University of Virginia Library

LETTER XLIII.

To James Montford.

I hope you will approve of my design to accompany
Stephen. The influence of variety and novelty will no
doubt be useful. Why should I allow my present feelings,
which assure me that I have lost what is indispensable, not
only to my peace, but my life, to supplant the invariable lesson
of experience, which teaches that time and absence
will dull the edge of every calamity? And have I not
found myself peculiarly susceptible of this healing influence?

Time and change of scene will, no doubt, relieve me,
but, in the meantime, I have not a name for that wretchedness
into which I am sunk. The light of day, the company
of mankind is, at this moment, insupportable. Of all
places in the world, this is the most hateful to my soul. I
should not have entered the city, I should not abide in it a
moment, were it not for a thought that occurred just before
I left Baltimore.

You know the mysterious and inexplicable calumny
which has heightened Mrs. Fielder's antipathy against me.
Of late, I have been continually ruminating on it, and especially
since Mrs. Talbot's last letter. Methinks it is
impossible for me to leave the country till I have cleared
her character of this horrid aspersion. Can there be any
harmony between mother and child; must not suspicion
and mistrust perpetually rankle in their bosoms, while this
imposture is believed?

Yet how to detect the fraud—Some clue must be discernible;
perseverance must light on it, at last. The agent in
this sordid iniquity must be human; must be influenced
by the ordinary motives; must be capable of remorse or
of error; must have moments of repentance or of negligence.

My mind was particularly full of this subject in a midnight
ramble which I took just before I left Baltimore. Something,

I know not what, recalled to mind a conversation which
I had with the poor washwoman at Wilmington. Miss
Jessup, whom you well know by my report, passed through
Wilmington just as I left the sick woman's house, and stopped
a moment just to give me an "How'de'ye" and to
drop some railleries, founded on my visits to Miss Secker, a
single and solitary lady. On reaching Philadelphia she
amused herself with perplexing Jane, by jesting exaggerations
on the same subject, in a way that seemed to argue
somewhat of malignity; yet I thought nothing of it at the
time.

On my next visit to the sick woman, it occurred to me,
for want of other topics of conversation, to introduce Miss
Jessup. Did she know any thing, I asked, of that lady.

O yes, was the answer. A great deal. She lived a long
time in the family. She remembered her well, and was a
sufferer by many of her freaks.

It was always disagreeable to me to listen to the slanderous
prate of servants; I am careful, whenever it intrudes
itself, to discourage and rebuke it; but just at this time I
felt some resentment against this lady, and hardly supposed
it possible for any slanderer to exaggerate her contemptible
qualities. I suffered her therefore to run on in a tedious
and minute detail of the capricious, peevish and captious
deportment of Miss Jessup.

After the rhetoric of half an hour, all was wound up, in
a kind of satirical apology, with—No wonder, for the girl
was over head and ears in love, and her man would have
nothing to say to her. A hundred times has she begged
and prayed him to be kind, but he slighted all her advances,
and always after they had been shut up together,
she wreaked her disappointment and ill humor upon us.

Pray, said I, who was this ungrateful person?

His name was Talbot. Miss Jessup would not give him
up, but teazed him with letters and prayers till the man at
last, got married, ten to one for no other reason than to get
rid of her.

This intelligence was new. Much as I had heard of
Miss Jessup, a story like this had never reached my ears.
I quickly ascertained that the Talbot spoken of was the late
husband of my friend.

Some incident interrupted the conversation here. The
image of Miss Jessup was displaced to give room to more
important reveries, and I thought no more of her till this
night's ramble. I now likewise recollected that the only
person suspected of having entered the apartment where
lay Mrs. Talbot's unfinished letter, was no other than Miss
Jessup herself, who was always gadding at unseasonable
hours. How was this suspicion removed? By Miss Jessup
herself, who, on being charged with the theft, asserted that
she was elsewhere engaged at the time.

It was, indeed, exceedingly improbable that Miss Jessup
had any agency in this affair. A volatile, giddy, thoughtless
character, who betrayed her purposes on all occasions,
from a natural incapacity to keep a secret; and yet had
not this person succeeded in keeping her attachment to Mr.
Talbot from the knowledge, and even the suspicion of his
wife? Their intercourse had been very frequent since her
marriage, and all her sentiments appeared to be expressed
with a rash and fearless confidence. Yet, if Hannah Secker's
story deserved credit, she had exerted a wonderful
degree of circumspection, and had placed on her lips a
guard that had never once slept.

I determined to stop at Wilmington next day, on my
journey to you, and glean what further information Hannah
could give. I ran to her lodgings as soon as I alighted at
the inn.

I inquired how long and in what years she lived with
Miss Jessup; what reason she had for suspecting her mistress
of an attachment to Talbot; what proofs Talbot gave
of aversion to her wishes.

On each of these heads, her story was tediously minute
and circumstantial. She lived with Miss Jessup and her
mother, before Talbot's marriage with my friend; after the
marriage, and during his absence on the voyage which occasioned
his death.

