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Jane Talbot

by Charles Brockden Brown · English · Gutenberg #8404 · 485,826 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Jane Talbot

Author: Charles Brockden Brown


        
Release date: July 1, 2005 [eBook #8404]
                Most recently updated: February 10, 2015

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8404

Credits: Produced by Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JANE TALBOT ***




Produced by Online Distributed Proofreading Team









Jane Talbot

by

Charles Brockden Brown.







Letter I


_To Henry Colden_

Philadelphia, Monday Evening, October 3.

I am very far from being a wise girl. So conscience whispers me, and,
though vanity is eager to refute the charge, I must acknowledge that she
is seldom successful. Conscience tells me it is folly, it is guilt, to
wrap up my existence in one frail mortal; to employ all my thoughts, to
lavish all my affections, upon one object; to dote upon a human being,
who, as such, must be the heir of many frailties, and whom I know to be
not without his faults; to enjoy no peace but in his presence, to be
grateful for his permission to sacrifice fortune, ease, life itself, for
his sake.

From the humiliation produced by these charges, vanity endeavours to
relieve me by insinuating that all happiness springs from affection; that
nature ordains no tie so strong as that between the sexes; that to love
without bounds is to confer bliss not only on ourselves but on another;
that conjugal affection is the genuine sphere not only of happiness but
duty.

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

But yet there are bounds beyond which passion cannot go without
counteracting its own purposes. I am afraid mine goes beyond those bounds.
So far as it produces rapture, it deserves to be cherished; but when
productive of impatience, repining, agony, on occasions too that are
slight, trivial, or unavoidable, 'tis surely culpable.

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

Ah! my friend! a weak--very weak--creature is thy Jane. From excess of
love arises that weakness; _that_ must be its apology with thee, for,
in thy mind, my fondness, I know, needs an apology.

Shall I scold you a little? I have held in the rein a long time, but my
overflowing heart must have relief, and I shall find a sort of comfort in
chiding you. Let me chide you, then, for coldness, for insensibility: but
no; I will not. Let me enjoy the rewards of self-denial and forbearance,
and seal up my accusing lips. Let me forget the coldness of your last
salute, your ill-concealed effort to disengage yourself from my
foolishly-fond arms. You have got at your journey's end, I hope. Farewell.

J. TALBOT.




Letter II


_To Henry Colden_

Tuesday Morning, October 4.

I must write to you, you said, frequently and copiously: you did not
mean, I suppose, that I should always be scribbling, but I cannot help it.
I can do nothing but converse with you. When present, my prate is
incessant; when absent, I can prate to you with as little intermission;
for the pen, used so carelessly and thoughtlessly as I use it, does
_but_ prate.

Besides, I have not forgotten my promise. 'Tis true the story you
wished me to give you is more easily communicated by the pen than by the
lips. I admit your claim to be acquainted with all the incidents of my
life, be they momentous or trivial. I have often told you that the
retrospect is very mournful; but that ought not to prevent me from making
it, when so useful a purpose as that of thoroughly disclosing to you the
character of one, on whom your future happiness is to depend, will be
affected by it. I am not surprised that calumny has been busy with my
life, and am very little anxious to clear myself from unjust charges,
except to such as you.

At this moment, I may add, my mood is not unfriendly to the
undertaking. I can do nothing in your absence but write to you. To write
what I have ten thousand times spoken, and which can be perfectly
understood only when accompanied by looks and accents, seems absurd.
Especially while there is a subject on which my _tongue_ can never
expatiate, but on which it is necessary that you should know all that I
can tell you.

The prospect of filling up this interval with the relation of the most
affecting parts of my life somewhat reconciled me to your necessary
absence, yet I know my heart will droop. Even this preparation to look
back makes me shudder already. Some reluctance to recall tragical or
humiliating scenes, and, by thus recalling to endure them, in some sense,
a second time, I must expect to feel.

But let me lay down the pen for the present. Let me take my favourite
and lonely path, and, by a deliberate review of the past, refresh my
memory and methodize my recollections. Adieu till I return. J. T.




Letter III


_To Henry Colden_

Tuesday Morning, 11 o'clock.

I am glad I left not word how soon I meant to return, for here has
been, it seems, during my short absence, a pair of gossips. They have just
gone, lamenting the disappointment, and leaving me a world of
complimentary condolences.

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

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

This may serve as a specimen of the impetuosity of my temper. It was
always fervent and unruly, unacquainted with moderation in its
attachments, violent in its indignation and its enmity, but easily
persuaded to pity and forgiveness.

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

At this time I was only five years old,--an age at which, in general, a
deceased parent is quickly forgotten; but, in my attachment to my mother,
I showed none of the volatility of childhood. While she lived, I was never
at ease but when seated at her knee, or with my arms round her neck. When
dead, I cherished her remembrance for years, and have paid, hundreds of
times, the tribute of my tears at the foot of her grave.

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

My brother and I passed our infancy in one unintermitted quarrel. We
were never together but he played some cruel and mischievous prank, which
I never failed to resent to the utmost of my little power. I soon found
that my tears only increased his exultation, and my complaints only
grieved my mother. I, therefore, gave word for word and blow for blow;
but, being always worsted in such conflicts, I shunned him whenever it was
possible, and whatever his malice made me suffer I endeavoured to conceal
from her.

My mother, on her death-bed, was anxious to see him, but he had
strolled away after some boyish amusement, with companions as thoughtless
as himself. The news of her death scarcely produced an hour's seriousness.
He made my affliction a topic of sarcasm and contempt.

To soften my grief, my father consented to my living under the care of
her whom I now call my mother. Mrs. Fielder was merely the intimate from
childhood of my own mother, with whom, however, since her marriage,
contracted against Mrs. Fielder's inclination and remonstrances, she had
maintained but little intercourse. My mother's sudden death and my
helpless age awakened all her early tenderness, and induced her to offer
an asylum to me. Having a considerable fortune and no family, her offer,
notwithstanding ancient jealousies, was readily accepted by my father.

My new residence was, in many respects, the reverse of my former one.
The treatment I received from my new parent, without erasing the memory of
the old one, quickly excited emotions as filial and tender as I had ever
experienced. Comfort and quiet, peace and harmony, obsequious and
affectionate attendants and companions, I had never been accustomed to
under the paternal roof.

From this period till I was nearly sixteen years of age, I merely paid
occasional visits to my father. He loved me with as much warmth as his
nature was capable of feeling, which I repaid him in gratitude and
reverence. I never remitted my attention to his affairs, and studied his
security and comfort as far as these were within my power.

My brother was not deficient in talents, but he wanted application.
Very early he showed strong propensities to active amusement and sensual
pleasures. The school and college were little attended to, and the time
that ought to have been appropriated to books and study was wasted in
frolics and carousals. As soon as he was able to manage a gun and a horse,
they were procured; and these, and the company to which they introduced
him, afforded employment for all his attention and time.

My father had devoted his early years to the indefatigable pursuit of
gain. He was frugal and abstemious, though not covetous, and amassed a
large property. This property he intended to divide between his two
children, and to secure my portion to his nephew, whom his parents had
left an orphan in his infancy, and whom my father had taken and treated as
his own child by marrying him to me. This nephew passed his childhood
among us. His temper being more generous than my brother's, and being
taught mutually to regard each other as destined to a future union, our
intercourse was cordial and affectionate.

We parted at an age at which nothing like passion could be felt. He
went to Europe, in circumstances very favourable to his improvement,
leaving behind him the expectation of his returning in a few years.
Meanwhile, my father was anxious that we should regard each other and
maintain a correspondence as persons betrothed. In persons at our age,
this scheme was chimerical. As soon as I acquired the power of reflection,
I perceived the folly of such premature bonds, and, though I did not
openly oppose my father's wishes, held myself entirely free to obey any
new impulse which circumstances might produce. My mother (so let me still
call Mrs. Fielder) fully concurred in my views.

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

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

My brother's temper grew more unmanageable as he increased in years. My
father's views with regard to him were such as parental foresight and
discretion commonly dictate. He wished him to acquire all possible
advantages of education, and then to betake himself to some liberal
profession, in which he might obtain honour as well as riches. This sober
scheme by no means suited the restless temper of the youth. It was his
maxim that all restraints were unworthy of a lad of spirit, and that it
was far more wise to spend freely what his father had painfully acquired,
than, by the same plodding and toilsome arts, to add to the heap.

I scarcely know how to describe my feelings in relation to this young
man. My affection for him was certainly without that tenderness which a
good brother is sure to excite. I do not remember a single direct kindness
that I ever received from him; but I remember innumerable ill offices and
contempts. Still, there was some inexplicable charm in the mere tie of
kindred, which made me more deplore his errors, exult in his talents,
rejoice in his success, and take a deeper interest in his concerns than in
those of any other person.

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

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

My father's revenue was adequate to a very splendid establishment; but
he was accustomed to live frugally, and thought it wise to add his savings
to the principal of his estate. These savings gradually grew less and
less, till at length my brother's numerous excursions, a French girl whom
he maintained in expensive lodgings, his horses, dogs, and _friends_,
consumed the whole of it.

I never met my brother but by accident. These interviews were, for the
most part, momentary, either in the street or at my father's house; but I
was too much interested in all that befell him, not to make myself, by
various means, thoroughly acquainted with his situation.

I had no power to remedy the evil: as my elder brother, and as a man,
he thought himself entitled to govern and despise me. He always treated me
as a frivolous girl, with whom it was waste of time to converse, and never
spoke to me at all except to direct or admonish. Hence I could do nothing
but regret his habits. Their consequences to himself it was beyond my
power to prevent.

For a long time I was totally unaware of the tendencies of this mode of
life. I did not suspect that a brother's passions would carry him beyond
the bound of vulgar prudence, or induce him to encroach on those funds
from which his present enjoyments were derived. I knew him to be endowed
with an acute understanding, and imagined that this would point out, with
sufficient clearness, the wisdom of limiting his expenses to his
income.

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

I heard, twice or thrice a year, from my cousin Risberg. One day a
letter arrived in which he obscurely intimated that the failure of
remittances from my father, for more than half a year, had reduced him to
great distress. My father had always taught him to regard himself as
entitled to all the privileges of a son; had sent him to Europe under
express conditions of supplying him with a reasonable stipend, till he
should come of age, at which period it was concerted that Risberg should
return and receive a portion with me, enabling him to enter advantageously
on the profession of the law, to which he was now training. This stipend
was far from being extravagant, or more than sufficient for the decent
maintenance of a student at the Temple; and Risberg's conduct had always
been represented, by those under whose eye he had been placed, as regular
and exemplary.

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

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

"Pray, dear sir," continued I, "what could have happened to the money
which you sent? You had not heard, I suppose, of its miscarriage."

"No, I had not heard of it before. I will look into it, and see what
can be done." Here further conversation was suspended by a visitant. I
waited with impatience till the guest had retired; but he had scarcely
left the room when my brother entered. I supposed my father would have
immediately introduced this subject, and, as my brother usually
represented him in every affair of business, and could of course throw
some light upon the present mystery, I saw no reason why I should be
excluded from a conference in which I had some interest, and was therefore
somewhat surprised when my father told me he had no need of my company for
the rest of the day, and wished to be alone with Francis. I rose instantly
to depart, but said, "Pray, sir, tell my brother what has happened.
Perhaps he can explain the mystery."

"What!" cried my brother, with a laugh, "has thy silly brain engendered
a mystery which I am to solve? Thou mayest save thyself the trouble of
telling me, for, really, I have no time to throw away on thee or thy
mysteries."

There was always something in my brother's raillery which my infirm
soul could never support. I ought always to have listened and replied
without emotion, but a fluttering indignation usually deprived me of
utterance. I found my best expedient was flight, when I _could_ fly,
and silence when obliged to remain: I therefore made no answer to this
speech, but hastily withdrew.

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

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

"Never mind," said he, a little peevishly: "we shall see things put to
rights, I tell you; and let that satisfy you."

"I am glad of it. Poor fellow! Young, generous, disdaining obligation,
never knowing the want of money, how must he have felt on being left quite
destitute, penniless, running in arrear for absolute necessaries; in debt
to a good woman who lived by letting lodgings, and who dunned him, after
so long a delay, in so indirect and delicate a manner!--What must he have
suffered, accustomed to regard you as a father, and knowing you had no
personal calls for your large revenue, and being so solemnly enjoined by
you not to stir himself in any rational pleasure! for you would be always
ready to exceed your stated remittances, when there should be just
occasion. Poor fellow! my heart bleeds for him. But how long will it be
before he hears from you? His letter is dated seven weeks ago. It will be
another six or eight weeks before he receives an answer,--at least three
months in all; and during all this time he will be without money. But
perhaps he will receive it sooner."

My father frequently changed countenance, and showed great solicitude.
I did not wonder at this, as Risberg had always been loved as a son. A
little consideration, therefore, ought to have shown me the impropriety of
thus descanting on an evil without remedy; yet I still persisted. At
length, I asked to what causes I might ascribe his former disappointments,
in the letter to Risberg, which I proposed writing immediately.

This question threw him into much confusion. At last he said,
peevishly, "I wish, Jane, you would leave these matters to me: I don't
like your interference."

This rebuke astonished me. I had sufficient discernment to suspect
something extraordinary, but was for a few minutes quite puzzled and
confounded. He had generally treated me with tenderness and even
deference, and I saw nothing peculiarly petulant or improper in what I had
said.

"Dear sir, forgive me: you know I write to my cousin, and, as he stated
his complaints to me it will be natural to allude to them in my answer to
his letter; but I will only tell him that all difficulties are removed,
and refer him to your letter for further satisfaction; for you will no
doubt write to him."

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

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

"I will speak to you to-morrow, Jane, on this subject. I grant your
curiosity is natural, and will then gratify it. To-morrow, I may possibly
explain why Risberg has not received what, I must own, he had a right to
expect. We'll think no more of it at present, but play a game at
_draughts_."

I was impatient, you may be sure, to have a second meeting. Next day my
father's embarrassment and perplexity was very evident. It was plain that
he had not forgotten the promised explanation, but that something made it
a very irksome task. I did not suffer matters to remain long in suspense,
but asked him, in direct terms, what had caused the failure of which my
cousin complained, and whether he was hereafter to receive the stipulated
allowance?

