, November 5.</p> + +<p>I highly approve of your letter. It far exceeded the expectations I had +formed of you. You are indeed a surprising creature.</p> + +<p>One cannot fail to be astonished at the differences of human +characters; at the opposite principles by which the judgments of men are +influenced.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 in a continued series of falsehoods +and frauds.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 shown 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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Villain as he is; a villain not by habit or by passion, but by +<i>principle;</i> a cool-blooded, systematic villain; yet she will give +him affluence 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 <i>you</i> of so black a deed, or me of such abominable +tenets?</p> + +<p>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 <i>will +do</i>, provided we enter into such engagements; but, if we should embrace +her offers, is it certain that she would not hesitate, repent, and +retract?</p> + +<p>Passion may dictate large and vehement offers upon paper, which +deliberating prudence would never allow to be literally adhered to.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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, show how deeply she abhors this connection, and hence dispose +us to do that, for pity's sake, which mere lucre would never +recommend.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 a hypocrite: I cannot dissemble that I +have <i>once</i> 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 waves of habit, or to be motionless amidst the hurricane of +passions.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>I am not obdurate. I am not ungrateful. With you I never was a +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>You say I <i>can</i>. The image of myself in my own mind is a sorry +compound of hateful or 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Should you give yourself to me, and rely upon my <i>labour</i> for +shelter and food, deplorable and complete 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>possible</i>.</p> + +<p>Hence it is that, if by marriage you should become wholly dependent 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; occasionally I might murmur. But my days would glide along +with fewer obstacles, at least, than if I were that infirm and +disconsolate wretch, <i>your husband</i>.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 prattler herself, had she been +talking to me all this tenderness instead of writing it.</p> + +<p>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 +scribble, but I cannot write more just now, and this will show you, at +least, that I am not unmindful of you. Adieu.</p> + +<p>COLDEN.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXVIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Talbot</i></p> + +<p>Baltimore, November 6.</p> + +<p>Let me see! this is the beginning of November. Yes; it was just a +twelvemonth 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.</p> + +<p>"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 cloze, that, without refreshing me, as sleep would do, will unfit +me for sleep.</p> + +<p>"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 +eyelids.</p> + +<p>"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----</p> + +<p>"Not now; some other time. To-morrow. What can I write about? Haven't +two ideas that hang together intelligibly. 'Twill be commonplace trite +stuff. Besides, writing always plants a thorn in my breast.</p> + +<p>"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!</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The damage is easily repaired, and I sit down, with unspeakable +alacrity, to a business that tires my muscles, sets a <i>gnawer</i> at +work upon my lungs, fatigues my brain, and leaves me listless and +spiritless.</p> + +<p>How you have made yourself so absolute a mistress of the goose-quill, I +can't imagine; 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>By-and-by I shall have as voluble a pen as thy own. And yet to +<i>that</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>But this, thou'lt 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</p> + +<p>COLDEN.</p> + +<h1>Letter XXIX</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To the Same</i></p> + +<p>10 o'clock at night.</p> + +<p>Now let us take a view of what is to come. Too often I endeavour to +escape from foresight when it presents to me nothing but evils, but now I +must, for thy sake, be less a coward.</p> + +<p>In six weeks Jane becomes mine. Till then, thy mother will not cast +thee out of her protection. And will she <i>then</i>? 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 +<i>indeed</i> 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 inflict +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?</p> + +<p>More than ever will she see that thou needest her bounty; and, since +she cannot recall what is past, will she not relent and be willing to +lessen the irremediable evil all she can?</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>The wedded pair must live together, she will think; and shall this +hated encroacher find refuge from beggary and vileness under <i>her</i> +roof,--be lodged and banqueted at <i>her</i> expense? <i>That</i> her +indignant heart will never suffer.</p> + +<p>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 steadfast 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 <i>her</i> 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.</p> + +<p>And where shall <i>be</i> thy home? You love the comforts, the ease, +the independence of a 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 as is +going. You must learn to bear the humours and accommodate yourself to the +habits of your inmates.</p> + +<p>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 <i>my</i> wife. And how will this do, Jane? Is +not the price too great?</p> + +<p>And my company will not solace thee under these inconveniences. I must +not live with thee; only an occasional visitor; one among a half-dozen at +a common fire; with witnesses of all we say. Thy pittance will do no more +than support thyself. <i>I</i> must house myself and feed elsewhere. +<i>Where</i>, I know not. <i>That</i> will depend upon the species of +employment I shall be obliged to pursue for my subsistence. Scanty and +irksome it will be, at best.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Adieu.</p> + +<p>HENRY COLDEN.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXX</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To the same</i></p> + +<p>Wilmington, November 7.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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----</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 says, evinces a pathetic +earnestness for my conviction.</p> + +<p>I listen to him with a 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.</p> + +<p>I argue not with him. I say nothing but to persuade him that I am far +from being that contumacious enemy to his faith which he is prone to +imagine me to be.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>His conduct, indeed, on that occasion, as far as we know it, seems +irregular and injudicious. 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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>For past faults and rectified errors, are not remorse and amendment +adequate atonements? If any one despise me for what I <i>was</i>, let me +not shrink from the penalty. Let me not find pleasure in the praise of +those whose approbation is founded on ignorance of what I <i>am</i>. 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Yet I could never write to him or talk to him on this subject. My +tongue, my pen, will be sure to falter. I know that he will boldly justify +his conduct, and I feel that he ought to justify; yet the attempt to +justify would awaken--indignation, selfishness. In spite of the +suggestions of my better reason, I know we should quarrel.</p> + +<p>We should not quarrel <i>now</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Write to me, my love. Daily, hourly, and cheerfully, if possible. +Borrow not; be not thy letters tinged with the melancholy hue of this.</p> + +<p>Write speedily and much, if thou lovest thy</p> + +<p>COLDEN.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXXI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, Nov. 9.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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-encumbered alley, be my +nuptial lot?</p> + +<p>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--<i>kiss</i> or <i>two</i>. My blundering pen! I recall the word. I meant +<i>cuff</i>; but my saucy pen, pretending to know more of my mind than I +did myself, turned (as its mistress, mayhap, would have done, hadst thou +been near me, <i>indeed</i>) her <i>cuff</i> into a <i>kiss</i>.</p> + +<p>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 <i>black usurping mist</i> stole it away, and all was dreary +as it is wont to be.</p> + +<p>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 <i>will</i> 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 <i>wife's</i> title to thy company, a conjugal +share in thy concerns, and claim to reign over thee.</p> + +<p>Make haste, and atone, by the future brightness of thy epistolary +emanations, for the pitchy cloud that overspreads these sick man's +dreams.</p> + +<p>How must thou have rummaged the cupboard of thy fancy for musty scraps +and flinty crusts to feed thy spleen withal,--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.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>plant</i> around us. I have tasted nectarines of her raising, and I +find her, let me tell thee, an admirable <i>horticulturist</i>.</p> + +<p>Thou art so far off, there is no sending thee a basketful, 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>In the autumn of <i>ninety-seven</i>, 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 despatch +and affability.</p> + +<p>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 counter, I usually went back, and found on every interview +new cause for 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.</p> + +<p>This was in the summer you left us, and, the malady breaking out a few +months after, and all <i>shopping</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 counsel to assist her in the new state of her +affairs.</p> + +<p>Laying aside ceremony, I inquired 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 been industrious and thrifty, and his death left her +enough to support her and her Sally in the way they wished.</p> + +<p>Inquiring 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.</p> + +<p>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 unspoiled water, and a kitchen, below the ground indeed, +but light, wholesome, and warm.</p> + +<p>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 with me on my own account, could not +reject my application in favour of my good widow.</p> + +<p>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 in completing this affair, +and in seeing my good woman quietly settled in her new abode, with her +daughter Sally and her servant <i>Alice</i>, who had come with her from +Europe, and had lived with her the dear knows how long.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 of charity to her +neighbours and thankfulness to God.</p> + +<p>Much--indeed, all--of these comforts she ascribes to me; yet her +gratitude is not loquacious. It shows 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 entreating 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 advances to intimacy but when expressly invited and +encouraged.</p> + +<p>It was a good while before all her new arrangements were completed. +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>She showred 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.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, 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 +don't 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 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."</p> + +<p>"But might you not accommodate a good quiet kind of body in this room, +at so much a year or week?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"So it does, ma'am; and I can't 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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Oh, 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 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."</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>One who, like Mrs. Henning, had only <i>one</i> friend upon earth. Whom +her former associates refused to commune with or look upon. Whose +loneliness was uncheered, except by her own thoughts and her books,--perhaps now and then, at times when oceans did not sever her from him, by +that one earthly friend.</p> + +<p>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 summer-time, to join her at her chamber-window and +pass away the starlight hour in the unwitnessed community of fond +hearts?</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Suppose her hours are not embittered by the feelings of dependence? 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.</p> + +<p>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, thinkest thou?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Perhaps, rich as she is in books, she is an economist of pleasure, and +tears 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 +benignity she resigns herself as she used to do to the fond arms of that +parent she has lost.</p> + +<p>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 outdone in taste and expertness at the needle by any female in the +land.</p> + +<p>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 +separate 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.</p> + +<p>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 lies in the mental powers of the artist, and the direction +accidentally given to these powers.</p> + +<p>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 tributes upon others that were +levied on her, and make a business of her sports?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Dost 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----</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Why, how now, Jane? whence all this interest in the scene thou +portrayest? One would fancy that this happy outcast, this self-dependent +wife, was no other than <i>thyself</i>.</p> + +<p>A shrewd conjecture, truly. I suppose, Hal, thou wilt be fond enough to +guess so, too. By 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 choose to inflict.