LETTER XXXII.
To Jane Talbot.
Baltimore, Nov. 14.
Let me overlook your last[1]
letter for the
present, while I mention to you a most unexpected
and surprising circumstance. It has
just happened. I have parted with my visitant
but this moment.
I had strolled to the bank of the river, and
was leaning idly on a branch of an appletree
that hung pretty low, when I noticed some one
coming hastily towards me: there was something
striking and noble in the air and figure
of the man.
When he came up, he stopped. I was surprised
to find myself the object of which he was
in search. I found afterwards that he had enquired
for me at my lodgings, and had been
directed to look for me in this path. A distinct
view of his features saved him the trouble of
telling me that he was your brother. However,
that was information that he thought proper
immediately to communicate. He was your
brother, he said: I was Colden: I had pretensions
to you, which your brother was entitled
to know, to discuss, and to pronounce upon.
Such, in about as many words, was his introduction
to me, and he waited for my answer
with much impatience.
I was greatly confused by these sudden and unceremonious
intimations; at last I told him that
all that he had said respecting my connection
with his sister, was true. It was a fact that all
the world was welcome to know. Of course I had
no objection to her brother's knowing it.
But what were my claims; what my merits;
my profession; my fortune! On all these h eads
a brother would naturally require to be thoroughly
informed.
As to my character, sir, you will hardly expect
any satisfactory information from my own
mouth. However, it may save you the trouble
of applying to others, when I tell you, that my
character has as many slurs and blots in it as
any you ever met with. A more versatile, inconsistent,
prejudiced and faulty person than
myself, I do not believe the earth to contain.
Profession, I have none, and am not acquiring
any, nor expect ever to acquire. Of fortune I
am wholly destitute; not a farthing have I, either
in possession or reversion.
Then pray, sir, on what are built your pretensions
to my sister?
Really, sir, they are built on nothing. I am,
in every respect, immeasurably her inferior. I
possess not a single merit that entitles me to
grace from her.
I have surely not been misinformed. She
tacitly admitted that she was engaged to be your
wife.
'Tis very true. She is so.
But what, then, is the basis of this engagement.
Mutual affection, I believe, is the only basis.
Nobody who knows Jane Talbot will need to ask
why she is beloved? Why she requites that passion
in the present case is a question which she
only can answer.
Her passion, sir, (contemptuously) is the freak
of a child; of folly and caprice. By your own
confession you are beggarly and worthless, and
therefore it becomes you to relinquish your
claim.
I have no claim to relinquish. I have urged
no claims. On the contrary, I have fully disclosed
to her every folly and vice that cleaves
to my character.
You know, fir, what I mean.
I am afraid not perfectly. If you mean that
I should profess myself unworthy of your sister's
favour, 'tis done. It has been done an
hundred times.
My meaning, sir, is simply this: that you,
from this moment, give up every expectation of
being the husband of Mrs. Talbot. That you
return to her every letter, and paper that has
passed between you; that you drop all intercourse
and correspondence.
I was obliged to stifle a laugh which this
whimsical proposal excited. I continued, through
this whole dialogue, to regard my companion
with a stedfast, and cheerful gravity.
These are injunctions, said I, that will hardly
meet with compliance, unless, indeed, they were
imposed by the lady herself. I shall always
have a supreme regard for her happiness, and
whatever path she points out to me, I will walk
in it.
But this is the path in which her true interest
requires you to walk.
I have not yet discovered that to be her opinion:
the moment I do, I will walk in it accordingly.
No matter what her opinion is. She is froward
and obstinate. It is my opinion that her
true happiness requires all connection between
you to cease from this moment.
After all, sir, though, where judgments differ,
one only can be right, yet each person must be
permitted to follow his own. You would hardly,
I imagine, allow your sister to prescribe to
you in your marriage choice, and I fear she
will lay claim to the same independence for
herself. If you can convert her to your way of
thinking, it is well. I solemnly engage to do
whatever she directs.
This is insolence. You trifle with me. You
pretend to misconstrue my meaning.
When you charge me with insolence, I think
you afford pretty strong proof that you mistake
my meaning. I have not the least intention to
offend you.
Let me be explicit with you. Do you instantly
and absolutely resign all pretensions to my
sister?
I will endeavour to be explicit in my turn.
Your sister, notwithstanding my defects and
disadvantages, offers me her love: vows to be
mine. I accept her love; She is mine: nor
need we to discuss the matter any further.
This, however, by no means put an end to
altercation. I told him I was willing to hear
all that he had to say upon the subject. If
truth were on his side, it was possible he might
reason me into a concurrence with him. In compliance
with this concession, he dwelt on the
benefits which his sister would receive from accompanying
him to France, and the mutual
sorrow, debasement and perplexity likely to
flow from an union between us, unsanctioned by
the approbation of our common friends.
The purpose of all this is to prove, said I, that
affluence and dignity without me, will be more
conducive to your sister's happiness, than obscurity
and indigence with me.
It was.
Happiness is mere matter of opinion; Perhaps
Jane thinks already as you do.
He allowed that he had talked with you ineffectually
on that subject.
I think myself bound to believe her in a case
where she is the proper judge, and shall eagerly
consent to make her happy in her own way.
That, fir, is my decision.
I will not repeat the rest of our conversation.
Your letters have given me some knowledge of
your brother, and I endeavoured by the mildness,
sedateness and firmness of my carrriage
to elude those extremes to which his domineering
passions were likely to carry him. I carefully
avoided every thing that tended in the least
to exasperate. He was prone enough to
rage, but I quietly submitted to all that he
could say. I was sincerely rejoiced when the
conference came to an end.
Whence came your brother thus abruptly?
Have you seen him? Yet he told me that you
had. Alas! what must you have suffered from
his impetuosity.
I look with impatience for your next letter,
in which you will tell what has happened.