He answered, hesitatingly, and with downcast eyes,--why--he did not
know. He was sorry. It had not been his fault. To say truth, Francis had
received the usual sums to purchase the bills. Till yesterday, he imagined
they had actually been purchased and sent. He always understood them to
have been so from Francis. He had mentioned, after seeing Risberg's
complaining letter, he had mentioned the affair to Francis. Francis had
confessed that he had never sent the bills. His own necessities compelled
him to apply the money given him for this purpose to his own use.
To-be-sure, Risberg was his nephew,--had always depended on him for his
maintenance; but somehow or another the wants of Francis had increased
very much of late years, and swallowed up all that he could _rap_ and
_rend_ without encroaching on his principal. Risberg was but his
nephew; Frank was his own and only son. To-be-sure, he once thought that
he had enough for his _three_ children; but times, it seems, were
altered. He did not spend on his own wants more than he used to do; but
Frank's expenses were very great, and swallowed up every thing. To-be-sure,
he pitied the young man, but he was enterprising and industrious,
and could, no doubt, shift for himself; yet he would be quite willing to
assist him, were it in his power; but really it was no longer in his
power.

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

My father was embarrassed, confounded, grieved. He sighed, and even
wept.--"Francis," said he, at last, "to-be-sure, has not acted quite
right. Bat what can be done? Is he not my child? and, if he has faults, is
he altogether without virtue? No; if he did not find a lenient and
forgiving judge in me, his father, in whom could he look for one? Besides,
the thing is done, and therefore without remedy. This year's income is
nearly exhausted, and I really fear, before another quarter comes round, I
shall want myself."

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

This hint was extremely displeasing, but I urged him so vehemently that
he said, "Francis will perhaps consent to it; I will try him this
evening."

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

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

I was going to propose that he should execute this business without my
brother's knowledge, but instantly perceived the impossibility of that. My
father had for some years devolved on his son the management of all his
affairs, and habit had made him no longer qualified to act for himself.
Frank's opinion of what was proper to be done was infallible, and absolute
in all cases.

I returned home with a very sad heart. I was deeply afflicted with this
new instance of my brother's selfishness and of my father's infatuation.
"Poor Risberg!" said I; "what will become of thee? I love thee as my
brother. I feel for thy distresses. Would to Heaven I could remove them!
And cannot I remove them? As to contending with my brother's haughtiness
in thy favour, that is a hopeless task. As to my father, he will never
submit to my guidance."

After much fruitless meditation, it occurred to me that I might supply
Risberg's wants from my own purse. My mother's indulgence to me was
without bounds. She openly considered and represented me as the heiress of
her fortunes, and confided fully in my discretion. The chief uses I had
hitherto found for money were charitable ones. I was her almoner. To stand
in the place of my father with respect to Risberg, and supply his
customary stipend from my own purse, was an adventurous undertaking for a
young creature like me. It was impossible to do this clandestinely; at
least, without the knowledge and consent of Mrs. Fielder. I therefore
resolved to declare what had happened, and request her counsel. An
opportunity suitable to this did not immediately offer.

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

I instantly saw in his looks marks of displeasure, and, though
unconscious of meriting it, my trepidation increased. He took a seat
without speaking, and after some pause addressed me thus:--

"So, girl, I hear that you have been meddling with things that do not
concern you,--sowing dissension between the old man and me; presuming to
dictate to us how we are to manage our own property. He retailed to me,
last night, a parcel of impertinence with which you had been teasing him,
about this traveller Risberg, assuming, long before your time, the
province of his care-taker. Why, do you think," continued he,
contemptuously, "he'll ever return to marry you? Take my word for't, he's
no such fool. I _know_ that he never will."

The infirmity of my temper has been a subject of eternal regret to me;
yet it never displayed itself with much force, except under the lash of my
brother's sarcasms. My indignation on those occasions had a strange
mixture of fear in it, and both together suffocated my speech. I made no
answer to this boisterous arrogance.

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

I endeavoured to muster up a little spirit, and replied, "I could not
plead before a more favourable judge. An appeal to my brother on behalf of
foolish prodigality could hardly fail of success. Poor common sense must
look for justice at some other tribunal."

His eyes darted fire. "Come, girl; none of your insolence. I did not
come here to be insulted."

"No; you rather came to commit than to receive an insult."

"Paltry distinguisher! to jest with you, and not chide you for your
folly, is to insult you, is it? Leave off romance, and stick to common
sense, and you will never receive any thing but kindness from me. But
come; if I must humour you, let me hear how you have found yourself out to
be wiser than your father and brother."

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

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

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

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

"Indeed, I firmly believe that it will not; and _that_ will be a
motive for my silence that shall always have its due weight with me.
Risberg, I see, must look elsewhere for a father and a brother."

"Poor thing! do; put its finger in its eye and weep. Ha! ha! ha! poor
Risberg! how would he laugh to see these compassionate tears! It seem she
has written in a very doleful strain to thee,--talked very pathetically
about his debts to his laundress and his landlady. I have a good mind to
leave thee in this amiable ignorance; but I'll prove for once a kind
brother, by telling you that Risberg is a profligate and prodigal; that he
neglects every study but that of dice; that this is the true reason why I
have stood in the way of the old man's bounty to him. I have
unquestionable proof of his worthlessness, and see no reason to throw away
money upon London prostitutes and gamblers. I never mentioned this to the
old man, because I would not needlessly distress him, for I know he loves
Jack at least as well as his own children. I tell it you to justify my
conduct, and hope that I may for once trust to your good sense not to
disclose it to your father."

My heart could not restrain its indignation at these words.

"'Tis false!" I exclaimed; "'tis a horrid calumny against one who
cannot defend himself! I will never believe the depravity of my absent
brother, till I have as good proof of it as my present brother has given
me of his."

"Bravo, my girl! who could have thought you could give the lie with
such a grace? Why don't you spit in the face of the vile calumniator? But
I am not angry with you, Jane; I only pity you; yet I'll not leave you
before I tell you my mind. I have no doubt Risberg means to return. He
knows on what footing you are with Mrs. Fielder, and will take care to
return; but, mind me, Jane, you shall never throw yourself and your
fortune away upon Risberg, while I have a voice or an arm to prevent it.
And now--good-by to you."

So ended this conversation. He left me in a hurry and confusion of
spirits not to be described. For a time I felt nothing but indignation and
abhorrence for what I thought a wicked and cruel calumny; but in
proportion as I regained my tranquillity, my reflections changed. Did not
my brother speak truth? Was there not something in his manner very
different from that of an impostor? How unmoved was he by the doubts which
I ventured to insinuate of his truth! Alas! I fear 'tis too true.

I told you before that we parted at an age when love could not be
supposed to exist between us. If I know myself, I felt no more for him
than for a mere brother; but then I felt all the solicitude and tenderness
of a sister. I knew not scarcely how to act in my present situation; but
at length determined to disclose the whole affair to my mother. With her
approbation I enclosed an order on a London merchant in a letter to this
effect:--

"I read your letter, my friend, with the sentiments of one who is
anxious for your happiness. The difficulties you describe will, I am
afraid, be hereafter prevented only by your own industry. My father's and
brother's expenses consume the whole of that income in which you have
hitherto had a share, and I am obliged to apprize you that the usual
remittances will no longer be made. You are now advancing to manhood, and,
I hope, will soon be able to subsist upon the fruits of your own learning
and industry.

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

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

My relation to Risberg was peculiarly delicate. His more lively
imagination had deceived him already into a belief that he was in love. At
least, in all his letters, he seemed fond of recognising that engagement
which my father had established between us, and exaggerated the
importance, to his happiness, of my regard. Experience had already taught
me to set their just value on such professions. I knew that men are
sanguine and confident, and that the imaginary gracefulness of passion
naturally prompts them to make their words outstrip their feelings. Though
eager in their present course, it is easy to divert them from it; and most
men of an ardent temper can be dying of love for half a dozen different
women in the course of a year.

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

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

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

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

I was satisfied with this result, and bestowed no further thought on
that subject. From morn to midnight have I written, and have got but
little way in my story. Adieu.




Letter IV


_To Henry Colden_

Wednesday Morning, October 5.

I continued my visits to my father as usual. Affairs proceeded nearly
in their old channel. Frank and I never met but by accident, and our
interviews began and ended merely with a good-morrow. I never mentioned
Risberg's name to my father, and observed that he as studiously avoided
lighting on the same topic.

One day a friend chanced to mention the greatness of my fortune, and
congratulated me on my title to two such large patrimonies as those of
Mrs. Fielder and my father. I was far from viewing my condition in the
same light with my friend. My mother's fortune was indeed large and
permanent, but my claim to it was merely through her voluntary favour, of
which a thousand accidents might bereave me. As to my father's property,
Frank had taken care very early to suggest to him that I was amply
provided for in Mrs. Fielder's good graces, and that it was equitable to
bequeath the whole inheritance to him. This disposition, indeed, was not
made without my knowledge; but though I was sensible that I held of my
maternal friend but a very precarious tenure, that my character and
education were likely to secure a much wiser and more useful application
of money than my brother's habits, it was impossible for me openly to
object to this arrangement; so that, as things stood, though the world, in
estimating my merits, never forgot that my father was rich, and that Frank
and I were his only children, I had in reality no prospect of inheriting a
farthing from him.

Indeed, I always entertained a presentiment that I should one day be
poor, and have to rely for subsistence on my own labour. With this
persuasion, I frequently busied my thoughts in imagining the most
lucrative and decent means of employing my ingenuity, and directed my
inquiries to many things of little or no use but on the irksome
supposition that I should one day live by my own labour. But this is a
digression.

In answer to my friend's remarks, I observed that my father's property
was much less considerable than some people imagined; that time made no
accession to it; and that my brother's well-known habits were likely to
reduce it much below its present standard, long before it would come to a
division.

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

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

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

These hints, though the conversation passed immediately to other
subjects, made a deep impression on my mind. My brother's character I knew
to be incompatible with any sort of industry, and had various reasons for
believing my father's property to be locked up in bank-stock. If my
friend's story were true, there was a new instance of the influence which
Frank had acquired over his father. I had very indistinct ideas of
speculation, but was used to regard it as something very hazardous, and
almost criminal.

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

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

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

"Why, child, these are subjects so much out of thy way, that thou
wouldst hardly comprehend any explanation that I could give."

"Perhaps so; but what success, dear sir, have you met with?"

"Why, I can't but say that affairs have not been quite as expeditious
in their progress as I had reason, at first, to expect. Unlooked-for
delays and impediments will occur in the prosecution of the best schemes;
and these, I must own, have been well enough accounted for."

"But, dear sir, the scheme, I doubt not, was very beneficial that
induced you to hazard your whole fortune. I thought you had absolutely
withdrawn yourself from all the hazards and solicitudes of business."

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

"But, sir, the hazard, the uncertainty, of all projects! Would you
expose yourself at this time of life to the possibility of being reduced
to distress? And had you not enough already?"

"Why, what you say, Jane, is very true: these things did occur to me,
and they strongly disinclined me, at first, from your brother's proposals;
but, I don't know how it was, he made out the thing to be so very
advantageous; the success of it so infallible; and his own wants were so
numerous that my whole income was insufficient to supply them; the Lord
knows how it has happened. In my time, I could live upon a little. Even
with a wife and family, my needs did not require a fourth of the sum that
Frank, without wife or child, contrives to spend; yet I can't object
neither. He makes it out that he spends no more than his rank in life, as
he calls it, indispensably requires. Rather than encroach upon my funds,
and the prospects of success being so very flattering, and Frank so very
urgent and so very sanguine, whose own interest it is to be sure of his
footing, I even, at last, consented."

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

My father, Henry, was a good man,--humane, affectionate, kind, and of
strict integrity; but I scarcely need to add, after what I have already
related, that his understanding was far from being vigorous, or his temper
firm. His foibles, indeed, acquired strength as he advanced in years,
while his kindness and benevolence remained undiminished.

His acquiescence in my brother's schemes can hardly be ranked with
follies: you, who know what scheme it was, who know the intoxicating
influence of a specious project, and, especially, the wonderful address
and plausibility of Catling, the adventurer who was my brother's prime
minister and chief agent in that ruinous transaction, will not consider
their adopting the phantom as any proof of the folly of either father or
son. But let me return. To my compliment to his experience and discretion,
my father replied, "Why, truly, I hardly know how it may turn out in the
long run. At first, indeed, I only consented to come down with a few
thousands, the total loss of which would not break my heart; but this, it
seems, though it was all they at first demanded, did not prove quite
sufficient. Some debts they were obliged to contract,--to no great amount,
indeed,--and these must be paid or the scheme relinquished. Having gone so
far into the scheme, it was absurd to let a trifle stop me. I must own,
had I foreseen all the demands that have been made from time to time, I
should never have engaged in it; but I have been led on from one step to
another, till I fear it would avail me nothing to hesitate or hold back;
and Frank's representations are so very plausible!"

"Does your whole subsistence, then, my dear sir, depend on the success
of this scheme? Suppose it should utterly fail: what will be the
consequences to yourself?"

"Fail! That is impossible. It cannot fail but through want of money,
and I am solemnly assured that no more will be necessary."

"But how often, sir, has this assurance been given? No doubt with as
much solemnity the first time as the last."

My father began to grow impatient:--"It is useless, Jane, to start
difficulties and objections now. It is too late to go back, even if I
were disinclined to go forward; and I have no doubt of ultimate success.
Be a good girl, and you shall come in for a share of the profit. Mrs.
Fielder and I, between us, will make you the richest heiress in America.
Let that consideration reconcile you to the scheme."

I could not but smile at this argument. I well knew that my brother's
rapacity was not to be satisfied with millions. To sit down and say, "I
have enough," was utterly incompatible with his character. I dropped the
conversation for the present.

My thoughts were full of uneasiness. The mere sound of the word
"project" alarmed me. I had little desire of knowing the exact nature of
the scheme, being nowise qualified to judge of its practicability; but a
scheme in which my brother was the agent, in which my father's whole
property was hazarded, and which appeared, from the account I had just
heard, at least not to have fulfilled the first expectations, could not be
regarded with tranquillity.

