Clara Howard in a series of letters |
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| 13. | LETTER XIII. |
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 | Clara Howard |  |
LETTER XIII.
Philadelphia, April 23.
Do you wish for some account of my present
situation? I will readily comply with your
request. I am, indeed, in a mood, just now,
extremely favourable to the telling of a long
story. I have no companions in this city, and
various circumstances, while they give me a
few days solitude and leisure, strongly incline
me likewise to ruminate and moralize on past
adventures.
When I last wrote to you, I told you my
destiny had undergone surprising changes
since we parted. I had then no leisure to enter
into minute particulars. Alas! my friend,
changes still more surprising have since occurred,
which I then alluded. Then they were all benign
and joyous: since, they have been only
gloomy and disastrous.
But how far must I go back to render my
narrative intelligible? You went your voyage,
if I mistake not, just after I was settled with
my uncle and sisters, in the neighbourhood of
Hatfield. I believe you were acquainted with
the beginnings, at least, of my intercourse
with Mr. Howard. I described to you, I believe,
the dignified, grave and secluded deportment
of that man; the little relish he appeared
to have for the society around him, and the
flattering regards he bestowed on me.
I was a mere country lad, with little education
but what was gained by myself; diffident
and bashful as the rawest inexperience could
make me. He was a man of elevated and
sedate demeanour; living, if not with splendour,
yet with elegance; withdrawing in a great
degree from the society of his neighbours;
immersed in books and papers, and wholly
given to study and contemplation.
I shall never forget the occasion on which
he first honoured me with his notice; the unspeakable
and confidence; my admission to his
house, and my partaking of his conversation
and instructions afforded me. I recollect the
gradual disappearance, in his intercourse with
me, of that reserve and austerity which he still
maintained to the rest of mankind, with emotions
of gratitude and pleasure unutterable.
He had reason to regard me, indeed, somewhat
like his own son. I had no father; I had
no property: there was no one among my own
relations, who had any particular claim upon
my reverence or affection. A thousand tokens
in my demeanour, must have manifested a veneration
for him next to idolatry. My temper
was artless and impetuous, and several little
incidents occurred, during the many years that
I frequented his house, that brought forth
striking proofs of my attachment to him. I
greedily swallowed his lessons, and remember
how often his eyes sparkled, his countenance
brightened into smiles, and his tongue
lavished applause on my wonderful docility
and rapid progress. He shewed his affection
for me, by giving his instructions, inquiring
into my situation, and directing me in every
offered to become my real father; to be at the
expense of my subsistence, or my education
to any liberal profession. Indeed, he was anxious
to persuade me that the farmer's life was
the life of true dignity, and that, however desirable
to me property might be, I ought to
entertain no wish to change my mode of life.
That was a lesson which he was extremely
assiduous to teach.
He never gave me money, nor ever suffered
the slightest hint to escape him that he
designed to carry his munificence any farther
than to lend me his company, his conversation
and his books. Indeed, in my attachment to
him, there was nothing sordid or mercenary.
It never occurred to me to reflect on this frugality;
this limitation of his bounty. What
he gave was, in my own eyes, infinitely beyond
my merits, and instead of panting after more,
I was only astonished that he gave me so
much. Indeed, had I had wisdom enough to
judge of appearances, I should have naturally
supposed that there existed many others who
had stronger claims upon his fortune than I
had, and might actually enjoy his bounty.
His family and situation were, indeed,
wholly unknown to me and his neighbours.
He was a native of Britain; had not been long
in America; lived alone and in affluence; was
a man past the middle of life; enjoyed a calm,
studious and contemplative existence. This
was the sum of all the knowledge I ever obtained
of him. Indeed, my curiosity never
carried me into stratagems or guesses, in order
to discover what he did not voluntarily
disclose, or what he was desirous to conceal.
The mournful day of his departure from
Hatfield, and from America, at last arrived.
I never was taught to believe that he designed
to pass his life in America. I naturally regarded
him as merely a sojourner, but never
inquired how long he meant to stay among us.
When he told me, therefore, that he should
embark in a week, I felt no surprise, though
it was impossible to conceal my impatience
and regret. I never felt a keener pang than
his last embrace gave me.
He parted with me with every mark of paternal
tenderness. Yet he left nothing behind
him, as a memorial of his affection. Even the
books that I had often read under his roof,
would have been prized, for the donor's sake,
beyond their weight in rubies, he carried away
with him. Neither did he explain the causes
of his voyage, or give me any expectation of
seeing him again.
My obligations to Mr. Howard cannot be
measured. To him am I indebted for whatever
distinguishes me from the stone which
I turned up with my plough, or the stock
which I dissevered with my axe. My understanding
was awakened, disciplined, informed;
my affections were cherished, exercised,
and regulated by him. My heart was penetrated
with a sentiment, in regard to him....
perhaps, it would be impious to call it devotion.
The divinity only can claim that;
yet this man was a sort of divinity to me: the
substitute and representative of heaven, in my
eyes, and for my good.
I besought him to let me accompany him.
I anxiously inquired whether I might cherish
the hope of ever seeing him again. The first
request he made me ashamed of having urged,
by shewing me that I had sisters who needed
my protection, and for whose sake I ought to
would be regulated by future events, but
be deemed it most probable that we should never
see each other more.
The melancholy inspired by this separation
from one who was not only my best, but
my sole friend, was not dissipated, like the
other afflictions of youth, by the lapse of a few
months. Being accompanied with absolute
uncertainty as to his condition and place of
residence, it produced the same effect that his
death would have done. This melancholy,
though no variety of scene could have effaced
it, was, no doubt, aggravated by the cheerless
solitude in which I was placed. The rustic
life was wholly unsuitable to my temper and
taste. My active mind panted for a nobler
and wider sphere of action; and after enduring
the inconveniences of my sequestered
situation, for some time, I, at length, bound
myself apprentice to a watch-marker in the city.
My genius was always turned towards mechanics,
and I could imagine no art more respectable
or profitable than this.
Shortly after my removal to the city, I became
acquainted with a young man by the
of resemblance between us. We were equally
fond of study and reflection, and the same
literary pursuits happened to engage our passions.
Hence a cordial and incessant intercourse
took place between us.
I suppose you know nothing of Wilmot.
Yet possibly you have heard something of the
family. They were of no small note in Delaware.
Not natives of the country. The father
was an emigrant, who brought a daughter and
this son with him, when children, from Europe.
He purchased a delightful place on Brandywine,
built an house, laid out gardens, and
passed a merry life among horses, dogs, and
boon companions. He died, at length, by a
fall from his horse, when his daughter Mary
was sixteen years of age, and the son four or
five years younger.
These children had been trained up in the
most luxurious manner. The girl had been
her own mistress, and the mistress of her father's
purse from a very early age. All the
prejudices and expectations of an heiress were
early and deeply imbibed by her; and her
father's character had hindered her from forming
own sex, while those who called themselves
his friends were either merely jovial companions
or cunning creditors. It very soon appeared
that Wilmot's fortune had lasted just
as long as his life. House, and land, and stock
were sold by auction, to discharge his numerous
debts, and nothing but a surplus on the
sale of the furniture, remained to the heirs.
Mary, after a recluse and affluent education,
was thus left, at the inexperienced age
of sixteen, friendless and forlorn, to find the
means of subsistence for herself and her brother,
in her own ingenuity and industry. It
cannot be supposed that she escaped all the
obvious and enervating effects of such an education.
Her pride was sorely wounded by
this reverse, but nature had furnished her with
a vigorous mind, which made it impossible
for her to sink, either into meanness or despair.
She was not wise enough to endure poverty
and straitened accommodations, and a toilsome
calling, with serenity; but she was strenuous
enough to adopt the best means for repairing
the ills that oppressed her.
She retired, with the wreck of her father's
property, from the scene in which she had
been accustomed to appear with a splendour
no longer hers. Her sensibility found consolation
in living obscure and unknown. For
this end, she removed to the city, took cheap
lodgings in the suburbs, and reduced all her
expences to the most frugal standard. With
the money she brought with her, she placed
her brother at a reputable grammar school,
and her acquaintance, by very slow degress,
extending beyond her own roof among the
good and considerate part of the community,
she acquired, by the exercise of the needle, a
slender provision for herself and her brother.