The proofs of Miss Jessup's passion were continually occurring
in her own family, where she suffered the ill humor,
occasioned by her disappointment, to display itself without
control. Hannah's curiosity was not chastised by much
reflection, and some things were overheard which verified
the old maxim, that "walls have ears." In short, it appears

that this poor lady doated on Talbot; that she reversed
the usual methods of proceeding and submitted to
his mercy; that she met with nothing but scorn and neglect;
that even after his marriage with Jane, she sought his
society, pestered him with invitations and letters, and directed
her walks in such a way as to make their meeting
in the street occur as if by accident.

While Talbot was absent she visited his wife very frequently,
but the subjects of their conversation and the degree
of intimacy between the two ladies were better known
to me than to Hannah.

You may think it strange that my friend never suspected
or discovered the state of Miss Jessup's feelings. But, in
truth, Jane is the least suspicious or inquisitive of mortals.
Her neighbor was regarded with no particular affection; her
conversation is usually a vein of impertinence or levity; her
visits were always unsought and eluded as often as decorum
would permit; her talk was seldom listened to, and
she and all belonging to her were dismissed from recollection
as soon as politeness gave leave. Miss Jessup's deficiencies
in personal and mental graces, and Talbot's undisguised
contempt for her, precluded every sentiment like
jealousy.

Jane's life, since the commencement of her acquaintance
with Miss Jessup, was lonely and secluded. Her friends
were not of her neighbor's cast, and these tattlers who
knew any thing of Miss Jessup's follies were quite unknown
to her. No wonder, then, that the troublesome impertinence
of this poor woman had never betrayed her to so inattentive
an observer as Jane.

After many vague and fruitless inquiries, I asked Hannah
if Miss Jessup was much addicted to the pen.

Very much. Was always scribbling. Was never by
herself three minutes but the pen was taken up; would
write on any pieces of paper that offered; was frequently
rebuked by her mother for wasting so much time in this
way; the cause of a great many quarrels between them;
the old lady spent the whole day knitting; supplied herself
in this way, with all the stockings she herself used; knit
nothing but worsted, which she wore all the year round;

all the surplus beyond what she needed for her own use, she
sold at a good price to a Market street shopkeeper; Hannah
used to be charged with the commission; always executed
it grumblingly; the old lady had stipulated with a Mr.
H— to take at a certain price, all she made; Hannah
was despatched with the stockings, but was charged to go
beforehand to twenty other dealers, and try to get more.
Used to go directly to Mr. H—, and call on her friends
by the way, persuading the old lady that her detention was
occasioned by the number and perseverance of her applications
to the dealers in hose; till, at last, she fell under
suspicion; was once followed by the odl lady, detected in
her fraud, and dismissed from the house with ignominy.
The quondam mistress endeavored to injure Hannah's character
by reporting that her agent had actually got a higher
price for the stockings than she thought proper to account
for to her employer; had gained, by this artifice, not less
than three farthings a pair, on twenty-three pairs; all a base
lie as ever was told—

You say that Miss Jessup was a great scribbler. Did she
write well; fast; neatly?

They say she did; very well. For her part, she could
not write; and was therefore no judge, but Tom, the waiter
and coachman, was very fond of reading and writing, and
used to say that Miss Hetty would make a good clerk. Tom
used to carry all her messages and letters; was a cunning
and insinuating fellow; cajoled his mistress by flatteries and
assiduities; got many a smile; many a bounty and gratuity,
for which the fellow only laughed at her behind her back.

What has become of this Tom?

He lives with her still, and was in as high favor as ever.
Tom had paid her a visit, the day before, being in attendance
on his mistress on her late journey. From him she
supposed that Miss Hetty had gained intelligence of Hannah's
situation, and of her being succored, in her distress,
by me.

Tom, you say, was her letter carrier. Did you ever
hear from him with whom she corresponded? did she ever
write to Talbot?

O yes. Just before Talbot's marriage, she often wrote

to him. Tom used to talk very freely in the kitchen about
his mistress' attachment, and always told us, what reception
he met with. Mr. Talbot seldom condescended to
write any answer.

I suppose, Hannah, I need hardly ask whether you have
any specimen of Miss Jessup's writing in your possession?

This question considerably disconcerted the poor woman.
She did not answer me till I had repeated the question.

Why—yes—she had—something—she believed.

I presume it is nothing improper to be disclosed; if so, I
should be glad to have a sight of it.

She hesitated; was very much perplexed. Denied and
confessed alternately that she possessed some of Miss Jessup's
writing; at length began to weep very bitterly.

After some solicitation on my part, to be explicit, she
consented to disclose what she acknowledged to be a great
fault. The substance of her story was this:

Miss Jessup, on a certain occasion, locked herself up for
several hours in her chamber. At length, she came out,
and went to the street door, apparently with an intention of
going abroad. Just then a heavy rain began to fall. This
incident produced a great deal of impatience, and after
waiting some time, in hopes of the shower's ceasing, and
frequently looking at her watch, she called for an umbrella.
Unhappily, as poor Hannah afterwards thought, no umbrella
could be found. Her own had been lent to a friend
the preceding evening, and the mother would have held
herself most culpably extravagant to uncase hers, without a
most palpable necessity. Miss Hetty was preparing to go out
unsheltered, when the officious Tom interfered, and asked
her if he could do what she wanted. At first, she refused
his offer, but the mother's importunities to stay at home becoming
more clamorous, she consented to commission Tom
to drop a letter at the post-office. This he was to do with
the utmost despatch, and promised that not a moment
should be lost. He received the letter, but instead of running
off with it immediately, he slipped into the kitchen,
just to arm himself against the storm by a hearty draught
of strong beer.

