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 sheis seldom successful. Conscience tells me it is folly, it is guilt, towrap up my existence in one frail mortal; to employ all my thoughts, tolavish 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 benot without his faults; to enjoy no peace but in his presence, to begrateful for his permission to sacrifice fortune, ease, life itself, forhis sake. 

From the humiliation produced by these charges, vanity endeavours torelieve me by insinuating that all happiness springs from affection; thatnature ordains no tie so strong as that between the sexes; that to lovewithout bounds is to confer bliss not only on ourselves but on another;that conjugal affection is the genuine sphere not only of happiness butduty. 

Besides, my heart will not be persuaded but that its fondness for youis nothing more than simple justice. Ought I not to love excellence, anddoes my poor imagination figure to itself any thing in human shape moreexcellent than thou?

But yet there are bounds beyond which passion cannot go withoutcounteracting its own purposes. I am afraid mine goes beyond those bounds. So far as it produces rapture, it deserves to be cherished; but whenproductive of impatience, repining, agony, on occasions too that areslight, trivial, or unavoidable, 'tis surely culpable. 

Methinks, my friend, I would not have had thee for a witness of thebitterness, the tumult of my feelings, during this day; ever since youleft me. You cannot conceive any thing more forlorn, more vacant, moreanxious, than this weak heart has been and still is. I was terrified at myown sensations, and, with my usual folly, began to construe them intoomens of evils; so inadequate, so disproportioned was my distress to thecause that produced it. 

Ah! my friend! a weak--very weak--creature is thy Jane. From excess oflove 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 myoverflowing heart must have relief, and I shall find a sort of comfort inchiding you. Let me chide you, then, for coldness, for insensibility: butno; 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 lastsalute, 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 notmean, 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 isincessant; 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 youwished me to give you is more easily communicated by the pen than by thelips. I admit your claim to be acquainted with all the incidents of mylife, be they momentous or trivial. I have often told you that theretrospect is very mournful; but that ought not to prevent me from makingit, when so useful a purpose as that of thoroughly disclosing to you thecharacter of one, on whom your future happiness is to depend, will beaffected by it. I am not surprised that calumny has been busy with mylife, 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 theundertaking. I can do nothing in your absence but write to you. To writewhat I have ten thousand times spoken, and which can be perfectlyunderstood only when accompanied by looks and accents, seems absurd. Especially while there is a subject on which my _tongue_ can neverexpatiate, but on which it is necessary that you should know all that Ican tell you. 

The prospect of filling up this interval with the relation of the mostaffecting parts of my life somewhat reconciled me to your necessaryabsence, yet I know my heart will droop. Even this preparation to lookback makes me shudder already. Some reluctance to recall tragical orhumiliating 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 favouriteand lonely path, and, by a deliberate review of the past, refresh mymemory 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 hasbeen, it seems, during my short absence, a pair of gossips. They have justgone, lamenting the disappointment, and leaving me a world ofcomplimentary condolences. 

I shall take care to prevent future interruption by shutting up thehouse and retiring to my chamber, where I am resolved to remain till Ihave fully disburdened my heart. Disburden it, said I? I shall load it, Ifear, with sadness, but I will not regret an undertaking which my duty toyou makes indispensable. 

One of the earliest incidents that I remember is an expostulation withmy father. I saw several strange people enter the chamber where my motherwas. Somewhat suggested to my childish fancy that these strangers meant totake her away, and that I should never see her again. My terror wasviolent, and I thought of nothing but seizing her gown or hand, andholding her back from the rude assailants. My father detained me in hisarms, and endeavoured to soothe my fears, but I would not be appeased. Istruggled and shrieked, and, hearing some movements in my mother's room, that seemed to betoken the violence I so much dreaded, I leaped, with asudden effort, from my father's arms, but fainted before I reached thedoor of the room. 

This may serve as a specimen of the impetuosity of my temper. It wasalways fervent and unruly, unacquainted with moderation in itsattachments, violent in its indignation and its enmity, but easilypersuaded to pity and forgiveness. 

When I recovered from my swoon, I ran to my mother's room; but she wasgone. I rent the air with my cries, and shocked all about me withimportunities to know whither they had carried her. They had carried herto the grave, and nothing would content me but to visit the spot three orfour times a day, and to sit in the room in which she died, in stupid andmopeful silence, all night long. 

At this time I was only five years old, --an age at which, in general, adeceased parent is quickly forgotten; but, in my attachment to my mother, I showed none of the volatility of childhood. While she lived, I was neverat ease but when seated at her knee, or with my arms round her neck. Whendead, I cherished her remembrance for years, and have paid, hundreds oftimes, the tribute of my tears at the foot of her grave. 

My brother, who was three years older than myself, behaved in a verydifferent manner. I used to think the difference between us was merelythat of sex; that every boy was boisterous, ungrateful, imperious, andinhuman, as every girl was soft, pliant, affectionate. Time has cured meof that mistake, and, as it has shown me females unfeeling and perverse, so it has introduced me to men full of gentleness and sensibility. Mybrother's subsequent conduct convinced me that he was at all times selfishand irascible beyond most other men, and that his ingratitude andinsolence to his mother were only congenial parts of the character heafterwards displayed at large. 

My brother and I passed our infancy in one unintermitted quarrel. Wewere never together but he played some cruel and mischievous prank, whichI never failed to resent to the utmost of my little power. I soon foundthat my tears only increased his exultation, and my complaints onlygrieved my mother. I, therefore, gave word for word and blow for blow;but, being always worsted in such conflicts, I shunned him whenever it waspossible, and whatever his malice made me suffer I endeavoured to concealfrom her. 

My mother, on her death-bed, was anxious to see him, but he hadstrolled away after some boyish amusement, with companions as thoughtlessas 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 ofher whom I now call my mother. Mrs. Fielder was merely the intimate fromchildhood of my own mother, with whom, however, since her marrage, contracted against Mrs. Fielder's inclination and remonstrances, she hadmaintained but little intercourse. My mother's sudden death and myhelpless age awakened all her early tenderness, and induced her to offeran 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 ofthe old one, quickly excited emotions as filial and tender as I had everexperienced. Comfort and quiet, peace and harmony, obsequious andaffectionate attendants and companions, I had never been accustomed tounder the paternal roof. 

From this period till I was nearly sixteen years of age, I merely paidoccasional visits to my father. He loved me with as much warmth as hisnature was capable of feeling, which I repaid him in gratitude andreverence. I never remitted my attention to his affairs, and studied hissecurity 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 sensualpleasures. The school and college were little attended to, and the timethat ought to have been appropriated to books and study was wasted infrolics 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 introducedhim, afforded employment for all his attention and time. 

My father had devoted his early years to the indefatigable pursuit ofgain. He was frugal and abstemious, though not covetous, and amassed alarge property. This property he intended to divide between his twochildren, and to secure my portion to his nephew, whom his parents hadleft an orphan in his infancy, and whom my father had taken and treated ashis own child by marrying him to me. This nephew passed his childhoodamong us. His temper being more generous than my brother's, and beingtaught mutually to regard each other as destined to a future union, ourintercourse was cordial and affectionate. 

We parted at an age at which nothing like passion could be felt. Hewent 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 andmaintain 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 notopenly oppose my father's wishes, held myself entirely free to obey anynew impulse which circumstances might produce. My mother (so let me stillcall Mrs. Fielder) fully concurred in my views. 

You are acquainted, my friend, with many events of my early life. Mostof those not connected with my father and his nephew, I have oftenrelated. At present, therefore, I shall omit all collateral andcontemporary incidents, and confine myself entirely to those connectedwith these two persons. 

My father, on the death of his wife, retired from business, and took ahouse in an airy and secluded situation. His household consisted of ahousekeeper and two or three servants, and apartments were always open forhis son. 

My brother's temper grew more unmanageable as he increased in years. Myfather's views with regard to him were such as parental foresight anddiscretion commonly dictate. He wished him to acquire all possibleadvantages of education, and then to betake himself to some liberalprofession, in which he might obtain honour as well as riches. This soberscheme by no means suited the restless temper of the youth. It was hismaxim that all restraints were unworthy of a lad of spirit, and that itwas 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 youngman. My affection for him was certainly without that tenderness which agood brother is sure to excite. I do not remember a single direct kindnessthat I ever received from him; but I remember innumerable ill offices andcontempts. Still, there was some inexplicable charm in the mere tie ofkindred, which made me more deplore his errors, exult in his talents, rejoice in his success, and take a deeper interest in his concerns than inthose of any other person. 

As he advanced in age, I had new cause for my zeal in his behalf. Myfather's temper was easy and flexible; my brother was at once vehement andartful. Frank's arguments and upbraidings created in his father anunnatural awe, an apprehension and diffidence in thwarting his wishes andgiving advice, which usually distinguish the filial character. The youthperceived his advantages, and employed them in carrying every point onwhich his inclination was set. 

For a long time this absurd indulgence was shown in allowing his son toemploy his time as he pleased, in refraining from all animadversions onhis idleness and dissipation, and supplying him with a generous allowanceof pocket-money. This allowance required now and then to be increased. Every year and every month, by adding new sources of expense, addedsomething to the stipend. 

My father's revenue was adequate to a very splendid establishment; buthe was accustomed to live frugally, and thought it wise to add his savingsto the principal of his estate. These savings gradually grew less andless, till at length my brother's numerous excursions, a French girl whomhe 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 themost part, momentary, either in the street or at my father's house; but Iwas too much interested in all that befell him, not to make myself, byvarious 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 meas a frivolous girl, with whom it was waste of time to converse, and neverspoke to me at all except to direct or admonish. Hence I could do nothingbut regret his habits. Their consequences to himself it was beyond mypower to prevent. 

For a long time I was totally unaware of the tendencies of this mode oflife. I did not suspect that a brother's passions would carry him beyondthe bound of vulgar prudence, or induce him to encroach on those fundsfrom which his present enjoyments were derived. I knew him to be endowedwith an acute understanding, and imagined that this would point out, withsufficient clearness, the wisdom of limiting his expenses to hisincome. 

In my daily conversations with my father, I never voluntarilyintroduced Frank as our topic, unless by the harmless and trite questionsof "When was he here?" "Where has he gone?" and the like. We met only byaccident, at his lodgings; when I entered the room where he was, he neverthought of bestowing more than a transient look on me, just to know who itwas that approached. Circumstances at length, however, occurred, which putan end to this state of neutrality. 

I heard, twice or thrice a year, from my cousin Risberg. One day aletter arrived in which he obscurely intimated that the failure ofremittances from my father, for more than half a year, had reduced him togreat distress. My father had always taught him to regard himself asentitled to all the privileges of a son; had sent him to Europe underexpress conditions of supplying him with a reasonable stipend, till heshould come of age, at which period it was concerted that Risberg shouldreturn and receive a portion with me, enabling him to enter advantageouslyon the profession of the law, to which he was now training. This stipendwas far from being extravagant, or more than sufficient for the decentmaintenance of a student at the Temple; and Risberg's conduct had alwaysbeen represented, by those under whose eye he had been placed, as regularand exemplary. 

This intimation surprised me a good deal. I could easily imagine theembarrassments to which a failure of this kind must subject a generousspirit, and thought it my duty to remove them as soon as possible. Isupposed that some miscarriage or delay had happened to the money, andthat my father would instantly rectify any error, or supply anydeficiency. I hastened, therefore, to his house, with the opened letter. Ifound him alone, and immediately showed him that page of the letter whichrelated to this affair. I anxiously watched his looks while he readit. 

I observed marks of great surprise in his countenance, and, as soon ashe laid down the letter, I began to expatiate on the inconveniences whichRisberg had suffered. He listened to me in gloomy silence, and, when I haddone, made no answer but by a deep sigh and downcast look. 

"Pray, dear sir, " continued I, "what could have happened to the moneywhich 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 whatcan be done. " Here further conversation was suspended by a visitant. Iwaited with impatience till the guest had retired; but he had scarcelyleft the room when my brother entered. I supposed my father would haveimmediately introduced this subject, and, as my brother usuallyrepresented him in every affair of business, and could of course throwsome light upon the present mystery, I saw no reason why I should beexcluded from a conference in which I had some interest, and was thereforesomewhat surprised when my father told me he had no need of my company forthe rest of the day, and wished to be alone with Francis. I rose instantlyto 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 engendereda mystery which I am to solve? Thou mayest save thyself the trouble oftelling me, for, really, I have no time to throw away on thee or thymysteries. "

There was always something in my brother's raillery which my infirmsoul could never support. I ought always to have listened and repliedwithout emotion, but a fluttering indignation usually deprived me ofutterance. I found my best expedient was flight, when I _could_ fly, and silence when obliged to remain: I therefore made no answer to thisspeech, but hastily withdrew. 

Next morning, earlier than usual, I went to my father. He wasthoughtful and melancholy. I introduced the subject that was nearest myheart; but he answered me reluctantly, and in general terms, that he hadexamined the affair, and would take the necessary measures. 

"But, dear sir, " said I, "how did it happen? How did the moneymiscarry?"

"Never mind, " said he, a little peevishly: "we shall see things put torights, 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 quitedestitute, penniless, running in arrear for absolute necessaries; in debtto a good woman who lived by letting lodgings, and who dunned him, afterso long a delay, in so indirect and delicate a manner!--What must he havesuffered, accustomed to regard you as a father, and knowing you had nopersonal calls for your large revenue, and being so solemnly enjoined byyou not to stir himself in any rational pleasure! for you would be alwaysready to exceed your stated remittances, when there should be justoccasion. Poor fellow! my heart bleeds for him. But how long will it bebefore he hears from you? His letter is dated seven weeks ago. It will beanother six or eight weeks before he receives an answer, --at least threemonths in all; and during all this time he will be without money. Butperhaps he will receive it sooner. "

My father frequently changed countenance, and showed great solicitude. I did not wronder at this, as Risberg had always been loved as a son. Alittle consideration, therefore, ought to have shown me the impropriety ofthus descanting on an evil without remedy; yet I still persisted. Atlength, 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'tlike your interference. "

This rebuke astonished me. I had sufficient discernment to suspectsomething extraordinary, but was for a few minutes quite puzzled andconfounded. He had generally treated me with tenderness and evendeference, and I saw nothing peculiarly petulant or improper in what I hadsaid. 

"Dear sir, forgive me: you know I write to my cousin, and, as he statedhis complaints to me it will be natural to allude to them in my answer tohis letter; but I will only tell him that all difficulties are removed, and refer him to your letter for further satisfaction; for you will nodoubt write to him. "

"I wish you would drop the subject. If you write, you may tell him--buttell him what you please, or rather it would be best to say nothing on thesubject; but drop the subject, I beseech you. "

"Certainly, if the subject displeases you, I will drop it. " Here apause of mutual embarrassment succeeded, which was, at length, broken bymy father:--

"I will speak to you to-morrow, Jane, on this subject. I grant yourcuriosity is natural, and will then gratify it. To-morrow, I may possiblyexplain why Risberg has not received what, I must own, he had a right toexpect. 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 myfather's embarrassment and perplexity was very evident. It was plain thathe had not forgotten the promised explanation, but that something made ita 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 mycousin complained, and whether he was hereafter to receive the stipulatedallowance?

He answered, hesitatingly, and with downcast eyes, --why--he did notknow. He was sorry. It had not been his fault. To say truth, Francis hadreceived the usual sums to purchase the bills. Till yesterday, he imaginedthey had actually been purchased and sent. He always understood them tohave been so from Francis. He had mentioned, after seeing Risberg'scomplaining letter, he had mentioned the affair to Francis. Francis hadconfessed that he had never sent the bills. His own necessities compelledhim 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 hismaintenance; but somehow or another the wants of Francis had increasedvery much of late years, and swallowed up all that he could _rap_ and_rend_ without encroaching on his principal. Risberg was but hisnephew; Frank was his own and only son. To-be-sure, he once thought thathe had enough for his _three_ children; but times, it seems, werealtered. He did not spend on his own wants more than he used to do; butFrank'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 toassist him, were it in his power; but really it was no longer in hispower. 

I was, for a time, at a loss for words to express my surprise andindignation at my brother's unfeeling selfishness. I could no longermaintain my usual silence on his conduct, but inveighed against it, assoon as I could find breath, with the utmost acrimony. 

My father was embarrassed, confounded, grieved. He sighed, and evenwept. --"Francis, " said he, at last, "to-be-sure, has not acted quiteright. Bat what can be done? Is he not my child? and, if he has faults, ishe altogether without virtue? No; if he did not find a lenient andforgiving 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 isnearly exhausted, and I really fear, before another quarter comes round, Ishall want myself. "

I again described, in as strong and affecting terms as I could, Risberg's expectations and disappointment, and insinuated to him, that, ina case like this, there could be no impropriety in selling a few shares ofhis bank-stock. 

This hint was extremely displeasing, but I urged him so vehemently thathe said, "Francis will perhaps consent to it; I will try him thisevening. "

"Alas!" said I, "my brother will never consent to such a measure. If hehas found occasion for the money you had designed for my poor cousin, andof all your current income, his necessities will not fail to lay hold ofthis. "

"Very true;" (glad, it seemed, of an excuse for not thwarting his son'swill;) "Frank will never consent. So, you see, it will be impossible to doany thing. "

I was going to propose that he should execute this business without mybrother's knowledge, but instantly perceived the impossibility of that. Myfather had for some years devolved on his son the management of all hisaffairs, 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 absolutein all cases. 

I returned home with a very sad heart. I was deeply afflicted with thisnew 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 mybrother. I feel for thy distresses. Would to Heaven I could remove them!And cannot I remove them? As to contending with my brother's haughtinessin thy favour, that is a hopeless task. As to my father, he will neversubmit to my guidance. "

After much fruitless meditation, it occurred to me that I might supplyRisberg's wants from my own purse. My mother's indulgence to me waswithout bounds. She openly considered and represented me as the heiress ofher fortunes, and confided fully in my discretion. The chief uses I hadhitherto found for money were charitable ones. I was her almoner. To standin the place of my father with respect to Risberg, and supply hiscustomary stipend from my own purse, was an adventurous undertaking for ayoung creature like me. It was impossible to do this clandestinely; atleast, without the knowledge and consent of Mrs. Fielder. I thereforeresolved to declare what had happened, and request her counsel. Anopportunity suitable to this did not immediately offer. 

Next morning, as I was sitting alone in the parlour, at work, mybrother came in. Never before had I received a visit from him. Mysurprise, therefore, was not small. I started up with the confusion of astranger, and requested him, very formally, to be seated. 

I instantly saw in his looks marks of displeasure, and, thoughunconscious of meriting it, my trepidation increased. He took a seatwithout speaking, and after some pause addressed me thus:--

"So, girl, I hear that you have been meddling with things that do notconcern you, --sowing dissension between the old man and me; presuming todictate 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, theprovince of his care-taker. Why, do you think, " continued he, contemptuously, "he'll ever return to marry you? Take my word for't, he'sno 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 mybrother's sarcasms. My indignation on those occasions had a strangemixture of fear in it, and both together suffocated my speech. I made noanswer to this boisterous arrogance. 

"But come, " continued he, "pray, let us hear your very wise objectionsto a man's applying his own property to his own use. To rob himself andspend the spoil upon another is thy sage maxim, it seems, for which thoudeservest to be dubbed a _she Solomon_. But let's see if thou art ascunning in defending as in coining maxims. Come; there is a chair: lay iton the floor, and suppose it a bar or rostrum, which thou wilt, and standbehind it, and plead the cause of foolish prodigality against commonsense. "

I endeavoured to muster up a little spirit, and replied, "I could notplead before a more favourable judge. An appeal to my brother on behalf offoolish prodigality could hardly fail of success. Poor common sense mustlook for justice at some other tribunal. "

His eyes darted fire. "Come, girl; none of your insolence. I did notcome 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 yourfolly, is to insult you, is it? Leave off romance, and stick to commonsense, and you will never receive any thing but kindness from me. Butcome; if I must humour you, let me hear how you have found yourself out tobe wiser than your father and brother. "

"I do not imagine, brother, that any good will result from ourdiscussing this subject. Education, or sex, if you please, has made adifference in our judgments, which argument will never reconcile. "

"With all my heart. A truce everlasting let there be; but, in truth, Imerely came to caution you against inter-meddling in _my affairs_, totell you to beware of sowing jealousy and ill-will between the _oldman_ and me. Prate away on other subjects as much as you please; but onthis affair of Risberg's hold your tongue for the future. "

"I thank you for your brotherly advice, but I am afraid I never shallbring myself to part with the liberty of _prating_ on every subjectthat pleases me; at least, my forbearance will flow from my owndiscretion, and not from the imperious prohibition of another. "

He laughed. "Well said, oddity. I am not displeased to see you act withsome spirit: but I repeat my charge; _be quiet_. Your interferencewill do no good. "

"Indeed, I firmly believe that it will not; and _that_ will be amotive 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! poorRisberg! how would he laugh to see these compassionate tears! It seem shehas written in a very doleful strain to thee, --talked very patheticallyabout his debts to his laundress and his landlady. I have a good mind toleave thee in this amiable ignorance; but I'll prove for once a kindbrother, by telling you that Risberg is a profligate and prodigal; that heneglects every study but that of dice; that this is the true reason why Ihave stood in the way of the old man's bounty to him. I haveunquestionable proof of his worthlessness, and see no reason to throw awaymoney upon London prostitutes and gamblers. I never mentioned this to theold man, because I would not needlessly distress him, for I know he lovesJack at least as well as his own children. I tell it you to justify myconduct, and hope that I may for once trust to your good sense not todisclose it to your father. "

My heart could not restrain its indignation at these words. 

"'Tis false!" I exclaimed; "'tis a horrid calumny against one whocannot defend himself! I will never believe the depravity of my absentbrother, till I have as good proof of it as my present brother has givenme of his. "

"Bravo, my girl! who could have thought you could give the lie withsuch a grace? Why don't you spit in the face of the vile calumniator? ButI am not angry with you, Jane; I only pity you; yet I'll not leave youbefore I tell you my mind. I have no doubt Risberg means to return. Heknows on what footing you are with Mrs. Fielder, and will take care toreturn; but, mind me, Jane, you shall never throw yourself and yourfortune 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 ofspirits not to be described. For a time I felt nothing but indignation andabhorrence for what I thought a wicked and cruel calumny; but inproportion as I regained my tranquillity, my reflections changed. Did notmy brother speak truth? Was there not something in his manner verydifferent from that of an impostor? How unmoved was he by the doubts whichI 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 besupposed to exist between us. If I know myself, I felt no more for himthan for a mere brother; but then I felt all the solicitude and tendernessof a sister. I knew not scarcely how to act in my present situation; butat length determined to disclose the whole affair to my mother. With herapprobation I enclosed an order on a London merchant in a letter to thiseffect:--

"I read your letter, my friend, with the sentiments of one who isanxious for your happiness. The difficulties you describe will, I amafraid, be hereafter prevented only by your own industry. My father's andbrother's expenses consume the whole of that income in which you havehitherto had a share, and I am obliged to apprize you that the usualremittances 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 learningand industry. 

"I have something more to say to you, which I scarcely know how tocommunicate. Somebody here has loaded your character with very heavyimputations. You are said to be addicted to gaming, sensuality, and thelowest vices. How much grief this intelligence has given to all who loveyou, you will easily imagine. To find you innocent of these charges wouldfree my heart from the keenest solicitude it has hitherto felt. I leave toyou the proper means of doing this, if you can do it without violation oftruth. 

"I am very imperfectly acquainted with your present views. Youoriginally designed, after having completed your academical and legaleducation, to return to America. If this should still be your intention, the enclosed will obviate some of your pecuniary embarrassments, and mymother enjoins me to tell you that, as you may need a few months longer tomake the necessary preparations for returning, you may draw on her for anadditional sum of five hundred dollars. Adieu. "

My relation to Risberg was peculiarly delicate. His more livelyimagination had deceived him already into a belief that he was in love. Atleast, in all his letters, he seemed fond of recognising that engagementwhich my father had established between us, and exaggerated theimportance, to his happiness, of my regard. Experience had already taughtme to set their just value on such professions. I knew that men aresanguine and confident, and that the imaginary gracefulness of passionnaturally prompts them to make their words outstrip their feelings. Thougheager in their present course, it is easy to divert them from it; and mostmen of an ardent temper can be dying of love for half a dozen differentwomen in the course of a year. 

Women feel deeply, but boast not. The supposed indecency of forwardnessmakes their words generally fall short of their sentiments, and passion, when once thoroughly imbibed, is as hard to be escaped from as it wasdifficultly acquired. I felt no passion, and endeavoured not to feel any, for Risberg, till circumstances should make it proper and discreet. Myattachment was to his interest, his happiness, and not to his person, andto convince him of this was extremely difficult. To persuade him that hisfreedom was absolute and entire, that no tie of honour or compassion boundhim to me, but that, on the contrary, to dispose of his affectionselsewhere would probably be most conducive to the interests of both. 

These cautious proceedings were extremely unpleasing to my cousin, whopretended to be deeply mortified at any thing betokening indifference, andterribly alarmed at the possibility of losing me. On the whole, I confessto you, that I thought my cousin and I were destined for each other, andfelt myself, if I may so speak, not in love with him, but prepared, at thebidding of discretion, to love him. 

My brother's report, therefore, greatly distressed me. Should my cousinprove a reprobate, no power on earth should compel me to be his. If hischaracter should prove blameless, and my heart raise no obstacles, at aproper time I should act with absolute independence of my brother'sinclinations. The menace that while he had voice or arm he would hinder mychoice of Risberg made the less impression as it related to an eventnecessarily distant, and which probably might never happen. 

The next letter from Risberg put an end to all further intercoursebetween us. It informed us of his being on the eve of marriage into anopulent family. It expressed much indignation at the calumny which hadprevailed with my father to withdraw his protection; declared that hedeemed himself by no means equitably or respectfully treated by him;expressed gratitude to my mother for the supply she had remitted, whichhad arrived very seasonably and prevented him from stooping tohumiliations which might have injured his present happy prospects; andpromised to repay the sum as soon as possible. This promise was punctuallyperformed, and Risberg assured me that he was as happy as a lovely andrich wife could make him. 

I was satisfied with this result, and bestowed no further thought onthat subject. From morn to midnight have I written, and have got butlittle 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 nearlyin their old channel. Frank and I never met but by accident, and ourinterviews began and ended merely with a good-morrow. I never mentionedRisberg's name to my father, and observed that he as studiously avoidedlighting on the same topic. 

One day a friend chanced to mention the greatness of my fortune, andcongratulated me on my title to two such large patrimonies as those ofMrs. Fielder and my father. I was far from viewing my condition in thesame light with my friend. My mother's fortune was indeed large andpermanent, but my claim to it was merely through her voluntary favour, ofwhich 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 amplyprovided for in Mrs. Fielder's good graces, and that it was equitable tobequeath the whole inheritance to him. This disposition, indeed, was notmade without my knowledge; but though I was sensible that I held of mymaternal friend but a very precarious tenure, that my character andeducation were likely to secure a much wiser and more useful applicationof money than my brother's habits, it was impossible for me openly toobject to this arrangement; so that, as things stood, though the world, inestimating my merits, never forgot that my father was rich, and that Frankand I were his only children, I had in reality no prospect of inheriting afarthing from him. 

Indeed, I always entertained a presentiment that I should one day bepoor, and have to rely for subsistence on my own labour. With thispersuasion, I frequently busied my thoughts in imagining the mostlucrative and decent means of employing my ingenuity, and directed myinquiries to many things of little or no use but on the irksomesupposition that I should one day live by my own labour. But this is adigression. 

In answer to my friend's remarks, I observed that my father's propertywas much less considerable than some people imagined; that time made noaccession to it; and that my brother's well-known habits were likely toreduce it much below its present standard, long before it would come to adivision. 

"There, Jane, you are mistaken, " said my friend, "or rather you arewilling to mislead me; for you must know that, though your father appearsto be idle, yet your brother is speculating with his money at an enormousrate. "

"And pray, " said I, (for I did not wish to betray all the surprise thatthis intelligence gave me, ) "in what speculations is he engaged?"

"How should I tell you, who scarcely know the meaning of the word? Ionly heard my father say that young Talbot, though seemingly swallowed upin pleasure, knew how to turn a penny as well as another, and wasemploying his father's wealth in _speculation_; that, I remember, washis word, but I never, for my part, took the trouble to inquire what_speculation_ meant. I know only that it is some hazardous orcomplicated way of getting money. "

These hints, though the conversation passed immediately to othersubjects, made a deep impression on my mind. My brother's character I knewto be incompatible with any sort of industry, and had various reasons forbelieving my father's property to be locked up in bank-stock. If myfriend's story were true, there was a new instance of the influence whichFrank had acquired over his father. I had very indistinct ideas ofspeculation, but was used to regard it as something very hazardous, andalmost criminal. 

I told my mother all my uneasiness. She thought it worth while to takesome means of getting at the truth, in conversation with my father. Agreeably to her advice, on my next visit I opened the subject, byrepeating exactly what I heard, I concluded by asking if it wreretrue. 

"Why, yes, " said he; "it is partly true, I must confess. Some time agoFrank laid his projects before me, and they appeared so promising andcertain of success, that I ventured to give him possession of a largesum. "

"And what scheme, sir, was it, if I may venture to ask?"

"Why, child, these are subjects so much out of thy way, that thouwouldst 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 expeditiousin their progress as I had reason, at first, to expect. Unlooked-fordelays 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 thatinduced you to hazard your whole fortune. I thought you had absolutelywithdrawn yourself from all the hazards and solicitudes of business. "

"Why, indeed, I had so, and should never have engaged again in them ofmy own accord. Indeed, I trouble not myself with any details at present. Iam just as much at my ease as I used to be. I leave every thing toFrank. "

"But, sir, the hazard, the uncertainty, of all projects! Would youexpose yourself at this time of life to the possibility of being reducedto 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 veryadvantageous; the success of it so infallible; and his own wants were sonumerous that my whole income was insufficient to supply them; the Lordknows how it has happened. In my time, I could live upon a little. Evenwith a wife and family, my needs did not require a fourth of the sum thatFrank, without wife or child, contrives to spend; yet I can't objectneither. He makes it out that he spends no more than his rank in life, ashe calls it, indispensably requires. Rather than encroach upon my funds, and the prospects of success being so very flattering, and Frank so veryurgent and so very sanguine, whose own interest it is to be sure of hisfooting, I even, at last, consented. "

"But I hope, dear sir, your prudence provided in some degree againstthe possibility of failure. No doubt you reserved something which mightserve as a stay to your old age in case this hopeful project miscarried. Absolutely to hazard _all_ on the faith of any project whatever wasunworthy of one of your experience and discretion. "

My father, Henry, was a good man, --humane, affectionate, kind, and ofstrict integrity; but I scarcely need to add, after what I have alreadyrelated, that his understanding was far from being vigorous, or his temperfirm. 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 withfollies: you, who know what scheme it was, who know the intoxicatinginfluence of a specious project, and, especially, the wonderful addressand plausibility of Catling, the adventurer who was my brother's primeminister and chief agent in that ruinous transaction, will not considertheir adopting the phantom as any proof of the folly of either father orson. 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 thelong run. At first, indeed, I only consented to come down with a fewthousands, the total loss of which would not break my heart; but this, itseems, though it was all they at first demanded, did not prove quitesufficient. Some debts they were obliged to contract, --to no great amount, indeed, --and these must be paid or the scheme relinquished. Having gone sofar 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, Ishould never have engaged in it; but I have been led on from one step toanother, 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 successof this scheme? Suppose it should utterly fail: what will be theconsequences 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 asmuch solemnity the first time as the last. "

My father began to grow impatient:--"It is useless, Jane, to startdifficulties and objections now. It is too late to go back, even if Iwere 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'srapacity was not to be satisfied with millions. To sit down and say, "Ihave enough, " was utterly incompatible with his character. I dropped theconversation 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 ofthe scheme, being nowise qualified to judge of its practicability; but ascheme in which my brother was the agent, in which my father's wholeproperty was hazarded, and which appeared, from the account I had justheard, at least not to have fulfilled the first expectations, could not beregarded with tranquillity. 

I took occasion to renew the subject with my father, some time afterthis. I could only deal in general observations on the imprudence ofputting independence and subsistence to hazard: though the past was not tobe recalled, yet the future was his own, and it would not be unworthy ofhim to act with caution. I was obliged to mingle this advice with muchforeign matter, and convey it in the most indirect and gentle terms. Hispride was easily offended at being thought to want the counsel of agirl. 

He replied to my remarks with confidence, that no further demand wouldbe made upon him. The last sum was given with extreme reluctance, andnothing but the positive assurance that it would absolutely be the lasthad prevailed with him. 

"Suppose, sir, " said I, "what you have already given should proveinsufficient. Suppose some new demand should be made upon you. "

"I cannot suppose that, after so many solemn and positiveassurances. "

"But were not assurances as positive and solemn on every formeroccasion as the last?"

"Why, yes, I must own they were; but new circumstances arose that couldnot be foreseen?"

"And, dear sir, may not new circumstances arise hereafter that couldnot be foreseen?"

"Nay, nay, " (with some impatience;) "I tell you there cannot beany. "

I said no more on this subject at this time; but my father, notwithstanding the confidence he expressed, was far from being atease. 

One day I found him in great perturbation. I met my brother, who wasgoing out as I entered, and suspected the cause of his disquiet. He spokeless than usual, and sighed deeply. I endeavoured, by various means, toprevail on him to communicate his thoughts, and at last succeeded. Mybrother, it seems, had made a new demand upon his purse, and he had beenbrought reluctantly to consent to raise the necessary sum by a mortgage onhis house, the only real property he possessed. My brother had gone toprocure a lender and prepare the deeds. 

I was less surprised at this intelligence than grieved. I thought I sawmy father's ruin was inevitable, and knew not how to prevent orprocrastinate it. After a long pause, I ventured to insinuate that, as thething 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 fornothing; and Frank assures me that one more sacrifice and all will bewell. "

"Alas, sir, are you still deceived by that language? Can you stilllisten 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 unlessyou hold your hand you will be undone. Would to Heaven you would hesitatea moment!" I said a great deal more to the same purpose, and was at lengthinterrupted by a message from my brother, who desired to see me a fewminutes in the parlour below. Though at a loss as to what could occasionsuch an unusual summons, I hastened down. 

I found my brother with a strange mixture of pride, perplexity, andsolicitude in his looks. His "how d'ye?" was delivered in a graver tonethan common, and he betrayed a disposition to conciliate my good-will, farbeyond what I had ever witnessed before. I waited with impatience to hearwhat he had to communicate. 

At last, with many pauses and much hesitation, he said, "Jane, Isuppose 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 leftentirely at my own disposal, yet the bequest was accompanied with adviceto 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 affectedvivacity. "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 amsurprised you could resist the temptation to spend it. I wonder nobodythought 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 hasremained. "

"At what bank, pr'ythee?"

I told him. 

"Well, I am extremely glad thou hadst wit enough to keep it snug, fornow the time has come to put it to some use. My father and I have a schemeon foot by which we shall realize immense profit. The more engines we setto work, the greater and more speedy will be the ultimate advantage. Itoccurred to me that you had some money, and that, unless it were betteremployed, 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 doubtas to the conduct it became me to pursue; but how to declare myresolutions, or state my reasons for declining his offer, I knew not. 

At last I stammered out that my aunt had bequeathed me this money withviews as to the future disposition of it from which I did not think myselfat liberty to swerve. 

"And pray, " said he, with some heat, "what were these profoundviews?"

"They were simple and obvious views. She knew my sex and education laidme 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 thispossible evil, she left me this sum, to be used only for subsistence, andwhen 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 treblingyour money and thereby effectually securing that independence which shewished to bequeath to you, to profit by the offer. Pray, repeat thatclause. "

"Indeed, " said I, innocently, "there is no such clause. "

"I am glad to hear it. I was afraid that she was silly enough to insertsome such prohibition. On the contrary, the scheme I propose to you willmerely execute your aunt's great purpose. Instead of forbidding, she wouldhave 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, "surelyyou cannot hesitate? What is your objection? Perhaps you are one of thoseprovident animals who look before they leap, and, having gained a monopolyof wisdom, will take no scheme upon trust. You must examine with your owneyes. I will explain the affair to you, if you choose, and convince youbeyond controversy that your money may be trebled in a twelvemonth. "

"You know, brother, I can be no judge of any scheme that is at allintricate. "

"There is no intricacy here. All is perfectly simple and obvious. I canmake the case as plain to you, in three minutes, as that you have twothumbs. In the English cottons, in the first place, there is----"

"Nay, brother, it is entirely unnecessary to explain the scheme. Mydeterminations will not be influenced by a statement which no mortaleloquence will make intelligible to me. "

"Well, then, you consent to my proposal?"

"I would rather you would look elsewhere for a partner in yourundertaking. "

"The girl's a fool!--Why, what do you fear? suspect? You surely cannotdoubt my being faithful to your interest? You will not insult me so muchas to suppose that I would defraud you of your money? If you do, --for Iknow I do not stand very high in your opinion, --if you doubt my honesty, Iwill give you the common proofs of having received your money. Nay, socertain am I of success, that I will give you my note, bond, what youplease, for thrice the amount, payable in one year. "

"My brother's bond will be of no use to me; I shall never go to lawwith my brother. "

"Well, then, what will satisfy you?"

"I am easily satisfied, brother. I am contented with things just asthey are. The sum, indeed, is a trifle, but it will answer all my humblepurposes. "

"Then you will, " replied he, struggling with his rage, "you will notagree?"

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;) "taketime to consider of it. 

"Some unaccountable oddity, some freak, must have taken hold of youjust now and turned your wits out of door. 'Tis impossible you shoulddeliberately reject such an offer. Why, girl, three thousand dollars has agreat sound, perhaps, to your ears, but you'll find it a most wretchedpittance if you should ever be obliged to live upon it. The interest wouldhardly buy you garters and topknots. You live, at this moment, at the rateof six times the sum. You are now a wretched and precarious dependant onMrs. 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 beyour port? Your legacy, in any way you can employ it, will not find youbread. Three times the sum might answer, perhaps; and that, if you willfall on my advice, you may now attain in a single twelvemonth. Considerthese things, and I will call on you in the evening for your finalanswer. "

He was going, but I mustered resolution enough to call him back:--"Brother, one word. All deliberation in this case is superfluous. You maythink 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 Iplease, 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 werea fool, but could not believe that your folly would ever carry you tothese lengths!"--Much more in this style did poor Frank utter on thisoccasion. I listened trembling, confounded, vexed, and, as soon as I couldrecover presence of mind, hastened out of his presence. 