The boy was a noble and generous spirit,
and endowed with ardent thirst of knowledge.
He made a rapid progress in his learning, and
at the age of sixteen, became usher in the
school in which he had been trained. He was
smitten with the charms of literature; and
greatly to his sisters disappointment and vexation,
refused to engage in any of those professions
which lead to riches and honour. He
adopted certain antiquated and unfashionable
notions about the “grandeur of retreat,”
the dignity of imparting knowledge to others.
The desk, bar, and pulpit, had no attractions
for him. This, no doubt, partly arose from
youthful timidity and self-diffidence, and age
might have insensibly changed his views.
My intercourse with Wilmot, introduced
me, of course, to the knowledge of his sister.
I usually met him at her lodgings. Sundays
and all our evenings were spent together, and
as Mary had few or no visitants, on her own
account, she was nearly on the same footing
of domestic familiarity with me, as with her
brother.
She was much older than I. Humiliation
and anxiety had deeply preyed on her constitution,
which had never been florid or robust,
and made still less that small portion of external
grace or beauty, which nature had
conferred upon her. Dignity, however, was
conspicuous in her deportment, and intelligence
glowed in her delicate and pliant features.
Her manners were extremely mild,
her voice soft and musical, and her conversation
full of originality and wisdom. The high
place to which she admitted me in her esteem,
demanded my esteem and gratitude in return.
In a short time, she took place of her brother
in my confidence and veneration.
I never loved Mary Wilmot. Disparity
of age, the dignity and sedateness of her carriage,
and perhaps the want of personal attractions,
inspired me with a sentiment, very
different from love. Yet there was no sacrifice
of inclination which I would not cheerfully
have made, in the cause of her happiness.
Though union with her could not give me the
raptures, that fortunate love is said to produce,
it was impossible to find them with another
while she was miserable.
I had no experience of the passions. I knew,
and conversed with no woman but Mary, and
imagined that no human being possessed equal
excellences. I had no counter-longing to contend
with; and, to say truth, did not suspect
that my regard, for any woman, could possibly
be carried further than what I felt for her.
Mary's knowledge of the heart, the persuasion
of her own defects, or her refined
conception of the passions, made her less sanguine
and impetuous. Her love was to be
before she would permit herself to indulge in
hopes of felicity, or allow me to esteem, in her,
my future wife: Our mutual situation, by no
means justified marriage. Secure and regular
means of subsistence were wanting, as I had,
somewhat indiscreetly, bound myself to serve
a parsimonious master, for a much longer period
than was requisite to make me a proficient
in my art. Meanwhile, there subsisted between
us, the most affectionate and cordial
intercourse, such as was worthy of her love,
and my boundless esteem.
As long as the possibility of marriage was
distant, this discord of feelings was of less
moment. A very great misfortune, however,
seemed to have brought it, for a time, very
near. Wilmot embarked on the river, in an
evil hour, and the boat being upset by a gust
of wind, was drowned. The brother and sister
tenderly loved each other, and this calamity
was long and deeply deplored by the survivor.
One unexpected good, however, grew out of
this event. Wilmot was found to be credited
in the bank of P. for so large a sum as five
thousand dollars.
You will judge of the surprise produced
by such a discovery, when I tell you that this
credit appeared to have been given, above two
years before Wilmot's death: that we, his
constant and intimate associates, had never
heard the slightest intimation of his possessing
any thing beyond the scanty income of his
school: that his expences, continued, till the
day of his death, perfectly conformable to the
known amount of this wretched income, and
that no documents could be found among his
papers, throwing any light on the mystery.
I shall not recount the ten thousand fruitless
conjectures, that were formed to account for
this circumstance. None was more probable,
than that Wilmot held this money for another.
Mary was particularly confident of the
truth of this conclusion, though, to me, it was
not unembarrassed with difficulties, for why
was no written evidence; no memorandum or
letter to be found respecting the trust; and
why did he maintain so obstinate a silence on
the subject, to us, to whom he was accustomed
to communicate every action and every
thought?
We endeavoured to recollect Wilmot's
conversation and deportment, at the time this
money was deposited, by him, in his own
name, in bank. This clue seemed to lead to
some discovery. I well remembered a thoughtfulness,
at that period, not usual in my friend,
and a certain conversation, that took place, between
us, on the propriety of living on the
bounty of others, when able to maintain ourselves
by our own industry. In short, I was
extremely willing to conclude that this money
had been a present to Wilmot, from some
paternal friend of his family, or, perhaps, some
kinsman from a distance. At all events, as
this sum had lain undisturbed in bank for two
years, I saw no reason why it should not be
applied to the purpose of subsistence, by his
sister, to whom it now fully belonged.
It was difficult to overcome her scruples.
At length she determined to use as small a
part as her necessities could dispense with, and
to leave the rest untouched for half a year
longer, when, if no claimant appeared, she
might use it with less scruple. This half year
of precaution expired, and nobody appeared
to dispute her right.
She now became extremely anxious to divide
this sum, gratuitously, with me. To me,
the only obstacle to marriage was, the want of
property. This obstacle, if Mary Wilmot consented
to bestow her hand, where her heart
had long reposed, would be removed. It was
difficult, however, to persuade her to accept
a man on whom she doated; but who, though
urgent in his proffers, was not as deeply in
love as herself. At length, she consented to
be mine, provided, at the end of another half
year, I should continue equally desirous of the
gift.
At this time, I was become my own master,
and having placed Mary in a safe and rural
asylum at Abingdon, I paid a visit of a few
weeks to my uncle near Hatfield. I had been
here scarcely a fortnight, when, one evening,
a stranger whom I had formerly known in my
boyish days, as the son of a neighbouring farmer,
paid me a visit. This person had been
abroad, for several years, on mercantile adventures,
in Europe and the West-Indies. He
had just returned, and after various ineffectual
inquiries after Wilmot, with whom he had
been formerly in habits of confidence, he had
search.
After various preliminaries, he made me
acquainted with the purpose of his search. The
substance of his story was this: After toiling
for wealth, during several years, in different
ports of the Mediterranean, he at length acquired
what he deemed sufficient for frugal
subsistence in America. His property he
partly invested in a ship and her cargo, and
partly in a bill of exchange for five thousand
dollars. This bill he transmitted to his friend
Wilmot, with directions to reserve the proceeds
till his arrival. He embarked, meanwhile,
in his own vessel, sending, at the same
time, directions to his wife, who was then at
Glasgow, to meet him in America.
Unfortunately the ship was wrecked on the
coast of Africa; the cargo was plundered or
destroyed by the savage natives, and he, and
a few survivors, were subjected to innumerable
hardships, and the danger of perpetual servitude.
From this he was delivered by the agents
of the United States, in consequence of a treaty
being ratified between us and the government
of Algiers. Morton was among the miserable
occasion, and he had just touched the shore of
his native country.
His attention was naturally directed, in the
first place, to the fate of the property transmitted
to Wilmot. Wilmot, he heard, died suddenly.
Wilmot's sister, his only known relation,
was gone nobody could tell whither. The
merchant, on whom his bills had been drawn,
was partner in an Hamburg house, to which
he had lately returned. The ships in which
he sent his letters, had safely arrived. His
bills had never been protested at any of the
notaries, but all the written evidences of this
transaction, that had remained in his own
hands, had been buried, with his other property,
in the waves.
After some suspense, and much inquiry,
he was directed to me, as the dearest friend of
Wilmot, and the intended husband of his
sister.
You will see, my friend, that the mystery
which perplexed us so long, was now at an
end. The coincidence between the sum remitted,
and that in our possession, and between
the time of the probable receipt of the bills, and
bank, left me in no doubt as to the true owner
of the money.
I explained to Morton, with the utmost
clearness and simplicity, every particular relative
to this affair. I acknowledged the plausibility
of his claim; assured him of miss
Wilmot's readiness, and even eagerness, to do
him justice, and promised to furnish him, on
his return to Philadelphia, with a letter, introducing
him to my friend. We parted.
