Clara Howard in a series of letters |
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| 27. | LETTER XXVII. |
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 | Clara Howard |  |
LETTER XXVII.
Philadelphia, May 13, Noon.
I feel some reluctance and embarrassment
in addressing you in this manner, but am
enabled, in some degree, to surmount them, by
reflecting on the proofs which are now in my
hands, of the interest which you take in my
welfare, and of the inimitable generosity of
your sentiments. I am likewise stimulated by
the regard, which, in common with yourself,
I feel for an excellent youth, to whose happiness
this letter may essentially contribute.
I have seen you but for a moment. I was
prepared to find in you all that could inspire
veneration and love. That my prepossessions
were fully verified, will, perhaps, redound little
beauty, since we seldom fail to discover in the
features, tokens of all that we imagine to exist
within.
I know you by more copious and satisfactory
means; by several letters which Edward
Hartley has put into my hands. By these it
likewise appears, that you have some acquaintance
with me, collected from the same source,
and from the representations of my friend.
The character and situation, the early history
and unfortunate attachment of Mary, and that
expedient which she adopted to free herself
from useless importunities and repinings, are
already known to you.
This makes it needless for me to mention
many particulars of my early life; they authorise
the present letter, and allow me, or, perhaps,
to speak more truly, they enjoin me
to confide in you a relation of some incidents
that have lately occurred. Your sensibility
would render them of some moment in your
eyes, should they possess no relation but to a
forlorn and unhappy girl; but their importance
will be greater, inasmuch as they are connected
with your own destiny, and with that
claim your attention for as short a time as
possible.
A letter, written last autumn, to Edward
Hartley, informing him of the motives that
induced me to withdraw from his society, has
been shewn to you. It will, therefore, be
needless to explain these motives anew. I
console myself with believing, that they merited
and obtained the approbation of so
enlightened and delicate a judge as Clara
Howard.
The place of my retreat was determined
by the kind offers and solicitations of a lady,
by name, Valentine. In other circumstances,
similar solicitations from her had been refused,
but now I was anxious to retire to a great and
unknown distance from my usual home; to
retire without delay, but my health was imperfect.
I was a female without knowledge
of the world, without the means of subsistence,
and the season was cold and boisterous. Mrs.
Valentine was opulent; her character entitled
her to confidence and love; her engagements
required her immediate departure; she would
travel with all possible advantages; her new
and she meant to continue absent during the
ensuing year. There was but one consideration
to make me hesitate.
Her brother had long offered me his affections.
Mrs. Valentine had been his advocate,
and endeavoured to win my favour, or at least,
to facilitate his own exertions, by promoting
our intercourse.
I had been hitherto unjust to the merits
of this man. His constancy, his generosity,
his gifts of person, understanding and fortune,
might have won the heart of a woman less prepossessed
in favour of another. My indifference,
my aversion, were proportioned to that
fervent love with which my heart was inspired
by another. I thought it my duty to avoid
every means by which the impracticable
wishes of Sedley might be fostered. For this
end, I had hitherto declined most of those
offers of friendship and intercourse with which
I had been honoured by his sister.
My unhappy situation had now reduced
me to the necessity of violating some of my
maxims. I should never have accompanied
Mrs. Valentine, however, had I not been previously
live at a distance. It was impossible to object
to his design of accompanying us to the end of
our journey.
That journey was accomplished. We arrived,
at the eve of winter, in the neighbourhood
of Boston. The treatment I received
from my friend, was scrupulously delicate.
She acted with the frankness and affection of a
sister; but I think with shame, on that absurd
pride which hindered me from practising the
same candour. I was born in an affluent condition,
but the misfortune of my parents,
while they trained me up in a thousand prejudices,
left me, at the age of eighteen, totally
destitute of property or friends. There was
no human being on whom the customs of the
world would allow me to depend. My only
relation was a younger brother, who was still
a boy, and who needed protection, as much as
myself. In this state, I had recourse for honest
bread, to my needle; but the bread thus
procured was mingled with many bitter tears.
I conceived myself degraded by my labour;
my penury was aggravated by remembrance of
my former enjoyments. I shrunk from the
companions. I imagined that they would
regard my fallen state with contempt, or with
pity, no less hard to be endured than scorn. I
laboured sometimes by unjustifiable and disingenuous
artifices, to conceal my employments
and my wants, and masked my cares as well
as I was able, under cheerful looks.