This dialogue occupied all my thoughts during that day and thefollowing. I was sitting, next evening, at twilight, pensively, in my ownapartment, when, to my infinite surprise, my brother was announced. Atparting with him the day before, he swore vehemently that he would neversee my face again if he could help it. I supposed this resolution hadgiven way to his anxiety to gain my concurrence with his schemes, andwould fain have shunned a second interview. This, however, was impossible. I therefore composed my tremors as well as I was able, and directed him tobe admitted. The angry emotions of yesterday had disappeared from hiscountenance, and he addressed me with his customary carelessness. After afew trifling preliminaries, he asked me if I had considered the subject ofour yesterday's conversation. I answered that I had supposed that subjectto have been dismissed forever. It was not possible for time or argumentto bring us to the same way of thinking on it. I hoped, therefore, that hewould not compel me to discuss it a second time. 

Instead of flying into rage, as I expected, he fixed his eyesthoughtfully on the floor, and, after a melancholy pause, said, "Iexpected to find you invincible on that head. To say truth, I came not todiscuss that subject with you anew. I came merely to ask a triflingfavour. " Here he stopped. He was evidently at a loss how to proceed. Hisfeatures became more grave, and he actually sighed. 

My heart, I believe thou knowest, Harry, is the sport, the mereplaything, of gratitude and pity. Kindness will melt my firmestresolutions in a moment. Entreaty will lead me to the world's end. Gentleaccents, mournful looks, in my brother, was a claim altogetherirresistible. The mildness, the condescension which I now witnessedthrilled to my heart. A grateful tear rushed to my eye, and I almostarticulated, "Dear, dear brother, be always thus kind and thus good, and Iwill lay down my life for you. "

It was well for us both that my brother had too much pride or toolittle cunning to profit by the peculiarities of my temper. Had he put abrotherly arm around me, and said, in an affectionate tone, "Dear sister, oblige me, " I am afraid I should have instantly complied with the mostindiscreet and extravagant of his requests. 

Far otherwise, however, was his deportment. This condescension wasmomentary. The words had scarcely escaped him before he seemed torecollect them as having been unworthy of his dignity. He resumed hisarrogant and careless air, half whistled "ca ira, " and glanced at thegarden, 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 theplanter's. But, now I think of it, Jane, since your money is idle, supposeyou 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; Ihave brought a _check_ ready filled. It only wants yoursignature. "

I felt instant and invincible repugnance to this request. I had so longregarded my brother as void of all discretion, and as habituallymisapplying money to vicious purposes, that I deemed it a crime of noinconsiderable degree to supply the means of his prodigality. Occasionswere daily occurring in which much good was effected by a few dollars, aswell as much evil produced by the want of them. My imagination pondered onthe evils of poverty much oftener than perhaps was useful, and had thencecontracted a terror--of it not easily controlled. My legacy I had alwaysregarded as a sacred deposit, --an asylum in distress which nothing but themost egregious folly would rob or dissipate. Yet now I was called upon totransfer, by one stroke of the pen, to one who appeared to me to beengaged in ruinous vices or chimerical projects, so large a portion asfive hundred dollars. 

I was no niggardly hoarder of the allowance made me by my mother; butso diffident was I of my own discernment, that I never laid out twentydollars without her knowledge and concurrence. Could I then give away_five hundred_ of this sacred treasure, bestowed on me for verydifferent purposes, without her knowledge? It was useless to acquaint herwith my brother's request and solicit her permission. She would nevergrant 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 perishif I don't!"

I still declined the offered pen:--"For what purpose, brother, surely Imay ask?--so large a sum?"

He laughed:--"A mere trifle, girl;'tis a bare nothing. But, much orlittle, 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 wrongthing. "

His face reddened with indignation. "A wrong thing! you are fool enoughto tire the patience of a saint. What do I ask, but the loan of a fewdollars for a single day? Money that is absolutely idle; for which youhave no use. You know that my father's property is mine, and that mypossessions are twenty times greater than your own; yet you refuse to lendthis paltry sum for one day. Come, Jane, sister; you have carried yourinfatuation far enough. Where a raw girl should gain all these scruplesand 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 orhis prudence would be only raising a storm wrhich my womanish spirit couldnot withstand. In answer to his expostulations, I only repeated, "Impossible! I cannot. "

Finding me inflexible, he once more gave way to indignation:--"What adamned 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, halfthreatening, "Let me ask you once more: will you sign this check? Do notanswer 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 frominfamy; from ruin; from a prison; from death. _He_ may have cowardiceenough to live and endure his infamy, but _I_ have spirit enough todie 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 youmean?"

"I mean what I say. Your signing this check may save me fromirretrievable ruin. This trifling supply, which I can nowhere elseprocure, if it comes to-night, may place us out of danger. If delayed tillto-morrow morning, there will be no remedy. I shall receive an adequatesum 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 withthis purpose, but he stopped me:--"Are you mad, girl? He does not know thefull extent of the evil. Indeed, the evil will be perfectly removed bythis 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 inthy confidence in others. " These words, half articulated, did not escapemy brother. He was at once astonished and enraged by them, and even inthese circumstances could not suppress his resentment. 

He had, however, conjured up a spirit in me which made me deaf to hisinvective. I made towards the door. 

"Where are you going? You shall not leave the room till you have signedthis paper. "

'"Nothing but force shall keep me from my father. I will know his truesituation 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 shouldnot leave the room till I had complied with his request. 

Perceiving me thoroughly in earnest, and indignant in my turn at histreatment, he attempted to soothe me, by saying that I had misunderstoodhim in relation to my father; that he had uttered words at random; that hewas really out of cash at this moment; I should inexpressibly oblige himby 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 moneywithout thoroughly knowing and fully approving of the purposes to which itis to be applied. You tell me you are in extreme want of an immediatesupply. Of what nature is your necessity? What has occasioned yournecessity? I will not withhold what will really do you good, --what I amthoroughly 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-Itell you it will serve me essentially. It is surely needless to enter intolong and intricate details, which, ten to one, you will notunderstand. "

"As you please, " said L "I have told you that I will not act in thedark. "

"Well, then, I will explain my situation to you as clearly aspossible. "

He then proceeded to state transactions of which I understood nothing. All was specious and plausible; but I easily perceived the advantagesunder which he spoke, and the gross folly of suffering my conduct to beinfluenced by representations of whose integrity I had no means ofjudging. 

I will not detain you longer by this conversation. Suffice it to say, that I positively refused to comply with his wishes. The altercation thatensued was fortunately interrupted by the entrance of two or threevisitants, and, after lingering a few minutes, he left the house gloomyand dissatisfied. 

I have gone into these incidents with a minuteness that I fear hastired you; but I will be more concise for the future. These incidents arechiefly introductory to others of a more affecting nature, and to those Imust now hasten. Meanwhile, I will give some little respite to myfingers. 

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. Iimmediately introduced the subject of which my heart was full. I relatedthe particulars of my late interview with my brother; entreated him withthe utmost earnestness to make the proper inquiries into the state of mybrother's affairs, with whose fate it was too plain that his own wereinextricably involved. 

He was seized with extreme solicitude on hearing my intelligence. Hecould not keep his chair one moment at a time, but walked about the floortrembling. 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 mybrother's wishes. Nevertheless, I urged my father to an immediateexplanation, and determined to be present at the conference. 

The messenger returned. My brother was not at home. We waited a littlewhile, and then despatched the messenger again, with directions to waittill his return. We waited, in vain, till nine; ten; eleven o'clock. Themessenger then came back, informing us that Prank was still abroad. I wasobliged to dismiss the hope of a conference this night, and returned in ananxious and melancholy mood to Mrs. Fielder's. 

On my way, while ruminating on these events, I began to fear that I hadexerted an unjustifiable degree of caution. I knew that those who embarkin pecuniary schemes are often reduced to temporary straits anddifficulties; that ruin and prosperity frequently hang on the decision ofthe moment; that a gap may be filled up by a small effort seasonably made, which, if neglected, rapidly widens and irrevocably swallows up theill-fated adventurer. 

It was possible that all my brother had said was literally true; thathe merited my confidence in this instance, and that the supply he demandedwould 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 myown scruples. In this state of mind I reached home. The servant, whileopening 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 hishouse and offering him the money he wanted. 

I found him in my apartment. "Good God!" cried he; "where have you beentill this time of night?"

I told him frankly where I had been, and what had detained me. He wasthunder-struck. Instead of that storm of rage and invective which Iexpected, he grew pale with consternation, and said, in a faint voice, --

"Jane, you have ruined me beyond redemption. Fatal, fatal rashness! Itwas enough to have refused me a loan which, though useless to you, is asindispensable to my existence as my heart's blood. Had you quietly lent methe trifling pittance I asked, all might yet have been well, --my father'speace have been saved and my own affairs been completely re-established. "

All arrogance and indignation were now laid aside. His tone and looksbetokened the deepest distress. All the firmness, reluctance, and warinessof my temper vanished in a moment. My heart was seized with an agony ofcompunction. 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 hisbreast, 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 whatyou 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 concealfrom him a storm which I thought could be easily averted, which hisknowledge of it would only render more difficult to resist; but my cursedfolly, by saying more than I intended to you, has blasted my designs. "

I again expressed my regret for the rashness of my conduct, andentreated him to think better of my father than to imagine him invincibleto argument. I promised to go to him in the morning, and counteract, asmuch as I could, the effects of my evening conversation. At length hedeparted, with somewhat renovated spirits, and left me to muse upon thestrange events of this day. 

I could not free myself from the secret apprehension of having donemischief rather than good by my compliance. I had acted without consultingmy mother, in a case where my youth and inexperience stood in the utmostneed of advice. On the most trivial occasions I had hitherto held it asacred duty to make her the arbitress and judge of my whole conduct; andnow shame for my own precipitance and regard for my brother's feelingsseemed to join in forbidding me to disclose what had passed. A mostrestless and unquiet night did I pass. 

Next morning was I to go to my father, to repair as much as possiblethe breach I had thoughtlessly made in his happiness. I knew not whatmeans to employ for this purpose. What could I say? I was far from beingsatisfied, myself, with my brother's representations. I hoped, but hadvery little confidence that any thing in my power to do would be ofpermanent advantage. 

These doubts did not make me defer my visit. I was greatly surprised tofind my father as cheerful and serene as usual, which he quickly accountedfor by telling me that he had just had a long conversation with Frank, whohad convinced him that there was no ground for the terrors I had inspiredhim with the night before. He could not forbear a little acrimony on theimpropriety of my interference, and I tacitly acquiesced in the censure. Ifound that he knew nothing of the sum I had lent, and I thought not properto mention it. 

That day, notwithstanding his promises of payment, passed away withouthearing from my brother. I had never laid any stress upon the promise, butdrew a bad omen from this failure. 

A few days elapsed without any material incident. The next occasion onwhich my brother was introduced into conversation with Mrs. Fielder tookplace one evening after my friend had returned from spending the dayabroad. 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 hisadvantage. "

I trembled from head to foot. 

"I fear, " continued she, "he is going to ruin, and will drag yourfather down the same precipice. "

"Dearest madam! what new circumstance?"

"Nothing very new. It seems Mr. Frazer--his wife told the story--soldhim, 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 longtime. At length curricle and horses scoured the roads under the managementof Monsieur Petitgrave, brother to Frank's _housekeeper_, thehandsome mustec. This gave Frazer uneasiness, and some importunityextorted from Frank a note, which, being due _last Tuesday_, was, atFrank'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 roundsum, --_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 hadgiven 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 ofcraving but worthy labourers. 

While in the first tumult of these reflections, some one brought aletter. It was from my brother. This was the tenor:--

"I fear, Jane, I have gained but little credit with you forpunctuality. I ought to have fulfilled my promise, you will say. I willnot excuse my breach of it by saying (though I might say so, perhaps, withtruth) that you have no use for the money; that I have pressing use forit, and that a small delay, without being of any importance to you, willbe particularly convenient to me. No; the true and all-sufficient reasonwhy I did not return the money was--because I had it not. To convince youthat 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 togetherby Saturday, --if you needs must have it so soon. The bearer waits. "

In any state of my thoughts, there was little likelihood of mycomplying with a request made in these terms. With my present feelings, itwas difficult to forbear returning an angry and reproachful answer. I senthim back these lines:--

"I am thoroughly convinced that it is not in my power to afford you anyeffectual aid in your present difficulties. It will be very easy to injuremyself. The request you make can have no other tendency. I must thereforedecline complying. "

The facility with which I had yielded up my first resolutions probablyencouraged him to this second application, and I formed very solemnresolutions not to be seduced a second time. 

In a few minutes after despatching my answer, he appeared. I need notrepeat our conversation. He extorted from me, without much difficulty, what I had heard through my mother, and--methinks I am ashamed to confessit--by exchanging his boisterous airs for pathetic ones, by appealing tomy sisterly affection and calling me his angel and saviour, and especiallyby solemnly affirming that Frazer's story was a calumny, I at length didas he would have me: yet only for _three_ hundred; I would not gobeyond that sum. 

The moment he left me, I perceived the weakness and folly of my conductin the strongest light, I renewed all my prudent determinations; yet, strange to tell, within less than a week, the same scene of earnestimportunity on his side, and of foolish flexibility on mine, wasreacted. 

With every new instance of folly, my shame and selfcondemnationincreased, and the more difficult I found it to disclose the truth to mymother. 

In the course of a very few days, one-half of my little property wasgone. A sum sufficient, according to my system of economy, to give medecent independence of the world for at least three years, had beendissipated 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 theplausible statements and vehement asseverations of my brother, and tosuffer them to weigh something against charges which might possibly beuntrue. As soon as accident had put me in full possession of the truth onthis head, I was no longer thus foolishly obsequious. 

The next morning after our last interview I set out, as usual, to bidgood-morrow to my father. My uneasy thoughts led me unaware to extend mywalk, 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 inquiryabout it. On entering the shop I almost repented of my purpose, as twopersons were within the bar, if I may call it so, seated in a loungingposture, by a small stove, smoking cigars and gazing at me with an air ofindolent 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 theowner of the watch. My attention was quickly roused by one of theloungers, who, having satisfied his curiosity by gazing at me, turned tothe other and said, "Well, you have hardly been to Frank's this morning, Isuppose?"

"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 devilis 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 howshe gets money, so as her check's good; and that I'll fix as soon as thedoor's open. "

"Why, damn it if I don't think it a forgery. How should such a girl asthat get so much money?"

"Can't conceive. Coax or rob her aunt of it, I suppose. If she's suchanother 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 thefellow from my soul. It was all for trinkets and furniture bought by thatprodigal jade, Mademoiselle Couteau. She would ruin a prince, if she hadhim as much at her command as she has Frank. Little does the sister knowfor what purpose she gives her money: however, that, as I said before, beher look-out. "

During this dialogue, my eye was fixed upon the artist, who, with thewatch 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 processof the cure; but, though I looked steadfastly at him, I heard not asyllable of his dissertation. I broke away when his first pause allowedme. 

The strongest emotion in my heart was resentment. That my name shouldbe prostituted by the foul mouths of such wretches, and my money besquandered for the gratification of a meretricious vagabond, wereindignities not to be endured. I was carried involuntarily towards mybrother's house. I had lost all that awe in his presence and trepidationat his scorn which had formerly been so troublesome. His sarcasms orrevilings had become indifferent to me, as every day's experience had oflate convinced me that in no valuable attribute was he anywise superior tohis sister. The consciousness of having been deceived and wronged by himset me above both his anger and his flattery. I was hastening to his houseto give vent to my feelings, when a little consideration turned my stepsanother way. I recollected that I should probably meet his companion, andthat 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 meetingFrank 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 felthourly-increasing remorse at having concealed my proceedings from mymother. I imagined that, had I treated her from the first with theconfidence due to her, I should have avoided all my present difficulties. Now the obstacles to confidence appeared insurmountable, and my onlyconsolation was, that by inflexible resolution I might shun any new causefor 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, mymother sent for me home. Something, methought, very extraordinary, musthave happened, as my mother was well: as, according to the messenger'saccount, she had just parted with a gentleman who seemed to have visitedher 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 hadcalled on her and informed her that checks of my signing to a very largeamount had lately been offered, and that the last made its appearanceto-day, and was presented by a man with whom it was highly disreputablefor one in my condition to be thought to have any sort of intercourse. 

You may suppose that, after this introduction, I made haste to explainevery particular. My mother was surprised and grieved. She rebuked me, with some asperity, for my reserves. Had I acquainted her with mybrother's demands, she could have apprized me of all that I had sincediscovered. My brother, she asserted, was involved beyond any one's powerto extricate him, and his temper, his credulity, were such that he wasforever doomed to poverty. 

I had scarcely parted with my mother on this occasion, to whom I hadpromised to refer every future application, when my brother made hisappearance. I was prepared to overwhelm him with upbraidings for his pastconduct, but found my tongue tied in his presence. I could not bear toinflict so much shame and mortification; and besides, the past beingirrevocable, it would only aggravate the disappointment which I wasdetermined every future application should meet with. After some vagueapology for non-payment, he applied for a new loan. He had borrowed, hesaid, 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 numerousfamily; had been prevailed upon to lend, after extreme urgency on mybrother's part; was now driven to the utmost need, and by a promptrepayment would probably be saved from ruin. A minute and plausibleaccount of the way in which the debt originated, and his inability torepay it shown to have proceeded from no fault of his. 

I repeatedly endeavoured to break off the conversation, by abruptlyleaving 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 ofeloquence are inexhaustible. I found my courage wavering. After a fewineffectual struggles, I ceased to contend. He saw that little remained tocomplete his conquest; and, to effect that little, by convincing me thathis 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 toldher 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. Iwas left, for some minutes, alone. 

So persuasive had been my brother's rhetoric, that I began to regret myflight. 

I felt something like compunction at having deprived him of anopportunity to prove his assertions. Every gentle look and insinuatingaccent reappeared to my memory, and I more than half repented myinflexibility. 

While buried in these thoughts, my mother returned. She told me that mybrother was gone, after repeatedly requesting an interview with me, andrefusing to explain his business to any other person. 

"Was there anybody with him, madam?"

"Yes. One Clarges, --a jeweller, --an ill-looking, suspiciousperson. "

"Do you know any thing of this Clarges?"

"Nothing but what I am sorry to know. He is a dissolute fellow, who hasbroken the hearts of two wives, and thrown his children for maintenance ontheir maternal relations. 'Tis the same who carried your last check to thebank. "

I just then faintly recollected the name of Clarges, as having occurredin the conversation at the watchmaker's, and as being the name of him whohad produced the paper. This, then, was the person who was to have beenintroduced to me as the friend in need, the meritorious father of anumerous family, whom the payment of a just debt was to relieve fromimminent ruin! How loathsome, how detestable, how insecure, are fraud andtreachery! Had he been confronted with me, no doubt he would haverecognised the person whom he stared at at the watch-maker's. 

Next morning I received a note, dated on the preceding evening. Thesewere the terms of it:--

"I am sorry to say, Jane, that the ruin of a father and brother mayjustly be laid at your door. Not to save them, when the means were in yourpower, and when entreated to use the means, makes you the author of theirruin. The crisis has come. Had you shown a little mercy, the crisis mighthave terminated favourably. As it is, we are undone. You do not deserve toknow the place of my retreat. Your unsisterly heart will prompt you tointercept 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, whosewhole fortune was absorbed by debts contracted in his name, and for themost part without his knowledge, the sudden affluence of the adventurerwho had suggested his projects to my brother, were the immediateconsequences of this event. To a man of my father's habits and views, nocalamity can be conceived greater than this. Never did I witness a moresincere grief, a more thorough despair. Every thing he once possessed wastaken away from him and sold. My mother, however, prevented all the mostopprobrious effects of poverty, and all in my power to alleviate hissolitude, and console him in his distress, was done. 

Would you have thought, after this simple relation, that there was anyroom for malice and detraction to build up their inventions?

My brother was enraged that I refused to comply with any of hisdemands; not grateful for the instances in which I did comply. Clargesresented the disappointment of his scheme as much as if honour andintegrity had given him a title to success. 

How many times has the story been told, and with what variety ofexaggeration, that the sister refused to lend her brother money, when shehad plenty at command, and when a seasonable loan would have prevented theruin of her family, while, at the same time, she had such an appetite fortoys and baubles, that ere yet she was eighteen years old she ran in debtto Clarges the jeweller for upwards of five hundred dollars'-worth!

You are the only person to whom I have thought myself bound to tell thewhole truth. I do not think my reluctance to draw the follies of mybrother from oblivion a culpable one. I am willing to rely, for myjustification from malicious charges, on the general tenor of my actions, and am scarcely averse to buy my brother's reputation at the cost of myown. The censure of the undistinguishing and undistinguished multitudegives me little uneasiness. Indeed, the disapprobation of those who haveno particular connection with us is a very faint, dubious, and momentaryfeeling. We are thought of, now and then, by chance, and immediatelyforgotten. Their happiness is unaffected by the sentence casuallypronounced on us, and we suffer nothing, since it scarcely reaches ourears, and the interval between the judge and the culprit hinders it fromhaving any influence on their actions. Not so when the censure reachesthose who love us. The charge engrosses their attention, influences theirhappiness, and regulates their deportment towards us. My self-regard, andmy regard for you, equally lead me to vindicate myself to you from anycharge, however chimerical or obsolete it may be. 

My brother went to France. He seemed disposed to forget that he everhad kindred or country; never informed us of his situation and views. Allour tidings of him came to us indirectly. In this way we heard that heprocured a commission in the republican troops, had made some fortunatecampaigns, and had enriched himself by lucky speculations in the forfeitedestates. 

My mother was informed, by some one lately returned from Paris, thatFrank had attained possession of the whole property of an emigrant Comptede 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 hadmarried, according to the new mode, the compte's sister, and was probably, for the remainder of his life, a Frenchman. He is attentive to hiscountrymen, and this reporter partook of several entertainments at hishouse. 

Methinks the memory of past incidents must sometimes intrude upon histhoughts. Can he have utterly forgotten the father whom he reduced toindigence, 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 hismisconduct, not only to his own family, but on others. 

What a strange diversity there is among human characters! Frank is, Iquestion not, gay, volatile, impetuous as ever. The jovial carousal andthe sound sleep are never molested, I dare say, by the remembrance of theincidents I have related to you. 

Methinks, had I the same heavy charges to make against my conscience, Ishould find no refuge but death from the goadings of remorse. To haveabandoned a father to the jail or the hospital, or to the charity ofstrangers, --a father too who had yielded him an affection and a trustwithout limits; to have wronged a sister out of the little property onwhich she relied for support to her unprotected youth or helpless age, --asister who was virtually an orphan, who had no natural claim upon herpresent patroness, but might be dismissed penniless from the house thatsheltered her, without exposing the self-constituted mother to anyreproach. 

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 resolutionwith regard to thee? She ought to know it immediately. I myself ought totell it, and this was one of the tasks which I designed to perform in yourabsence: yet, alas! I know not how to set about it. 

My fingers are for once thoroughly weary. I must lay down the pen. Butfirst; why don't I hear from you? Every day since Sunday, when you leftme, have I despatched an enormous packet, and have not received a sentencein 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 fromyou; but there is inexpiable treason in the silence of four long days. Ifyou do not offer substantial excuses for this delay, woe be to thee!

Take this letter, and expect not another syllable from my pen till Ihear from you. 

Letter VII

_To Henry Golden_

Thursday Night. 

What a little thing subverts my peace, --dissipates my resolutions! Am Inot an honest, foolish creature, Hal? I uncover this wayward heart to thyview as promptly as if the disclosure had no tendency to impair thy esteemand forfeit thy love; that is, to devote me to death, --to ruin me beyondredemption. 

And yet, if the unveiling of my follies should have this effect, Ithink I should despise thee for stupidity and hate thee for ingratitude;for whence proceed my irresolution, my vicissitudes of purpose, but frommy love? and that man's heart must be made of strange stuff that can abhoror contemn a woman for loving him too much. Of such stuff the heart of myfriend, 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 strangeconfusion. There is an acute pain just here. Give me your hand and let meput it on the very spot. Alas! there is no dear hand within my reach. Iremember feeling just such a pain but once before. Then you chanced to beseated by my side. I put your hand to the spot, and, strange to tell, amoment after I looked for the pain and 'twas gone, --utterly vanished!Cannot I imagine so strongly as to experience that relief which your handpressed 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 thypresence 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 musttalk to you, though you give me no answer, though I have nothing butgloomy forebodings to communicate, or mournful images to call up. I musttalk to you, even when you cannot hear; when invisible; when distant manya mile. It is some relief even to corporal agonies. Even the pain which Ijust 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 stateretributive hereafter, terrible will be thy punishment. 

But why do I talk to thee thus wildly? Why deal I in such ruefulprognostics? I want to tell you why, for I have a reason for my presentalarms: they all spring from one source, --my doubts of thy fidelity. Yes, Henry, since your arrival at Wilmington you have been a frequent visitantof Miss Secker, and have kept a profound silence towards me. 

Nothing can be weaker and more silly than these disquiets. Cannot myfriend visit a deserving woman a few times but my terrors mustimpertinently intrude?--Cannot he forget the pen, and fail to write to me, for half a week together, but my rash resentments must conjure up thephantoms of ingratitude and perfidy?

Pity the weakness of a fond heart, Henry, and let me hear from you, andbe your precious and long-withheld letter my relief from every disquiet. Ibelieve, and do _not_ believe, what I have heard, and what I haveheard teems with a thousand mischiefs, or is fair and innocent, accordingto 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 tobe 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 ofmy design to make some stay at this place, and that the business thatoccasioned my stay would leave me no leisure to write. 

Is it possible that my visits to Miss Secker have given you anyconcern? Why must the source of your anxiety be always so mortifying andopprobrious to me? That the absence of a few days, and the company ofanother woman, should be thought to change my sentiments, and make mesecretly recant those vows which I offered to you, is an imputation on mycommon sense which--I suppose I deserve. You judge of me from what youknow of me. How can you do otherwise? If my past conduct naturally createssuch suspicions, who am I to blame but myself? Reformation should precederespect; and how should I gain confidence in my integrity but as the fruitof 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, inevery estimable and attractive quality, and therefore suspect herinfluence on a being so sensual and volatile as poor Hal. Were she reallymore lovely, the faithless and giddy wretch might possibly forget you; butMiss Secker is a woman whose mind and person are not only inferior toyours, but wholly unfitted to inspire love. If it were possible to smilein my present mood, I think I should indulge _one smile_ at thethought of falling in love with a woman who has scarcely had educationenough to enable her to write her name, who has been confined to her bedabout eighteen months by a rheumatism contracted by too assiduousapplication to the wash-tub, and who often boasts that she was born, notabove forty-five years ago, in an upper story of the mansion at MountVernon. 

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 heruncle's carriage, on Wednesday, on her way home. Seeing me come out of thepoor woman's lodgings, she stopped the coach, prated for five minutes, andleft me with ironical menaces of telling you of my frequent visits to asingle lady, of whom it appeared that she had some knowledge. Thus you seethat your disquiets have had no foundation but in the sportive malice ofyour talkative neighbour. 

Hannah Secker chanced to be talked of at Mr. Henshaw's as a poorcreature, who was sick and destitute, and lay, almost deserted, in aneighbouring hovel. She existed on charity, which was the more scanty andreluctant as she bore but an indifferent character either for honesty orgratitude. 

The name, when first mentioned, struck my ear as something that hadonce been familiar, and, in my solitary evening walk, I stopped at hercottage. The sight of her, though withered by age and disease, called herfully to mind. Three years ago, she lived in the city, and had been veryserviceable 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 muslincravat offered too mighty a temptation for her virtue. You know I have butlittle money to spare from my own necessities, and all the service I couldrender her was to be her petitioner and advocate with some opulentfamilies 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 youof the guilt laid to your charge? That was done, indeed, before I heardyour defence, and I was anxious to hear your story, merely because allthat relates to you is in the highest degree interesting to me. 

This letter, notwithstanding my engagements, should be longer, if Iwere 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) thatevery pain has vanished from your head and from your heart. You may aswell delay writing to your mother till I return. I hope it will bepermitted 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! Ihave just placed this dear letter of yours next my heart. The sensation itaffords, at this moment, is delicious; almost as much so as I onceexperienced from a certain somebody's hand placed on the same spot. Butthat somebody's hand was never (if I recollect aright) so highly honouredas 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, couldyou guess at the cause of those tears which, even now, have not ceasedflowing? Your letter has so little tenderness--is so _very_ cold. Butlet me not be ungrateful for the preference you grant me, merely becauseit is not so enthusiastic and unlimited as my own. 

I suppose, if I had not extorted from you some account of this poorwoman, I should never have heard a syllable of your meeting with her. Itis surely possible for people to be their own calumniators, to place theirown actions in the worst light, to exaggerate their faults and concealtheir virtues. If the fictions and artifices of vanity be detestable, theconcealment of our good actions is surely not without guilt. Theconviction of our guilt is painful to those that love us: wantonly andneedlessly to give this pain is very perverse and unjustifiable. If acontrary deportment argue vanity, self-detraction seems to be theoffspring of pride. 

Thou art the strangest of men, Henry. Thy whole conduct with regard tome has been a tissue of self-upbraidings. You have disclosed not only athousand misdeeds (as you have thought them) which could not possibly havecome to my knowledge by any other means, but have laboured to ascribe evenyour commendable actions to evil or ambiguous motives. Motives areimpenetrable, and a thousand cases have occurred in which every rationalobserver would have supposed you to be influenced by the best motives, butwhere, if credit be due to your own representations, your motives were farfrom 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 moreshining virtue in the whole catalogue than sincerity. Besides, your ownaccount of yourself, with all the exaggerations of humility, proved you, on the whole, and with the allowances necessarily made by every candidperson, to be a very excellent man. 

Your deportment to me ought chiefly to govern my opinion of you; andhave you not been uniformly generous, sincere, and upright?--not quitepassionate enough, perhaps; no blind and precipitate enthusiast. Love hasnot banished discretion, or blindfolded your sagacity; and, as I shouldforgive a thousand errors on the score of love, I cannot fervently applaudthat wisdom which tramples upon love. Thou hast a thousand excellentqualities, Henry; that is certain: yet a little more impetuosity andfervour in thy tenderness would compensate for the want of the wholethousand. _There_ is a frank confession for thee! I am confounded atmy own temerity in making it. Will it not injure me in thy esteem? and, ofall 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 thoroughknowledge of my conduct could not condemn me. When my father and motherunited their entreaties to those of Talbot, my heart had never known apreference. The man of their choice was perfectly indifferent to me, butevery individual of his sex was regarded with no less indifference. I didnot conceal from him the state of my feelings, but was always perfectlyingenuous and explicit. Talbot acted like every man in love. He was eagerto secure me on these terms, and fondly trusted to his tenderness andperseverance to gain those affections which I truly acknowledged to befree. He would not leave me for his European voyage till he had extorted asolemn promise. 

During his absence I met you. The nature of those throbs, which aglance of your very shadow was sure to produce, even previous to theexchange of a single word between us, was entirely unknown to me. I had noexperience to guide me. The effects of that intercourse which I took suchpains to procure could not be foreseen. My heart was too pure to admiteven such a guest as apprehension, and the only information I possessedrespecting you impressed me with the notion that your heart alreadybelonged to another. 

I sought nothing but your society and your esteem. If the fetters of mypromise to Talbot became irksome after my knowledge of you, I wasunconscious of the true cause. This promise never for a moment lost itsobligation with me. I deemed myself as much the wife of Talbot as if I hadstood with him at the altar. 

At the prospect of his return, my melancholy was excruciating, but thecause was unknown to me. I had nothing to wish, with regard to you, but tosee you occasionally, to hear your voice, and to be told that you werehappy. It never occurred to me that Talbot's return would occasion anydifference in this respect. Conscious of nothing but rectitude in myregard for you, always frank and ingenuous in disclosing my feelings, Iimagined that Talbot would adopt you as warmly for his friend as I haddone. 

I must grant that I erred in this particular, but my error sprung fromignorance unavoidable. I judged of others by my own heart, and verysillily imagined that Talbot would continue to be satisfied with that coldand friendly regard for which only my vows made me answerable. Yet myhusband's jealousies and discontents were not unreasonable. He loved mewith passion; and, if that sentiment can endure to be unrequited, it willnever tolerate the preference of another, even if that preference be lessthan love. 

In compliance with my husband's wishes--Ah! my friend! why cannot I saythat I _did_ comply with them? what a fatal act is that of plightinghands when the heart is estranged! Never, never let the placable andcompassionate spirit be seduced into a union to which the affections areaverse. Let it not confide in the afterbirth of love. Such a union is thedirest cruelty even to the object who is intended to be benefited. 

I have not yet thoroughly forgiven you for deserting me. My heartswells with anguish at the thought of your setting more lightly by myresentment than by that of another; of your willingness to purchase anyone'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 unbiassedjudgment has always been with you. Repeated proofs have convinced me thatmy 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 thispoor sick woman. There is something mysterious in the character of thisPolly Jessup. She is particularly solicitous about every thing whichrelates to you. It has occurred to me, since reading your letter, that sheis not entirely without design in her prattle. Something more, methinks, than the mere tattling, gossiping, inquisitive propensity in the way inwhich she introduces you into conversation. 

She had not alighted ten minutes before she ran into my apartment, witha face full of intelligence. The truth respecting the washwoman was veryartfully disguised, and yet so managed as to allow her to elude theimputation of direct falsehood. She will, no doubt, in this as in formercases, cover up all under the appearance of a good-natured jest; yet, ifshe be in jest, there is more of malice, I suspect, than of good nature inher merriment. 

Make haste back, my dear Hal. I cannot bear to keep my mother inignorance of our resolutions, and I am utterly at a loss in what manner tocommunicate them so as to awaken the least reluctance. Oh, what would bewanting to my felicity if my mother could be won over to my side? And isso inestimable a good utterly hopeless? Come, my friend, and dictate sucha letter as may subdue those prejudices which, while they continue toexist, 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 afraidof seeming to you impertinent. You have declared your resolution topersist in conduct which my judgment disapproved. I have argued with youand admonished you, hitherto, in vain, and you have (tacitly indeed)rejected my interference; yet I cannot forbear offering you my counselonce 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 heardwhat I cannot believe; yet, considering your former conduct, I havemisgivings that I cannot subdue. Strangely as you have acted of late, I amwilling to think you incapable of what is laid to your charge. In fewwords, Jane, they tell me that you mean to be actually married toColden. 

You know what I think of that young man. You know my objections to theconduct you thought proper to pursue in relation to Colden in yourhusband's lifetime. You will judge, then, with what emotions suchintelligence was received. 

Indiscreet as you have been, there are, I hope, bounds which youreducation will not permit you to pass. Some regard, I hope, you will havefor 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, ifthis 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, itis true; but, since I have not any other kindred, you are more than adaughter to me. That love, which a numerous family or kindred would divideamong themselves, is all collected and centred in you. The ties between ushave long ceased to be artificial ones, and I feel, in all respects, as ifyou actually owed your being to me. 

You have hitherto consulted my pleasure but little. I have all therights, in regard to you, of a mother, but these have been hithertodespised or unacknowledged. I once regarded you as the natural successorto my property; and, though your conduct has forfeited these claims, I nowtell you (and you know that my word is sacred) that all I have shall beyours, on condition that Colden is dismissed. 

More than this I will do. Every assurance possible I will give, thatall 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 thatI will absolutely rely. 

Mere lucre ought not, perhaps, to influence you in such a case; and ifyou comply through regard to my peace or your own reputation, I shallcertainly esteem you more highly than if you are determined by the presentoffer; yet such is my aversion to this alliance, that the hour in which Ihear of your consent to the conditions which I now propose to you will beesteemed one of the happiest of my life. 

Think of it, my dear Jane, my friend, my child; think of it. Take timeto reflect, and let me have a deliberate answer, such as will remove thefears 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 meto lay it down again. Heaven is my witness that the happiness of myrevered mamma is dearer to me than my own; no struggle was ever greaterbetween my duty to you and the claims of another. 

Will you not permit me to explain my conduct? will you not acquaint mewith the reasons of your aversion to my friend?--let me call him by thatname. Such, indeed, has he been to me, --the friend of my understanding andmy virtue. My soul's friend; since, to suffer, without guilt, in thisworld, entitles us to peace in another, and since to him I owe that I havenot been a guilty as well as an unfortunate creature. 

Whatever conduct I pursue with regard to him, I must always considerhim in this light; at least, till your proofs against him are heard. Letme hear them, I beseech you. Have compassion on the anguish of your poorgirl, and reconcile, if possible, _my_ duty to _your_ inclination, bystating what you know to his disadvantage. You must have causes for yourenmity, which you hide from me. Indeed, you tell me that you have; yousay that if I knew them they would determine me. Let then every motivebe set aside through regard to my happiness, and disclose to me thissecret. 

While I am ignorant of these charges, while all that I know of Coldentends to endear his happiness to me, and while his happiness depends uponmy acceptance of his vows, _can_ I, _ought_ I, to rejecthim?

Place yourself in my situation. You once loved and was once beloved. Iam, indeed, your child. I glory in the name which you have had thegoodness to bestow upon me. Think and feel for your child, in her presentunhappy circumstances; in which she does not balance between happiness andmisery, --that alternative, alas! is not permitted, --but is anxious todiscover which path has fewest thorns, and in which her duty will allowher to walk. 

How greatly do you humble me, and how strongly evince your aversion toColden, 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 abribe to prevail! and what calamities must this alliance seem to threaten, since the base selfishness of accepting this offer is better, in youreyes, than my marriage!

Sure I never was unhappy till now. Pity me, my mother. Condescend towrite 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 castme from your thoughts forever; you will speak to me and see me nomore. 

That must not be. I am preparing, inclement as the season is, to payyou 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 willnot 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 underthe cruel necessity of shutting my door against you, for _that_ mustbe the consequence of your attempt. 

After reading your letter, and seeing full proof of your infatuation, Iresolved to throw away my care no longer upon you; to think no more ofyou; 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 merelyas a stranger. I write this letter to acquaint you with my resolution. Your future letters cannot change it, for they shall all be returned toyou unopened. 

I know you better than to trust to the appearance of half-yieldingreluctance which your letter contains. Thus it has always been, and asoften as this duteous strain flattered me with hopes of winning you toreason, have I been deceived and disappointed. 

