_To Jane Talbot_
New York, October 13.
I have just heard something which has made me very uneasy. I am afraid
of seeming to you impertinent. You have declared your resolution to
persist in conduct which my judgment disapproved. I have argued with you
and admonished you, hitherto, in vain, and you have (tacitly indeed)
rejected my interference; yet I cannot forbear offering you my counsel
once more.
To say truth, it is not so much with a view to change your resolution,
that I now write, as to be informed what your resolution is. I have heard
what I cannot believe; yet, considering your former conduct, I have
misgivings that I cannot subdue. Strangely as you have acted of late, I am
willing to think you incapable of what is laid to your charge. In few
words, Jane, they tell me that you mean to be actually married to
Colden.
You know what I think of that young man. You know my objections to the
conduct you thought proper to pursue in relation to Colden in your
husband's lifetime. You will judge, then, with what emotions such
intelligence was received.
Indiscreet as you have been, there are, I hope, bounds which your
education will not permit you to pass. Some regard, I hope, you will have
for your own reputation. If your conscience object not to this proceeding,
the dread of infamy, at least, will check your career.
You may think that I speak harshly, and that I ought to wait, at least,
till I knew your resolution, before I spoke of it in such terms; but, if
this report be groundless, my censures cannot affect you. If it be true,
they may serve, I hope, to deter you from persisting in your scheme.
What more can I say? You are my nearest relation; not my daughter, it
is true; but, since I have not any other kindred, you are more than a
daughter to me. That love, which a numerous family or kindred would divide
among themselves, is all collected and centred in you. The ties between us
have long ceased to be artificial ones, and I feel, in all respects, as if
you actually owed your being to me.
You have hitherto consulted my pleasure but little. I have all the
rights, in regard to you, of a mother, but these have been hitherto
despised or unacknowledged. I once regarded you as the natural successor
to my property; and, though your conduct has forfeited these claims, I now
tell you (and you know that my word is sacred) that all I have shall be
yours, on condition that Colden is dismissed.
More than this I will do. Every assurance possible I will give, that
all shall be yours at my death, and all I have I will share with you
_equally_ while I live. Only give me your word that, _as soon_
as the transfer is made, Colden shall be thought of and conversed with,
either personally or by letter, no more. I want only your promise; on that
I will absolutely rely.
Mere lucre ought not, perhaps, to influence you in such a case; and if
you comply through regard to my peace or your own reputation, I shall
certainly esteem you more highly than if you are determined by the present
offer; yet such is my aversion to this alliance, that the hour in which I
hear of your consent to the conditions which I now propose to you will be
esteemed one of the happiest of my life.
Think of it, my dear Jane, my friend, my child; think of it. Take time
to reflect, and let me have a deliberate answer, such as will remove the
fears that at present afflict, beyond my power of expression, your