LETTER LIII.
To James Montford.
Philadelphia, Dec. 17.
I sought relief a second time, to my drooping
heart by a walk in the fields. Returning, I
met Harriet Thomson in the street. The meeting
was somewhat unexpected. Since we parted
at Baltimore, I imagined she had returned to
her old habitation in Jersey. I knew she was
pretty much a stranger in this city. Night had
already come on, and she was alone. She greeted
me with visible satisfaction; and though I
was very little fit for society, especially of those
who loved me not, I thought common civility
required me to attend her home.
I never saw this woman till I met her lately
at her brother's bed-side. Her opinions of me
were all derived from unfavorable sources, and
I knew from good authority, that she regarded
me as a dangerous and hateful character. I
had even, accidentally, heard her opinion of
the affair between Jane and me. Jane was severely
censured for credulity and indiscretion,
but some excuse was allowed to her on the
score of the greater guilt that was placed to
my account.
Her behaviour when we first met, was somewhat
conformable to these impressions. A
good deal of coldness and reserve in her deportment,
which I was sometimes sorry for, as
she seems an estimable creature; meek, affectionate,
tender, passionately loving her brother;
convinced from the hour of her first arrival,
that his disease was an hopeless one, yet exerting
a surprising command over her feelings, and
performing every office of a nurse with skill
and firmness.
Insensibly the distance between us grew less.
A participation in the same calamity, and the
counsel and aid which her situation demanded,
forced her to lay aside some of her reserve.
Still, however, it seemed but a submission to
necessity; and all advances were made with an
ill grace.
She was often present when her brother turned
the discourse upon religious subjects. I have
long since abjured the vanity of disputation.
There is no road to truth, but by meditation;
severe, intense, candid and dispassionate.—
What others say on doubtful subjects, I shall
henceforth lay up as materials for meditation.
I listened to my dying friend's arguments and
admonitions, I think I may venture to say, with
a suitable spirit. The arrogant or disputatious
passion could not possibly find place in a scene
like this. Even if I thought him in the wrong,
what but brutal depravity could lead me to endeavor
to shake his belief at a time when sickness
had made his judgment infirm, and when
his opinion supplied his sinking heart with confidence
and joy?
But, in truth, I was far from thinking him in
the wrong. At any time I should have allowed
infinite plaufibility and subtilty to his reasonings,
and at this time, I confessed them to be weighty.
Whether they were most weighty in the
scale, could be only known by a more ample and
deliberate view and comparison, than it was possible,
with the spectacle of a dying friend before
me, and with so many solicitudes and suspenses
about me respecting Jane, to bestow on
them. Meanwhile I treasured them up, and
determined, as I told him, that his generous efforts
for my good, should not be thrown away.
At first, his sister was very uneasy when her
brother entered on the theme nearest to his
friendly heart. She seemed apprehensive of
dispute and contradiction. This apprehension
was quickly removed, and she thenceforth encouraged
the discourse. She listened with delight
and eagerness, and her eye, frequently,
when my friend's eloquence was most affecting,
appealed to me. It sometimes conveyed a
meaning far more powerful than her brother's
lips, and expressed, at once, the strongest conviction
of the truth of his words, and the most
fervent desire that they might convince me.
Her natural modesty, joined, no doubt, to her
disesteem of my character, prevented her from
mixing in discourse.
She greeted me at this meeting, with a frankness
which I did not expect. A disposition to
converse, and attentiveness to the few words that
I had occasion to say, were very evident. I was
just then in the most dejected and forlorn state
imaginable. My heart panted for some friendly
bosom, in which I might pour my cares. I
had reason to esteem the purity, sweetness, and
amiable qualities of this good girl. Her aversion
to me naturally flowed from these qualities,
while an abatement of that aversion was flattering
to me, as the triumph of feeling over judgment.
I should have left her at the door of her lodgings,
but she besought me to go in so earnestly
that my facility, rather than my inclination,
complied. She saw that I was absent and disturbed.