I trust to your discernment, your seeming humility, no longer. No childare you of mine. You have, henceforth, no part in my blood; and may I verysoon 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 Inot receive your protection and instruction in my infancy and mychildhood? When left an orphan by my own mother, your bosom was open toreceive me. _There_ was the helpless babe cherished, and there was ittaught all that virtue which it has since endeavoured to preserveunimpaired in every trial. 

You must not cast me off. You must not hate me. You must not call meungrateful and a wretch. Not to have merited these names is all thatenables 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 nowfeel, that I have felt ever since the receipt of your letter, cannot beincreased. 

You forbid me to write to you; but I cannot forbear as long as there ishope of extorting from you the cause of your aversion to my friend. Isolicit not this disclosure with a view or even in the hope of repellingyour objections. I want, I had almost said, I _want_ to share yourantipathies. I want only to be justified in obeying you. When known, theywill, perhaps, be found sufficient. I conjure you once more, tell me yourobjections to this marriage. 

As well as I can, I have examined myself. Passion may influence me, butI am unconscious of its influence. I think I act with no exclusive regardto my own pleasure, but as it flows from and is dependent on the happinessof others. 

If I am mistaken in my notions of duty, God forbid that I should shutmy ears against good counsel. Instead of loathing or shunning it, I amanxious to hear it. I know my own short-sighted folly, my slightexperience. I know how apt I am to go astray, how often my own heartdeceives me; and hence I always am in search of better knowledge; hence Ilisten to admonition, not only with docility, but gratitude. Myinclination ought, perhaps, to be absolutely neuter; but, if I knowmyself, it is with reluctance that I withhold my assent from theexpostulator. I am delighted to receive conviction from the arguments ofthose that love me. 

In this case, I am prepared to hear and weigh, and be convinced by, anything you think proper to urge. 

I ask not pardon for my faults, nor compassion on my frailty. That Ilove Colden I will not deny, but I love his worth; his merits, real orimaginary, enrapture my soul. Ideal his virtues may be, but to me they arereal, and the moment they cease to be so, that the illusion disappears, Icease 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 aswell as my own sake. 

Tell me then, my mother, what you know of him. What heinous offence hashe committed, that makes him unworthy of my regard?

You have raised, without knowing it perhaps, or designing to effect itin this way, a bar to this detested alliance. While you declare thatColden has been guilty of base actions, it is impossible to grant him myesteem as fully as a husband should claim. Till I know what the actionsare which you impute to him, I never will bind myself to him byindissoluble bands. 

I have told him this, and he joins with me to entreat you tocommunicate your charges to me. He believes that you are misled by somemisapprehension, --some slander. He is conscious that many of his actionshave been, in some respects, ambiguous, capable of being mistaken bycareless, or distant, or prejudiced observers. He believes that you havebeen betrayed into some fatal error in relation to _one_ action ofhis life. 

If this be so, he wishes only to be told his fault, and will spare notime and no pains to remove your mistake, if you should appear to bemistaken. 

How easily, my good mamma, may the most discerning and impartial bemisled! The ignorant and envious have no choice between truth and error. Their tale must want something to complete it, or must possess more thanthe truth demands. Something you have heard of my friend injurious to hisgood name, and you condemn him unheard. 

Yet this displeases me not. I am not anxious for his justification, butonly 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 bedisastrous to me. --The reasons of this apprehension would, you think, appear just in my eyes should they be disclosed, yet you will not disclosethem. Without disclosure I cannot--as a rational creature, I_cannot_--change my resolution. If then I marry and the evil comethat is threatened, whom have I to blame? at whose door must mymisfortunes be laid if not at hers who had it in her power to prevent theevil and would not?

Your treatment of me can proceed only from your love; and yet all thefruits of the direst enmity may grow out of it. By untimely concealmentsmay my peace be forfeited forever. Judge then between your obligations tome, and those of secrecy, into which you seem to have entered withanother. 

My happiness, my future conduct, are in your hand. Mould them, governthem, as you think proper. I have pointed out the means, and once moreconjure 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! Toelude my just determination by such an artifice! To counterfeit a strangehand in the direction of thy letter, that I might thereby be induced toopen it!

Thou wilt not rest, I see, till thou hast torn from my heart everyroot, every fibre of my once-cherished tenderness; till thou hast laid myhead low in the grave. To number the tears and the pangs which thydepravity has already cost me----but thy last act is destined to surpassall former ones. 

Thy perseverance in wickedness, thy inflexible imposture, amazes mebeyond all utterance. Thy effrontery in boasting of thy innocence, incalling this wretch thy _friend_, thy _soul's_ friend, the meansof securing the favour of a pure and all-seeing Judge, exceeds all that Isupposed possible in human nature. And that thou, Jane, the darling of myheart, and the object of all my care and my pride, should be thisprofligate, this obdurate creature!

When very young, you were ill of a fever. The physician gave up, forsome hours, all hope of your life. I shall never forget the grief whichhis gloomy silence gave me. All that I held dear in the world, I thenthought, I would cheerfully surrender to save your life. 

Poor, short-sighted wretch that I was! That event which, had it thenhappened, would perhaps have bereaved me of reason, would have saved mefrom a portion far more bitter. I should have never lived to witness thedepravity of one whom my whole life had been employed in training tovirtue. 

Having opened your letter, and somewhat debated with myself, Iconsented to read. I will do more than read; I will answer it minutely. Iwill unfold that secret by which, you truly think, my aversion to yourpresent scheme has been chiefly caused. 

I have hitherto been silent through compassion to you; through the hopethat all might yet be well; that you might be influenced by my persuasionsto forbear an action that will insure forever your ruin. I now perceivethe folly of this compassion and these hopes. I need not be assiduous tospare you the shame and mortification of hearing the truth. Shame is asmuch a stranger to your heart as remorse. Say what I will, disclose what Iwill, your conduct will be just the same. A show of much reluctance andhumility will, no doubt, be made, and the tongue will be busy in imploringfavour which the heart disdains. 

In the foresight of this, I was going to forbid your writing; but youcare not for my forbidding. As long as you think it possible to reconcileme to your views and make me a partaker in your infamy, you will harass mewith importunity, with feigned penitence and preposterous arguments. Butone thing at least is in my power. I can shun you, and I can throw yourunopened letters into the fire; and that, believe me, Jane, I shalldo. 

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 thehateful subject forever. 

I knew the motives that induced you to marry Lewis Talbot. They weregood ones. Your compliance with mine and your father's wishes in thatrespect showed that force of understanding which I always ascribed to you. Your previous reluctance, your scruples, were indeed unworthy of you, butyou conquered them, and that was better; perhaps it evinced moremagnanimity than never to have had them. 

You were happy, I long thought, in your union with a man of probity andgood sense. You may be sure I thought of you often, but only withpleasure. Certain indications I early saw in you of a sensibility thatrequired strict government; an inattention to any thing but feeling; aproneness to romantic friendship, and a pining after good not consistentwith our nature. I imagined that I had kept at a distance all such booksand companions as tend to produce this fantastic character; and whence youimbibed 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 theheart comes to be entangled with what is called love. I was anxious tofind for you a man of merit, to whose keeping your happiness might safelybe intrusted. Talbot was such a one, but the wayward heart refused to lovehim. He was not all your fancy had conceived of excellent and lovely. Hewas a mere man, with the tastes and habits suitable and common to hiseducation and age. He was addicted to industry, was regular and frugal inhis manner and economy. He had nothing of that specious and glossy texturewhich captivates inexperience and youth, and serves as a substitute forevery other virtue. While others talked about their duty, he was contentedwith performing it; and he was satisfied with ignorance of theories aslong as his practice was faultless. 

He was just such a one as I wished for the darling of my heart; but youthought not so. You did not object to his age, though almost double yourown; to his person or aspect, though they were by no means worthy of hismind; to his profession or condition; but your heart sighed after one whocould divide with you your sympathies; who saw every thing just as you sawit; who could emulate your enthusiasm, and echo back every exclamationwhich 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 onthe subject. He had read no books and had never looked into his Biblesince he was fifteen years old. He seldom went to church but because itwas the fashion, and, when there, seldom spared a thought from his owntemporal concerns, to a future state and a governing Deity. All thoseexpansions of soul produced by meditation on the power and goodness of ourMaker, and those raptures that flow from accommodating all our actions tohis will, and from consciousness of his approbation and presence, youdiscovered to be strangers to his breast, and therefore you scrupled tounite 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 thosefervours, and reveries, and rhapsodies, which unfit us for the mixedscenes of human life, and breed in us absurd and fantastic notions of ourduty or our happiness; that his religion had produced all its practicaleffects, in honest, regular, sober, and consistent conduct. 

You wanted a zealot; a sectary; one that should enter into all thetrifling distinctions and minute subtleties that make one Christian themortal foe of another, while, in their social conduct, there is nodifference to be found between them. 

I do not repeat these things to upbraid you for what you then were, butmerely to remind you of the inconsistency of these notions with yoursubsequent conduct. You then, at the instance of your father and at myinstance, gave them up; and that compliance, supposing your scruples tohave been undissembled, gave you a still greater interest in ouraffections. 

You never gave me reason to suppose that you repented of thiscompliance. I never saw you after your engagement, but you wore a cheerfulcountenance; at least till your unfortunate connection with Colden. Tothat connection must be traced every misfortune and depravity that hasattended you since. 

When I heard, from Patty Sinclair, of his frequent visits to you duringyour 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 noconfidence 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, forthe sake of exclusive conversations and lonely rambles, noon and night, with a mere stranger, --one not regularly introduced to you, --whose nameyou were obliged to inquire of himself, --you, too, already a betrothedwoman; your lover absent; yourself from home, and merely on terms ofhospitality! all this did not look well. 

But the mischief, it was evident, was to be known by the event. Coldenmight have probity and circumspection. He might prove an agreeable friendto your future husband and a useful companion to yourself. Kept within duelimits, your complacency for this stranger, your attachment to hiscompany, might occasion no inconvenience. How little did I then suspect towhat extremes you were capable of going, and even then had actuallygone!

The subject was of sufficient importance to induce me to write to you. Your answer was not quite satisfactory, yet, on the whole, laid myapprehensions at rest. I was deceived by the confidence you expressed inyour own caution, and the seeming readiness there was to be governed by myadvice. 

Afterwards, I heard, through various channels, without any efforts onmy part, intelligence of Colden. At first I was not much alarmed. Colden, it is true, was not a faultless or steadfast character. No gross orenormous vices were ascribed to him. His habits, as far as appearancesenabled one to judge, were temperate and chaste. He was contemplative andbookish, and was vaguely described as being somewhat visionary andromantic. 

In all this there was nothing formidable. Such a man might surely be aharmless companion. Those with whom he was said to associate mostintimately were highly estimable. Their esteem was a test of merit not tobe disposed or hastily rejected. 

Things, however, quickly took a new face. I was informed that, afteryour return to the city, Colden continued to be a very constant visitant. Your husband's voyage left you soon after at liberty, and your intercoursewith this person only became more intimate and confidential. 

Reflecting closely on this circumstance, I began to suspect some dangerlurking in your path. I now remembered that impetuosity of feeling whichdistinguished your early age; those notions of kindred among souls, offriendship and harmony of feelings which, in your juvenile age, you lovedto indulge. 

I reflected that the victory over these chimeras, which you gained bymarriage with Talbot, might be merely temporary; and that, in order tocall these dormant feelings into action, it was only requisite to meetwith one contemplative, bookish, and romantic as yourself. 

Such a one, it was greatly to be feared, you had now found in thisyoung man; just such qualities he was reported to possess, as would renderhim dangerous to you and you dangerous to him. A poet, not in theory only, but in practice; accustomed to intoxicate the women with melodiousflattery; 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 withoutimputing any ill intention to him? Both of you might work your own ruin, while you designed nothing but good; and even supposing that yourintercourse should be harmless, or even beneficial with respect toyourselves, what was to be feared for Talbot? An intimacy of this kindcould 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 accurateinformation of Colden's character, which I afterwards received. I found, on inquiring of those who had the best means of knowing, that Colden hadimbibed that pernicious philosophy which is now so much in vogue. One whoknew him perfectly, who had long been in habits of the closest intimacywith him, who was still a familiar correspondent of his, gave me thisaccount. 

I met this friend of Colden's (Thomson his name is, of whom I supposeyou have heard something) in this city. His being mentioned as theintimate companion of Colden made me wish to see him, and fortunately, Iprevailed upon him to be very communicative. 

Thomson is an excellent young man: he loves Colden much, and describesthe progress of his friend's opinions with every mark of regret. He evenshowed me letters that had passed between them, and in which every horridand immoral tenet was defended by one and denied by the other. Theseletters showed Colden as the advocate of suicide; a scoffer at promises;the despiser of revelation, of Providence and a future state; an opponentof marriage, and as one who denied (shocking!) that any thing but merehabit and positive law stood in the way of marriage, nay, of intercoursewithout marriage, between brother and sister, parent and child!

You may readily believe that I did not credit such things on slightevidence. I did not rely on Thomson's mere words, solemn and unaffected asthese were; nothing but Colden's handwriting could in such a case, becredited. 

To say truth, I should not be much surprised had I heard of Colden, asof a youth whose notions on moral and religious topics were, in somedegree, unsettled; that, in the fervour and giddiness incident to his age, he had not tamed his mind to investigation; had not subdued his heart toregular and devout thoughts; that his passions or his indolence had madethe truths of religion somewhat obscure, and shut them out, not properlyfrom 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, forthose sacred precepts on which the happiness of men rests, and at least apractical observance of that which, if not fully admitted by hisunderstanding, was yet very far from having been rejected by it. 

But widely and deplorably different was Colden's case. A mostfascinating book [Footnote: Godwin's Political Justice. ] fell at lengthinto his hands, which changed, in a moment, the whole course of his ideas. What he had before regarded with reluctance and terror, this book taughthim to admire and love. The writer has the art of the grand deceiver; thefatal art of carrying the worst poison under the name and appearance ofwholesome food; of disguising all that is impious, or blasphemous, orlicentious, 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; butthis book carried all his inclination, his zeal, and his enthusiasm, overto the adversary; and so strangely had he been perverted, that he heldhimself bound, he conceived it to be his duty, to vindicate in private andpublic, to preach with vehemence, his new faith. The rage for makingconverts seized him; and that Thomson was not won over to the same causeproceeded from no want of industry in Colden. 

Such was the man whom you had admitted to your confidence; whom you hadadopted for your bosom friend. I knew your pretensions to religion, thestress which you laid upon piety as the basis of morals. I remembered yourobjections to Talbot on this score, not only as a husband, but as afriend. I could, therefore, only suppose that Colden had joineddissimulation to his other errors, and had gained and kept your goodopinion by avowing sentiments which his heart secretly abhorred. 

I cannot describe to you, Jane, my alarms upon this discovery. Thatyour cook had intended to poison you, the next meat which you should eatin your own house, would have alarmed me, I assure you, much less. Thepreservation of your virtue was unspeakably of more importance in my eyesthan of your life. 

I wrote to you: and what was your reply? I could scarcely believe mysenses. Every horrid foreboding realized! already such an adept in thisaccursed sophistry! the very cant of that detestable sect adopted!

I had plumed myself upon your ignorance. He had taken advantage ofthat, I supposed, and had won your esteem by counterfeiting a moral andpious strain. To make you put him forever at a distance, it was neededonly to tear off his mask. This was done, but, alas, too late for yoursafety. The poison was already swallowed. 

I had no patience with you, to listen to your trifling and insidiousdistinctions, --such as, though you could audaciously urge them to me, possessed no weight, _could_ possess no weight, in yourunderstanding. What was it to me whether he was ruffian or madman?whether, in destroying you, he meant to destroy or to save? Is it properto expose your breast to a sword, because the wretch that wields itsupposes 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 toattempt to reason with you then no longer exist. The anguish, theastonishment, which your letters, as they gradually unfolded yourcharacter, produced in me, I endeavoured to show you at the time. Now Ipass 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 irretrievablyblasting thy fame. Yet what may come of relating some incidents onpaper?

Faint is my hope, but I am not without some hope, that thou canst yetbe saved, be snatched from perdition. Thy life I value not, in comparisonwith something higher. And if, through an erring sensibility, thesacrifice of Colden cost thee thy life, I shall yet rejoice. As the wifeof Colden thou wilt be worse than dead to me. 

What has come to me, I wonder? I began this letter with a firm, and, asI thought, inflexible, soul. Despair had made me serene; yet now thy imagerises before me with all those bewitching graces which adorned thee whenthou wast innocent and a child. All the mother seizes my heart, and mytears suffocate me. 

Shall I shock, shall I wound thee, my child, by lifting the veil fromthy misconduct, behind which thou thinkest thou art screened from everyhuman 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 theeand make thee dumb. 

Yet my heart sorely misgives me. I shudder at the extremes to which thyaccursed seducer may have urged thee. What thou hast failed in concealingthou mayest be so obdurately wicked as to attempt to justify. 

Was it not the unavoidable result of confiding in a man avowedlyirreligious and immoral; of exposing thy understanding and thy heart tosuch stratagems as his philosophy made laudable and necessary? But I knownot what I would say. I must lay down the pen till I can reason myselfinto 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 thoughtsat present than the negligence or infatuation that occasioned thyfaults. 

I know all. Thy intended husband knew it all. It was from him that thehorrible tidings of thy unfaithfulness to marriage-vows first came. 

He visited this city on purpose to obtain an interview with me. Heentered my apartment with every mark of distress. He knew well the effectof such tidings on my heart. Most eagerly would I have laid down my lifeto 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 thydefection from virtue of infinitely greater moment. 

I was willing to discredit even his assertion. Far better it was thatthe husband should prove the defamer of his wife, than that my darlingchild should prove a profligate. But he left me no room to doubt, byshowing me a letter. 

He showed it me on condition of my being everlastingly silent to you inregard to its contents. He yielded to a jealousy which would not beconquered, and had gotten this letter by surreptitious means. He wasashamed of an action which his judgment condemned as ignoble anddeceitful. 

Far more wise and considerate was this excellent and injured man thanI. He was afraid, by disclosing to you the knowledge he had thus gained, of rendering you desperate and hardened. As long as reputation was notgone, he thought your errors were retrievable. He distrusted the successof his own efforts, and besought me to be your guardian. As to himself, heresigned the hope of ever gaining your love, and entreated me to exertmyself for dissolving your connection with Colden, merely for your ownsake. 

To show me the necessity of my exertions, he had communicated thisletter, believing that my maternal interest in your happiness wouldprevent me from making any but a salutary use of it. Yet he had not putyour safety into my hands without a surety. He was so fully persuaded ofthe ill consequences of your knowing how much was known, that he had givenme the proofs of your guilt only on my solemn promise to conceal them fromyou. 

I saw the generosity and force of his representations, and, while Iendeavoured by the most earnest remonstrances to break your union withColden, I suffered no particle of the truth to escape me. But you werehard as a rock. You would not forbid his visits, nor reject hisletters. 

I need not repeat to you what followed; by what means I endeavoured toeffect that end which your obstinate folly refused. 

When I gave this promise to Talbot, I foresaw not his speedy death andthe consequences to Colden and yourself. I have been affrighted at therumour of your marriage; and, to justify the conduct I mean to pursue, Ihave revealed to you what I promised to conceal merely because I foresawnot the present state of your affairs. 

You will not be surprised that, on your marriage with this man, Ishould withdraw from you what you now hold from my bounty. No faultinessin you shall induce me to leave you without the means of decentsubsistence; but I owe no benevolence to Colden. My duty will not permitme to give any thing to your paramour. When you change your name you mustchange your habitation and leave behind you whatever you found. 

Think not, Jane, that I cease to love thee. I am not so inhuman as torefuse my forgiveness to a penitent; yet I ask not thy penitence to insurethee my affection. I have told thee my conditions, and adhere to themstill. 

To preclude all bickerings and cavils, I enclose the letter whichattests 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 havestayed to breakfast; yet, on second thoughts, your early departure wasbest. _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 toscribble 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 mustnot. I must not be an encroacher. I must judge of others, and of theirclaims upon your company, by myself and my own claims. Yet I should beglad 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 byothers. 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 justto me!

Don't be angry, Hal. Skip the last couple of sentences, or think ofthem as not mine: I disown them. To-morrow, at six, the fire shall bestirred, the candles lighted, and the sofa placed in order due. I shall beat home to _nobody; mind that_. 

_I am loath to mention one thing, however, but I must. Though nothingbe due to the absent man, somewhat is_ _due to myself. I have beenexcessively 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 pastlasted only for the night. Now I have leisure to look forward, and amresolved (don't laugh at my resolves; I am quite in earnest) to keep theeat a distance for at least a fortnight to come. It shall be a whole monthif 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 putherself into your power. But I write not to upbraid you or indulge my ownindignation, but merely to beseech your compassion for her whom youprofess to love. 

I cannot apologize for the manner in which I have acted in regard toyour connection with Jane Talbot. In that respect, I must take to myselfall the blame you may choose to impute to me. 

I call not into question the disinterestedness of your intentions inproposing marriage to this woman; nor, if the information which I am goingto give you should possess any influence, shall I ascribe that influenceto any thing but a commendable attention to your true interest, and agenerous regard to the welfare of my daughter. 

Be it known to you then, sir, that Mrs. Talbot possesses no fortune inher own right. Her present dwelling, and her chief means of subsistence, are derived from me: she holds them at my option; and they will beinstantly and entirely withdrawn, on her marriage with you. 

You cannot be unacquainted with the habits and views in which mydaughter has been educated. Her life has passed in ease and luxury, andyou cannot but perceive the effect of any material change in her way oflife. 

It would be a wretched artifice to pretend to any particular esteem foryou, or to attempt to persuade you that any part of this letter isdictated by any regard to your interest, except as that is subservient tothe interest of one whom I can never cease to love. 

Yet I ardently hope that this circumstance may not hinder you fromaccepting bills upon London to the amount of three hundred poundssterling. They shall be put into your hands the moment I am properlyassured that you have engaged your passage to Europe and are determined tobe nothing more than a distant well-wisher to my daughter. 

I am anxious that you should draw, from the terms of this offer, proofof that confidence in your word which you might not perhaps have expectedfrom my conduct towards you in other respects. Indeed, my conscienceacquits me of any design to injure you. On the contrary, it would give mesincere pleasure to hear of your success in every laudable pursuit. 

I know your talents and the direction which they have hithertoreceived. I know that London is a theatre best adapted to the lucrativedisplay 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 everlastinglyobliged to you, but I shall grant you a higher place in my esteem. Yet, through deference to scruples which you may possibly possess, I mostcheerfully plight to you my honour, that this transaction shall beconcealed from Mrs. Talbot and from all the world. 

Though property is necessary to our happiness, and my daughter's habitsrender the continuance of former indulgences necessary to her content, Iwill not be so unjust to her as to imagine that this is _all_ whichshe regards. Respect from the world, and the attachment of her ancientfriends, are, also, of some value in her eyes. Reflect, sir, I beseechyou, whether you are qualified to compensate her for the loss of property, of good name, --my own justification, in case she marries you, will requireme to be nothing more than _just_ to her, --and of _all_ herancient friends, who will abhor in her the faithless wife and theungrateful child. I need not inform _you_ that _your_ familywill never receive into their bosom one whom her own kindred haverejected. 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 thatmy revered mamma wishes me to be. I have vowed an eternal separation fromColden; and, to enable me to keep this vow, I entreat you to permit me tocome to you. 

I will leave this house in anybody's care you direct. My Molly and theboy 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 tolive. I beg you to permit me to bring the boy with me. I wait youranswer. 

JANE TALBOT. 

Letter XX

_To Henry Colden_

Philadelphia, October 28. 

O my friend! Where are you at this trying moment? Why did you desertme? Now, if ever, does my feeble heart stand in need of your counsel andcourage. 

Did I ever lean these throbbing brows against your arm and pour mytears into your bosom, that I was not comforted? Never did that adoredvoice fail to whisper sweet peace to my soul. In every storm, thy calmerand more strenuous spirit has provided me the means of safety. But now Ilook around for my stay, my monitor, my encourager, in vain. 

You will make haste to despatch the business that detains you. You willreturn, and fly, on the wings of love, to thy Jane. Alas! she will not befound. She will have fled far away, and in her stead will she leave thissullen messenger to tell thee that thy Jane has parted from theeforever!

Do not upbraid me, Hal. Do not call me ungrateful or rash. Indeed, Ishall not be able to bear thy reproaches. I know they will kill mequite. 

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 methat I have done my duty to my mother, and assure me of your cheerfulacquiescence. 

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, onreceiving the enclosed letters, I wrote an answer, assuring Mrs. Fielderof my absolute concurrence with her will. 

Already does my heart, calling up thy beloved image; reflecting on theimmense debt which I owe to your generosity, on the disappointment whichthe tidings of my journey will give you; already do I repent of myprecipitation. 

I have sought repose, but I find it not. My pillow is moist with thebitterest tears that I ever shed. To give vent to my swelling heart, Iwrite to you; but I must now stop. All my former self is coming back uponme, and, while I think of you as of my true and only friend, I shall beunable 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 unmeritedlove? For the crosses and vexations thou hast endured for my sake?

Why shall I forsake thee? To gratify a wayward and groundlessprejudice. To purchase the short-lived and dubious affection of one wholoves me in proportion as I am blind to thy merit; as I forget thybenefits; 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 thatare fostered against thyself----

JANE TALBOT. 

Letter XXI

_To Henry Colden_

October 28, Evening. 

I will struggle for sufficient composure to finish this letter. I havespent the day in reflection, and am now, I hope, calm enough to reviewthis 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, afterso unaccountable a manner, mislaid. 

I wrote some part of it, alone, in my own parlour. You recollect thetime;--the day after that night which a heavy storm of rain and my fatalimportunity prevailed on you to spend under this roof. 

Mark the deplorable consequences of an act which the coldest charitywould not have declined. On such a night I would have opened my doors tomy worst enemy. Yet because I turned not forth my best friend on such anight, see to what a foul accusation I have exposed myself. 

I had not finished, but it came into my mind that something in thatwhich I had a little before received from you might be seasonably noticedbefore I shut up my billet. So I left my paper on the table, open, while Iran up-stairs to get your letter, which I had left in a drawer in mychamber. 

While turning over clothes and papers, I heard the street-door open andsome one enter. This did not hinder me from continuing my search. Ithought it was my gossiping neighbour, Miss Jessup, and had some hopesthat, finding no one in the parlour, she would withdraw with as littleceremony as she entered. 

My search was longer than I expected; but, finding it at last, down Iwent, fully expecting to find a visitant, not having heard any stepsreturning to the door. 

But no visitant was there, and the paper was gone! I was surprised, anda little alarmed. You know my childish apprehensions of robbers. 

I called up Molly, who was singing at her work in the kitchen. She hadheard the street-door open and shut, and footsteps overhead, but sheimagined them to be mine. A little heavier, too, she recollected them tobe, than mine. She likewise heard a sound as if the door had been openedand shut softly. It thus appeared that my unknown visitant had hastily andsecretly withdrawn, and my paper had disappeared. 

I was confounded at this incident. Who it was that could thus purloinan unfinished letter and retire in order to conceal the theft, I could notimagine. Nothing else had been displaced. It was no ordinary thief, --nosordid villain. 

For a time, I thought perhaps it might be some facetious body, whoexpected to find amusement in puzzling or alarming me. Yet I was notalarmed: for what had I to fear or to conceal? The contents were perfectlyharmless; and, being fully satisfied with the purity of my own thoughts, Inever 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 thenthought, to be anxious about consequences. The place of the lost letterwas easily supplied by my loquacious pen, and I came at last to conjecturethat I had carelessly whisked it into the fire, and that the visitant hadbeen induced to withdraw, by finding the apartment empty. Yet I neverdiscovered any one who had come in and gone out in this manner. MissJessup, whom I questioned afterwards, had spent that day elsewhere. Andnow, when the letter and its contents were almost forgotten, does itappear before me, and is offered in proof of this dreadful charge. 

After reading my mother's letter, I opened with trembling hand thatwhich was enclosed. I instantly recognised the long-lost billet. All of itappeared, on the first perusal, to be mine. Even the last mysteriousparagraph was acknowledged by my senses. In the first confusion of mymind, 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 aguilt of which I had not hitherto been conscious, --proofs that had merelyescaped remembrance, or had failed to produce their due effect, from someinfatuation of mind. 

When the first horror and amazement were passed, and I took up theletter and pondered on it once more, I caught a glimpse suddenly;suspicion darted all at once into my mind; I strove to recollect thecircumstances 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 towhat 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 hismemory. 

I fondly imagined that with his life my causes of disquiet were at anend; yet now are my eyes open to an endless series of calamities andhumiliations 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 thatanother 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 myimportunities, and leave me in spite of my urgencies for your stay?

Poor, thoughtless wretch that I was, not to be aware of the indecorumof 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 samehabitation!

What is genuine of this note acknowledges your having lodged here. Thusmuch I cannot and need not deny: yet how shall I make those distinctionsvisible to Mrs. Fielder? how shall I point out that spot in my billetwhere the forgery begins? and at whose expense must I vindicate myself?Better incur the last degree of infamy myself, since it will not bedeserved, than to load him that has gone with reproach. Talbot sleeps, Ihope, in peace; and let me not, for any selfish or transitory good, molesthis ashes. Shall I not be contented with the approbation of a pure andall-seeing Judge?

But, if I _would_ vindicate myself, I have not the power; I haveforfeited 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 thecriminal 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 tobe entangled! With intentions void of blame, have I been pursued by allthe consequences of the most atrocious guilt. 

In an evil hour, Henry, was it that I saw thee first. What endlessperplexities have beset me since that disastrous moment! I cannot pray fortheir termination, for prayer implies hope. 

For thy sake, (God is my witness, ) more than for my own, have Idetermined to be no longer thine. I hereby solemnly absolve you from allengagements to me. I command you, I beseech you, not to cast away athought on the ill-fated Jane. Seek a more worthy companion, and behappy. 

Perhaps you will feel, not pity, but displeasure, in receiving thisletter. You will not deign to answer me, perhaps, or will answer me withsharp rebuke. I have only lived to trouble your peace, and have no claimto your forbearance; yet methinks I would be spared the misery of hearingyour reproaches, re-echoed as they will be by my own conscience. I fearthey will but the more unfit me for the part that I wish henceforth toact. 

I would carry, if possible, to Mrs. Fielder's presence a cheerfulaspect. 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. JANETALBOT. 

Letter XXII

_To Jane Talbot_

Baltimore, October 31. 

You had reason to fear my reproaches; yet you have strangely erred inimagining the cause for which I should blame you. You are never tired, mygood friend, of humbling me by injurious suppositions. 

I do, indeed, reproach you for conduct that is rash; unjust; hurtful toyourself, to your mother, to me, to the memory of him who, whatever werehis 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 thanany other evil could produce, and to be convinced of your innocence wouldbe to remove the chief cause of her sorrow; yet you are contented to admitthe charge; to countenance her error by your silence. By stating thesimple truth, circumstantially and fully; by adding earnest and patheticassurances of your innocence; by showing all the letters that have passedbetween us, the contents of which will show that such guilt wasimpossible; by making your girl bear witness to the precaution you used onthat night to preclude misconstructions, surely you may hope to disarm hersuspicions. 

But this proceeding has not occurred to you. You have mistrusted thepower 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 ownreputation, the misery of your mother, whom your imaginary guilt makesmiserable, are of less moment in your eyes than--what? Let not him, mygirl, who knows thee best, have most reason to blush for thee. 

Talbot, you imagine, forged this calumny. It was a wrong thing, andmuch 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 theevil may end, the mistake may be cleared up, and be hindered fromdestroying the future peace of your mother. 

Yet you forbear from tenderness to _his_ memory, who, if you areconsistent with yourself, you must believe to look back on thattransaction with remorse, to lament every evil which it has hithertooccasioned, and to rejoice in the means of stopping the disastrousseries. 

My happiness is just of as little value. Your mother's wishes, thoughallowed to be irrational and groundless, are to be gratified by thedisappointment of mine, which appear to be just and reasonable; and, sinceone must be sacrificed, that affection with which you have inspired me andthose benefits you confess to owe to me, those sufferings believed by youto have been incurred by me for your sake, do not, it seems, entitle me topreference. 

On this score, however, my good girl, set your heart at ease. I neverassumed the merits you attributed to me. I never urged the claims you wereonce 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 thatcheerful companion of your mother which you seem so greatly to wish; if, in her society, you could stifle every regret, and prevent yourtranquillity from being invaded by self-reproach, most gladly would Ipersuade 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 underyour mother's roof. The sighing heart and the saddened features willforever upbraid her, and bickering and repining will mar every domesticscene. Your mother's aversion to me is far from irreconcilable, but thatwhich will hasten reconcilement will be _marriage_. You cannotforfeit her love as long as you preserve your integrity; and thosescruples which no argument will dissipate will yield to reflection on anevil (as she will regard it) that cannot be remedied. 

Admitting me, in this respect, to be mistaken, your mother's resentmentwill ever give you disquiet. True; but will your union with me console younothing? in pressing the hoped-for fruit of that union to your breast, inthat tenderness which you will hourly receive from me, will there benothing to compensate you for sorrows in which there is no remorse, andwhich, indeed, will owe their poignancy to the generosity of yourspirit?

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 atthe cost of your peace. In whatever way you decide, may the fruit becontent!

I ask you not for proofs of love, for the sacrifice of others to me. Myhappiness demands it not. It only requires you to seek your own good. Nothing but ceaseless repinings can follow your compliance with yourmother's wishes; but there is something in your power to do. You can hidethese repinings from her, by living at a distance from her. She may knowyou only through the medium of your letters, and these may exhibit thebrightest side of things. She wants nothing but your divorce from me, andthat may take place without living under her roof. 

You need not stay here. The world is wide, and she will eagerly consentto the breaking of your shackles by change of residence. Much and the bestpart of your country you have never seen. Variety of objects will amuseyou, 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 withno 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 intothis letter, --self!--that vile debaser whom I detest as my worst enemy, and who assumes a thousand shapes and practises a thousand wiles to enticeme from the right path. 

Ah, Jane, could thy sagacity discover no other cause of thy mother'serror than Talbot's fraud? Could thy heart so readily impute to him soblack a treachery? Such a prompt and undoubting conclusion it grieves meto find thee capable of. 

How much more likely that Talbot was himself deceived! For it was notby him that thy unfinished letter was purloined. At that moment he wasprobably some thousands of miles distant. It was five weeks before hisreturn from his Hamburg voyage, when that mysterious incidenthappened. 

Be of good cheer, my sweet girl. I doubt not all will be well. We shallfind the means of detecting and defeating this conspiracy, and ofre-establishing thee in thy mother's good opinion. At present, I own, Ido 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, andhave 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 haveseldom left his chamber since I came. 

Your letter has disturbed me much, and I seize this interval, when thesick man has gained a respite from his pain, to tell you my thoughts uponit. I fear I have not reasoned very clearly. Some peevishness, I doubtnot, has crept into my style. I rely upon your wonted goodness to excuseit. 

I have much to say upon this affecting subject, but must take a futureopportunity. 

I also have received a letter from Mrs. Fielder, of which I will say nomore, since I send you enclosed _that_, and my answer. I wish it hadcome at a time when my mind was more at ease, as an immediate reply seemedto 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. Inot only acquit you of any enmity to me, but beg leave to return you mywarmest thanks for the generous offers which you have made me in thisletter. 

I should be grossly wanting in that love for Mrs. Talbot which youbelieve me to possess, if I did not partake in that gratitude andreverence which she feels for one who has performed for her every parentalduty. The esteem of the good is only of less value in my eyes than theapprobation of my own conscience. There is no price which I would not payfor your good opinion, consistent with a just regard to that of others andto my own. 

I cannot be pleased with the information which you give me. For thesake of my friend, I am grieved that you are determined to make hermarriage with me the forfeiture of that provision which your bounty hashitherto supplied her. 

Forgive me if I say that, in exacting this forfeiture, you will not beconsistent with yourself. On her marriage with me, she will stand in muchmore need of your bounty than at present, and her merits, however slenderyou may deem them, will then be, at least, _not less_ than they noware. 

If there were any methods by which I might be prevented from sharing ingifts bestowed upon my wife, I would eagerly concur in them. 

I fully believe that your motive in giving me this timely warning was agenerous one. Yet, in justice to myself and your daughter, I must observethat the warning was superfluous, since Jane never concealed from me thetrue state of her affairs, and since I never imagined you would honourwith your gifts a marriage contracted against your will. 

Well do I know the influence of early indulgences. Your daughter is astrong example of that influence; nor will her union with me, if by thatunion she forfeit your favour, be any thing more than a choice among evilsall of which are heavy. 

My own education and experience sufficiently testify the importance ofriches, 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 farfrom setting them above all other goods. 

You offer me madam, a large alms. Valuable to me as that sum is, andeagerly as I would accept it in any other circumstances, yet at present Imust, however reluctantly, decline it. A voyage to Europe and such a sum, if your daughter's happiness were not in question, would be the utmostbound of my wishes. 

Shall I be able to compensate her? you ask. 

No, indeed, madam; I am far from deeming myself qualified to compensateher for the loss of property, reputation, and friends. I aspire to nothingbut to console her under that loss, and to husband as frugally as I canthose 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 Iwere not greatly grieved at the contents; yet, madam, I am not cast downbelow the hope of convincing you that the charge made against yourdaughter is false. You could not do otherwise than believe it. It is forus to show you by what means you, and probably Talbot himself, have beendeceived. 

To suffer your charge to pass for a moment uncontradicted would beunjust not more to ourselves than to you. The mere denial will not andought not to change your opinion. It may even tend to raise higher theacrimony of your aversion to me. It must ever be irksome to a generousspirit to deny, without the power of disproving; but a tacit admission ofthe 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 togive 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? Howdeep is that debasement into which I am sunk, when I compare myself withthee!

It cannot be want of love that makes thee so easily give me up. Myfeeble and jealous heart is ever prone to suspect; yet I ought at lengthto be above these ungenerous surmises. 

My own demerits, my fickleness, my precipitation, are so great, and sounlike thy inflexible spirit, that I am ever ready to impute to thee thatcontempt for me which I know I so richly deserve. I am astonished that sopoor a thing as I am, thus continually betraying her weakness, shouldretain thy affection; yet at any proof of coldness or indifference in theedo I grow impatient, melancholy; a strange mixture of upbraiding formyself, and resentment for thee, occupies my feelings. 

