Part 18 (2/2)
The sweet quiet of her chamber, the wholesome airs from abroad, or the cheerful blaze of her hearth, will invite her to mental exercise. Perhaps she has a taste for books, and, besides that pure delight which knowledge on its own account affords her, it possesses tenfold attractions in her eyes, by its tendency to heighten the esteem of him whom she lives to please.
Perhaps, rich as she is in books, she is an economist of pleasure, and tears herself away from them, to enjoy the vernal breezes, or the landscape of autumn, in a twilight ramble. Here she communes with bounteous nature, or lifts her soul in devotion to her G.o.d, to whose benignity she resigns herself as she used to do to the fond arms of that parent she has lost.
If these do not suffice to fill up her time, she may chance to reflect on the many ways in which she may be useful to herself. She may find delight in supplying her own wants; by maintaining cleanliness and order all about her; by making up her own dresses,--especially as she disdains to be outdone in taste and expertness at the needle by any female in the land.
By limiting in this way, and in every other which her judgment may recommend, her own expenses, she will be able to contribute somewhat to relieve the toils of her beloved. The pleasure will be hers of reflecting, not only that her love adds nothing to his fatigues and cares; not only that her tender solicitudes and seasonable counsel cherish his hopes and strengthen his courage, but that the employment of her hands makes his own separate subsistence an easier task. To work for herself will be no trivial gratification to her honest pride, but to work for her beloved will, indeed, be a cause of exultation.
Twenty things she may do for him which others must be paid for doing, not in caresses, but in money; and this service, though not small, is not perhaps the greatest she is able to perform. She is active and intelligent, perhaps, and may even aspire to the profits of some trade.
What is it that makes one calling more lucrative than another? Not superior strength of shoulders or sleight of hand; not the greater quant.i.ty of brute matter that is reduced into form or set into motion. No.
The difference lies in the mental powers of the artist, and the direction accidentally given to these powers.
What should hinder a girl like this from growing rich by her diligence and ingenuity? She has, perhaps, acquired many arts with no view but her own amus.e.m.e.nt. Not a little did her mother pay to those who taught her to draw and to sing. May she not levy the same tributes upon others that were levied on her, and make a business of her sports?
There is, indeed, a calling that may divert her from the thoughts of mere lucre. She may talk and sing for another, and dedicate her best hours to a tutelage for which there is a more precious requital than money can give.
Dost not see her, Hal? I do,--as well as this gus.h.i.+ng sensibility will let me,--rocking in her arms and half stifling with her kisses, or delighting with her lullaby, a precious little creature----
Why, my friend, do I hesitate? Do I not write for thy eye, and thine only? and what is there but pure and sacred in the antic.i.p.ated transports of a mother?
The conscious heart might stifle its throbs in thy presence; but why not indulge them in thy absence, and tell thee its inmost breathings, not without a shame-confessing glow, yet not without drops of the truest delight that were ever shed?
Why, how now, Jane? whence all this interest in the scene thou portrayest? One would fancy that this happy outcast, this self-dependent wife, was no other than _thyself_.
A shrewd conjecture, truly. I suppose, Hal, thou wilt be fond enough to guess so, too. By what penalty shall I deter thee from so rash a thing?
yet thou art not here--I say it to my sorrow-to suffer the penalty which I might choose to inflict.
I will not say what it is, lest the _fear_ of it should keep thee away.
And, now that I have finished the history of Mrs. Henning and her boarder, I will bid thee--good-night.
Good----good-night, my love.
JANE TALBOT.
Letter x.x.xI
[Editorial note: The observant reader will have noticed this is the second letter bearing the number x.x.xI. The original text contained two Letters x.x.xI, and we have chosen to let the letters retain their original numbers, rather than renumber them.]
_To Henry Colden_
Philadelphia, November 11.
How shall I tell you the strange--_strange_ incident? Every fibre of my frame still trembles. I have endeavoured, during the last hour, to gain tranquillity enough for writing, but without success. Yet I can forbear no longer: I must begin.
I had just closed my last to you, when somebody knocked. I heard footsteps below, as the girl ushered in the visitant, which were not quite unknown to me. The girl came up:--”A gentleman is waiting.”
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