University of Virginia Library

LETTER XXVI.

I sit down to relate what, perhaps, will
afford you pain instead of pleasure. I know not
whether I ought to give you pain, by this recital.
Having no longer the power of living for my
own happiness, I had wrought up my mind
to the fervent wish of living for the sake of
another. I found consolation in the thought
of being useful to a human being.

Now my condition is forlorn and dreary.
That sedate and mixed kind of happiness, on
which I had set my wishes, is denied to me.
My last hope, meagre and poor as it was, is
extinguished forever. The fire that glowed
in my bosom, languishes. I am like one let

loose upon a perilous sea, without rudder or
sail.

I have made preparation to leave this city
to-morrow, by the dawn of day, on a journey
from which I neither wish nor expect to return.
I at this moment anticipate the dawn of comfort,
from the scenes of the wilderness and of
savage life. I begin to adopt, with seriousness,
a plan which has often occurred to my juvenile
reveries.

In my uncle's parlour there hangs a rude
outline of the continent of North-America.
Many an hour have I gazed upon it, and indulged
that romantic love of enterprize, for which I
have ever been distinguished. My eye used
to leap from the shore of Ontario, to the obscure
rivulets which form, by their conflux, the
Allegheny. This have I pursued through all
its windings, till its stream was lost in that of the
Ohio. Along this river have I steered and
paddled my canoe of bark, many hundreds of
leagues, till the Missisippi was attained. Down
that mighty current I allowed myself to be passively
borne, till the mouths of Missouri opened
to my view. A more arduous task, and one hitherto
unattempted, then remained for me. In

the ardours of my fancy, all perils and hardships
were despised, and I boldly adventured to
struggle against the current of Missouri, to
combat the dangers of an untried navigation,
of hostile tribes, and unknown regions.

Having gained the remotest sources of the
river, I proceeded to drag my barque over
mountains and rocks, till I lighted upon the
vallies and streams that tend to the north and
west. On one of these I again embarked.
The rivulets insensibly swelled into majestic
streams. Lurking sands and overhanging
cliffs gradually disappeared, and a river flowed
beneath me, as spacious in its breadth and
depth, and wandering through as many realms,
as the Wolga or the Oronoco. After a tedious
navigation of two thousand miles, I at last entered
a bay of the ocean, and descried the
shores of the great Pacific. This purpose
being gained, I was little anxious to return,
and allowed my fancy to range at will over the
boundless field of contingencies, by some of
which I might be transported across the ocean
to China, or along the coast to the dominions
of the Spaniards.

This scheme, suspended and forgotten for
awhile, I have now resumed. To-morrow I go
hence, in company with a person who holds
an high rank in the Spanish districts westward
of the Missisippi.

You will not receive this letter, or be apprised
of my intentions, till after I am gone. I
shall dispatch it at the moment of my leaving
this city. I shall not write to Mr. Howard.
I want not his aid or his counsel. I know that
his views are very different from mine. I shall
awaken opposition and remonstrance, which
will answer no end but to give me torment and
inquietude. To you I leave the task of informing
him of my destiny, or allow him, if you
please, to be wholly unacquainted with it.
Either conduct is indifferent to me.

But there is one in whose welfare you condescend
to take some interest, and of whom I
am able to communicate some tidings. Some
commands which you laid upon me in relation
to Mary have been fulfilled, and I shall now
acquaint you with the result.

She sent me your letter not many hours
after it was written, with a note, informing me
of her place of abode, and requesting a meeting

with me. A letter from you, by her hands,
was a cause of sufficient wonder; but the contents
of your letter were far more wonderful
than the mode of its conveyance. The handwriting
assured me it was yours. The style
and sentiments were alien to all that my fancy
had connected with your name. With these
tokens of profound indifference to my happiness,
of ineffable contempt for my person and
character, I compared the solicitude and
tenderness which your preceding letter had
breathed, and was utterly lost in horror and
doubt. But this is not the strain in which I
ought to write to you. Reason should set
my happiness beyond the love or enmity of
another not wiser or more discerning or benevolent
than myself. If reason be inadequate
to my deliverance, pride should hinder me
from disclosing my humiliation; from confessing
my voluntary servitude.

After my discomposure was somewhat
abated, I proceeded to reflect on what was
now to be done. Compliance with your dictates
was obvious. Since I was no longer of
importance to your happiness, it was time to

remember what was due to that angelic sufferer.

I have already told you that I sent your
letters, and promised to see her in the evening.
I went at the appointed hour. I entered her
apartment with a throbbing heart, for she is
my friend. Near a year had passed since I
had last seen her. This interval had been tormented
with doubts of her safety, of her happiness,
of her virtue, and even her existence.
These doubts were removed, or about to be
solved. My own eyes were to bear testimony
to the truth of her existence.

I was admitted to her. I hastened to communicate
my wishes. I enforced them by all
the eloquence that I was master of, but my
eloquence was powerless. She was too blind
an admirer, and assiduous a follower of Clara
Howard, to accept my proffers. I abruptly
withdrew.

Heaven protect thee and her! I shall carry,
I fear, the images of both of you along with
me. Their company will not be friendly to
courage or constancy. I shall shut them out
as soon as I can.