I took occasion to renew the subject with my father, some time after
this. I could only deal in general observations on the imprudence of
putting independence and subsistence to hazard: though the past was not to
be recalled, yet the future was his own, and it would not be unworthy of
him to act with caution. I was obliged to mingle this advice with much
foreign matter, and convey it in the most indirect and gentle terms. His
pride was easily offended at being thought to want the counsel of a
girl.

He replied to my remarks with confidence, that no further demand would
be made upon him. The last sum was given with extreme reluctance, and
nothing but the positive assurance that it would absolutely be the last
had prevailed with him.

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

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

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

"Why, yes, I must own they were; but new circumstances arose that could
not be foreseen?"

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

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

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

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

I was less surprised at this intelligence than grieved. I thought I saw
my father's ruin was inevitable, and knew not how to prevent or
procrastinate it. After a long pause, I ventured to insinuate that, as the
thing was yet to be done, as there was still time for deliberation----

"No, no," interrupted he; "I must go on. It is too late to repent.
Unless new funds are supplied, all that we have hitherto done will go for
nothing; and Frank assures me that one more sacrifice and all will be
well."

"Alas, sir, are you still deceived by that language? Can you still
listen to assurances which experience has so often shown to be fallacious?
I know nothing of this fine project; but I can see too clearly that unless
you hold your hand you will be undone. Would to Heaven you would hesitate
a moment!" I said a great deal more to the same purpose, and was at length
interrupted by a message from my brother, who desired to see me a few
minutes in the parlour below. Though at a loss as to what could occasion
such an unusual summons, I hastened down.

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

At last, with many pauses and much hesitation, he said, "Jane, I
suppose your legacy is untouched. Was it two or three thousand Mrs.
Matthews put you down for in her will?"

"The sum was three thousand dollars. You know that, though it was left
entirely at my own disposal, yet the bequest was accompanied with advice
to keep it unimpaired till I should want it for my own proper subsistence.
On that condition I received, and on that condition shall keep it."

"I am glad of it with all my heart," replied he, with affected
vivacity. "I was afraid you had spent it by this time on dolls, trinkets,
and baby-things. The sum is entire, you say? In your drawer? I am
surprised you could resist the temptation to spend it. I wonder nobody
thought of robbing you."

"You cannot suppose, brother, I would keep that sum in my possession?
You know it was in bank at my aunt's death, and there it has
remained."

"At what bank, pr'ythee?"

I told him.

"Well, I am extremely glad thou hadst wit enough to keep it snug, for
now the time has come to put it to some use. My father and I have a scheme
on foot by which we shall realize immense profit. The more engines we set
to work, the greater and more speedy will be the ultimate advantage. It
occurred to me that you had some money, and that, unless it were better
employed, it would be but justice to allow you to throw it into stock. If,
therefore, you are willing, it shall be done. What say you, Jane?"

This proposal was totally unexpected. I harboured not a moment's doubt
as to the conduct it became me to pursue; but how to declare my
resolutions, or state my reasons for declining his offer, I knew not.

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

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

"They were simple and obvious views. She knew my sex and education laid
me under peculiar difficulties as to subsistence. As affairs then stood,
there was little danger of my ever being reduced to want or dependence;
but still there was a possibility of this. To insure me against this
possible evil, she left me this sum, to be used only for subsistence, and
when I should be deprived of all other means."

"Go on," said my brother. "Repeat the clause in which she forbids you,
if at any time the opportunity should be offered of doubling or trebling
your money and thereby effectually securing that independence which she
wished to bequeath to you, to profit by the offer. Pray, repeat that
clause."

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

"I am glad to hear it. I was afraid that she was silly enough to insert
some such prohibition. On the contrary, the scheme I propose to you will
merely execute your aunt's great purpose. Instead of forbidding, she would
have earnestly exhorted you, had she been a prophetess as well as a saint,
to close with such an offer as I now make you, in which, I can assure you,
I have your own good as well as my own in view."

Observing my silent and perplexed air, "Why, Jane," said he, "surely
you cannot hesitate? What is your objection? Perhaps you are one of those
provident animals who look before they leap, and, having gained a monopoly
of wisdom, will take no scheme upon trust. You must examine with your own
eyes. I will explain the affair to you, if you choose, and convince you
beyond controversy that your money may be trebled in a twelvemonth."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, then, what will satisfy you?"

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

"Then you will," replied he, struggling with his rage, "you will not
agree?"

My silence was an unequivocal answer.

"You turn out to be what I always thought you,--a little, perverse,
stupid, obstinate--But take time;" (softening his tone a little;) "take
time to consider of it.

"Some unaccountable oddity, some freak, must have taken hold of you
just now and turned your wits out of door. 'Tis impossible you should
deliberately reject such an offer. Why, girl, three thousand dollars has a
great sound, perhaps, to your ears, but you'll find it a most wretched
pittance if you should ever be obliged to live upon it. The interest would
hardly buy you garters and topknots. You live, at this moment, at the rate
of six times the sum. You are now a wretched and precarious dependant on
Mrs. Fielder: her marriage (a very likely thing for one of her habits,
fortune, and age) will set you afloat in the world; and then where will be
your port? Your legacy, in any way you can employ it, will not find you
bread. Three times the sum might answer, perhaps; and that, if you will
fall on my advice, you may now attain in a single twelvemonth. Consider
these things, and I will call on you in the evening for your final
answer."

He was going, but I mustered resolution enough to call him back:--
"Brother, one word. All deliberation in this case is superfluous. You may
think my decision against so plausible a scheme perverse and absurd; but,
in this instance, I am fully sensible that I have a right to do as I
please, and shall exert that right, whatever censure I may incur."

"So, then, you are determined not to part with your paltry legacy?"

"I am determined not to part with it."

His eyes sparkled with rage, and, stamping on the floor, he exclaimed,
"Why, then, let me tell you, miss, you are a damned idiot. I knew you were
a fool, but could not believe that your folly would ever carry you to
these lengths!"--Much more in this style did poor Frank utter on this
occasion. I listened trembling, confounded, vexed, and, as soon as I could
recover presence of mind, hastened out of his presence.

This dialogue occupied all my thoughts during that day and the
following. I was sitting, next evening, at twilight, pensively, in my own
apartment, when, to my infinite surprise, my brother was announced. At
parting with him the day before, he swore vehemently that he would never
see my face again if he could help it. I supposed this resolution had
given way to his anxiety to gain my concurrence with his schemes, and
would fain have shunned a second interview. This, however, was impossible.
I therefore composed my tremors as well as I was able, and directed him to
be admitted. The angry emotions of yesterday had disappeared from his
countenance, and he addressed me with his customary carelessness. After a
few trifling preliminaries, he asked me if I had considered the subject of
our yesterday's conversation. I answered that I had supposed that subject
to have been dismissed forever. It was not possible for time or argument
to bring us to the same way of thinking on it. I hoped, therefore, that he
would not compel me to discuss it a second time.

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

My heart, I believe thou knowest, Harry, is the sport, the mere
plaything, of gratitude and pity. Kindness will melt my firmest
resolutions in a moment. Entreaty will lead me to the world's end. Gentle
accents, mournful looks, in my brother, was a claim altogether
irresistible. The mildness, the condescension which I now witnessed
thrilled to my heart. A grateful tear rushed to my eye, and I almost
articulated, "Dear, dear brother, be always thus kind and thus good, and I
will lay down my life for you."

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

Far otherwise, however, was his deportment. This condescension was
momentary. The words had scarcely escaped him before he seemed to
recollect them as having been unworthy of his dignity. He resumed his
arrogant and careless air, half whistled "ca ira," and glanced at the
garden, with, "A tall poplar that. How old?"

"Not very old, for _I_ planted it."

"Very likely. Just such another giddy head and slender body as the
planter's. But, now I think of it, Jane, since your money is idle, suppose
you lend me five hundred dollars of it till to-morrow. Upon my honour,
I'll repay it then. My calls just now are particularly urgent. See here; I
have brought a _check_ ready filled. It only wants your
signature."

I felt instant and invincible repugnance to this request. I had so long
regarded my brother as void of all discretion, and as habitually
misapplying money to vicious purposes, that I deemed it a crime of no
inconsiderable degree to supply the means of his prodigality. Occasions
were daily occurring in which much good was effected by a few dollars, as
well as much evil produced by the want of them. My imagination pondered on
the evils of poverty much oftener than perhaps was useful, and had thence
contracted a terror--of it not easily controlled. My legacy I had always
regarded as a sacred deposit,--an asylum in distress which nothing but the
most egregious folly would rob or dissipate. Yet now I was called upon to
transfer, by one stroke of the pen, to one who appeared to me to be
engaged in ruinous vices or chimerical projects, so large a portion as
five hundred dollars.

I was no niggardly hoarder of the allowance made me by my mother; but
so diffident was I of my own discernment, that I never laid out twenty
dollars without her knowledge and concurrence. Could I then give away
_five hundred_ of this sacred treasure, bestowed on me for very
different purposes, without her knowledge? It was useless to acquaint her
with my brother's request and solicit her permission. She would never
grant it.

My brother, observing me hesitate, said, "Come, Jane; make haste.
Surely this is no such mighty favour, that you should stand a moment.
'Twill be all the same to you, since I return it to-morrow. May I perish
if I don't!"

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

He laughed:--"A mere trifle, girl;'tis a bare nothing. But, much or
little, you shall have it again, I tell you, to-morrow. Come; time flies.
Take the pen, I say, and make no more words about the matter."

"Impossible, till I know the purpose. Do not urge me to a wrong
thing."

His face reddened with indignation. "A wrong thing! you are fool enough
to tire the patience of a saint. What do I ask, but the loan of a few
dollars for a single day? Money that is absolutely idle; for which you
have no use. You know that my father's property is mine, and that my
possessions are twenty times greater than your own; yet you refuse to lend
this paltry sum for one day. Come, Jane, sister; you have carried your
infatuation far enough. Where a raw girl should gain all these scruples
and punctilios I can't imagine. Pray, what is your objection?"

In these contests with my brother, I was never mistress of my thoughts.
His boisterous, negligent, contemptuous manners awed, irritated,
embarrassed me. To say any thing which implied censure of his morals or
his prudence would be only raising a storm which my womanish spirit could
not withstand. In answer to his expostulations, I only repeated,
"Impossible! I cannot."

Finding me inflexible, he once more gave way to indignation:--"What a
damned oaf! to be thus creeping and cringing to an idiot--a child--an ape!
Nothing but necessity, cruel necessity, would have put me on this task."
Then turning to me, he said, in a tone half supplicating, half
threatening, "Let me ask you once more: will you sign this check? Do not
answer hastily; for much, very much, depends on it. By all that is sacred,
I will return it to you to-morrow. Do it, and save me and your father from
infamy; from ruin; from a prison; from death. _He_ may have cowardice
enough to live and endure his infamy, but _I_ have spirit enough to
die and escape it."

This was uttered with an impetuosity that startled me. The words ruin,
prison, death, rung in my ears, and, almost out of breath, I exclaimed,
"What do you mean? my father go to prison? my father ruined? What do you
mean?"

"I mean what I say. Your signing this check may save me from
irretrievable ruin. This trifling supply, which I can nowhere else
procure, if it comes to-night, may place us out of danger. If delayed till
to-morrow morning, there will be no remedy. I shall receive an adequate
sum to-morrow afternoon, and with that I will replace this."

"My father ruined! In danger of a jail! Good Heaven! Let me fly to him.
Let me know from himself the full extent of the evil." I left my seat with
this purpose, but he stopped me:--"Are you mad, girl? He does not know the
full extent of the evil. Indeed, the evil will be perfectly removed by
this trifling loan. He need not know it."  "Ah! my poor father," said I,
"I see thy ruin indeed. Too fatally secure hast thou been; too doting in
thy confidence in others." These words, half articulated, did not escape
my brother. He was at once astonished and enraged by them, and even in
these circumstances could not suppress his resentment.

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

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

'"Nothing but force shall keep me from my father. I will know his true
situation this instant, from his own lips. Let me go. I _will_
go."

I attempted to rush by him, but he shut the door and swore I should
not leave the room till I had complied with his request.

Perceiving me thoroughly in earnest, and indignant in my turn at his
treatment, he attempted to soothe me, by saying that I had misunderstood
him in relation to my father; that he had uttered words at random; that he
was really out of cash at this moment; I should inexpressibly oblige him
by lending him this trifling sum till to-morrow evening.

"Brother, I will deal candidly with you. You think me childish,
ignorant, and giddy. Perhaps I am so; but I have sense enough to resolve,
and firmness enough to adhere to my resolution, never to give money
without thoroughly knowing and fully approving of the purposes to which it
is to be applied. You tell me you are in extreme want of an immediate
supply. Of what nature is your necessity? What has occasioned your
necessity? I will not withhold what will really do you good,--what I am
thoroughly convinced will do you good; but I must first be convinced."

"What would you have more than my word? I tell you it will save your-I
tell you it will serve me essentially. It is surely needless to enter into
long and intricate details, which, ten to one, you will not
understand."

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

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

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

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

I have gone into these incidents with a minuteness that I fear has
tired you; but I will be more concise for the future. These incidents are
chiefly introductory to others of a more affecting nature, and to those I
must now hasten. Meanwhile, I will give some little respite to my
fingers.




Letter VI

     [Editorial note: The observant reader will have noted there is no
                      Letter V. The original text did not contain one,
                      and we have chosen to let the letters retain their
                      original numbers, rather than renumber them.]


_To Henry Colden_

Thursday Morning, October 6.

As soon as my visitants had gone, I hastened to my father. I
immediately introduced the subject of which my heart was full. I related
the particulars of my late interview with my brother; entreated him with
the utmost earnestness to make the proper inquiries into the state of my
brother's affairs, with whose fate it was too plain that his own were
inextricably involved.

He was seized with extreme solicitude on hearing my intelligence. He
could not keep his chair one moment at a time, but walked about the floor
trembling. He called his servant, and directed him, in a faltering voice,
to go to my brother's house and request him to come immediately.

I was sensible that what I had done was violently adverse to my
brother's wishes. Nevertheless, I urged my father to an immediate
explanation, and determined to be present at the conference.

