_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 she
is seldom successful. Conscience tells me it is folly, it is guilt, to
wrap up my existence in one frail mortal; to employ all my thoughts, to
lavish 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 be
not without his faults; to enjoy no peace but in his presence, to be
grateful for his permission to sacrifice fortune, ease, life itself, for
his sake.
From the humiliation produced by these charges, vanity endeavours to
relieve me by insinuating that all happiness springs from affection; that
nature ordains no tie so strong as that between the sexes; that to love
without bounds is to confer bliss not only on ourselves but on another;
that conjugal affection is the genuine sphere not only of happiness but
duty.
Besides, my heart will not be persuaded but that its fondness for you
is nothing more than simple justice. Ought I not to love excellence, and
does my poor imagination figure to itself any thing in human shape more
excellent than thou?
But yet there are bounds beyond which passion cannot go without
counteracting its own purposes. I am afraid mine goes beyond those bounds.
So far as it produces rapture, it deserves to be cherished; but when
productive of impatience, repining, agony, on occasions too that are
slight, trivial, or unavoidable, 'tis surely culpable.
Methinks, my friend, I would not have had thee for a witness of the
bitterness, the tumult of my feelings, during this day; ever since you
left me. You cannot conceive any thing more forlorn, more vacant, more
anxious, than this weak heart has been and still is. I was terrified at my
own sensations, and, with my usual folly, began to construe them into
omens of evils; so inadequate, so disproportioned was my distress to the
cause that produced it.
Ah! my friend! a weak--very weak--creature is thy Jane. From excess of
love 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 my
overflowing heart must have relief, and I shall find a sort of comfort in
chiding you. Let me chide you, then, for coldness, for insensibility: but
no; 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 last
salute, your ill-concealed effort to disengage yourself from my
foolishly-fond arms. You have got at your journey's end, I hope. Farewell.