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191 pages

English

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Regarded by many critics as one of the most important early American novelists, Charles Brockden Brown was a writer and thinker of international significance in the late-eighteenth and early-nineteenth centuries. Jane Talbot unfolds as a series of letters between Henry Colden and the title character as they fall in love, travel the world, and resolve to marry despite the objections of family members.

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 décembre 2015
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776595990
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

JANE TALBOT
* * *
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN

*
Jane Talbot First published in 1801 Epub ISBN 978-1-77659-599-0 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77659-600-3 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Letter I Letter II Letter III Letter IV Letter VI Letter VII Letter VIII Letter IX Letter X Letter XI Letter XII Letter XIII Letter XIV Letter XV Letter XVI Letter XVII Letter XVIII Letter XIX Letter XX Letter XXI Letter XXII Letter XXIII Letter XXIV Letter XXV Letter XXVI Letter XXVII Letter XXVIII Letter XXIX Letter XXX Letter XXXI Letter XXXI Letter XXXII Letter XXXIII Letter XXXIV Letter XXXV Letter XXXVI Letter XXXVII Letter XXXVIII Letter XXXIX Letter XL Letter XLI Letter XLII Letter XLIII Letter XLIV Letter XLV Letter XLVI Letter XLVII Letter XLVIII Letter XLIX Letter L Letter LI Letter LII Letter LIII Letter LIV Letter LV Letter LVI Letter LVII Letter LVIII Letter LIX Letter LX Letter LXI Letter LXII Letter LXIII Letter LXIV Letter LXV Letter LXVI Letter LXVII Letter LXVIII Letter LXIX Letter LXX Endnotes
Letter I
*
To Henry Colden
Philadelphia, Monday Evening, October 3.
I am very far from being a wise girl. So conscience whispers me, and,though vanity is eager to refute the charge, I must acknowledge that sheis seldom successful. Conscience tells me it is folly, it is guilt, towrap up my existence in one frail mortal; to employ all my thoughts, tolavish all my affections, upon one object; to dote upon a human being,who, as such, must be the heir of many frailties, and whom I know to benot without his faults; to enjoy no peace but in his presence, to begrateful for his permission to sacrifice fortune, ease, life itself, forhis sake.
From the humiliation produced by these charges, vanity endeavours torelieve me by insinuating that all happiness springs from affection; thatnature ordains no tie so strong as that between the sexes; that to lovewithout bounds is to confer bliss not only on ourselves but on another;that conjugal affection is the genuine sphere not only of happiness butduty.
Besides, my heart will not be persuaded but that its fondness for youis nothing more than simple justice. Ought I not to love excellence, anddoes my poor imagination figure to itself any thing in human shape moreexcellent than thou?
But yet there are bounds beyond which passion cannot go withoutcounteracting its own purposes. I am afraid mine goes beyond those bounds.So far as it produces rapture, it deserves to be cherished; but whenproductive of impatience, repining, agony, on occasions too that areslight, trivial, or unavoidable, 'tis surely culpable.
Methinks, my friend, I would not have had thee for a witness of thebitterness, the tumult of my feelings, during this day; ever since youleft me. You cannot conceive any thing more forlorn, more vacant, moreanxious, than this weak heart has been and still is. I was terrified at myown sensations, and, with my usual folly, began to construe them intoomens of evils; so inadequate, so disproportioned was my distress to thecause that produced it.
Ah! my friend! a weak—very weak—creature is thy Jane. From excess oflove arises that weakness; that must be its apology with thee, for,in thy mind, my fondness, I know, needs an apology.
Shall I scold you a little? I have held in the rein a long time, but myoverflowing heart must have relief, and I shall find a sort of comfort inchiding you. Let me chide you, then, for coldness, for insensibility: butno; I will not. Let me enjoy the rewards of self-denial and forbearance,and seal up my accusing lips. Let me forget the coldness of your lastsalute, your ill-concealed effort to disengage yourself from my foolishly-fond arms. You have got at your journey's end, I hope. Farewell.
J. TALBOT.
Letter II
*
To Henry Colden
Tuesday Morning, October 4.
I must write to you, you said, frequently and copiously: you did notmean, I suppose, that I should always be scribbling, but I cannot help it.I can do nothing but converse with you. When present, my prate isincessant; when absent, I can prate to you with as little intermission;for the pen, used so carelessly and thoughtlessly as I use it, does but prate.
