LETTER LX.
To Mrs. Montford.
Philadelphia, Oct. 20.
Ah! dear madam! how much has your
letter afflicted: how much has it consoled
me.
You have then some hope of his return: but,
you say, 'twill be a long time first. He has
gone where I cannot follow him: To the end of
the world: Where even a letter cannot find
him: Into unwholesome climates; through
dangerous elements; among savages—
Alas! I have no hope. Among so many perils
it cannot be expected that he should escape.
And did he not say that he meant not to return?
Yet one thing consoles me. He left not his
curses or reproaches on my head. Kindly, generously,
and justly didst thou judge of my fidelity,
Henry. While thou livest, and as long
as I live, will I cherish thy image.
I am coming to pass the winter in your city.
I adopt this scheme merely because it will give
me your company. I feel as if you were the
only friend I have in the world. Do not think
me forward or capricious. I will not deny that
you owe your place in my affections
chiefly to
your relation to the wanderer: but no matter
whence my attachment proceeds. I feel that it
is strong: merely selfish perhaps: the child of
a distracted fancy: the prop on which a sinking
heart relies in its uttermost extremity.
Reflection stings me to the quick, but it does
not deny me some consolation. The memory
of my mother calls forth tears, but they are
not tears of bitterness. To her, at least, I
have not been deficient in dutiful observance.
I have sacrificed my friend and myself but it
was to her peace. The melancholy of her dying
scene will ever be cheered in my remembrance,
by her gratitude and blessing. Her
last words were these;
“Thou hast done much for me, my child. I
begin to fear that I have exacted too much.
Your sweetness, your patience have wrung my
heart with compunction.
I have wronged thee, Jane. I have wronged
the absent. I greatly fear, I have. Forgive me.
If you ever meet, intreat him to forgive me, and
recompence yourself and him, for all your mutual
sufferings.
I hope, all, tho' sorrowful, has been for the
best. I hope that angelic sweetness, which I
have witnessed, will continue when I am gone.
That belief only can make my grave peaceful.
I leave you affluence and honour at least. I
leave you the means of repairing my injury.
That is my comfort: but forgive me, Jane. Say
my child, you forgive me for what has past”—
She stretched her hand to me, which I bathed
with my tears—But this subject afflicts me too
much.
Give my affectionate compliments to Mr.
Montford and tell me that you wish to see
your