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

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

It was possible that all my brother had said was literally true; that
he merited my confidence in this instance, and that the supply he demanded
would save both him and my father from the ruin that impended over them.
The more I pondered on the subject, the more dissatisfied I became with my
own scruples. In this state of mind I reached home. The servant, while
opening the door, expressed her surprise at my staying out so late,
telling me that my brother had been waiting my return for several hours,
with marks of the utmost impatience. I shuddered at this intelligence,
though just before I had almost formed the resolution of going to his
house and offering him the money he wanted.

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

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


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

All arrogance and indignation were now laid aside. His tone and looks
betokened the deepest distress. All the firmness, reluctance, and wariness
of my temper vanished in a moment. My heart was seized with an agony of
compunction. I came close to him, and, taking his hand involuntarily,
said, "Dear brother, forgive me."

Strange what influence calamity possesses in softening the character!
He made no answer, but, putting his arms around me, pressed me to his
breast, while tears stole down his cheek.

Now was I thoroughly subdued. I am quite an April girl, thou knowest,
Harry, and the most opposite emotions fill, with equal certainty, my eyes.
I could scarcely articulate, "Oh, my dear brother, forgive me. Take what
you ask. If it can be of any service to you, take all I have."

"But how shall I see my father? Infinite pains have I taken to conceal
from him a storm which I thought could be easily averted, which his
knowledge of it would only render more difficult to resist; but my cursed
folly, by saying more than I intended to you, has blasted my designs."

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

I could not free myself from the secret apprehension of having done
mischief rather than good by my compliance. I had acted without consulting
my mother, in a case where my youth and inexperience stood in the utmost
need of advice. On the most trivial occasions I had hitherto held it a
sacred duty to make her the arbitress and judge of my whole conduct; and
now shame for my own precipitance and regard for my brother's feelings
seemed to join in forbidding me to disclose what had passed. A most
restless and unquiet night did I pass.

Next morning was I to go to my father, to repair as much as possible
the breach I had thoughtlessly made in his happiness. I knew not what
means to employ for this purpose. What could I say? I was far from being
satisfied, myself, with my brother's representations. I hoped, but had
very little confidence that any thing in my power to do would be of
permanent advantage.

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

That day, notwithstanding his promises of payment, passed away without
hearing from my brother. I had never laid any stress upon the promise, but
drew a bad omen from this failure.

A few days elapsed without any material incident. The next occasion on
which my brother was introduced into conversation with Mrs. Fielder took
place one evening after my friend had returned from spending the day
abroad. After a pause, in which there was more significance than usual,--
"Pray, have you seen Frank lately?"

I made some vague answer.

"He has been talked about this afternoon, very little, as usual, to his
advantage."

I trembled from head to foot.

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

"Dearest madam! what new circumstance?"

"Nothing very new. It seems Mr. Frazer--his wife told the story--sold
him, a twelvemonth ago, a curricle and pair of horses. Part of the money,
after some delay, was paid. The rest was dunned for unavailingly a long
time. At length curricle and horses scoured the roads under the management
of Monsieur Petitgrave, brother to Frank's _housekeeper_, the
handsome mustec. This gave Frazer uneasiness, and some importunity
extorted from Frank a note, which, being due _last Tuesday_, was, at
Frank's importunity, withdrawn from bank to prevent protest. Next day,
however, it was paid."

I ventured to ask if Mrs. Frazer had mentioned any sum. "Yes; a round
sum,--_five hundred dollars_."

Fortunately the dark prevented my mother from perceiving my confusion.
It was Tuesday evening on which I had lent the money to Frank. He had
given me reason to believe that his embarrassments arose from his
cotton-weaving scheme, and that the sum demanded from me was to pay
the wages of craving but worthy labourers.

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

"I fear, Jane, I have gained but little credit with you for
punctuality. I ought to have fulfilled my promise, you will say. I will
not excuse my breach of it by saying (though I might say so, perhaps, with
truth) that you have no use for the money; that I have pressing use for
it, and that a small delay, without being of any importance to you, will
be particularly convenient to me. No; the true and all-sufficient reason
why I did not return the money was--because I had it not. To convince you
that I am really in need, I enclose you a check for another five hundred,
which you'll much oblige me by signing. I can repay you both sums together
by Saturday,--if you needs must have it so soon. The bearer waits."

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

"I am thoroughly convinced that it is not in my power to afford you any
effectual aid in your present difficulties. It will be very easy to injure
myself. The request you make can have no other tendency. I must therefore
decline complying."

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

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

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

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

In the course of a very few days, one-half of my little property was
gone. A sum sufficient, according to my system of economy, to give me
decent independence of the world for at least three years, had been
dissipated by the prodigality of a profligate woman. At the time, indeed,
I was ignorant of this. It was impossible not to pay some regard to the
plausible statements and vehement asseverations of my brother, and to
suffer them to weigh something against charges which might possibly be
untrue. As soon as accident had put me in full possession of the truth on
this head, I was no longer thus foolishly obsequious.

The next morning after our last interview I set out, as usual, to bid
good-morrow to my father. My uneasy thoughts led me unaware to extend my
walk, till I reached the door of a watchmaker with whom my servant had,
some time before, left a watch to be repaired. It occurred to me that,
since I was now on the spot, I might as well stop and make some inquiry
about it. On entering the shop I almost repented of my purpose, as two
persons were within the bar, if I may call it so, seated in a lounging
posture, by a small stove, smoking cigars and gazing at me with an air of
indolent impertinence. I determined to make my stay as short as possible,
and hurried over a few questions to the artist, who knew me only as the
owner of the watch. My attention was quickly roused by one of the
loungers, who, having satisfied his curiosity by gazing at me, turned to
the other and said, "Well, you have hardly been to Frank's this morning, I
suppose?"

"Indeed, but I have," was the reply.

"Why, damn it, you pinch too hard. Well, and what success?"

"Why, what do you think?"

"Another _put-off_; another _call-again_, to-be-sure."

"I would not go till he downed with the stuff."

"No!" (with a broad stare;) "it a'n't possible."

"Seeing is believing, I hope;" (producing a piece of paper.)

"Why, so it is. A check!--but--what's that name?--let's see,"
(stooping to examine the signature:)--"_Jane Talbot_. Who the devil
is she?"

"Don't you know her? She's his sister. A devilish rich girl."

"But how? does _she_ lend him money?"

"Yes, to-be-sure. She's his sister, you know."

"But how does she get money? Is she a widow?"

"No. She is a girl, I've heard, not eighteen. 'Tis not my look-out how
she gets money, so as her check's good; and that I'll fix as soon as the
door's open."

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

"Can't conceive. Coax or rob her aunt of it, I suppose. If she's such
another as Frank, she is able to outwit the devil. I hope it may be good.
If it isn't, he sha'n't be his own man one day longer."

"But how did you succeed so well?"

"He asked me yesterday to call once more. So I called, you see,
betimes, and, finding that he had a check for a little more than my debt,
I teased him out of it, promising to give him the balance. I pity the
fellow from my soul. It was all for trinkets and furniture bought by that
prodigal jade, Mademoiselle Couteau. She would ruin a prince, if she had
him as much at her command as she has Frank. Little does the sister know
for what purpose she gives her money: however, that, as I said before, be
her look-out."

During this dialogue, my eye was fixed upon the artist, who, with the
watch open in one hand, and a piece of wire in the other, was describing,
with great formality, the exact nature of the defect and the whole process
of the cure; but, though I looked steadfastly at him, I heard not a
syllable of his dissertation. I broke away when his first pause allowed
me.

The strongest emotion in my heart was resentment. That my name should
be prostituted by the foul mouths of such wretches, and my money be
squandered for the gratification of a meretricious vagabond, were
indignities not to be endured. I was carried involuntarily towards my
brother's house. I had lost all that awe in his presence and trepidation
at his scorn which had formerly been so troublesome. His sarcasms or
revilings had become indifferent to me, as every day's experience had of
late convinced me that in no valuable attribute was he anywise superior to
his sister. The consciousness of having been deceived and wronged by him
set me above both his anger and his flattery. I was hastening to his house
to give vent to my feelings, when a little consideration turned my steps
another way. I recollected that I should probably meet his companion, and
that was an encounter which I had hitherto carefully avoided. I went,
according to my first design, to my father's; I was in hopes of meeting
Frank there some time in the day, or of being visited by him at Mrs.
Fielder's.

My soul was in a tumult that unfitted me for conversation. I felt
hourly-increasing remorse at having concealed my proceedings from my
mother. I imagined that, had I treated her from the first with the
confidence due to her, I should have avoided all my present difficulties.
Now the obstacles to confidence appeared insurmountable, and my only
consolation was, that by inflexible resolution I might shun any new cause
for humiliation and regret.

I had purposed to spend the greater part of the day at my father's,
chiefly in the hope of a meeting with my brother; but, after dinner, my
mother sent for me home. Something, methought, very extraordinary, must
have happened, as my mother was well: as, according to the messenger's
account, she had just parted with a gentleman who seemed to have visited
her on private business, my heart misgave me.

As soon as I got home, my mother took me into her chamber, and told me,
after an affecting preface, that a gentleman in office at ---- Bank had
called on her and informed her that checks of my signing to a very large
amount had lately been offered, and that the last made its appearance
to-day, and was presented by a man with whom it was highly disreputable
for one in my condition to be thought to have any sort of intercourse.

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

I had scarcely parted with my mother on this occasion, to whom I had
promised to refer every future application, when my brother made his
appearance. I was prepared to overwhelm him with upbraidings for his past
conduct, but found my tongue tied in his presence. I could not bear to
inflict so much shame and mortification; and besides, the past being
irrevocable, it would only aggravate the disappointment which I was
determined every future application should meet with. After some vague
apology for non-payment, he applied for a new loan. He had borrowed, he
said, of a deserving man, a small sum, which he was now unable to repay.
The poor fellow was in narrow circumstances; was saddled with a numerous
family; had been prevailed upon to lend, after extreme urgency on my
brother's part; was now driven to the utmost need, and by a prompt
repayment would probably be saved from ruin. A minute and plausible
account of the way in which the debt originated, and his inability to
repay it shown to have proceeded from no fault of his.

I repeatedly endeavoured to break off the conversation, by abruptly
leaving the room; but he detained me by importunity, by holding my hand,
by standing against the door.

How irresistible is supplication! The glossings and plausibilities of
eloquence are inexhaustible. I found my courage wavering. After a few
ineffectual struggles, I ceased to contend. He saw that little remained to
complete his conquest; and, to effect that little, by convincing me that
his tale was true, he stepped out a moment, to bring in his creditor,
whose anxiety had caused him to accompany Frank to the door.

This momentary respite gave me time to reflect. I ran through the door,
now no longer guarded; up-stairs I flew into my mother's chamber, and told
her from what kind of persecution I had escaped.

While I was speaking, some one knocked at the door. It was a servant,
despatched by my brother to summon me back. My mother went in my stead. I
was left, for some minutes, alone.

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

I felt something like compunction at having deprived him of an
opportunity to prove his assertions. Every gentle look and insinuating
accent reappeared to my memory, and I more than half repented my
inflexibility.

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

"Was there anybody with him, madam?"

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

"Do you know any thing of this Clarges?"

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

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

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

"I am sorry to say, Jane, that the ruin of a father and brother may
justly be laid at your door. Not to save them, when the means were in your
power, and when entreated to use the means, makes you the author of their
ruin. The crisis has come. Had you shown a little mercy, the crisis might
have terminated favourably. As it is, we are undone. You do not deserve to
know the place of my retreat. Your unsisterly heart will prompt you to
intercept rather than to aid or connive at my flight. Fly I must; whither,
it is pretty certain, will never come to your knowledge. Farewell."

My brother's disappearance, the immediate ruin of my father, whose
whole fortune was absorbed by debts contracted in his name, and for the
most part without his knowledge, the sudden affluence of the adventurer
who had suggested his projects to my brother, were the immediate
consequences of this event. To a man of my father's habits and views, no
calamity can be conceived greater than this. Never did I witness a more
sincere grief, a more thorough despair. Every thing he once possessed was
taken away from him and sold. My mother, however, prevented all the most
opprobrious effects of poverty, and all in my power to alleviate his
solitude, and console him in his distress, was done.

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

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

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

You are the only person to whom I have thought myself bound to tell the
whole truth. I do not think my reluctance to draw the follies of my
brother from oblivion a culpable one. I am willing to rely, for my
justification from malicious charges, on the general tenor of my actions,
and am scarcely averse to buy my brother's reputation at the cost of my
own. The censure of the undistinguishing and undistinguished multitude
gives me little uneasiness. Indeed, the disapprobation of those who have
no particular connection with us is a very faint, dubious, and momentary
feeling. We are thought of, now and then, by chance, and immediately
forgotten. Their happiness is unaffected by the sentence casually
pronounced on us, and we suffer nothing, since it scarcely reaches our
ears, and the interval between the judge and the culprit hinders it from
having any influence on their actions. Not so when the censure reaches
those who love us. The charge engrosses their attention, influences their
happiness, and regulates their deportment towards us. My self-regard, and
my regard for you, equally lead me to vindicate myself to you from any
charge, however chimerical or obsolete it may be.

My brother went to France. He seemed disposed to forget that he ever
had kindred or country; never informed us of his situation and views. All
our tidings of him came to us indirectly. In this way we heard that he
procured a commission in the republican troops, had made some fortunate
campaigns, and had enriched himself by lucky speculations in the forfeited
estates.

My mother was informed, by some one lately returned from Paris, that
Frank had attained possession of the whole property of an emigrant Compte
de Puysegur, who was far from being the poorest of the ancient nobles;
that he lived? with princely luxury, in the count's hotel; that he had
married, according to the new mode, the compte's sister, and was probably,
for the remainder of his life, a Frenchman. He is attentive to his
countrymen, and this reporter partook of several entertainments at his
house.

Methinks the memory of past incidents must sometimes intrude upon his
thoughts. Can he have utterly forgotten the father whom he reduced to
indigence, whom he sent to a premature grave? Amidst his present opulence,
one would think it would occur to him to inquire into the effects of his
misconduct, not only to his own family, but on others.

