University of Virginia Library

LETTER VIII.

I write to you by the hand of another.
Be not greatly surprised or alarmed. Perhaps,
my strength is equal to the performance of this
duty for myself, but my good friend and affectionate
nurse, Mrs. Aston, insists upon guiding
the pen for me. She sits by my side, and
promises to write whatever I dictate.

My theme is of an interesting and affecting
nature. Perhaps, it might appear to you improper
to employ any hand but my own. Circumstances
must apologize for me. I cannot
hold the pen; the friend, whose hand I employ,
deserves my affection and gratitude. On her
discretion I can rely. Besides, I am now approaching

a bourne, where our scruples and
reserves usually disappear. The suggestions
of self-interest, and the calculations of the
future, are sure to vanish at the approach of
death.

When I wrote you last, I told you my intention
to leave the city on Tuesday. I afterwards
received your letter. Your censure was
far more severe than my conscience told me I
deserved. But my own heart did not secure
me from regret. I was highly culpable to allow
my peace to be molested by the tenor of your
letter. In different circumstances, I should
certainly conceal from you, its effect upon my
feelings. I intended to have concealed them
from you. I perceived that, with respect to
you, I was thenceforth to regard myself as a
stranger and an out-cast; and resolved that you
should see me and hear from me no more.

In embracing this scheme, I found no tranquillity.
Clara, I loved you, and that love led
me to place my supreme happiness in the possession
of your heart. For this you call me
sensual and selfish. This, at least, convinced me
of one thing; that the happiness which I formed
to myself, is beyond my reach! It behoved me,

doubtless, to dismiss all fruitless repinings, as
well as to forbear all unprofitable efforts. My
courage was equal to the last, but not to the first.
Though the confession will degrade me still
lower in your opinion. It is now no time to prevaricate
or counterfeit; and I will not hide
from you my anguish, and dejection. These
did not unfit me for performing my duty to
your father, but they banished health and repose
from my pillow.

I set out, on Tuesday morning, for Baltimore.
The usual floods of this season having
carried away the bridge on Schuylkill, we prepared
to pass it in a boat. The horses which
drew the stage, being unaccustomed to this
mode of conveyance, and being startled by
the whirlpools and eddies, took fright, when
the boat had gained the middle of the river,
and suddenly rushed out, at the further end,
into the stream.

All the passengers, except two females, had
dismounted from the carriage before it entered
the boat. The air was extremely cold, and
a drizzling shower was falling. These circumstances
induced the father of the two girls,
who was one of our company, to dissuade them

from alighting, as he imagined no danger
would arise, during the passage. Happily the
passengers and boatmen were behind the carriage,
so that, in rushing forward, the horses
drew after them nothing but the coach and
those in it.

The coach and horses instantly sunk. The
curtains, on all sides, had been lowered and
fastened; but the rushing waters burst the
fastenings, and by a miraculous chance, the
two females, who sat on one seat behind, were
extricated in a moment from the poles and curtains.
The coach sunk to the bottom, but the
girls presently rose to the surface.

I threw off my upper and under coat in a
moment, and watching the place of their reappearance,
plunged into the water, and by the
assistance of others, lifted one breathless corpse
into the boat. Meanwhile, the father, more terrified,
and less prudent, threw himself, cloaked
and encumbered as he was, into the water, to
save his children. Instead of effecting this, he
was unable to save himself. No one followed
my example in plunging into the river, and
the father and one of his children perished
together.

The immediate consequence of this exposure,
in a feverish state of my frame, was a
violent ague, which gave place to an high
fever and dilerium. I stopt at the inn on the
opposite bank, to change my wet clothes for
dry; but, having done this, was unable to proceed,
and betook myself to my bed. I suspected
nothing more than an intermittent,
which, however violent, during its prevalence,
would pass away in less than an hour. In this
I was mistaken.

My understanding was greatly disturbed.
I had no remembrance of the past, or foresight
of the future. All was painful confusion,
which has but lately disappeared. Clear conceptions
have returned to me, but my strength
is gone, and I feel the cold of death gradually
gaining on my hearth. My force of mind is
not lessened. I can talk and reason as coherently
as ever; and my conclusions are far
more wise than while in perfect health.

The family of Mr. Aston, residing in this
neighbourhood, hearing of my condition, have
afforded me every succour and comfort I
needed. It was not till this moment that I
have been able to employ the suitable means

of conveying to you tidings of these events.
Your letter has just been brought me from the
post-office, and my good friend, who now
holds the pen, and who has watched by my
pillow during my sickness, was good enough
to read it to me.

What shall I say? To one regarding me as
selfish and unjust; as even capable of villainy
and foul ingratitude; who, among so many
conjectures, as to the cause of my silence, was
ready to suspect me of breach of faith, the low
guilt of embezzlement! What shall I say?

Nothing: I can say nothing. The prayers
of a dying man for thy felicity, Clara, will, at
least, be accepted as sincere. There is no
personal motive to vitiate this prayer. Thy
happiness must, henceforth, be independent of
mine. I can neither be the author nor partaker
of it. Be thou, lovely and excellent woman!
be happy!

I break off here, to write to your father. I
have much to say to him, which another day,
perhaps, another hour, may forever prevent
me from saying.