LETTER XL.
To James Montford.
I told you of your brother Stephen's talk with me about
accompanying him on his northwest 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 boisterous 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 friend's 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, dependence, 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 a one
as, when the present tumults of passion have subsided,
when the eye sedately scrutinizes, and the heart beats in an
even tenor, 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 selfsatisfied,
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.