This was a most heavy and unlooked-for
disappointment of all our schemes of happiness.
My heart bled with compassion for the forlorn
and destitute Mary. To be thus rescued from
obscurity and penury, merely, to have these
evils augmented by the bitterness of disappointment,
was an hard lot.
I was just emancipated from my servitude.
I was perfectly skilled in my art, but mere skill
might supply myself with scanty bread, without
enabling me to support a family. For that
end, credit to procure an house, and the means
of purchasing tools and materials, were necessary;
but I knew not which way to look for
them.
My nearest relation was my uncle Walter,
who had taken me and my sisters, in our infancy,
into his protection, and had maintained
the girls, ever since. His whole property,
however, was a small farm, whose profits were
barely sufficient to defray the current expences
of his family. At his death, this asylum would
be lost to us, as his son, who would then become
the occupant, had always avowed the
most malignant envy and rancorous aversion
to us. As my uncle was old, and of a feeble
constitution, and as the girls were still young,
and helpless, I had abundant theme on my
own account, for uneasy meditation. To these
reflections were added the miseries, which this
reverse of fortune, would bring down upon
the woman whom I prized beyond all the world.
One day, while deeply immersed in such
contemplations as these, and musefully and
mournfully pacing up and down the piazza of
the inn at Hatfield, a chaise came briskly up
to the door and stopped. I lifted my eyes, and
beheld, alighting from it, a venerable figure,
in whom I instantly recognized my friend and
benefactor, Mr. Howard. The recognition was
not more sudden on my side than on his, though
great changes in personal appearance.
Surprise and joy nearly deprived me of my
senses, when he took me in his arms and saluted
me in the most paternal manner. We
entered the house, and as soon as I regained
my breath, I gave utterance to my transports,
in the most extravagant terms.
After the first emotion had subsided, he
informed me that the sole object of his present
journey to Hatfield, was a meeting with me.
He had just arrived, with a wife and daughter,
in America, where he designed to pass the
rest of his days. It was his anxious hope to
find me well and in my former situation, as he
was now able to take the care of providing for
me into his own hands. He inquired minutely
into my history since we parted. I could not
immediately conquer my reserve, on that subject,
that was nearest my heart; but in other
respects, I was perfectly explicit.
My narrative seemed not to displease him,
and he condescended in his turn, to give me
some insight into his own condition. I now discovered
that he was sprung from the younger
branch of a family, at once, ancient and noble.
birth than his fortune; and had, by a thoughtless
and dissipated life, wasted his small patrimony.
This misfortune had contributed
to tame his spirit, to open his eyes on the folly
of his past conduct, and to direct him in the
choice of more rational pursuits.
He was early distinguished by the favourable
regards of a lady of great beauty and accomplishments.
This blessing he did not
prize as he ought. Though his devotion to
Clara Lisle was fervent, he suffered the giddiness
of youth, and the fascinations of pleasure,
to draw him aside from the path of his true
interest. Her regard for him made her overlook
many of his foibles, and induced her to
try various means to restore him to virtue and
discretion. These effosts met with various
success, till, at length, some flagrant and unexpected
deviation, contrary to promises, and
in defiance of her warnings, caused a breach
between them that was irreparable.
The head of the nobler branch of Mr. Howard's
family, was a cousin, a man of an excellent,
though not of shining character. He had
long been my friend's competitor for the favour
strenuous advocates, and used every expedient
of argument or authority, to subdue her
prepossessions for another. None of these
had any influence, while my friend afforded
her any hopes of his reformation. His rashness
and folly, having, at length, extinguished these
hopes, she complied, after much reluctance
and delay, with the wishes of her family.
This event, communicated by the lady
herself in a letter to my friend, in which her
motives were candidly stated, and the most
pathetic admonitions were employed to point
out the errors of his conduct, effected an immediate
reformation. The blessing which he
neglected or slighted, when within his reach,
now acquired inestimable value. His regrets
and remorses were very keen, and terminated
in a resolution to convert the wreck of his fortune
into an annuity, and retire for the rest of
his life, to America. This income, though
small, was sufficient, economically managed,
to maintain him decently, at such a village as
Hatfield.
His residence here, at a distance from ancient
companions, and from all the usual incitements
years, a thorough change in his character. He
became, as I have formerly described him, temperate,
studious, gentle, and sedate. The irksomeness
of solitude, was somewhat relieved,
by his acquaintance with me, and by the efforts,
which his growing kindness for poor Ned,
induced him to make for improving and befriending
the lad. These efforts, he imagined
to be crowned with remarkable success, and
gradually concentred all his social feelings in
affection for me. He resolved to be a father
to me while living, and to leave his few movables,
all he had to leave, to me, at his death.
These prospects were somewhat disturbed,
by intelligence from home, that his cousin was
dead.
Eighteen years absence from his native
country, and from miss Lisle, had greatly
strengthened his attachment to his present
abode, but had not effaced all the impressions
of his youth. The recollection of that lady's
charms, her fidelity to him in spite of the opposition
of her family, and of his own demerits,
her generous efforts to extricate him from
his difficulties, which even proceeded so far,
others, a debt for which he had been arrested,
always filled his heart with tenderness and veneration.
These thoughts produced habitual
seriousness, gratitude to this benefactor, an
ardent zeal to fulfil her hopes by the dignity
of his future deportment; but was not attended
with any anger or reget at her compliance with
the prudent wishes of her family, and her
choice of one infinitely more worthy than himself.
At this he sincerely rejoiced, and felt a
pang, at the news of that interruption to her
felicity, occasioned by her husband's death.
This event, however, came gradually to be
viewed with somewhat different emotions.
He began to reflect, that a tenderness so fervent
as was once cherished for him, was not
likely to be totally extinguished, by any thing
but death. His cousin, though a man of worth,
had been accepted from the impulse of generosity
and pity, and not from that of love. She
had been contented, and perhaps, happy in her
union with him; but, if her first passion was
extinct, he imagined there would be found
no very great difficulty in reviving it. Both
thirty-eight years of age.
The correspondence, so long suspended,
was now renewed between them; and Mr.
Howard, with altered views, and renovated
hopes, now embarked for that country which
he had believed himself to have forever abjured.
This new state of his affairs, by no
means lessened his attachment to the fortunate
youth, who had been, for eight years, the sole
companion of his retirement. While his own
destiny was unaccomplished, he thought it proper
to forbear exciting any hopes in me. Should
his darling purpose be defeated, he meant immediately
to return. Should he meet with
success, and his present views, as to the preference
due to America, as a place of abode,
continued, he meant to exert his influence with
the elder and younger Clara, for his cousin had
left behind him one child, a daughter, now in
the bloom of youth, to induce them to emigrate.
In every case, however, he was resolved
that the farmer-boy should not be forgotten.
His projects were crowned, though not immediately,
with all the success to be desired.
The pair, whom so many years, and so wide an
the picture, which Mr. Howard drew, of the
American climate and society, obtained his
wife's consent to cross the ocean.
“My dear Ned,” said Mr. Howard to me,
after relating these particulars, “I have a pleasure
in this meeting with you, that I cannot
describe. You are the son, not of my instincts,
but of my affections and my reason. Formerly
I gave you my advice, my instructions, and
company only, because I had nothing more to
give. Now I am rich, and will take care that
you shall never be again exposed to the chances
of poverty. Though opulent, I do not mean
to be idle. He that knows the true use of riches,
never can be rich enough; but my occupation
will leave me leisure enough for enjoyment;
and you, who will share my labour, shall partake
liberally of the profit. For this end, I
mean to admit you as an inseparable member
of my family, and to place you, in every respect,
on the footing of my son.
“My family consists of my wife and her
daughter. The latter is now twenty-three, and
you will be able to form a just conception of her
person and mind when I tell you, that in both
at her age. There is one particular, indeed,
in which the resemblance is most striking. She
estimates the characters of others, not by the
specious but delusive considerations of fortune
or birth, but by the intrinsic qualities of heart
and head. In her marriage choice, which yet
remains to be made, she will forget ancestry
and patrimony, and think only of the morals and
understanding of the object. Hitherto, her affections
have been wholly free, but”...here Mr.
