_To Mrs. Montford_
Philadelphia, October 20.
AH, dear madam! how much has your letter afflicted, how much has it
consoled me!
You have then some hope of his return; but, you say, 'twill be a long
time first. He has gone where I cannot follow him; to the end of the
world; where even a letter cannot find him; into unwholesome climates;
through dangerous elements; among savages----
Alas! I have no hope. Among so many perils, it cannot be expected that
he should escape. And did he not say that he meant not to return?
Yet one thing consoles me. He left not his curses or reproaches on my
head. Kindly, generously, and justly didst thou judge of my fidelity,
Henry. While thou livest, and as long as I live, will I cherish thy
image.
I am coming to pass the winter in your city. I adopt this scheme merely
because it will give me your company. I feel as if you were the only
friend I have in the world. Do not think me forward or capricious. I will
not deny that you owe your place in my affections _chiefly_ to your
relation to the wanderer; but no matter whence my attachment proceeds. I
feel that it is strong; merely selfish, perhaps; the child of a distracted
fancy; the prop on which a sinking heart relies in its uttermost
extremity.
Reflection stings me to the quick, but it does not deny me some
consolation. The memory of my mother calls forth tears, but they are not
tears of bitterness. To her, at least, I have not been deficient in
dutiful observance. I have sacrificed my friend and myself, but it was to
her peace. The melancholy of her dying scene will ever be cheered in my
remembrance by her gratitude and blessing. Her last words were these:--
"Thou hast done much for me, my child. I begin to fear that I have
exacted too much. Your sweetness, your patience, have wrung my heart with
compunction.
"I have wronged thee, Jane. I have wronged the absent; I greatly fear,
I have. Forgive me. If you ever meet, entreat _him_ to forgive me,
and recompense yourself and him for all your mutual sufferings.
"I hope all, though sorrowful, has been for the best. I hope that
angelic sweetness which I have witnessed will continue when I am gone.
That belief only can make my grave peaceful.
"I leave you affluence and honour at least, I leave you the means of
repairing _my_ injury. _That_ is my comfort; but forgive me,
Jane. Say, my child, you forgive me for what has passed."
She stretched her hand to me, which I bathed with my tears.--But this
subject afflicts me too much.
Give my affectionate compliments to Mr. Montford, and tell me that you
wish to see your