This spirit led me to conceal from Mrs.
Valentine my forlorn condition. I looked
forward without hope, to the hour when new
labour would be requisite to procure for me
shelter and food. For there, I was at present
indebted to my friend; but I loved to regard
myself merely as a visitant, and anticipate the
time when I should cease to lie under obligation.
Meanwhile, there were many little and occasional
sources of expense, to which my ill-supplied
purse was unequal; while a thousand
obstacles existed under this roof, to any profitable
application of my time. Hence arose
new cause of vexation, and new force to my
melancholy.
All my stratagems could not conceal from
my friend my poverty. For a time, she struggled
to accommodate herself to my scruples,
extent of my necessities. These struggles
were frustrated by my obstinate pride. I steadily
refused either money or credit.
At length, she resolved to enter into full
explanations with me, on this subject. She
laid before me, with simplicity and candour,
all her suspicions and surmises, and finally extorted
from me a confession that I was not
mistress of a single dollar in the world; that I
had no kinsman to whom I could betake myself
for the supply of my wants; no fund on
which I was authorized to draw for a farthing.
This declaration was heard with the strongest
emotion. She betrayed surprise and disappointment.
After a pause, she expressed
her astonishment at this news. She reminded
me how little it agreed with past appearances.
She had known me, during the latter part of
my brother's life, and since. My brother's
profession had apparently been useful to my
subsistence, and since his death, though indeed
the period had been short, I had lived
in a neat seclusion, and at leisure.
These hints induced me to be more frank
in my disclosures. I related what is already
known to you, the fate of the money which I
inherited from my brother, the doubtful circumstances
that attended my brother's possession,
and the irresistible claim of Morton.
Every word of my narrative added anew
to my friends surprise and disappointment.
She continued for a long time silent, but much
disquiet was betrayed by her looks. I mistook
these for signs of disapprobation of my
conduct, and began to justify myself. Dear
madam! Would you not, in my place, have
acted in this manner?
Just so, Mary. Your conclusion was highly
plausible.
I believe my conclusion, replied I, to be
certain. I did not require any stronger proof
of Morton's title.
And yet his claim was fallacious. This
money was yours, and only yours.
This assertion was made with a confidence
that convinced me of its truth, and caused my
mind instantly to adopt a new method of accounting
for the acquisition of this money.
My eyes, fixed upon my companion, betrayed
me. Humiliation and gratitude were mingled
in my heart. Tears gushed from my eyes,
while I pressed her hand to my lips.
Ah! said I, if Morton were not the
giver, who should know the defects of his
title, but the real giver?
Your gratitude, Mary, is misplaced. You
might easily imagine that my funds would
never allow me to be liberal to that amount.
Is it not you? Whose then was the bounteous
spirit? You are, at least, acquainted with
the real benefactor.
I confess that I am, but may not be authorized
to disclose the name.
I besought her to disclose her name.
The motive, said my friend, is obvious.
It could only be the dread that, knowing your
scrupulousness on this head, you would refuse
the boon, and thus frustrate a purpose truly
benevolent. This apprehension being removed,
there can certainly be no reason for concealment.
I am entirely of your opinion, that
the author of every good deed should be
known not only to the subject of the benefit,
but to all mankind.
After much solicitation she, at length, confessed
that this money was the gift of Mr. Sedley
to my brother. She stated the motives of
this uncommon liberality. Sedley had made
his sister acquainted with his passion for me,
and had engaged her counsel and aid. Her
counsel had always been, to abandon a pursuit
whose success was hopeless....Perceiving your
reluctance, continued my friend, and finding
it to arise from a passion for another, I earnestly
dissuaded him from persisting in claims
which were hurtful to you without profiting
himself. His passion sometimes led him to
accuse you of frowardness and obstinacy, and,
at those times, I had much ado to defend you,
and to prove your right to consult your own
happiness.
But these moments, I must say in justice
to my brother, were few. I could generally
reason him into better temper. He could see,
at least for a time, the propriety of ceasing to
vex you with entreaties and arguments, and
was generous enough to wish you happiness,
even with another. This spirit led him to
inquire into the character and condition of
your chosen friend. For this purpose he cultivated
discovered that the only obstacle to your union
with young Hartley, was your mutual poverty.