Besides, I have not forgotten my promise. 'Tis true the story youwished me to give you is more easily communicated by the pen than by thelips. I admit your claim to be acquainted with all the incidents of mylife, be they momentous or trivial. I have often told you that theretrospect is very mournful; but that ought not to prevent me from makingit, when so useful a purpose as that of thoroughly disclosing to you thecharacter of one, on whom your future happiness is to depend, will beaffected by it. I am not surprised that calumny has been busy with mylife, 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 theundertaking. I can do nothing in your absence but write to you. To writewhat I have ten thousand times spoken, and which can be perfectlyunderstood only when accompanied by looks and accents, seems absurd.Especially while there is a subject on which my tongue can neverexpatiate, but on which it is necessary that you should know all that Ican tell you.
The prospect of filling up this interval with the relation of the mostaffecting parts of my life somewhat reconciled me to your necessaryabsence, yet I know my heart will droop. Even this preparation to lookback makes me shudder already. Some reluctance to recall tragical orhumiliating 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 favouriteand lonely path, and, by a deliberate review of the past, refresh mymemory 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 hasbeen, it seems, during my short absence, a pair of gossips. They have justgone, lamenting the disappointment, and leaving me a world ofcomplimentary condolences.
I shall take care to prevent future interruption by shutting up thehouse and retiring to my chamber, where I am resolved to remain till Ihave fully disburdened my heart. Disburden it, said I? I shall load it, Ifear, with sadness, but I will not regret an undertaking which my duty toyou makes indispensable.
One of the earliest incidents that I remember is an expostulation withmy father. I saw several strange people enter the chamber where my motherwas. Somewhat suggested to my childish fancy that these strangers meant totake her away, and that I should never see her again. My terror wasviolent, and I thought of nothing but seizing her gown or hand, andholding her back from the rude assailants. My father detained me in hisarms, and endeavoured to soothe my fears, but I would not be appeased. Istruggled and shrieked, and, hearing some movements in my mother's room,that seemed to betoken the violence I so much dreaded, I leaped, with asudden effort, from my father's arms, but fainted before I reached thedoor of the room.
This may serve as a specimen of the impetuosity of my temper. It wasalways fervent and unruly, unacquainted with moderation in itsattachments, violent in its indignation and its enmity, but easilypersuaded to pity and forgiveness.
When I recovered from my swoon, I ran to my mother's room; but she wasgone. I rent the air with my cries, and shocked all about me withimportunities to know whither they had carried her. They had carried herto the grave, and nothing would content me but to visit the spot three orfour times a day, and to sit in the room in which she died, in stupid andmopeful silence, all night long.
At this time I was only five years old,—an age at which, in general, adeceased parent is quickly forgotten; but, in my attachment to my mother,I showed none of the volatility of childhood. While she lived, I was neverat ease but when seated at her knee, or with my arms round her neck. Whendead, I cherished her remembrance for years, and have paid, hundreds oftimes, the tribute of my tears at the foot of her grave.
My brother, who was three years older than myself, behaved in a verydifferent manner. I used to think the difference between us was merelythat of sex; that every boy was boisterous, ungrateful, imperious, andinhuman, as every girl was soft, pliant, affectionate. Time has cured meof that mistake, and, as it has shown me females unfeeling and perverse,so it has introduced me to men full of gentleness and sensibility. Mybrother's subsequent conduct convinced me that he was at all times selfishand irascible beyond most other men, and that his ingratitude andinsolence to his mother were only congenial parts of the character heafterwards displayed at large.
My brother and I passed our infancy in one unintermitted quarrel. Wewere never together but he played some cruel and mischievous prank, whichI never failed to resent to the utmost of my little power. I soon foundthat my tears only increased his exultation, and my complaints onlygrieved my mother. I, therefore, gave word for word and blow for blow;but, being always worsted in such conflicts, I shunned him whenever it waspossible, and whatever his malice made me suffer I endeavoured to concealfrom her.
My mother, on her death-bed, was anxious to see him, but he hadstrolled away after som