LETTER XXIX.
To The Same.
10 o'Clock at Night.
Now let us take a view of what is to come.
Too often I endeavour to escape from fore
sight when it presents to me nothing but evils,
but now I must, for thy sake, be less a coward.
In six weeks Jane becomes mine. Till then,
thy mother will not cast thee out of her protection,
and will she then? will she not allow of thy
continuance in thy present dwelling? and
though so much displeased as to refuse thee
her countenance and correspondence, will she,
indeed, turn thee out of doors? She threatens it,
we see, but, I suspect, it will never be more than
a threat, employed, perhaps, only to intimidate
and deter; not designed to be enforced; or, if
made in earnest, yet, when the irrevocable deed
is done, will she not hesitate to inffict the penalty?
Will not her ancient affection; thy humility,
thy sorrow, thy merits—such as, in spite of
this instance of contumacy, she cannot deny thee
—will not these effectually plead for thee?
More than ever will she see that thou needest
her bounty: and since she cannot recall what is
past, will she not relent and be willing to lessen
the irremediable evil all she can.
There is one difficulty that I know not how to
surmount. Giving to the wife will be only giving
to the husband. Shall one whom she so much
abhors, be luxuriously supplied from her bounty?
The wedded pair must live together, she will
think: and shall this hated encroacher find refuge
from beggary and vileness under her roof?
be lodged and banqueted at her expense? that,
her indignant heart will never suffer.
Would to Heaven she would think of me with
less abhorrence. I wish for treatment conformable
to her assumed relation to thee, for all our
sakes. As to me, I have no pride; no punctilio, that will stand in the way of reconciliation. At
least there is no deliberate and stedfast sentiment
of that kind. When I reason the matter with
myself, I perceive a sort of claim to arise from
my poverty and relation to thee, on the one
hand, and, on the other, from thy merit, thy affinity
to her, and her capacity to benefit.
Yet I will never supplicate—not meanly supplicate
for an alms. I will not live, nor must
thou, when thou art mine, in her house. Whatever
she will give thee, money, or furniture, or
clothes, receive it promptly, and with gratitude:
but let thy home be thy own. For lodging and
food, be thou the payer.
And where shall be thy home? You love the
comforts, the ease, the independence of an household.
Your own pittance will not suffice for
this. All these you must relinquish for my sake.
You must go into a family of strangers. You
must hire a chamber, and a plate of such food
as is going—You must learn to bear the humours,
and accommodate yourself to the habits of your
inmates.
Some frugal family and humble dwelling
must content thee. A low roof, a narrow chamber
and an obscure avenue, the reverse of all
the specious, glossy and abundant that surround
thee now, will be thy portion: all that thou must
look for as my wife. And how will this do, Jane?
Is not the price too great?
And my company will not solace thee under
these inconveniences. I must not live with thee;
only an occasional visitor; one among an half dozen
at a common fire: With witnesses of all we
say. Thy pittance will do no more than support
thyself. I must house myself and feed
elsewhere. Where, I know not. That will depend
upon the species of employment I shall be
obliged to pursue for my subsistence. Scanty
and irksome it will be, at best.
Once a day, I may see thee. Most of my
evenings may possibly be devoted to thy company.
A Soul harassed by unwelcome toil, eyes
dim with straining at tiresome or painful objects,
shall I bring to thee. If, now and then, we are
alone, how can I contribute to thy entertainment.
The day's task will furnish me with nothing
new. Instead of alleviating by my cheerful
talk, thy vexations and discomforts, I shall
demand consolation from thee.
And yet imperious necessity may bereave us
even of that joy. I may be obliged to encounter
the perils of the seas once more. Three-fourths
of the year, the ocean may divide us,
thou in solitude, the while, pondering on
the dangers to which I may be exposed, and I,
a prey to discontent, and tempted in some evil
hour, to forget thee, myself and the world.
How my heart sinks at this prospect! Does
not thine Jane? Dost thou not fear to take
such a wretched chance with me? I that know
myself; my own imbecility; I ought surely
to rescue thee from such a fate, by giving thee
up.
I can write no more, just now. I wonder
how I fell into this doleful strain. It was silly
in me to indulge it. These images are not my
customary inmates. Yet now that they occur
to me, they seem but rational and just. I want,
methinks, to know how they appear to thee.
Adieu.
