_To the same_
Wilmington, November 7.
I have purposely avoided dwelling on the incidents that are passing
here. They engross my thoughts at all times but those devoted to the pen,
and to write to thee is one expedient for loosening their hold.
An expedient not always successful. My mind wanders, in spite of me,
from my own concerns and from thine, to the sick-bed of my friend. A
reverie, painful and confused, invades me now and then; my pen stops, and
I am obliged to exert myself anew to shake off the spell.
Till now, I knew not how much I loved this young man. Strange beings we
are! Separated as we have been for many a year, estranged as much by
difference of sentiments as local distance, his image visiting my memory
not once a month, and then a transitory, momentary visit; had he died a
year ago, and I not known it, the stream of my thoughts would not have
been ruffled by a single impediment. Yet, now that I stand over him and
witness his decay----
Many affecting conversations we have had. I cannot repeat them now.
After he is gone, I will put them all upon paper and muse upon them
often.
His closing hour is serene. His piety now stands him in some stead. In
calling me hither, he tells me that he designed not his own gratification,
but my good. He wished to urge upon me the truths of religion, at a time
when his own conduct might visibly attest their value. By their influence
in making that gloomy path which leads to the grave joyous and lightsome,
he wishes me to judge of their excellence.
His pains are incessant and sharp. He can seldom articulate without an
effort that increases his pangs; yet he talks much in cogent terms, and
with accurate conceptions, and, in all he says, evinces a pathetic
earnestness for my conviction.
I listen to him with a heart as unbiassed as I can prevail on it to be;
as free, I mean, from its customary bias; for I strive to call up feelings
and ideas similar to his. I know how pure to him would be the satisfaction
of leaving the world with the belief of a thorough change in me.
I argue not with him. I say nothing but to persuade him that I am far
from being that contumacious enemy to his faith which he is prone to
imagine me to be.
Thy mother's letter has called up more vividly than usual our ancient
correspondence, and the effects of that disclosure. Yet I have not
mentioned the subject to him. I never mentioned it. I could not trust
myself to mention it. There was no need. The letters were written by me. I
did not charge him to secrecy, and, if I had, he would not have been bound
to compliance. It was his duty to make that use of them which tended to
prevent mischief,--which appeared to him to have that tendency; and this
he has done. His design, I have no doubt, was benevolent and just.
He saw not all the consequences that have followed, 'tis true; but that
ignorance would justify him, even if these consequences were unpleasing to
him; but they would not have displeased, had they been foreseen. They
would only have made his efforts more vigorous, his disclosures more
explicit.
His conduct, indeed, on that occasion, as far as we know it, seems
irregular and injudicious. To lay before a stranger private letters from
his friend, in which opinions were avowed and defended that he knew would
render the writer detestable to her that read.
He imagined himself justified in imputing to me atrocious and infamous
errors. He was grieved for my debasement, and endeavoured, by his utmost
zeal and eloquence, to rectify these errors. This was generous and just:
but needed he to proclaim these errors and blazon this infamy?
Yet ought I to wish to pass upon the world for other than I am? Can I
value that respect which is founded in ignorance? Can I be satisfied with
caresses from those who, if they knew me fully, would execrate and avoid
me?
For past faults and rectified errors, are not remorse and amendment
adequate atonements? If any one despise me for what I _was_, let me
not shrink from the penalty. Let me not find pleasure in the praise of
those whose approbation is founded on ignorance of what I _am_. It is
unjust to demand, it is sordid to retain, praise that is not merited
either by our present conduct or our past. Why have I declined such
praise? Because I value it not.
Thus have I endeavoured to think in relation to Thomson. My endeavour
has succeeded. My heart entirely acquits him. It even applauds him for his
noble sincerity.
Yet I could never write to him or talk to him on this subject. My
tongue, my pen, will be sure to falter. I know that he will boldly justify
his conduct, and I feel that he ought to justify; yet the attempt to
justify would awaken--indignation, selfishness. In spite of the
suggestions of my better reason, I know we should quarrel.
We should not quarrel _now_, if the topic were mentioned. Of
indignation against him, even for a real fault, much less for an imaginary
one, I am, at this time, not capable; but it would be useless to mention
it. There is nothing to explain; no misapprehensions to remove, no doubts
to clear up. All that he did, I, in the same case, ought to have done.
But I told you I wished not to fill my letters with the melancholy
scene before me. This is a respite, a solace to me; and thus, and in
reading thy letters, I employ all my spare moments.
Write to me, my love. Daily, hourly, and cheerfully, if possible.
Borrow not; be not thy letters tinged with the melancholy hue of this.