After many struggles, many fits of jealousy,
and anger, and melancholy, he determined
to lay aside every selfish wish, and to
remove this obstacle to your happiness, by
giving you possession of sufficient property.
This undertaking was in the highest degree
arduous and delicate. To make the
offer directly to you, was chimerical. No
power on earth, he well knew, could persuade
you to receive a free gift in money from one
whose pretensions had been such as his. To
bestow it upon Hartley, would be exposing the
success of his scheme to hazard. His scruples
would be as likely to exclaim against such a
gift, as loudly as yours, especially when attended
with those conditions which it would be
necessary to prescribe. There was likewise no
certainty that his gift might not be diverted by
Hartley to other purposes than those which he
sought. Neither did he wish to ensure your
marriage with another, upon terms which
should appear to lay you under obligations to
that other. Besides, your union with Hartley,
untoward events might occur to protract or
prevent it, whereas your poverty was a present
and constant evil.
After discussing a great number of expedients,
he adopted one, at length, which, perhaps,
was as unskilful as any which he could
have lighted on. By talking with your brother,
he found him possessed of a quick, indignant,
and lofty spirit; one that recoiled from pecuniary
obligations; that placed a kind of glory
in being poor, and in devoting his efforts to
benevolent, rather than to lucrative purposes.
He saw that direct offers of money, to any considerable
amount, and accompanied with no
conditions, or by conditions which respected
his sister, would be disdainfully rejected. He
determined, therefore, to leave him no option,
and to put a certain sum in his possession
without it being possible for him to discover
the donor, or to refuse the gift. This sum
was, therefore, sent to him, under cover of a
short billet, without signature, and in a disguised
hand.
This scheme was not disclosed to me till
after it was executed. I did not approve it. I
aware of many accidents that might make this
gift an hurtful one, or, at least, useless to the
end Sedley proposed. Your brother's scruples,
which hindered him from openly accepting
it, were likely to prevent him from applying
so large a sum to his own, or to your benefit.
He would either let it lie idly in his coffers,
under the belief that so ambiguous a transfer
gave him no right to it, or he would, more
probably, spend it on some charitable scheme.
I was acquainted with his enthusiasm, in the
cause of what he called the good of mankind,
and that his notions of the goods and evils of
life differed much from those of his sister.
This act, however, was not to be recalled,
and it was useless to make my brother repent
of his precipitation. I hoped that his intention
would not be defeated, and watched the
conduct of your brother very carefully, to discover
the effect of his new acquisitions. The
effect was such as I expected. Your brother's
mode of life underwent no change; and the
money, as there were easy means of discovering,
lay in one of the banks, untouched.
My curiosity was awakened anew at your
brother's death, and Sedley had the satisfaction
of perceiving that your condition was
visibly improved. You no longer hired out
your labour. You lived in retirement, indeed,
but with some degree of neatness; and your
time was spent in improving and adorning
your mind, and in those offices of kindness
and charity, which, however arduous in themselves,
are made light by the consciousness of
dignity attending them.
I admire and love you, and that day which
would make you my sister, I should count
the happiest of my life. You have treated me
with much distance and reserve, but I flattered
myself that my overtures to intimacy, had
been rejected not on my own account, but on
that of my brother. Since you have been my
companion, I have noticed the proofs of your
poverty, with great uneasiness. I know, that
your money, all but a few hundred dollars,
still lies in one of the banks. Will you
pardon me for having been attentive to your
conduct? For my brother's sake, and for your
own, I have watched all your movements,
and could tell you the times and portions in
and have formed very plausible guesses as to
the mode in which you have disposed of
them.
How to reconcile your seeming poverty
with the possession of some thousands, how
to account for your acquiescence in my wishes
to attend me hither, and for forbearing to use
any more of this money for the supply of your
own wants, has puzzled me a great deal. I
perceive that you have dropped all intercouse
with your former friend, and given up yourself
a prey to melancholy. These things have excited,
you will imagine, a great deal of reflection,
but I have patiently waited till you yourself
have thought proper to put aside the
curtain that is drawn between us. This you
have at length done, and I in my turn have
disclosed what I am afraid my brother will
never forgive me for doing.