I have read thy letter. I shuddered when I painted to myself thyunhappiness on receiving tidings of my resolution to join my mother. Ifelt that thy reluctance to part with me would form the strongest obstacleto going; and yet, being convinced that I must go, I wanted thee tocounterfeit indifference, to feign compliance. 

And such a wayward heart is mine that, now these assurances of thycompliance have come to hand, I am not satisfied! The poor contriverwished to find in thee an affectation of indifference. Her humanity wouldbe satisfied with that appearance; but her pride demanded that it shouldbe no more than a veil, behind which the inconsolable, the bleeding heartshould be distinctly seen. 

You are too much in earnest in your equanimity. You study my exclusivehappiness with too unimpassioned a soul. You are pleased when I ampleased; but not, it seems, the more so from any relation which mypleasure bears to you: no matter what it is that pleases me, so I am butpleased, you are content. 

I don't like this oblivion of self. I want to be essential to yourhappiness. I want to act with a view to your interests and wishes, --thesewishes requiring my love and my company for your own sake. 

But I have got into a maze again, --puzzling myself with intricatedistinctions. I can't be satisfied with telling you that I am not well, but I must be inspecting with these careful eyes into causes, andlabouring to tell you of what nature my malady is. 

It has always been so. I have always found an unaccountable pleasure indissecting, 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 volubletongue and this prompt, pen! what volumes have I talked to you on thatbewitching theme, --myself!

And yet, loquacious as I am, I never interrupted you when you weretalking. It was always such a favour when these rigid fibres of yoursrelaxed; and yet I praise myself for more forbearance than belongs to me. The little impertinent has often stopped your mouth, --at times too whenyour 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 indulgethis 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 yourletter. I follow this rambling leader merely to escape from more arduouspaths, 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? Noresolution of mine can stand against your remonstrances. A single word, alook, approving or condemning, transforms me into a new creature. Thedread 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 thescorn of the world, though unmerited, is a load too heavy for mystrength. 

Methinks I should be a strange creature if left to myself. A verydifferent creature, doubtless, I should have been, if placed under anyother guidance. So easily swayed am I by one that is lord of myaffections. No will, no reason, have I of my own. 

Such sudden and total transitions! In solitude I ruminate and form myschemes. They seem to me unalterable: yet a word from you scatters all mylaboured edifices, and I look back upon my former state of mind as onsomething that passed when I was a lunatic or dreaming. 

It is but a day since I determined to part with you, --since a thousandtormenting images engrossed my imagination: yet now am I quite changed; Iam bound to you by links stronger than ever. No, I will not part withyou. 

Yet how shall I excuse my non-compliance to my mother? I have told herthat I would come to her, that I waited only for her directions as to thedisposal of her property. What will be her disappointment when I tell herthat 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 deadlyprejudice? And must I, in giving myself to thee, forfeit heraffection?

And now--this dreadful charge! no wonder that her affectionate heartwas sorely wounded by such seeming proofs of my wickedness. 

I thought at first--shame upon my inconsistent character, my incurableblindness! I should never have doubted the truth of my first thoughts, ifyou had not helped me to a more candid conjecture. I was unjust enough toload _him_ with the guilt of this plot against me, and imagined therewas duty in forbearing to detect it. 

Now, by thy means, do I judge otherwise. Yet how, my friend, shall Iunravel this mystery? My heart is truly sad. How easily is my woman'scourage 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 allseparate feelings, all separate existence, and let me know no principle ofaction but the decision of your judgment, no motive or desire but toplease, to gratify you. 

Our marriage, you say, will facilitate reconcilement with my mother. Doyou think so? Then let it take place, my dear Hal. Heaven permit thatmarriage may tend to reconcile! but, let it reconcile or not, if the wishbe yours it shall occupy the chief place in my heart. The time, themanner, be it yours to prescribe. My happiness, on that event, will surelywant but little to complete it; and, if you bid me not despair of mymother's acquiescence, I _will_ not despair. 

I am to send your letter, after reading, to my mother, I suppose. Ihave read it, Hal, more than once. And for my sake thou declinest heroffers! When you thus refuse no sacrifice on my account, shall I hesitatewhen it becomes my turn? Shall I ever want gratitude, thinkest thou? ShallI ever imagine that I have done enough to evince my gratitude?

But how do I forget thy present situation! Thy dying friend hasscarcely occurred to me. Thy afflictions, thy fatigues, are absorbed in myown selfish cares. 

I am very often on the brink of hating myself. So much thoughtlessnessof others; such callousness to sorrows not my own: my hard heart has oftenreproached thee for sparing a sigh or a wish from me; that every gloom hasnot been dispelled by my presence, was treason, forsooth, against mymajesty, and the murmurs that delighted love should breathe, to welcomethy return, were changed into half-vindictive reluctance, --not quite afrown, --and upbraidings, in which tenderness was almost turned out of doorby anger. 

In the present case, for instance, I have scarcely thought of thy dyingfriend once. How much thy disquiets would be augmented by the letterswhich I sent thee, never entered my thoughts. To hide our sorrows fromthose who love us seems to be no more than generous. Yet I never hid anything from thee. All was uttered that was felt. I considered not attendingcircumstances. The bird, as soon as it was scared, flew into the bosomthat was nearest, and, merely occupied with dangers of its own, wassatisfied to find a refuge there. 

_And yet_--See now, Vanity, the cunning advocate, entering withhis _And yet_. Would I listen to him, what a world of palliations andapologies would he furnish! How would he remind me of cases in which mysympathy was always awakened with attention! How often--But I will notlisten to the flatterer. 

And, now I think of it, Hal, you differ from me very much in thatrespect. Every mournful secret must be wrung from you. You hoard up allyour evil thoughts, and brood over them alone. Nothing but earnestimportunity ever got from you any of your griefs. 

Now, this is cruel to yourself and unjust to me. It is denying my claimto confidence. It is holding back from me a part of yourself. It issetting light by my sympathy. 

And yet--the prater Vanity once more, you see: but I will let him speakout this time. Here his apology is yours, and myself am only flatteredindirectly. 

And yet, when I have extorted from you any secret sorrow, you haveafterwards acknowledged that the disclosure was of use:--that mysympathizing love was grateful to you, and my counsel of some value; thatyou drew from my conduct on those occasions new proofs of my strength ofmind, and of my right--a right which my affection for you gave me--toshare with you all your thoughts. 

Yet, on the next occasion that offers, you are sure to relapse intoyour habitual taciturnity, and my labours to subdue it are again to berepeated. I have sometimes been tempted to retaliate, and convince you, bythe effects of my concealments upon you, of the error of your ownscheme. 

But I never could persist in silence for five minutes together. Shut upas the temple of my heart is to the rest of mankind, all its doors flyopen 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 allmy cares in a sweet oblivion; but I must stop at last, and recall mythoughts to a less welcome subject. 

Painful as it is, I must write to my mother. I will do it now, and sendyou my letter. I will endeavour, hereafter, to keep alive a salutarydistrust 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 cannotbring into her presence the heart that she wishes to find. Instead ofacknowledgment 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 disprovethe charge brought against me. 

Ah, my mother! could such guilt as this ever stain a heart fashioned byyour tenderest care? Did it never occur to you that possibly some mistakemight have misled the witness against me?

The letter which you sent me is partly mine. All that is honest andlaudable is mine, but that which confesses dishonour has been added byanother 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 andthe loss of this letter, so fatal to me; but I forbear to attempt tojustify 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, notto reverse, but merely to postpone, your sentence, you would afford meunspeakable happiness. 

You tell me that the loss of your present bounty will be theconsequence 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 yourunconstrained benevolence. For what you have given, for the tendernesswhich you continually bestowed on me, you have received onlydisappointment and affliction. 

For all your favours I seem to you ungrateful; yet long after thatconduct was known which, to you, proves my unworthiness, your protectionhas continued, and you are so good as to assure me that it shall not bewithdrawn as long as I have no protector but you. 

Dear as my education has made the indulgences of competence to me, Ihope I shall relinquish them without a sigh. Had you done nothing morethan screen my infancy and youth from hardship and poverty, than supplythe 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, byyour instructions and example, an understanding and a heart. You havetaught 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 toyourself; capable of acting so as at once to _deserve_ and to_lose_ your esteem; and enabled me to relinquish cheerfully thosecomforts and luxuries which cannot be retained but at the price of myintegrity. 

I look forward to poverty without dismay. Perhaps I make light of itsevils because I have never tried them. I am indeed a weak and undiscerningcreature. Yet nothing but experience will correct my error, if it be anerror. 

So sanguine am I that I even cherish the belief that the privation ofmuch of that ease which I have hitherto enjoyed will strengthen my mind, and somewhat qualify me for enduring those evils which I cannot expectalways to escape. 

You know, my mother, that the loss of my present provision will notleave me destitute. If it did, I know your generosity too well to imaginethat you would withdraw from me all the means of support. 

Indeed, my own fund, slender as it is in comparison with what yourbounty supplies me, is adequate to all my personal wants: I am sure itwould prove so on the trial. So that I part with your gifts with lessreluctance, though with no diminution of my gratitude. 

If I could bring to you my faith unbroken, and were allowed to presentto you my friend, I would instantly fly to your presence; but that is afelicity too great for my hope. The alternative, however painful, must beadopted 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 hadformed of you. You are indeed a surprising creature. 

One cannot fail to be astonished at the differences of humancharacters; at the opposite principles by which the judgments of men areinfluenced. 

Experience, however, is the antidote of wonder. There was a time when Ishould have reflected on the sentiments of your mother with a firm beliefthat no human being could be practically influenced by them. 

She offers, and surely with sincerity, to divide her large propertywith 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 nonatural relation to her; who is merely an adopted child; who has acted forseveral years in direct repugnance to her will, in a manner she regards asnot only indiscreet, but flagrantly criminal. Whom one guilty act has (soit must appear to your mamma) involved in a continued series of falsehoodsand frauds. 

She offers this immense gift to you, on no condition but a mere verbalpromise to break off intercourse with the man you love? and with whom youhave been actually criminal. 

She seems not aware how easily promises are made that are not designedto be performed; how absurd it would be to rely upon your integrity inthis respect, when you have shown yourself (so it must appear to her)grossly defective in others of infinitely greater moment. How easily mighta heart like yours be persuaded to recall its promises, or violate thiscondition, as soon as the performance of her contract has made youindependent of her and of the world!

You promise--it is done in half a dozen syllables--that you will seethe hated Colden no more. All that you promise, you intend. To-morrow sheenriches you with half her fortune. Next day the seducer comes, and maysurely expect to prevail on you to forget this promise, since he hasconquered your firmness in a case of unspeakably greater importance. 

This offer of hers surely indicates not only love for you, butreverence for your good faith inconsistent with the horrid imputation shehas urged against you. 

As to me, what a portrait does her letter exhibit! And yet this scofferat the obligation of a promise is offered four or five thousand dollars oncondition that he plights his word to embark for England and to give upall 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 givehim affluence and the means of depraving thousands by his example and hisrhetoric, on condition that he refuses to marry the woman whom he has madean adulteress; who has imbibed, from the contagion of his discourse, allthe practical and speculative turpitude which he has to impart. 

This conduct might be considered only as proving her aversion to me. Sostrong is it as to impel her to indiscreet and self-destructiveexpedients; and so I should likewise reason if these very expedients didnot argue a confidence in my integrity somewhat inconsistent with thecensure 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 chargeshe makes against thee? Does she really suppose me that insane philosopherwhich her letter describes?

Yet this is only leaping from a ditch into a quicksand. It is quite ashard to account for her dissimulation as for her sincerity. Why should shepretend to suspect _you_ of so black a deed, or me of such abominabletenets?

And yet, an observer might say, it is one thing to promise and anotherto perform, in her case as well as in ours. She tells us what she _willdo_, provided we enter into such engagements; but, if we should embraceher offers, is it certain that she would not hesitate, repent, andretract?

Passion may dictate large and vehement offers upon paper, whichdeliberating prudence would never allow to be literally adhered to. 

Besides, may not these magnificent proposals be dictated by a knowledgeof 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 uswhich they manifest, engage our esteem and gratitude, and, by theirmagnitude, show how deeply she abhors this connection, and hence disposeus to do that, for pity's sake, which mere lucre would neverrecommend. 

And here is a string of guesses to amuse thee, Jane. Their truth orfalsehood is of little moment to us, since these offers ought not toinfluence our conduct. 

One thing is sure; that is, thy mother's aversion to me. And yet Iought not to blame her. That I am an atheist in morals, the seducer of herdaughter, she fully believes; and these are surely sufficient objectionsto me. Would she be a discerning friend or virtuous mother if she did not, with this belief, remonstrate against your alliance with one sowicked?

The fault lies not with her. With whom, then, does it lie? Or, whatonly is important, where is the remedy? Expostulation and remonstrancewill avail nothing. I cannot be a hypocrite: I cannot dissemble that Ihave _once_ been criminal, and that I am, at present, conscious of athousand weaknesses and self-distrusts. There is but one meagre andequivocal merit that belongs to me. I stick to the truth; yet this is avirtue of late growth. It has not yet acquired firmness to resist theundermining waves of habit, or to be motionless amidst the hurricane ofpassions. 

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 anddistrust of myself, hinder me from receiving so precious a boon? Shall Inot make happy by being happy? Since you value me so much beyond mymerits; since my faults, though fully disclosed to you, do not abate youresteem, do not change your views in my favour, shall I withhold myhand?

I am not obdurate. I am not ungrateful. With you I never was ahypocrite. With the rest of the world I have ceased to be so. If I lookforward without confidence, I look back with humiliation and remorse. Ihave always wished to be good, but, till I knew you, I despaired of everbeing 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 belovedcreature. My distrust does not arise from any doubts of my own constancy. That I shall grow indifferent or forgetful or ungrateful to you, can neverbe. 

All my doubts are connected with you. Can I compensate you for thoselosses which will follow your marriage?--the loss of your mother'saffection, --the exchange of all that splendour and abundance you havehitherto enjoyed for obscurity and indigence?

You say I _can_. The image of myself in my own mind is a sorrycompound of hateful or despicable qualities. I am even out of humour withmy person, my face. So absurd am I in my estimates of merit, that myhomely features and my scanty form had their part in restraining me fromaspiring to one supreme in loveliness, and in causing the surprise thatfollowed the discovery of your passion. 

In your eyes, however, this mind and this person are venerable andattractive. My affection, my company, are chief goods with you. Thepossession of all other goods cannot save you from misery, if this bewanting. The loss of all others will not bereave you of happiness if thisbe possessed. 

Fain would I believe you. You decide but reasonably. Fortune's goodsought not to be so highly prized as the reason of many prizes them, and asmy habits, in spite of reason's dissent and remonstrances, compel me toprize them. They contribute less to your happiness, and that industry andfrugality which supplies their place, you look upon without disgust; witheven some degree of satisfaction. 

Not so I: I cannot labour for bread; I cannot work to live. In thatrespect I have no parallel. The world does not contain my likeness. Myvery nature unfits me for any profitable business. My dependence must everbe on others or on fortune. 

As to the influence of some stronger motive to industry than has yetoccurred, I am without hope. There can be no stronger ones to a generousmind, than have long been urgent with me: being proof against these, nonewill ever conquer my reluctance. 

I am not indolent, but my activity is vague, profitless, capricious. Nolucrative or noble purpose impels me. I aim at nothing but selfishgratification. I have no relish, indeed, for sensual indulgences. It isthe intellectual taste that calls for such banquets as imagination andscience can furnish; but, though less sordid than the epicure, thevoluptuary, or the sportsman, the principle that governs them and me isthe same; equally limited to self; equally void of any basis in morals orreligion. 

Should you give yourself to me, and rely upon my _labour_ forshelter and food, deplorable and complete would be your disappointment. Iknow myself too well to trust myself with such an office. My love for youwould not strengthen my heart or my hands. No; it would only sink me withmore speed into despair. Quickly, and by some fatal deed, should I abandonyou, my children and the world. 

Possibly I err. Possibly I underrate my strength of mind and theinfluence of habit, which makes easy to us every path; but I will nottrust to the _possible_. 

Hence it is that, if by marriage you should become wholly dependent onme, it could never take place. Some freak of fortune may indeed place meabove want, but my own efforts never will. Indeed, in this forbearance, inthis self-denial, there is no merit. While admitted to the privileges of abetrothed man, your company, your confidence, every warrantable proof oflove mine, I may surely dispense with the privileges of wedlock. Secretlyrepine I might; occasionally I might murmur. But my days would glide alongwith fewer obstacles, at least, than if I were that infirm anddisconsolate wretch, _your husband_. 

But this unhappy alternative is not ours. Thou hast something which thymother cannot take away; sufficient for thy maintenance, thy frugalsupport. Meaner and more limited indeed than thy present and formeraffluence; such as I, of my own motion, would never reduce thee to; suchas 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 forsome refreshment. I have slept a couple of hours, and that has sufficed. My mind, on waking, was thronged with so many images connected with myJane, that I started up at last and betook myself to the pen. 

Yet how versatile and fleeting is thought! In this long letter I havenot put down one thing that I intended. I meant not to repeat what hasbeen so often said before, and especially I meant not to revolve, if Icould help it, any gloomy ideas. 

Thy letters gave me exquisite pleasure. They displayed all thy charmingself to my view. I pressed every precious line to my lips with nearly asmuch rapture as I would have done the prattler herself, had she beentalking to me all this tenderness instead of writing it. 

I took up the pen that I might tell thee my thanks, yet rambled almostinstantly into mournful repetitions. I have half a mind to burn thescribble, but I cannot write more just now, and this will show you, atleast, 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 atwelvemonth ago that I was sitting, at this silent hour, at a country-firejust like this. My elbow then as now was leaning on a table, supplied withbooks 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, idlybasking in the beams of this cheerful blaze, I shall fall into a listless, uneasy cloze, that, without refreshing me, as sleep would do, will unfitme for sleep. 

"Shall I read? Nothing here that is new. Enough that is of value, if Icould but make myself inquisitive; treasures which, in a curious mood, Iwould eagerly rifle; but now the tedious page only adds new weight to myeyelids. 

"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 thetask----

"Not now; some other time. To-morrow. What can I write about? Haven'ttwo ideas that hang together intelligibly. 'Twill be commonplace tritestuff. 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 orcedar or white oak. At one time a troop of swine munching mast in a groveof oaks, transformed by those magicians, carpenters and butchers, intohearth-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 Ishall do, --to lash the drowsy moments into speed. In my haste to set thetable and its gear in order for scribble, I overturn the inkhorn, spillthe ink, and stain the floor. 

The damage is easily repaired, and I sit down, with unspeakablealacrity, to a business that tires my muscles, sets a _gnawer_ atwork upon my lungs, fatigues my brain, and leaves me listless andspiritless. 

How you have made yourself so absolute a mistress of the goose-quill, Ican't imagine; how you can maintain the writing posture and pursue thewriting movement for ten hours together, without benumbed brain or achingfingers, is beyond my comprehension. 

But you see what zeal will do for me. It has enabled me to keepdrowsiness, fatigue, and languor at bay during a long night. Converse withthee, heavenly maid, is an antidote even to sleep, the most general andinveterate 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 otherthan an irksome, ache-producing implement. It need give pleasure toothers, 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 asidethe quill a moment to consider. I left off my last letter, with a headfull of affecting images, which I have waited impatiently for the presentopportunity 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 toescape from foresight when it presents to me nothing but evils, but now Imust, for thy sake, be less a coward. 

In six weeks Jane becomes mine. Till then, thy mother will not castthee out of her protection. And will she _then_? will she not allowof thy continuance in thy present dwelling? and, though so much displeasedas to refuse thee her countenance and correspondence, will she_indeed_ turn thee out of doors? She threatens it, we see; but Isuspect it will never be more than a threat, employed, perhaps, only tointimidate and deter; not designed to be enforced. Or, if made in earnest, yet, when the irrevocable deed is done, will she not hesitate to inflictthe penalty? Will not her ancient affection; thy humility, thy sorrow, thymerits, --such as, in spite of this instance of contumacy, she cannot denythee, --will not these effectually plead for thee?

More than ever will she see that thou needest her bounty; and, sinceshe cannot recall what is past, will she not relent and be willing tolessen the irremediable evil all she can?

There is one difficulty that I know not how to surmount. Giving to thewife will be only giving to the husband. Shall one whom she so much abhorsbe luxuriously supplied from her bounty?

The wedded pair must live together, she will think; and shall thishated encroacher find refuge from beggary and vileness under _her_roof, --be lodged and banqueted at _her_ expense? _That_ herindignant heart will never suffer. 

Would to Heaven she would think of me with less abhorrence! I wish fortreatment 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 ofreconciliation. At least there is no deliberate and steadfast sentiment ofthat kind. When I reason the matter with myself, I perceive a sort ofclaim 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 tobenefit. 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 itpromptly and with gratitude; but let thy home be thy own. For lodging andfood 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 forthis. All these you must relinquish for my sake. You must go into a familyof strangers. You must hire a chamber, and a plate of such food as isgoing. You must learn to bear the humours and accommodate yourself to thehabits of your inmates. 

Some frugal family and humble dwelling must content thee. A low roof, anarrow chamber, and an obscure avenue, the reverse of all the specious, glossy, and abundant that surround thee now, will be thy portion, --allthat thou must look for as _my_ wife. And how will this do, Jane? Isnot the price too great?

And my company will not solace thee under these inconveniences. I mustnot live with thee; only an occasional visitor; one among a half-dozen ata common fire; with witnesses of all we say. Thy pittance will do no morethan support thyself. _I_ must house myself and feed elsewhere. _Where_, I know not. _That_ will depend upon the species ofemployment I shall be obliged to pursue for my subsistence. Scanty andirksome it will be, at best. 

Once a day I may see thee. Most of my evenings may possibly be devotedto thy company. A soul harassed by unwelcome toil, eyes dim with strainingat tiresome or painful objects, shall I bring to thee. If now and then weare alone, how can I contribute to thy entertainment? The day's task willfurnish 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 beobliged to encounter the perils of the seas once more. Three-fourths ofthe year, the ocean may divide us, thou in solitude, the while, ponderingon the dangers to which I may be exposed, and I, a prey to discontent, andtempted in some evil hour to forget thee, myself, and the world. 

How my heart sinks at this prospect! Does not thine, Jane? Dost thounot fear to take such a wretched chance with me? I that know myself, myown imbecility, --I ought surely to rescue thee from such a fate, by givingthee up. 

I can write no more just now. I wonder how I fell into this dolefulstrain. It was silly in me to indulge it. These images are not mycustomary inmates. Yet, now that they occur to me, they seem but rationaland 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 passinghere. 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. Areverie, painful and confused, invades me now and then; my pen stops, andI 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 weare! Separated as we have been for many a year, estranged as much bydifference of sentiments as local distance, his image visiting my memorynot once a month, and then a transitory, momentary visit; had he died ayear ago, and I not known it, the stream of my thoughts would not havebeen ruffled by a single impediment. Yet, now that I stand over him andwitness 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 themoften. 

His closing hour is serene. His piety now stands him in some stead. Incalling 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 timewhen his own conduct might visibly attest their value. By their influencein 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 aneffort that increases his pangs; yet he talks much in cogent terms, andwith accurate conceptions, and, in all he says, evinces a patheticearnestness 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 feelingsand ideas similar to his. I know how pure to him would be the satisfactionof 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 farfrom being that contumacious enemy to his faith which he is prone toimagine me to be. 

Thy mother's letter has called up more vividly than usual our ancientcorrespondence, and the effects of that disclosure. Yet I have notmentioned the subject to him. I never mentioned it. I could not trustmyself to mention it. There was no need. The letters were written by me. Idid not charge him to secrecy, and, if I had, he would not have been boundto compliance. It was his duty to make that use of them which tended toprevent mischief, --which appeared to him to have that tendency; and thishe has done. His design, I have no doubt, was benevolent and just. 

He saw not all the consequences that have followed, 'tis true; but thatignorance would justify him, even if these consequences were unpleasing tohim; but they would not have displeased, had they been foreseen. Theywould only have made his efforts more vigorous, his disclosures moreexplicit. 

His conduct, indeed, on that occasion, as far as we know it, seemsirregular and injudicious. To lay before a stranger private letters fromhis friend, in which opinions were avowed and defended that he knew wouldrender the writer detestable to her that read. 

He imagined himself justified in imputing to me atrocious and infamouserrors. He was grieved for my debasement, and endeavoured, by his utmostzeal 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 Ivalue that respect which is founded in ignorance? Can I be satisfied withcaresses from those who, if they knew me fully, would execrate and avoidme?

For past faults and rectified errors, are not remorse and amendmentadequate atonements? If any one despise me for what I _was_, let menot shrink from the penalty. Let me not find pleasure in the praise ofthose whose approbation is founded on ignorance of what I _am_. It isunjust to demand, it is sordid to retain, praise that is not meritedeither by our present conduct or our past. Why have I declined suchpraise? Because I value it not. 

Thus have I endeavoured to think in relation to Thomson. My endeavourhas succeeded. My heart entirely acquits him. It even applauds him for hisnoble sincerity. 

Yet I could never write to him or talk to him on this subject. Mytongue, my pen, will be sure to falter. I know that he will boldly justifyhis conduct, and I feel that he ought to justify; yet the attempt tojustify would awaken--indignation, selfishness. In spite of thesuggestions of my better reason, I know we should quarrel. 

We should not quarrel _now_, if the topic were mentioned. Ofindignation against him, even for a real fault, much less for an imaginaryone, I am, at this time, not capable; but it would be useless to mentionit. There is nothing to explain; no misapprehensions to remove, no doubtsto 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 melancholyscene before me. This is a respite, a solace to me; and thus, and inreading 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 additionalcauses of disquiet. Yet you tell me to write cheerfully. I would havewritten cheerfully, if these letters, so full of dark forebodings andrueful prognostics, had not come to damp my spirits. 

And is the destiny that awaits us so very mournful? Is thy wifenecessarily to lose so many comforts and incur so many mortifications? Aremy funds so small, that they will not secure to me the privilege of aseparate apartment, in which I may pass my time with whom and in whatmanner I please?

Must I huddle, with a dozen squalling children and their notably-noisyor 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 mynuptial lot?

Out upon thee, thou egregious painter! Well for thee thou art notwithin 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 Idid myself, turned (as its mistress, mayhap, would have done, hadst thoubeen near me, _indeed_) her _cuff_ into a _kiss_. 

What possessed thee, my beloved, to predict so ruefully? A very goodbeginning too! more vivacity than common! But I hardly had time to greetthe sunny radiance--tis a long time since my cell was gilded by so sweet abeam--when a _black usurping mist_ stole it away, and all was drearyas it is wont to be. 

Perhaps thy being in a house of mourning may account for it. Fitful andversatile I know thee to be; changeable with scene and circumstance. Thyviews are just what any eloquent companion pleases to make them. She thoulovest is thy deity; her lips thy oracle. And hence my cheerful omens ofthe future; the confidence I have in the wholesome efficacy of mygovernment. I, that have the _will_ to make thee happy, have thepower too. I know I have; and hence my promptitude to give away all forthy sake; to give myself a _wife's_ title to thy company, a conjugalshare in thy concerns, and claim to reign over thee. 

Make haste, and atone, by the future brightness of thy epistolaryemanations, for the pitchy cloud that overspreads these sick man'sdreams. 

How must thou have rummaged the cupboard of thy fancy for musty scrapsand flinty crusts to feed thy spleen withal, --inattentive to the daintieswhich a blue-eyed Hebe had culled in the garden of Hope, and had pouredfrom out her basket into thy ungrateful lap. 

While thou wast mumbling these refractory and unsavoury bits, I wasbanqueting 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 Ifind her, let me tell thee, an admirable _horticulturist_. 

Thou art so far off, there is no sending thee a basketful, or I woulddo it. They would wilt and wither ere they reached thee; the atmospherethou breathest would strike a deadly worm into their hearts before thoucouldst get them to thy lips. 

But to drop the basket and the bough, and take up a plain meaning:--Iwill tell thee how I was employed when thy letter came; but first I mustgo back a little. 

In the autumn of _ninety-seven_, and when death had spent hisshafts in my own family, I went to see how a family fared, the father andhusband of which kept a shop in Front Street, where every thing a ladywanted was sold, and where I had always been served with great despatchand 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 walkinto 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 myshopping visits were always, in part, social ones. My business beingfinished at the counter, I usually went back, and found on every interviewnew cause for esteeming the family. The treatment I met with was alwayscordial and frank; and, though our meetings were thus merely casual, weseemed, in a short time, to have grown into a perfect knowledge of eachother. 

This was in the summer you left us, and, the malady breaking out a fewmonths after, and all _shopping_ being at an end, and alarm and grieftaking 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, andothers whose welfare was dear to me, to my remembrance, and determined topay them a visit and discover how it fared with them. I hoped they hadleft the city; yet Mrs. Henning had told me that her husband, who was adevout man, held it criminal to fly on such occasions, and that she, having passed safely through the pestilence of former years, had noapprehensions from staying. 

Their house was inhabited, but I found the good woman in greataffliction. Her husband had lately died, after a tedious illness, and herdistress was augmented by the solitude in which the flight of all herneighbours and acquaintances had left her. A friendly visit could at notime have been so acceptable to her, and my sympathy was not more neededto console her than my counsel to assist her in the new state of heraffairs. 

Laying aside ceremony, I inquired freely into her condition, andoffered her my poor services. She made me fully acquainted with hercircumstances, and I was highly pleased at finding them so good. Herhusband had always been industrious and thrifty, and his death left herenough to support her and her Sally in the way they wished. 

Inquiring into their views and wishes, I found them limited to theprivacy of a small but neat house in some cleanly and retired corner ofthe 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 knewnothing of the world. Though an excellent manager within-doors, any thingthat might be called business was strange and arduous to her, and withoutmy direct assistance she could do nothing. 

Happily, at this time, just such a cheap and humble, but neat, new, andairy dwelling as my friend required, belonging to Mrs. Fielder, wasvacant. 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 fieldopposite and a garden behind; of two stories; a couple of good rooms oneach 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 wasscared away by the fever, and no other had put in a claim. I made haste towrite to my mother, who, though angry with me on my own account, could notreject my application in favour of my good widow. 

I even prevailed on her to set the rent forty dollars lower than shemight have gotten from another, and to give a lease of it at that rate forfive years. You can't imagine my satisfaction in completing this affair, and in seeing my good woman quietly settled in her new abode, with herdaughter Sally and her servant _Alice_, who had come with her fromEurope, and had lived with her the dear knows how long. 

Mrs. Henning is no common woman, I assure you. Her temper is thesweetest 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 homesteadexhibits. Though humbly born, and perhaps meanly brought up, her parlourand chamber add to the purest cleanliness somewhat that approaches toelegance. 

The mistress and the maid are nearly of the same age, and, thoughequally innocent and good-humoured, the former has more sedateness andreserve than the latter. She is devout in her way, which is Methodism, andacquires from this source nothing but new motives of charity to herneighbours and thankfulness to God. 

Much--indeed, all--of these comforts she ascribes to me; yet hergratitude is not loquacious. It shows itself less in words than in thepleasure she manifests on my visits; the confidence with which she treatsme; laying before me all her plans and arrangements, and entreating myadvice in every thing. Yet she has brought with her, from her nativecountry, notions of her inferiority to the better-born and the better-educated but too soothing to my pride. Hence she is always diffident, andnever makes advances to intimacy but when expressly invited andencouraged. 

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 shewas extremely grateful. She sent me word as soon as she was ready toreceive me, and I went. 

Artless and unceremonious was the good woman in the midst of all heranxiety to please. Affectionate yet discreet in her behaviour to her Sallyand her Alice, and of me as tenderly observant as possible. 

She showred me all her rooms, from cellar to garret, and every thing Isaw delighted me. Two neat beds in the front-room above belong to her andSally. 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: youare quite prodigal. And for whose accommodation is all this?"

"Oh, any lady that will favour me with a visit. It is a spare room, andthe 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, Idon't expect many to visit me; but it is some comfort to think one has itin one's power to lodge a friend, when it happens so, in a manner that maynot discredit one's intentions. I have no relations in this country, andthe only friend I have in the world, besides God, is you, madam. Butstill, it may sometimes happen, you know, that one may have occasion toentertain somebody. God be thanked, I have enough, and what little I haveto 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 indulgeone'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 tohave 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 anyaccidental person in. It would go hard with me to be obliged to turn agood body away, that might be here on a visit, and might be caught by arain or a snow storm. "

"Very true; I did not think of that. And yet it seems a pity that sogood 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 shouldoffer, 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 Icould do to make them comfortable. I think I should like such a one wellenough. "

"One, " said I, "who would accept such accommodation as a favour. Asingle person, for example. A woman; a young woman. A stranger in thecountry, 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 itof all things. And I should not mind to be hard with such a one. I shouldnot stickle about terms. Pray, ma'am, do you know any such? If you do, andwill 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 asnug retreat as Mrs. Henning's roof would afford her?

This little chamber, set out with perfect neatness; looking out on avery pretty piece of verdure and a cleanly court-yard; with such a goodcouple to provide for her; with her privacy unapproachable but at her ownpleasure; her quiet undisturbed by a prater, a scolder, a bustler, or awhiner; no dirty children to offend the eye, or squalling ones to woundthe ear; with admitted claims to the gratitude, confidence, and affectionof her hostess: might not these suffice to make a lowly, unambitiousmaiden happy?

One who, like Mrs. Henning, had only _one_ friend upon earth. Whomher former associates refused to commune with or look upon. Whoseloneliness was uncheered, except by her own thoughts and her books, --perhaps now and then, at times when oceans did not sever her from him, bythat one earthly friend. 

Might she not afford him as many hours of her society as hisengagements would allow him to claim? Might she not, as an extraordinaryfavour, 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 andpass away the starlight hour in the unwitnessed community of fondhearts?

Suppose, to obviate unwelcome surmises and too scrupulous objections, the girl makes herself a wife, but, because their poverty will not enablethem to live together, the girl merely admits the chosen youth on thefooting of a visitor?

Suppose her hours are not embittered by the feelings of dependence? Shepays an ample compensation for her entertainment, and by her occasionalcompany, 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 andpunctuality, much of her time is spent alone? Happily she is exempt fromthe humiliating necessity of working to live, and is not obliged to demanda share of the earnings of her husband. Her task, therefore, will be tofind amusement. Can she want the means, thinkest thou?

The sweet quiet of her chamber, the wholesome airs from abroad, or thecheerful blaze of her hearth, will invite her to mental exercise. Perhapsshe has a taste for books, and, besides that pure delight which knowledgeon its own account affords her, it possesses tenfold attractions in hereyes, by its tendency to heighten the esteem of him whom she lives toplease. 

Perhaps, rich as she is in books, she is an economist of pleasure, andtears herself away from them, to enjoy the vernal breezes, or thelandscape of autumn, in a twilight ramble. Here she communes withbounteous nature, or lifts her soul in devotion to her God, to whosebenignity she resigns herself as she used to do to the fond arms of thatparent she has lost. 

If these do not suffice to fill up her time, she may chance to reflecton the many ways in which she may be useful to herself. She may finddelight in supplying her own wants; by maintaining cleanliness and orderall about her; by making up her own dresses, --especially as she disdainsto be outdone in taste and expertness at the needle by any female in theland. 

By limiting in this way, and in every other which her judgment mayrecommend, her own expenses, she will be able to contribute somewhat torelieve 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 onlythat her tender solicitudes and seasonable counsel cherish his hopes andstrengthen his courage, but that the employment of her hands makes his ownseparate subsistence an easier task. To work for herself will be notrivial gratification to her honest pride, but to work for her belovedwill, 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 notperhaps the greatest she is able to perform. She is active andintelligent, perhaps, and may even aspire to the profits of some trade. What is it that makes one calling more lucrative than another? Notsuperior strength of shoulders or sleight of hand; not the greaterquantity 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 directionaccidentally given to these powers. 

What should hinder a girl like this from growing rich by her diligenceand ingenuity? She has, perhaps, acquired many arts with no view but herown amusement. Not a little did her mother pay to those who taught her todraw and to sing. May she not levy the same tributes upon others that werelevied on her, and make a business of her sports?

There is, indeed, a calling that may divert her from the thoughts ofmere lucre. She may talk and sing for another, and dedicate her best hoursto a tutelage for which there is a more precious requital than money cangive. 

Dost not see her, Hal? I do, --as well as this gushing sensibility willlet me, --rocking in her arms and half stifling with her kisses, ordelighting with her lullaby, a precious little creature----

Why, my friend, do I hesitate? Do I not write for thy eye, and thineonly? and what is there but pure and sacred in the anticipated transportsof a mother?

The conscious heart might stifle its throbs in thy presence; but whynot indulge them in thy absence, and tell thee its inmost breathings, notwithout a shame-confessing glow, yet not without drops of the truestdelight that were ever shed?

Why, how now, Jane? whence all this interest in the scene thouportrayest? One would fancy that this happy outcast, this self-dependentwife, was no other than _thyself_. 

A shrewd conjecture, truly. I suppose, Hal, thou wilt be fond enough toguess 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 Imight choose to inflict. 

I will not say what it is, lest the _fear_ of it should keep theeaway. 

And, now that I have finished the history of Mrs. Henning and herboarder, 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 fibreof my frame still trembles. I have endeavoured, during the last hour, togain tranquillity enough for writing, but without success. Yet I canforbear no longer: I must begin. 

I had just closed my last to you, when somebody knocked. I heardfootsteps below, as the girl ushered in the visitant, which were not quiteunknown to me. The girl came up:--"A gentleman is waiting. "

"A gentleman!" thought I. "An odd hour this" (it was past ten) "for anyman 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 anytime, and I had withdrawn to my chamber for the night; but he would not beeluded. He must see me, he said, this night. 

A tall and noble figure, in a foreign uniform, arose from the sofa atmy entrance. The half-extinct lamp on the mantel could not conceal fromme--_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 withoutaffection in it. "You did not expect, I suppose, ever to see me again. Itwas a mere chance brought me to America. I shall stay here a moment, andthen hie me back again. I could not pass through the city without a 'Howd'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 wasnot unmoved, but, embracing me with tenderness, he seated me by him on thesofa. 

When I had leisure to survey his features, I found that time had ratherimproved his looks. They were less austere, less contemptuous, than theyused to be: perhaps, indeed, it was only a momentary remission of hiscustomary feelings. 

