LETTER LXIII.
To Mrs. Talbot.
New-York, Oct. 1.
Be not angry with me, my dear Jane. Yet I
am sure when you know my offence, you will
feel a great deal of indignation. You cannot be
more angry with me than I am with myself. I
do not know how to disclose the very rash
thing I have done. If you knew my compunction
you would pity me.
Cartwright embarked on the day I mentioned,
but remained for some days wind-bound, at the
Hook. Yesterday he unexpectedly made his appearance
in our appartment, at the very moment
when I was perusing your last letter. I was
really delighted to see him, and the images
connected with him, which your letter had just
suggested, threw me off my guard. Finding by
whom the letter was written, he solicited with
the utmost eagerness the sight of it.
Can you forgive me? My heart overflowed
with pity for the excellent man. I knew the
transport one part of your letter would afford
him. I thought that no injury but rather happiness,
would redound to yourself.
I now see thatI was guilty of a most culpable
breach of confidence, in shewing him your delicate
confession: but I was bewitched, I think.
I can write of nothing else just now. Much as
I dread your displeasure, I could not rest till I
had acknowledged my fault and craved your
pardon. Forgive, I beseech you, your