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

Methinks, had I the same heavy charges to make against my conscience, I
should find no refuge but death from the goadings of remorse. To have
abandoned a father to the jail or the hospital, or to the charity of
strangers,--a father too who had yielded him an affection and a trust
without limits; to have wronged a sister out of the little property on
which she relied for support to her unprotected youth or helpless age,--a
sister who was virtually an orphan, who had no natural claim upon her
present patroness, but might be dismissed penniless from the house that
sheltered her, without exposing the self-constituted mother to any
reproach.

And has not this event taken place already? What can I expect but that,
at _least_, it will take place as soon as she hears of my resolution
with regard to thee? She ought to know it immediately. I myself ought to
tell it, and this was one of the tasks which I designed to perform in your
absence: yet, alas! I know not how to set about it.

My fingers are for once thoroughly weary. I must lay down the pen. But
first; why don't I hear from you? Every day since Sunday, when you left
me, have I despatched an enormous packet, and have not received a sentence
in answer. 'Tis not well done, my friend, to forget and neglect me thus.
You gave me some reason, indeed, to expect no very sudden tidings from
you; but there is inexpiable treason in the silence of four long days. If
you do not offer substantial excuses for this delay, woe be to thee!

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




Letter VII


_To Henry Golden_

Thursday Night.

What a little thing subverts my peace,--dissipates my resolutions! Am I
not an honest, foolish creature, Hal? I uncover this wayward heart to thy
view as promptly as if the disclosure had no tendency to impair thy esteem
and forfeit thy love; that is, to devote me to death,--to ruin me beyond
redemption.

And yet, if the unveiling of my follies should have this effect, I
think I should despise thee for stupidity and hate thee for ingratitude;
for whence proceed my irresolution, my vicissitudes of purpose, but from
my love? and that man's heart must be made of strange stuff that can abhor
or contemn a woman for loving him too much. Of such stuff the heart of my
friend, thank Heaven, is _not_ made. Though I love him far--_far_ too
much, he will not trample on or scoff at me.

But how my pen rambles!--No wonder; for my intellects are in a strange
confusion. There is an acute pain just here. Give me your hand and let me
put it on the very spot. Alas! there is no dear hand within my reach. I
remember feeling just such a pain but once before. Then you chanced to be
seated by my side. I put your hand to the spot, and, strange to tell, a
moment after I looked for the pain and 'twas gone,--utterly vanished!
Cannot I imagine so strongly as to experience that relief which your hand
pressed to my forehead would give? Let me lay down the pen and try.

Ah! my friend! when present, thou'rt an excellent physician; but as thy
presence is my cure, so thy absence is my only, my fatal malady.

My desk is, of late, always open; my paper spread; my pen moist. I must
talk to you, though you give me no answer, though I have nothing but
gloomy forebodings to communicate, or mournful images to call up. I must
talk to you, even when you cannot hear; when invisible; when distant many
a mile. It is some relief even to corporal agonies. Even the pain which I
just now complained of is lessened since I took up the pen. Oh, Hal! Hal!
if you ever prove ungrateful or a traitor to me, and there be a state
retributive hereafter, terrible will be thy punishment.

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

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

Pity the weakness of a fond heart, Henry, and let me hear from you, and
be your precious and long-withheld letter my relief from every disquiet. I
believe, and do _not_ believe, what I have heard, and what I have
heard teems with a thousand mischiefs, or is fair and innocent, according
to my reigning temper.--Adieu; but let me hear from you immediately.




Letter VIII


_To Jane Talbot_

Wilmington, Saturday, October 9.

I thought I had convinced my friend that a letter from me ought not to
be expected earlier than Monday. I left her to gratify no fickle humour,
nor because my chief pleasure lay anywhere but in her company. She knew of
my design to make some stay at this place, and that the business that
occasioned my stay would leave me no leisure to write.

Is it possible that my visits to Miss Secker have given you any
concern? Why must the source of your anxiety be always so mortifying and
opprobrious to me? That the absence of a few days, and the company of
another woman, should be thought to change my sentiments, and make me
secretly recant those vows which I offered to you, is an imputation on my
common sense which--I suppose I deserve. You judge of me from what you
know of me. How can you do otherwise? If my past conduct naturally creates
such suspicions, who am I to blame but myself? Reformation should precede
respect; and how should I gain confidence in my integrity but as the fruit
of perseverance in well-doing?

Alas! how much has he lost who has forfeited his own esteem!

As to Miss Secker, your ignorance of her, and, I may add, of yourself,
has given her the preference. You think her your superior, no doubt, in
every estimable and attractive quality, and therefore suspect her
influence on a being so sensual and volatile as poor Hal. Were she really
more lovely, the faithless and giddy wretch might possibly forget you; but
Miss Secker is a woman whose mind and person are not only inferior to
yours, but wholly unfitted to inspire love. If it were possible to smile
in my present mood, I think I should indulge _one smile_ at the
thought of falling in love with a woman who has scarcely had education
enough to enable her to write her name, who has been confined to her bed
about eighteen months by a rheumatism contracted by too assiduous
application to the wash-tub, and who often boasts that she was born, not
above forty-five years ago, in an upper story of the mansion at Mount
Vernon.

You do not tell me who it was that betrayed me to you. I suspect,
however, it was Miss Jessup. She was passing through this town, in her
uncle's carriage, on Wednesday, on her way home. Seeing me come out of the
poor woman's lodgings, she stopped the coach, prated for five minutes, and
left me with ironical menaces of telling you of my frequent visits to a
single lady, of whom it appeared that she had some knowledge. Thus you see
that your disquiets have had no foundation but in the sportive malice of
your talkative neighbour.

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

The name, when first mentioned, struck my ear as something that had
once been familiar, and, in my solitary evening walk, I stopped at her
cottage. The sight of her, though withered by age and disease, called her
fully to mind. Three years ago, she lived in the city, and had been very
serviceable to me in the way of her calling. I had dismissed her, however,
after receiving several proofs that a pair of silk stockings and a muslin
cravat offered too mighty a temptation for her virtue. You know I have but
little money to spare from my own necessities, and all the service I could
render her was to be her petitioner and advocate with some opulent
families in this place. But enough--and too much--of Hannah Secker.

Need I say that I have read your narrative, and that I fully acquit you
of the guilt laid to your charge? That was done, indeed, before I heard
your defence, and I was anxious to hear your story, merely because all
that relates to you is in the highest degree interesting to me.

This letter, notwithstanding my engagements, should be longer, if I
were not in danger, by writing on, of losing the post. So, dearest love,
farewell, and tell me in your next (which I shall expect on Tuesday) that
every pain has vanished from your head and from your heart. You may as
well delay writing to your mother till I return. I hope it will be
permitted me to do so very shortly. Again, my only friend, farewell.

HENRY COLDEN.




Letter IX


_To Henry Colden_

Philadelphia, Monday, October 11.

I am ashamed of myself, Henry. What an inconsistent creature am I! I
have just placed this dear letter of yours next my heart. The sensation it
affords, at this moment, is delicious; almost as much so as I once
experienced from a certain somebody's hand placed on the same spot. But
that somebody's hand was never (if I recollect aright) so highly honoured
as this paper. Have I not told you that your letter is deposited
_next_ my heart?

And with all these proofs of the pleasure your letter affords me, could
you guess at the cause of those tears which, even now, have not ceased
flowing? Your letter has so little tenderness--is so _very_ cold. But
let me not be ungrateful for the preference you grant me, merely because
it is not so enthusiastic and unlimited as my own.

I suppose, if I had not extorted from you some account of this poor
woman, I should never have heard a syllable of your meeting with her. It
is surely possible for people to be their own calumniators, to place their
own actions in the worst light, to exaggerate their faults and conceal
their virtues. If the fictions and artifices of vanity be detestable, the
concealment of our good actions is surely not without guilt. The
conviction of our guilt is painful to those that love us: wantonly and
needlessly to give this pain is very perverse and unjustifiable. If a
contrary deportment argue vanity, self-detraction seems to be the
offspring of pride.

Thou art the strangest of men, Henry. Thy whole conduct with regard to
me has been a tissue of self-upbraidings. You have disclosed not only a
thousand misdeeds (as you have thought them) which could not possibly have
come to my knowledge by any other means, but have laboured to ascribe even
your commendable actions to evil or ambiguous motives. Motives are
impenetrable, and a thousand cases have occurred in which every rational
observer would have supposed you to be influenced by the best motives, but
where, if credit be due to your own representations, your motives were far
from being laudable.

Why is my esteem rather heightened than depressed by this deportment?
In truth, there is no crime which remorse will not expiate, and no more
shining virtue in the whole catalogue than sincerity. Besides, your own
account of yourself, with all the exaggerations of humility, proved you,
on the whole, and with the allowances necessarily made by every candid
person, to be a very excellent man.

Your deportment to me ought chiefly to govern my opinion of you; and
have you not been uniformly generous, sincere, and upright?--not quite
passionate enough, perhaps; no blind and precipitate enthusiast. Love has
not banished discretion, or blindfolded your sagacity; and, as I should
forgive a thousand errors on the score of love, I cannot fervently applaud
that wisdom which tramples upon love. Thou hast a thousand excellent
qualities, Henry; that is certain: yet a little more impetuosity and
fervour in thy tenderness would compensate for the want of the whole
thousand. _There_ is a frank confession for thee! I am confounded at
my own temerity in making it. Will it not injure me in thy esteem? and, of
all evils which it is possible for me to suffer, the loss of _that_
esteem would soonest drive me to desperation.

The world has been liberal of its censure, but surely a thorough
knowledge of my conduct could not condemn me. When my father and mother
united their entreaties to those of Talbot, my heart had never known a
preference. The man of their choice was perfectly indifferent to me, but
every individual of his sex was regarded with no less indifference. I did
not conceal from him the state of my feelings, but was always perfectly
ingenuous and explicit. Talbot acted like every man in love. He was eager
to secure me on these terms, and fondly trusted to his tenderness and
perseverance to gain those affections which I truly acknowledged to be
free. He would not leave me for his European voyage till he had extorted a
solemn promise.

During his absence I met you. The nature of those throbs, which a
glance of your very shadow was sure to produce, even previous to the
exchange of a single word between us, was entirely unknown to me. I had no
experience to guide me. The effects of that intercourse which I took such
pains to procure could not be foreseen. My heart was too pure to admit
even such a guest as apprehension, and the only information I possessed
respecting you impressed me with the notion that your heart already
belonged to another.

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

At the prospect of his return, my melancholy was excruciating, but the
cause was unknown to me. I had nothing to wish, with regard to you, but to
see you occasionally, to hear your voice, and to be told that you were
happy. It never occurred to me that Talbot's return would occasion any
difference in this respect. Conscious of nothing but rectitude in my
regard for you, always frank and ingenuous in disclosing my feelings, I
imagined that Talbot would adopt you as warmly for his friend as I had
done.

I must grant that I erred in this particular, but my error sprung from
ignorance unavoidable. I judged of others by my own heart, and very
sillily imagined that Talbot would continue to be satisfied with that cold
and friendly regard for which only my vows made me answerable. Yet my
husband's jealousies and discontents were not unreasonable. He loved me
with passion; and, if that sentiment can endure to be unrequited, it will
never tolerate the preference of another, even if that preference be less
than love.

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

I have not yet thoroughly forgiven you for deserting me. My heart
swells with anguish at the thought of your setting more lightly by my
resentment than by that of another; of your willingness to purchase any
one's happiness at the cost of mine. You are too wise, too dispassionate,
by far. Don't despise me for this accusation, Henry; you know my unbiassed
judgment has always been with you. Repeated proofs have convinced me that
my dignity and happiness are safer in your keeping than in my own.

You guess right, my friend. Miss Jessup told me of your visits to this
poor sick woman. There is something mysterious in the character of this
Polly Jessup. She is particularly solicitous about every thing which
relates to you. It has occurred to me, since reading your letter, that she
is not entirely without design in her prattle. Something more, methinks,
than the mere tattling, gossiping, inquisitive propensity in the way in
which she introduces you into conversation.

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

Make haste back, my dear Hal. I cannot bear to keep my mother in
ignorance of our resolutions, and I am utterly at a loss in what manner to
communicate them so as to awaken the least reluctance. Oh, what would be
wanting to my felicity if my mother could be won over to my side? And is
so inestimable a good utterly hopeless? Come, my friend, and dictate such
a letter as may subdue those prejudices which, while they continue to
exist, will permit me to choose only among deplorable evils.

JANE TALBOT.




Letter X


_To Jane Talbot_

New York, October 13.

I have just heard something which has made me very uneasy. I am afraid
of seeming to you impertinent. You have declared your resolution to
persist in conduct which my judgment disapproved. I have argued with you
and admonished you, hitherto, in vain, and you have (tacitly indeed)
rejected my interference; yet I cannot forbear offering you my counsel
once more.

To say truth, it is not so much with a view to change your resolution,
that I now write, as to be informed what your resolution is. I have heard
what I cannot believe; yet, considering your former conduct, I have
misgivings that I cannot subdue. Strangely as you have acted of late, I am
willing to think you incapable of what is laid to your charge. In few
words, Jane, they tell me that you mean to be actually married to
Colden.

You know what I think of that young man. You know my objections to the
conduct you thought proper to pursue in relation to Colden in your
husband's lifetime. You will judge, then, with what emotions such
intelligence was received.

Indiscreet as you have been, there are, I hope, bounds which your
education will not permit you to pass. Some regard, I hope, you will have
for your own reputation. If your conscience object not to this proceeding,
the dread of infamy, at least, will check your career.

You may think that I speak harshly, and that I ought to wait, at least,
till I knew your resolution, before I spoke of it in such terms; but, if
this report be groundless, my censures cannot affect you. If it be true,
they may serve, I hope, to deter you from persisting in your scheme.

What more can I say? You are my nearest relation; not my daughter, it
is true; but, since I have not any other kindred, you are more than a
daughter to me. That love, which a numerous family or kindred would divide
among themselves, is all collected and centred in you. The ties between us
have long ceased to be artificial ones, and I feel, in all respects, as if
you actually owed your being to me.