To my rapid and half-coherent questions, he replied, "I landed--youneed not know where. My commission requires secrecy, and you know I havepersonal reasons for wishing to pass through this city without notice. Mybusiness did not bring me farther southward than New London; but I heardyour mother resided in New York, and could not leave the country withoutseeing you. I called on her yesterday; but she looked so grave and talkedso obscurely about you, that I could not do less than come hither. Shetold 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 escapehim. 

"I asked Mrs. Fielder the same question, and she talked as if it were adoubtful 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 explainyour 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 goodterms 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 shouldsoon be mother and daughter again. 

"But the cause?--the cause, Jane? Is a lover the bone of contentionbetween you? That's the rock on which family harmony is sure to bewrecked. 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 mycontentions 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 thislong absence. "

"Pretty well; pretty well. Many a jade's trick did Fortune play mebefore I left this spot, but ever since, it has been all smooth and brightwith me. But this marriage--Art thou a wife or not? I heard, I think, sometalk about a Talbot. What's become of him? They said you were engaged tohim. "

"It is long since the common destiny has ended all Talbot'sengagements. "

"Dead, is he? Well, a new aspirer, I suppose, has succeeded, and he isthe bone of contention. Who's he?"

I could not bear that a subject of such deep concern to me should bediscussed thus lightly, and therefore begged him to change thesubject. 

"Change the subject? With all my heart, if we can find any moreimportant; but that's impossible. So we must even stick to this a littlelonger. Come; what's his parentage; fortune; age; character; profession?'Tis not likely I shall find fault where Mrs. Fielder does. Young men andold 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 shouldthink alike; nor is it necessary. Let us then talk of something in whichwe have a common concern; something that has a claim to interest you. "

"What subject, girl, can have a stronger claim on my attention than themarriage of my sister? I am not so giddy and unprincipled as to beunconcerned 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 tendernessbecoming that relation--would certainly deserve my confidence. But----"

"But what? Come; never mince the matter, I scarcely been half a brotherhitherto, I grant you of an enemy, perhaps, than friend; but no reasonwhy 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 notbe diverted from this. By dint of interrogatories, he at last extortedfrom me a few hints respecting you. Finding that you were without fortuneor profession, and that my regard for you had forfeited all favour with mymother, the inquiry was obvious, how we meant to live. It was impossibleto answer this question in any manner satisfactory to him. He has nonotion of existence unconnected with luxury and splendour. 

"Have you made any acquisitions, " continued he, "since I saw you? Hasany good old aunt left you another legacy?"--This was said with the utmostvivacity and self-possession. A strange being is my brother. Could he haveforgotten 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 areroast beef and a palace to thee; but, take my word for it, this inamorataof thine will need a more substantial diet. By marrying him you will onlysaddle him with misery. So drop all thoughts of so silly a scheme; writehim a 'good-by;' make up your little matters, and come along with me. Iwill take you to my country, introduce you to a new world, and bring toyour feet hundreds of generous souls, the least of whom is richer, wiser, handsomer, than this tame-spirited, droning animal--what's his name? Butno matter. I suppose I know nothing of him. "

I was rash enough to tell him your name and abode, but I treated hisproposal as a jest. I quickly found that he was serious. He soon becameextremely urgent; recounted the advantages of his condition; the charmingqualities of his wife; the security and splendour of his new rank. Heendeavoured to seduce my vanity by the prospect of the conquest I shouldmake in that army of colonels, philosophers, and commissioners that formedthe circle of his friends. "Any man but a brother, " said he, "must ownthat you are a charming creature. So you need only come and see, in orderto conquer. " His importunities increased as my reluctance became moreevident. Thoughtless as I supposed him to be, he said, the wish to find meout, carry me to France, and put me in Fortune's way, was noinconsiderable inducement with him to accept the commission which broughthim to America. He insinuated that brothership and eldership gave himsomething like a title to paternal authority, and insisted onobedience. 

The contest became painful. Impatience and reproach on his sideawakened the like sentiments in me, and it cost me many efforts torestrain my feelings. Alternately he commanded and persuaded; was willingto be governed by my mother's advice; would carry me forthwith to NewYork; 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. Itwas nothing but a sailing palace, in which the other passengers weremerely 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 counselor 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 taskfor his presumption and insolence in aspiring to Jane Talbot without herbrother's consent. 

He snatched up his hat; but this intimation alarmed me. "Pray, stay onemoment, brother. Be more considerate. What right can you possibly have tointerfere with Mr. Colden's concerns? Talk to me as much and in what styleyou please; but, I beseech you, insult not a man who never offendedyou. "

Perceiving my uneasiness on this head, he took advantage of it to renewhis solicitations for my company to France, --swore solemnly that no manshould have his sister without his consent, and that he would force theboy to give me up. 

This distressing altercation ended by his going away, declaring, inspite of my entreaties, that he would see you, and teach your insolence alesson not easily forgotten. 

To sleep after this interview was impossible. I could hardly still mythrobbing heart sufficiently to move the pen. You cannot hear from me intime to avoid this madman, or to fortify yourself against an interview. Icannot 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 onlyby 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 wassome speedier conveyance!

JANE TALBOT. 

Letter XXXII

_To Jane Talbot_

Baltimore, November 14. 

Let me overlook your last letter [Footnote A: Letter XXX. ] for thepresent, while I mention to you a most unexpected and surprisingcircumstance. It has just happened. I have parted with my visitant butthis moment. 

I had strolled to the bank of the river, and was leaning idly on abranch of an apple-tree that hung pretty low, when I noticed some onecoming hastily towards me: there was something striking and noble in theair and figure of the man. 

When he came up, he stopped. I was surprised to find myself the objectof which he was in search. I found afterwards that he had inquired for meat my lodgings, and had been directed to look for me in this path. Adistinct view of his features saved him the trouble of telling me that hewas your brother. However, that was information that he thought properimmediately to communicate. He was your brother, he said; I was Colden; Ihad pretensions to you, which your brother was entitled to know, todiscuss, and to pronounce upon. Such, in about as many words, was hisintroduction 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 withhis 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? Onall these heads a brother would naturally require to be thoroughlyinformed. 

"As to my character, sir, you will hardly expect any satisfactoryinformation from _my_ own mouth. However, it may save you the troubleof applying to others, when I tell you that my character has as many slursand 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 tocontain. Profession I have none, and am not acquiring any, nor expect everto 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 meto grace from her. "

"I have surely not been misinformed. She tacitly admitted that she wasengaged 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 JaneTalbot will need to ask why she is beloved. Why she requites that passionin the present case, is a question which she only can answer. "

"Her passion, sir, " (contemptuously, ) "is the freak of a child; offolly 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 thecontrary, I have fully disclosed to her every folly and vice that cleavesto my character. "

"You know, sir, what I mean. "

"I am afraid not perfectly. If you mean that I should profess myselfunworthy of your sister's favour, 'tis done. It has been done a hundredtimes. "

"My meaning, sir, is simply this: that you, from this moment, give upevery expectation of being the husband of Mrs. Talbot. That you return toher every letter and paper that has passed between you; that you drop allintercourse 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 asteadfast and cheerful gravity. 

"These are injunctions, " said I, "that will hardly meet withcompliance, unless, indeed, they were imposed by the lady herself. I shallalways have a supreme regard for her happiness; and whatever path shepoints out to me, I will walk in it. "

"But _this_ is the path in which her true interest requires you towalk. "

"I have not yet discovered that to be _her_ opinion; the moment Ido, I will walk in it accordingly. "

"No matter what _her_ opinion is. She is froward and obstinate. Itis my opinion that her true happiness requires all connection between youto 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, Iimagine, 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 youcan convert her to your way of thinking, it is well. I solemnly engage todo whatever she directs. "

"This is insolence. You trifle with me. You pretend to misconstrue mymeaning. "

"When you charge me with insolence, I think you afford pretty strongproof that you mistake _my_ meaning. I have not the least intentionto offend you. "

"Let me be explicit with you. Do you instantly and absolutely resignall 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 tobe mine. I accept her love; she is mine; nor need we to discuss the matterany further. "

This, however, by no means put an end to altercation. I told him I waswilling to hear all that he had to say upon the subject. If truth were onhis side, it was possible he might reason me into a concurrence with him. In compliance with this concession, he dwelt on the benefits which hissister would receive from accompanying him to France, and the mutualsorrow, 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 anddignity without me will be more conducive to your sister's happiness thanobscurity and indigence _with_ me. "

It was. 

"Happiness is mere matter of opinion; perhaps Jane thinks already asyou do. "

He allowed that he had talked with you ineffectually on thatsubject. 

"I think myself bound to believe her in a case where she is the properjudge, 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 givenme some knowledge of your brother, and I endeavoured by the mildness, sedateness, and firmness of my carriage to elude those extremes to whichhis domineering passions were likely to carry him. I carefully avoidedevery thing that tended in the least to exasperate. He was prone enough torage, but I quietly submitted to all that he could say. I was sincerelyrejoiced when the conference came to an end. 

Whence came your brother thus abruptly? Have you seen him? Yet he toldme that you had. Alas! what must you have suffered from hisimpetuosity!

I look with impatience for your next letter, in which you will tellwhat has happened. 

Letter XXXIII

_To Henry Colden_

Philadelphia, November 17. 

I have just sent you a letter, but my restless spirit can find norelief but in writing. 

I torment myself without end in imagining what took place at yourmeeting with my brother. I rely upon your equanimity; yet to what aninsupportable test will my brother's passions subject you! In how manyways 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 haveculpably 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, infatuatedblockhead. 

"It was silly to imagine that any arguments would have weight with youor with him. I have got my journey for my pains. Fain would I havebelieved that you were worthy of a different situation; but I dismiss thatbelief, 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 havemade something of you. My wealth and my influence should not have beenspared 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 aditch. 

"I intended to have virtually divided my fortune with you; to haveraised 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 Iborrowed several sums of you; the whole amounted to fifteen hundreddollars. _There_ they are, and much good may they do you. That sumand the remnant which I left you may perhaps set the good man up in avillage shop, --may purchase an assortment of tapes, porringers, andtwelve-to-the-pound candles. The gleanings of the year may find you inskimmed milk and hasty pudding three times a day, and you may enjoybetween whiles the delectable amusements of mending your husband'sstockings at one time, and serving a neighbour with a pennyworth of snuffat another. 

"Fare thee well, Jane. Farewell forever; for it must be a strongerinducement than can possibly happen, that shall ever bring me back to thisland. 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 unexpectedand acceptable presents. I am now twice as rich as I was. This visit of mybrother I was disposed to regret, but on the whole I ought, I think, toregard it with satisfaction. By thus completely repairing the breach madein my little patrimony, it has placed me in as good a situation as I everhoped to enjoy; besides, it has removed from my brother's character someof the stains which used to discolour it. Ought I not to believe himsincere in his wishes to do me service? We cannot agree exactly in ournotion of duty or happiness, but that difference takes not away from himthe merit of a generous intention. He would have done me good in hisway. 

Methinks I am sorry he is gone. I would fain have parted with him as asister ought. A few tears and a few blessings were not unworthy such anoccasion. Most fervently should I have poured my blessings upon him. Iwish 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 brotherwould have been kept in melancholy, sweet remembrance. 

Perhaps we shall meet again. Perhaps, some day, thou and I shall go toFrance. We will visit him together, and witness, with our own eyes, hisgood fortune. Time may make him gentle, kind, considerate, brotherly. Timehas effected greater wonders than that; for I will always maintain that mybrother has a noble nature: stifled and obscured it may be, but notextinguished. 

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 thyentrance. Always anxious as I am to be amiable in your eyes, I am at nopains to conceal from you that impatience which now vexes my soul, becauseit is your absence that occasions it. 

I sat alone on the sofa below, for a whole hour. Not once was the bellrung; 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 togreet, as distinctly as the joyous tumult of my bosom would suffer me, themuch-loved, long-expected visitant. 

Yet, deceived by my fond heart into momentary forgetfulness of theinterval of a hundred miles that lies between us, more than once I cast aglance behind me, and started, as if the hoped-for peal had actually beenrung. 

Tired, at length, of my solitude, where I had enjoyed your company sooften, I covered up the coals and withdrew to my chamber. "And here, " saidI, "though I cannot talk to him, yet I can write. "

But first, I read over again this cruel letter of my mother. I weighedall the contents, and especially those heavy charges against you. 

How does it fall out that the same object is viewed by two observerswith such opposite sensations? That what one hates, the other should doteupon?--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; thattwo such should jar and thwart each other, in a point, too, in respect towhich the whole tendency and scope of the daughter's education was toproduce 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 haveerred. Am I not betrayed by passion? can I claim the respect due to thatdiscernment which I once boasted?

I cannot blame my mother. She acts and determines, as I sometimesbelieve, without the benefits of my knowledge. Did she know as much as Iknow, surely she would think as I do. 

In general, this conclusion seems to be just; but there are momentswhen doubts insinuate themselves. I cannot help remembering the time whenI reasoned like my mother; when the belief of a Christian seemed essentialto every human excellence. All qualities, without that belief, were not tobe despised as useless, but to be abhorred as pernicious. There would beno virtue, no merit, divorced from religion. In proportion to thespeciousness of his qualities was he to be dreaded. The fruit, whateverform it should assume, was nothing within but bane, and was to be detestedand shunned in proportion as the form was fair and its promisesdelicious. 

I seldom trusted myself to inquire how it was my duty to act towardsone whom I loved, but who was destitute of this grace; for of such momentwas the question to me, that I imagined the decision would necessarilyprecede 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 thisdefect despoiled of all beauty and devoted to perdition. 

But what now is the change that time and passion have wrought! I havefound a man without religion. What I supposed impossible has happened. Ilove the man. I cannot give him up. The mist that is before my eyes doesnot change what was once vice into virtue. I do not cease to regardunbelief as the blackest stain, as the most deplorable calamity that canbefall a human creature; but still I _love_ the man, and that fillsme with unconquerable zeal to rescue him from this calamity. 

But my mother interferes. She reminds me of the horror which I onceentertained for men of your tenets. She enjoins me to hate you, or toabhor myself for loving one worthy of nothing but hatred. 

I cannot do either. My heart is still yours, and it is a voluntarycaptive. I would not free it from its thraldom, if I could. Neither do Ithink its captivity dishonours it. Time, therefore, has wrought somechange. 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 zealfor his welfare. There is no scheme which I muse upon with half theconstancy or pleasure, as that of curing his errors; and I am confident ofcuring them. 

"Ah, Jane, " says my mother; "rash and presumptuous girl, what a signalpunishment hangs over thee! Thou wilt trust thyself within the toils ofthe grand deceiver. Thou wilt enter the list with his subtleties. Vain andarrogant, thou fearest not thy own weakness. Thou wilt stake thy eternallot upon thy triumph in argument against one who, in spite of all hiscandour and humility, has his pride and his passions engaged on the sideof his opinions. 

"Subtle wretch!" does she exclaim; "accomplished villain! How nicelydoes he select, how adroitly manage, his tools! He will oppose, only toyield more gracefully. He will argue, only that the rash simpleton may themore congratulate herself upon her seeming victory! How easy is the verbalassent, --the equivocating accent, --the hesitating air! These he willassume whenever it is convenient to lull your fears and gratify yourvanity; and nothing but the uniformity of his conduct, his continuance inthe same ignominious and criminal path, will open your eyes, and show youthat only grace from above can reach his obdurate heart, or dart a rayinto his benighted faculties. "

Will you be surprised that I shudder when my mother urges me in thisstrain, with her customary energy? Always wont to be obsequious to thevery turn of her eye, and to make her will not only the regulator of myactions, but the criterion of my understanding, it is impossible not tohesitate, to review all that has passed between us, and reconsider anewthe motives that have made me act as I have acted. 

Yet the review always confirms me in my first opinion. You err, but arenot obstinate in error. If your opinions be adverse to religion, youraffections 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 thehighest degree of misery or happiness to yourself and to others. Atpresent they are misdirected or inactive; they are either pernicious oruseless. 

How can I, who have had ample opportunities of knowing you, stand bywith indifference while such is your state? I love you, it is true. Allyour felicity and all your woe become mine. I have a selfish interest inyour welfare. I cannot bear the thought of passing through this world, orof entering any future world, without you. My heart has tried in vain tocreate a separate interest, to draw consolation from a different source. Hence indifference to your welfare is impossible. But would notindifference, even if no extraordinary tie subsisted between us, becriminal? What becomes of our obligation to do good to others, if we donot exert ourselves, when all the means are in our power, to confer themost valuable of all benefits, to remove the greatest of all ills?

Of what stuff must that heart be made which can behold, unmoved, geniusand worth, destitute of the joys and energies of religion; wandering in amaze of passions and doubts; devoured by fantastic repinings and vagueregrets; drearily conscious of wanting a foundation whereon to repose, aguide in whom to trust? What heart can gaze at such a spectacle withoutunspeakable compassion?

Not to have our pity and our zeal awakened seems to me to argue theutmost depravity of heart. No stronger proof can be given that weourselves are destitute of true religion. The faith or the practice mustbe totally wanting. We may talk devoutly; we may hie, in due season, tothe house of prayer; while there, we may put on solemn visages and mutterholy names. We may abstain from profane amusements or unauthorized words;we may shun, as infections, the company of unbelievers. We may studyhomilies and creeds; but all this, without _rational_ activity forothers' good, is not religion. I see, in all this, nothing that I amaccustomed to call by that name. 

I see nothing but a narrow selfishness; sentiments of fear degrading tothe Deity; a bigotry that contracts the view, that freezes the heart, thatshuts up the avenues to benevolent and generous feeling. This buckramstiffness does not suit me. Out upon such monastic parade! I will havenone of it. 

But then, it seems, there is danger to ourselves from such attempts. Intrying to save another from drowning, may we not sometimes be drawn inourselves? Are we not taught to deprecate, not only evil, but temptationto evil?

What madness, to trust our convictions, in a point of such immenseimportance, to the contest of argument with one of superior subtlety andknowledge! Is there not presumption in such a trust?

Excellent advice is this to the mass of women; to those to whom habitor childish fear or parental authority has given their faith; who neverdoubted or inquired or reasoned for themselves. How easily is such afabric to be overturned! It can only stand by being never blown upon. Theleast breath disperses it in air; the first tide washes it away. 

Now, I entertain no reverence for such a bubble. In some sense, thereligion of the timorous and uninquisitive is true. In another sense it isfalse. Considering the proofs on which it reposes, it is false, since itmerely originates in deference to the opinions of others, wrought intobelief by means of habit. It is on a level, as to the proof which supportsit, with the wildest dreams of savage superstition, or the fumes of adervise's fanaticism. 

As to me, I was once just such a pretty fool in this respect as therest of my sex. I was easily taught to regard religion not only as thesafeguard of every virtue, but even as the test of a good understanding. The name of _infidel_ was never mentioned but with abhorrence orcontempt. None but a profligate, a sensualist, a ruffian, coulddisbelieve. Unbelief was a mere suggestion of the grand deceiver, topalliate or reconcile us to the unlimited indulgence of our appetites andthe 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 allyour demeanour there was simplicity and frankness. You concealed not yoursentiments; you obtruded them not upon my hearing. When called upon tostate the history of your opinions, it was candidly detailed; with no viewof gaining my concurrence, but merely to gratify my curiosity. 

From my remonstrances you never averted your ear. Every proof of anunprejudiced attention, and even of a bias favourable to my opinions, wasmanifest. Your own experience had half converted you already. Your goodsense was for a time the sport of a specious theory. You became the ardentand bold champion of what you deemed truth. But a closer and longer viewinsensibly detected flaws and discords where all had formerly been glossysmoothness and ravishing harmony. Diffidence and caution, worthy of youryouth and inexperience, had resumed their place; and those errors of whichyour own experience of their consequences had furnished the antidote, which your own reflections had partly divested of illusion, had only beenpropitious to your advancement in true wisdom. 

What had I to fear from such an adversary? What might I not hope fromperseverance? What expect but new clearness to my own convictions, new andmore accurate views of my powers and habits?

In order to benefit you, I was obliged to scrutinize the foundation ofmy own principles. I found nothing but a void. I was astonished andalarmed; and instantly set myself to the business of inquiry. How could Ihope to work on your convictions without a suitable foundation for myown?

And see now, my friend, the blindness of our judgments. I, who amimagined to incur such formidable perils from intercourse with you, am, intruth, indebted to you alone for all my piety, --all of it that ispermanent and rational. Without those apprehensions which your exampleinspired, without that zeal for your conversion which my attachment to youhas produced, what would now have been my claims to religiousknowledge?

Had I never extorted from you your doubts, and the occasion of thesedoubts; had I never known the most powerful objections to religion fromyour lips, I should have been no less ignorant of the topics and argumentsfavourable to it. 

And I think I may venture to ascribe to myself no less a progress incandour than in knowledge. My belief is stronger than it ever was, but Ino longer hold in scorn or abhorrence those who differ from me. I perceivethe speciousness of those fallacies by which they are deluded. I find itpossible for men to disbelieve and yet retain their claims to ourreverence, our affection, and especially our good offices. 

Those whom I once thought were only to be hated and shunned, I now findworthy of compassionate efforts for their good. Those whom I once imaginedsunk beneath the reach of all succour, and to merit scarcely the tributeof a sigh for their lost estate, now appear to be easily raised totranquillity and virtue, and to have irresistible claims to our help. 

In no respect has your company made me a worse--in every respect it hasmade me a better--woman. Not only my piety has become more rational andfervent, but a new spring has been imparted to my languishing curiosity. To find a soul to whom my improvement will give delight; eager to directand assist my inquiries; delicately liberal no less of censure whenmerited than of praise where praise is due; entering, almost without thehelp of language from me, into my inmost thoughts; assisting me, if I mayso speak, to comprehend myself; and raising to a steadfast and brightflame the spark that my wayward fancy, left to itself, would haveinstantaneously emitted and lost. --

But why do I again attempt this impossible theme? While reflecting onmy debt to thee, my heart becomes too big for its mansion. My handfalters, and the characters it traces run into an illegible scrawl. 

My tongue only is fitted for such an office; and Heaven grant that youmay speedily return to me, and put an end to a solitude which every hourmakes 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 herlips my oracle, and that to her pertains not only the will to make mehappy, by giving me steadfastness and virtue, but the power also!

I have read your letter oftener than a dozen times already, and atevery reading my heart burns more and more. That weight of humiliation anddespondency which, without your arm to sustain me, would assuredly sink meto the grave, becomes light as a feather; and, while I crush yourtestimonies of love in my hand, I seem to have hold of a stay of which nostorm can bereave me. 

One of my faults, thou sayest, is a propensity to reason. Not satisfiedwith looking at that side of the post that chances to be near me, I moveround and round it, and pause and scrutinize till those whose ill fate itis to wait upon my motions are out of patience with me. 

Every one has ways of his own. A transient glance at the post satisfiesthe mob of passengers. 'Tis my choice to stand a while and gaze. 

The only post, indeed, which I closely examine, is myself, because mystation is most convenient for inspecting _that_. Yet, though I havea 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 isegregiously defective, how profound must be my ignorance of others, andespecially of her whom I presume to call mine!

No paradox ever puzzled me so much as your conduct. On my firstinterview with you I loved you; yet what kind of passion was that whichknew only your features and the sound of your voice? Every successiveinterview has produced, not only something new or unexpected, butsomething in seeming contradiction to my previous knowledge. 

"She will act, " said I, "in such and such circumstances, as those ofher delicate and indulgent education must always act. That wit, thateloquence, 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 atolerated visitor, was more than I expected. When I found all thisanxiously sought and eagerly accepted, I was lost in astonishment. Attimes--may I venture to confess?--your regard for me brought your judgmentinto question! It failed to inspire me with more respect for myself; andnot 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 deliverancefrom my chains is less desperate than once it was. I may judge of thefuture, perhaps, by the past. Since I have already made such progress inexchanging distant veneration for familiar tenderness, and in persuadingmyself that he must possess some merit whom a soul like thine idolizes, Imay venture to anticipate the time when all my humiliation may vanish, andI shall come to be thought worthy of thy love, not only by thee, but bymyself. 

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 presentdwelling and its comforts, to make thee a tenant of thy good widow, and aseamstress for me!

"Yet what" (thou sayest) "is a fine house, and a train of servants, music, and pictures? What silly prejudice, to connect dignity andhappiness with high ceilings and damask canopies and goldensuperfluity!"

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 isrightly judged of while I look at nothing but thy colouring; but when Iwithdraw my eye from that, and the scene rises before me in the hues it isaccustomed to derive from my own fancy, my soul droops, and I pray Heavento avert such a destiny. 

I tell thee all my follies, Jane. Art thou not my sweet physician? andhow 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, hisexistence, his happiness, his every thing, to thee, and as proposing noend to himself but thy happiness in turn, but the discharge of an endlessdebt of gratitude. 

On my account, Jane, I cannot bear you should lose any thing. It mustnot be. Yet what remedy? How is thy mother's aversion to be subdued? howcan 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 asyou 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 thosebounties hitherto dispensed to thee, merely because _I_ must share inthem? My partaking with thee contributes indispensably to thy happiness. Not for my own sake, then, but merely for thine, ought competence to besecured to thee. 

But is there no method of excluding me from all participation? She maywithhold from me all power of a landlord, but she cannot prevent me fromsubsisting on thy bounty. 

Yet why does she now allow you to possess what you do? Can she imaginethat my happiness is not as dear to you now as it will be in consequenceof any change? If I share nothing with you now, it is not from any want ofbenevolent importunity in you. 

There is a strange inconsistency and contradiction in thy mother'sconduct. 

But something may surely be done to lighten her antipathies. I maysurely confute a false charge. I may convince her of my innocence in onerespect. 

Yet see, my friend, the evils of which one error is the parent. Myconduct towards the poor Jessy appears to your mother a more enormouswickedness than this imputed injustice to Talbot. The frantic indiscretionof my correspondence with Thomson has ruined me; for he that will committhe greater crime will not be thought to scruple the less. 

And then there is such an irresistible crowd of evidence in favour ofthe accusation! When I first read Mrs. Fielder's letter, the consciousnessof my innocence gave me courage; but the longer I reflect upon thesubject, the more deeply I despond. My own errors will always be powerfulpleaders against me at the bar of this austere judge. 

Would to Heaven I had not yielded to your urgency! The indecorum ofcompliance stared me in the face at the time. Too easily I yielded to theenchantments of those eyes, and the pleadings of that melting voice. 

The charms of your conversation; the midnight hour whose security washeightened by the storm that raged without; so perfectly screened fromevery interruption; and the subject we had been talking on, so affectingand attractive to me, and so far from being exhausted, and you sopathetically earnest in entreaty, so absolutely forbidding mydeparture. 

And was I such a short-sighted fool as not to insist on your retiringat the usual hour? The only thing that could make the expedient suggestedby me effectual was that. Your Molly lying with you could avail younothing, unless you actually passed the night in your chamber. 

As it was, no contrivance could be more unfortunate, since it merelyenabled her the more distinctly to remark the hour when you came up. Wasit _three_, or _four_, when you left the parlour?

The unbosoming of souls which that night witnessed, so sweetly as itdwelt upon my memory, I now regard with horror, since it has involved youin such evil. 

But the letter, --that was a most disastrous accident. I had read veryfrequently this fatal billet. Who is it that could imitate your hand soexactly? The same fashion in the letters, the same colour in the ink, thesame style, and the sentiments expressed so fully and accuratelycoalescing with the preceding and genuine passages!--no wonder that yourmother, being so well acquainted with your pen, should have no doubt as toyour 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 hisreturn? and what motive could influence him to commit or to countenancesuch a forgery?

Without doubt there was some deceiver. Some one stole the letter, andby his hand was this vile conclusion added, and by him was it communicatedto Talbot. But hast thou such an enemy in the world? Whom have youoffended, capable of harbouring such deadly vengeance?

Pray, my friend, sit down to the recollection of your past life, andinquire who it was that possessed your husband's confidence; who were hisintimate companions, endeavour to discover; tell me the names andcharacters of all those who were accustomed to visit your house, either onyour account or his. Strange, if among all these there is no foundationfor 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. Isee you will not allow me to forget it; but I must own it is weakness toendeavour to shun the scrutiny. 

Some one, my friend, must be in fault; and what fault can be moreatrocious than this? To defraud, by forgery, your neighbour of a fewdollars, is a crime which nothing but a public and ignominious death willexpiate; yet how trivial is that offence, compared with a fraud like this, which robs a helpless woman of her reputation, --introduces mortal enmitybetween her and those whose affection is necessary to render lifetolerable!

Whenever I think of this charge, an exquisite pain seizes my heart. There must be the blackest perfidy somewhere. I cannot bear to think thatany human creature is capable of such a deed, --a deed which the purestmalice must have dictated, since there is none, surely, in the world, whomI have ever intentionally injured. 

I cannot deal in conjectures. The subject, I find by my feelings sinceI began this letter, is too agonizing, --too bewildering. It carries backmy thoughts to a time of misery, to which distance, instead of soothing itinto apathy, only adds a new sting. 

A spotless reputation was once dear to me, but I have now torn thepassion from my heart. I am weary of pursuing a phantom. No one haspursued it with more eagerness and perseverance than I; and what has beenthe fruit of my labour but reiterated mortification anddisappointment?

An upright demeanour, a self-acquitting conscience, are not sufficientfor our safety. Calumny and misapprehension have no bounds to their rageand their activity. 

How little did my thoughtless heart imagine the horrid images whichbeset the minds of my mother and my husband! Happy ignorance! Would toHeaven it had continued! Since knowledge puts it not in my power to removethe error, it ought to be avoided as the greatest evil. 

While I know my own motives, and am convinced of their purity, let mehold in contempt the opinions of the world respecting me. They can neverhave a basis in truth. Be they favourable or otherwise, they cannot failto be built on imperfect knowledge. The praise of others is therefore aslittle to be sought or prized as their censure to be dreaded orshunned. 

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 cannotconfute the charge. I must not acknowledge a guilt that does not belong tome. Added, therefore, to her belief of my guilt, must be the persuasion ofmy being a hardened and obdurate criminal. 

What will she think of my last two letters? The former tacitlyconfessing my unworthiness and promising compliance with all her wishes, the next asserting my innocence and refusing her generous offers. My firstshe will probably ascribe to an honourable compunction, left to operatewithout your control. In the second she will trace your influence. Left tomyself, she will imagine me capable of acting as she wishes; but, guidedby 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 butthat of giving up you; and in this case I can hesitate, indeed, but Icannot decide against you. 

I am placed in a very painful situation. I feel as if every hour spentunder this roof was an encroachment on another's rights. My mother'sbounty is not withheld, merely because my rebellion against her will isnot completed; but I that feel no doubt, and whom mere consideration ofher 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 towait for an express command to begone from her doors? Ought I to lay herunder the necessity of declaring her will?

Yet if I change my lodgings immediately, without waiting herdirections, will she not regard my conduct as contemptuous? Shall I notthen be a rebel indeed?--one that scorns her favour, and is eager to getrid of all my obligations?

How painful is such a situation! yet there is no escaping from it, thatI can see. I must, perforce, remain as I am. But perhaps her next letterwill throw some light upon my destiny. I suppose my positive assertionswill 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 wishfor has arrived. Adieu. 

J. TALBOT. 

Letter XXXVII

_To the Same_

November 26. 

What shall I say to thee, my friend? How shall I communicate aresolution fatal, as thy tenderness will deem it, to thy peace, yet aresolution suggested by a heart which has, at length, permitted allselfish regards to be swallowed up by a disinterested consideration of thygood?

Why did you conceal from me your father's treatment of you, and theconsequences which your fidelity to me has incurred from his rage? I willnever be the cause of plunging you into poverty so hopeless. Did you thinkI would? and could you imagine it possible to conceal from me forever hisaversion to me?

How much misery would your forbearance have laid up in store for myfuture life! When fate had put it out of my power to absolve you from hiscurses, some accident would have made me acquainted with the full extentof the sufferings and contumelies with which, for my sake, he had loadedyou. 

But, thanks to Heaven, I am apprized in time of the truth. Instead ofthe bearer of a letter from my mother, whose signal at the door put an endto my last letter, it was my mother herself. 

Dear and welcome as those features and that voice once were, now wouldI rather have encountered the eyes of a basilisk and the notes of theill-boding raven. 

She hastened with all this expedition to thank me; to urge me toexecute; to assist me in performing the promises of my first letter. Thesecond, in which these promises were recalled, never reached her hand. Sheleft New York, as it now appeared, before its arrival. The interval hadbeen spent on the road, where she had been detained by untoward anddangerous accidents. 

Think, my friend, of the embarrassments attending this unlooked-for andinauspicious meeting. Joy at my supposed compliance with her wishes, wishes that imaged to themselves my happiness, and only mine, enabled herto support the hardships of this journey. Fatigue and exposure, likely tobe fatal to one of so delicate, so infirm a constitution, so lately andimperfectly 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 thetranquil and serene close which my return to virtue, as she called myacquiescence, had secured to her life. That life would at all events beshort; but my compliances, if they could not much protract it, would atleast render its approaching end peaceful. 

All attempts to reason with my mother were fruitless. She fell intoalarming agonies when she discovered the full import of that coldness anddejection which my demeanour betrayed. Fatigued and indisposed as she was, she made preparation to depart; she refused to pass one night under thesame roof, --her _own_ roof, --and determined to begone, on her returnhome, the very next morning. 

Will not your heart comprehend the greatness of this trial, and pityand excuse a momentary wavering, a yielding irresolution? Yet it was butmomentary. An hour's solitude and deep reflection fortified my heartagainst 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 onthe proofs which your past life and your own confessions had afforded ofunsteady courage and unwarrantable principles; your treatment of theWoodbury girl; your correspondence with Thomson; your ignoble sloth; yourdependence upon others; your helplessness. 

From these accusations I defended you in silence. My heart was yoursecret advocate. I did not verbally repel any of these charges. That ofinglorious dependence for subsistence upon others I admitted; but I couldnot forbear urging that this dependence was on a father. A father who wasrich; who had no other child than yourself; whose own treatment of you hadplanted and reared in you this indisposition to labour; to whose propertyyour title, ultimately, could not be denied. 

"And has he then, " she exclaimed, "deceived you in that particular? Hashe concealed from you his father's resolutions? That his engagement withyou has already drawn down his father's anger, and even his curses? On hispersisting to maintain an inviolable faith to you, he was ignominiouslybanished from his father's roof. All kindred and succour were disclaimed, and on you depends the continuance of that decree, and whether thatprotection and subsistence which he has hitherto enjoyed, and of which hischaracter stands in so much need, shall be lost to him forever. "

You did not tell me _this_, my friend. In claiming your love, farwas I from imagining that I tore you from your father's house, and plungedyou into that indigence which your character and education so totallyunfit you for sustaining or escaping from. 

My mother removed all doubt which could not but attend such unwelcometidings, by showing me her own letter to your father, and his answer toit. 

Well do I recollect your behaviour on the evening when my mother'sletter was received by your father. At that time, your deep dejection wasinexplicable. And did you not--my heart bleeds to think how much my lovehas cost you--did you not talk of a fall on the ice when I pointed to abruise on your forehead? That bruise, and every token of dismay, yourendeavours at eluding or diverting my attention from your sorrow andsolemnity, are now explained. 

Good Heaven! And was I indeed the cause of that violence, thatcontumely, --the rage, and even curses, of a father? And why concealed youthese maledictions and this violence from me? Was it not because you wellknew 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 myselffrom 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 tohis favour. 

Farewell, my friend. By that name, at least, I may continue to callyou. Yet no. I must never see you nor hear from you again, unless it be inanswer to this letter. 

Let your pity stifle the emotions of indignation or grief, and returnme such an answer as may tend to reconcile me to the vow which, whetherdifficult 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 passedbetween you and my mother, nor of your aversion to the alliance which wasdesigned to take place between your son and me. 

It is my duty to inform you that, in my opinion, your approbation wasabsolutely necessary to such a union; and consequently, since yourconcurrence is withheld, it will never take place. Every tie or engagementbetween us is from this moment dissolved, and all intercourse, by letteror otherwise, will here end. 

Your son, in opposing your wishes, imagined himself consulting myhappiness. In that he was mistaken; and I have now removed his error, byacquainting him with my present determination. 

I am deeply grieved that his attachment to me has forfeited yourfavour. I hope that there is no other obstacle to reconcilement, and thatthe termination of all intercourse between us may remove thatobstacle. 

JANE TALBOT. 

I join my daughter in assuring you that the alliance, for which amutual aversion was entertained, cannot take place; and that all herengagements with your son are dissolved. I join her likewise in entreatingyou to forget his disobedience and restore him to your protection andfavour. 

M. FIELDER. 

Letter XXXIX

_To Mrs. Talbot_

November 28. 

IT becomes me to submit without a murmur to a resolution dictated by adisinterested regard to my happiness. 

That you may find in that persuasion, in your mother's tenderness andgratitude, in the affluence and honour which this determination hassecured to you, abundant consolation for every evil that may befallyourself or pursue me, are my only wishes. 

Far was I from designing to conceal from you entirely my father'saversion to our views. I frequently apprized you of the inferences to benaturally drawn from his known character; but I trusted to his generosity, to the steadiness of my own deportment, to your own merits, when he shouldbecome personally acquainted with you, to his good sense, when reflectingon an evil in his power to lessen though not wholly to remove, for achange in his opinions, or, at least, in his conduct. 

There was sufficient resemblance in the characters of both our parentsto 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 bewholly bereaved of my father's affection. No conduct of theirs had robbedthem of my esteem. Why then did I persist in thwarting their wishes? Whyencourage you in your opposition? Because I imagined that, in thwartingtheir present views, which were founded in error, I consulted theirlasting happiness, and made myself a title to their future gratitude bychallenging their present rebukes. 

I told you not of my father's passionate violences, disgraceful tohimself and productive of unspeakable anguish to me. Why should I revivethe scene? why be the historian of my father's dishonour? why needlesslyadd to my own and to your affliction?

My concealments arose not from the fear that the disclosure wouldestrange you from me. I supposed you willing to grant me the sameindependence of a parent's control which you claimed for yourself. I sawno difference between forbearing to consult a parent, in a case where weknow that his answer will condemn us, and slighting his expressforbidding. 