While quaffing his nectar, and chattering with his usual

gaiety, Hannah, who had long owed a grudge both to mistress
and man, was tempted to convey the letter from Tom's
pocket, where it was but half deposited, into her own. Her
only motive was to vex and disappoint those whose chief
pleasure it had always been to vex and disappoint her.
The tankard being hastily emptied, he hastened away to the
post-office. When he arrived there, he felt for the letter.
It was gone; dropped, as he supposed, in the street. In
great confusion he returned, examining very carefully the
gutters and porches, by the way. He entered the kitchen
in great perplexity, and inquired of Hannah if a letter had
not fallen from his pocket before he went out.

Hannah, according to her own statements, was incapable
of inveterate malice, she was preparing to rid Tom of his
uneasiness, when he was summoned to the presence of his
lady. He thought proper to extricate himself from all difficulties
by boldly affirming that the letter had been left
according to direction, and he afterwards endeavored to
persuade Hannah that it had been found in the bottom of his
pocket.

Every day increased the difficulty of disclosing the truth.
Tom and Miss Jessup, talked no more on the subject, and
time, and new provocations from her mistress, confirmed
Hannah in her resolution of retaining the paper.

She could not read, and was afraid of trusting any body
else with the contents of this epistle. Several times she
was about to burn it, but forbore from the persuasion that a
day might arrive when the possession would be of some importance
to her. It had laid, till almost forgotten, in the
bottom of her crazy chest.

I rebuked her, with great severity, for her conduct, and
insisted on her making all the atonement in her power, by
delivering up the letter to the writer. I consented to take
charge of it for that purpose.

You will judge my surprise, when I received a letter,
with the seal unbroken, directed to Mrs. Fielder, of New
York. Jane and I had often been astonished at the minute
intelligence which her mother received of our proceedings;
at the dexterity this secret informant had displayed in misrepresenting
and falsely construing our actions. The informer
was anonymous, and one of the letters had been

extorted from her mother by Jane's urgent solicitations.
This I had frequently perused, and the penmanship was still
familiar to my recollection. It bore a striking resemblance
to the superscription of this letter, and was equally remote
from Miss Jessup's ordinary hand-writing. Was it rash to
infer from these circumstances that the secret enemy, whose
malice had been so active and successful, was at length discovered?

What was I to do? Should I present myself before Miss
Jessup, with this letter in my hand, and lay before her my
suspicions, or should I carry it to Mrs. Fielder, to whom it
was directed? My curiosity was defeated by the careful
manner in which it was folded, and this was not a case in
which I deemed myself authorized to break a seal.

After much reflection, I determined to call upon Miss Jessup.
I meant not to restore her the letter, unless the course
our conversation should take, made it proper. I have already
been at her house. She was not at home. I am to
call again at eight o'clock in the evening.

In my way thither I passed Mrs. Talbot's house. There
were scarcely any tokens of its being inhabited. No doubt,
the mother and child have returned together to New York.
On approaching the house, my heart, too heavy before, became
a burthen almost insupportable. I hastened my pace,
and averted my eyes.

I am now shut up in my chamber at an inn. I feel as if
in a wilderness of savages, where all my safety consisted in
solitude. I was glad not to meet with a human being whom
I knew.

What shall I say to Miss Jessup when I see her, I know
not. I have reason to believe her the author of many
slanders, but look for no relief from the mischiefs they have
occasioned, in accusing or upbraiding the slanderer. She
has likewise disclosed many instances of guilty conduct,
which I supposed impossible to be discovered. I never
concealed them from Mrs. Talbot, to whom a thorough
knowledge of my character was indispensable, but I was
unwilling to make any other my confessor. In this, I cannot
suppose her motives to have been very benevolent, but,
since she adhered to the truth, it is not for me to arraign her
motives.

May I not suspect that she had some hand in the forgery
lately come to light. A mind like hers must hate a successful
rival. To persuade Talbot of his wife's perfidy,
was at least to dissolve his alliance with another; and since
she took so much pains to gain his favor, even after his
marriage, is it not allowable to question the delicacy and
punctiliousness, at least, of her virtue?

Mrs. Fielder's aversion to me, is chiefly founded on a
knowledge of my past errors. She thinks them too flagrant
to be atoned for, and too inveterate to be cured. I can
never hope to subdue perfectly that aversion, and though
Jane can never be happy without me, I, alone, cannot make
her happy. On my own account, therefore, it is of little
moment what she believes. But her own happiness is
deeply concerned in clearing her daughter's character of
this blackest of all stains.

Here is some one coming up the stairs, towards my
apartment. Surely it cannot be to me that this visit is
intended—

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Good Heaven! What shall I do?

It was Molly that has just left me.

My heart sunk at her appearance. I had made up my
mind to separate my evil destiny from that of Jane; and
could only portend new trials and difficulties from the appearance
of one whom I supposed her messenger.

The poor girl, as soon as she saw me, began to sob bitterly,
and could only exclaim—O, sir! O, Mr. Colden.

This behavior was enough to terrify me. I trembled in
every joint while I faltered out—I hope your mistress is
well.

