_To James Montford_
November 28.
I TOLD you of your brother Stephen's talk with me about accompanying
him on his northwest voyage. I mentioned to you what were my objections to
the scheme. It was a desperate adventure; a sort of forlorn hope; to be
pursued in case my wishes in relation to Jane should be crossed. I had not
then any, or much, apprehension of change in her resolutions. So many
proofs of a fervent and invincible attachment to me had she lately given,
that I could not imagine any motive strong enough to change her purpose.
Yet now, my friend, have I arranged matters with your brother, and expect
to bid an everlasting farewell to my native shore some day within the
ensuing fortnight.
I call it an everlasting farewell, for I have, at present, neither
expectation nor desire of returning. A three years' wandering among
boisterous seas and through various climates, added to that inward care,
that spiritless, dejected heart, which I shall ever bear about me, would
surely never let me return, even if I had the wish: but I have not the
wish. If I live at all, it must be in a scene far different and distant
from that in which I have been hitherto reluctantly detained.
And why have I embraced this scheme? There can be but one cause.
Having just returned from following Thomson's remains to the grave, I
received a letter from Jane. Her mother had just arrived. She came, it
seems, in consequence of her daughter's apparent compliance with her
wishes. The letter retracting my friend's precipitate promise had
miscarried or had lingered by the way. What I little suspected, my father
had acquainted Mrs. Fielder with his conduct towards me; and this,
together with her mother's importunities, had prevailed on Jane once more
to renounce me.
There never occurred an event in my life which did not, someway, bear
testimony to the usefulness and value of sincerity. Had I fully disclosed
all that passed between my father and me, should I not easily have
diverted Jane from these extremities? Alone, at a distance from me, and
with her mother's eloquence at hand to confirm every wayward sentiment and
fortify her in every hostile resolution, she is easily driven into paths,
and perhaps kept steadily in them, from which proper explanations and
pathetic arguments, had they been early and seasonably employed by me,
would have led her easily away.
I begin to think it is vain to strive against maternal influence. What
but momentary victory can I hope to attain? What but poverty, dependence,
ignominy, will she share with me? And if her strenuous spirit set naught
by these, (and I know she is capable of rising above them,) how will she
support her mother's indignation and grief?
I have now, indeed, no hope of even momentary victory. There are but
two persons in the world who command her affections. Either, when present,
(the other absent or silent,) has absolute dominion over her. Her mother,
no doubt, is apprized of this, and has now pursued the only effectual
method of securing submission.
I have already written an answer; I hope such a one as, when the
present tumults of passion have subsided, when the eye sedately
scrutinizes, and the heart beats in an even tenor, may be read without
shame or remorse.
I shall also write to her mother. In doing this I must keep down the
swelling bitterness. It may occupy my solitude, torment my feelings; but
why should it infect my pen?
I have sometimes given myself credit for impartiality in judging of
others. Indeed, I am inclined to think myself no blind or perverse judge
even of my own actions. Hence, indeed, the greater part of my unhappiness.
If my conduct had always conformed, instead of being adverse, to my
principles, I should have moved on tranquilly and self-satisfied, at
least; but, in truth, the being that goes by my name was never more
thoroughly contemned by another than by myself.--But this is falling into
the old strain,-irksome, tiresome, and useless to you as to me. Yet I
cannot write just now in any other; therefore I will stop.
Adieu, my friend. There will be time enough to hear from you ere my
departure. Let me hear, then, from you.