I say thus much to account for, and, if possible, excuse, thatconcealment with which you reproach me. Tender and reluctant, indeed, arethese reproaches; but, --as I deem it a sacred duty to reveal to you theutmost of my follies, what but injustice to you would be the tacitadmission of injurious but groundless charges?

My actual faults are of too deep a dye to allow me to sport with yourgood opinion, or permit me to be worse thought of by you than Ideserve. 

You exhort me to seek reconcilement with my father. What mean you? Ihave not been the injurer. Not an angry word, accusing look, or revengefulthought, has come from me. I have exercised the privilege of a rationaland moral being. I have loved, not according to another's estimate ofmerit, but my own. Of what then am I to repent? Where lies mytransgression? 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 heartabhors, your letter to him, which you tell me you mean to write, and whichwill inform him that every view of that kind is at an end, will remove theevil. 

Fear not for me, my friend. Whatever be my lot, be assured that I nevercan taste pure misery while the thought abides with me that you are nothappy. 

And what now remains but to leave with you the blessing of a gratefuland devoted heart, and to submit, with what humility I can, to the destinywhich you have prescribed?

I should not deserve your love, if I did not now relinquish it with ananguish next to despair; neither should I have merit in my own eyes, if Idid not end this letter with acquitting you, the author of my loss, of allshadow 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 accompanyinghim on his northwest voyage. I mentioned to you what were my objections tothe scheme. It was a desperate adventure; a sort of forlorn hope; to bepursued in case my wishes in relation to Jane should be crossed. I had notthen any, or much, apprehension of change in her resolutions. So manyproofs 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 expectto bid an everlasting farewell to my native shore some day within theensuing fortnight. 

I call it an everlasting farewell, for I have, at present, neitherexpectation nor desire of returning. A three years' wandering amongboisterous seas and through various climates, added to that inward care, that spiritless, dejected heart, which I shall ever bear about me, wouldsurely never let me return, even if I had the wish: but I have not thewish. If I live at all, it must be in a scene far different and distantfrom 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, Ireceived a letter from Jane. Her mother had just arrived. She came, itseems, in consequence of her daughter's apparent compliance with herwishes. The letter retracting my friend's precipitate promise hadmiscarried or had lingered by the way. What I little suspected, my fatherhad acquainted Mrs. Fielder with his conduct towards me; and this, together with her mother's importunities, had prevailed on Jane once moreto renounce me. 

There never occurred an event in my life which did not, someway, beartestimony to the usefulness and value of sincerity. Had I fully disclosedall that passed between my father and me, should I not easily havediverted Jane from these extremities? Alone, at a distance from me, andwith her mother's eloquence at hand to confirm every wayward sentiment andfortify her in every hostile resolution, she is easily driven into paths, and perhaps kept steadily in them, from which proper explanations andpathetic 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. Whatbut momentary victory can I hope to attain? What but poverty, dependence, ignominy, will she share with me? And if her strenuous spirit set naughtby these, (and I know she is capable of rising above them, ) how will shesupport her mother's indignation and grief?

I have now, indeed, no hope of even momentary victory. There are buttwo 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 effectualmethod of securing submission. 

I have already written an answer; I hope such a one as, when thepresent tumults of passion have subsided, when the eye sedatelyscrutinizes, and the heart beats in an even tenor, may be read withoutshame or remorse. 

I shall also write to her mother. In doing this I must keep down theswelling bitterness. It may occupy my solitude, torment my feelings; butwhy should it infect my pen?

I have sometimes given myself credit for impartiality in judging ofothers. Indeed, I am inclined to think myself no blind or perverse judgeeven of my own actions. Hence, indeed, the greater part of my unhappiness. If my conduct had always conformed, instead of being adverse, to myprinciples, I should have moved on tranquilly and self-satisfied, atleast; but, in truth, the being that goes by my name was never morethoroughly contemned by another than by myself. --But this is falling intothe old strain, -irksome, tiresome, and useless to you as to me. Yet Icannot write just now in any other; therefore I will stop. 

Adieu, my friend. There will be time enough to hear from you ere mydeparture. 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 youcontains her resolution of never seeing you more. I likewise discover thatshe 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 canhope to be complied with; yet I cannot forbear suggesting the propriety ofyour refraining from making any answer to my daughter's letter. 

In my treatment of you, I shall not pretend any direct concern for yourhappiness. I am governed, whether erroneously or not, merely by views tothe true interest of Mrs. Talbot, which, in my opinion, forbids her tounite herself to you. But if that union be calculated to bereave her ofhappiness, it cannot certainly be conducive to yours. If you consider thematter rightly, therefore, instead of accounting me an enemy, you willrank me among your benefactors. 

You have shown yourself, in some instances, not destitute ofgenerosity. It is but justice to acknowledge that your late letter to meavows sentiments such as I by no means expected, and makes me disposed totrust your candour to acquit my intention, at least, of some of theconsequences of your father's resentment. 

I was far from designing to subject you to violence or ignominy, andmeant nothing by my application to him but your genuine and lastinghappiness. 

I dare not hope that it will ever be in my power to appease thatresentment which you feel for me. I cannot expect that you are so farraised above the rest of men, that any action will be recommended to youby its tendency to oblige me; yet I cannot conceal from you that yourreconcilement with your father will give me peculiar satisfaction. 

I ventured on a former occasion to make you an offer, on condition ofyour going to Europe, which I now beg leave to repeat. By accepting theenclosed bill, and embarking for a foreign land without any furtherintercourse, personally or by letter, with my daughter, and afterreconciliation with your father, you will confer a very great favour onone 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 humannature; but I am too sensible of the errors of my past conduct, and thedefects which will ever cleave to my character, to be either surprised orindignant at the disapprobation of a virtuous mind. So far from harbouringresentment against you, it is with reluctance I decline the acceptance ofyour bill. I cannot consider it in any other light than as an alms whichmy situation is far from making necessary, and by receiving which I shoulddefraud those whose poverty may plead a superior title. 

I hasten to give you pleasure by informing you of my intention to leaveAmerica immediately. My destiny is far from being certain; but at presentI both desire and expect never to revisit my native land. 

I design not to solicit another interview with Mrs. Talbot. Youdissuade me from making any reply to her letter, from the fear, no doubt, that my influence will be exerted to change her resolution. Dismiss, Ientreat you, madam, every apprehension of that kind. Your daughter hasdeliberately made her election. If no advantage be taken of her tendernessand pity, she will be happy in her new scheme. Shall I, who pretend tolove her, subject her to new trials and mortifications? Am I able toreward her, by my affection, for the loss of every other comfort? What canI say in favour of my own attachment to her, which may not be urged infavour of her attachment to her mother? The happiness of the one or theother must be sacrificed; and shall I not rather offer than demand thesacrifice? and how poor and selfish should I be if I did not strive tolessen the difficulties of her choice, and persuade her that in gratifyingher mother she inflicts no lasting misery on me!

I regard in its true light what you can say with respect to areconcilement with my father, and am always ready to comply with yourwishes in the only way that a conviction of my own rectitude will permit. I have patiently endured revilings and blows, but I shall not needlesslyexpose myself to new insults. Though willing to accept apology and grantan oblivion of the past, I will never avow a penitence which I do notfeel, or confess that I deserved the treatment I received. 

Truly can I affirm that your daughter's happiness is of all earthlythings most dear to me. I fervently thank Heaven that I leave her exemptfrom all the hardships of poverty, and in the bosom of one who will guardher safety with a zeal equal to my own. All that I fear is, that yourefforts to console her will fail. I know the heart which, if you thoughtme worthy of the honour, I should account it my supreme felicity to callmine. Let it be a precious deposit in your hands. 

And now, madam, permit me to conclude with a solemn blessing on yourhead 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. Theinfluence of variety and novelty will no doubt be useful. Why should Iallow my present feelings, which assure me that I have lost what isindispensable not only to my peace but my life, to supplant the invariablelesson of experience, which teaches that time and absence will dull theedge of every calamity? And have I not found myself peculiarly susceptibleof this healing influence?

Time and change of scene will, no doubt, relieve me; but, in the meantime, I have not a name for that wretchedness into which I am sunk. Thelight of day, the company of mankind, is at this moment insupportable. Ofall places in the world, _this_ is the most hateful to my soul. Ishould not have entered the city, I should not abide in it a moment, wereit not for a thought that occurred just before I left Baltimore. 

You know the mysterious and inexplicable calumny which has heightenedMrs. Fielder's antipathy against me. 

Of late, I have been continually ruminating on it, and especially sinceMrs. Talbot's last letter. Methinks it is impossible for me to leave thecountry till I have cleared her character of this horrid aspersion. Canthere be any harmony between mother and child, must not suspicion andmistrust perpetually rankle in their bosoms, while this imposture isbelieved?

Yet how to detect the fraud--Some clue must be discernible;perseverance must light on it at last. The agent in this sordid iniquitymust be human; must be influenced by the ordinary motives; must be capableof remorse or of error; must have moments of repentance or ofnegligence. 

My mind was particularly full of this subject in a midnight ramblewhich 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 atWilmington. Miss Jessup, whom you well know by my report, passed throughWilmington just as I left the sick woman's house, and stopped a momentjust to give me a "How d'ye" and to drop some railleries founded on myvisits to Miss Secker, a single and solitary lady. On reachingPhiladelphia, she amused herself with perplexing Jane by jestingexaggerations on the same subject, in a way that seemed to argue somewhatof malignity; yet I thought nothing of it at the time. 

On my next visit to the sick woman, it occurred to me, for want ofother topics of conversation, to introduce Miss Jessup. Did she know anything, I asked, of that lady?

Oh, yes, was the answer. A great deal. She lived a long time in thefamily. She remembered her well, and was a sufferer by many of herfreaks. 

It was always disagreeable to me to listen to the slanderous prate ofservants; I am careful, whenever it intrudes itself, to discourage andrebuke it; but just at this time I felt some resentment against this lady, and hardly supposed it possible for any slanderer to exaggerate hercontemptible qualities. I suffered her therefore to run on in a tediousand minute detail of the capricious, peevish, and captious deportment ofMiss Jessup. 

After the rhetoric of half an hour, all was wound up, in a kind ofsatirical apology, with, "No wonder; for the girl was over head and earsin love, and her man would have nothing to say to her. A hundred times hasshe begged and prayed him to be kind, but he slighted all her advances;and always, after they had been shut up together, she wreaked herdisappointment 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 himwith 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 storylike this had never reached my ears. I quickly ascertained that the Talbotspoken of was the late husband of my friend. 

Some incident interrupted the conversation here. The image of MissJessup was displaced to give room to more important reveries, and Ithought no more of her till this night's ramble. I now likewiserecollected that the only person suspected of having entered the apartmentwhere lay Mrs. Talbot's unfinished letter was no other than Miss Jessupherself, who was always gadding at unseasonable hours. How was thissuspicion removed? By Miss Jessup herself, who, on being charged with thetheft, asserted that she was elsewhere engaged at the time. 

It was, indeed, exceedingly improbable that Miss Jessup had any agencyin this affair, --a volatile, giddy, thoughtless character, who betrayedher 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? Theirintercourse had been very frequent since her marriage, and all hersentiments appeared to be expressed with a rash and fearless confidence. Yet, if Hannah Secker's story deserved credit, she had exerted a wonderfuldegree of circumspection, and had placed on her lips a guard that hadnever once slept. 

I determined to stop at Wilmington next day, on my journey to you, andglean what further information Hannah could give. I ran to her lodgings assoon as I alighted at the inn. 

I inquired how long and in what years she lived with Miss Jessup; whatreason 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 andcircumstantial. She lived with Miss Jessup and her mother before Talbot'smarriage with my friend, after the marriage, and during his absence on thevoyage which occasioned his death. 

The proofs of Miss Jessup's passion were continually occurring in herown family, where she suffered the ill-humour occasioned by herdisappointment to display itself without control. Hannah's curiosity wasnot chastened by much reflection, and some things were overheard whichverified the old maxim that "walls have ears. " In short, it appears thatthis poor lady doted on Talbot; that she reversed the usual methods ofproceeding, and submitted to his mercy; that she met with nothing butscorn and neglect; that even after his marriage with Jane she sought hissociety, pestered him with invitations and letters, and directed her walksin such a way as to make their meeting in the street occur as if byaccident. 

While Talbot was absent, she visited his wife very frequently, but thesubjects of their conversation and the degree of intimacy between the twoladies were better known to me than to Hannah. 

You may think it strange that my friend never suspected or discoveredthe state of Miss Jessup's feelings. But, in truth, Jane is the leastsuspicious or inquisitive of mortals. Her neighbour was regarded with noparticular affection; her conversation is usually a vein of impertinenceor levity; her visits were always unsought, and eluded as often as decorumwould permit; her talk was seldom listened to, and she and all belongingto her were dismissed from recollection as soon as politeness gave leave. Miss Jessup's deficiencies in personal and mental graces, and Talbot'sundisguised contempt for her, precluded every sentiment like jealousy. 

Jane's life since the commencement of her acquaintance with Miss Jessupwas lonely and secluded. Her friends were not of her neighbour's cast, andthose tattlers who knew any thing of Miss Jessup's follies were quiteunknown to her. No wonder, then, that the troublesome impertinence of thispoor woman had never betrayed her to so inattentive an observer asJane. 

After many vague and fruitless inquiries, I asked Hannah if Miss Jessupwas much addicted to the pen. 

Very much. Was always scribbling. Was never by herself three minutesbut 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 thewhole day knitting; supplied herself in this way with all the stockingsshe herself used; knit nothing but worsted, which she wore all the yearround; all the surplus beyond what she needed for her own use she sold ata good price to a Market Street shopkeeper; Hannah used to be charged withthe commission; always executed it grumblingly; the old lady hadstipulated with a Mr. H---- to take, at a certain price, all she made;Hannah was despatched with the stockings, but was charged to go beforehandto 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 thather detention was occasioned by the number and perseverance of herapplications to the dealers in hose, till at last she fell undersuspicion, was once followed by the old lady, detected in her fraud, anddismissed from the house with ignominy. The quondam mistress endeavouredto injure Hannah's character by reporting that her agent had actually gota higher price for the stockings than she thought proper to account for toher employer; had gained, by this artifice, not less than three farthingsa 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, andwas therefore no judge; but Tom, the waiter and coachman, was very fond ofreading and writing, and used to say that Miss Polly would make a goodclerk. Tom used to carry all her messages and letters; was a cunning andinsinuating fellow; cajoled his mistress by flatteries and assiduities;got many a smile, many a bounty and gratuity, for which the fellow onlylaughed 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 hadpaid her a visit the day before, being in attendance on his mistress onher late journey. From him she supposed that Miss Polly had gainedintelligence of Hannah's situation, and of her being succoured, in herdistress, by me. 

"Tom, you say, was her letter-carrier. Did you ever hear from him withwhom she corresponded? Did she eyer write to Talbot?"

"Oh, yes. Just before Talbot's marriage, she often wrote to him. Tomused to talk very freely in the kitchen about his mistress's attachment, and always told us what reception he met with. Mr. Talbot seldomcondescended to write any answer. "

"I suppose, Hannah, I need hardly ask whether you have any specimen ofMiss Jessup's writing in your possession?"

This question considerably disconcerted the poor woman. She did notanswer 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 beglad to have a sight of it. "

She hesitated; was very much perplexed; denied and confessedalternately that she possessed some of Miss Jessup's writing; at lengthbegan to weep very bitterly. 

After some solicitation, on my part, to be explicit, she consented todisclose what she acknowledged to be a great fault. The substance of herstory was this:--

Miss Jessup, on a certain occasion, locked herself up for several hoursin 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 beganto fall. This incident produced a great deal of impatience, and afterwaiting some time, in hopes of the shower's ceasing, and frequentlylooking at her watch, she called for an umbrella. Unhappily, as poorHannah afterwards thought, no umbrella could be found. Her own had beenlent to a friend the preceding evening, and the mother would have heldherself most culpably extravagant to uncase hers without a most palpablenecessity. Miss Polly was preparing to go out unsheltered, when theofficious Tom interfered, and asked her if _he_ could do what shewanted. At first she refused his offer, but, the mother's importunities tostay at home becoming more clamorous, she consented to commission Tom todrop a letter at the post-office. This he was to do with the utmostdespatch, and promised that not a moment should be lost. He received theletter, but, instead of running off with it immediately, he slipped intothe kitchen, just to arm himself against the storm by a hearty draught ofstrong beer. 

While quaffing his nectar, and chattering with his usual gayety, Hannah, who had long owed a grudge both to mistress and man, was temptedto 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 chiefpleasure it had always been to vex and disappoint her. The tankard beinghastily emptied, he hastened away to the post-office. When he arrivedthere, he felt for the letter. It was gone; dropped, as he supposed, inthe street. In great confusion he returned, examining very carefully thegutters and porches by the way. He entered the kitchen in greatperplexity, and inquired of Hannah if a letter had not fallen from hispocket before he went out. 

Hannah, according to her own statements, was incapable of inveteratemalice. She was preparing to rid Tom of his uneasiness, when he wassummoned to the presence of his lady. He thought proper to extricatehimself from all difficulties by boldly affirming that the letter had beenleft according to direction, and he afterwards endeavoured to persuadeHannah that it had been found in the bottom of his pocket. 

Every day increased the difficulty of disclosing the truth. Tom andMiss Jessup talked no more on the subject, and time, and new provocationsfrom her mistress, confirmed Hannah in her resolution of retaining thepaper. 

She could not read, and was afraid of trusting anybody else with thecontents of this epistle. Several times she was about to burn it, butforbore from the persuasion that a day might arrive when the possessionwould be of some importance to her. It had lain, till almost forgotten, inthe bottom of her crazy chest. 

I rebuked her, with great severity, for her conduct, and insisted onher making all the atonement in her power, by delivering up the letter tothe writer. I consented to take charge of it for that purpose. 

You will judge my surprise, when I received a letter, with the sealunbroken, directed to Mrs. Fielder, of New York. Jane and I had often beenastonished at the minute intelligence which her mother received of ourproceedings; at the dexterity this secret informant had displayed inmisrepresenting and falsely construing our actions. The informer wasanonymous, and one of the letters had been extorted from her mother byJane's urgent solicitations. This I had frequently perused, and thepenmanship was still familiar to my recollection. It bore a strikingresemblance to the superscription of this letter, and was equally remotefrom Miss Jessup's ordinary handwriting. Was it rash to infer from thesecircumstances that the secret enemy, whose malice had been so active andsuccessful, was at length discovered?

What was I to do? Should I present myself before Miss Jessup with thisletter in my hand, and lay before her my suspicions, or should I carry itto Mrs. Fielder, to whom it was directed? My curiosity was defeated by thecareful manner in which it was folded; and this was not a case in which Ideemed myself authorized to break a seal. 

After much reflection, I determined to call upon Miss Jessup. I meantnot to restore her the letter, unless the course our conversation shouldtake made it proper. I have already been at her house. She was not athome. 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 anytokens of its being inhabited. No doubt the mother and child have returnedtogether to New York. On approaching the house, my heart, too heavybefore, became a burden almost insupportable. I hastened my pace, andaverted my eyes. 

I am now shut up in my chamber at an inn. I feel as if in a wildernessof savages, where all my safety consisted in solitude. I was glad not tomeet with a human being whom I knew. 

What I shall say to Miss Jessup when I see her, I know not. I havereason to believe her the author of many slanders, but look for no relieffrom the mischiefs they have occasioned, in accusing or upbraiding theslanderer. She has likewise disclosed many instances of guilty conduct, which I supposed impossible to be discovered. I never concealed them fromMrs. Talbot, to whom a thorough knowledge of my character wasindispensable; but I was unwilling to make any other my confessor. In thisI cannot suppose her motives to have been very benevolent; but, since sheadhered 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 tolight? A mind like hers must hate a successful rival. To persuade Talbotof 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 hismarriage, is it not allowable to question the delicacy andpunctiliousness, at least, of her virtue?

Mrs. Fielder's aversion to me is chiefly founded on a knowledge of mypast errors. She thinks them too flagrant to be atoned for, and tooinveterate to be cured. I can never hope to subdue perfectly thataversion, and, though Jane can never be happy without me, _I_ alonecannot make her happy. On my own account, therefore, it is of littlemoment what she believes. But her own happiness is deeply concerned inclearing her daughter's character of this blackest of all stains. 

Here is some one coming up the stairs towards my apartment. Surely itcannot 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 myevil destiny from that of Jane, and could only portend new trials anddifficulties from the appearance of one whom I supposed her messenger. 

The poor girl, as soon as she saw me, began to sob bitterly, and couldonly exclaim, "Oh, sir! Oh, Mr. Colden!"

This behaviour was enough to terrify me. I trembled in every jointwhile I faltered out, "I hope your mistress is well?"

After many efforts, I prevailed in gaining a distinct account of myfriend's situation. This good girl, by the sympathy she always expressedin her mistress's fortunes, by her silent assiduities and constant proofsof discretion and affection, had gained Mrs. Talbot's confidence; yet nofurther than to indulge her feelings with less restraint in Molly'spresence than in that of any other person. 

I learned that the night after Mrs. Fielder's arrival was spent by myfriend in sighs and restlessness. Molly lay in the same chamber, and heraffectionate heart was as much a stranger to repose as that of hermistress. She frequently endeavoured to comfort Mrs. Talbot, but invain. 

Next day she did not rise as early as usual. Her mother came to herbedside, and inquired affectionately after her health. The visit wasreceived with smiling and affectionate complacency. Her indisposition wasdisguised, and she studied to persuade Mrs. Fielder that she enjoyed herusual 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 ofconstrained cheerfulness in her mother's presence; affected interest incommon 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. Talbotin a tender and maternal accent; seemed solicitous to divert her attentionby anecdotes of New York friends; and carefully eluded every subjectlikely to recall images which were already too intimately present. Thedaughter seemed grateful for these solicitudes, and appeared to fight withher 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 hercompliance 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 forMrs. Fielder and the other for her daughter. Jane expected its arrival, and showed the utmost impatience when the hour approached. She walkedabout her chamber, listened, with a start, to every sound, continuallyglanced from her window at the passengers. 

She did not conceal from Molly the object of her solicitude. The goodgirl endeavoured to soothe her, but she checked her with vehemence:--"Talknot to me, Molly. On this hour depends my happiness, --my life. Thesacrifice my mother asks is too much or too little. In bereaving me of mylove, she must be content to take my existence also. They never shall beseparated. "

The weeping girl timorously suggested that she had already given meup. 

"True, Molly, in a rash moment I told him that we meet no more; but twodays of misery have convinced me that it cannot be. His answer will decidemy fate as to this world. If he accept my dismissal, I am thenceforthundone. I will die. Blessing my mother, and wishing her a less stubbornchild, _I will die_. "

These last words were uttered with an air the most desperate, and anemphasis the most solemn. They chilled me to the heart, and I was unablelonger to keep my seat. Molly, unbidden, went on. 

"Your letter at last came. I ran down to receive it. Mrs. Fielder wasat the street-door before me, but she suffered me to carry my mistress'sletter to her. Poor lady! She met me at the stair-head, snatched the papereagerly, but trembled so she could not open it. At last she threw herselfon the bed, and ordered me to read it to her. I did so. At every sentenceshe 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 wasself-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 wasdusk. 

"Cannot you do something, Mr. Colden, for my mistress?" continued thegirl. "She will surely die if she has not her own way; and, to judge fromyour appearance, it is as great a cross to you as to her. "

Heaven knows, that, with me, it is nothing but the choice of dreadfulevils. Jane is the mistress of her own destiny. It is not I that haverenounced her, but she that has banished me. She has only to recall thesentence, which she confesses to have been hastily and thoughtlesslypronounced, and no power on earth shall sever me from her side. 

Molly asked my permission to inform her mistress of my being in thecity, and conjured me not to leave it, during the next day at least. Ireadily consented, and requested her to bring me word in the morning inwhat state things were. 

She offered to conduct me to her then. It was easy to effect aninterview without Mrs. Fielder's knowledge; but I was sick of allclandestine proceedings, and had promised Mrs. Fielder not to seek anothermeeting 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 thisscheme of a distant voyage? Suppose some fatal despair should seize myfriend. Suppose--it is impossible. I will not stir till she has had timeto deliberate; till resignation to her mother's will shall prove a taskthat is practicable. 

Should I not be the most fragrant of villains if I deserted one thatloved me? My own happiness is not a question. I cannot be a selfish beingand a true lover. Happiness, without her, is indeed a chimerical thought;but my exile would be far from miserable, while assured of hertranquillity, and possession would confer no peace, if she whom Ipossessed were not happier than a different destiny would make her. 

Why have all these thoughts been suspended for the last two days? I hadwrought myself up to a firm persuasion that marriage was the only remedyfor all evils; that our efforts to regain the favour of her mother wouldbe most likely to succeed when that which she endeavoured to prevent wasirretrievable. Yet that persuasion was dissipated by her last letter. _That_ convinced me that her lot would only be made miserable bybeing united to mine. Yet now, is it not evident that our fates must beinseparable?

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 urgeits claims to such affluence, such love, such treasures of personal andmental excellence, as Jane has to bestow. Would it not be dumb? It is notso absurd as to plead its devotion to her as an atonement for every pastguilt, 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 theobject 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 notbias her by prayers or blandishments. Her resolution shall spring from herown judgment, and shall absolutely govern me. I will rivet myself to herside, or vanish forever, according to her pleasure. 

I wish I had written a few words to her by Molly, assuring her of mydevotion 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 isimpossible to depart. 

I must go to Miss Jessup's. I will take up the pen ('tis my soleamusement) when I return. 

 * * * * *

I went to Miss Jessup's; her still sealed letter in my pocket; my mindconfused, perplexed, sorrowful; wholly undetermined as to the manner ofaddressing her, or the use to be made of this important paper. Idesignedly prolonged my walk, in hopes of forming some distinct conceptionof the purpose for which I was going, but only found myself each momentsinking into new perplexities. Once I had taken the resolution of openingher letter, and turned my steps towards the fields, that I might examineit at leisure; but there was something disgraceful in the violation of aseal, which scared me away from this scheme. 

At length, reproaching myself for this indecision, and leaving myconduct to be determined by circumstances, I went directly to herhouse. 

Miss Jessup was unwell; was unfit to see company; desired me to send upmy name. I did not mention my name to the servant, but replied I hadurgent business, which a few minutes' conversation would despatch. I wasadmitted. 

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-smilingair, and received me with much civility. I took my seat near her. Shebegan to talk:--

"I am very unwell; got a terrible cold, coming from Dover; been laid upever since; a teasing cough, no appetite, and worse spirits than I eversuffered. Glad you've come to relieve my solitude; not a single soul tosee me; Mrs. Talbot never favours a body with a visit. Pray, how's thedear girl? Hear her mother's come; heard, it seems, of your intimacy withMiss Secker; determined to revenge your treason to her goddess; vows sheshall henceforth have no more to say to you. "

While waiting for admission, I formed hastily the resolution in whatmanner to conduct this interview. My deportment was so solemn, that thechatterer, 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 repentalready of your new attachment? Has the atmosphere of Philadelphiareinstated Jane in all her original rights?"

"Proceed, madam. When you are tired of raillery, I shall beg yourattention to a subject in which your honour is deeply concerned; to asubject which allows not of a jest. "

"Nay, " said she, in some little trepidation, "if you have any thing tocommunicate, I am already prepared to receive it. "

"Indeed, Miss Jessup, I _have_ something to communicate. A man ofmore refinement and address than I can pretend to would make thiscommunication in a more circuitous and artful manner; and a man lessdeeply interested in the establishment of truth would act with morecaution 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 yourpatient attention while I lay before you the motives of my presentvisit. 

"You are no stranger to my attachment to Mrs. Talbot. That my passionis requited is likewise known to you. That her mother objects to her unionwith me, and raises her objections on certain improprieties in mycharacter and conduct, I suppose, has already come to your knowledge. 

"You may naturally suppose that I am desirous of gaming her favour; butit is not by the practice of fraud and iniquity, and therefore I have notbegun with denying or concealing my faults. Very faulty, very criminal, have I been; to deny that would be adding to the number of mytransgressions: but I assure you, Miss Jessup, there have been limits tomy follies; there is a boundary beyond which I have never gone. Mrs. Fielder imagines me much more criminal than I really am, and her opinionof me--which, if limited in the strictest manner by my merits, would amplyjustify 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 thinksme 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 whollyinnocent. 

"What think you, madam, " (taking her hand, and eyeing her withsteadfastness;) "she thinks me at once so artful and so wicked that I havemade the wife unfaithful to the husband; that I have persuaded Mrs. Talbotto forget what was due to herself, her fame, and to trample on hermarriage-vow. 

"This opinion is not a vague conjecture on suspicion. It is founded inwhat seems to be the most infallible of all evidence; the writtenconfession of her daughter. The paper appears to be a letter which wasaddressed to the seducer soon after the guilty interview. This paper cameindirectly 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 strangerto our hearts. The crime which this letter confesses never was committed, and the letter which contains the confession never was written by Jane. Itis a forgery. 

"Mrs. Fielder's misapprehension, so far as it relates to me, is of verylittle moment. I can hope for nothing from the removal of this error whileso many instances of real misconduct continue to plead against me, but herdaughter's happiness is materially affected by it, and for her sake I amanxious to vindicate her fame from this reproach. 

"No doubt, Miss Jessup, you have often asked me in your heart, since Ibegan to speak, why I have stated this transaction to you. What interesthave you in our concerns? What proofs of affection or esteem have youreceived from us, that should make you zealous in our behalf? Or whatrelation has your interest in any respect to _our_ weal or woe? Whyshould you be called upon as a counsellor or umpire in the little familydissensions of Mrs. Talbot and her mother?

"And do indeed these questions rise in your heart, Miss Jessup? Doesnot memory enable you to account for conduct which, to the distant andcasual observer, to those who know not what _you_ know, would appearstrange and absurd?

"Recollect yourself. I will give you a moment to recall the past. Thinkover all that has occurred since your original acquaintance with Mrs. Talbot or her husband, and tell me, solemnly and truly, whether youdiscern not the cause of his mistake. Tell me whether you know not theunhappy person whom some delusive prospect of advantage, some fatalpassion, has tempted to belie the innocent. "

I am no reader of faces, my friend. I drew no inferences from theconfusion sufficiently visible in Miss Jessup. She made no attempt tointerrupt me, but quickly withdrew her eye from my gaze; hung her headupon her bosom; a hectic flush now and then shot across her check. Butthese would have been produced by a similar address, delivered with muchsolemnity and emphasis, in any one, however innocent. 

I believe there was no anger in my looks. Supposing her to have beenthe 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 amistake so fatal to the happiness of one for whom you have alwaysprofessed a friendly regard?

"Will your own integrity or reputation be brought into question? Inorder to exculpate your friend, will it be necessary to accuse yourself?Have you been guilty in withholding the discovery? Have you been guilty incontriving the fraud? Did your own hand pen the fatal letter which is nowbrought in evidence against my friend? Were you yourself guilty ofcounterfeiting hands, in order to drive the husband into a belief of hiswife's perfidy?"

A deadly paleness overspread her countenance at these words. I pitiedher distress and confusion, and waited not for an answer which she wasunable to give. 

"Yes, Miss Jessup, I well know your concern in this transaction. I meannot to distress you; I mean not to put you to unnecessary shame; I have noindignation or enmity against you. I came hither not to injure or disgraceyou, but to confer on you a great and real benefit; to enable you torepair the evil which your infatuation has occasioned. I want to relieveyour conscience from the sense of having wronged one that never wrongedyou. 

"Do not imagine that in all this I am aiming at my own selfishadvantage. This is not the mother's only objection to me, or only proof ofthat frailty she justly ascribes to me. To prove me innocent of thischarge will not reconcile her to her daughter's marriage. It will onlyremove one insuperable impediment to her reconciliation with herdaughter. 

"Mrs. Fielder is, at this moment, not many steps from this spot. Permitme to attend you to her. I will introduce the subject. I will tell herthat you come to clear her daughter from an unmerited charge, to confessthat the unfinished letter was taken by you, and that, by additions in afeigned hand, you succeeded in making that an avowal of abandonedwickedness, which was originally innocent, at least, though perhapsindiscreet. "

All this was uttered in a very rapid but solemn accent. I gave her notime to recollect herself; no leisure for denial or evasion. I talked asif her agency was already ascertained; and the feelings she betrayed atthis abrupt and unaware attack confirmed my suspicions. 

After a long pause, and a struggle, as it were, for utterance, shefaltered out, "Mr. Colden, you see I am very sick: this conduct has beenvery strange. Nothing, --I know nothing of what you have been saying. Iwonder at your talking to me in this manner: you might as well addressyourself in this style to one you never saw. What grounds can you have forsuspecting me of any concern in this transaction?"

"Ah, madam, " replied I, "I see you have not strength of mind to confessa fault. Why will you compel me to produce the proof that you have takenan unauthorized part in Mrs. Talbot's concerns? Do you imagine that thelove you bore her husband, even after his marriage, the efforts you usedto gain his favour, his contemptuous rejection of your advances, --can youimagine 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 watchMrs. Talbot's conduct, and communicate your discoveries, in anonymousletters and a hand disguised, to her mother, I pretend not to say. I camenot to inveigh against the folly or malignity of such conduct. I came noteven to censure it. I am not entitled to sit in judgment over you. Myregard for mother and daughter makes me anxious to rectify an error fatalto their peace. There is but one way of doing this effectually, with theleast injury to your character. I would not be driven to the necessity ofemploying _public_ means to convince the mother that the charge isfalse, and that you were the calumniator; means that will humble anddisgrace you infinitely more than a secret interview and frank confessionfrom your own lips. 

"To deny and to prevaricate in a case like this is to be expected fromone capable of acting as you have acted; but it will avail you nothing. Itwill merely compel me to have recourse to means less favourable to you. Myreluctance to employ them arises from regard to you, for I repeat that Ihave no enmity for you, and propose, in reality, not only Mrs. Talbot'sadvantage, but your own. "

I cannot paint the alarm and embarrassment which these wordsoccasioned. Tears afforded her some relief, but shame had deprived her ofall 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 ofspeaking. Only be present while I explain the matter. Your silentacquiescence will be all that I shall demand. "

"Impossible!" she exclaimed, in a kind of agony; "I am already sick todeath! 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 penand paper. Send to her, by me, a few lines. Defer all circumstance andcomment, 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 hasever been a stranger. Enclose it in a paper, acknowledging the stratagemto be yours. It is done in a few words, and in half a minute. "

My impetuosity overpowered all opposition and remonstrance. The paperwas 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 opportunityyou may ever enjoy. When sunk upon the bed of death, and unable toarticulate your sentiments, you may unavailingly regret the delay of thisconfession. You may die with the excruciating thought of having blastedthe fame of an innocent woman, and of having sown eternal discord betweenmother and child. "

I said a good deal more in this strain, by which she was deeplyaffected; but she demanded time to reflect. She would do nothing then; shewould do all I wished to-morrow. She was too unwell to see anybody, tohold a pen, at present. 

"All I want, " said I, "are but few words. You cannot be at a loss forthese. 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 yourpresence and subject to your revision?"

I did not stay for her consent, but, seizing the pen, put down hastilythese words:--

"Madam: the enclosed letter has led you into mistake. It has persuadedyou that your daughter was unfaithful to her vows; but know, madam, thatthe concluding paragraph was written by me. I found the letter unfinishedon Mrs. Talbot's desk. I took it thence without her knowledge, and addedthe 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 everyconsideration my invention could suggest, to sign it. But no; she did notdeny the truth of the statement it contained, but she must have time torecollect herself. Her head was rent to pieces by pain. She was in toomuch confusion to allow her to do any thing just now deliberately. 

I now produced the letter I received from Hannah Seeker, and said, "Isee, madam, you will compel me to preserve no measures with you. _There_ is a letter which you wrote to Mrs. Fielder. Its contentswere so important that you would not at first trust a servant with thedelivery of it at the office. This, however, you were finally compelled todo. A fellow-servant, however, stole it from your messenger, and, insteadof being delivered according to its address, it has lately come into myhands. 

"No doubt, " (showing the superscription, but not permitting her to seethat the seal was unbroken, ) "no doubt you recognise the hand; the hand ofthat anonymous detractor who had previously taken so much pains toconvince the husband that his wife was an adulteress and aprostitute. "

Had I foreseen the effect which this disclosure would have had, Ishould have hesitated. After a few convulsive breathings, she fainted. Iwas greatly alarmed, and, calling in a female servant, I stayed till sherevived. I thought it but mercy to leave her alone, and, giving directionsto the servant where I might be found, and requesting her to tell hermistress that I would call again early in the morning, I left thehouse. 

I returned hither, and am once more shut up in my solitary chamber. Iam in want of sleep, but my thoughts must be less tumultuous before thatblessing can be hoped for. All is still in the house and in the city, andthe "cloudy morning" of the watchman tells me that midnight is past. Ihave already written much, but must write on. 

What, my friend, can this letter contain? The belief that the contentsare known and the true writer discovered produced strange effects. I amafraid there was some duplicity in my conduct. But the concealment of theunbroken seal was little more than chance. Had she inquired whether theletter was opened, I should not have deceived her. 

Perhaps, however, I ascribe too much to this discovery. Miss Jessup wasevidently very ill. The previous conversation had put her fortitude to asevere test. The tide was already so high, that the smallest increasesufficed to overwhelm her. Methinks I might have gained my purpose withless 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'sreflection may fortify her pride, may furnish some expedient for eludingmy request. Nay, she may refuse to see me when I call on the morrow, aridI 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 possiblycontain the remedy for many evils. What use shall I make of it? How shallI get at its contents?

There is but one way. I must carry it to Mrs. Fielder, and deliver itto her, to whom it is addressed. Carry it myself? Venture into herpresence by whom I am so much detested? She will tremble with mingledindignation and terror at the sight of me. I cannot hope a patientaudience. And can I, in such circumstances, rely on my own equanimity? Howcan I endure the looks of one to whom I am a viper, a demon; who, notcontent with hating me for that which really merits hatred, imputes to mea thousand imaginary crimes?

Such is the lot of one that has forfeited his reputation. Having oncebeen guilty, the returning path to rectitude is forever barred againsthim. His conduct will almost always be liable to a double construction;and who will suppose the influence of good motives, when experience hasproved the influence, in former cases, of evil ones?

Jane Talbot is young, lovely, and the heiress, provided she retain thefavour of her adopted mother, of a splendid fortune. I am poor, indolent, devoted, not to sensual, but to visionary and to costly, luxuries. Howshall such a man escape the imputation of sordid and selfish motives?