After many efforts, I prevailed in gaining a distinct account
of my friend's situation. This good girl, by the sympathy
she always expressed in her mistress's fortunes; by
her silent assiduities and constant proofs of discretion and
affection, had gained Mrs. Talbot's confidence; yet no farther
than to indulge her feelings with less restraint in Molly's
presence than in that of any other person.

I learned that the night after Mrs. Fielder's arrival, was
spent by my friend in sighs and restlessness. Molly lay in

the same chamber, and her affectionate heart was as much
a stranger to repose as that of her mistress. She frequently
endeavored to comfort Mrs. Talbot, but in vain.

Next day she did not rise as early as usual. Her mother
came to her bedside, and inquired affectionately after her
health. The visit was received with smiling and affectionate
complacency. Her indisposition was disguised, and she
studied to persuade Mrs. Fielder that she enjoyed her usual
tranquillity. She rose, and attempted to eat, but quickly
desisted, and after a little while retired and locked herself
up in her chamber. Even Molly was not allowed to follow
her.

In this way, that and the ensuing day passed. She wore an
air of constrained cheerfulness in her mother's presence;
affected interest in common topics; and retired at every
convenient interval to her chamber, where she wept incessantly.

Mrs. Fielder's eye was watchful and anxious. She addressed
Mrs. Talbot in a tender and maternal accent; seemed
solicitous to divert her attention by anecdotes of New
York friends; and carefully eluded every subject likely to
recall images which were already too intimately present.
The daughter seemed grateful for these solicitudes, and
appeared to fight with her feelings the more resolutely because
they gave pain to her mother.

All this was I compelled to hear from the communicative
Molly.

My heart bled at this recital. Too well did I predict
what effect her compliance would have on her peace.

I asked if Jane had not received a letter from me.

Yes—two letters had come to the door at once, this
morning; one for Mrs. Fielder and the other for her daughter.
Jane expected its arrival, and shewed the utmost impatience
when the hour approached. She walked about
her chamber, listened, with a start, to every sound; continually
glanced from her window at the passengers.

She did not conceal from Molly the object of her solicitude.
The good girl endeavored to sooth her, but she checked
her with vehemence. Talk not to me, Molly. On this
hour depends my happiness—my life. The sacrifice my
mother asks, is too much or too little. In bereaving me of

my love she must be content to take my existence also.
They never shall be separated.

The weeping girl timorously suggested that she had
already given me up.

True, Molly, in a rash moment, I told him that we meet
no more; but two days of misery has convinced me that it
cannot be. His answer will decide my fate as to this world.
If he accept my dismissal, I am thenceforth undone. I will
die. Blessing my mother, and wishing her a less stubborn
child, I will die.

These last words were uttered with an air the most desperate,
and an emphasis the most solemn. They chilled
me to the heart, and I was unable longer to keep my seat.
Molly, unbidden, went on.

Your letter at last came. I ran down to receive it. Mrs.
Fielder was at the street door before me, but she suffered
me to carry my mistress' letter to her. Poor lady! She
met me at the stair-head, snatched the paper eagerly, but
trembled so she could not open it. At last she threw herself
on the bed, and ordered me to read it to her. I did
so. At every sentence she poured forth fresh tears, and
exclaimed, wringing her hands—O! what—what a heart
have I madly cast away.

The girl told me much more, which I am unable to repeat.
Her visit was self-prompted. She had caught a
glimpse of me as I passed the door, and without mentioning
her purpose to her mistress, set out as soon as it was
dusk.

Cannot you do something, Mr. Colden, for my mistress?
continued the girl. She will surely die if she has not her
own way; and to judge from your appearance, it is as great
a cross to you as to her.

Heaven knows, that, with me, it is nothing but the choice
of dreadful evils. Jane is the mistress of her own destiny.
It is not I that have renounced her, but she that has banished
me. She has only to recall the sentence, which she confesses
to have been hastily and thoughtlessly pronounced—
and no power on earth shall sever me from her side.

Molly asked my permission to inform her mistress of my
being in the city, and conjured me not to leave it, during
the next day, at least. I readily consented, and requested

her to bring me word in the morning in what state things
were.

She offered to conduct me to her then. It was easy to
effect an interview without Mrs. Fielder's knowledge; but I
was sick of all clandestine proceedings, and had promised
Mrs. Fielder not to seek another meeting with her daughter.
I was likewise anxious to visit Miss Jessup, and ascertain
what was to be done by means of the letter in my pocket.

Can I, my friend, can I, without unappeasable remorse,
pursue this scheme of a distant voyage. Suppose
some fatal despair should seize my friend. Suppose—it is
impossible. I will not stir till she has had time to deliberate;
till resignation to her mother's will, shall prove a task
that is practicable.

Should I not be the most flagrant of villains if I deserted
one that loved me. My own happiness is not a question.
I cannot be a selfish being and a true lover. Happiness,
without her, is indeed a chimerical thought, but my exile
would be far from miserable, while assured of her tranquillity,
and possession would confer no peace, if her whom I
possessed, were not happier than a different destiny would
make her.

