_To Henry Colden_
Philadelphia, Monday, October 11.
I am ashamed of myself, Henry. What an inconsistent creature am I! I
have just placed this dear letter of yours next my heart. The sensation it
affords, at this moment, is delicious; almost as much so as I once
experienced from a certain somebody's hand placed on the same spot. But
that somebody's hand was never (if I recollect aright) so highly honoured
as this paper. Have I not told you that your letter is deposited
_next_ my heart?
And with all these proofs of the pleasure your letter affords me, could
you guess at the cause of those tears which, even now, have not ceased
flowing? Your letter has so little tenderness--is so _very_ cold. But
let me not be ungrateful for the preference you grant me, merely because
it is not so enthusiastic and unlimited as my own.
I suppose, if I had not extorted from you some account of this poor
woman, I should never have heard a syllable of your meeting with her. It
is surely possible for people to be their own calumniators, to place their
own actions in the worst light, to exaggerate their faults and conceal
their virtues. If the fictions and artifices of vanity be detestable, the
concealment of our good actions is surely not without guilt. The
conviction of our guilt is painful to those that love us: wantonly and
needlessly to give this pain is very perverse and unjustifiable. If a
contrary deportment argue vanity, self-detraction seems to be the
offspring of pride.
Thou art the strangest of men, Henry. Thy whole conduct with regard to
me has been a tissue of self-upbraidings. You have disclosed not only a
thousand misdeeds (as you have thought them) which could not possibly have
come to my knowledge by any other means, but have laboured to ascribe even
your commendable actions to evil or ambiguous motives. Motives are
impenetrable, and a thousand cases have occurred in which every rational
observer would have supposed you to be influenced by the best motives, but
where, if credit be due to your own representations, your motives were far
from being laudable.
Why is my esteem rather heightened than depressed by this deportment?
In truth, there is no crime which remorse will not expiate, and no more
shining virtue in the whole catalogue than sincerity. Besides, your own
account of yourself, with all the exaggerations of humility, proved you,
on the whole, and with the allowances necessarily made by every candid
person, to be a very excellent man.
Your deportment to me ought chiefly to govern my opinion of you; and
have you not been uniformly generous, sincere, and upright?--not quite
passionate enough, perhaps; no blind and precipitate enthusiast. Love has
not banished discretion, or blindfolded your sagacity; and, as I should
forgive a thousand errors on the score of love, I cannot fervently applaud
that wisdom which tramples upon love. Thou hast a thousand excellent
qualities, Henry; that is certain: yet a little more impetuosity and
fervour in thy tenderness would compensate for the want of the whole
thousand. _There_ is a frank confession for thee! I am confounded at
my own temerity in making it. Will it not injure me in thy esteem? and, of
all evils which it is possible for me to suffer, the loss of _that_
esteem would soonest drive me to desperation.
The world has been liberal of its censure, but surely a thorough
knowledge of my conduct could not condemn me. When my father and mother
united their entreaties to those of Talbot, my heart had never known a
preference. The man of their choice was perfectly indifferent to me, but
every individual of his sex was regarded with no less indifference. I did
not conceal from him the state of my feelings, but was always perfectly
ingenuous and explicit. Talbot acted like every man in love. He was eager
to secure me on these terms, and fondly trusted to his tenderness and
perseverance to gain those affections which I truly acknowledged to be
free. He would not leave me for his European voyage till he had extorted a
solemn promise.
During his absence I met you. The nature of those throbs, which a
glance of your very shadow was sure to produce, even previous to the
exchange of a single word between us, was entirely unknown to me. I had no
experience to guide me. The effects of that intercourse which I took such
pains to procure could not be foreseen. My heart was too pure to admit
even such a guest as apprehension, and the only information I possessed
respecting you impressed me with the notion that your heart already
belonged to another.
I sought nothing but your society and your esteem. If the fetters of my
promise to Talbot became irksome after my knowledge of you, I was
unconscious of the true cause. This promise never for a moment lost its
obligation with me. I deemed myself as much the wife of Talbot as if I had
stood with him at the altar.
At the prospect of his return, my melancholy was excruciating, but the
cause was unknown to me. I had nothing to wish, with regard to you, but to
see you occasionally, to hear your voice, and to be told that you were
happy. It never occurred to me that Talbot's return would occasion any
difference in this respect. Conscious of nothing but rectitude in my
regard for you, always frank and ingenuous in disclosing my feelings, I
imagined that Talbot would adopt you as warmly for his friend as I had
done.
I must grant that I erred in this particular, but my error sprung from
ignorance unavoidable. I judged of others by my own heart, and very
sillily imagined that Talbot would continue to be satisfied with that cold
and friendly regard for which only my vows made me answerable. Yet my
husband's jealousies and discontents were not unreasonable. He loved me
with passion; and, if that sentiment can endure to be unrequited, it will
never tolerate the preference of another, even if that preference be less
than love.
In compliance with my husband's wishes--Ah! my friend! why cannot I say
that I _did_ comply with them? what a fatal act is that of plighting
hands when the heart is estranged! Never, never let the placable and
compassionate spirit be seduced into a union to which the affections are
averse. Let it not confide in the afterbirth of love. Such a union is the
direst cruelty even to the object who is intended to be benefited.
I have not yet thoroughly forgiven you for deserting me. My heart
swells with anguish at the thought of your setting more lightly by my
resentment than by that of another; of your willingness to purchase any
one's happiness at the cost of mine. You are too wise, too dispassionate,
by far. Don't despise me for this accusation, Henry; you know my unbiassed
judgment has always been with you. Repeated proofs have convinced me that
my dignity and happiness are safer in your keeping than in my own.
You guess right, my friend. Miss Jessup told me of your visits to this
poor sick woman. There is something mysterious in the character of this
Polly Jessup. She is particularly solicitous about every thing which
relates to you. It has occurred to me, since reading your letter, that she
is not entirely without design in her prattle. Something more, methinks,
than the mere tattling, gossiping, inquisitive propensity in the way in
which she introduces you into conversation.
She had not alighted ten minutes before she ran into my apartment, with
a face full of intelligence. The truth respecting the washwoman was very
artfully disguised, and yet so managed as to allow her to elude the
imputation of direct falsehood. She will, no doubt, in this as in former
cases, cover up all under the appearance of a good-natured jest; yet, if
she be in jest, there is more of malice, I suspect, than of good nature in
her merriment.
Make haste back, my dear Hal. I cannot bear to keep my mother in
ignorance of our resolutions, and I am utterly at a loss in what manner to
communicate them so as to awaken the least reluctance. Oh, what would be
wanting to my felicity if my mother could be won over to my side? And is
so inestimable a good utterly hopeless? Come, my friend, and dictate such
a letter as may subdue those prejudices which, while they continue to
exist, will permit me to choose only among deplorable evils.