_To Henry Colden_
Philadelphia, Nov. 2.
Ah, my friend, how mortifying are those proofs of thy excellence? How
deep is that debasement into which I am sunk, when I compare myself with
thee!
It cannot be want of love that makes thee so easily give me up. My
feeble and jealous heart is ever prone to suspect; yet I ought at length
to be above these ungenerous surmises.
My own demerits, my fickleness, my precipitation, are so great, and so
unlike thy inflexible spirit, that I am ever ready to impute to thee that
contempt for me which I know I so richly deserve. I am astonished that so
poor a thing as I am, thus continually betraying her weakness, should
retain thy affection; yet at any proof of coldness or indifference in thee
do I grow impatient, melancholy; a strange mixture of upbraiding for
myself, and resentment for thee, occupies my feelings.
I have read thy letter. I shuddered when I painted to myself thy
unhappiness on receiving tidings of my resolution to join my mother. I
felt that thy reluctance to part with me would form the strongest obstacle
to going; and yet, being convinced that I must go, I wanted thee to
counterfeit indifference, to feign compliance.
And such a wayward heart is mine that, now these assurances of thy
compliance have come to hand, I am not satisfied! The poor contriver
wished to find in thee an affectation of indifference. Her humanity would
be satisfied with that appearance; but her pride demanded that it should
be no more than a veil, behind which the inconsolable, the bleeding heart
should be distinctly seen.
You are too much in earnest in your equanimity. You study my exclusive
happiness with too unimpassioned a soul. You are pleased when I am
pleased; but not, it seems, the more so from any relation which my
pleasure bears to you: no matter what it is that pleases me, so I am but
pleased, you are content.
I don't like this oblivion of self. I want to be essential to your
happiness. I want to act with a view to your interests and wishes,--these
wishes requiring my love and my company for your own sake.
But I have got into a maze again,--puzzling myself with intricate
distinctions. I can't be satisfied with telling you that I am not well,
but I must be inspecting with these careful eyes into causes, and
labouring to tell you of what nature my malady is.
It has always been so. I have always found an unaccountable pleasure in
dissecting, as it were, my heart; uncovering, one by one, its many folds,
and laying it before you, as a country is shown in a map. This voluble
tongue and this prompt, pen! what volumes have I talked to you on that
bewitching theme,--myself!
And yet, loquacious as I am, I never interrupted you when you were
talking. It was always such a favour when these rigid fibres of yours
relaxed; and yet I praise myself for more forbearance than belongs to me.
The little impertinent has often stopped your mouth,--at times too when
your talk charmed her most; but then it was not with words.
But have I not said this a score of times before? and why do I indulge
this prate now?
To say truth, I am perplexed and unhappy. Your letter has made me so.
My heart flutters too much to allow me to attend to the subject of your
letter. I follow this rambling leader merely to escape from more arduous
paths, and I send you this scribble because I must write to you.
Adieu.