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Jane Talbot, a novel by Charles Brockden Brown |
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Letter 30 - To the same |
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_ Letter XXX - To the same To the same Wilmington, November 7. I have purposely avoided dwelling on the incidents that are passing here. They engross my thoughts at all times but those devoted to the pen, and to write to thee is one expedient for loosening their hold. An expedient not always successful. My mind wanders, in spite of me, from my own concerns and from thine, to the sick-bed of my friend. A reverie, painful and confused, invades me now and then; my pen stops, and I am obliged to exert myself anew to shake off the spell. Till now, I knew not how much I loved this young man. Strange beings we are! Separated as we have been for many a year, estranged as much by difference of sentiments as local distance, his image visiting my memory not once a month, and then a transitory, momentary visit; had he died a year ago, and I not known it, the stream of my thoughts would not have been ruffled by a single impediment. Yet, now that I stand over him and witness his decay---- Many affecting conversations we have had. I cannot repeat them now. After he is gone, I will put them all upon paper and muse upon them often. His closing hour is serene. His piety now stands him in some stead. In calling me hither, he tells me that he designed not his own gratification, but my good. He wished to urge upon me the truths of religion, at a time when his own conduct might visibly attest their value. By their influence in making that gloomy path which leads to the grave joyous and lightsome, he wishes me to judge of their excellence. His pains are incessant and sharp. He can seldom articulate without an effort that increases his pangs; yet he talks much in cogent terms, and with accurate conceptions, and, in all he says, evinces a pathetic earnestness for my conviction. I listen to him with a heart as unbiassed as I can prevail on it to be; as free, I mean, from its customary bias; for I strive to call up feelings and ideas similar to his. I know how pure to him would be the satisfaction of leaving the world with the belief of a thorough change in me. I argue not with him. I say nothing but to persuade him that I am far from being that contumacious enemy to his faith which he is prone to imagine me to be. Thy mother's letter has called up more vividly than usual our ancient correspondence, and the effects of that disclosure. Yet I have not mentioned the subject to him. I never mentioned it. I could not trust myself to mention it. There was no need. The letters were written by me. I did not charge him to secrecy, and, if I had, he would not have been bound to compliance. It was his duty to make that use of them which tended to prevent mischief,--which appeared to him to have that tendency; and this he has done. His design, I have no doubt, was benevolent and just. He saw not all the consequences that have followed, 'tis true; but that ignorance would justify him, even if these consequences were unpleasing to him; but they would not have displeased, had they been foreseen. They would only have made his efforts more vigorous, his disclosures more explicit. His conduct, indeed, on that occasion, as far as we know it, seems irregular and injudicious. To lay before a stranger private letters from his friend, in which opinions were avowed and defended that he knew would render the writer detestable to her that read. He imagined himself justified in imputing to me atrocious and infamous errors. He was grieved for my debasement, and endeavoured, by his utmost zeal and eloquence, to rectify these errors. This was generous and just: but needed he to proclaim these errors and blazon this infamy? Yet ought I to wish to pass upon the world for other than I am? Can I value that respect which is founded in ignorance? Can I be satisfied with caresses from those who, if they knew me fully, would execrate and avoid me? For past faults and rectified errors, are not remorse and amendment adequate atonements? If any one despise me for what I _was_, let me not shrink from the penalty. Let me not find pleasure in the praise of those whose approbation is founded on ignorance of what I _am_. It is unjust to demand, it is sordid to retain, praise that is not merited either by our present conduct or our past. Why have I declined such praise? Because I value it not. Thus have I endeavoured to think in relation to Thomson. My endeavour has succeeded. My heart entirely acquits him. It even applauds him for his noble sincerity. Yet I could never write to him or talk to him on this subject. My tongue, my pen, will be sure to falter. I know that he will boldly justify his conduct, and I feel that he ought to justify; yet the attempt to justify would awaken--indignation, selfishness. In spite of the suggestions of my better reason, I know we should quarrel. We should not quarrel _now_, if the topic were mentioned. Of indignation against him, even for a real fault, much less for an imaginary one, I am, at this time, not capable; but it would be useless to mention it. There is nothing to explain; no misapprehensions to remove, no doubts to clear up. All that he did, I, in the same case, ought to have done. But I told you I wished not to fill my letters with the melancholy scene before me. This is a respite, a solace to me; and thus, and in reading thy letters, I employ all my spare moments. Write to me, my love. Daily, hourly, and cheerfully, if possible. Borrow not; be not thy letters tinged with the melancholy hue of this. Write speedily and much, if thou lovest thy COLDEN. _ |
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