</p> + +<p>I will not say what it is, lest the <i>fear</i> of it should keep thee +away.</p> + +<p>And, now that I have finished the history of Mrs. Henning and her +boarder, I will bid thee--good-night.</p> + +<p>Good----good-night, my love.</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXXI</h1> + +<blockquote>[<i>Editorial note: The observant reader will have +noticed this is the second letter bearing the number XXXI. The +original text contained two Letters XXXI, and we have chosen to let +the letters retain their original numbers, rather than renumber them. +</i>]</blockquote> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, November 11.</p> + +<p>How shall I tell you the strange--<i>strange</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"A gentleman!" thought I. "An odd hour this" (it was past ten) "for any +man but one to visit <i>me</i>. 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.</p> + +<p>A tall and noble figure, in a foreign uniform, arose from the sofa at +my entrance. The half-extinct lamp on the mantel could not conceal from +me--<i>my brother</i>!</p> + +<p>My surprise almost overpowered me. I should have sunk upon the floor, +had he not stepped to me and sustained me in his arms.</p> + +<p>"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 mere 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 a 'How +d'ye' to the little girl for whom I have still some regard."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>To my rapid and half-coherent questions, he replied, "I landed--you +need not know where. My commission requires secrecy, and you know I have +personal reasons for wishing to pass through this city without notice. My +business did not bring me farther 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?"</p> + +<p>I answered this question vaguely.</p> + +<p>"Pray," (with much earnestness,) "are you married yet?"</p> + +<p>The confusion with which I returned an answer to this did not escape +him.</p> + +<p>"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 probable 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?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>How could I explain on such a subject, thus abruptly introduced to +<i>him</i>? 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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"It is long since the common destiny has ended all Talbot's +engagements."</p> + +<p>"Dead, is he? Well, a new aspirer, I suppose, has succeeded, and he is +the bone of contention. Who's he?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Change the subject? With all my heart, if we can find any more +important; but that's impossible. So we must even 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 a husband; and, for my part, +I am easily pleased."</p> + +<p>"This is a subject, brother, on which it is impossible that we should +think alike; nor is it necessary. Let us then talk of something in which +we have a common concern; something that has a claim to interest you."</p> + +<p>"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 +<i>brother</i> candidly what are your prospects."</p> + +<p>After some hesitation,--"My real brother--one who had the tenderness +becoming that relation--would certainly deserve my confidence. But----"</p> + +<p>"But what? Come; never mince the matter, I scarcely been half a brother +hitherto, I grant you 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."</p> + +<p>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 inquiry 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 splendour.</p> + +<p>"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?</p> + +<p>"Come, come; I know thou art a romantic being,--one accustomed to +<i>feed on thoughts</i> instead of pudding. Contentment and a cottage are +roast beef and a palace to thee; but, take my word for it, this inamorata +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-by;' 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."</p> + +<p>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 splendour of his new rank. He +endeavoured to seduce my vanity by the prospect of the conquest 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 +him to America. He insinuated that brothership and eldership gave him +something like a title to paternal authority, and insisted on +obedience.</p> + +<p>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 Newport, 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>my man</i> +was equally obstinate and stupid; but he would soon see of what stuff +<i>he</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Till I hear from you I shall have no peace. Would to Heaven there was +some speedier conveyance!</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXXII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Jane Talbot</i></p> + +<p>Baltimore, November 14.</p> + +<p>Let me overlook your last letter [Footnote A: Letter XXX.] 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.</p> + +<p>I had strolled to the bank of the river, and was leaning idly on a +branch of an apple-tree 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.</p> + +<p>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 inquired 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. Such, in about as many words, was his +introduction to me, and he waited for my answer with much impatience.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But what were my claims? what my merits, my profession, my fortune? On +all these heads a brother would naturally require to be thoroughly +informed.</p> + +<p>"As to my character, sir, you will hardly expect any satisfactory +information from <i>my</i> 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."</p> + +<p>"Then, pray, sir, on what are built your pretensions to my sister?"</p> + +<p>"Really, sir, they are built on <i>nothing</i>. I am, in every respect, +immeasurably her inferior. I possess not a single merit that entitles me +to grace from her."</p> + +<p>"I have surely not been misinformed. She tacitly admitted that she was +engaged to be your wife."</p> + +<p>"'Tis very true. She is so."</p> + +<p>"But what, then, is the basis of this engagement?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"You know, sir, what I mean."</p> + +<p>"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 a hundred +times."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>I was obliged to stifle a laugh which this whimsical proposal excited. +I continued, through this whole dialogue, to regard my companion with a +steadfast and cheerful gravity.</p> + +<p>"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 whatever path she +points out to me, I will walk in it."</p> + +<p>"But <i>this</i> is the path in which her true interest requires you to +walk."</p> + +<p>"I have not yet discovered that to be <i>her</i> opinion; the moment I +do, I will walk in it accordingly."</p> + +<p>"No matter what <i>her</i> 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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"This is insolence. You trifle with me. You pretend to misconstrue my +meaning."</p> + +<p>"When you charge me with insolence, I think you afford pretty strong +proof that you mistake <i>my</i> meaning. I have not the least intention +to offend you."</p> + +<p>"Let me be explicit with you. Do you instantly and absolutely resign +all pretensions to my sister?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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 a union between us, +unsanctioned by the approbation of our common friends.</p> + +<p>"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 <i>with</i> me."</p> + +<p>It was.</p> + +<p>"Happiness is mere matter of opinion; perhaps Jane thinks already as +you do."</p> + +<p>He allowed that he had talked with you ineffectually on that +subject.</p> + +<p>"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. +<i>That</i>, sir, is my decision."</p> + +<p>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 carriage 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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>I look with impatience for your next letter, in which you will tell +what has happened.</p> + +<h1>Letter XXXIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, November 17.</p> + +<p>I have just sent you a letter, but my restless spirit can find no +relief but in writing.</p> + +<p>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 some time grant me the power to compensate yon for all that I have +culpably or innocently made you suffer.</p> + +<p>What's this? A letter from my brother! The superscription is his.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>Let me hasten, my friend, to give you a copy of this strange epistle. +It has neither date nor signature.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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. <i>There</i> 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, porringers, 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 delectable amusements of mending your husband's +stockings at one time, and serving a neighbour with a pennyworth of snuff +at another.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>What think you of this letter? The enclosed 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 repairing 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 +sincere 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.</p> + +<p>Methinks I am sorry he is 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 brother +would have been kept in melancholy, sweet remembrance.</p> + +<p>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, considerate, 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.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXXIV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, November 18.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I sat alone on the sofa below, for a whole hour. Not once was the bell +rung; not once 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.</p> + +<p>Yet, deceived by my fond heart into momentary forgetfulness of the +interval of a hundred miles that lies between us, more than once I cast a +glance behind me, and started, as if the hoped-for peal had actually been +rung.</p> + +<p>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, "though I cannot talk to him, yet I can write."</p> + +<p>But first, I read over again this cruel letter of my mother. I weighed +all the contents, and especially those heavy charges against you.</p> + +<p>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 dote +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!</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I seldom trusted myself to inquire 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.</p> + +<p>But what now is the change that time and passion have wrought! I have +found a man 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 <i>love</i> the man, and that fills +me with unconquerable zeal to rescue him from this calamity.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 dishonours 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.</p> + +<p>"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 +candour and humility, has his pride and his passions engaged on the side +of his opinions.</p> + +<p>"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 show you +that only grace from above can reach his obdurate heart, or dart a ray +into his benighted faculties."</p> + +<p>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 reconsider anew +the motives that have made me act as I have acted.</p> + +<p>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, +irresistible in whatever direction they are bent; capable of giving the +highest degree of misery or happiness to yourself and to others. At +present they are misdirected or inactive; they are either pernicious or +useless.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Of what stuff must that heart be made which can behold, unmoved, genius +and worth, destitute of the joys and energies of religion; wandering in a +maze of passions and doubts; devoured by fantastic 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?</p> + +<p>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 may put on solemn visages and mutter +holy names. We may abstain from profane amusements or unauthorized words; +we may shun, as infections, the company of unbelievers. We may study +homilies and creeds; but all this, without <i>rational</i> activity for +others' good, is not religion. I see, in all this, nothing that I am +accustomed to call by that name.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 inquired 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.</p> + +<p>Now, I entertain no reverence for such a bubble. In some sense, the +religion of the timorous 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.</p> + +<p>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 +safeguard of every virtue, but even as the test of a good understanding. +The name of <i>infidel</i> 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 steadfast or sincere. +An adverse fortune or a death-bed usually put an end to the illusion.</p> + +<p>Thus I grew up, never beset by any doubts, never venturing on inquiry. +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 demeanour 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.</p> + +<p>From my remonstrances you never averted your ear. Every proof of an +unprejudiced attention, and even of a bias favourable 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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 inquiry. How could I +hope to work on your convictions without a suitable foundation for my +own?</p> + +<p>And see now, my friend, the blindness of our judgments. 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. 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 +knowledge?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 irresistible claims to our help.</p> + +<p>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 inquiries; delicately 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 steadfast and bright +flame the spark that my wayward fancy, left to itself, would have +instantaneously emitted and lost.--</p> + +<p>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 +falters, and the characters it traces run into an illegible scrawl.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>Adieu.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXXV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Talbot</i></p> + +<p>Baltimore, November 20.</p> + +<p>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 steadfastness and virtue, but the power also!