Why have all these thoughts been suspended for the last
two days. I had wrought myself up to a firm persuasion
that marriage was the only remedy for all evils; that our
efforts to regain the favor of her mother would be most
likely to succeed, when that which she endeavored to prevent,
was irretrievable. Yet that persuasion was dissipated
by her last letter. That convinced me that her lot would
only be made miserable by being united to mine. Yet
now—is it not evident that our fates must be inseparable?

What a fantastic impediment is this aversion of her mother?
And yet, can I safely and deliberately call it fantastic?
Let me sever myself from myself, and judge impartially.
Be my heart called upon to urge its claims to
such affluence, such love, such treasures of personal and
mental excellence as Jane has to bestow. Would it not be
dumb. It is not so absurd as to plead its devotion to her,
as an atonement for every past guilt, and as affording security
for future uprightness.

On my own merit I am, and ever have been mute. I

have plead with Mrs. Fielder not for myself but for Jane.
It is her happiness that forms the object of my supreme regard.
I am eager to become hers, because her, not because
my happiness, though my happiness certainly does, demand
it.

I am then resolved. Jane's decision shall be deliberate.
I will not bias her by prayers or blandishments. Her resolution
shall spring from her own judgment, and shall absolutely
govern me. I will rivet myself to her side, or vanish
forever according to her pleasure.

I wish I had written a few words to her by Molly, assuring
her of my devotion to her will. And yet, stands she in
need of any new assurances. She has banished me. I
am preparing to fly. She recalls me, and it is impossible
to depart.

I must go to Miss Jessup's. I will take up the pen ('tis
my sole amusement—) when I return—

* * * * * *

I went to Miss Jessup's; her still sealed letter in my
pocket; my mind confused; perplexed; sorrowful; wholly
undetermined as to the manner of addressing her, or the
use to be made of this important paper. I designedly
prolonged my walk in hopes of forming some distinct
conception of the purpose for which I was going, but only
found myself each moment, sinking into new perplexities.
Once I had taken the resolution of opening her letter and
turned my steps towards the fields, that I might examine it
at leisure, but there was something disgraceful in the violation
of a seal, which scared me away from this scheme.

At length, reproaching myself for this indecision and
leaving my conduct to be determined by circumstances; I
went directly to her house.

Miss Jessup was unwell; was unfit to see company; desired
me to send up my name. I did not mention my name
to the servant, but replied I had urgent business, which a
few minutes conversation would despatch. I was admitted.

I found the lady, in a careless garb, reclining on a sofa,
wan, pale and of a sickly aspect. On recognising me, she assumed
a languidly smiling air, and received me with much
civility. I took my seat near her. She began to talk.

I am very unwell; got a terrible cold, coming from Dover;
been laid up ever since; a teazing cough; no appetite;
and worse spirits than I ever suffered. Glad you've
come to relieve my solitude; not a single soul to see me;
Mrs. Talbot never favors a body with a visit. Pray
how's the dear girl? Hear her mother's come; heard, it
seems, of your intimacy with Miss Secker; determined to
revenge your treason to her goddess! vows she shall, henceforth,
have no more to say to you.

While waiting for admission, I formed hastily the resolution
in what manner to conduct this interview. My deportment
was so solemn, that the chatterer glancing at my face in
the course of her introductory harangue, felt herself suddenly
chilled and restrained.

Why, what now? Colden. You are mighty grave methinks.
Do you repent already of your new attachment?
Has the atmosphere of Philadelphia, reinstated Jane in all
her original rights?

Proceed, madam. When you are tired of raillery, I
shall beg your attention to a subject in which your honor is
deeply concerned; to a subject which allows not of a jest.

Nay, said she, in some little trepidation, if you have any
thing to communicate, I am already prepared to receive it.

Indeed, Miss Jessup, I have something to communicate.
A man of more refinement and address than I can pretend
to, would make this communication in a more circuitous and
artful manner; and a man, less deeply interested in the establishment
of truth, would act with more caution and forbearance.
I have no excuse to plead; no forgiveness to
ask, for what I am now going to disclose. I demand
nothing from you, but your patient attention, while I lay before
you the motives of my present visit.

You are no stranger to my attachment to Mrs. Talbot.
That my passion is requited is likewise known to you.
That her mother objects to her union with me, and
raises her objections on certain improprieties in my character
and conduct, I suppose, has already come to your knowledge.

You may naturally suppose that I am desirous of gaining
her favor, but it is not by the practice of fraud and iniquity,
and therefore I have not begun with denying or concealing

my faults. Very faulty; very criminal have I been; to
deny that, would be adding to the number of my trangressions,
but I assure you, Miss Jessup, there have been limits to
my follies; there is a boundary beyond which I have never
gone. Mrs. Fielder imagines me much more criminal than
I really am, and her opinion of me, which, if limited, in
the strictest manner by my merits, would amply justify her
aversion to my marriage with her daughter, is, however,
carried further than justice allows.

Mrs. Fielder has been somewhat deceived with regard to
me. She thinks me capable of a guilt, of which, vicious
as I am, I am yet incapable. Nay, she imagines I have
actually committed a crime of which I am wholly innocent.

What think you, madam (taking her hand, and eying her
with steadfastness) she thinks me at once so artful and so
wicked that I have made the wife unfaithful to the husband;
I have persuaded Mrs. Talbot to forget what was due to
herself, her fame, and to trample on her marriage vow.