I could not but be deeply affected by this
representation. The generosity of Sedley and
his sister, their perseverance in labouring for
my good, when no personal advantage, not
even the homage of a grateful spirit, could
flow to themselves, made me feel the stings of
claims of Sedley came now to assume a new
aspect. I had hitherto suffered different objects
to engross my attention. I did not applaud
or condemn myself for my conduct
towards him, merely because I did not think
of him. I was occupied by gloomy reveries,
in which no images appeared but those of
Hartley and my brother.
Now the subjects of my thoughts were
changed. Time had insensibly, and, in some
degree, worn out those deep traces, which I
brought away with me from Abingdon. Pity
and complacency, and reverence for Sedley;
gratitude to his sister, from whom I had received
so many favours, and who would deem
herself amply repaid by my consent to make
her brother happy, hourly gained ground in
my heart.
These tendencies did not escape my friend,
who endeavoured to strengthen and promote
them. She insisted on the merits of her brother,
arising from the integrity of his life, the
elevation of his sentiments, and especially the
constancy of his affection to me. She praised
my self-denial with regard to Hartley, and
It became me to shew that my happiness
was consistent with self-denial. Marriage
with miss Howard will give him but
little pleasure, she said, while he is a stranger
to your fate, or while he knows that you are
unhappy. For his sake, it becomes you, to
shake off all useless repinings. To waste your
days in this dejection, in longings after what
is unattainable, and what you have voluntarily
given up, is contemptible, and, indeed, criminal.
You have profited but little by the lessons
of that religion you profess, if you see not the
impiety of despair, and the necessity of changing
your conduct.
You have, indeed, fallen into a very gross
error with regard to your friend. In some
respects, you have treated him in an inhuman
manner.
Good heaven, Mrs. Valentine, in what
respect have I been inhuman?
Have you not detailed to me the contents
of the letter which you left behind you at
Abingdon? In that letter have you not assured
him that your heart was broken; that you expected
and wished for death....wishes that
his love! Have you not given him
reason to suppose that you are enduring all
the evils of penury and neglect; that you are
languishing in some obscure corner, unknown,
neglected, forgotten, and despised by all mankind?
Have you not done this?
Alas! it is too true.
Not to mention that this picture was by no
means justified by the circumstances in which
you left Abingdon, and in which you could
not but expect to pass the winter, amidst all
the comforts which my character, my station
in society, my friends, my fortune, and my
friendship must bestow....not to mention these
things, which rendered your statement to him
untrue, what must have been the influence of
this picture upon the feelings of that generous
youth? Can you not imagine his affliction?
O yes, indeed, I can. I was wrong: I now
see my error. I believed that I should not
have survived to this hour. I wanted to cut
off every hope, every possibility of his union
with me.
And do you think that, by that letter, this
end was answered? Do not you perceive that
infinitely increased by that distressful picture?
that his resolution to find you out in your retreat
and compel you to be happy, would receive
tenfold energy? You imagine yourself to have
resigned him to miss Howard, but your letter
and your flight could only bind him by stronger
ties to yourself. Should this lady be inclined
to favour Hartley, of what materials must her
heart be composed, if she do not refuse, or at
least, hesitate to interfere with your claims?
If she do not refuse, how must her happiness
be embittered by reflections on your forlorn
state? for no doubt the young man's sincerity
will make her mistress of your story.
Do not dwell upon this theme, said I. I
am grieved for my folly. I have been very
wrong. Tell me rather, my beloved monitor,
what I ought to have done: what I may still do.
It would be useless to dwell on what is
past, and cannot be undone. The future is
fully in your power. Without doubt you ought
to hasten to repair the errors you have committed.
By what means?
They are obvious. You must dismiss these
useless, these pernicious regrets, which, in
every view, religious or moral, are criminal.
You must give admission to cheerful thoughts;
fix your attention on the objects of useful
knowledge; study the happiness of those around
you; be affable and social, and entitle yourself
to the friendship and respect of the many
amiable persons who live near us. Above all,
make haste to inform Hartley of your present
condition; disclose to him your new prospects
of being useful and happy; and teach him to
be wise by your example.
But let your kindness be most shewn,
where your power is greatest, and where you
are most strongly bound by the ties of gratitude.
Think of my brother, as he merits to
be thought of. Hasten to reward him, for
those years of anguish which your perverseness
has given him, and which have consumed
the best part of his life.
But how shall I gain an interview with
Hartley? I know not where he is. You say
that my draught has never been presented. It
must be so; since the money is still there, in
befallen him. He may not be alive to receive
the fruits of my repentance.