Howard fixed his eyes with much intentness
and significance, on my countenance...“her parents
will neither be grieved nor surprised, if,
after a residence of some time under the same
roof with her brother Edward, she should no
longer be able to boast of her freedom in that
respect. If ever circumstances should arise
to put my sincerity to the test, you shall never
find me backward to convince you that I practise
no equivocations and reserves, and prescribe
no limitations or conditions, when I
grant you the privilege of calling me father.
My stay with you at present must be short.
I am now going, on business of importance, to
Virginia. I shall call here on my return,
me to New-York, where I purpose to reside
for some time. The interval may be useful
to you, in settling and arranging your little
matters, and equipping yourself for your journey.”
Such, my friend, was the result of this
meeting with Mr. Howard. Every thing connected
with this event, was so abrupt and
unexpected, that my mind was a scene of
hurry and confusion, till his departure, next
morning, left me at liberty to think on what
had past. He left me with marks of the most
tender affection, with particular advice in what
manner to adjust my affairs, and with a promise
of acquainting me by letter with all his
motions.
I waited with some impatience for Mr.
Howard's return. Many things had dropped
from him, in our short interview, on which I
had now leisure to reflect. His views, with
regard to me, could not fail to delight my
youthful fancy. I was dazzled and enchanted
by the prospect which he set before me, of
entering on a new and more dignified existence,
of partaking the society of beings like
him in the promotion of great and useful purposes.
One intimation, however, had escaped him,
which filled me with anxious meditations.
The young Clara was the companion of his
voyage hither. She had landed on this shore.
To her presence and domestic intercourse, I
was about to be introduced, and I was allowed
to solicit her love. He was willing to bestow
her upon me, and had, without doubt, gained
the concurrence of her mother in this scheme.
It was thus that he meant to insure the felicity,
and establish the fortune, of his pupil.
There is somewhat in the advantages of
birth and rank, in the habit of viewing objects
through the medium of books, that gives a
sacred obscurity, a mysterious elevation, to
human beings. I had been familiar with the
names of nobility and royalty, but the things
themselves had ever been shrouded in an awe-creating
darkness. Their distance had likewise
produced an interval, which I imagined
impossible for me to overpass. They were
objects to be viewed, like the divinity, from
afar. The only sentiments which they could
should ever pass the mound which separated
my residence, and my condition, from theirs,
was utterly incredible.
The ideas annexed to the term peasant, are
wholly inapplicable to the tillers of ground in
America; but our notions are the offspring,
more of the books we read, than of any other
of our external circumstances. Our books are
almost wholly the productions of Europe, and
the prejudices which infect us, are derived
chiefly from this source. These prejudices may
be somewhat rectified by age, and by converse
with the world, but they flourish in full vigour
in youthful minds, reared in seclusion and privacy,
and undisciplined by intercourse with
various classes of mankind. In me, they possessed
an unusual degree of strength. My
words were selected and defined according to
foreign usages, and my notions of dignity
were modelled on a scale, which the revolution
has completely taken away. I could never
forget that my condition was that of a peasant,
and in spite of reflection, I was the slave of
those sentiments of self-contempt and humiliation,
which pertain to that condition elsewhere,
western side of the Atlantic.
My ambition of dignity and fortune grew
out of this supposed inferiority of rank. Experience
had taught me, how slender are the
genuine wants of an human being, and made
me estimate, at their true value, the blessings
of competence, and fixed property. Our fears
are always proportioned to our hopes, and
what is ardently desired, appears, when placed
within our reach, to be an illusion designed
to torment us. We are inclined to question
the reality of that which our foresight had
never suggested as near, though our wishes
had perpetually hovered around it.
When the death of Wilmot put his sister
in possession of a sum of money, which, when
converted into land, would procure her and
the man whom her affection had distinguished,
a domain of four or five hundred fertile acres,
my emotions I cannot describe. Many would
be less affected in passing from a fisherman's
hovel, to the throne of an opulent nation. It so
much surpassed the ordinary bounds of my
foresight, and even of my wishes, that, for a
time, I was fain to think myself in one of my
dispelled only by the repetition of the same
impressions, and by the lapse of time. I
gradually became familiarized to the change,
and by frequently revolving its benefits and
consequences, raised the tenor of my ordinary
sensations to the level, as it were, of my new
condition.
From this unwonted height, Morton's reappearance
had thrown us down to our original
obscurity. But now my old preceptor had
started up before me, and, like my good
genius, had brought with him gifts immeasurable,
and surpassing belief. They existed
till now in another hemisphere; they occupied
an elevation in the social scale, to which I
could scarcely raise my eyes; yet they were
now within a short journey of my dwelling.
I was going to be ushered into their presence;
but my privilege was not to be circumscribed
by any sober limits. This heiress of opulence
and splendour, this child of fortune, and appropriator
of elegance and grace, and beauty,
was proffered to me as a wife!
I reflected on the education which I had
received from Mr. Howard; his affection for
to his wife's daughter, and the authority and
respect....which that relation, as well as his
personal qualities, produced. I reflected on
the futility of titular distinction; on the capriciousness
of wealth, and its independance of
all real merit, in the possessor, but still I
could not retain but for a moment, the confidence
and self-respect which flowed from
these thoughts. I was still nothing more than
an obscure clown, whose life had been spent
in the barn-yard and corn-field, and to whose
level, it was impossible for a being qualified
and educated like Clara, ever to descend.
You must not imagine, however, that this
descent was desired by me. I was bound, by
every tie of honour, though not of affection,
to Mary Wilmot. Incited by compassion and
by gratitude, I had plighted my vows to her,
and had formed no wish or expectation of
revoking them. These vows were to be completed,
in a few months, by marriage; but
this event, by the unfortunate, though seasonable
and equitable claim of Morton, was placed
at an uncertain distance. Marriage, while
utmost indiscretion.
What, however, was taken away by Morton,
might, I fondly conceived, be restored
to us by the generosity of Mr. Howard. It
was not, indeed, perfectly agreeable to the
dictates of my pride, to receive fortune as the
boon of any one; but I had always been accustomed
to regard Mr. Howard more as my
father than teacher, and it seemed as if I had
a natural right to every gift which was needful
to my happiness, and which was in his
power to bestow.
Mary and her claims on me, were indeed,
unknown to my friend. He had no reason to
be particularly interested in her fate; and her
claims interfered with those schemes which
he had apparently formed, with relation to
Clara and myself. How, I asked, might he
regard her claims? In what light would he
consider that engagement of the understanding,
rather than of the heart, into which I had
entered? How far would he esteem it proper
to adhere to it; and what efforts might he
make to dissolve it?
Various incidents had hindered me from
thoroughly explaining to him my situation,
during his short stay at Hatfield; but I resolved
to seize the opportunity of our next meeting,
and by a frank disclosure, to put an end to all
my doubts. Meanwhile, I employed the interval
of his absence, in giving an account of
all these events to Mary, and impatiently
waited the arrival of a letter. The period of
my friend's absence was nearly expired, and
the hourly expectation of his return prevented
me from visiting Mary in person. Instead
of his coming, however, I at length received
a letter from him in these terms:
I shall not call on you at Hatfield. I
am weary of traversing hills and dales; and
my detention in Virginia being longer than I
expected, shall go on board a vessel in this
port, bound for New-York. Contract, in my
name, with your old friend, for the present
accommodation of the girls, and repair to
No......., Broadway. If I am not there to embrace
you, inquire for my wife or niece, and
mention your name. Make haste; the women
long to see a youth in whose education I had
so large a share; and be sure, by your deportment,
not to discredit your instructor, and
belie my good report.
