LETTER XL.
To James Montford.
November 28.
I told you of your brother Stephen's talk
with me about accompanying him on his North-west
voyage. I mentioned to you what were
my objections to the scheme. It was a desperate
adventure: a sort of forlorn hope: to be pursued
in case my wishes in relation to Jane should be
crossed. I had not then any, or much apprehension
of change in her resolutions. So many
proofs of a fervent and invincible attachment to
me had she lately given, that I could not imagine
any motive strong enough to change her purpose.
Yet now, my friend, have I arranged
matters with your brother, and expect to bid
an everlasting farewell to my native shore some
day within the ensuing fortnight.
I call it an everlasting farewell, for I have,
at present, neither expectation nor desire of returning.
A three years wandering among boistrous
seas, and through various climates, added
to that inward care, that spiritless dejected
heart which I shall ever bear about me, would
surely never let me return, even if I had
the wish; but I have not the wish. If I live at
all, it must be in a scene far different and distant
from that in which I have been hitherto reluctantly
detained.
And why have I embraced this scheme?
There can be but one cause.
Having just returned from following Thomson's
remains to the grave, I received a letter
from Jane. Her mother had just arrived. She
came, it seems, in consequence of her daughter's
apparent compliance with her wishes. The
letter, retracting my friends precipitate promise,
had miscarried or had lingered by the
way. What I little suspected, my father had
acquainted Mrs. Fielder with his conduct towards
me, and this, together with her mother's
importunities, had prevailed on Jane once more
to renounce me.
There never occurred an event in my life which
did not, some way, bear testimony to the usefulness
and value of sincerity. Had I fully disclosed
all that passed between my father and
me, should I not easily have diverted Jane from
these extremities. Alone; at a distance from
me; and with her mother's eloquence at hand,
to confirm every wayward sentiment, and fortify
her in every hostile resolution, she is easily
driven into paths, and perhaps kept steadily in
them, from which proper explanations and pathetic
arguments, had they been early and seasonably
employed by me, would have led her
easily away.
I begin to think it is vain to strive against
maternal influence. What but momentary victory
can I hope to attain? What but poverty,
dependance, ignominy, will she share with me?
And if her strenuous spirit set nought by these,
and I know she is capable of rising above them,
how will she support her mother's indignation
and grief.
I have now, indeed, no hope of even momentary
victory. There are but two persons in the
world who command her affections. Either
when present, (the other absent or silent) has
absolute dominion over her. Her mother no
doubt is apprized of this, and has now pursued
the only effectual method of securing submission.
I have already written an answer; I hope such
an one as, when the present tumults of passion
have subsided, when the eye sedately scrutinizes,
and the heart beats in an even tenour, may
be read without shame or remorse.
I shall also write to her mother. In doing this,
I must keep down the swelling bitterness. It
may occupy my solitude, torment my feelings,
but why should it infect my pen?
I have sometimes given myself credit for impartiality
in judging of others. Indeed I am inclined
to think myself no blind or perverse judge
even of my own actions. Hence indeed, the
greater part of my unhappiness. If my conduct
had always conformed, instead of being adverse,
to my principles, I should have moved on
tranquilly and self satisfied, at least, but, in
truth, the being that goes by my name was never
more thoroughly contemned by another than
by myself—but this is falling into the old strain;
irksome, tiresome and useless to you as to me.
Yet I cannot write just now in any other: therefore
I will stop.
Adieu, my friend. There will be time enough
to hear from you ere my departure. Let me
hear then from you.
