LETTER LIII.
To James Montford.
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
bedside. 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 behavior 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 a 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 passions 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 plausibility 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, into 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 inquire 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 thought forward and
impertinent.
I endeavored 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 inquiry 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 favor 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 inquiries 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 inquiry, 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 crimimal, 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.