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

More than this I will do. Every assurance possible I will give, that
all shall be yours at my death, and all I have I will share with you
_equally_ while I live. Only give me your word that, _as soon_
as the transfer is made, Colden shall be thought of and conversed with,
either personally or by letter, no more. I want only your promise; on that
I will absolutely rely.

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

Think of it, my dear Jane, my friend, my child; think of it. Take time
to reflect, and let me have a deliberate answer, such as will remove the
fears that at present afflict, beyond my power of expression, your

H. FIELDER.




Letter XI


_To Mrs. Fielder_

Philadelphia, October 15.

I have several times taken up the pen, but my distress has compelled me
to lay it down again. Heaven is my witness that the happiness of my
revered mamma is dearer to me than my own; no struggle was ever greater
between my duty to you and the claims of another.

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

Whatever conduct I pursue with regard to him, I must always consider
him in this light; at least, till your proofs against him are heard. Let
me hear them, I beseech you. Have compassion on the anguish of your poor
girl, and reconcile, if possible, _my_ duty to _your_ inclination, by
stating what you know to his disadvantage. You must have causes for your
enmity, which you hide from me. Indeed, you tell me that you have; you
say that if I knew them they would determine me. Let then every motive
be set aside through regard to my happiness, and disclose to me this
secret.

While I am ignorant of these charges, while all that I know of Colden
tends to endear his happiness to me, and while his happiness depends upon
my acceptance of his vows, _can_ I, _ought_ I, to reject
him?

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

How greatly do you humble me, and how strongly evince your aversion to
Colden, by offering, as the price of his rejection, half your property!
How low am I fallen in your esteem, since you think it possible for such a
bribe to prevail! and what calamities must this alliance seem to threaten,
since the base selfishness of accepting this offer is better, in your
eyes, than my marriage!

Sure I never was unhappy till now. Pity me, my mother. Condescend to
write to me again, and, by disclosing all your objections to Colden,
reconcile, I earnestly entreat you, my duty to your inclination.

JANE TALBOT.




Letter XII


_To Mrs. Fielder_

Philadelphia, October 17.

You will not write to me. Your messenger assures me that you have cast
me from your thoughts forever; you will speak to me and see me no
more.

That must not be. I am preparing, inclement as the season is, to pay
you a visit. Unless you shut your door against me I _will_ see you.
You will not turn me out of doors, I hope.

I will see you and compel you to answer me, and to tell me why you will
not admit my friend to your good opinion.

J. TALBOT.




Letter XIII


_To Jane Talbot_

New York, October 19.

You need not come to see me, Jane. I will not see you. Lay me not under
the cruel necessity of shutting my door against you, for _that_ must
be the consequence of your attempt.

After reading your letter, and seeing full proof of your infatuation, I
resolved to throw away my care no longer upon you; to think no more of
you; to act just as if you never had existence; whenever it was possible,
to shun you; when I met you, by chance, or perforce, to treat you merely
as a stranger. I write this letter to acquaint you with my resolution.
Your future letters cannot change it, for they shall all be returned to
you unopened.

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

I trust to your discernment, your seeming humility, no longer. No child
are you of mine. You have, henceforth, no part in my blood; and may I very
soon forget that so lost and betrayed a wretch ever belonged to it!

I charge you, write not to me again. H.F.




Letter XIV


_To Mrs. Fielder_

Philadelphia, October 24.

Impossible! Are you not my mother?--more to me than any mother? Did I
not receive your protection and instruction in my infancy and my
childhood? When left an orphan by my own mother, your bosom was open to
receive me. _There_ was the helpless babe cherished, and there was it
taught all that virtue which it has since endeavoured to preserve
unimpaired in every trial.

You must not cast me off. You must not hate me. You must not call me
ungrateful and a wretch. Not to have merited these names is all that
enables me to endure your displeasure. As long as that belief consoles me,
my heart will not break.

Yet that, even that, will not much avail me. The distress that I now
feel, that I have felt ever since the receipt of your letter, cannot be
increased.

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

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

If I am mistaken in my notions of duty, God forbid that I should shut
my ears against good counsel. Instead of loathing or shunning it, I am
anxious to hear it. I know my own short-sighted folly, my slight
experience. I know how apt I am to go astray, how often my own heart
deceives me; and hence I always am in search of better knowledge; hence I
listen to admonition, not only with docility, but gratitude. My
inclination ought, perhaps, to be absolutely neuter; but, if I know
myself, it is with reluctance that I withhold my assent from the
expostulator. I am delighted to receive conviction from the arguments of
those that love me.

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

I ask not pardon for my faults, nor compassion on my frailty. That I
love Colden I will not deny, but I love his worth; his merits, real or
imaginary, enrapture my soul. Ideal his virtues may be, but to me they are
real, and the moment they cease to be so, that the illusion disappears, I
cease to love him, or, at least, I will do all that is in my power to do.
I will forbear all intercourse or correspondence with him,--for his as
well as my own sake.

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

You have raised, without knowing it perhaps, or designing to effect it
in this way, a bar to this detested alliance. While you declare that
Colden has been guilty of base actions, it is impossible to grant him my
esteem as fully as a husband should claim. Till I know what the actions
are which you impute to him, I never will bind myself to him by
indissoluble bands.

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

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

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

Yet this displeases me not. I am not anxious for his justification, but
only to know so much as will authorize me to conform to your wishes.

You warn me against this marriage for my own sake. You think it will be
disastrous to me.--The reasons of this apprehension would, you think,
appear just in my eyes should they be disclosed, yet you will not disclose
them. Without disclosure I cannot--as a rational creature, I
_cannot_--change my resolution. If then I marry and the evil come
that is threatened, whom have I to blame? at whose door must my
misfortunes be laid if not at hers who had it in her power to prevent the
evil and would not?

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

My happiness, my future conduct, are in your hand. Mould them, govern
them, as you think proper. I have pointed out the means, and once more
conjure you, by the love which you once bore, which you still bear, to me,
to use them.

JANE TALBOT.




Letter XV


_To Jane Talbot_

New York, October 27.

Insolent creature that thou art, Jane, and cunning as insolent! To
elude my just determination by such an artifice! To counterfeit a strange
hand in the direction of thy letter, that I might thereby be induced to
open it!

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

Thy perseverance in wickedness, thy inflexible imposture, amazes me
beyond all utterance. Thy effrontery in boasting of thy innocence, in
calling this wretch thy _friend_, thy _soul's_ friend, the means
of securing the favour of a pure and all-seeing Judge, exceeds all that I
supposed possible in human nature. And that thou, Jane, the darling of my
heart, and the object of all my care and my pride, should be this
profligate, this obdurate creature!

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

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

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

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

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

But I am wasting time. My indignation carries me away from my purpose.
Let me return to it, and, having told you all my mind, let me dismiss the
hateful subject forever.

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

You were happy, I long thought, in your union with a man of probity and
good sense. You may be sure I thought of you often, but only with
pleasure. Certain indications I early saw in you of a sensibility that
required strict government; an inattention to any thing but feeling; a
proneness to romantic friendship, and a pining after good not consistent
with our nature. I imagined that I had kept at a distance all such books
and companions as tend to produce this fantastic character; and whence you
imbibed this perverse spirit, at so early an age, is, to me,
inconceivable. It cost me many a gloomy foreboding.

My disquiets increased as you grew up, and that age arrived when the
heart comes to be entangled with what is called love. I was anxious to
find for you a man of merit, to whose keeping your happiness might safely
be intrusted. Talbot was such a one, but the wayward heart refused to love
him. He was not all your fancy had conceived of excellent and lovely. He
was a mere man, with the tastes and habits suitable and common to his
education and age. He was addicted to industry, was regular and frugal in
his manner and economy. He had nothing of that specious and glossy texture
which captivates inexperience and youth, and serves as a substitute for
every other virtue. While others talked about their duty, he was contented
with performing it; and he was satisfied with ignorance of theories as
long as his practice was faultless.

He was just such a one as I wished for the darling of my heart; but you
thought not so. You did not object to his age, though almost double your
own; to his person or aspect, though they were by no means worthy of his
mind; to his profession or condition; but your heart sighed after one who
could divide with you your sympathies; who saw every thing just as you saw
it; who could emulate your enthusiasm, and echo back every exclamation
which chance should dictate to you.

You even pleaded religion as one of your objections. Talbot, it seems,
had nothing that deserved to be called religion. He had never reasoned on
the subject. He had read no books and had never looked into his Bible
since he was fifteen years old. He seldom went to church but because it
was the fashion, and, when there, seldom spared a thought from his own
temporal concerns, to a future state and a governing Deity. All those
expansions of soul produced by meditation on the power and goodness of our
Maker, and those raptures that flow from accommodating all our actions to
his will, and from consciousness of his approbation and presence, you
discovered to be strangers to his breast, and therefore you scrupled to
unite your fate with his.

It was not enough that this man had never been seduced into disbelief;
that his faith was steadfast and rational without producing those
fervours, and reveries, and rhapsodies, which unfit us for the mixed
scenes of human life, and breed in us absurd and fantastic notions of our
duty or our happiness; that his religion had produced all its practical
effects, in honest, regular, sober, and consistent conduct.

You wanted a zealot; a sectary; one that should enter into all the
trifling distinctions and minute subtleties that make one Christian the
mortal foe of another, while, in their social conduct, there is no
difference to be found between them.

I do not repeat these things to upbraid you for what you then were, but
merely to remind you of the inconsistency of these notions with your
subsequent conduct. You then, at the instance of your father and at my
instance, gave them up; and that compliance, supposing your scruples to
have been undissembled, gave you a still greater interest in our
affections.

You never gave me reason to suppose that you repented of this
compliance. I never saw you after your engagement, but you wore a cheerful
countenance; at least till your unfortunate connection with Colden. To
that connection must be traced every misfortune and depravity that has
attended you since.

When I heard, from Patty Sinclair, of his frequent visits to you during
your retirement at Burlington, I thought of it but little. He was, indeed,
a new acquaintance. You were unacquainted with his character and history,
except so far as you could collect them from his conversation; and no
confidence could, of course, be placed in that. It was therefore, perhaps,
somewhat indiscreet to permit such _very_ frequent visits, such
_very_ long walks. To neglect the friends whom you lived with, for
the sake of exclusive conversations and lonely rambles, noon and night,
with a mere stranger,--one not regularly introduced to you,--whose name
you were obliged to inquire of himself,--you, too, already a betrothed
woman; your lover absent; yourself from home, and merely on terms of
hospitality! all this did not look well.

But the mischief, it was evident, was to be known by the event. Colden
might have probity and circumspection. He might prove an agreeable friend
to your future husband and a useful companion to yourself. Kept within due
limits, your complacency for this stranger, your attachment to his
company, might occasion no inconvenience. How little did I then suspect to
what extremes you were capable of going, and even then had actually
gone!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Such a one, it was greatly to be feared, you had now found in this
young man; just such qualities he was reported to possess, as would render
him dangerous to you and you dangerous to him. A poet, not in theory only,
but in practice; accustomed to intoxicate the women with melodious
flattery; fond of being _intimate_; avowedly devoted to the sex;
eloquent in his encomiums upon female charms; and affecting to select his
_friends_ only from that sex.

What effect might such a character have upon your peace, even without
imputing any ill intention to him? Both of you might work your own ruin,
while you designed nothing but good; and even supposing that your
intercourse should be harmless, or even beneficial with respect to
yourselves, what was to be feared for Talbot? An intimacy of this kind
could hardly escape his observation on his return. It would be criminal,
indeed, to conceal it from him.

These apprehensions were raised to the highest pitch by more accurate
information of Colden's character, which I afterwards received. I found,
on inquiring of those who had the best means of knowing, that Colden had
imbibed that pernicious philosophy which is now so much in vogue. One who
knew him perfectly, who had long been in habits of the closest intimacy
with him, who was still a familiar correspondent of his, gave me this
account.

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

Thomson is an excellent young man: he loves Colden much, and describes
the progress of his friend's opinions with every mark of regret. He even
showed me letters that had passed between them, and in which every horrid
and immoral tenet was defended by one and denied by the other. These
letters showed Colden as the advocate of suicide; a scoffer at promises;
the despiser of revelation, of Providence and a future state; an opponent
of marriage, and as one who denied (shocking!) that any thing but mere
habit and positive law stood in the way of marriage, nay, of intercourse
without marriage, between brother and sister, parent and child!

You may readily believe that I did not credit such things on slight
evidence. I did not rely on Thomson's mere words, solemn and unaffected as
these were; nothing but Colden's handwriting could in such a case, be
credited.

To say truth, I should not be much surprised had I heard of Colden, as
of a youth whose notions on moral and religious topics were, in some
degree, unsettled; that, in the fervour and giddiness incident to his age,
he had not tamed his mind to investigation; had not subdued his heart to
regular and devout thoughts; that his passions or his indolence had made
the truths of religion somewhat obscure, and shut them out, not properly
from his conviction, but only from his attention.

I expected to find, united with this vague and dubious state of mind,
tokens of the influence of a pious education; a reverence,--at least, for
those sacred precepts on which the happiness of men rests, and at least a
practical observance of that which, if not fully admitted by his
understanding, was yet very far from having been rejected by it.

But widely and deplorably different was Colden's case. A most
fascinating book [Footnote: Godwin's Political Justice.] fell at length
into his hands, which changed, in a moment, the whole course of his ideas.
What he had before regarded with reluctance and terror, this book taught
him to admire and love. The writer has the art of the grand deceiver; the
fatal art of carrying the worst poison under the name and appearance of
wholesome food; of disguising all that is impious, or blasphemous, or
licentious, under the guise and sanctions of virtue.

Colden had lived before this without examination or inquiry. His heart,
his inclination, was perhaps on the side of religion and true virtue; but
this book carried all his inclination, his zeal, and his enthusiasm, over
to the adversary; and so strangely had he been perverted, that he held
himself bound, he conceived it to be his duty, to vindicate in private and
public, to preach with vehemence, his new faith. The rage for making
converts seized him; and that Thomson was not won over to the same cause
proceeded from no want of industry in Colden.

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

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

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

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

I had no patience with you, to listen to your trifling and insidious
distinctions,--such as, though you could audaciously urge them to me,
possessed no weight, _could_ possess no weight, in your
understanding. What was it to me whether he was ruffian or madman?
whether, in destroying you, he meant to destroy or to save? Is it proper
to expose your breast to a sword, because the wretch that wields it
supposes madly that it is a straw which he holds in his hand?