Being, by this letter, relieved from the
necessity of staying longer at Hatfield, I prepared
to visit my friend at Abingdon. Some
six or seven days had elapsed since my messenger
had left with her my last letter, and I
had not since heard from her. I had been
enjoined to repair to New-York with expedition,
but I could not omit the present occasion
of an interview with Mary. Morton's
claim would produce an essential change in
her condition, and I was desirous of discussing
with her the validity of this claim, and the
consequences of admitting it.
I had not seen Morton since his first visit.
I now, in my way to Abingdon, called at his
father's house.
The old man appeared at the door. His
son had visited and stayed with him a few
days, but had afterwards returned to the city.
He had gone thither to settle some affairs,
and had promised to come back in a few
weeks. He knew not in what affairs he was
engaged; could not tell how far he had succeeded,
or whereabout in the city he resided.
I proceeded to Abingdon, not without
some expectation of Morton's having already
accomplished his wishes, and persuaded my
friend to refund the money; and yet, in a case
of such importance, I could not easily believe
that my concurrence, or at least, advice,
would be dispensed with.
I went to her lodgings as soon as I arrived.
I had procured her a pleasant abode, at the
house of a lady who was nearly allied to my
uncle, and where the benefits of decent and
affectionate society could be enjoyed without
leaving her apartments. Mrs. Bordley was
apprized of the connection which subsisted
between her inmate and me, and had contracted
and expressed much affection for her
guest. On inquiring for miss Wilmot, of her
hostess, she betrayed some surprise.
Mary Wilmot? she answered, that is a
strange question from you: surely you know
she is not here.
Not here? cryed I, somewhat startled;
what has become of her?
You do not know then that she has left us
for good and all?
No, indeed; not a syllable of any such
design has reached me; but whither has she
gone?
That is more than I can say. If you are
uninformed on that head, it cannot be expected
that I should be in the secret. I only
know, that three days ago she told me of her
intention to change her lodgings, and she did so
accordingly, yesterday morning, at sun rise.
But what was her motive? What cause of
dislike did she express to this house? I expected
she would remain here, till she changed
it for an house of her own.
Why indeed that may be actually the case
now, for she went away with a very spruce
young gentleman, in his chaise; but that cannot
be. Poor creature! She was in no state for
so joyous a thing as matrimony. She was
very feeble; nay, she was quite ill: she had
and with difficulty got out of it, and dressed
herself, when the chaise called for her. She
would eat nothing, notwithstanding all my
persuasion, and the pains I took to prepare
some light nice thing, such as a weak stomach
could bear. When she told me she meant
to leave my house, I was as much surprised
as you, and inquired what had offended or
displeased her in my behaviour. She assured
me that she had been entirely satisfied, and
that her motives for leaving me had no connection
with my deportment. There was a
necessity for going, though she could not explain
to me what it was. I ventured to ask
where she designed to go, but she avoided
answering me for some time; and when I
repeated the question, she said, she could not
describe her new lodgings. She knew not in
what spot she was destined to take up her rest,
and confessed, that there were the most cogent
reasons for her silence on that head. I mentioned
the coldness of the weather, and her
own ill-health, but she answered, that no
option had been left her, and that she must go, if
it were even necessary to carry her from her
suppose, was strange, and I renewed my
questions and intreaties, but she gave me no
satisfaction, and persisted in her resolutions.
Accordingly, on Thursday morning, a chaise
stopped at the door, took her in, with a small
trunk, and hastened away.
I was confounded and perplexed at this
tale. No event was less expected than this.
No intimation had even been dropped by
Mary, that created the least suspicion of this
design. She had left, as Mrs. Bordley proceeded
to inform me, all her furniture, without
direction to whom, or in what manner to
dispose of it, and yet had said, that she never
designed to return. The gentleman with
whom she departed, was unknown to Mrs.
Bordley, and had stopt so short a time as not
to suffer her to obtain, by remarks or interrogatories,
any gratification of her curiosity.
Having ineffectually put a score of questions
to Mrs. Bordley, I entered the deserted
apartments. The keys of closets and drawers
no where appeared, though the furniture was
arranged as usual. Inquiring of my companion
for these, Ay, said she, I had almost
chair left the door, holding out a bunch of
keys to me, was, Give these to....there her
voice faultered, and I observed the tears flow.
I received the keys, and though she went
away without ending her sentence, I took
for granted it was you she meant.
I eagerly seized the keys, and hoped, by
their assistance, to find a clue to this labyrinth.
I opened the closets and drawers and turned
over their contents, but found no paper which
would give me the intelligence I wanted. No
script of any kind appeared; nothing but a
few napkins and sheets, and the like cumbrous
furniture. A writing-desk stood near the
wall, but blank paper, wafers, and quills, were
all that it contained. I desisted, at length,
from my unprofitable labour, and once more
renewed my inquiries of Mrs. Bordley.
She described the dress and form of the
young man who attended the fugitive. I
could not at first recognize in her description
any one whom I knew. His appearance bespoke
him to be a citizen, and he seemed to
have arrived from the city, as well as to return
thither. She dwelt with particular emphasis on
that a new gallant had supplanted the old.
For some time, I was deaf to these surmises;
but, at length, they insensibly revived
in my fancy, and acquired strength. I began
to account for appearances so as to justify
my suspicion. She had not informed me of
her motions; but that might arise from compunction
and shame. There might even be
something illicit in this new connection, to
which necessity might have impelled her.
The claims of Morton were made known to
her by me, but possibly they had been previously
imparted by himself. To shun that
poverty to which this discovery would again
reduce her, she listened to the offers of one,
whose opulence was able to relieve her wants.
The notion that her conduct was culpable,
vanished in a moment, and I abhorred myself
for harbouring it. I remembered all the
proofs of a pure and exalted mind, impatient
of contempt and poverty, but shrinking with
infinitely more reluctance from vice and turpitude,
which she had given. I called to mind
her treatment of a man, by name, Sedley, who
had formerly solicited her love, and this remembrance
which subsequent reflection only tended to
confirm.
Sedley had contracted a passion for Mary
six or eight years ago. He was a man of excellent
morals, and heir to a great fortune.
He had patrimony in his own possession, and
had much to hope for from his parents. These
parents hated and reviled the object of their
son's affections merely because she was poor,
and their happiness seemed to depend on his
renouncing her. To this he would never consent,
and Mary might long ago have removed
all the evils of her situation, had she been willing
to accept Sedley's offers; but though she
had the highest esteem for his virtues, and
gratitude for his preference, her heart was
anothers. Besides, her notions of duty, were
unusually scrupulous. Her poverty had only
made her more watchful against any encroachments
on her dignity, and she disdained
to enter a family who thought themselves
degraded by her alliance.
Sedley was a vehement spirit. Opposition
whetted, rather than blunted his zeal; and
Mary's conduct, while it heightened his admiration
The youth whom she loved did not
admit a mutual affection, and his poverty
would have set marriage at an hopeless distance,
even if it had been conceived. Sedley,
therefore, believed himself the only one capable
of truly promoting her happiness, and persisted
in courting her favour longer and with
more constancy than might have been expected
from his ardent feelings and versatile age.
I need not repeat that Mary's affections
were mine. To Sedley, therefore, I was the
object of aversion and fear, and there never
took place between us intercourse sufficient to
subdue his prejudices. After her brother's
death, marriage was resolved upon between
us, and Sedley at length slackened the ardour
of his pursuit. Still, however, he would not
abjure her society.
Some secret revolution, perhaps, had been
wrought in the mind of my friend. Her consent
to marriage, had been extorted by me,
for she was almost equally averse to marriage
with one by whom she was not loved with
that warmth which she thought her due, as
with one who possessed every title to preference
laid aside in consideration of the benefit which
her brother's death, by giving her property,
enabled her to confer upon me who was destitute.
This benefit it was no longer in her
power to confer. She would consider herself
as severed from me forever, and in this state
a renewal of Sedley's importunities, might
subdue her reluctance. On comparing Mrs.
Bordley's description of the voice, features,
garb, and carriage of Mary's attendant, with
those of Sedley, I fancied I discovered a
strong resemblance between them. Some
other coincidences, which came to light in
the course of the day, made me certain as to
the person of her companion. It was Sedley
himself.