This opinion is not a vague conjecture on suspicion. It
is founded in what seems to be the most infallible of all evidence;
the written confession of her daughter. The paper
appears to be a letter which was addressed to the seducer
soon after the guilty interview. This paper came indirectly
into Mrs. Fielder's hands. To justify her charge, against
us, she has shewn it to us. Now, madam, the guilt imputed
to us, is a stranger to our hearts. The crime which
this letter confesses, never was committed, and the letter
which contains the confession, never was written by Jane.
It is a forgery.

Mrs. Fielder's misapprehension, so far as it relates to me,
is of very little moment. I can hope for nothing from the
removal of this error, while so many instances of real misconduct
continue to plead against me, but her daughter's
happiness is materially affected by it, and for her sake I am
anxious to vindicate her fame from this reproach.

No doubt, Miss Jessup, you have often asked me in
your heart, since I began to speak, why I have stated
this transaction to you. What interest have you in our
concerns? What proofs of affection or esteem have you received
from us, that should make you zealous in our behalf?
Or, what relation has your interest in any respect to

our weal or wo. Why should you be called upon as a
counsellor or umpire, in the little family dissensions of Mrs.
Talbot and her mother?

And do indeed these questions rise in your heart, Miss
Jessup? Does not memory enable you to account for conduct
which, to the distant and casual observer, to those
who know not what you know, would appear strange and
absurd.

Recollect yourself. I will give you a moment to recall
the past. Think over all that has occurred since your original
acquaintance with Mrs. Talbot or her husband, and
tell me solemnly and truly, whether you discern not the
cause of his mistake. Tell me whether you know not the
unhappy person, whom some delusive prospect of advantage,
some fatal passion has tempted to belie the innocent.

I am no reader of faces my friend. I drew no inferences
from the confusion sufficiently visible in Miss Jessup.
She made no attempt to interrupt me, but quickly withdrew
her eye from my gaze; hung her head upon her bosom;
a hectic flush now and then shot across her cheek.
But these would have been produced by a similar address,
delivered with much solemnity and emphasis, in any one
however innocent.

I believe there there was no anger in my looks. Supposing
her to have been the author of this stratagem, it
awakened in me not resentment but pity. I paused; but
she made no answer to my expostulation. At length, I resumed
with augmented earnestness, grasping her hand.

Tell me, I conjure you, what you know. Be not deterred
by any self regard—but, indeed, how can your
interest be affected by clearing up a mistake so fatal to the
happiness of one for whom you have always possessed a
friendly regard.

Will your own integrity or reputation be brought into
question. In order to exculpate your friend, will it be
necessary to accuse yourself? Have you been guilty in
withholding the discovery? Have you been guilty in contriving
the fraud? Did your own hand pen the fatal letter
which is now brought in evidence against my friend? Were
you, yourself, guilty of counterfeiting hands, in order to
drive the husband into a belief of his wife's perfidy?"

A deadly paleness overspread her countenance at these
words. I pitied her distress and confusion, and waited not
for an answer, which she was unable to give.

Yes, Miss Jessup, I well know your concern in this
transaction. I mean not to distress you; I mean not to
put you to unnecessary shame; I have no indignation
or enmity against you. I came hither not to injure or
disgrace you, but to confer on you a great and real benefit;
to enable you to repair the evil which your infatuation has
occasioned. I want to relieve your conscience from the
sense of having wronged one that never wronged you.

Do not imagine that in all this, I am aiming at my own
selfish advantage. This is not the mother's only objection
to me, or only proof of that frailty she justly ascribes to
me. To prove me innocent of this charge, will not reconcile
her to her daughter's marriage. It will only remove
one insuperable impediment to her reconciliation with her
daughter.

Mrs. Fielder is, at this moment, not many steps from this
spot. Permit me to attend you to her. I will introduce
the subject. I will tell her that you come to clear her daughter
from an unmerited charge, to confess that the unfinished
letter was taken by you, and that, by additions in a feigned
hand, you succeeded in making that an avowal of abandoned
wickedness, which was originally innocent, at least,
though, perhaps, indiscreet.

All this was uttered in a very rapid, but solemn accent.
I gave her no time to recollect herself; no leisure for denial
or evasion. I talked as if her agency was already ascertained,
and the feelings she betrayed at this abrupt and unaware
attack, confirmed my suspicions.

After a long pause, and a struggle, as it were, for utterance,
she faltered out—Mr. Colden—you see, I am very
sick—this conduct has been very strange—nothing—I know
nothing of what you have been saying. I wonder at your
talking to me in this manner—you might as well address
yourself, in this style, to one you never saw. What grounds
can you have for suspecting me of any concern in this transaction!

Ah! madam! replied I, I see you have not strength of
mind to confess a fault. Why will you compel me to produce

the proof that you have taken an unauthorized part in
Mrs. Talbot's concerns. Do you imagine that the love you
bore her husband, even after his marriage; the efforts you
used to gain his favor; his contemptuous rejection of your
advances;—can you imagine that these things are not
known?