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Every one has ways of his own. A transient glance at the post satisfies +the mob of passengers. 'Tis my choice to stand a while and gaze.</p> + +<p>The only post, indeed, which I closely examine, is myself, because my +station is most convenient for inspecting <i>that</i>. Yet, though I have +a fuller view of myself than any other can have of me, my imperfect +<i>sight</i>--that is, my erring judgment--is continually blundering.</p> + +<p>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 call mine!</p> + +<p>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 produced, not only something new or unexpected, but +something in seeming contradiction to my previous knowledge.</p> + +<p>"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 wretch as I am."</p> + +<p>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?--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.</p> + +<p>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 idolizes, 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.</p> + +<p>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 +dwelling and its comforts, to make thee a tenant of thy good widow, and a +seamstress for me!</p> + +<p>"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!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, either. +None but she that loves me can make such constructions and allowances as +you do.</p> + +<p>Why may she not be induced to give up the hope of disuniting us, and, +while she hates me, continue her affection for thee? Why rob thee of those +bounties hitherto dispensed to thee, merely because <i>I</i> must share in +them? My partaking with thee contributes indispensably to thy happiness. +Not for my own sake, then, but merely for thine, ought competence to be +secured to thee.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>There is a strange inconsistency and contradiction in thy mother's +conduct.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>And then there is such an irresistible crowd of evidence in favour of +the accusation! When I first read Mrs. Fielder's letter, the consciousness +of my innocence gave me courage; but the 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.</p> + +<p>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 +enchantments of those eyes, and the pleadings of that melting voice.</p> + +<p>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 entreaty, so absolutely forbidding my +departure.</p> + +<p>And was I such a short-sighted 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.</p> + +<p>As it was, no contrivance could be more unfortunate, since it merely +enabled her the more distinctly to remark the hour when you came up. Was +it <i>three</i>, or <i>four</i>, when you left the parlour?</p> + +<p>The unbosoming of souls which that night witnessed, so sweetly as it +dwelt upon my memory, I now regard with horror, since it has involved you +in such evil.</p> + +<p>But the letter,--that was a most disastrous accident. I had read very +frequently this fatal billet. Who is it that could imitate your hand 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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Pray, my friend, sit down to the recollection of your past life, and +inquire who it was that possessed your husband's confidence; who were his +intimate companions, endeavour 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.</p> + +<p>Thomson is no better, yet grows worse hardly perceptibly. Adieu.</p> + +<p>HENRY COLDEN.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXXVI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, November 23.</p> + +<p>You impose on me a painful task. Persuaded that reflection was useless, +I have endeavoured 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 +endeavour to shun the scrutiny.</p> + +<p>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 a helpless woman of her reputation,--introduces mortal enmity +between her and those whose affection is necessary to render life +tolerable!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 soothing it +into apathy, only adds a new sting.</p> + +<p>A spotless reputation was once dear to me, but I have 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 labour but reiterated mortification and +disappointment?</p> + +<p>An upright demeanour, a self-acquitting conscience, are not sufficient +for our safety. Calumny and misapprehension have no bounds to their rage +and their activity.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 favourable 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.</p> + +<p>Heaven knows how much I value the favour and affection of my mother; +but, clear as it is, I must give it up. How can I retain it? I cannot +confute the charge. I must not acknowledge a guilt that does not belong to +me. Added, therefore, to her belief of my guilt, must be the persuasion of +my being a hardened and obdurate criminal.</p> + +<p>What will she think of my last two 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 honourable compunction, left to operate +without your control. 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I am placed in a very painful situation. 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 begone from her doors? Ought I to lay her +under the necessity of declaring her will?</p> + +<p>Yet if I change my lodgings immediately, without waiting her +directions, will she not regard my conduct as contemptuous? Shall I not +then be a rebel indeed?--one that scorns her favour, and is eager to get +rid of all my obligations?</p> + +<p>How painful is such a situation! yet there is no escaping from it, that +I can see. I must, perforce, remain as I am. But perhaps her next letter +will throw some light upon my destiny. I suppose my positive assertions +will show her that a change of purpose cannot be hoped for from me.</p> + +<p>The bell rings. Perhaps it is the postman, and the intelligence I wish +for has arrived. Adieu.</p> + +<p>J. TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXXVII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To the Same</i></p> + +<p>November 26.</p> + +<p>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 a heart which has, at length, permitted all +selfish regards to be swallowed up by a disinterested consideration of thy +good?</p> + +<p>Why did you conceal from me your father's treatment of you, and the +consequences which 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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Dear and welcome as those features and that voice once were, now would +I rather have encountered the eyes of a basilisk and the notes of the ill-boding raven.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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 +acquiescence, 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.</p> + +<p>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 demeanour betrayed. Fatigued and indisposed as she was, +she made preparation to depart; she refused to pass one night under the +same roof,--her <i>own</i> roof,--and determined to begone, on her return +home, the very next morning.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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; your treatment of the +Woodbury girl; your correspondence with Thomson; your ignoble sloth; your +dependence upon others; your helplessness.</p> + +<p>From these accusations I defended you in silence. My heart was your +secret advocate. I did not verbally repel any of these charges. That of +inglorious dependence for subsistence upon others I admitted; but I could +not forbear urging that this dependence 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 labour; to whose property +your title, ultimately, could not be denied.</p> + +<p>"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 ignominiously +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."</p> + +<p>You did not tell me <i>this</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>My mother removed all doubt which could not but attend such unwelcome +tidings, by showing me her own letter to your father, and his answer to +it.</p> + +<p>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 +bruise on your forehead? That bruise, and every token of dismay, your +endeavours at eluding or diverting my attention from your sorrow and +solemnity, are now explained.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But this I will myself do. I will acquaint him with my resignation to +<i>his</i> will and that of my mother, and beseech him to restore you to +his favour.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>J. T.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXXVIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden, Senior</i></p> + +<p>November 26.</p> + +<p>Sir:--</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>It is my duty to inform you that, in my opinion, your approbation was +absolutely necessary to such a 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I am deeply grieved that his attachment to me has forfeited your +favour. I hope that there is no other obstacle to reconcilement, and that +the termination of all intercourse between us may remove that +obstacle.</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + +<p>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 +favour.</p> + +<p>M. FIELDER.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XXXIX</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Talbot</i></p> + +<p>November 28.</p> + +<p>IT becomes me to submit without a murmur to a resolution dictated by a +disinterested regard to my happiness.</p> + +<p>That you may find in that persuasion, in your mother's tenderness and +gratitude, in the affluence and honour which this determination has +secured to you, abundant consolation for every evil that may befall +yourself or pursue me, are my only wishes.</p> + +<p>Far was I from designing to conceal from you entirely my father's +aversion to our views. I frequently apprized 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.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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 dishonour? why needlessly +add to my own and to your affliction?</p> + +<p>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 parent's control 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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>You exhort me to seek reconcilement with my father. What mean you? I +have not been the injurer. Not an angry word, accusing look, or revengeful +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.</p> + +<p>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 +happy.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Farewell----<i>forever</i>.</p> + +<p>H. COLDEN.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XL</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To James Montford</i></p> + +<p>November 28.</p> + +<p>I TOLD you of your brother Stephen's talk with me about accompanying +him on his northwest 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.</p> + +<p>I call it an everlasting farewell, for I have, at present, neither +expectation nor desire of returning. A three years' wandering among +boisterous 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.</p> + +<p>And why have I embraced this scheme? There can be but one cause.</p> + +<p>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 friend's 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.</p> + +<p>There never occurred an event in my life which did not, someway, 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.</p> + +<p>I begin to think it is vain to strive against maternal influence. What +but momentary victory can I hope to attain? What but poverty, dependence, +ignominy, will she share with me? And if her strenuous spirit set naught +by these, (and I know she is capable of rising above them,) how will she +support her mother's indignation and grief?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I have already written an answer; I hope such a one as, when the +present tumults of passion have subsided, when the eye sedately +scrutinizes, and the heart beats in an even tenor, may be read without +shame or remorse.</p> + +<p>I shall 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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Adieu, my friend. There will be time enough to hear from you ere my +departure. Let me hear, then, from you.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XLI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, December 3.</p> + +<p>Sir:--</p> + +<p>My daughter informs me that the letter she has just despatched 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 enemy, you will +rank me among your benefactors.</p> + +<p>You have shown 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +enclosed 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</p> + +<p>Your true friend,</p> + +<p>M. FIELDER.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XLII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Fielder</i></p> + +<p>Baltimore, December 5.</p> + +<p>Madam:--</p> + +<p>I pretend not to be raised above any of the infirmities of human +nature; but I 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.</p> + +<p>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 revisit my native land.</p> + +<p>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 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 the one or the +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!</p> + +<p>I regard in its true light what you can say with respect to a +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.</p> + +<p>Truly can I affirm that your daughter's happiness is of all earthly +things most 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 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.</p> + +<p>And now, madam, permit me to conclude with a solemn blessing on your +head and on hers, and with an eternal farewell to you both.</p> + +<p>H. COLDEN.</p> + + +<h1>Letter XLIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To James Montford</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, December 7.</p> + +<p>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 +indispensable 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?</p> + +<p>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, <i>this</i> 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.</p> + +<p>You know the mysterious and inexplicable calumny which has heightened +Mrs. Fielder's antipathy against me.</p> + +<p>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, must not suspicion and +mistrust perpetually rankle in their bosoms, while this imposture is +believed?