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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.