But I will not renew the subject. The same motives that induced me to
attempt to reason with you then no longer exist. The anguish, the
astonishment, which your letters, as they gradually unfolded your
character, produced in me, I endeavoured to show you at the time. Now I
pass them over to come to a more important circumstance.

Yet how shall I tell it thee, Jane? I am afraid to intrust it to paper.
Thy fame is still dear to me. I would not be the means of irretrievably
blasting thy fame. Yet what may come of relating some incidents on
paper?

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

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

Shall I shock, shall I wound thee, my child, by lifting the veil from
thy misconduct, behind which thou thinkest thou art screened from every
human eye? How little dost thou imagine that I know _so much_!

Now will thy expostulations and reasonings have an end. Surely they
_will_ have an end. Shame at last, shame at last, will overwhelm thee
and make thee dumb.

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

Was it not the unavoidable result of confiding in a man avowedly
irreligious and immoral; of exposing thy understanding and thy heart to
such stratagems as his philosophy made laudable and necessary? But I know
not what I would say. I must lay down the pen till I can reason myself
into some composure. I will write again to-morrow.

H. FIELDER.




Letter XVI


_To the same_

O my lost child! In thy humiliations at this moment I can sympathize.
The shame that must follow the detection of it is more within my thoughts
at present than the negligence or infatuation that occasioned thy
faults.

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

He visited this city on purpose to obtain an interview with me. He
entered my apartment with every mark of distress. He knew well the effect
of such tidings on my heart. Most eagerly would I have laid down my life
to preserve thy purity spotless.

He demeaned himself as one who loved thee with a rational affection,
and who, however deeply he deplored the loss of thy love, accounted thy
defection from virtue of infinitely greater moment.

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

He showed it me on condition of my being everlastingly silent to you in
regard to its contents. He yielded to a jealousy which would not be
conquered, and had gotten this letter by surreptitious means. He was
ashamed of an action which his judgment condemned as ignoble and
deceitful.

Far more wise and considerate was this excellent and injured man than
I. He was afraid, by disclosing to you the knowledge he had thus gained,
of rendering you desperate and hardened. As long as reputation was not
gone, he thought your errors were retrievable. He distrusted the success
of his own efforts, and besought me to be your guardian. As to himself, he
resigned the hope of ever gaining your love, and entreated me to exert
myself for dissolving your connection with Colden, merely for your own
sake.

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

I saw the generosity and force of his representations, and, while I
endeavoured by the most earnest remonstrances to break your union with
Colden, I suffered no particle of the truth to escape me. But you were
hard as a rock. You would not forbid his visits, nor reject his
letters.

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

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

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

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

To preclude all bickerings and cavils, I enclose the letter which
attests your fall.

H. FIELDER.




Letter XVII


(Enclosed Letter.)


_To Henry Colden_

Tuesday Morning.

You went away this morning before I was awake. I think you might have
stayed to breakfast; yet, on second thoughts, your early departure was
best. _Perhaps_ it was so.  You have made me very thoughtful to-day.
What passed last night has left my mind at no liberty to read and to
scribble as I used to do. How your omens made me shudder!

I want to see you. Can't you come again this evening? but no; you must
not. I must not be an encroacher. I must judge of others, and of their
claims upon your company, by myself and my own claims. Yet I should be
glad to see that creature who would dare to enter into competition with
_me_.

But I may as well hold my peace. My rights will not be admitted by
others. Indeed, no soul but yourself can know them in all their extent,
and, what is all I care for, _you_ are far from being strictly just
to me!

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

_I am loath to mention one thing, however, but I must. Though nothing
be due to the absent man, somewhat is_ _due to myself. I have been
excessively uneasy the whole day. I am terrified at certain consequences.
What may not happen if--No; the last night's scene must not be repeated;
at least for a month to come. The sweet oblivion of the future and past
lasted only for the night. Now I have leisure to look forward, and am
resolved (don't laugh at my resolves; I am quite in earnest) to keep thee
at a distance for at least a fortnight to come. It shall be a whole month
if thou dost not submit with a good grace_.

JANE TALBOT.




Letter XVIII


_To Mr. Henry Colden_

New York, October 22.

SIR:--

I address myself to you as the mother of an unhappy girl who has put
herself into your power. But I write not to upbraid you or indulge my own
indignation, but merely to beseech your compassion for her whom you
profess to love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know your talents and the direction which they have hitherto
received. I know that London is a theatre best adapted to the lucrative
display of those talents, and that the sum I offer will be an ample fund,
till your own exertions may be turned to account.

If this offer be accepted, I shall not only hold myself everlastingly
obliged to you, but I shall grant you a higher place in my esteem. Yet,
through deference to scruples which you may possibly possess, I most
cheerfully plight to you my honour, that this transaction shall be
concealed from Mrs. Talbot and from all the world.

Though property is necessary to our happiness, and my daughter's habits
render the continuance of former indulgences necessary to her content, I
will not be so unjust to her as to imagine that this is _all_ which
she regards. Respect from the world, and the attachment of her ancient
friends, are, also, of some value in her eyes. Reflect, sir, I beseech
you, whether you are qualified to compensate her for the loss of property,
of good name,--my own justification, in case she marries you, will require
me to be nothing more than _just_ to her,--and of _all_ her
ancient friends, who will abhor in her the faithless wife and the
ungrateful child. I need not inform _you_ that _your_ family
will never receive into their bosom one whom her own kindred have
rejected. I am, &c.

H. FIELDER.




Letter XIX


_To Mrs. Fielder_

Philadelphia, October 28.

I need not hesitate a moment to answer this letter. I will be all that
my revered mamma wishes me to be. I have vowed an eternal separation from
Colden; and, to enable me to keep this vow, I entreat you to permit me to
come to you.

I will leave this house in anybody's care you direct. My Molly and the
boy Tom I shall find it no easy task to part with; but I will,
nevertheless, send the former to her mother, who is thrifty and well to
live. I beg you to permit me to bring the boy with me. I wait your
answer.

JANE TALBOT.




Letter XX


_To Henry Colden_

Philadelphia, October 28.

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

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

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

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

And don't expostulate with me. Confirm me rather in my new resolution.
Even if you think it cruel or absurd, aver that it is just. Persuade me
that I have done my duty to my mother, and assure me of your cheerful
acquiescence.

Too late is it now, even if I would, to recall my promise.

I have promised to part with you. In the first tumult of my soul, on
receiving the enclosed letters, I wrote an answer, assuring Mrs. Fielder
of my absolute concurrence with her will.

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

I have sought repose, but I find it not. My pillow is moist with the
bitterest tears that I ever shed. To give vent to my swelling heart, I
write to you; but I must now stop. All my former self is coming back upon
me, and, while I think of you as of my true and only friend, I shall be
unable to persist. I will not part with thee, my friend. I cannot do it.
Has not my life been solemnly devoted to compensate thee for thy unmerited
love? For the crosses and vexations thou hast endured for my sake?

Why shall I forsake thee? To gratify a wayward and groundless
prejudice. To purchase the short-lived and dubious affection of one who
loves me in proportion as I am blind to thy merit; as I forget thy
benefits; as I countenance the envy and slander that pursue thee.

Yet what shall I bring to thy arms? A blasted reputation, poverty,
contempt, the indignation of mine and of thy friends. For thou art poor,
and so am I. Thy kindred have antipathies for me as strong as those that
are fostered against thyself----

JANE TALBOT.




Letter XXI


_To Henry Colden_

October 28, Evening.

I will struggle for sufficient composure to finish this letter. I have
spent the day in reflection, and am now, I hope, calm enough to review
this most horrid and inexplicable charge.

Look, my friend, at the letter she has sent me. It is my handwriting,--the
very same which I have so often mentioned to you as having been, after
so unaccountable a manner, mislaid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was confounded at this incident. Who it was that could thus purloin
an unfinished letter and retire in order to conceal the theft, I could not
imagine. Nothing else had been displaced. It was no ordinary thief,--no
sordid villain.

For a time, I thought perhaps it might be some facetious body, who
expected to find amusement in puzzling or alarming me. Yet I was not
alarmed: for what had I to fear or to conceal? The contents were perfectly
harmless; and, being fully satisfied with the purity of my own thoughts, I
never dreamed of any construction being put on them, injurious to me.

I soon ceased to think of this occurrence. I had no cause, as I then
thought, to be anxious about consequences. The place of the lost letter
was easily supplied by my loquacious pen, and I came at last to conjecture
that I had carelessly whisked it into the fire, and that the visitant had
been induced to withdraw, by finding the apartment empty. Yet I never
discovered any one who had come in and gone out in this manner. Miss
Jessup, whom I questioned afterwards, had spent that day elsewhere. And
now, when the letter and its contents were almost forgotten, does it
appear before me, and is offered in proof of this dreadful charge.

After reading my mother's letter, I opened with trembling hand that
which was enclosed. I instantly recognised the long-lost billet. All of it
appeared, on the first perusal, to be mine. Even the last mysterious
paragraph was acknowledged by my senses. In the first confusion of my
mind, I knew not what to believe or reject; my thoughts were wandering,
and my repeated efforts had no influence in restoring them to order.

Methinks I then felt as I should have felt if the charge had been true.
I shuddered as if to look back would only furnish me with proofs of a
guilt of which I had not hitherto been conscious,--proofs that had merely
escaped remembrance, or had failed to produce their due effect, from some
infatuation of mind.

When the first horror and amazement were passed, and I took up the
letter and pondered on it once more, I caught a glimpse suddenly;
suspicion darted all at once into my mind; I strove to recollect the
circumstances attending the writing of this billet.

Yes; it was clear. As distinctly as if it were the work of yesterday,
did I now remember that I stopped at the words _nobody; mind that_.
The following sentences are strange to me. The character is similar to
what precedes, but the words were never penned by me.

And could Talbot--Yet what end? a fraud so--Ah! let me not suspect my
_husband of such_ a fraud. Let me not have reason to abhor his
memory.

I fondly imagined that with his life my causes of disquiet were at an
end; yet now are my eyes open to an endless series of calamities and
humiliations which his decease had made sure.

I cannot escape from them. There is no help for me. I cannot disprove.
What testimony can I bring to establish my innocence,--to prove that
another hand has added these detestable confessions?

True it is, you passed that night under my roof. Where was my caution?
You, Henry, knew mankind better than I: why did you not repel my
importunities, and leave me in spite of my urgencies for your stay?

Poor, thoughtless wretch that I was, not to be aware of the indecorum
of allowing one of your sex, not allied to me by kindred,--I, too, alone,
without any companion but a servant,--to pass the night in the same
habitation!

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

But, if I _would_ vindicate myself, I have not the power; I have
forfeited my credit with my mother. With her my word will be of no weight;
surely it ought to weigh nothing. Against evidence of this kind,
communicated by a husband, shall the wild and improbable assertion of the
criminal be suffered to prevail? I have only my assertion to offer.

Yet, my good God! in what a maze hast thou permitted my unhappy feet to
be entangled! With intentions void of blame, have I been pursued by all
the consequences of the most atrocious guilt.

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

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

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

I would carry, if possible, to Mrs. Fielder's presence a cheerful
aspect. I would be to her that companion which I was in my brighter days.
To study her happiness shall be henceforth my only office; but this,
unless I can conceal from her an aching heart, I shall be unable to do.
Let me not carry with me the insupportable weight of your reproaches. JANE
TALBOT.




Letter XXII


_To Jane Talbot_

Baltimore, October 31.

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

I do, indeed, reproach you for conduct that is rash; unjust; hurtful to
yourself, to your mother, to me, to the memory of him who, whatever were
his faults, has done nothing to forfeit your reverence.

You are charged with the blackest guilt that can be imputed to woman.
To know you guilty produces more anguish in the mind of your accuser than
any other evil could produce, and to be convinced of your innocence would
be to remove the chief cause of her sorrow; yet you are contented to admit
the charge; to countenance her error by your silence. By stating the
simple truth, circumstantially and fully; by adding earnest and pathetic
assurances of your innocence; by showing all the letters that have passed
between us, the contents of which will show that such guilt was
impossible; by making your girl bear witness to the precaution you used on
that night to preclude misconstructions, surely you may hope to disarm her
suspicions.

But this proceeding has not occurred to you. You have mistrusted the
power of truth, and even are willing to perpetuate the error. And why?
Because you will not blast the memory of the dead. The loss of your own
reputation, the misery of your mother, whom your imaginary guilt makes
miserable, are of less moment in your eyes than--what? Let not him, my
girl, who knows thee best, have most reason to blush for thee.

Talbot, you imagine, forged this calumny. It was a wrong thing, and
much unhappiness has flowed from it. This calumny you have it, at length,
in your power to refute. Its past effects cannot be recalled; but here the
evil may end, the mistake may be cleared up, and be hindered from
destroying the future peace of your mother.

Yet you forbear from tenderness to _his_ memory, who, if you are
consistent with yourself, you must believe to look back on that
transaction with remorse, to lament every evil which it has hitherto
occasioned, and to rejoice in the means of stopping the disastrous
series.

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

On this score, however, my good girl, set your heart at ease. I never
assumed the merits you attributed to me. I never urged the claims you were
once so eager to admit. I desire not the preference. If, by abjuring me,
your happiness could be secured; if it were possible for you to be that
cheerful companion of your mother which you seem so greatly to wish; if,
in her society, you could stifle every regret, and prevent your
tranquillity from being invaded by self-reproach, most gladly would I
persuade you to go to her and dismiss me from your thoughts forever.

But I know, Jane, that this cannot be. You never will enjoy peace under
your mother's roof. The sighing heart and the saddened features will
forever upbraid her, and bickering and repining will mar every domestic
scene. Your mother's aversion to me is far from irreconcilable, but that
which will hasten reconcilement will be _marriage_. You cannot
forfeit her love as long as you preserve your integrity; and those
scruples which no argument will dissipate will yield to reflection on an
evil (as she will regard it) that cannot be remedied.