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 my 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 woman's house, and stopped a moment +just to give me a "How d'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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Oh, 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.</p> + +<p>It was 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.</p> + +<p>After the rhetoric of half an hour, all was wound up, in a kind of +satirical apology, with, "No wonder; for the girl was over head and ears +in love, and her man would have nothing to say to her. A hundred times has +she begged and prayed him 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."</p> + +<p>"Pray," said I, "who was this ungrateful person?"</p> + +<p>"His name was Talbot. Miss Jessup would not give him up, but teased 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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, she had exerted a wonderful +degree of circumspection, and had placed on her lips a guard that had +never once slept.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I inquired 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The proofs of Miss Jessup's passion were continually occurring in her +own family, where she suffered the ill-humour occasioned by her +disappointment to display itself without control. Hannah's curiosity was +not chastened 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 doted 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 inquisitive of mortals. Her neighbour was regarded with no +particular affection; her conversation is usually a vein of impertinence +or levity; her visits were always unsought, 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.</p> + +<p>Jane's life since the commencement of her acquaintance with Miss Jessup +was lonely and secluded. Her friends were not of her neighbour's cast, and +those 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.</p> + +<p>After many vague and fruitless inquiries, I asked Hannah if Miss Jessup +was much addicted to the pen.</p> + +<p>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 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 despatched 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----</p> + +<p>"You say that Miss Jessup was a great scribbler. Did she write well; +fast; neatly?"</p> + +<p>"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 say that Miss Polly 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.</p> + +<p>"What has become of this Tom?"</p> + +<p>He lived 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 Polly had gained +intelligence of Hannah's situation, and of her being succoured, in her +distress, by me.</p> + +<p>"Tom, you say, was her letter-carrier. Did you ever hear from him with +whom she corresponded? Did she eyer write to Talbot?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes. Just before Talbot's marriage, she often wrote to him. Tom +used to talk very freely in the kitchen about his mistress's attachment, +and always told us what reception he met with. Mr. Talbot seldom +condescended to write any answer."</p> + +<p>"I suppose, Hannah, I need hardly ask whether you have any specimen of +Miss Jessup's writing in your possession?"</p> + +<p>This question considerably disconcerted the poor woman. She did not +answer me till I had repeated the question.</p> + +<p>Why--yes; she had--something--she believed.</p> + +<p>"I presume it is nothing improper to be disclosed: if so, I should be +glad to have a sight of it."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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:--</p> + +<p>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 a 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 Polly was preparing to go out unsheltered, when the +officious Tom interfered, and asked her if <i>he</i> could do what she +wanted. At first she refused his offer, but, the mother's 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 +despatch, 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 a hearty draught of +strong beer.</p> + +<p>While quaffing his nectar, and chattering with his usual gayety, +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 inquired of Hannah if a letter had not fallen from his +pocket before he went out.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Every day increased 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.</p> + +<p>She could not read, and was afraid of trusting anybody 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 some importance to her. It had lain, till almost forgotten, in +the bottom of her crazy chest.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 Jessup's ordinary handwriting. Was it rash to infer from these +circumstances that the secret enemy, whose malice had been so active and +successful, was at length discovered?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>After much reflection, I determined to call upon Miss Jessup. I meant +not to restore her 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.</p> + +<p>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 burden almost insupportable. I hastened my pace, and +averted my eyes.</p> + +<p>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 a human being whom I knew.</p> + +<p>What I shall 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 likewise 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 +indispensable; 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.</p> + +<p>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 she took so much pains to gain his favour, even after his +marriage, is it not allowable to question the delicacy and +punctiliousness, at least, of her virtue?</p> + +<p>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>I</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.</p> + +<p>Here is some one coming up the stairs towards my apartment. Surely it +cannot be to me that this visit is intended.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>Good Heaven! What shall I do?</p> + +<p>It was Molly that has just left me.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The poor girl, as soon as she saw me, began to sob bitterly, and could +only exclaim, "Oh, sir! Oh, Mr. Colden!"</p> + +<p>This behaviour was enough to terrify me. I trembled in every joint +while I faltered out, "I hope your mistress is well?"</p> + +<p>After many efforts, I prevailed in gaining a distinct account of my +friend's situation. This good girl, by the sympathy she always 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 +further than to indulge her feelings with less restraint in Molly's +presence than in that of any other person.</p> + +<p>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 endeavoured to comfort Mrs. Talbot, but in +vain.</p> + +<p>Next day she did not rise as early as usual. Her mother came to her +bedside, and inquired 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.</p> + +<p>In this way that and the ensuing day passed. 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.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>All this was I compelled to hear from the communicative Molly.</p> + +<p>My heart bled at this recital. Too well did I predict what effect her +compliance would have on her peace.</p> + +<p>I asked if Jane had not received a letter from me.</p> + +<p>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 showed 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.</p> + +<p>She did not conceal from Molly the object of her solicitude. The good +girl endeavoured to soothe 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."</p> + +<p>The weeping girl timorously suggested that she had already given me +up.</p> + +<p>"True, Molly, in a rash moment I told him that we meet no more; but two +days of misery have 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. I will die. Blessing my mother, and wishing her a less stubborn +child, <i>I will die</i>."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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's +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, 'Oh, +what--what a heart have I madly cast away!'"</p> + +<p>The girl told me much more, which I am unable to repeat. Her visit was +self-prompted. She had caught a glimpse of me as I passed the door, and, +without mentioning her purpose to her mistress, set out as soon as it was +dusk.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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 +pronounced, and no power on earth shall sever me from her side.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>She offered to conduct me to her then. It was easy to effect 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.</p> + +<p>Can I, my friend,--can I, without unappeasable remorse, pursue this +scheme of a distant voyage? Suppose some fatal despair 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.</p> + +<p>Should I not be the most fragrant 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 she whom I +possessed were not happier than a different destiny would make her.</p> + +<p>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 remedy +for all evils; that our efforts to regain the favour of her mother would +be most likely to succeed when that which she endeavoured to prevent was +irretrievable. Yet that persuasion was dissipated by her last letter. +<i>That</i> 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 +inseparable?</p> + +<p>What a fantastic impediment is this aversion of her mother! And yet, +can I safely and deliberately call it fantastic? Let me sever myself +<i>from</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>her</i>, not because <i>my</i> happiness, though my happiness certainly +<i>does</i>, demand it.</p> + +<p>I am then resolved. Jane's decision shall be deliberate. I will not +bias 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.</p> + +<p>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 assurances? +She has banished me. I am preparing to fly. She recalls me, and it is +impossible to depart.</p> + +<p>I must go to Miss Jessup's. I will take up the pen ('tis my sole +amusement) when I return.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>I went to Miss Jessup's; her still sealed letter in my pocket; my mind +confused, perplexed, sorrowful; wholly undetermined 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.</p> + +<p>At length, reproaching myself for this indecision, and leaving my +conduct to be determined by circumstances, I went directly to her +house.</p> + +<p>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 despatch. I was +admitted.</p> + +<p>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 to talk:--</p> + +<p>"I am very unwell; got a terrible cold, coming from Dover; been laid up +ever since; a teasing 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."</p> + +<p>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:--</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Nay," said she, in some little trepidation, "if you have any thing to +communicate, I am already prepared to receive it."</p> + +<p>"Indeed, Miss Jessup, I <i>have</i> 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 establishment of truth would act with more +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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"You may naturally suppose that I am desirous of gaming 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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"What think you, madam," (taking her hand, and eyeing her with +steadfastness;) "she thinks me at once so artful and so wicked that I have +made the wife unfaithful to the husband; that I have persuaded Mrs. Talbot +to forget what was due to herself, her fame, and to trample on her +marriage-vow.</p> + +<p>"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 shown 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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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 <i>our</i> weal or woe? Why +should you be called upon as a counsellor or umpire in the little family +dissensions of Mrs. Talbot and her mother?</p> + +<p>"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 <i>you</i> know, would appear +strange and absurd?</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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; a hectic flush now and then shot across her check. But +these would have been produced by a similar address, delivered with much +solemnity and emphasis, in any one, however innocent.</p> + +<p>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:--</p> + +<p>"Tell me, I conjure you, what you know. Be not deterred by any self-regard; but, indeed, how can your interest be affected by clearing up a +mistake so fatal to the happiness of one for whom you have always +professed a friendly regard?</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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 came 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.</p> + +<p>"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 reconcile her to her daughter's marriage. It will only +remove one insuperable impediment to her reconciliation with her +daughter.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>After a long pause, and a struggle, as it were, for utterance, she +faltered 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?"</p> + +<p>"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 unauthorized 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 contemptuous rejection of your advances,--can you +imagine that these things are not known?</p> + +<p>"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 came 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 <i>public</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>I cannot paint the alarm and embarrassment which these words +occasioned. Tears afforded her some relief, but shame had deprived her of +all utterance.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Impossible!" she exclaimed, in a kind of agony; "I am already sick to +death! I cannot move a step on such a purpose. I don't know Mrs. Fielder, +and can never look her in the face."</p> + +<p>"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 shown 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. Enclose it in a paper, acknowledging the stratagem to be +yours. It is done in a few words, and in half a minute."</p> + +<p>My impetuosity overpowered all opposition and remonstrance. The paper +was before her, the pen in her reluctant fingers; but that was all.</p> + +<p>"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 having blasted +the fame of an innocent woman, and of having sown eternal discord between +mother and child."