Why you should endeavor to defraud the wife of her
husband's esteem, is a question which your own heart only
can answer. Why you should watch Mrs. Talbot's conduct,
and communicate your discoveries in anonymous letters and
a hand disguised, to her mother, I pretend not to say. I
came not to inveigh against the folly or malignity of such
conduct. I came not even to censure it. I am not entitled
to sit in judgment over you. My regard for mother and
daughter makes me anxious to rectify an error fatal to their
peace. There is but one way of doing this effectually, with
the least injury to your character. I would not be driven
to the necessity of employing public means to convince the
mother that the charge is false, and that you were the calumniator;
means that will humble and disgrace you infinitely
more than a secret interview and frank confession from your
own lips.

To deny and to prevaricate in a case like this is to be expected
from one capable of acting as you have acted, but it
will avail you nothing. It will merely compel me to have
recourse to means less favorable to you. My reluctance to
employ them arises from regard to you, for I repeat that I
have no enmity for you, and propose, in reality, not only
Mrs. Talbot's advantage, but your own.

I cannot paint the alarm and embarrassment which these
words occasioned. Tears afforded her some relief, but
shame had deprived her of all utterance.

Let me conjure you, resumed I, to go with me this moment
to Mrs. Fielder. In ten minutes all may be over. I will
save you the pain of speaking. Only be present, while I
explain the matter. Your silent acquiescence will be all
that I shall demand.

Impossible! she exclaimed, in a kind of agony, I am
already sick to death. I cannot move a step on such a purpose.
I don't know Mrs. Fielder, and can never look her
in the face.

A letter, then, replied I, will do, perhaps, as well. Here
are pen and paper. Send to her, by me, a few lines. Defer
all circumstance and comment, and merely inform her
who the author of this forgery was. Here, continued I,
producing the letter which Talbot had shewn to Mrs. Fielder,
here is the letter in which my friend's hand is counterfeited,
and she is made to confess a guilt, to the very thought
of which she has ever been a stranger. Enclose it in a
paper, acknowledging the stratagem to be yours. It is done
in a few words, and in half a minute.

My impetuosity overpowered all opposition and remonstrance.
The paper was before her; the pen in her reluctant
fingers; but that was all.

There may never be a future opportunity of repairing
your misconduct. You are sick, you say, and indeed your
countenance bespeaks some deeply rooted malady. You
cannot be certain but that this is the last opportunity you
may ever enjoy. When sunk upon the bed of death, and
unable to articulate your sentiments, you may unavailingly
regret the delay of this confession. You may die with the
excruciating thought of having blasted the fame of an innocent
woman, and of having sown eternal discord between
mother and child.

I said a good deal more in this strain, by which she was
deeply affected, but she demanded time to reflect. She
would do nothing then; she would do all I wished to-morrow.
She was too unwell to see any body, to hold a
pen, at present.

All I want, said I, are but few words. You cannot be
at a loss for these. I will hold; I will guide your hand; I
will write what you dictate. Will you put your hand to
something which I will write this moment in your presence,
and subject to your revision.

I did not stay for her consent, but seizing the pen, put
down hastily these words.

"Madam; the enclosed letter has led you into mistake.
It has persuaded you that your daughter was unfaithful to
her vows; but know, madam, that the concluding paragraph
was written by me. I found the letter unfinished on Mrs.
Talbot's desk. I took it thence without her knowledge,
and added the concluding paragraph, in a hand as much

resembling hers as possible, and conveyed it to the hands
of her husband."

This hasty scribble I read to her, and urged her by every
consideration my invention could suggest, to sign it. But
no; she did not deny the truth of the statement it contained,
but she must have time to recollect herself. Her head was
rent to pieces by pain. She was in too much confusion to
allow her to do any thing just now deliberately.

I now produced the letter I received from Hannah Secker,
and said, I see, madam, you will compel me to preserve no
measures with you. There is a letter which you wrote to
Mrs. Fielder. Its contents were so important that you
would not at first trust a servant with the delivery of it at
the office. This however you were finally compelled to do.
A fellow servant, however, stole it from your messenger, and
instead of being delivered according to its address, it has
lately come into my hands.

No doubt (shewing the superscription, but not permitting
her to see that the seal was unbroken) no doubt you recognise
the hand; the hand of that anonymous detractor
who had previously taken so much pains to convince the
husband that his wife was an adulteress and a prostitute.

Had I foreseen the effect which this disclosure would
have had, I should have hesitated. After a few convulsive
breathings, she fainted. I was greatly alarmed, and calling
in a female servant, I staid till she revived. I thought it
but mercy to leave her alone, and giving directions to the
servant where I might be found, and requesting her to tell
her mistress that I would call again early in the morning, I
left the house.

I returned hither, and am once more shut up in my solitary
chamber. I am in want of sleep, but my thoughts must be
less tumultuous before that blessing can be hoped for. All
is still in the house and in the city, and the "cloudy morning"
of the watchman tells me that midnight is past. I have
already written much, but must write on.

What, my friend, can this letter contain? the belief that
the contents are known and the true writer discovered, produced
strange effects. I am afraid there was some duplicity
in my conduct. But the concealment of the unbroken
seal, was little more than chance. Had she inquired

whether the letter was opened I should not have deceived
her.

Perhaps, however, I ascribe too much to this discovery.
Miss Jessup was evidently very ill. The previous conversation
had put her fortitude to a severe test. The tide was
already so high, that the smallest increase sufficed to overwhelm
her. Methinks I might have gained my purpose
with less injury to her.