I was willing to gain all the knowledge of
this affair which was within reach. Sedley's
usual place of abode was his father's house in
Virginia, but he chiefly passed his time in Philadelphia,
where he resided with his sister,
who was a lady of great merit, and left, by her
husband's death, in opulent circumstances.
This lady had made frequent overtures of
friendship to Mary, but these had, for the most
wholly free from pride. A mistaken sensibility
made her shun those occasions for contempt
or insult which might occur in her intercourse
with the rich. The relation in which
she stood to Sedley was another impediment.
A just regard for his happiness compelled her
to exclude herself as much as possible from his
company. The kindness of Mrs. Valentine
had not been diverted by these scruples and
reserves, and some intercourse had taken place
between them before Mary's retirement to
Abingdon.
This change of views in my friend had
given me much disquiet, but some reflection
convinced me that it was a cause of rejoicing
rather than regret. Wedlock had been desired
by me, more from zeal for the happiness of another,
than for my own. I had lamented that
destiny which made the affections of three persons
merely the instruments of their misery,
and had exerted my influence to give a new
direction to my friend's passions. This undertaking
was no less delicate than arduous, and
no wonder, that in hands so unskilful as mine,
the attempt should fail. I could not be much
I was somewhat mortified on finding that she
did not deem me worthy of being apprized of
her schemes. I reflected, however, that this
information might only be delayed; and imagined
a thousand plausible reasons which might
induce her to postpone intelligence so unexpected,
if not disagreeable to me.
Next morning I repaired to the city, and
to Mrs. Valentine's house. I inquired of a
female servant for Miss Wilmot, but was told
that she had been there, a few hours, on the
preceding Thursday, and had then gone, in
company with her mistress and Mr. Sedley,
to New-York. No time had been fixed for
their return, but Mrs. Valentine had said that
her absence might last for six or eight months.
The steward, who might afford me more information,
was out of town.
Thus my conjectures were confirmed; and
having no reason for further delay, I immediately
set out in the same road. My thoughts,
disembarrassed from all engagements with
Mary, persuaded of her union with Sedley,
and convinced that this union would more promote
her happiness than any other event, I
I was impatient to compare those vague and
glittering conceptions which hovered in my
fancy, with the truth; therefore adopted the
swiftest conveyance, and arrived, in the evening
of the same day, at Powle's Hook ferry.
My excursions had hitherto been short and
rare, and the stage on which I was now entering,
abounded with novelty and grandeur.
The second city in our country was familiar to
my fancy by description, but my ideas were
disjointed and crude, and my attention was
busy in searching, in the objects which presented
themselves, for similitudes which were
seldom to be met with. A sort of tremulous,
but pleasing astonishment, overwhelmed me,
while I gazed through the twilight, on the
river and the city on the further shore. My
sensations of solemn and glowing expectation
chiefly flowed from the foresight of the circumstances
in which I was preparing to place
myself.
Men exist more for the future than the present.
Our being is never so intense and vivid,
if I may so speak, as when we are on the eve
of some anticipated revolution, momentous to
every incident that brings us nearer to the
change, and we are busy in marking the agreement
between objects as they rise before us,
and our previous imaginations. Thus it was
with me. My palpitations increased as I drew
near the house to which I had been directed,
and I could scarcely govern my emotions sufficiently
to inquire of the servant who appeared
to my summons, for Mrs. Howard.
I was ushered into a lighted parlour, and
presently a lady entered. She bore no marks
of having passed the middle age, and her countenance
exhibited the union of fortitude and
sweetness. Her air was full of dignity and
condescension. Methought I wanted no other
assurance but that which the sight of her conveyed,
that this was the wife of my friend.
I was thrown, by her entrance, into some
confusion, and was at a loss in what manner
to announce myself. The moment she caught
a distinct glance of my figure, her features expanded
into a smile, and offering her hand,
she exclaimed....Ahah! This, without doubt,
is the young friend whom we have so anxiously
looked for. Your name is Edward Hartley,
of a mother, to this home. Turning to
a servant who followed her, she continued, call
Clara hither. Tell her that a friend has arrived.
Before I had time to comment on this abrupt
reception, the door was again opened. A
nymph, robed with the most graceful simplicity,
entered, and advancing towards me, offered
me her hand....Here, said the elder lady, is
the son and brother whom Mr. Howard promised
to procure for us. Welcome him, my
girl, as such.
Lifting her eyes from the floor, and casting
on me bashful but affectionate looks, the young
lady said, in an half-whisper, he is truly welcome...and
again offered the hand which, confounded
and embarrassed as I at first was, I
had declined to accept. Now, however, I was
less backward.
An unaffected and sprightly conversation
followed, that tended to banish those timidities
which were too apparent in my deportment.
Mrs. Howard entered into a gay and almost
humorous description of my person, such as
she had received before my arrival, and remarked
and the original, intermingling questions,
which, compelling me to open my lips in answer
to them, helped me to get rid of my
aukwardness. Presently supper was prepared,
and dispatched with the utmost cheerfulness.
My astonishment and rapture were unspeakable.
Such condescension and familiarity,
surpassing all my fondest imaginations, from
beings invested with such dazzling superiority,
almost intoxicated my senses. My answers
were disadvantageous to myself, for they were
made in such a tumult and delirium of emotions,
that they could not fail of being incoherent
or silly.
Gradually these raptures subsided, and I
acted and spoke with more sobriety and confidence.
I had leisure also to survey the features
of my friends. Seated at opposite sides
of the table, with lights above and around us,
every lineament and gesture were distinctly
seen. It was difficult to say which person was
the most lovely. The bloom and glossiness
of youth had, indeed, disappeared in the elder,
but the ruddy tints and the smoothness of
health, joined to the most pathetic and intelligent
in personal attractions, with the daughter. No
music was ever more thrilling than the tones
of Clara. They sunk, deeply, into my heart,
while her eyes, casually turned on me, and
beaming with complacency, contributed still
more to enchant me.
In a few days, the effects of novelty gradually
disappearing, I began to find myself at
home. Mr. Howard's arrival, and the cordiality
of his behaviour, contributed still more
to place me at ease. Those employments he
designed for me, now occurred. They generally
engrossed the half of each day. They
were light, dispatched without toil, or anxiety,
and conduced, in innumerable ways, to my
pleasure and improvement. They introduced
me to men of different professions and characters,
called forth my ingenuity and knowledge,
and supplied powerful incitements to
new studies and inquiries.
At noon, the day's business was usually
dismissed, and the afternoon and evening were
devoted to intellectual and social occupations.
These were generally partaken by the ladies,
and visits were received and paid so rarely, as
Collected round the fire, and busied in music
or books, or discourse, the hours flew away
with unheeded rapidity. The contrast which
this scene bore to my past life, perpetually recurred
to my reflections, and added new and
inexpressible charms to that security and elegance
by which I was at present surrounded.
Clara was the companion of my serious
and my sportive hours. I found, in her character,
simplicity and tenderness, united to
powerful intellects. The name of children
was often conferred upon us by my friend and
his wife; all advances to familiarity and confidence
between us were encouraged; our little
plans of walking or studying together were
sanctioned by smiles of approbation, and their
happiness was evidently imperfect while ours
was suspended or postponed.
In this intercourse, there was nothing to
hinder the growth of that sentiment, which is
so congenial with virtuous and youthful bosoms.
My chief delight was in sharing the
society and performing offices of kindness for
Clara, and this delight the frankness of her
nature readily shewed to be mutual. Love
recur, in an undisguised shape, to my
thoughts. My desires seemed to be limited
to her presence, and to participating her occupations
and amusements. Satisfied in like
manner with this, no marks of impatience or
anxiety were ever betrayed by her, but in my
absence.
The fulness of content which I now experienced,
did not totally exclude the remembrance
of Mary. I had heard and seen nothing
of Morton since my departure from Hatfield.
The only way of accounting for this, was to
suppose that Mary and he had met, and that
the former, persuaded of the equity of his
claim, had resigned to him the money which
he had remitted to her brother.
