Jane Talbot | Page 2

pen than by
the lips. I admit your claim to be acquainted with all the incidents of
my life, be they momentous or trivial. I have often told you that the
retrospect is very mournful; but that ought not to prevent me from
making it, when so useful a purpose as that of thoroughly disclosing to
you the character of one, on whom your future happiness is to depend,
will be affected by it. I am not surprised that calumny has been busy
with my life, and am very little anxious to clear myself from unjust
charges, except to such as you.
At this moment, I may add, my mood is not unfriendly to the
undertaking. I can do nothing in your absence but write to you. To
write what I have ten thousand times spoken, and which can be
perfectly understood only when accompanied by looks and accents,
seems absurd. Especially while there is a subject on which my tongue
can never expatiate, but on which it is necessary that you should know
all that I can tell you.
The prospect of filling up this interval with the relation of the most
affecting parts of my life somewhat reconciled me to your necessary
absence, yet I know my heart will droop. Even this preparation to look
back makes me shudder already. Some reluctance to recall tragical or

humiliating scenes, and, by thus recalling to endure them, in some
sense, a second time, I must expect to feel.
But let me lay down the pen for the present. Let me take my favourite
and lonely path, and, by a deliberate review of the past, refresh my
memory and methodize my recollections. Adieu till I return. J. T.

Letter III
To Henry Colden
Tuesday Morning, 11 o'clock.
I am glad I left not word how soon I meant to return, for here has been,
it seems, during my short absence, a pair of gossips. They have just
gone, lamenting the disappointment, and leaving me a world of
complimentary condolences.
I shall take care to prevent future interruption by shutting up the house
and retiring to my chamber, where I am resolved to remain till I have
fully disburdened my heart. Disburden it, said I? I shall load it, I fear,
with sadness, but I will not regret an undertaking which my duty to you
makes indispensable.
One of the earliest incidents that I remember is an expostulation with
my father. I saw several strange people enter the chamber where my
mother was. Somewhat suggested to my childish fancy that these
strangers meant to take her away, and that I should never see her again.
My terror was violent, and I thought of nothing but seizing her gown or
hand, and holding her back from the rude assailants. My father detained
me in his arms, and endeavoured to soothe my fears, but I would not be
appeased. I struggled and shrieked, and, hearing some movements in
my mother's room, that seemed to betoken the violence I so much
dreaded, I leaped, with a sudden effort, from my father's arms, but
fainted before I reached the door of the room.
This may serve as a specimen of the impetuosity of my temper. It was

always fervent and unruly, unacquainted with moderation in its
attachments, violent in its indignation and its enmity, but easily
persuaded to pity and forgiveness.
When I recovered from my swoon, I ran to my mother's room; but she
was gone. I rent the air with my cries, and shocked all about me with
importunities to know whither they had carried her. They had carried
her to the grave, and nothing would content me but to visit the spot
three or four times a day, and to sit in the room in which she died, in
stupid and mopeful silence, all night long.
At this time I was only five years old,--an age at which, in general, a
deceased parent is quickly forgotten; but, in my attachment to my
mother, I showed none of the volatility of childhood. While she lived, I
was never at ease but when seated at her knee, or with my arms round
her neck. When dead, I cherished her remembrance for years, and have
paid, hundreds of times, the tribute of my tears at the foot of her grave.
My brother, who was three years older than myself, behaved in a very
different manner. I used to think the difference between us was merely
that of sex; that every boy was boisterous, ungrateful, imperious, and
inhuman, as every girl was soft, pliant, affectionate. Time has cured me
of that mistake, and, as it has shown me females unfeeling and perverse,
so it has introduced me to men full of gentleness and sensibility. My
brother's subsequent conduct