</p> + +<p>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 to-morrow. She was too unwell to see anybody, to +hold a pen, at present.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>I did not stay for her consent, but, seizing the pen, put down hastily +these words:--</p> + +<p>"Madam: the enclosed 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 paragraph, in a hand as much resembling hers as possible, +and conveyed it to the hands of her husband."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I now produced the letter I received from Hannah Seeker, and said, "I +see, madam, you will compel me to preserve no measures with you. +<i>There</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"No doubt," (showing the superscription, but not permitting her to see +that the seal was unbroken,) "no doubt you recognise the hand; the hand of +that anonymous detractor who had previously taken so much pains to +convince the husband that his wife was an adulteress and a +prostitute."</p> + +<p>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 stayed 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>What, my friend, can this letter contain? The 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 inquired whether the +letter was opened, I should not have deceived her.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But what purpose have I gained? I have effected nothing; I am as far, +perhaps further 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, arid +I cannot force myself into her presence.</p> + +<p>If all this should happen, what will be left for me to do? <i>That</i> +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?</p> + +<p>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 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?</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Jane Talbot is young, lovely, and the heiress, provided she retain the +favour 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?</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>But I can truly aver that my motives are disinterested. Does not my +character make a plentiful and independent provision, 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 <i>no part</i> in +the zeal with which I have cultivated Jane's affections? There are few +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 <i>more</i> desirable than to me.</p> + +<p>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 endeavours 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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But this, with me, is only a momentary elevation. More sober views are +sure to succeed. 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 <i>me</i>,--a poor, unworthy wretch; +deservedly despised by every strenuous and upright mind; a fickle, +inconsiderate, frail mortal, whose perverse habits no magic can +dissolve.</p> + +<p>No. My whole heart implores Jane to forget and abandon <i>me</i>; to +adhere to her mother; since 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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XLIV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, December 1.</p> + +<p>I said I would not write to you again; I would encourage, I would allow +of, no intercourse between 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.</p> + +<p>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 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?</p> + +<p>Never was a creature so bereft of all dignity, all steadfastness. The +slave of every impulse; blown about by the predominant gale; a scene of +eternal fluctuation.</p> + +<p>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 <i>feel</i> as she would have me feel. +My actions must flow, not merely from a sense of duty, but from fervent +inclination.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Oh," 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 <i>thou</i> 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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 etherealized myself from all corporeal passions. I even +set spiritual ministers to work to find 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Oh, comfort me, my friend! plead against yourself; against me. Be my +mother's advocate. Fly away from these 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 corpse +to the grave, by disclaiming, by hating, by forgetting, the +unfortunate</p> + +<p>JANE.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XLV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>December 4.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>"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 requited your unsullied truth, your unlimited devotion to me!</p> + +<p>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. <i>You</i>, whom every +hallowed obligation, every principle of human nature, has placed +<i>next</i> 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!</p> + +<p>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 has +irresistible weight with me--the restoration of your father's kindness--you prove to be a mere delusion, and destroy it without mercy!</p> + +<p>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 <i>my</i> +safety?</p> + +<p>Fly to me. Save me from my mother's irresistible expostulations. I +cannot--<i>cannot</i> withstand her tears. Let me find in your arms a +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.</p> + +<p>Fly to me, therefore. Be at the front-door at <i>ten</i> 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 <i>undo</i>. Already in the sight of Heaven, at the tribunal of my +own conscience, am I <i>thy wife</i>; but somewhat more is requisite to +make the compact universally acknowledged. This is <i>now</i> 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 <i>to-morrow</i> remonstrance and entreaty will avail +nothing.</p> + +<p>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 sunrise 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.</p> + +<p>And shall I--Let me, while the sun lingers, still pour out my soul on +this paper; let me indulge a <i>pleasing, dreadful thought</i>--Shall I, +ere circling time bring back <i>this</i> hour, become thy----</p> + +<p>And shall my heart, after its dreadful languors, its excruciating +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?</p> + +<p><i>Tranquillity</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>I wonder how far sympathy possesses you. No doubt--let me see: <i>ten +minutes after four</i>,--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 <i>my</i> 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 stuccoed ceiling. 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.</p> + +<p>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 near it. 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 <i>here;</i> for is not thy hand already in hers, and is not thy cheek +already wet with her tears? for thy poor girl's eyes are as sure to +overflow with joy as with sorrow.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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,--<i>how</i> she will +act.</p> + +<p>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 <i>every</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"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. 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 <i>you</i> live.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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!"</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Whither, my friend, shall I fly from a scene like this? Into thy arms? +And shall I find comfort <i>there</i>? can I endure life, with the burden +of remorse which generosity like this will lay upon me?</p> + +<p>But I tell you, Henry, I am resolved. I have nothing but evil to +choose. 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 <i>her</i> 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 hatred, be it +<i>her</i> benevolence and tenderness, and not <i>yours</i>, that are thus +requited.</p> + +<p>Once more, then, note well. The hour of <i>ten</i>; 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. <i>Remember</i>.</p> + +<p>J. TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XLVI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To James Montford</i></p> + +<p>December 9.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>She brought two letters from her mistress, and was told to wait for an +answer. Jane traversed her room, half distracted and sleepless 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, was +despatched to me.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>this night</i> to join our hands; will conceal her purpose from her +mother, and resigns to me the providing of suitable means.</p> + +<p>I was overwhelmed with surprise and--shall I not say?--delight at this +unexpected concession. An immediate and <i>consenting</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"What," thought I, "am I going to do? To take advantage of a momentary +impulse in my favour. 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.</p> + +<p>"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?</p> + +<p>"Is it in my power to make Jane Talbot <i>mine</i>? 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 sighs? and, +instead of affording consolation under the distress produced by her +mother's displeasure, should I not need that consolation as much as +she?"</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Molly urged me to come to some determination, as her mistress would +impatiently wait her return. Finding it indispensable to say something, I +at length wrote:--</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>I had but half determined to seek an interview with Mrs. Fielder. What +purpose would it 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?</p> + +<p>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. Today 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.</p> + +<p>Another messenger! with a letter for me! Miss Jessup's servant it is, +perhaps. But let me read it.</p> + +<h1>Letter XLVII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>December 8.</p> + +<p>Sir:--</p> + +<p>Enclosed 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 enclosed satisfy you. It is enough. Never should I have said +so much, if I thought I were long for this world.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Let me know what use you have made of the letter you showed me, and, I +beseech you, return it to me by the bearer.</p> + +<p>M. JESSUP.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XLVIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Fielder</i></p> + +<p>December 8.</p> + +<p>Madam:--</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Jane Talbot never loved the man whom I would have made happy. Her +ingenuous temper easily disclosed her indifference, and she married not to +please herself, but to please others. Her husband's 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>her</i> 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.</p> + +<p>Several anonymous letters were written to you. I thank Heaven that I +was seldom guilty of direct falsehoods 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 +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.</p> + +<p>There is still another confession to make. If suffering and penitence +can atone for any offence, surely mine has been atoned for! But it still +remains that I should, as far as my power goes, repair the mischief.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I called at Mrs. Talbot's at a time when visitants are least expected. +Nobody saw me enter. 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, +candour 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Here I was again favoured by accident. Fortune seemed determined to +accomplish my ruin. My own ingenuity in vain attempted to fall on a +<i>safe</i> mode of putting this letter in Talbot's way, and this had +never been done if chance had not surprisingly befriended my purpose.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Instead of conversing with me, Talbot walked about the room in a +peevish and gloomy humour. 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 <i>five minutes</i>. 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.</p> + +<p>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 their deportment to each +other. Sometimes I feared I had betrayed myself; but no alteration ever +afterwards appeared in their behaviour to me.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Let me now, though late, put an end to the illusion, and again assure +you, madam, that the concluding paragraphs were <i>written by me</i>, and +that those parts of it which truly belong to your daughter are perfectly +innocent.</p> + +<p>If it were possible for you to forgive my misconduct, and to suffer +this confession to go no further than the evil has gone, you will confer +as great a comfort as can now be conferred on the unhappy</p> + +<p>M. JESSUP.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter XLIX</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To James Montford</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, December 9.</p> + +<p>I WILL imagine, my friend, that you have read the letter [Footnote: The +preceding one.] which I 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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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:--</p> + +<p>"If you ever injured Mr. Talbot, your motives 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 intrust to me shall be +applied to no purpose but that which you proposed by writing it. Enclosed +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</p> + +<p>"YOUR TRUE FRIEND."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I prepare for it with awe and trembling. The more nearly it approaches, +the more my heart falters. I summon up in vain a tranquil and steadfast +spirit; but perhaps a walk in the clear air will be more conducive to this +end than a day's ruminations in my chamber.</p> + +<p>I will take a walk.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>And am I then--but I will not anticipate. Let me lead you to the +present state of things without confusion.</p> + +<p>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 unceremoniously now. I find her not +on the accustomed sofa, eager to welcome my coming with smiling affability +and arms outstretched. No longer is it <i>home</i> to me, nor she +assiduous to please, familiarly tender and anxiously fond, already +assuming the conjugal privilege of studying my domestic ease."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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. Fielder 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Is Mrs. Fielder at home?