The silence which she had observed, involved
me in the deepest perplexity. I spared
no pains to discover Mrs. Valentine's residence,
but my pains were fruitless. My inquiries
rendered it certain that, at least, no
such person resided in New-York.
Thus occupied, the winter passed away.
On a mild, but blustering evening in March,
I happened to be walking, in company with
time, to spy before me, coming in an opposite
direction, the man whose fate had engaged so
much of my attention. It was Morton himself.
On seeing me, he betrayed much satisfaction,
but no surprise. We greeted each other affectionately.
Observing that he eyed my companion
with particular earnestness, I introduced
him to her.
This meeting was highly desirable, as I
hoped to collect from it an explication of what
had hitherto been a source of perplexity. I
likewise marked a cheerfulnes in my friend's
deportment, which shewed that some favourable
change had taken place. He seemed no
less anxious than I for a confidential interview;
and an appointment of a meeting on the same
evening was accordingly made.
Having conducted Clara home, I hastened
to the place appointed. I was forthwith ushered
into a parlour, where Morton was found in
company with a lady of graceful and pensive
mein, with a smiling babe in her arms, to whom
he introduced me as to his wife. This incident
confirmed my favourable prognostics, and
I waited, with impatience, till the lady's departure
In a short time, she left us alone. I congratulate
you, said I, on your reunion with
your family, but cannot help expressing my surprise
that you never favoured me with a second
visit, or gave me any intelligence of your good
fortune.
He apologized for his neglect, by saying,
that the arrival of his wife and daughter, in
New-York, obliged him, shortly after our interview,
to hasten to this city, where successive
engagements had detained him till now.
He was, nevertheless, extremely desirous of a
meeting, and intended, as soon as pleasant
weather should return, to go to Hatfield, on
purpose to see me. This meeting, however,
had fortunately occurred to preclude the necessity
of that journey. He then inquired
into the health of miss Wilmot, and her present
situation. I was anxious to see her, he
continued, on account of that affair, on which
we conversed at our last meeting. As her
brother's friend, I was, likewise, desirous of
seeing her, and tendering her any service in
my power, but when taking measures to bring
my wife, who, to my infinite surprise and satisfaction,
had embarked for America, and
arrived safely at New-York. My eagerness
to see my family, made me postpone this interview
for the present, and one engagement has
since so rapidly succeeded another, that I have
never been at leisure to execute this design.
What, said I, has no meeting taken place
between Mary Wilmot and you? Has she not
restored the money you claimed?
Surely, replied he, you cannot be ignorant
that I have never received it. I doubted whether
I ought to receive it, even if my title were
good. It was chiefly to become acquainted
with her, that I looked for her, and my good
fortune has since enabled me to dispense with
any thing else. The property, left by her brother,
may rightfully belong to her, notwithstanding
present appearances. At any rate,
her possession shall be unmolested by me.
He then proceeded to inform me, that his
wife's parents being deceived by his long silence,
and the intelligence of his shipwreck,
into the opinion of his death, had relented, and
settled an independent and liberal pension on
some abode at a distance from them. She
proposed to retire, with her child, to some
neat and rural abode in Cornwall, and was on
the point of executing this design, when letters
were received from her husband, at Algiers,
which assured her of his safety, and requested
her to embark for America, where it was his
intention to meet her. She had instantly
changed her plans, and selling her annuity on
good terms, had transported herself and her
property to New-York, were her husband being
apprised of her arrival, hastened to join
her.
Thus, continued Morton, you have, in my
destiny, a striking instance of the folly of despair.
My shipwreck, and my long absence,
in circumstances which hindered all intercourse
between me and my family, were the
most propitious events that could have happened.
Nothing but the belief of my death,
and the consequent distresses of my wife,
could have softened the animosity of her parents.
Her disobedience, they though, had
been amply punished, and fate having taken
from me, the power of receiving any advantage
her future life secure, at least, from want.
It was also lucky, that their returning
affection stopped just where it did. Their resentment
was still so powerful as to make
them refuse to see her, and to annex to their
gift, the stern condition of residing at a distance
from them. Hence she was enabled to
embark for America, without detecting their
mistake, as to my death. They carefully shut
their ears against all intelligence of her condition,
whether direct or indirect, and will
probably pass their lives in ignorance of that,
which, if known, would only revive their upbraidings
and regrets.
I am not sorry for the hardships I have
indured. They are not unpleasing to remembrance,
and serve to brighten and endear the
enjoyments of my present state, by contrast
with former sufferings. I have enough for the
kind of life which I prefer to all others, and
have no desire to enlarge my stock. Meanwhile,
I am anxious for the welfare of miss Wilmot,
and shall rejoice in having been, though
undesignedly, the means of her prosperity.
I heard, in Philadelphia, that a marriage
was on foot between her and you. I flattered
myself, when I met you this evening, that
your companion was she, and secretly congratulated
you on the possession of so much
gracefulness and beauty. In this, it seems, I
was partly mistaken. This is a person very
different from Mary Wilmot; but a friend,
whom I met, shortly after parting from you,
and to whom I described her, assured me that
this was the object of your choice. Pray, what
has become of miss Wilmot?
I frankly confessed to him, my ignorance
of her condition, and related what had formerly
been the relation between her and us. I
expressed my surprise at finding that she was
still in possession of the money, after the representations
I had made; and at the silence she
had so long observed.
When I recollected in what manner, and in
whose company, she had left Abingdon, I
could not shut out some doubts, as to her integrity.
She was, indeed, mistress of her own
actions, and Sedley was not unworthy of her
choice; but her neglect of my letter, and her
keeping this money, were suspicious accompanyments.
attain my ready acquiescence, and I occasionally
consoled myself, by imagining her conduct
to proceed from some misapprehension,
on the one or other part. Mrs. Valentine's
reputation was unspotted, and under her guardianship,
it was scarcely possible for any injury
to approach my friend's person or morals.
My anxiety to discover the truth, was now
increased. After being so long accustomed
to partake her cares, and watch over her safety,
I could not endure this profound ignorance.
I was even uncertain, as to her existence. It
was impossible, but that my friendship would
be of some benefit. My sympathy could not
fail to alleviate her sorrow, or enhance her
prosperity.
But what means had I of removing this
painful obscurity. I knew not which way to
look for her. My discoveries must be wholly
fortuitous.
Notwithstanding my own enjoyments, I
allowed the image of Mary Wilmot to intrude
into my thoughts too frequently. Some change
in my temper was discerned by Clara, and she
inquired into the cause. At first, I was deterred
the cause, but some reflection shewed me that
I was wrong, in so long concealing from her,
a transaction of this moment. I, therefore,
seized a favourable opportunity, and recounted
all the incidents of my life, connected with this
poor fugitive.
When I began, however, I was not aware
of the embarrassment which I was preparing to
suffer and inflict. We used to sit up much
longer than our friends, and after they had
retired to repose, taking their places on the
sofa, allowed the embers to die gradually away,
while we poured forth, unrestrained, the effusions
of the moment. It was on one of these
occasions that, after a short preface, I began
my story. I detailed the origin of my intercourse
with miss Wilmot, the discovery of her
passion for me, the contest between that passion
and my indifference on one side, and the
claims and solicitations of Sedley on the other.
I was listened to with the deepest emotion.
Curiosity enabled her to stifle it for some time;
but when I came to the events of Wilmot's
death, the discovery of his property, and the
consequent agreement to marry, she was able
tears, and articulated with difficulty: Enough,
my friend, I know the rest. I know what you
would say. Your melancholy is explained,
and I see that my fate is fixed in eternal misery.
I was at once shocked, astonished, and delighted,
by the discovery which was thus made,
and made haste, by recounting subsequent
transactions, to correct her error. She did
not draw the same inferences from the flight
and silence of the girl, or drew them with less
confidence than I. She was not consoled by
my avowals of passion for herself, and declared
that she considered my previous contract as
inviolable. Nothing could absolve me from it,
but the absolute renunciation of miss Wilmot
herself.