How shall he prove that he counterfeits no passion, employs noclandestine or illicit means, to retain the affections of such a woman. Will his averments of disinterested motives be believed? Why should theybe believed? How easily are assertions made, and how silly to creditdeclarations contradicted by the tenor of a man's whole conduct!

But I can truly aver that my motives are disinterested. Does not mycharacter 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 placemy hand upon my heart, and affirm that her fortune has _no part_ inthe zeal with which I have cultivated Jane's affections? There are fewtenants of this globe to whom wealth is wholly undesirable, and very fewwhose actual poverty, whose indolent habits, and whose relish forexpensive pleasure, make it _more_ desirable than to me. 

Mrs. Fielder is averse to her daughter's wishes. While this aversionendures, marriage, instead of enriching me, will merely reduce my wife tomy own destitute condition. How are impartial observers, how is Mrs. Fielder, to construe my endeavours to subdue this aversion, and mydeclining marriage till this obstacle is overcome? Will they ascribe itmerely to reluctance to bereave the object of my love of that affluenceand 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 aluxurious education endears to us the means of an easy and elegantsubsistence. Shall I be deaf to this lesson? Shall I rather listen to thesplendid visions of my friend, who thinks my love will sufficientlycompensate her for every suffering, --who seems to hold these enjoyments incontempt, and describes an humble and industrious life as teeming withhappiness and dignity?

These are charming visions. My heart is frequently credulous, and isalmost raised, by her bewitching eloquence, to the belief that, bybereaving her of friends and property, I confer on her a benefit. I placeher in a sphere where all the resources of her fortitude and ingenuitywill be brought into use. 

But this, with me, is only a momentary elevation. More sober views aresure to succeed. Yet why have I deliberately exhorted Jane to become mine?Because I trust to the tenderness of her mother. That tenderness will notallow her wholly to abandon her beloved child, who has hitherto had norival, and is likely to have no successor in her love. The evil, she willthink, cannot be repaired; but some of its consequences may be obviated orlightened. Intercession and submission shall not be wanting. Jane willnever suffer her heart to be estranged from her mother. Reverence andgratitude will always maintain their place. And yet, confidence issometimes shaken; doubts insinuate themselves. Is not Mrs. Fielder'stemper ardent and inflexible? Will her anger be so easily appeased? In acontest like this, will she allow herself to be vanquished? And shall I, indeed, sever hearts so excellent? Shall I be the author of such exquisiteand lasting misery to a woman like Mrs. Fielder? and shall I find thatmisery compensated by the happiness of her daughter? What pure andunmingled joy will the daughter taste, while conscious of having destroyedthe peace, and perhaps hastened the end, of one who, with regard to her, has always deserved and always possessed a gratitude and venerationwithout bounds? And for whom is the tranquillity and affection of themother 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 candissolve. 

No. My whole heart implores Jane to forget and abandon _me_; toadhere to her mother; since no earthly power and no length of time willchange Mrs. Fielder's feelings with regard to me; since I shall neverobtain, as I shall never deserve, her regard, and since her mother'shappiness is, and ought to be, dearer to Jane than her own personal andexclusive gratification. God grant that she may be able to perform, andcheerfully perform, her duty!

But how often, my friend, have I harped on this string! Yet I mustwrite, and I must put down my present thoughts, and these are thesentiments eternally present. 

Letter XLIV

_To Henry Colden_

Philadelphia, December 1. 

I said I would not write to you again; I would encourage, I would allowof, no intercourse between us. This was my solemn resolution and myvoluntary 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 rectitudeand decency find no answering chord in my heart?

Never was a creature so bereft of all dignity, all steadfastness. Theslave of every impulse; blown about by the predominant gale; a scene ofeternal fluctuation. 

Yesterday my mother pleaded. Her tears dropped fast into my bosom, andI 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 herwishes 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 ferventinclination. 

I promised every thing. My whole soul was in the promise. I retired topen a last letter to you, and to say something to your father. My heartwas 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 recompensefor every self-denial, for every sacrifice, are thy smiles, my maternalfriend! I will live smilingly for thy sake, while _thou_ livest. Iwill live only to close thy eyes, and then, as every earthly good has beensacrificed at thy bidding, will I take the pillow that sustained thee whendead, 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 thesafety of either of whom I would cheerfully die, had been purchased by thesame act. 

How did I delight to view you restored to your father's house! I wasstill your friend, though invisible. I watched over you, in quality ofguardian angel. I etherealized myself from all corporeal passions. I evenset spiritual ministers to work to find one worthy of succeeding me in thesacred task of making you happy. I was determined to raise you toaffluence, by employing, in a way unseen and unsuspected by you, thosesuperfluities which a blind and erring destiny had heaped upon me. 

And whither have these visions flown? Am I once more sunk to a levelwith my former self? Once I thought that religion was a substance withme, --not a shadow, to flit, to mock, and to vanish when its succour wasmost needed; yet now does my heart sink. 

Oh, comfort me, my friend! plead against yourself; against me. Be mymother's advocate. Fly away from these arms that clasp you, and escapefrom me, even if your flight be my death. Think not of me, but of mymother, and secure to her the consolation of following my unwedded corpseto the grave, by disclaiming, by hating, by forgetting, theunfortunate

JANE. 

Letter XLV

_To Henry Colden_

December 4. 

Ah, my friend! in what school have you acquired such fatal skill intearing the heart of an offender? Why, under an appearance of self-reproach, do you convey the bitterest maledictions? Why, with looks ofidolatry and accents of compassion, do you aim the deadliest contemptsand 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 yourgenerosity, your love? How have I rewarded your reluctance to give mepain, your readiness to sacrifice every personal good for my sake? Byreproaching you with dissimulation. By violating all those vows, which nolegal ceremony could make more solemn or binding, and which the highest, earliest, and most sacred voice of Heaven has ordained shall supersede allother bonds. By dooming you to feel "an anguish next to despair. " Thushave I requited your unsullied truth, your unlimited devotion to me!

By what degrading standard do you measure my enjoyments! "In mymother's tenderness and gratitude; in the affluence and honour which herregard will secure to me, " am I to find consolation for unfaithfulness tomy engagements; for every evil that may befall you. _You_, whom everyhallowed obligation, every principle of human nature, has placed_next_ to myself; whom it has become not a fickle inclination, but asacred duty, to prefer to all others; whose happiness ought to be my firstand chief care, and from whose side I cannot sever myself without a guiltinexpiable!

Ah, cruel friend! You ascribe my resolution to a disinterested regardto your good. You wish me to find happiness in that persuasion. Yet youleave me not that phantom for a comforter. You convict me, in every lineof your letter, of selfishness and folly. The only consideration that hasirresistible 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 mypenitence for one more rash and inconsiderate act? But, alas! my penitenceis rapid and sincere; but where is the merit of compunction that affordsno security against the repetition of the fault? And where is _my_safety?

Fly to me. Save me from my mother's irresistible expostulations. Icannot--_cannot_ withstand her tears. Let me find in your arms arefuge 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 beirrevocable, by depriving me of the power of compliance, only can I besafe. 

Fly to me, therefore. Be at the front-door at _ten_ this night. MyMolly will be my only companion. Be the necessary measures previouslytaken, that no delay or disappointment may occur. One half-hour and thesolemn rite may be performed. My absence will not be missed, as I returnimmediately. Then will there be an end to, fluctuation, for repentancecannot _undo_. Already in the sight of Heaven, at the tribunal of myown conscience, am I _thy wife_; but somewhat more is requisite tomake the compact universally acknowledged. This is _now_ my resolve. I shall keep it secret from the rest of the world. Nothing but thecompulsion of persuasion can make me waver, and concealment will save mefrom that, and _to-morrow_ remonstrance and entreaty will availnothing. 

My girl has told me of her interview with you, and where you are to befound. The dawn is not far distant, and at sunrise she carries you this. Ishall expect an immediate and (need I add, when I recollect the invariablecounsel you have given me?) a compliant answer. 

And shall I--Let me, while the sun lingers, still pour out my soul onthis 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 excruciatingagonies, know once more a rapturous emotion? So lately sunk intodespondency; so lately pondering on obstacles that rose before me likeAlps and menaced eternal opposition to my darling projects; so lately theprey of the deepest anguish: what spell diffuses through my frame thisravishing tranquillity?

_Tranquillity_, said I? That my throbbing heart gainsays. Youcannot see me just now, but the palpitating heart infects my fingers, andthe unsteady pen will speak to you eloquently. 

I wonder how far sympathy possesses you. No doubt--let me see: _tenminutes after four_, --no doubt you are sound asleep. Care has fled awayto some other head. Those invisible communicants, those aerial heraldswhose existence, benignity, and seasonable succour are parts, thouknowest, of _my_ creed, are busy in the weaving of some beatificdream. At their bidding the world of thy fancy is circumscribed by fourwhite walls, a Turkey-carpeted floor, and a stuccoed ceiling. Didst eversee 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 artnot hereafter to enter it except in dreams. 

A poor taper burns upon the toilet, --just bright enough to give thecognizance of something in woman's shape and in negligent attirescribbling near it. Thou needst not tap her on the shoulder; she need notlook up and smile a welcome to the friendly vision. She knows that thouart _here;_ for is not thy hand already in hers, and is not thy cheekalready wet with her tears? for thy poor girl's eyes are as sure tooverflow with joy as with sorrow. 

And will it be always thus, my dear friend? Will thy love screen meforever from remorse? will my mother's reproaches never intrude amidst theraptures of fondness and poison my tranquillity?

What will she say when she discovers the truth? My conscience will notallow me to dissemble. It will not disavow the name or withhold the dutiesof a wife. Too well do I conceive what she will say, --_how_ she willact. 

I need not apprehend expulsion from her house. Exile will be avoluntary act:--"You shall eat, drink, lodge, and dress as well as ever. Iwill not sever husband from wife, and I find no pleasure in seeing thosewhom I most hate perishing with want. I threatened to abandon you, merelybecause I would employ _every_ means of preventing your destruction;but my revenge is not so sordid as to multiply unnecessary evils on yourhead. I shall take from you nothing but my esteem, --my affection, --mysociety. I shall never see you but with agony; I shall never think of youwithout pain. I part with you forever, and prepare myself for that gravewhich your folly and ingratitude have dug for me. 

"You have said, Jane, that, having lost my favour, you will never liveupon my bounty. That will be an act of needless and perverse cruelty inyou. It will be wantonly adding to that weight with which you have alreadysunk me to the grave. Besides, I will not leave you an option. While Ilive, 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 haveshall be yours, --at least, while _you_ live. 

"I have deeply regretted the folly of threatening you with loss ofproperty. I should have known you better than to think that a romantichead like yours would find any thing formidable in such deprivations. Ifother considerations were feeble, this would be chimerical. 

"Fare you well, Jane, and, when you become a mother, may yourtenderness never be requited by the folly and ingratitude which it hasbeen my lot to meet with in the child of my affections!"

Something like this has my mother already said to me, in the course ofan affecting conversation, in which I ventured to plead for you. And haveI, 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 burdenof remorse which generosity like this will lay upon me?

But I tell you, Henry, I am resolved. I have nothing but evil tochoose. There is but one calamity greater than my mother's anger. I cannotmangle my own vitals. I cannot put an impious and violent end to my ownlife. Will it be mercy to make _her_ witness my death? and can I livewithout you? If I must be an ingrate, be her and not you the victim. If Imust requite benevolence with malice and tenderness with hatred, be it_her_ benevolence and tenderness, and not _yours_, that are thusrequited. 

Once more, then, note well. The hour of _ten_; the station nearthe door; a duly-qualified officiator previously engaged; and my destinyin this life fixed beyond the power of recall. The bearer of this willbring 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 atthe pen. I am plunged into greater difficulties and embarrassments thanever. 

It was scarcely daylight, when a slumber into which I had just fallenwas interrupted by a servant of the inn. A girl was below, who wanted tosee me. The description quickly proved it to be Molly. I rose and directedher to be admitted. 

She brought two letters from her mistress, and was told to wait for ananswer. Jane traversed her room, half distracted and sleepless during mostof the night. Towards morning she sat down to her desk, and finished aletter, which, together with one written a couple of days before, wasdespatched to me. 

My heart throbbed--I was going to say with transport; but I am at aloss to say whether anguish or delight was uppermost on reading theseletters. She recalls every promise of eternal separation; she consents toimmediate marriage as the only wise expedient; proposes ten o'clock_this night_ to join our hands; will conceal her purpose from hermother, and resigns to me the providing of suitable means. 

I was overwhelmed with surprise and--shall I not say?--delight at thisunexpected concession. An immediate and _consenting_ answer wasrequired. I hurried to give this answer, but my tumultuous feelings wouldnot let me write coherently. I was obliged to lay down the pen, and take aturn 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 momentaryimpulse in my favour. To violate my promises to Mrs. Fielder: my letter toher may be construed into promises not to seek another interview withJane, and to leave the country forever. And shall I betray this impetuouswoman into an irrevocable act, which her whole future life may beunavailingly consumed in repenting? Some delay, some deliberation, cannotbe injurious. 

"And yet this has always been my advice. Shall I reject the hand thatis now offered me? How will she regard these new-born scruples, thisdrawing back when the door spontaneously opens and solicits myentrance?

"Is it in my power to make Jane Talbot _mine_? my wife? And shallI hesitate? Ah! would to Heaven it were a destiny as fortunate for her asfor 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 hermother's displeasure, should I not need that consolation as much asshe?"

These reflections had no other effect than to make me irresolute. Icould not return my assent to her scheme, I could not reject so bewitchingan offer. This offer was the child of a passionate, a desperate moment. Whither, indeed, should she fly for refuge from a scene like that whichshe describes?

Molly urged me to come to some determination, as her mistress wouldimpatiently wait her return. Finding it indispensable to say something, Iat length wrote:--

"I have detected the author of the forgery which has given us so muchdisquiet. I propose to visit your mother this morning, when I shall claimadmission to you. In that interview may our future destiny be discussedand settled. Meanwhile, still regard me as ever ready to purchase yourtrue happiness by every sacrifice. "

With this billet Molly hastened away. What cold, repulsive terms werethese! My conscience smote me as she shut the door. But what could Ido?

I had but half determined to seek an interview with Mrs. Fielder. Whatpurpose would it answer while the truth respecting the counterfeit letterstill remained imperfectly discovered? And why should I seek an interviewwith Jane? Would her mother permit it? and should I employ my influence towin 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 youleave me to my own destiny. You hear not, and will not seasonably hearwhat 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 raiseobstacles insuperable between us. Our interests and persons may be unitedforever, 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 toMrs. Fielder. I am very ill. Don't attempt to see me again. I cannot beseen. Let the enclosed satisfy you. It is enough. Never should I have saidso 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 myrashness have not gone further than Mrs. Talbot's family. Let the mischiefbe repaired as far as it can be; but do not injure me unnecessarily. Ihope I am understood. 

Let me know what use you have made of the letter you showed me, and, Ibeseech 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 thathardly knows how to sign its own condemnation, and which sickness, no lessthan irresolution, almost deprives of the power to hold the pen. 

Yet I call Heaven to witness that I expected not the evil from myinfatuation which, it seems, has followed it. I meant to influence nonebut Mr. Talbot's belief. I had the misfortune to see and to love him longbefore his engagement with your daughter. I overstepped the limits of mysex, and met with no return to my generous offers and my weak entreatiesbut 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 torage and revenge and how the merits of the object preferred to me shouldonly embitter that revenge. 

Jane Talbot never loved the man whom I would have made happy. Heringenuous temper easily disclosed her indifference, and she married not toplease herself, but to please others. Her husband's infatuation inmarrying on such terms could be exceeded by nothing but his folly inrefusing 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, inTalbot's absence; and can you not conceive, madam, that my heart wasdisposed to exult in every event that verified my own predictions andwould convince Talbot of the folly of his choice? Hence I was a jealousobserver. The worst construction was put upon your daughter's conduct. That open, impetuous temper of hers, confident of innocence, and fearlessof 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 reputedlicentiousness of Mr. Colden's principles, some reason, some probability, in my surmises. 

Several anonymous letters were written to you. I thank Heaven that Iwas seldom guilty of direct falsehoods in these letters. I told you littlemore than what a jealous eye and a prying disposition easily discovered;and I never saw any thing in their intercourse that argued more than atemper thoughtless and indiscreet. To distinguish minutely between truthsand exaggerations, in the letters which I sent you, would be a painfuland, I trust, a needless task, since I now solemnly declare that, on animpartial review of all that I ever witnessed in the conduct of yourdaughter, I remember nothing that can justify the imputation of guilt. Ibelieve her conduct to Colden was not always limited by a due regard toappearances; that she trusted her fame too much to her consciousness ofinnocence, and set too lightly by the malignity of those who would be gladto find her in fault, and the ignorance of others, who naturally judged ofher by themselves. And this, I now solemnly take Heaven to witness, is theonly charge that can truly be brought against her. 

There is still another confession to make. If suffering and penitencecan atone for any offence, surely mine has been atoned for! But it stillremains that I should, as far as my power goes, repair the mischief. 

It is no adequate apology, I well know, that the consequences of mycrime were more extensive and durable than I expected; but is it notjustice to myself to say that this confession would have been made earlierif I had earlier known the extent of the evil? I never suspected but thatthe belief of his wife's infidelity was buried with Talbot. 

Alas! wicked and malignant as I was, I meant not to persuade the motherof her child's profligacy. Why should I have aimed at this? I had noreason to disesteem or hate you. I was always impressed with reverence foryour character. In the letters sent directly to you, I aimed at nothingbut to procure your interference, and make maternal authority declareitself against that intercourse which was essential to your daughter'shappiness. 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 halfmischievous made me snatch it up and withdraw as abruptly as Ientered. 

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 notsuch as a very circumspect and wary temper would have allowed itself towrite. 

How shall I describe the suggestions that led me to make a mostnefarious use of this paper? Circumstances most unhappily concurred tomake my artifice easy and plausible. I discovered that Colden had spentmost of the preceding night with your daughter. It is true a most heavystorm had raged during the evening, and the moment it remitted (which wasnot till three o'clock) he was seen to come out. His detention, therefore, candour would ascribe to the storm; but this letter, with such aconclusion as was too easily made, might fix a construction on it that notime could remove and innocence could never confute. 

I had not resolved in what way I should employ this letter, as I hadeked it out, before Mr. Talbot's return. When that event took place, myold infatuation revived. I again sought his company, and the indifference, and even contempt, with which I was treated, filled me anew withresentment. To persuade him of his wife's guilt was, I thought, aneffectual 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 toaccomplish my ruin. My own ingenuity in vain attempted to fall on a_safe_ mode of putting this letter in Talbot's way, and this hadnever been done if chance had not surprisingly befriended my purpose. 

One evening I dropped familiarly in upon your daughter. Nobody wasthere but Mr. Talbot and she. She was writing at her desk as usual, forshe seemed never at ease but with a pen in her fingers; and Mr. Talbotseemed thoughtful and uneasy. At my entrance the desk was hastily closedand locked. But first she took out some papers, and, mentioning her designof going up-stairs to put them away, she tripped to the door. Lookingback, however, she perceived she had dropped one. This she took up, insome hurry, and withdrew. 

Instead of conversing with me, Talbot walked about the room in apeevish and gloomy humour. A thought just then rushed into my mind. WhileTalbot had his back towards me, and was at a distance, I dropped thecounterfeit, at the spot where Jane had just before dropped her paper, andwith little ceremony took my leave. Jane had excused her absence to me, and promised to return within _five minutes_. It was not possible, Ithought, that Talbot's eye, as he walked backward and forward during thatinterval, could miss the paper, which would not fail to appear as ifdropped by his wife. 

My timidity and conscious guilt hindered me from attempting todiscover, by any direct means, the effects of my artifice. I was mortifiedextremely in finding no remarkable difference in their deportment to eachother. Sometimes I feared I had betrayed myself; but no alteration everafterwards appeared in their behaviour to me. 

I know how little I deserve to be forgiven. Nothing can palliate thebaseness of this action. I acknowledge it with the deepest remorse, andnothing, especially since the death of Mr. Talbot, has lessened my grief, but the hope that some unknown cause prevented the full effect of thisforgery on his peace, and that the secret, carefully locked up in his ownbreast, expired with him. All my enmities and restless jealousy foundtheir repose in the same grave. 

You have come to the knowledge of this letter, and I now find that thefraud 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 assureyou, madam, that the concluding paragraphs were _written by me_, andthat those parts of it which truly belong to your daughter are perfectlyinnocent. 

If it were possible for you to forgive my misconduct, and to sufferthis confession to go no further than the evil has gone, you will conferas 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: Thepreceding one. ] which I have hastily transcribed. I will not stop to tellyou 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. Fromtheir own lips will I know my destiny. I have conversed too long at adistance with this austere lady. I will mark with my own eyes the effectof this discovery. Perhaps the moment may prove a yielding one. Finding meinnocent in one respect, in which her persuasion of my guilt was moststrong, may she not remit or soften her sentence on inferior faults? Andwhat may be the influence of Jane's deportment, when she touches my handin a last adieu?

I have complied with Miss Jessup's wish in one particular. I have senther the letter which I got from Hannah, unopened; unread; accompanied witha few words, to this effect:--

"If you ever injured Mr. Talbot, your motives for doing so entitle youto nothing but compassion, while your present conduct lays claim, not onlyto forgiveness, but to gratitude. The letter you intrust to me shall beapplied to no purpose but that which you proposed by writing it. Enclosedis the paper you request, the seal unbroken and its contents unread. Inthis, 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 mostimportant, perhaps, in my eventful life. Surely this interview with Mrs. Fielder will decide my destiny. After it, I shall have nothing tohope. 

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 steadfastspirit; but perhaps a walk in the clear air will be more conducive to thisend 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 thepresent state of things without confusion. 

With what different emotions did I use to approach this house! "Itstill contains, " thought I, as my wavering steps brought me in sight ofit, "all that I love; but I enter not unceremoniously now. I find her noton the accustomed sofa, eager to welcome my coming with smiling affabilityand arms outstretched. No longer is it _home_ to me, nor sheassiduous to please, familiarly tender and anxiously fond, alreadyassuming the conjugal privilege of studying my domestic ease. "

I knocked, somewhat timorously, at the door, --a ceremony which I hadlong been in the habit of omitting: but times are changed. I was afraidthe melancholy which was fast overshadowing me would still more unfit mefor what was coming; but, instead of dispelling it, this very apprehensiondeepened my gloom. 

Molly came to the door. She silently led me into a parlour. The poorgirl was in tears. My questions as to the cause of her distress drew fromher a very indistinct and sobbing confession that Mrs. Fielder had beenmade uneasy by Molly's going out so early in the morning; had taken herdaughter 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 themother's part; obstinacy, irresolution, sorrowful, reluctant penitence andacquiescence on the side of the daughter; a determination, tacitlyconcurred in by Jane, of leaving the city immediately. Orders were alreadyissued 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 whichtalks of your intention to visit her. She vows she will not see you if youcome. "

"Go, then, to Jane, and tell her I would see her for five minutes. Tellher openly; before her mother. "

This message, as I expected, brought down Mrs. Fielder alone. I neversaw this lady before. There was a struggle in her countenance betweenanger and patience; an awful and severe solemnity; a slight and tacitnotice of me as she entered. We both took chairs without speaking. After amoment'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 sawthe rising vehemence could scarcely be restrained. ) "I dare not hope foryour favourable ear: all I ask is an audience from you of a fewminutes. "

"This preface, sir, " (her motions less and less controllable, ) "isneedless. I have very few minutes to spare at present. This roof ishateful to me while you are under it. Say what you will, sir, and brieflyas possible. "

"No, madam; _thus_ received, I have not fortitude enough to saywhat I came to say. I merely entreat you to peruse this letter. "

"'Tis well, sir, " (taking it, with some reluctance, and, after eyeingthe direction, putting it aside. ) "And this is all your business?"

"Let me entreat you, madam, to read it in my presence. Its contentsnearly concern your happiness, and will not leave mine unaffected. "

She did not seem, at first, disposed to compliance, but at lengthopened and read. What noble features has this lady! I watched them, as sheread, with great solicitude, but discovered in them nothing that couldcherish my hope. All was stern and inflexible. No wonder at the ascendencythis spirit possesses over the tender and flexible Jane!

She read with visible eagerness. The varying emotion played withaugmented rapidity over her face. Its expression became less severe, andsome degree of softness, I thought, mixed itself with those glances whichreflection sometimes diverted from the letter. These tokens somewhatrevived my languishing courage. 

After having gone through it, she returned; read again and ponderedover particular passages. At length, after some pause, she spoke; but herindignant eye scarcely condescended to point the address to me:--

"As a mother and a woman I cannot but rejoice at this discovery. Tofind my daughter _less_ guilty than appearances led me to believe, cannot but console me under the conviction of her numerous errors. Wouldto 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, hasacted. You may desist from any future persecution. Your letter to me gaveme no reason to expect the honour of this visit, and contained somethinglike a promise to shun any further intercourse with Mrs. Talbot. "

"I hope, madam, the contents of _this_ letter will justify me inbringing it to you?"

"Perhaps it has; but that commission is performed. That, I hope, is allyou proposed by coming hither; and you will pardon me if I plead anengagement for not detaining you longer in this house. "

I had no apology for prolonging my stay, yet I was irresolute. Sheseemed 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 canfollow? 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 infatuatedgirl. I know what a rash proposal she has made you, and you seek herpresence to insure her adherence to it. "

Her vehemence tended more to bereave me of courage than of temper, butI could not forbear (mildly, however) reminding her that if I had soughtto take advantage of her daughter's offer, the easiest and most obviousmethod was different from that which I had taken. 

"True, " said she, her eyes flashing fire; "a secret marriage would havegiven you the _destitute_ and _portionless_ girl; but your viewsare far more solid and substantial. You know your power over her, and aimat extorting from compassion for my child what--But why do I exchange aword with you? Mrs. Talbot knows not that you are here. She has just givenme the strongest proof of compunction for _every_ past folly, andespecially the _last_. She has bound herself to go along with me. Ifyour professions of regard for her be sincere, you will not increase herdifficulties. I command you, I implore you, to leave the house. "

I should not have resisted these entreaties on my own account. Yet todesert her--to be thought by her to have coldly and inhumanly rejected heroffers!

"In your presence, madam--I ask not privacy--let her own lips confirmthe sentence; be renunciation her own act. For the sake of her peace ofmind----"

"God give me patience!" said the exasperated lady. "How securely do youbuild on her infatuation! But you shall not see her. If she consents tosee you, I never will forgive her. If she once more relapses, she isundone. She shall write her mind to you: let that serve. I will permither--I will urge her--to write to you: let that serve. "

I went to this house with a confused perception that this visit wouldterminate my suspense. "One more interview with Jane, " thought I, "and nomore fluctuations or uncertainty. " Yet I was now as far as ever fromcertainty. 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 mypleas, I yielded to the tide. With a drooping heart, I consented towithdraw with my dearest hope unaccomplished. 

My steps involuntarily brought me back to my lodgings. Here am I againat my pen. Never were my spirits lower, my prospects more obscure, myhopes nearer to extinction. 

I am afraid to allow you too near a view of my heart at this moment ofdespondency. 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 shakeoff, this excruciating, this direful melancholy. Heavy, heavy is my soul;comfortless and friendless my condition. Nothing is sweet but the prospectof oblivion. 

But, again I say, these thoughts must not lead me. Dreadful anddownward is the course to which they point. I must relinquish the pen. Imust sally forth into the fields. Naked and bleak is the face of nature atthis 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 strangerto 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 whichcould give even momentary credit to your assertions. 

Most fortunately, my belief lasted only till you left the house. Thenmy scruples, which slept for a moment, revived, and I determined to clearup my doubts by immediately calling on Miss Jessup. 

If any thing can exceed your depravity, sir, it is your folly. But Iwill not debase myself: my indignation at being made the subject, and, forsome minutes, the dupe, of so gross and so profligate an artifice, carriesme beyond all bounds. What, sir!--But I will restrain myself. 

I would not leave the city without apprizing you of this detection ofyour schemes. If Miss Jessup were wise, she would seek a just revenge forso atrocious a slander. 

I need not tell you that I have seen her; laid the letter before herwhich you delivered to me; nor do I need to tell _you_ what her angerand 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 acton most occasions like an idiot. Their iniquity was not sufficient todeter you from impostures which--but I scorn to chide you. 

My daughter is a monument of the success of your schemes. But theirsuccess shall never be complete. While I live, she shall never join herinterests with yours. That is a vow which, I thank God, I am able toaccomplish; _and shall_. 

H. FIELDER. 

Letter LI

_To James Montford_

December 13. 

Is not this strange, my friend? Miss Jessup, it seems, has denied herown letter. Surely there was no mistake, --no mystery. Let me look again atthe words in the cover. 

Let me awake! Let me disabuse my senses! Yes. It is plain. Miss Jessuprepented her of her confession. Something in that unopened letter--believing the contents of that known, there were inducements to sinceritywhich the recovery of that letter, and the finding it unopened, perhapsannihilated. 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 onherself!

Well, and what is now to be done? I will once more return to MissJessup. I will force myself into her presence, and then----But I have nota moment to lose. 

 * * * * *

And this was the night, this was the hour, that was to see my Jane'shand wedded to mine! That event Providence, or fate, or fortune, steppedin to forbid. And must it then pass away like any vulgar hour?

It deserves to be signalized, to be made memorable. What forbids butsordid, despicable cowardice? Not virtue; not the love of universalhappiness; 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 withinmy reach. And why not? What obstacles arise in the way?

Have I not youth, health, knowledge, talents? Twenty professional roadsare open before me, and solicit me to enter them; but no. I shall neverenter any of them. Be all earthly powers combined to force me into theright path, --the path of duty, honour, and interest: they strive invain. 

And whence this incurable folly?--this rooted incapacity of acting asevery motive, generous and selfish, combine to recommend? Constitution;habit; insanity; the dominion of some evil spirit, who insinuates hisbaneful power between the _will_ and the _act_. 

And this more congenial good; this feminine excellence; this secondaryand more valuable self; this woman who has appropriated to herself everydesire, 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 meunfold myself _to_ myself; let me ask my soul, Canst thou wish to berejected, renounced, and forgotten by Jane? Does it please thee that herhappiness 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 Ihere, endeavouring to give form, substance, and duration to images towhich 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 onefriend is sweet. I fancy myself talking to one who is interested in myhappiness; but this shall satisfy me. If fate impel me to any rash andirretrievable act, I will take care that no legacy of sorrow shall be leftto my survivors. My fate shall be buried in oblivion. No busy curiosity, no affectionate zeal, shall trace the way that I have gone. No mourningfootsteps shall haunt my grave, I am, indeed, my friend--never, never before, spiritless and evenhopeless 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; butthis wish, while it saddened my bosom, never raised my hand against mylife. 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 aftermore 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 ofcomfort and courage; will make life, with all its disappointments andvexations, 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 anotherinterview with Mrs. Fielder. Both the one and the other have left thecity. Jane's dwelling is deserted. Shortly after I left it, they set outupon their journey, and Miss Jessup--no doubt, to avoid another interviewwith 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 heartof Miss Jessup, and this fatal error will be rectified. I need not live, Ineed 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 wrotethis letter, you will throw it unread into the fire; yet it comes not tosoothe resentment, or to supplicate for mercy. It seeks not a favourableaudience. It wishes not--because the wish would be chimerical--to have itsassertions believed. It expects not even to be read. All I hope is, that, though neglected, despised, and discredited for the present, it may not beprecipitately destroyed or utterly forgotten. The time will come when itwill be read with a different spirit. 

You inform me that Miss Jessup has denied her letter, and imputes to methe wickedness of forging her name to a false confession. You are justlyastonished at the iniquity and folly of what you deem my artifice. Thisastonishment, when you look back upon my past misconduct, is turned fromme to yourself; from _my_ folly to your own credulity, that was, fora moment, made the dupe of my contrivances. 

I can say nothing that _will_ or that _ought_--that is mypeculiar misery, --that ought, considering the measure of my real guilt, toscreen me from this charge. There is but one event that can shake youropinion. An event that is barely possible; that may not happen, if ithappen at all, till the lapse of years; and from which, even if I werealive, I could not hope to derive advantage. Miss Jessup's conscience mayawaken 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 tobear testimony to my rectitude. Thrown aside and long forgotten, or neverread, chance may put it in your way once more. Time, that soother ofresentment as well as lessener of love, and the perseverance of yourdaughter in the way you prescribe, may soften your asperities even towardsme. A generous heart like yours will feel an emotion of joy that I havenot been quite as guilty as you had reason to believe. 

Give me leave, madam, to anticipate that moment. The number of myconsolations are few. Your enmity I rank among my chief misfortunes, andthe more so because I deserve _much_, though not _all_ yourenmity. The persuasion that the time will come when you will acquit me ofthis charge, is, even now, a comforter. This is more desirable to me, since it will relieve your daughter from _one_ among the many evilsin 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 thefields. Returning, I met Harriet Thomson in the street. The meeting wassomewhat unexpected. Since we parted at Baltimore, I imagined she hadreturned to her old habitation in Jersey. I knew she was pretty much astranger in this city. Night had already come on, and she was alone. Shegreeted me with visible satisfaction; and, though I was very little fitfor society, especially of those who loved me not, I thought commoncivility 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 hatefulcharacter. I had even, accidentally, heard her opinion of the affairbetween Jane and me. Jane was severely censured for credulity andindiscretion, but some excuse was allowed to her on the score of thegreater guilt that was placed to my account. 

Her behaviour, when we first met, was somewhat conformable to theseimpressions. A good deal of coldness and reserve in her deportment, whichI was sometimes sorry for, as she seems an estimable creature; meek, affectionate, tender, passionately loving her brother; convinced, from thehour of her first arrival, that his disease was a hopeless one, yetexerting a surprising command over her feelings, and performing everyoffice of a nurse with skill and firmness. 

Insensibly the distance between us grew less. A participation in thesame calamity, and the counsel and aid which her situation demanded, forced her to lay aside some of her reserve. Still, however, it seemed buta submission to necessity; and all advances were made with an illgrace. 

She was often present when her brother turned the discourse uponreligious subjects. I have long since abjured the vanity of disputation. There is no road to truth but by meditation, -severe, intense, candid, anddispassionate. What others say on doubtful subjects, I shall henceforthlay up as materials for meditation. 

I listened to my dying friend's arguments and admonitions, I think Imay venture to say, with a suitable spirit. The arrogant or disputatiouspassions could not possibly find place in a scene like this. Even if Ithought him in the wrong, what but brutal depravity could lead me toendeavour to shake his belief at a time when sickness had made hisjudgment infirm, and when his opinion supplied his sinking heart withconfidence and joy?

But, in truth, I was far from thinking him in the wrong. At any time Ishould have allowed infinite, plausibility and subtlety to his reasonings, and at this time I confessed them to be weighty. Whether they were mostweighty in the scale could be only known by a more ample and deliberateview and comparison than it was possible, with the spectacle of a dyingfriend before me, and with so many solicitudes and suspenses about merespecting Jane, to bestow on them. Meanwhile, I treasured them up, anddetermined, as I told him, that his generous efforts for my good shouldnot be thrown away. 

At first, his sister was very uneasy when her brother entered on thetheme nearest to his friendly heart. She seemed apprehensive of disputeand contradiction. This apprehension was quickly removed, and shethenceforth encouraged the discourse. She listened with delight andeagerness, and her eye, frequently, when my friend's eloquence was mostaffecting, appealed to me. It sometimes conveyed a meaning far morepowerful than her brother's lips, and expressed at once the strongestconviction of the truth of his words, and the most fervent desire thatthey might convince me. Her natural modesty, joined, no doubt, to herdisesteem 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 hadoccasion to say, were very evident. I was just then in the most dejectedand 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 menaturally flowed from these qualities, while an abatement of that aversionwas flattering to me, as the triumph of feeling over judgment. 

I should have left her at the door of her lodgings, but she besought meto go in so earnestly, that my facility, rather than my inclination, complied. She saw that I was absent and disturbed. I never read compassionand (shall I say?) good-will in any eye more distinctly than in hers. 

The conversation for a time was vague and trite. Insensibly, the sceneslately witnessed were recalled, not without many a half-stifled sigh andill-disguised tear on her part. Some arrangements as to the letters andpapers of her brother were suggested. I expressed a wish to have myletters restored to me; I alluded to those letters, written in thesanguine insolence of youth and with the dogmatic rage upon me, that havedone me so much mischief with Mrs. Fielder. I had not thought of thembefore; but now it occurred to me that they might as well bedestroyed. 

This insensibly led the conversation into more interesting topics. Icould not suppress my regret that I had ever written some things in thoseletters, and informed her that my view in taking them back was to doomthem to that oblivion from which it would have been happy for me if theynever had been called. 

After many tacit intimations, much reluctance and timidity to inquireand communicate, I was greatly surprised to discover that these lettershad been seen by her; that Mrs. Fielder's character was not unknown toher; that she was no stranger to her brother's disclosures to thatlady. 

Without directly expressing her thoughts, it was easy to perceive thather mind was full of ideas produced by these letters, by her brother'sdiscourse, and by curiosity as to my present opinions. Her modesty laidrestraint on her lips. She was fearful, I supposed, of being thoughtforward and impertinent. 

I endeavoured to dissipate these apprehensions. All about this girlwas, on this occasion, remarkably attractive. I loved her brother, and hisfeatures still survive in her. The only relation she has left is a distantone, on whose regard and protection she has therefore but slender claims. Her mind is rich in all the graces of ingenuousness and modesty. Thecuriosity she felt respecting me made me grateful as for a token ofregard. I was therefore not backward to unfold the true state of mymind. 

Now and then she made seasonable and judicious comments on what I said. Was there any subject of inquiry more momentous than the truth ofreligion? If my doubts and heresies had involved me in difficulties, wasnot the remedy obvious and easy? Why not enter on regular discussions, and, having candidly and deliberately formed my creed, adhere to itfrankly, firmly, and consistently? A state of doubt and indecision was, inevery view, hurtful, criminal, and ignominious. Conviction, if it were infavour of religion, would insure me every kind of happiness. It wouldforward even those schemes of temporal advantage on which I might beintent. It would reconcile those whose aversion arose from difference ofopinion; and in cases where it failed to benefit my worldly views, itwould console me for my disappointment. 