Set your heart at rest, replied my friend,
with a significant smile; he is well.
Indeed? You speak as if you had the means
of knowing. Surely, madam, you know nothing
of him.
I know enough of him. He is now in New-York,
in the same house with miss Howard.
In the same house? And....perhaps....married?
Fie upon you, Mary. Is this the courage
you have just avowed? To turn pale; to faulter,
at the mere possibility of what you have
so earnestly endeavoured to accomplish.
Forgive me. It was a momentary folly.
He is then....married.
No. They live under the same roof; but
it is nothing but a vague surmise that they will
ever be married.
Dear lady! By what means....
Through my brother's letters; which, if
you please to read them, will give you all the
information that I possess. Why that sudden
gravity? They will not taint your fingers, or
and will depict, truly, that character
which you could not fail to love, if you were
but thoroughly acquainted with it.
This rebuke suppressed the objection which
I was going to raise against perusing these
letters. They were put into my hands. They
contained no information respecting Hartley,
but that he resided at New-York.
They contained chiefly, incidents and reflections
relative to Sedley and to me. In this
respect they were copious. I read them often,
and found myself daily confirmed in the resolutions
which I began to form. I need not
dwell upon the struggles which I occasionally
experienced, and those fits of profound melancholy
into which I was still, sometimes,
plunged. I shall only say, that listening only
to the dictates of justice and gratitude, and to
the pathetic remonstrances of my friend, I
finally prevailed upon myself to consent to
her brother's wishes.
I should have written to Hartley, informing
him of my destiny, but I proposed to return
to Philadelphia, with Mrs Valentine, and
hoped to meet him there, or at New-York.
I was not unaware of the effects of an interview
with him. My soul was tremulous with
doubt, and torn by conflicting emotions. I was
ready, in dreary moments, to revoke my promise
to Sedley, to trust once more to some
kind chance that might make Hartley mine, or
to consecrate my life to mournful recollections
of my lost happiness. These were transient
moments, and the bitter tears which attended
them were soon dried up. I found complacency
in the resolution to devote my life to
Sedley's happiness, and to the society of his
beloved sister.
Having arrived at New-York, I was told
of Hartley's absence, and learned that he was
then somewhere southward. I was informed
by Mrs. Etheridge, with whom Sedley made
me acquainted, of your general character. I
wanted to see you; to know you; to repose
my thoughts in your bosom; to be Hartley's
advocate with you; but I could not procure
sufficient courage to request an introduction
to you. A thousand scruples deterred me. I
thought, that to justify confidence and candour
on such delicate topics, much time and many
not remain in New-York beyond a day.
I went to Mrs. Etheridge strangely perplexed.
Perhaps, I should have ventured to
beseech that lady's company to your house;
but the meeting that took place, on that occasion,
confused me beyond the possibility of
regaining composure. The superscription of
your letter added to my surprise, and made
me more willing to decline a meeting, since
this letter would guide me to the very spot
where Hartley was to be found.
I once more entered my native city. Sedley
was prepared to meet and welcome me.
He was apprised of my intention as to Hartley,
and did not disapprove. He even wrote the
billet by which I invited your friend to come
to my lodgings.
My purpose was, to unfold the particulars
contained in this letter to Hartley, and to introduce
my two friends to each other. In answer
to my billet, I received a voluminous
pacquet, containing certain letters and narratives
relative to him and to you.
How shall I describe my feelings on perusing
them? They supply the place of a thousand
be said. They take away every remnant of
hesitation. They inspire me with new virtue
and new joy. I am not grieved that Hartley
and his Clara are subjected to trials of their
magnanimity, since I foresee the propitious
issue of the trial. I am not grieved that the
happiness of Mary has been an object of such
value in your eyes, as to merit the sacrifice of
your own. I exult that my feelings are akin
to yours, and that it is in my power to vie with
you in generosity.
But Hartley's last letter gives me pain;
the more, because, in the tenor of yours, which
preceded it, there is an apparent harshness not,
perhaps, to be mistaken by an unimpassioned
reader, but liable to produce fallacious terrors
in an heart deeply enamoured. I see the extent
of this error in him, but am consoled by
hoping that my reasoning, when we meet, or,
at least, that time, will dispel this unfriendly
cloud. I am impatient for his coming.
| Clara Howard | |