LETTER LIX.
To Jane Talbot.
I hasten, my dear madam, to reply to your letter. The
part you have assigned me, I will most cheerfully perform
to the utmost of my power; but very much regret that I
have not more agreeable tidings to communicate.
Having said that all the transactions between you and my
brother are known to me, I need not apologize for alluding
to events, which I could not excuse myself for doing without
being encouraged by the frankness and solicitude which your
own pen has expressed.
Immediately after the determination of his fate, in regard
to you, he came to this city. He favored us with the perusal
of your letters. We entirely agreed with him in applauding
the motives which influenced your conduct. We had
no right to accuse you of precipitation or inconsistency.
That heart must, indeed, be selfish and cold, which could
not comprehend the horror which must have seized you, on
hearing of his father's treatment. You acted in the first
tumults of your feelings, as every woman would have acted.
That you did not immediately perceive the little prospect
there was, that a breach of this nature would be repaired;
or that Colden would make use of your undesired and unsought
for renunciation, as a means of reconcilement with
his father, was no subject of surprise or blame. These
reflections could not occur to you but in consequence of
some intimations from others.
Henry Colden was no indolent or mercenary creature.
No one more cordially detested the life of dependence than
he. He always thought that his father had discharged all
the duties of that relation, in nourishing his childhood and
giving him a good education. Whatever has been since bestowed,
he considered as voluntary and unrequited bounty;
has received it with irksomeness and compunction, and
whatever you may think of the horrors of indigence, it was
impossible to have placed him in a more painful situation
than under his father's roof.
We could not but deeply regret the particular circumstances
under which he left his father's house, but the mere
leaving it, and the necessity which thence arose of finding
employment and subsistence for himself, was not at all to be
regretted.
The consequences of your mother's letter to the father
produced no resentment in the son. He had refused what
he had a right to refuse, and what had been pressed upon
the giver, rather than sought by him. The mere separation
was agreeable to Colden, and the rage that accompanied
it, was excited by the young man's steadiness in his
fidelity to you.
You were not aware that this cause of anger could not be
removed by any thing done by you. Colden was not sensible
of any fault. There was nothing, therefore, for which
he could crave pardon. Blows and revilings had been patiently
endured, but he was actuated by no tame or servile
spirit. He never would expose himself to new insults.
Though always ready to accept apology and grant an oblivion
of the past, he never would avow compunction which
he did not feel, or confess that he had deserved the treatment
which he had received.
All this it was easy to suggest to your reflections, and I
endeavored to persuade him to write a second letter; but
he would not. No, said he, she has made her election. If
no advantage is taken of her tenderness and pity, she will be
happy in her new scheme. Shall I subject her to new
trials; new mortifications? Can I flatter myself with being
able to reward her by my love for the loss of every other
comfort? No. Whatever she feels for me, I am not her
supreme passion. Her mother is preferred to me. That
her present resolution puts out of all doubt. All upbraiding
and repining from me would be absurd. What can I say
in favor of my attachment to her, which she may not, with
equal reason, urge in favor of her attachment to her mother?
The happiness of one or other must be forfeited. Shall I not
rather offer, than demand the sacrifice? And what are my
boasts of magnanimity if I do not strive to lessen the difficulties
of her choice, and persuade her that, in gratifying her
mother she inflicts no exquisite or lasting misery on me?
I am not so blind but that I can foresee the effects on
my tranquillity of time and variety of object. If I go this
voyage, I may hope to acquire resignation much sooner than
by staying at home. To leave these shores is, in every
view, best for me. I can do nothing while here, for my own
profit, and every eye I meet humbles and distresses me.
At present, I do not wish ever to return; but, I suppose the
absence and adventures of a couple of years, may change
my feelings in that respect. My condition, too, by some
chance, may be bettered. I may come back, and offer
myself to her, without offering poverty and contempt at the
same time. Time, or some good fortune, may remove the
mother's prejudices. All this is possible, but, if it never
takes place, if my condition never improves, I will never
return home.
When we urged to him the propriety of apprizing you of
his views, not only for your sake, but for his own—"what
need is there? Has she not prohibited all intercourse between
us? Have I not written the last letter she will consent to receive?
On my own account, I have nothing to hope. I
have stated my return as a mere possibility. I do not believe
I shall ever return. If I did expect it, I know Jane
too well to have any fears of her fidelity. While I am living,
or as long as my death is uncertain, her heart will be
mine, and she will reserve herself for me."
I know you will excuse me, madam, for being thus particular.
I thought it best to state the views of our friend in
his own words. From these your judgment will enable you
to form the truest conclusions.
The event that has since happened has probably removed
the only obstacle to your mutual happiness; nor am I without
the hope of seeing him one day return to be made happy
by your favor. As several passages were expected to be
made between China and Nootka, that desirable event cannot
be expected to be very near.