But what purpose have I gained? I have effected nothing,
I am as far, perhaps farther than ever from vanquishing her
reluctance. A night's reflection may fortify her pride, may
furnish some expedient for eluding my request. Nay, she
may refuse to see me, when I call on the morrow, and I
cannot force myself into her presence.

If all this should happen, what will be left for me to do?
that deserves some consideration. This letter of Miss Jessup's
may possibly contain the remedy for many evils.
What use shall I make of it? How shall I get at its contents?

There is but one way. I must carry it to Mrs. Fielder,
and deliver it to her, to whom it is addressed. Carry it
myself? Venture into her presence, by whom I am so
much detested? She will tremble with mingled indignation
and terror, at the sight of me. I cannot hope a patient
audience. And can I, in such circumstances, rely on my
own equanimity? How can I endure the looks of one to
whom I am a viper; a demon; who, not content with
hating me for that which really merits hatred, imputes to me
a thousand imaginary crimes.

Such is the lot of one that has forfeited his reputation.
Having once been guilty, the returning path to rectitude is
forever barred against him. His conduct will almost always
be liable to a double construction; and who will suppose
the influence of good motives, when experience has proved
the influence, in former cases, of evil ones?

Jane Talbot is young, lovely, and the heiress, provided
she retain the favor of her adopted mother, of a splendid
fortune. I am poor, indolent, devoted, not to sensual, but
to visionary and to costly luxuries. How shall such a man
escape the imputation of sordid and selfish motives?

How shall he prove that he counterfeits no passion; employs
no clandestine or illicit means to retain the affections
of such a woman. Will his averments of disinterested
motives be believed? Why should they be believed? How
easily are assertions made, and how silly to credit declarations
contradicted by the tenor of a man's whole conduct.

But I can truly aver that my motives are disinterested.
Does not my character make a plentiful and independent
provision, of more value to me, more necessary to my happiness
than to that of most other men? Can I place my
hand upon my heart, and affirm that her fortune has no part
in the zeal with which I have cultivated Jane's affections.
There are few tenants of this globe, to whom wealth is
wholly undesirable, and very few whose actual poverty,
whose indolent habits, and whose relish for expensive
pleasure, make it more desirable than to me.

Mrs. Fielder is averse to her daughter's wishes. While
this aversion endures, marriage, instead of enriching me,
will merely reduce my wife to my own destitute condition.
How are impartial observers, how is Mrs. Fielder to construe
my endeavors to subdue this aversion, and my declining
marriage, till this obstacle is overcome? Will they ascribe it
merely to reluctance to bereave the object of my love of that
affluence, and those comforts, without which, in my opinion,
she would not be happy? Yet this is true. My own experience
has taught me in what degree a luxurious education
endears to us the means of an easy and elegant subsistence.
Shall I be deaf to this lesson? Shall I rather listen to the
splendid visions of my friend, who thinks my love will
sufficiently compensate her for every suffering; who seems
to hold these enjoyments in contempt, and describes an
humble and industrious life, as teeming with happiness and
dignity.

These are charming visions. My heart is frequently
credulous, and is almost raised by her bewitching eloquence,
to the belief that, by bereaving her of friends and property,
I confer on her a benefit. I place her in a sphere where all
the resources of her fortitude and ingenuity will be brought
into use.

But this, with me, is only a momentary elevation. More
sober views are sure to succeed. Yet why have I deliberately

exhorted Jane to become mine? Because I trust to
the tenderness of her mother. That tenderness will not
allow her wholly to abandon her beloved child, who has
hitherto had no rival, and is likely to have no successor in
her love. The evil, she will think, cannot be repaired; but
some of its consequences may be obviated or lightened.
Intercession and submission shall not be wanting. Jane will
never suffer her heart to be estranged from her mother.
Reverence and gratitude will always maintain their place.
And yet, confidence is sometimes shaken; doubts insinuate
themselves. Is not Mrs. Fielder's temper ardent and
inflexible? Will her anger be so easily appeased? In a contest
like this, will she allow herself to be vanquished? And
shall I, indeed, sever hearts so excellent? Shall I be the
author of such exquisite and lasting misery to a woman like
Mrs. Fielder; and shall I find that misery compensated by
the happiness of her daughter? What pure and unmingled
joy will the daughter taste, while conscious of having destroyed
the peace, and perhaps hastened the end of one,
who, with regard to her, has always deserved and always
possessed a gratitude and veneration without bounds. And
for whom is the tranquillity and affection of the mother to
be sacrificed? For me, a poor unworthy wretch; deservedly
despised by every strenuous and upright mind; a
fickle, inconsiderate, frail mortal, whose perverse habits no
magic can dissolve.

No. My whole heart implores Jane to forget and abandon
me; to adhere to her mother; since no earthly power and
no length of time will change Mrs. Fielder's feelings with
regard to me; since I shall never obtain, as I shall never
deserve, her regard, and since her mother's happiness is,
and ought to be dearer to Jane than her own personal and
exclusive gratification. God grant that she may be able to
perform and cheerfully perform her duty.

But how often my friend, have I harped on this string—
Yet I must write, and I must put down my present thoughts,
and these are the sentiments eternally present.