I never read compassion and (shall I
say) good will, in any eye more distinctly than
in hers.
The conversation for a time was vague and
trite. Insensibly, the scenes lately witnessed
were recalled, not without many an half stifled
sigh and ill disguised tear on her part. Some
arrangements as to the letters and papers of
her brother were suggested. I expressed a wish
to have my letters restored to me: I alluded to
those letters written in the sanguine insolence of
youth and with the dogmatic rage upon me, that
have done me so much mischief with Mrs.
Fielder. I had not thought of them before,
but now it occurred to me that they might as
well be destroyed.
This insensibly led the conversation into
more interesting topics. I could not suppress
my regret that I had ever written some things
in those letters, and informed her that my view
in taking them back was to doom them to that
oblivion from which it would have been happy
for me if they never had been called.
After many tacit intimations; much reluctance
and timidity to enquire and communicate,
I was greatly surprised to discover that these
letters had been seen by her; that Mrs. Fielder's
character was not unknown to her; that she was no
stranger to her brother's disclosures to that lady.
Without directly expressing her thoughts, it
was easy to perceive that her mind was full of
ideas produced by these letters; by her brother's
discourse; and by curiosity as to my present
opinions. Her modesty laid restraint on her
lips. She was fearful, I supposed, of being tho't
forward and impertinent.
I endeavoured to dissipate these apprehensions.
All about this girl was, on this occasion,
remarkably attractive. I loved her brother,
and his features still survive in her. The only
relation she has left is a distant one, on whose
regard and protection she has therefore but
slender claims. Her mind is rich in all the
graces of ingenuousness and modesty. The
curiosity she felt respecting me, made me
grateful as for a token of regard. I was therefore
not backward to unfold the true state of
my mind.
Now and then she made seasonable and judicious
comments on what I said. Was there
any subject of enquiry more momentous than
the truth of religion? If my doubts and heresies
had involved me in difficulties, was not the remedy
obvious and easy? why not enter on regular
discussions, and having candidly and deliberately
formed my creed, adhere to it frankly,
firmly and consistently. A state of doubt
and indecision was in every view, hurtful,
criminal and ignominious. Conviction, if it
were in favour of religion, would insure me every
kind of happiness. It would forward even those
schemes of temporal advantage on which I
might be intent. It would reconcile those
whose aversion arose from difference of opinion:
and in cases where it failed to benefit my worldly
views, it would console me for my disappointment.
If my enquiries should establish an irreligious
conviction, still any form of certainty was
better than doubt. The love of truth and the
consciousness of that certainty would raise me
above hatred and slander. I should then have
some kind of principle by which to regulate my
conduct; I should then know on what foundation
to build. To fluctuate, to waver, to
postpone enquiry, was more criminal than any
kind of opinion, candidly investigated and firmly
adopted; and would more effectually debar me
from happiness. At my age, with my talents,
and inducements it was sordid; it was ignoble;
it was culpable to allow indifference or indolence
to slacken my zeal.
These sentiments were conveyed in various
broken hints, and modest interrogatories. While
they mortified. They charmed me, they enlightened
me while they perplexed. I came
away with my soul roused by a new impulse. I
have emerged from a dreary torpor, not indeed
to tranquillity or happiness, but to something
less fatal, less dreadful.
Would you think that a ray of hope has broken
in upon me? am I not still, in some degree, the
maker of my fortune? why mournfully ruminate
on the past, instead of looking to the future?
how wretched, how criminal, how infamous are
my doubts?
Alas! and is this the first time that I have been
visited by such thoughts? how often has this
transient hope, this momentary zeal, started into
being, hovered in my fancy, and vanished.
Thus will it ever be.
Need I mention—but I will not look back. To
what end? Shall I grieve or rejoice at that
power of now and then escaping from the past?
Could it operate to my amendment, memory
should be ever busy, but I fear that it would only
drive me to desperation or madness.