Admitting me, in this respect, to be mistaken, your mother's resentment
will ever give you disquiet. True; but will your union with me console you
nothing? in pressing the hoped-for fruit of that union to your breast, in
that tenderness which you will hourly receive from me, will there be
nothing to compensate you for sorrows in which there is no remorse, and
which, indeed, will owe their poignancy to the generosity of your
spirit?

You cannot unite yourself to me but with some view to my happiness.
Will your contributing to that happiness be nothing?

Yet I cannot separate my felicity from yours. I can enjoy nothing at
the cost of your peace. In whatever way you decide, may the fruit be
content!

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

You need not stay here. The world is wide, and she will eagerly consent
to the breaking of your shackles by change of residence. Much and the best
part of your country you have never seen. Variety of objects will amuse
you, and new faces and new minds erase the deep impressions of the past.
Colden and his merits may sink into forgetfulness, or be thought of with
no other emotion than regret that a being so worthless was ever beloved.
But I wander from the true point. I meant not to introduce myself into
this letter,--self!--that vile debaser whom I detest as my worst enemy,
and who assumes a thousand shapes and practises a thousand wiles to entice
me from the right path.

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

How much more likely that Talbot was himself deceived! For it was not
by him that thy unfinished letter was purloined. At that moment he was
probably some thousands of miles distant. It was five weeks before his
return from his Hamburg voyage, when that mysterious incident
happened.

Be of good cheer, my sweet girl. I doubt not all will be well. We shall
find the means of detecting and defeating this conspiracy, and of
re-establishing thee in thy mother's good opinion. At present, I own, I
do not see the means; but, to say truth, my mind is clouded by anxieties,
enfeebled by watching and fatigue.

You know why I came hither. I found my friend in a very bad way, and
have no hope but that his pangs, which must end within a few days, may,
for his sake, terminate very soon. He will not part with me, and I have
seldom left his chamber since I came.

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

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

I also have received a letter from Mrs. Fielder, of which I will say no
more, since I send you enclosed _that_, and my answer. I wish it had
come at a time when my mind was more at ease, as an immediate reply seemed
to be necessary. Adieu.

HENRY GOLDEN.




Letter XXIII


_To Mrs. Fielder_

Baltimore, November 2.

MADAM:--

It would indeed be needless to apologize for your behaviour to me. I
not only acquit you of any enmity to me, but beg leave to return you my
warmest thanks for the generous offers which you have made me in this
letter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

My own education and experience sufficiently testify the importance of
riches, and I should be the last to despise or depreciate their value.
Still, much as habit has endeared to me the goods of fortune, I am far
from setting them above all other goods.

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

Shall I be able to compensate her? you ask.

No, indeed, madam; I am far from deeming myself qualified to compensate
her for the loss of property, reputation, and friends. I aspire to nothing
but to console her under that loss, and to husband as frugally as I can
those few meagre remnants of happiness which shall be left to us.

I have seen your late letter to her. I should be less than man if I
were not greatly grieved at the contents; yet, madam, I am not cast down
below the hope of convincing you that the charge made against your
daughter is false. You could not do otherwise than believe it. It is for
us to show you by what means you, and probably Talbot himself, have been
deceived.

To suffer your charge to pass for a moment uncontradicted would be
unjust not more to ourselves than to you. The mere denial will not and
ought not to change your opinion. It may even tend to raise higher the
acrimony of your aversion to me. It must ever be irksome to a generous
spirit to deny, without the power of disproving; but a tacit admission of
the charge would be unworthy of those who know themselves innocent.

Beseeching your favourable thoughts, and grateful for the good which,
but for the interference of higher duties, your heart would prompt you to
give and mine would not scruple to accept, I am, &c.

HENRY COLDEN.




Letter XXIV


_To Henry Colden_

Philadelphia, Nov. 2.

Ah, my friend, how mortifying are those proofs of thy excellence? How
deep is that debasement into which I am sunk, when I compare myself with
thee!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It has always been so. I have always found an unaccountable pleasure in
dissecting, as it were, my heart; uncovering, one by one, its many folds,
and laying it before you, as a country is shown in a map. This voluble
tongue and this prompt, pen! what volumes have I talked to you on that
bewitching theme,--myself!

And yet, loquacious as I am, I never interrupted you when you were
talking. It was always such a favour when these rigid fibres of yours
relaxed; and yet I praise myself for more forbearance than belongs to me.
The little impertinent has often stopped your mouth,--at times too when
your talk charmed her most; but then it was not with words.

But have I not said this a score of times before? and why do I indulge
this prate now?

To say truth, I am perplexed and unhappy. Your letter has made me so.
My heart flutters too much to allow me to attend to the subject of your
letter. I follow this rambling leader merely to escape from more arduous
paths, and I send you this scribble because I must write to you.
Adieu.

JANE TALBOT.




Letter XXV


_To the Same_

Nov. 3.

What is it, my friend, that makes thy influence over me so absolute? No
resolution of mine can stand against your remonstrances. A single word, a
look, approving or condemning, transforms me into a new creature. The
dread of having offended you gives me the most pungent distress. Your
"well done" lifts me above all reproach. It is only when you are distant,
when your verdict is uncertain, that I shrink from contumely,--that the
scorn of the world, though unmerited, is a load too heavy for my
strength.

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

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

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

Yet how shall I excuse my non-compliance to my mother? I have told her
that I would come to her, that I waited only for her directions as to the
disposal of her property. What will be her disappointment when I tell her
that I will not come!--when she finds me, in spite of her remonstrances,
still faithful to my engagements to thee!

Is there no method of removing this aversion? of outrooting this deadly
prejudice? And must I, in giving myself to thee, forfeit her
affection?

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

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

Now, by thy means, do I judge otherwise. Yet how, my friend, shall I
unravel this mystery? My heart is truly sad. How easily is my woman's
courage lowered, and how prone am I to despond!

Lend me thy aid, thy helping hand, my beloved. Decide and act for me,
and be my weakness fortified, my hope restored, by thee. Let me lose all
separate feelings, all separate existence, and let me know no principle of
action but the decision of your judgment, no motive or desire but to
please, to gratify you.

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

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

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

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

In the present case, for instance, I have scarcely thought of thy dying
friend once. How much thy disquiets would be augmented by the letters
which I sent thee, never entered my thoughts. To hide our sorrows from
those who love us seems to be no more than generous. Yet I never hid any
thing from thee. All was uttered that was felt. I considered not attending
circumstances. The bird, as soon as it was scared, flew into the bosom
that was nearest, and, merely occupied with dangers of its own, was
satisfied to find a refuge there.

_And yet_--See now, Vanity, the cunning advocate, entering with
his _And yet_. Would I listen to him, what a world of palliations and
apologies would he furnish! How would he remind me of cases in which my
sympathy was always awakened with attention! How often--But I will not
listen to the flatterer.

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

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

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

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

Yet, on the next occasion that offers, you are sure to relapse into
your habitual taciturnity, and my labours to subdue it are again to be
repeated. I have sometimes been tempted to retaliate, and convince you, by
the effects of my concealments upon you, of the error of your own
scheme.

But I never could persist in silence for five minutes together. Shut up
as the temple of my heart is to the rest of mankind, all its doors fly
open of their own accord when you approach.

Now am I got into my usual strain; in which I could persevere forever.--No
wonder it charms me so much, since, while thus pursuing it, I lose all
my cares in a sweet oblivion; but I must stop at last, and recall my
thoughts to a less welcome subject.

Painful as it is, I must write to my mother. I will do it now, and send
you my letter. I will endeavour, hereafter, to keep alive a salutary
distrust of myself, and do nothing without your approbation and direction.
Such submission becomes thy

JANE.




Letter XXVI


_To Mrs. Fielder_

Philadelphia, November 4.

I tremble thus to approach my honoured mother once more, since I cannot
bring into her presence the heart that she wishes to find. Instead of
acknowledgment of faults, and penitence suitable to their heinous nature,
I must bring with me a bosom free from self-reproach, and a confidence,
which innocence only can give, that I shall be some time able to disprove
the charge brought against me.

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

The letter which you sent me is partly mine. All that is honest and
laudable is mine, but that which confesses dishonour has been added by
another hand. By whom my handwriting was counterfeited, and for what end,
I know not. I cannot name any one who deserves to be suspected.

I might proceed to explain the circumstances attending the writing and
the loss of this letter, so fatal to me; but I forbear to attempt to
justify myself by means which, I know beforehand, will effect nothing,
unless it be to aggravate, in your eyes, my imaginary guilt.

If it were possible for you to suspend your judgment; if the most open,
and earnest, and positive averments of my innocence could induce you, not
to reverse, but merely to postpone, your sentence, you would afford me
unspeakable happiness.

You tell me that the loss of your present bounty will be the
consequence of my marriage. My claims on you are long ago at an end.
Indeed, I never had any claims. Your treatment of me has flown from your
unconstrained benevolence. For what you have given, for the tenderness
which you continually bestowed on me, you have received only
disappointment and affliction.

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

Dear as my education has made the indulgences of competence to me, I
hope I shall relinquish them without a sigh. Had you done nothing more
than screen my infancy and youth from hardship and poverty, than supply
the mere needs of nature, my debt to you could never be paid.

But how much more than this have you done for me! You have given me, by
your instructions and example, an understanding and a heart. You have
taught me to value a fair fame beyond every thing but the peace of virtue;
you have made me capable of a generous affection for a benefactor equal to
yourself; capable of acting so as at once to _deserve_ and to
_lose_ your esteem; and enabled me to relinquish cheerfully those
comforts and luxuries which cannot be retained but at the price of my
integrity.

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

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

You know, my mother, that the loss of my present provision will not
leave me destitute. If it did, I know your generosity too well to imagine
that you would withdraw from me all the means of support.

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

If I could bring to you my faith unbroken, and were allowed to present
to you my friend, I would instantly fly to your presence; but that is a
felicity too great for my hope. The alternative, however painful, must be
adopted by

Your ever-grateful

JANE.




Letter XXVII


_To Mrs. Talbot_

Baltimore, November 5.

I highly approve of your letter. It far exceeded the expectations I had
formed of you. You are indeed a surprising creature.

One cannot fail to be astonished at the differences of human
characters; at the opposite principles by which the judgments of men are
influenced.

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

She offers, and surely with sincerity, to divide her large property
with you; to give away half her estate during her own life, and while,
indeed, she is yet in her prime: and to whom give it? To one who has no
natural relation to her; who is merely an adopted child; who has acted for
several years in direct repugnance to her will, in a manner she regards as
not only indiscreet, but flagrantly criminal. Whom one guilty act has (so
it must appear to your mamma) involved in a continued series of falsehoods
and frauds.

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

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

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

This offer of hers surely indicates not only love for you, but
reverence for your good faith inconsistent with the horrid imputation she
has urged against you.

As to me, what a portrait does her letter exhibit! And yet this scoffer
at the obligation of a promise is offered four or five thousand dollars on
condition that he plights his word to embark for England and to give up
all his hopes of you.

Villain as he is; a villain not by habit or by passion, but by
_principle;_ a cool-blooded, systematic villain; yet she will give
him affluence and the means of depraving thousands by his example and his
rhetoric, on condition that he refuses to marry the woman whom he has made
an adulteress; who has imbibed, from the contagion of his discourse, all
the practical and speculative turpitude which he has to impart.

This conduct might be considered only as proving her aversion to me. So
strong is it as to impel her to indiscreet and self-destructive
expedients; and so I should likewise reason if these very expedients did
not argue a confidence in my integrity somewhat inconsistent with the
censure passed on my morals.

After all, is there not reason to question the sincerity of her hatred?
Is not thy mother a dissembler, Jane? Does she really credit the charge
she makes against thee? Does she really suppose me that insane philosopher
which her letter describes?

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

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

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

Besides, may not these magnificent proposals be dictated by a knowledge
of our characters, which assured her that they would never be accepted?
But, with this belief, why should the offers be made?

The answer is easy. These offers, by the kindness and respect for us
which they manifest, engage our esteem and gratitude, and, by their
magnitude, show how deeply she abhors this connection, and hence dispose
us to do that, for pity's sake, which mere lucre would never
recommend.

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

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

The fault lies not with her. With whom, then, does it lie? Or, what
only is important, where is the remedy? Expostulation and remonstrance
will avail nothing. I cannot be a hypocrite: I cannot dissemble that I
have _once_ been criminal, and that I am, at present, conscious of a
thousand weaknesses and self-distrusts. There is but one meagre and
equivocal merit that belongs to me. I stick to the truth; yet this is a
virtue of late growth. It has not yet acquired firmness to resist the
undermining waves of habit, or to be motionless amidst the hurricane of
passions.

You offer me yourself. I love you. Shall I not then accept your offer?
Shall my high conception of your merits, and my extreme contempt and
distrust of myself, hinder me from receiving so precious a boon? Shall I
not make happy by being happy? Since you value me so much beyond my
merits; since my faults, though fully disclosed to you, do not abate your
esteem, do not change your views in my favour, shall I withhold my
hand?

I am not obdurate. I am not ungrateful. With you I never was a
hypocrite. With the rest of the world I have ceased to be so. If I look
forward without confidence, I look back with humiliation and remorse. I
have always wished to be good, but, till I knew you, I despaired of ever
being so, and even now my hopes are perpetually drooping.

I sometimes question, especially since your actual condition is known,
whether I should accept your offered hand; but mistake me not, my beloved
creature. My distrust does not arise from any doubts of my own constancy.
That I shall grow indifferent or forgetful or ungrateful to you, can never
be.

All my doubts are connected with you. Can I compensate you for those
losses which will follow your marriage?--the loss of your mother's
affection,--the exchange of all that splendour and abundance you have
hitherto enjoyed for obscurity and indigence?

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

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

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

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

As to the influence of some stronger motive to industry than has yet
occurred, I am without hope. There can be no stronger ones to a generous
mind, than have long been urgent with me: being proof against these, none
will ever conquer my reluctance.

I am not indolent, but my activity is vague, profitless, capricious. No
lucrative or noble purpose impels me. I aim at nothing but selfish
gratification. I have no relish, indeed, for sensual indulgences. It is
the intellectual taste that calls for such banquets as imagination and
science can furnish; but, though less sordid than the epicure, the
voluptu

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