LETTER XX.
TO CLARA HOWARD.
Philadelphia, May 8.
I am at a loss, dear girl, to account for
thy questions, but I will answer them to the
utmost of my power. The same questions
frequently occurred to me, in my intercourse
with the Wilmots. It was natural, you know,
to suppose that they had left relations in their
native country, with whom it might be of
some advantage to renew their intercourse.
Mary was ten years old, when her father
took up his abode in Delaware, but he had
been already five years in the country, so that,
you will easily perceive, she was not likely to
possess much personal knowledge of events
previous to their voyage. Her mother's
death happened just before their removal to
Wilmington. It appears to have been the
chief cause of that removal.
Your letter has put me on the task of recollection.
I am sorry that I am able to collect
and arrange very few circumstances; such
as you demand. The Wilmots were either
very imperfectly acquainted with the history
of their parents, or were anxious to bury their
history in oblivion. The first was probably
the situation of the son, but I have often suspected,
from the contradictions and evasions
of which Mary was at different times guilty,
when this subject was talked of between us,
that the daughter pretended ignorance, for the
sake of avoiding the mortification of telling
the truth. When once urged pretty closely
on this head, she, indeed, told me, the subject
was a painful one to her; that she knew
nothing of her European kindred which would
justify the searching them out; and that she
would hold herself obliged to me, if I never
recalled past events to her remembrance. After
this injunction I was silent, but, in the
course of numberless conversations, afterwards,
hints were casually dropped, which
afforded me, now and then, a glimpse into
their family history.
When Mary spoke of her father, it was
always with reverence for his talents, gratitude
for his indulgence to her, and compassion for
that frailty of character, which made him seek
in dissipation, relief from sorrow on account
of the death of a wife whom he adored; and a
refuge, as she sometimes obscurely intimated,
from some calamity or humiliation, which
befel him in his native country.
My friend's heart always throbbed, and
her eyes were filled with tears, whenever her
mother was remembered. She took a mournful
pleasure in describing her mother's person
and manners, in which, she was prone to
believe, all human excellence was comprized.
Her own melancholy temper and gloomy destiny,
she imagined to have descended to her
by inheritance, and she once allowed me to
collect from her discourse, that her mother had
died the victim of some early and heavy disappointment.
We were once, the winter before last,
conversing, by an evening fire, on that most
captivating topic, ourselves. Having said
something on my attachment to my country,
and especially to the hill-side where I first
drew breath, and inquired into her feelings
in relation to the same objects,
Alas! said she, I should be puzzled to say
to what country I belong. I am a German by
my father; English by my mother. I was
born at an hotel in Paris, I was nursed by a
woman of Nice, where I passed my infancy;
and my youth and womanhood, and probably
my whole life, belong to America. Now,
what is the country, Germany, England,
France, Italy or America, which I have a
right to call my own. The earliest object of
my recollection is the face of my nurse, who
accompanied us in all our wanderings, and
who died just before my father, on Brandywine.
The olives, the orange walks, and the
sea-shore scenery of Savoy, are still fresh in
my remembrance. Should I visit them again,
no doubt my feelings would be strongly affected,
but I never expect to visit them.
But your father's, your mother's natal spot,
would have some charms, methinks, to one of
your sensibility.
Some influence, no doubt, the contemplation
would have, but no charms. Strange, if I
should ever have an opportunity of trying their
effect upon my feelings.
You are acquainted, then, with the birthplace
of your father and mother.
Yes, I have heard them described so often,
and with such minuteness, that I should recognize
them, I think, at any distance of time.
My father was born in the Grey-street, next
to the chapel of St. Anne, at Altona. My mother
and family have subsisted, from the days of
William the Norman, at a spot, five miles
from Taunton, in Devonshire.
I was in hopes that these particulars were
preliminary to more interesting disclosures,
but my friend now changed the subject of conversation,
and would not be brought back to the
point I wished.
Mr. Wilmot was a man of liberal education
and cultivated taste. This appears from
the representations of his daughter, and likewise
from several books, which she preserved
by connivance of his creditors, and which are
enriched by many notes and memorandums in
her father's hand-writing. These betoken an
enlarged mind and extensive knowledge. She
has, likewise, a sort of journal, kept by him
when a mere youth, during two or three years
residence in Bologne, in the character, as I
suspect, of a commercial agent. This journal,
which I have occasionally seen, affords many
proofs of a sprightly and vigorous mind.
This, my friend, is the whole of my present
recollections on this subject. I am anxious
to know what has suggested your inquiry.
Is your mother acquainted with any of the
family in Europe? With the history of Wilmot
before he came hither? Pray tell me all you
know in your next.
Adieu.