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Tell her a gentleman would see her."</p> + +<p>"She will ask, perhaps--Shall I tell her <i>who</i>?"</p> + +<p>"No--Yes. Tell her <i>I</i> wish to see her."</p> + +<p>The poor girl looked very mournfully:--"She has seen your answer which +talks of your intention to visit her. She vows she will not see you if you +come."</p> + +<p>"Go, then, to Jane, and tell her I would see her for five minutes. Tell +her openly; before her mother."</p> + +<p>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 +moment's pause,--</p> + +<p>"Mr. Colden, I presume."</p> + +<p>"Yes, madam."</p> + +<p>"You wish to see my daughter?"</p> + +<p>"I was anxious, madam, to see you. My business here chiefly lies with +<i>you</i>,--not <i>her</i>."</p> + +<p>"With me, sir? And pray, what have you to propose to me?'7</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"This preface, sir," (her motions less and less controllable,) "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."</p> + +<p>"No, madam; <i>thus</i> received, I have not fortitude enough to say +what I came to say. I merely entreat you to peruse this letter."</p> + +<p>"'Tis well, sir," (taking it, with some reluctance, and, after eyeing +the direction, putting it aside.) "And this is all your business?"</p> + +<p>"Let me entreat you, madam, to read it in my presence. Its contents +nearly concern your happiness, and will not leave mine unaffected."</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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 +reflection sometimes diverted from the letter. These tokens somewhat +revived my languishing courage.</p> + +<p>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:--</p> + +<p>"As a mother and a woman I cannot but rejoice at this discovery. To +find my daughter <i>less</i> 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!</p> + +<p>"I cannot but regard <i>you</i>, 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 desist from any future persecution. Your letter to me gave +me no reason to expect the honour of this visit, and contained something +like a promise to shun any further intercourse with Mrs. Talbot."</p> + +<p>"I hope, madam, the contents of <i>this</i> letter will justify me in +bringing it to you?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>At length I stammered out, "Since it is the last--the last interview--if I were allowed-but one moment."</p> + +<p>"No, no, no! what but needless torment to herself and to you can +follow? What do you expect from an interview?"</p> + +<p>"I would see, for a moment, the face of one whom, whatever be <i>my</i> +faults, and whatever be <i>hers</i>, I <i>love</i>."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"True," said she, her eyes flashing fire; "a secret marriage would have +given you the <i>destitute</i> and <i>portionless</i> 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 <i>every</i> past folly, and +especially the <i>last</i>. 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."</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>"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----"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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 as far as ever from +certainty. Expostulation was vain. She would not hear me. All my courage, +even my words were overwhelmed by her vehemence.</p> + +<p>After much hesitation, and several efforts to gain even a hearing of my +pleas, I yielded to the tide. With a drooping heart, I consented to +withdraw with my dearest hope unaccomplished.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>my</i> world--but I will not write another word.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>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.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter L</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mr. Colden</i></p> + +<p>December 11.</p> + +<p>Hereafter I shall be astonished at nothing but that credulity which +could give even momentary credit to your assertions.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I would not leave the city without apprizing you of this detection of +your schemes. If Miss Jessup were wise, she would seek a just revenge for +so atrocious a slander.</p> + +<p>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 <i>you</i> what her anger +and amazement were on finding her name thus abused.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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; <i>and shall</i>.</p> + +<p>H. FIELDER.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To James Montford</i></p> + +<p>December 13.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Let me awake! Let me disabuse my senses! Yes. It is plain. Miss Jessup +repented her of her confession. Something in that unopened 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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 powers combined to force me into the +right path,--the path of duty, honour, and interest: they strive in +vain.</p> + +<p>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 <i>will</i> and the <i>act</i>.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>No. Her happiness requires me to be blotted out of existence. Let me +unfold myself <i>to</i> 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 independent of thy lot? +Canst thou, with a true and fervent zeal, resign her to her mother?</p> + +<p>I can. I do.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 my +happiness; but this shall satisfy me. If fate impel 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,</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, and Miss Jessup--no doubt, to avoid another interview +with me--has precipitately withdrawn into the country.</p> + +<p>I shall not pursue their steps. Let things take their course. No doubt, +a lasting and effectual remorse will, some time 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.</p> + +<h1>Letter LII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Fielder</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, December 16.</p> + +<p>It is not improbable that, as soon as you recognise the hand that wrote +this letter, you will throw it unread into the fire; yet it comes not to +soothe resentment, or to supplicate for mercy. It seeks not a favourable +audience. It wishes not--because the wish would be chimerical--to have its +assertions 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 utterly forgotten. The time will come when it +will be read with a different spirit.</p> + +<p>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 <i>my</i> folly to your own credulity, that was, for +a moment, made the dupe of my contrivances.</p> + +<p>I can say nothing that <i>will</i> or that <i>ought</i>--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 +<i>second</i> as well as her <i>first</i> fraud.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>much</i>, though not <i>all</i> 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 <i>one</i> among the many evils +in which she has been involved by the vices and infirmities of</p> + +<p>H. COLDEN.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To James Montford</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, December 17.</p> + +<p>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 +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.</p> + +<p>I never saw this woman till I met her lately at her brother's bedside. +Her opinions of me were all derived from unfavourable 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.</p> + +<p>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 a hopeless one, yet +exerting a surprising command over her feelings, and performing every +office of a nurse with skill and firmness.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>She was often present when her brother turned the discourse upon +religious subjects. I have 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.</p> + +<p>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 +passions 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 +endeavour 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?</p> + +<p>But, in truth, I was far from thinking him in the wrong. At any time I +should have allowed infinite, plausibility and subtlety 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.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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, +into 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The conversation for a time was vague and trite. Insensibly, the scenes +lately witnessed were recalled, not without many a half-stifled sigh and +ill-disguised tear on her part. Some arrangements as to the letters and +papers of 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>After many tacit intimations, much reluctance and timidity to inquire +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.</p> + +<p>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 thought +forward and impertinent.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>Now and then she made seasonable and judicious comments on what I said. +Was there any subject of inquiry 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.</p> + +<p>If my inquiries 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 inquiry, was more criminal than any kind of opinion candidly +investigated and firmly adopted, and would more effectually debar me 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>H. C.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LIV</h1> + +<p>Philadelphia, December 19.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>She listened favourably to my account of the unhappy misapprehensions +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.</p> + +<p>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 religion; but this +was only a basis whereon to build the hope of future amendment. No present +merit could be founded on my doubts.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 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 irresistible.</p> + +<p>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 Saturday night. In the arms of my +true friends, I will endeavour to forget the vexations that at present +prey upon the peace of</p> + +<p>Your</p> + +<p>H. C.</p> + +<h1>Letter LV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Colden</i></p> + +<p>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 effort of yours.</p> + +<p>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 +mother's government. I have consented to be inaccessible to your visits or +letters.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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 a 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</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + +<h1>Letter LVI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Montford</i></p> + +<p>Madam:--</p> + +<p>Philadelphia, October 7.</p> + +<p>It is with extreme reluctance that I venture to address you in this +manner. I cannot find words to account for or apologize. But, if you be +indeed the sister of Henry Golden, 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.</p> + +<p>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 a little interest; who honoured me with his affection.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 to your brother are well known to you, I +have been able to curb my anxieties no longer.</p> + +<p>Do then, my dearest madam, gratify my curiosity, and tell me, without +delay, what has become of your brother.</p> + +<p>J. TALBOT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LVII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Jane Talbot</i></p> + +<p>My dear Madam:--</p> + +<p>New York, October 9.</p> + +<p>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 inquiries in a manner agreeable to you.</p> + +<p>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 he immediately +adopted have put it out of his power to profit by any change in your +views.</p> + +<p>My husband's brother being on the point of embarking in a voyage to the +western coast of America and to China, Mr. Golden 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +inquiry you may be pleased to make respecting one for whom I have +entertained the affection becoming a sister.</p> + +<p>I am, &c.</p> + +<p>M. MONTFORD.</p> + +<p>P.S.--Mr. Montford desires to join me in my offers of service, and in +my good wishes.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LVIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Montford</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, October 12.</p> + +<p>Dear Madam:--</p> + +<p>How shall I thank you for the kind and delicate manner in which you +have complied with my request? You will not be surprised, nor, I hope, +offended, that I am emboldened to address you once more.</p> + +<p>I see that I need not practise 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.</p> + +<p>You have deprived me of some hope by the information you give; but you +have at least put an end to a suspense more painful than the most dreadful +certainty could be.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 a letter; 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 <i>myself</i> the only obstacle to +reconcilement, and was willing, whatever it cost me, to remove that +obstacle.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 <i>now</i> reduce him to +indigence, and, that consequence being precluded, I cannot doubt of his +father's acquiescence.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 twelvemonth has since passed, he has not yet returned. +Hence the boldness of this address to you, whom I know only by rumour.</p> + +<p>You will, I doubt not, easily imagine to yourself my feelings, and will +be good enough to answer my inquiries, if you have any compassion for +your</p> + +<p>J. T.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LIX</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Jane Talbot</i></p> + +<p>New York, October 15.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Having said that all the transactions between you and my brother are +known to me, I need not apologize 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.</p> + +<p>Immediately after the determination of his fate in regard to you, he +came to this city. He 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 unsought-for renunciation as a means +of reconcilement with his father, was no subject of surprise or blame. +These reflections could not occur to you but in consequence of some +intimations from others.