I considered the disappearance and silence
of Mary, as a sufficient renunciation of her
claims, and once more dwelt upon the scruples
and objections which she had formerly raised
to our alliance; which had been, imperfectly,
and for a time, removed by the death of her
brother, and which, Morton's arrival, had restored
to their original strength. Some regard,
that of one whose happiness deserved to be as
zealously promoted as that of the fugitive. It
was true, that I had tendered vows to miss
Wilmot, which my understanding, and not my
heart; which gratitude, and not affection, had
dictated. This tender, in the circumstances in
which I was then placed, was necessary and
proper; but these circumstances had now
changed. My offer had been tacitly rejected.
Not only my love, but my friendship, had been
slighted and despised. My affections had never
been devoted to another, and the sacrifice
of inclination was limited to myself. This
indifference, however, existed no more. It was
supplanted by a genuine and ardent attachment
for one in all respects more worthy. I was
willing to hope that this attachment was mutual.
Fortune and her parents, and her own
heart, were all propitious to my love; and to
stifle and thwart it for the sake of one, who had
abjured my society and my friendship; who
renounced my proffered hand, and cancelled
all my promises; who had possibly made herself
unworthy of my esteem, by the forfeiture
of honour itself, or more probably had given
by accepting another, would be, in the highest
degree, absurd and unjustifiable.
These arguments wrought no effect upon
Clara. It was her duty, she answered, to contend
with selfish regards, and to judge of the
feelings of others by her own. Whatever
reluctance she might experience in resigning
me to another, in whatever degree she might
thwart the wishes and schemes of her parents,
it was her duty to resign me, and she should
derive more satisfaction from disinterested,
than from selfish conduct. She would not
attempt to disguise her feelings and wishes,
and extenuate the sacrifice she was called on
to make, but she had no doubt as to what was
right, and her resolution to adhere to it would
be immovable.
This resolution, and this inflexibility, were
wholly unexpected. I was astonished and
mortified, and having exhausted all my arguments
in vain, gave way to some degree of
acrimony and complaint, as if I were capriciously
treated. At one time, I had thoughts
of calling her parents to my aid, and explaining
to them my situation with regard to Mary,
my behalf with Clara.
A deep and incurable sadness now appeared
in my friend, and strong, though unostentatious
proofs were daily afforded, that an
exquisite sense of justice had dictated her
deportment, and that she had laid upon herself
a task to which her fortitude was scarcely
equal. It appeared to me the highest cruelty
to aggravate the difficulty of this task, by enlisting
against her those whose authority she
most revered, and whose happiness she was
most desirous of promoting.
My eagerness to trace miss Wilmost to
her retreat, to find out her condition, and make
her, if possible, my advocate with Clara, was
increased by this unhappy resolution. I began
to meditate anew upon the best means of effecting
this. I blamed myself for having so long
failed to employ all the means in my power,
and resolved to begin my search without
delay. Clara, whose conclusions respecting
miss Wilmot's motives were far more charitable
than mine, was no less earnest in inciting
me to this pursuit. She believed miss
Wilmot's conduct to have been consistent with
erroneous self-denial, and that the re-establishment
of intercourse between us, would
terminate in the happiness of both.
The incidents formerly related, had made
it certain that miss Wilmot had flown away in
company with Sedley. Sedley's patrimony
and fixed abode were in Virginia. There, it
was most probable, that he and the fugitive
would be found. There, at least, should Sedley
have abandoned his ancient residence,
was it most likely that the means of tracing
his footsteps, would be found. Mary, if not
at present in his company, or in that of his
sister, had not perhaps concealed her asylum
from them, and might be discovered by their
means. Fortunately, Mr. Howard had engagements
at Richmond which would shortly
require his own presence, or that of one in
whom he could confide. He had mentioned
this necessity in my presence in such a way as
shewed that he would not be unwilling to
transfer his business to me. Hitherto I had
been unwilling to relinquish my present situation;
but now I begged to be entrusted with
projects.
In a few days I set out upon this journey.
Passing, necessarily, at no great distance from
Hatfield, I took that opportunity of visiting
my uncle and sisters. You may imagine my
surprise on finding, at my uncle's house, a
letter for me, from Mary, which had arrived
there just after my departure, in the preceding
autumn, and had lain, during the whole
winter, neglected and forgotten, in a drawer.
This letter was worthy of my friend's
generous and indignant spirit, and fully accounted
for her flight from Abingdon. She
was determined to separate herself from me,
to die in some obscure recess, whither I
should never be able to trace her, and thus to
remove every obstacle in the way of my pretentions
to one, younger, lovlier and richer
than herself. In this letter was enclosed an
order for the money, which, as I had taught
her too hastily to believe, belonged to another.
I believe you know that I am not a selfish
or unfeeling wretch. What but the deepest
regret, could I feel at the ignorance in which I
vehement impatience to discover the place of
her retreat, and persuade her to accept my
vows, or, at least, to take back the money to
which Morton's title was not yet proved,
which would save her at least from the horrors
of that penury she was so little qualified
to endure, and to which, for more than six
inclement months, she had been, through unhappy
misapprehension, subjected?
In this mood I hastened to this city, but
my heroism quickly evaporated. I felt no
abatement of my eagerness to benefit the unhappy
fugitive, by finding her; counselling
her; consoling her; repossessing her of the
means of easy, if not of affluent subsistence;
but more than this I felt myself incapable of
offering. I knew full well, that, when acquainted
with the whole truth, she never
would accept me as hers; but I despaired of
gaining any thing with respect to Clara, by
that rejection. I despaired of ever lighting
again on miss Wilmot. Besides, my pride
was piqued and wounded by resolutions that
appeared to me absurd; to arise from prejudiced
views and a narrow heart; from unreasonable
merits she had no direct knowledge, and blamable
indifference to another whom she had
abundant reason to love.
The letters that passed between us only
tended to convince me that she was implacable,
and I left the city for Virginia with a
secret determination of never returning. I
resolved to solicit Mr. Howard's permission
to accompany some surveyors employed by
him, who were to pass immediately into the
western country. By this means, I hoped to
shake off fetters that were now become badges
of misery and ignominy.
The wisdom of man, when employed upon
the future, is incessantly taught its own weakness.
Had an angel whispered me, as I
mounted the stage for Baltimore, that I should
go no further on that journey than Schuylkill,
and that, without any new argument or effort
on my part, Clara would, of her own accord,
call me back to her and to happiness, I should
no doubt have discredited the intimation.
Yet such was the event.
In order to rescue a drowning passenger,
I leaped into the river. The weather being
after my coming out, with a fever, which reduced
me, in a very few days, to the brink of
the grave. Now was the solicitude of my
Clara awakened. When in danger of losing
me forever, she discovered the weakness of
her scruples, and effectually recalled me to
life, by entreating me to live for her sake.
I have not yet perfectly recovered my
usual health. I am unfit for business or for
travelling; and standing in need of some
amusement which will relieve, without fatiguing
my attention, I called to mind your
claims on me, and determined to give you the
account you desired.
When I received your letter, informing
me of your design to meet me in New-York,
I was utterly dispirited and miserable. My
design of coming southward, I knew, would
prevent an immediate meeting with you, and
as I had then conceived the project of a journey
to the western waters, I imagined that
we should never have another meeting.
Now, my friend, my prospects are brighter,
and I hope to greet you the moment of your
arrival in New-York. I shall go thither as
happiness with Clara is put beyond the power
of man to defeat.
But, alas! what has become of Mary Wilmot.
Heaven grant that she be safe. While
unacquainted with her destiny, my happiness
will never be complete; day and night I torment
myself with fruitless conjectures about
her. Yet she went away with Sedley, a man
of honour, and her lover, and with his sister,
whose integrity cannot be questioned. With
these she cannot be in danger, or in poverty.
This reflection consoles me.
I long to see you, my friend. I hope to be
of some service to you. You will see, by this
long detail, that fortune has been kind to me.
Indeed, when I take a view of the events of
the last year, I cannot find language for my
wonder. My blessings are so numerous and
exorbitant, my merits so slender.
I wish thee patience to carry thee to the
end of this long letter.
Adieu.
| Clara Howard | |