If my inquiries should establish an irreligious conviction, still, anyform of certainty was better than doubt. The love of truth and theconsciousness of that certainty would raise me above hatred and slander. Ishould then have some kind of principle by which to regulate my conduct; Ishould then know on what foundation to build. To fluctuate, to waver, topostpone inquiry, was more criminal than any kind of opinion candidlyinvestigated and firmly adopted, and would more effectually debar me fromhappiness. At my age, with my talents and inducements, it was sordid, itwas ignoble, it was culpable, to allow indifference or indolence toslacken my zeal. 

These sentiments were conveyed in various broken hints and modestinterrogatories. While they mortified, they charmed me; they enlightenedme 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 orhappiness, but to something less fatal, less dreadful. 

Would you think that a ray of hope has broken in upon me? Am I notstill, in some degree, the maker of my fortune? Why mournfully ruminate onthe 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 suchthoughts? How often has this transient hope, this momentary zeal, startedinto 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 grieveor rejoice at that power of now and then escaping from the past? Could itoperate to my amendment, memory should be ever busy; but I fear that itwould 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 thinkthat if I had time to cultivate her good opinion I should gain as much ofit as I deserve. Her good-will, her sympathy at least, might be awakenedin my favour. 

We have had a long conversation. Her distance and reserve are much lessthan 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 latelyreceived from Mrs. Talbot as vouchers for my sincerity. 

She listened favourably to my account of the unhappy misapprehensionsinto which Mrs. Fielder had fallen. She was disposed to be more severe onMiss Jessup's imposture than even my irritated passions had been. 

She would not admit that Mrs. Fielder's antipathy to my alliance withher daughter was without just grounds. She thought that everlastingseparation was best for us both. A total change of my opinions on moralsubjects might perhaps, in time, subdue the mother's aversion to me; butthis change must necessarily be slow and gradual. I was indeed already, from my own account, far from being principled against religion; but thiswas only a basis whereon to build the hope of future amendment. No presentmerit could be founded on my doubts. 

I spared not myself in my account of former follies. The recital madeher very solemn. I had--I had, indeed, been very faulty; my presentembarrassments were the natural and just consequences of my misconduct. Ihad not merited a different destiny. I was unworthy of the love of such awoman as Jane. I was not qualified to make her happy. I ought to submit tobanishment, not only as to a punishment justly incurred, but in gratitudeto one whose genuine happiness, taking into view her mother's characterand the sacrifices to which her choice of me would subject her, would bemost effectually consulted by my exile. 

This was an irksome lesson. She had the candour not to expect mycordial concurrence in such sentiments, yet endeavoured in her artlessmanner to enforce them. She did not content herself with placing thematter in this light. She still continued to commend the design of adistant voyage, even should I intend one day to return. The scheme waslikely to produce health and pleasure to me. It offered objects which arational curiosity must hold dear. The interval might not pass awayunpropitiously to me. Time might effect desirable changes in Mrs. Fielder's sentiments and views. A thousand accidents might occur to levelthose obstacles which were now insuperable. Pity and complacency mightsucceed to abhorrence and scorn. Gratitude and admiration for thepatience, meekness, and self-sacrifices of the daughter might graduallybring about the voluntary surrender of her enmities; besides, that eventmust one day come which will place her above the influence of all mortalcares and passions. 

These conversations have not been without their influence. Yes, myfriend, my mind is less gloomy and tumultuous than it was. I look forwardto this voyage with stronger hopes. 

Methinks I would hear once more from Jane. Could she be persuadedcheerfully to acquiesce in her mother's will; reserve herself forfortunate contingencies; confide in my fidelity; and find her content inthe improvement of her time and fortune, in befriending the destitute, relieving, by her superfluities, the needy, and consoling the afflicted byher sympathy, advice, and succour, would she not derive happiness fromthese sources, though disappointed in the wish nearest her heart?

Might I not have expected a letter ere this? But she knows not where Iam, --probably imagines me at my father's house. Shall I not venture towrite? a last and long farewell? Yet have I not said already all that theoccasion will justify? But, if I would write, I know not how to addressher. It seems she has not gone to New York. Her mother has a friend inJersey, whither she prevailed on Jane to accompany her. I suppose it wouldbe 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. Mysister and you may expect to see me by Saturday night. In the arms of mytrue friends, I will endeavour to forget the vexations that at presentprey upon the peace of

Your

H. C. 

Letter LV

_To Henry Colden_

My mother allows me, and even requires me, to write to you. Myreluctance to do so is only overcome by the fear of her displeasure; yetdo not mistake me, my friend. Infer not from this reluctance that theresolution of being henceforward all that my mother wishes can be alteredby any effort of yours. 

Alas! how vainly do I boast my inflexibility! My safety lies only infilling my ears with my mother's remonstrances and shutting them againstyour persuasive accents. I have therefore resigned myself wholly to mymother's government. I have consented to be inaccessible to your visits orletters. 

I have few claims on your gratitude or generosity; yet may I not relyon the humanity of your temper? To what frequent and severe tests has mycaprice already subjected your affection! and has it not remained unshakenand undiminished? Let me hope that you will not withhold this last proofof your affection for me. 

It would greatly console me to know that you are once more on filialand 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 beenpaved by the letter jointly addressed to him by my mother and myself; thatnothing is wanting but a submissive and suitable deportment on your part, to restore you to the station you possessed before you had any knowledgeof me. Let me exact from you this proof of your regard for me. It is thehighest proof which it will henceforth be in your power to offer, or thatcan 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 thismanner. I cannot find words to account for or apologize. But, if you beindeed the sister of Henry Golden, you cannot be ignorant of me, and offormer transactions between us, and especially the circumstance that nowcompels me to write: you can be no stranger to his present situation. 

Can you forgive this boldness in an absolute stranger to your personbut not to your virtues? I have heard much of you, from one in whom I oncehad a little interest; who honoured me with his affection. 

I know that you lately possessed a large share of that affection. Idoubt not that you still retain it, and are able to tell me what hasbecome of him. 

I have a long time struggled with myself and my fears in silence. Iknow how unbecoming this address must appear to you, and yet, persuadedthat my character and my relation to your brother are well known to you, Ihave been able to curb my anxieties no longer. 

Do then, my dearest madam, gratify my curiosity, and tell me, withoutdelay, 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 arenot unknown to me; and such is my opinion of you, that there is probablyno person in the world more solicitous for your happiness, and moredesirous to answer any inquiries in a manner agreeable to you. 

Mr. Colden has made no secret to us of the relation in which he stoodto you. We are well acquainted with the cause of your late separation. Will you excuse me for expressing the deep regret which that event gaveme? That regret is the deeper, since the measures which he immediatelyadopted have put it out of his power to profit by any change in yourviews. 

My husband's brother being on the point of embarking in a voyage to thewestern coast of America and to China, Mr. Golden prevailed upon hisfriends 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 themsince their touching at Tobago and Brazil. 

The voyage will be very tedious; but, as it will open scenes of greatnovelty to the mind of our friend, and as it may not be unprofitable tohim, we were the more easily disposed to acquiesce. 

Permit me, madam, to proffer you my warmest esteem and my kindestservices. 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 everyinquiry you may be pleased to make respecting one for whom I haveentertained the affection becoming a sister. 

I am, &c. 

M. MONTFORD. 

P. S. --Mr. Montford desires to join me in my offers of service, and inmy 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 youhave 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 timesforeign to my nature, and now more painful than at any other time, as mysoul is torn with emotions which I am at liberty to disclose to no otherhuman creature. Will you be my friend? Will you permit me to claim yoursympathy and consolation? As I told you before, I am thoroughly acquaintedwith your merits, and one of the felicities which I promised myself from anearer alliance with Mr. Colden was that of numbering myself among yourfriends. 

You have deprived me of some hope by the information you give; but youhave at least put an end to a suspense more painful than the most dreadfulcertainty could be. 

You say that you know all our concerns. In pity to my weakness, willyou give me some particulars of my friend? I am extremely anxious to knowmany things in your power to communicate. 

Perhaps you know the contents of my last letter to him, and of hisanswer. I know you condemn me. You think me inconsiderate and cruel inwriting such a letter; and my heart does not deny the charge. Yet mymotives were not utterly ungenerous. I could not bear to reduce the man Iloved to poverty. I could not bear that he should incur the violence andcurses of his father. I fondly thought _myself_ the only obstacle toreconcilement, and was willing, whatever it cost me, to remove thatobstacle. 

What will become of me, if my fears should now be realized?--if themeans which I used with no other view than to reconcile him to his familyshould have driven him away from them and from his country forever? Ithank my God that I was capable of abandoning him on no selfish orpersonal account. The maledictions of my own mother; the scorn of theworld; the loss of friends, reputation, and fortune, weighed nothing withme. Great as these evils were, I could have cheerfully sustained them forhis sake. What I did was in oblivion of self; was from a duteous regard tohis genuine and lasting happiness. Alas! I have, perhaps, mistaken themeans, and cruel will, I fear, be the penalty of my error. 

Tell me, my dear friend, was not Colden reconciled to his father beforehe went? When does he mean to return? What said he, what thought he, of myconduct? Did he call me ungrateful and capricious? Did he vow never to seeor think of me more?

I have regarded the promise that I made to the elder Colden, and to mymother, as sacred. The decease of the latter has, in my own opinion, absolved me from any obligation except that of promoting my own happinessand that of him whom I love. I shall not _now_ reduce him toindigence, and, that consequence being precluded, I cannot doubt of hisfather's acquiescence. 

Ah, dear madam, I should not have been so long patient, had I not, asit now appears, been lulled into a fatal mistake. I could not taste reposetill I was, as I thought, certainly informed that he continued to residein his father's house. This proof of reconciliation, and the silencewhich, though so near him, he maintained towards me, both before andsubsequently to my mother's death, contributed to persuade me that hiscondition was not unhappy, and especially that either his resentment orhis 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 willbe good enough to answer my inquiries, if you have any compassion foryour

J. T. 

Letter LIX

_To Jane Talbot_

New York, October 15. 

I HASTEN, my dear madam, to reply to your letter. The part you haveassigned me I will most cheerfully perform to the utmost of my power, butvery much regret that I have not more agreeable tidings tocommunicate. 

Having said that all the transactions between you and my brother areknown to me, I need not apologize for alluding to events, which I couldnot excuse myself for doing without being encouraged by the frankness andsolicitude which your own pen has expressed. 

Immediately after the determination of his fate in regard to you, hecame to this city. He favoured us with the perusal of your letters. Weentirely agreed with him in applauding the motives which influenced yourconduct. We had no right to accuse you of precipitation or inconsistency. That heart must indeed be selfish and cold which could not comprehend thehorror which must have seized you on hearing of his father's treatment. You acted, in the first tumults of your feelings, as every woman wouldhave acted. That you did not immediately perceive the little prospectthere was that a breach of this nature would be repaired, or that Coldenwould make use of your undesired and unsought-for renunciation as a meansof reconcilement with his father, was no subject of surprise or blame. These reflections could not occur to you but in consequence of someintimations from others. 

Henry Colden was no indolent or mercenary creature, No one morecordially detested the life of dependence than he. He always thought thathis father had discharged all the duties of that relation in nourishinghis childhood and giving him a good education. Whatever has been sincebestowed, he considered as voluntary and unrequited bounty; has receivedit with irksomeness and compunction; and, whatever you may think of thehorrors of indigence, it was impossible to have placed him in a morepainful situation than under his father's roof. 

We could not but deeply regret the particular circumstances under whichhe left his father's house; but the mere leaving it, and the necessitywhich thence arose of finding employment and subsistence for himself, wasnot at all to be regretted. 

The consequences of your mother's letter to the father produced noresentment in the son. He had refused what he had a right to refuse, andwhat had been pressed upon the giver rather than sought by him. The mereseparation was agreeable to Colden, and the rage that accompanied it wasexcited 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 anything done by you. Golden was not sensible of any fault. There wasnothing, therefore, for which he could crave pardon. Blows and revilingshad been patiently endured, but he was actuated by no tame or servilespirit. He never would expose himself to new insults. Though always readyto accept apology and grant an oblivion of the past, he never would avowcompunction which he did not feel, or confess that he had deserved thetreatment which he had received. 

All this it was easy to suggest to your reflections, and I endeavouredto 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 andpity, she will be happy in her new scheme. Shall I subject her to newtrials, new mortifications? Can I flatter myself with being able to rewardher by my love for the loss of every other comfort? No. Whatever she feelsfor me, _I_ am not her supreme passion. Her mother is preferred tome. _That_ her present resolution puts out of all doubt. Allupbraiding and repining from me would be absurd. What can I say in favourof my attachment to her, which she may not, with equal reason, urge infavour of her attachment to her mother? The happiness of one or other mustbe forfeited. Shall I not rather offer than demand the sacrifice? And whatare my boasts of magnanimity if I do not strive to lessen the difficultiesof her choice, and persuade her that, in gratifying her mother, sheinflicts no exquisite or lasting misery on me?

"I am not so blind but that I can foresee the effects on mytranquillity of time and variety of object. If I go this voyage, I mayhope to acquire resignation much, sooner than by staying at home. To leavethese 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. Atpresent, I do not wish ever to return; but I suppose the absence andadventures of a couple of years may change my feelings in that respect. Mycondition, too, by some chance, may be bettered. I may come back, andoffer myself to her, without offering poverty and contempt at the sametime. Time, or some good fortune, may remove the mother's prejudices. Allthis is possible; but, if it never takes place, if my condition neverimproves, I will never return home. "

When we urged to him the propriety of apprizing you of his views, notonly for your sake, but for his own, --"What need is there? Has she notprohibited all intercourse between us? Have I not written the last lettershe will consent to receive? On my own account, I have nothing to hope. Ihave stated my return as a mere possibility. I do not believe I shall everreturn. If I did expect it, I know Jane too well to have any fears of herfidelity. While I am living, or as long as my death is uncertain, herheart will be mine, and she will reserve herself for me. "

I know you will excuse me, madam, for being thus particular. I thoughtit best to state the views of our friend in his own words. From these yourjudgment will enable you to form the truest conclusions. 

The event that has since happened has probably removed the onlyobstacle to your mutual happiness; nor am I without the hope of seeing himone day return to be made happy by your favour. As several passages wereexpected to be made between China and Nootka, that desirable event cannotbe 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 itconsoled me!

You have then some hope of his return; but, you say, 'twill be a longtime first. He has gone where I cannot follow him; to the end of theworld; 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 thathe 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 myhead. Kindly, generously, and justly didst thou judge of my fidelity, Henry. While thou livest, and as long as I live, will I cherish thyimage. 

I am coming to pass the winter in your city. I adopt this scheme merelybecause it will give me your company. I feel as if you were the onlyfriend I have in the world. Do not think me forward or capricious. I willnot deny that you owe your place in my affections _chiefly_ to yourrelation to the wanderer; but no matter whence my attachment proceeds. Ifeel that it is strong; merely selfish, perhaps; the child of a distractedfancy; the prop on which a sinking heart relies in its uttermostextremity. 

Reflection stings me to the quick, but it does not deny me someconsolation. The memory of my mother calls forth tears, but they are nottears of bitterness. To her, at least, I have not been deficient indutiful observance. I have sacrificed my friend and myself, but it was toher peace. The melancholy of her dying scene will ever be cheered in myremembrance by her gratitude and blessing. Her last words were these:--

"Thou hast done much for me, my child. I begin to fear that I haveexacted too much. Your sweetness, your patience, have wrung my heart withcompunction. 

"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 thatangelic 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 ofrepairing _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 thissubject afflicts me too much. 

Give my affectionate compliments to Mr. Montford, and tell me that youwish 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 whenyou propose to come. Is there not something in which I can be of serviceto you?--some preparations to be made?

Tell me the day when you expect to arrive among us, that I may wait onyou as soon as possible. 

I shall embrace my sister with a delight which I cannot express. I willnot 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 relieffrom the wholesome airs that perpetually fan this spot. Your apprehensionsfrom the influence of these scenes on my fancy are groundless. Theybreathe nothing over my soul but delicious melancholy. I have doneexpecting and repining, you know. Four years have passed since I washere, --since I met your brother under these shades. 

I have already visited every spot which has been consecrated by ourinterviews. I have found the very rail which, as I well remember, wedisposed 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, Inow traverse morning and night. 

Be not uneasy, I repeat, on my account. My present situation is happierthan the rest of the world can afford. I tell you I have done repining. Ihave done sending forth my views into an earthly futurity. Anxiety, Ihope, 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 beenmy chief consolation. I never mentioned it to you, because I knew youwould not approve it. It is this. 

To purchase this farm and take up my abode upon it for the rest of mylife. I need not become farmer, you know. I can let the ground to someindustrious person, upon easy terms. I can add all the furniture andappendages to this mansion, which my convenience requires. Luckily, Sandford has for some time entertained thoughts of parting with it, and Ibelieve he could not find a more favourable purchaser. 

You will tell me that the fields are sterile, the barn small, thestable crazy, the woods scanty. These would be powerful objections to amere tiller of the earth, but they are none to me. 

'Tis true, it is washed by a tide-water. The bank is low, and thesurrounding country sandy and flat, and you may think I ought rather toprefer the beautiful variety of hill and dale, luxuriant groves andfertile pastures, which abound in other parts of the country. But youknow, 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 manyaffecting images as this; for here it was----

But my eyes already overflow. In the midst of these scenes, remembranceis too vivid to allow me thus to descant on them. At a distance I couldtalk of them without that painful emotion, and now it would be uselessrepetition. 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 presenthappiness. 

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 eyeswill never see him more. Had an angel whispered the fatal news in mywakeful ear, I should not more firmly believe it. 

And yet--But I must not heap up disappointments for myself. Would toHeaven 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 donot entirely approve of my conduct towards that man. I never formallyattempted to justify myself. 'Twas a subject on which I could not giveutterance to my thoughts. How irksome is blame from those we love! thereis instantly suspicion that blame is merited. A new process ofself-defence is to be gone over, and ten to one but that, after all ourefforts, there are some dregs at the bottom of the cup. 

I was half willing to found my excuse on the hope of the wanderer'sreturn; but I am too honest to urge a false plea. Besides, I know thatcertainty, in that respect, would make no difference; and would it not befostering in him a hope that my mind might be changed in consequence ofbeing truly informed respecting your brother's fate?

I persuade myself that a man of Cartwright's integrity and generositycannot be made lastingly unhappy by me. I know but of one human being moreexcellent. 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 toresist all the enticements of prison-base and cricket for the sake ofwaiting at the door of our school till it broke up, and then accompanyingme home. 

These little gallant offices made him quite singular among hiscompeers, and drew on him and on me a good deal of ridicule. But he didnot mind it. I thought him, and everybody else thought him, a most amiableand engaging youth, though only twelve or thirteen years old. 

'Tis impossible to say what might have happened had he not gone withhis 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 awaywhen I was scarcely fourteen. At parting, I remember, we shed a great manytears and exchanged a great many kisses, and promises _not toforget_. And that promise never was broken by me. He was always dear tomy remembrance. 

Time has only improved all the graces of the boy. I will not concealfrom _you_, Mary, that nothing but a preoccupied heart has been anobstacle to his wishes. If that impediment had not existed, my reverencefor 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 hishappiness will never suffer me to say it to him, that if three years morepass away, and I am fully assured that your brother's absence will beperpetual, and Cartwright's happiness is still in my hands, --that then--Ipossibly may--But I am sure that, before that time, his hand and his heartwill be otherwise disposed of. Most sincerely shall I rejoice at the lastevent. 

All are well here. My friend is as good-natured and affectionate asever, and sings as delightfully and plays as adroitly. She humours me withall my favourite airs, twice a day. We have no strangers; no impertinentsto intermeddle in our conversations and mar our enjoyments. 

You know what turn my studies have taken, and what books I have broughtwith me. 'Tis remarkable what unlooked-for harvests arise from small andinsignificant germs. My affections have been the stimulants to mycuriosity. What was it induced me to procure maps and charts and explorethe course of the voyager over seas and round capes? There was a time whenthese objects were wholly frivolous and unmeaning in my eyes; but now theygain my whole attention. 

When I found that my happiness was embarked with your brother in atedious and perilous voyage, was it possible to forbear collecting all theinformation attainable respecting his route, and the incidents likely toattend it? I got maps and charts, and books of voyages, and found amelancholy enjoyment in connecting the incidents and objects which theypresented with the destiny of my friend. The pursuit of this chief andmost interesting object has brought within view and prompted me to examinea thousand others, on which, without this original inducement, I shouldnever have bestowed a thought. 

The map of the world exists in my fancy in a most vivid and accuratemanner. Repeated meditation on displays of shoal, sand-bank, and water, has created a sort of attachment to geography for its own sake. I haveoften reflected on the innumerable links in the chain of my ideas betweenmy first eager examination of the route by sea between New York andTobago, and yesterday's employment, when I was closely engaged inmeasuring the marches of Frederick across the mountains of Bohemia. 

How freakish and perverse are the rovings of human curiosity! Thesurprise which Miss Betterton betrayed, when, in answer to her inquiriesas to what study and what book I prized the most, you told her that Ithought of little else than of the art of moving from shore to shoreacross the water, and that I pored over Cook's Voyages so much that I hadgotten the best part of them by rote, was very natural. She must have beenpuzzled to conjecture what charms one of my sex could find in the study ofmaps and voyages. _Once_ I should have been just as much puzzledmyself. 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, myoffence, you will feel a great deal of indignation. You cannot be moreangry with me than I am with myself. I do not know how to disclose thevery rash thing I have done. If you knew my compunction, you would pityme. 

Cartwright embarked on the day I mentioned, but remained for some dayswind-bound at the Hook. Yesterday he unexpectedly made his appearance inour apartment, at the very moment when I was perusing your last letter. Iwas really delighted to see him, and the images connected with him, whichyour letter had just suggested, threw me off my guard. Finding by whom theletter was written, he solicited with the utmost eagerness the sight ofit. 

Can you forgive me? My heart overflowed with pity for the excellentman. I knew the transport one part of your letter would afford him. Ithought that no injury, but rather happiness, would redound toyourself. 

I now see that I was guilty of a most culpable breach of confidence inshowing 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 destinyfor 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 forbetraying you. Think it not a rash or injurious confession that you havemade. 

And is it possible that you have not totally forgotten the sweet scenesof our childhood, --that absence has not degraded me in your opinion, --andthat my devotion, if it continue as fervent as now, may look, in a fewyears, 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 formerincidents were held in contempt, and that, so far from being high in youresteem, my presence was troublesome, my existence was irksome, to you?

But your motive was beneficent and generous. You were content to bethought unfeeling and ungrateful for the sake of my happiness. I rejoiceinexpressibly in that event which has removed the veil from your truesentiments. Nothing but pure felicity to me can flow from it. Nothing butgratitude and honour can redound from it to yourself. 

I go; but not with anguish and despondency for my companions. I ambuoyed up by the light wings of hope. The prospect of gaining your love isnot the only source of my present happiness. If it were, I should be acriminal and selfish being. No. My chief delight is, that happiness is yetin store for you; that, should Heaven have denied you your first hope, there still lives one whose claim to make you happy will not berejected. 

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 caseI was more anxious to deserve it than possess it. 

Little, indeed, did you know me, when you imagined me insensible toyour merit and forgetful of the happy days of our childhood, --therecollection of which has a thousand times made my tears flow. I thankHeaven that the evils which I have suffered have had no tendency to deadenmy affections, to narrow my heart. 

The joy which I felt for your departure was far from being unmixed. Thepersuasion that my friend and brother was going where he was likely tofind that tranquillity of which his stay here would bereave him, butimperfectly soothed the pangs of a long and perhaps an eternalseparation. 

Farewell; my fervent and disinterested blessings go with you. Returnspeedily 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 abruptlyand with false or exaggerated circumstances induces me to write toyou. 

Yesterday week, a ship arrived in this port from Batavia, in which myhusband'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 acquaintedwith 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 inthe West Indies as mate, the former dying on the voyage thither, gaverise, by his intrigues among the crew, to a mutiny. 

After a prosperous navigation and some stay at Nootka, they prepared tocross the ocean to Asia. They pursued the usual route of former traders, and, after touching at the Sandwich Islands, they made the land ofJapan. 

At this period, the mutiny, which had long been hatching, broke out. The whole crew, including the mate, joined the conspiracy. Montford and mybrother were the objects of this conspiracy. 

The original design was to murder them both and throw their bodies intothe sea; but this cruel proposal was thwarted both, by compassion and bypolicy, and it was resolved to set my brother ashore on the firstinhospitable land they should meet, and retain Montford to assist them inthe navigation of the vessel, designing to destroy him when his servicesshould no longer be necessary. 

This scheme was executed as soon, as they came in sight of an outlyingisle or dry sand-bank on the eastern coast of Japan. Here they seized thetwo 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 sharethe 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 insearch of some supply of that necessary article. 

On their coming, Montford was driven below and disabled from giving, byhis cries, any alarm. The sentinel who guarded him had received orders tokeep him in that situation till the visitants had departed. Prom someimpulse of humanity, or mistake of orders, the sentinel freed him fromrestraint a few minutes earlier than had been intended, and he got on deckbefore the departing strangers had gone to any considerable distance fromthe ship. He immediately leaped into the sea and made for the boat, towhich, being a very vigorous swimmer, he arrived in safety. 

The mutineers, finding their victim had escaped, endeavoured to makethe best of their way, but were soon overtaken by the Spanish vessel, towhose officers Montford made haste to explain the true state of affairs. They were carried to Manilla, where Montford sold his vessel and cargo onvery advantageous terms. From thence, after many delays, he got toBatavia, and from thence returned home. 

I have thus given you, my friend, an imperfect account of theirmisfortunes. I need not add that no tidings has been received, or canreasonably be hoped ever to be received, of my brother. 

I could not write on such a subject sooner. For some days I hadthoughts of being wholly silent on this news. Indeed, my emotions wouldnot immediately permit me to use the pen; but I have concluded, and it ismy husband's earnest advice, to tell you the whole truth. 

Be not too much distressed, my sister, my friend. Fain would I give youthat consolation which I myself want. I entreat you, let me hear from yousoon, and tell me that you are not very much afflicted. Yet I could notbelieve 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 youcannot be indifferent to my happiness. You must know how painful, at amoment like this, your silence must prove. 

I have waited from day to day in expectation of a letter; but more thana week has passed, and none has come. Let me hear from you immediately, Ientreat 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 trembledwith terror when I sent you tidings of our calamity. I know theimpetuosity of your feelings, and the effects of your present solitude. Would to Heaven you were anywhere but where you are! Would to Heaven youwere once more with us!

Let me beseech you to return to us immediately. Mr. M. Is anxious to gofor you. He wanted to set out immediately on his brother's arrival, and tobe the bearer of my letter, but I prevailed on him to forbear until Iheard from you. 

Do not, if you have any regard for me, delay answering me a momentlonger. 

M. M. 

Letter LXVIII

_To Mrs. Montford_

Banks of Delaware, November 26. 

I beseech you, dear Mrs. Montford, take some measures for drawing ourdear Jane from this place. There is no remedy but absence from this spot, cheerful company and amusing engagements, for the sullen grief which hasseized her. Ever since the arrival of your letter, giving us the fataltidings of your brother's misfortune, she has been--in a strange way--I amalmost afraid to tell you. I know how much you love her; but, indeed, indeed, unless somebody with more spirit and skill than I possess willundertake to console and divert her, I am fearful we shall lose herforever. 

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 sightof it confuses and frightens me. Never, I believe, was there such anotherhelpless, good-for-nothing creature in existence. Poor Jane's affectingways 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 painsto effect, since she will not be seen but when she cannot choose; forwhenever she looks at me steadily there is such expression in herfeatures, something so woeful, so wild, that I am struck with terror. Itnever fails to make me cry heartily. 

Come hither yourself, or send somebody immediately. If you do not, Idread 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 derivefrom suspense. Good Heaven! what an untoward accident! to be forciblyimmured in a tavern-chamber; when the distance is so small between me andthat certainty after which my soul pants!

I ought not thus to alarm my beloved friends, but I know not what Iwrite: my head is in confusion, my heart in tumults; a delirium, more theeffect of a mind stretched upon the rack of impatience than of limbsshattered and broken, whirls me out of myself. 

Not a moment of undisturbed repose have I enjoyed for the last twomonths. If awake, omens and conjectures, menacing fears, and half-formedhopes, have haunted and harassed me. If asleep, dreams of agonizing formsand ever-varying hues have thronged my fancy and driven away peace. 

In less than an hour after landing at Boston, I placed myself in theswiftest stage, and have travelled night and day, till within a mile ofthis town, when the carriage was overturned and my left arm terriblyshattered. I was drawn with difficulty hither; and my only hope of beingonce more well is founded on my continuance, for I know not how long, inone spot and one posture. 

By this time, the well-known hand has told you who it is that writesthis:--the exile; the fugitive; whom four long years of absence andsilence have not, I hope, erased from your remembrance, banished from yourlove, or even totally excluded from the hope of being seen again. 

Yet that hope, surely, must have been long ago dismissed. Acquainted asyou are with some part of my destiny; of my being left on the desert shoreof Japan; on the borders of a new world, --a world civilized indeed, andpeopled by men, but existing in almost total separation from the otherfamilies of mankind; with language, manners, and policy almostincompatible with the existence of a stranger among them; all entrance oregress from which being commonly supposed to be prohibited by iron lawsand inflexible despotism; that I, a stranger, naked, forlorn, cast upon asandy beach frequented but at rare intervals and by savage fishermen, should find my way into the heart of this wonderful empire, and finallyexplore my way back to my native shore, are surely most strange andincredible achievements. Yet all this, my friend, has been endured andperformed by your Colden. 

Finding it impossible to move immediately from this place, and thisday's post having gone out before my arrival, I employed a man to carryyou these assurances of my existence and return, and to bring me backintelligence of your welfare; and some news concerning--may I perish if Ican, at this moment, write her name! Every moment, every mile that hasbrought me nearer to _her_, or rather nearer to certainty of her lifeor death, her happiness or misery, has increased my trepidation, --addednew tremors to my heart. 

I have some time to spare. In spite of my impatience, my messengercannot start within a few hours. I am little fitted, in my present stateof pain and suspense, to write intelligibly. Yet what else can I do butwrite? and will you not, in your turn, be impatient to know by what meansI have once more set my foot in my native land?

I will fill up the interval, till my messenger is ready, by writing. Iwill give you some hints of my adventures. All particulars must bedeferred till I see you. Heaven grant that I may once more see you and mysister! Four months ago you were well, but that interval is large enoughto 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 beconsumed in the telling; and that which was hazard or hardship in theencounter and the sufferance will be pleasant to remembrance anddelightful in narration. 

This person's name was Holtz. He was the agent of the Dutch East IndiaCompany 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 inAmerica, and found no difficulty in conversing with me in my nativelanguage. 

You will easily imagine the surprise and pleasure which such a meetingafforded me. It likewise opened a door to my return to Europe, as a largetrade is regularly maintained between Java and Japan. 

Many obstacles, however, in the views which Tekehatsin had formed, ofprofit and amusement, from my remaining in his service, and in thepersonal interests and wishes of my friend Holtz, opposed this design; norwas I able to accomplish it, but on condition of returning. 

I confess to you, my friend, my heart was not extremely averse to thiscondition. 

I left America with very faint hopes, and no expectation, of everreturning. The longer I resided among this race of men, the melancholy andforlornness of my feelings declined. Prospects of satisfaction from thenovelty and grandeur of the scene into which I had entered began to openupon me; sentiments of affection and gratitude for Holtz, and even for theJapanese lord, took root in my heart. Still, however, happiness was boundto scenes and to persons very distant from, my new country, and arestlessness forever haunted me, which nothing could appease but somedirect intelligence from you and from Jane Talbot. By returning to Europe, I could likewise be of essential service to Holtz, whose family wereSaxons, and whose commercial interests required the presence of a trustyagent for a few months at Hamburg. 

Let me carry you, in few words, through the difficulties of myembarkation, and the incidents of a short stay at Batavia, and a longvoyage over half the world to Hamburg. 

Shortly after my return to Hamburg, from an excursion into Saxony tosee Holtz's friends, I met with Mr. Cartwright, an American. After muchfluctuation, I had previously resolved to content myself with writing toyou, of whom I received such verbal information from several of ourcountrymen 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 witha Mr. Cartwright, extinguished every new-born wish to revisit my nativeland, and I expected to set sail on my return to India, before it could bepossible to hear from you. 

I was on the eve of my departure, when the name of Cartwright, anAmerican, then at Hamburg, reached my ears. The similarity of his name tothat of the happy man who had supplanted the poor wanderer in theaffections of Jane, and a suspicion that they might possibly be akin, and, consequently, that _this_ might afford me some information as to thecharacter or merits of _that_ Cartwright, made me throw myself in hisway. 

You may easily imagine, what I shall defer relating, the steps whichled us to a knowledge of each other, and by which I discovered that thisCartwright was the one mentioned to me, and that, instead of being alreadythe husband of my Jane, his hopes of her favour depended on the certainproof of my death. 

Cartwright's behaviour was in the highest degree disinterested. Hemight easily have left me in my original error, and a very few days wouldhave sent me on a voyage which would have been equivalent to my death. Onthe contrary, his voluntary information, and a letter which he showed me, written in Jane's hand, created a new soul in my breast. Every foreignobject vanished, and every ancient sentiment, connected with ourunfortunate loves, was instantly revived. Ineffable tenderness, and animpatience next to rage to see her, reigned in my heart. 

Yet, my friend, with all my confidence of a favourable reception fromJane, --her conduct now exempt from the irresistible control of her mother, and her tenderness for me as fervent as ever, --yet, since so excellent aman as Cartwright existed, since his claims were, in truth, antecedent tomine, since my death or everlasting absence would finally insure successto these claims, since his character was blemished by none of thosemomentous errors with which mine was loaded, since that harmony of opinionon religious subjects, without which marriage can never be a source ofhappiness 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 humanbeings had not become _mine_, --I should have deliberately ratifiedthe act of my eternal banishment. 

Yes, my friend; this weather-beaten form and sunburnt face are not moreunlike what you once knew, than my habits and opinions now and formerly. The incidents of a long voyage, the vicissitudes through which I havepassed, have given strength to my frame, while the opportunities andoccasions for wisdom which these have afforded me have made _my mindwhole_. I have awakened from my dreams of doubt and misery, not to thecold and vague belief, but to the living and delightful consciousness, ofevery tie that can bind man to his Divine Parent and Judge. 

Again I must refer you to our future interviews. A broken and obscuretale it would be which I could now relate. I am hurried, by my fears andsuspenses--Yet it would give you pleasure to know every thing as soon aspossible--some time likewise must elapse--_You_ and my sister havealways been wise. The lessons of true piety it is the business of yourlives to exemplify and to teach. Henceforth, if that principle, which hasbeen my stay and my comfort in all the slippery paths and unlooked-forperils 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 inproportion to the extent of my past misconduct and the depth of my formerdegeneracy. 

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 passedthrough somewhat similar changes; who always made allowances for thetemerity of youth, the fascinations of novelty; who always predicted thata few more years, the events of my peculiar destiny, the leisure of mylong voyage, and that goodness of intention to which you were ever kindenough to admit my claims, would ultimately provide the remedy for allerrors and evils, and make me worthy of the undivided love of all goodmen, --you, who have had this experience, and who have always regarded mein this light, will not wonder that reflection has, at length, raised meto the tranquil and steadfast height of simple and true piety. 

Such, my friend, were my inducements to return; but first it wasnecessary to explain, by letter, to Holtz--But my messenger is at thedoor, eager to begone. Take this, my friend. Bring yourself, or send backby the same messenger, without a moment's delay, tidings of her, and ofyour safety. As to me, be not much concerned on my account. I am solemnlyassured by my surgeon that nothing but time and a tranquil mind arenecessary to restore me to health. The last boon no hand but yours canconfer 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 backto soothe her almost broken heart, --to rescue her from the grave, --tocheer her with the prospect of peaceful and bright days yet to come?

Oh, my full heart! Sorrow has not hitherto been able quite toburst this frail tenement. I almost fear that joy, --so strange to me isjoy, and so far, so very far, beyond my notions of possibility was yourreturn, --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 escapedso many storms, so many dangers? Was it love for me that led you from theextremity of the world? and have you, indeed, brought back with you aheart full of "ineffable tenderness" for _me_?

Unspeakably unworthy am I of your love. Time and grief, dear Hal, havebereft me of the glossy hues, the laughing graces, which your dotingjudgment once ascribed to me. But what will not the joy of your returneffect? 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? Willnot my presence, my nursing, hasten thy restoration? Tuesday evening--theysay it can't possibly be sooner--I am with you. No supporters shall youhave but my arms; no pillow but my breast. Every holy rite shall instantlybe called in to make us one. And when once united, nothing but death shallever 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 ofwomen, 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 tellyou in this letter. He knows everything. He has been a brother since mymother's death. She is dead, Henry. She died in my arms; and will it notgive you pleasure to know that her dying lips blessed me, and expressedthe 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 thefallacy of your former tenets; that you would become wise, not inspeculation only, but in practice, and be, in every respect, deserving ofthe happiness and honour which would attend the gift of her daughter'shand and heart. 

My words cannot utter, but thy own heart perhaps can conceive, therapture 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 thedominion, of passion, union with you would have been _very_ far fromcompleting my felicity, unless our hopes and opinions, as well as ourpersons and hearts, were united. Now can I look up with confidence andexultation to the shade of my revered and beloved mother. Now can I safelyinvoke her presence and her blessing on a union which death will have nopower to dissolve. Oh, what sweet peace, what serene transport, is therein the persuasion that the selected soul will continue forever to communewith _my_ soul, mingle with mine in its adoration of the same DivineParent, and partake with me in every thought, in every emotion, both_here_ and _hereafter_!

Never, my friend, without _this_ persuasion, _never_ should Ihave known one moment of true happiness. Marriage, indeed, instead oflosing its attractions in consequence of your errors, drew thence only newrecommendations, 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 notfail 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 andme poor justice. Her death-bed confession removed my mother's fatalsuspicions. This confession and the perusal of all thy letters, and thyexile, which I afterwards discovered was known to her very early, thoughunsuspected by me till after her decease, brought her to regard thee withsome compassion and some respect. 

I can write no more; but must not conclude till I have offered thee thetenderest, most fervent vows of a heart that ever was and always will be_thine own_. Witness, JANE TALBOT.