</p> + +<p>Henry Colden was no indolent or mercenary creature, No one more +cordially detested the life of dependence 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.</p> + +<p>We could not but deeply regret the particular circumstances under which +he left his father's house; but the mere leaving it, and the necessity +which thence arose of finding employment and subsistence for himself, was +not at all to be regretted.</p> + +<p>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 sought 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.</p> + +<p>You were not aware that this cause of anger could not be removed by any +thing done by you. Golden 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.</p> + +<p>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>I</i> am not her supreme passion. Her mother is preferred to +me. <i>That</i> her present resolution puts out of all doubt. All +upbraiding and repining from me would be absurd. What can I say in favour +of my attachment to her, which she may not, with equal reason, urge in +favour 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?</p> + +<p>"I am not so blind but that I can foresee the effects on my +tranquillity of time and variety of object. 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."</p> + +<p>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 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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 favour. As several passages were +expected to be made between China and Nootka, that desirable event cannot +be expected to be very near.</p> + +<p>M. M.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LX</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Montford</i></p> + +<p>Philadelphia, October 20.</p> + +<p>AH, dear madam! how much has your letter afflicted, how much has it +consoled me!</p> + +<p>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----</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 you owe your place in my affections <i>chiefly</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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:--</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"I have wronged thee, Jane. I have wronged the absent; I greatly fear, +I have. Forgive me. If you ever meet, entreat <i>him</i> to forgive me, +and recompense yourself and him for all your mutual sufferings.</p> + +<p>"I hope all, though 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.</p> + +<p>"I leave you affluence and honour at least, I leave you the means of +repairing <i>my</i> injury. <i>That</i> is my comfort; but forgive me, +Jane. Say, my child, you forgive me for what has passed."</p> + +<p>She stretched her hand to me, which I bathed with my tears.--But this +subject afflicts me too much.</p> + +<p>Give my affectionate compliments to Mr. Montford, and tell me that you +wish to see your</p> + +<p>JANE.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LXI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Talbot</i></p> + +<p>New York, October 22.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Tell me the day when you expect to arrive among us, that I may wait on +you as soon as possible.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Accept the fraternal regards of Mr. Montford.</p> + +<p>M.M.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LXII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Montford</i></p> + +<p>Banks of Delaware, September 5.</p> + +<p>Be not anxious for me, Mary. I hope to experience very speedy relief +from the wholesome airs that perpetually fan this spot. Your apprehensions +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 let 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>'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 memory, +the fancy, and the heart. No spot of earth can possibly teem with as many +affecting images as this; for here it was----</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>God bless you, dear Mary, and continue to you all your present +happiness.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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. Besides, 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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 everybody else thought him, a most amiable +and engaging youth, though only twelve or thirteen years old.</p> + +<p>'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 stayed among us, would in time have been united. But he went away +when I was scarcely fourteen. At parting, I remember, we shed a great many +tears and exchanged a great many kisses, and promises <i>not to +forget</i>. And that promise never was broken by me. He was always dear to +my remembrance.</p> + +<p>Time has only improved all the graces of the boy. I will not conceal +from <i>you</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>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 favourite airs, twice a day. We have no strangers; no impertinents +to intermeddle in our conversations and mar our enjoyments.</p> + +<p>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 objects were wholly frivolous and unmeaning in my eyes; but now they +gain my whole attention.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 Frederick across the mountains of Bohemia.</p> + +<p>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 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. <i>Once</i> I should have been just as much puzzled +myself. Adieu.</p> + +<p>J. T.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LXIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Talbot</i></p> + +<p>New York, October 1.</p> + +<p>Be not angry with me, 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.</p> + +<p>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 apartment, at the very moment when I was perusing your last letter. I +was 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I now see that I was guilty of a most culpable breach of confidence in +showing him your delicate confession; but I was bewitched, I think.</p> + +<p>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</p> + +<p>M. MONTFORD.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LXIV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Talbot</i></p> + +<p>New York, December 12.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>But your motive was beneficent and generous. You were content to be +thought unfeeling and ungrateful for the sake of my happiness. 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 honour can redound from it to yourself.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>G. CARTWRIGHT.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LXV</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To G. Cartwright</i></p> + +<p>Banks of Delaware, October 5.</p> + +<p>My brother:--</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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</p> + +<p>J. T.</p> + + +<h1>Letter LXVI</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Jane Talbot</i></p> + +<p>New York, November 15.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Yesterday week, a ship arrived in this port from Batavia, in which my +husband's brother, Stephen Montford, came passenger.</p> + +<p>You will be terrified at these words; but calm your apprehensions. +Harry does <i>not</i> accompany him, it is true, nor are we acquainted +with his present situation.</p> + +<p>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 intrigues among the crew, to a mutiny.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>This scheme was executed as soon, as they came in sight of an outlying +isle or dry sand-bank on the eastern coast of Japan. Here they seized the +two unsuspecting youths, at daybreak, while asleep in their <i>berths</i>, +and, immediately putting out their boat, landed my brother on the shore, +without clothing or provisions of any kind. Montford petitioned to share +the fate of his friend, but they would not listen to it.</p> + +<p>Six days afterwards, they lighted on a Spanish ship bound to Manilla, +which was in want of water. A party of the Spaniards came on board in +search of some supply of that necessary article.</p> + +<p>On their coming, Montford was driven below and disabled from giving, by +his cries, any alarm. The sentinel who guarded him had received orders to +keep him in that situation till the visitants had departed. Prom some +impulse of humanity, or mistake of orders, the sentinel freed him from +restraint a few minutes earlier than had been intended, and he got on deck +before the departing strangers had gone to any considerable distance from +the ship. He immediately leaped into the sea and made for the boat, to +which, being a very vigorous swimmer, he arrived in safety.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I have thus given you, my friend, an imperfect 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 I could not +believe you if you did. Write to me speedily, however.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LXVII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Talbot</i></p> + +<p>New York, November 23.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I have waited from day to day in expectation of a letter; but more than +a week has passed, and none has come. Let me hear from you immediately, I +entreat you.</p> + +<p>I am afraid you are ill; or perhaps you are displeased with me. +Unconsciously I may have given you offence.</p> + +<p>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 anywhere but where you are! Would to Heaven you +were once more with us!</p> + +<p>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 prevailed on him to forbear until I +heard from you.</p> + +<p>Do not, if you have any regard for me, delay answering me a moment +longer.</p> + +<p>M. M.</p> + +<h1>Letter LXVIII</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mrs. Montford</i></p> + +<p>Banks of Delaware, November 26.</p> + +<p>I beseech you, dear Mrs. Montford, take some measures for drawing our +dear Jane from this place. There is no remedy but absence 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.</p> + +<p>I can do nothing for her relief. You know what a poor creature I am. +Instead of 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.</p> + +<p>Come hither yourself, or send somebody immediately. If you do not, I +dread the consequence.</p> + +<h1>Letter LXIX</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Mr. Montford</i></p> + +<p>New Haven, February 10.</p> + +<p>My dear friend:--</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 harassed me. If asleep, dreams of agonizing forms +and ever-varying hues have thronged my fancy and driven away peace.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +explore my way back to my native shore, are surely most strange and +incredible achievements. Yet all this, my friend, has been endured and +performed by your Colden.</p> + +<p>Finding it impossible to move immediately from this place, and this +day's 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 <i>her</i>, or rather nearer to certainty of her life +or death, her happiness or misery, has increased my trepidation,--added +new tremors to my heart.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 breathe 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 +encounter and the sufferance will be pleasant to remembrance and +delightful in narration.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Many obstacles, however, in the views which Tekehatsin 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.</p> + +<p>I confess to you, my friend, my heart was not extremely averse to this +condition.</p> + +<p>I left America with very faint hopes, and no expectation, of ever +returning. The longer I resided among this race of men, the melancholy 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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 akin, and, +consequently, that <i>this</i> might afford me some information as to the +character or merits of <i>that</i> Cartwright, made me throw myself in his +way.</p> + +<p>You may easily imagine, what I shall 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.</p> + +<p>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 showed 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.</p> + +<p>Yet, my friend, with all my confidence of a favourable reception from +Jane,--her conduct now exempt from the irresistible control 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 was blemished by none of those +momentous errors with which mine was loaded, since that harmony of opinion +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 +<i>his</i> case,--never should mere passion have seduced me to her feet. +If my reflections and experience had not changed my character,--if all +<i>her</i> views as to the final destiny and present obligations of human +beings had not become <i>mine</i>,--I should have deliberately ratified +the act of my eternal banishment.</p> + +<p>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 <i>my mind +whole</i>. 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.</p> + +<p>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 fears and +suspenses--Yet it would give you pleasure to know every thing as soon as +possible--some time likewise must elapse--<i>You</i> 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 and the depth of my former +degeneracy.</p> + +<p>By what process of reflection I became thus, you shall speedily know: +yet can you be at a loss to imagine it? <i>You</i>, who have passed +through 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 steadfast height of simple and true piety.</p> + +<p>Such, my friend, were my inducements to return; but first it was +necessary to explain, by letter, to Holtz--But my messenger is at the +door, eager to begone. Take this, my friend. Bring yourself, or send back +by the same messenger, without a moment's 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</p> + +<p>H. COLDEN.</p> + + + + +<h1>Letter LXX</h1> + +<p align="center"><i>To Henry Golden</i></p> + +<p>New York, February 12.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Oh, 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.</p> + +<p>Can it be that Golden--that selfsame, 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 a +heart full of "ineffable tenderness" for <i>me</i>?</p> + +<p>Unspeakably unworthy am I of your love. Time and grief, dear Hal, have +bereft me of the glossy hues, the laughing graces, which your doting +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 <i>thy</i> +death--shall never dissever that bond.</p> + +<p>Your brother will take this. Your sister--she is the most excellent of +women, and worthy to 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 everything. He has been a brother 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 authorized love, +some recompense for all the evils to which her antipathies subjected you? +She hoped, indeed, that observation and experience would detect the +fallacy 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.</p> + +<p>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. +<i>All</i> my prayers, Henry, have not been <i>merely</i> for your return. +Indeed, whatever might have been the dictates, however absolute the +dominion, of passion, union with you would have been <i>very</i> far from +completing 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 on a union which death will have no +power to dissolve. Oh, what sweet peace, what serene transport, is there +in the persuasion that the selected soul will continue forever to commune +with <i>my</i> soul, mingle with mine in its adoration of the same Divine +Parent, and partake with me in every thought, in every emotion, both +<i>here</i> and <i>hereafter</i>!</p> + +<p>Never, my friend, without <i>this</i> persuasion, <i>never</i> 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 a heart and such a reason as yours could not +fail of success; but <i>till</i> that restoration were accomplished, +never, I repeat, should I have tasted repose even in <i>your</i> arms.</p> + +<p>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, though +unsuspected by me till after her decease, brought her to regard thee with +some compassion and some respect.</p> + +<p>I can write no more; but must not conclude till I have offered thee the +tenderest, most fervent vows of a heart that ever was and always will be +<i>thine own</i>. Witness,</p> + +<p>JANE TALBOT.</p> + + +<p align="center" class="smallcaps">The End.</p> + + +<pre> + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, JANE TALBOT *** + +This file should be named jntlb10h.htm or jntlb10h.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, jntlb11h.htm +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, jntlb10ah.htm + + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we usually do not +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance +of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing. +Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections, +even years after the official publication date. + +Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til +midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. +The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at +Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A +preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment +and editing by those who wish to do so. + +Most people start at our Web sites at: +<a href="http://gutenberg.net">http://gutenberg.net</a> or +<a href="http://promo.net.pg">http://promo.net/pg</a> + +These Web sites include award-winning information about Project +Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new +eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!). + + +Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement +can get to them as follows, and just download by date. This is +also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the +indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an +announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter. + +<a href="http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext04">http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext05</a> or +<a href="ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext04">ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext05</a> + +Or /etext05, 04, 03, 02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90 + +Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want, +as it appears in our Newsletters. + + +Information about Project Gutenberg (one page) + +We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The +time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours +to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright +searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. Our +projected audience is one hundred million readers. If the value +per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2 +million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text +files per month: 1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+ +We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002 +If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total +will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end. + +The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks! +This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers, +which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users. + +Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated): + +eBooks Year Month + + 1 1971 July + 10 1991 January + 100 1994 January + 1000 1997 August + 1500 1998 October + 2000 1999 December + 2500 2000 December + 3000 2001 November + 4000 2001 October/November + 6000 2002 December* + 9000 2003 November* +10000 2004 January* + + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created +to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium. + +We need your donations more than ever! + +As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people +and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut, +Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois, +Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts, +Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New +Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, +Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South +Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West +Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming. + +We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones +that have responded. + +As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list +will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states. +Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state. + +In answer to various questions we have received on this: + +We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally +request donations in all 50 states. If your state is not listed and +you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have, +just ask. + +While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are +not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting +donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to +donate. + +International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about +how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made +deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are +ways. + +Donations by check or money order may be sent to: + +Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +PMB 113 +1739 University Ave. +Oxford, MS 38655-4109 + +Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment +method other than by check or money order. + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by +the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN +[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154. Donations are +tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law. As fund-raising +requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be +made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states. + +We need your donations more than ever! + +You can get up to date donation information online at: + +<a href="http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html">http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html</a> + + +*** + +If you can't reach Project Gutenberg, +you can always email directly to: + +<a href="mailto:hart@pobox.com">Michael S. Hart [hart@pobox.com]</a> + +Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message. + +We would prefer to send you information by email. + + +**The Legal Small Print** + + +(Three Pages) + +***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START*** +Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers. +They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with +your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from +someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our +fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement +disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how +you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to. + +*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK +By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept +this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive +a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by +sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person +you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical +medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request. + +ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS +This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks, +is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart +through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project"). +Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright +on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and +distribute it in the United States without permission and +without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth +below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook +under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark. + +Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market +any commercial products without permission. + +To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable +efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain +works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any +medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other +things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged +disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer +codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. + +LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES +But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below, +[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may +receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims +all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including +legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR +UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT, +INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE +OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE +POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES. + +If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of +receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) +you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that +time to the person you received it from. If you received it +on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and +such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement +copy. If you received it electronically, such person may +choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to +receive it electronically. + +THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS +TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A +PARTICULAR PURPOSE. + +Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or +the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the +above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you +may have other legal rights. + +INDEMNITY +You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation, +and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated +with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including +legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the +following that you do or cause: [1] distribution of this eBook, +[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook, +or [3] any Defect. + +DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" +You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by +disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this +"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, +or: + +[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this + requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the + eBook or this "small print!" statement. You may however, + if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable + binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form, + including any form resulting from conversion by word + processing or hypertext software, but only so long as + *EITHER*: + + [*] The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and + does *not* contain characters other than those + intended by the author of the work, although tilde + (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may + be used to convey punctuation intended by the + author, and additional characters may be used to + indicate hypertext links; OR + + [*] The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at + no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent + form by the program that displays the eBook (as is + the case, for instance, with most word processors); + OR + + [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at + no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the + eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC + or other equivalent proprietary form). + +[2] Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this + "Small Print!" statement. + +[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the + gross profits you derive calculated using the method you + already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation" + the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were + legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent + periodic) tax return. Please contact us beforehand to + let us know your plans and to work out the details. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of +public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed +in machine readable form. + +The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time, +public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses. +Money should be paid to the: +"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or +software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at: +hart@pobox.com + +[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only +when distributed free of all fees. Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by +Michael S. Hart. Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be +used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be +they hardware or software or any other related product without +express permission.] + +*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END* +</pre> + +</body> +</html> diff --git a/old/jntlb10h.zip b/old/jntlb10h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..4a0edaa --- /dev/null +++ b/old/jntlb10h.zip |