LETTER VI.
TO E. HARTLEY.
New-York, April 1.
There is an obscurity in your letter,
my friend, that I cannot dispel. The first part
afforded me much pleasure, but the sequel
disappointed me. You seem to have strangely
misconstrued my meaning. Whether this
misconstruction be real or pretended, it does
not become me to enter into any explanation.
If it be real, it affords a proof of a narrow and
ungenerous heart, an heart incapable of perceiving
the possibility of sacrificing my own
personal gratification to that of another, and
of deriving, from that very sacrifice, a purer
and more lasting felicity. It shews you unable
to comprehend that the welfare of another may
demandself-denial from us, and that in bestowing
benefits on others, there is a purer delight
than in gratifications merely selfish and exclusive.
You question my love, because I exhort
you to do your duty, and to make another
happy that is worthier than I. Why am I
anxious for that other and for you? Why should
I rejoice in your integrity, and mourn for your
degradation? Why should I harbour such
glowing images of the bliss which your Mary
should derive from union with you? Would
not my indifference and negligence on these
heads, would not my ardour to appropriate
your affections to myself, prove me to be...there
is no name sufficiently abhorrent and contemptuous
for such an heart.
And yet, such is the deportment you expect
from me! Any thing but this will prove me to
be indifferent, or averse to you! Desist, I
beseech you, in time. If you proceed thus,
quickly will you lose what remains of that
esteem which I once felt for you. Instead of
earnestly promoting your alliance with Miss
Wilmot, I shall anxiously obstruct it, on
account of your unworthiness.
If this misconstruction be pretended only,
if you mean to assail, by this new expedient,
my imaginary weakness; if you imagine, that
in order to remove an unjust imputation from
my character, I will do what will make me
really culpable; if you imagine that I shall
degrade myself in my own estimation, merely
for the purpose of raising myself in yours, you
have grossly deceived yourself.
Formerly you talked, with much self-complacency,
of the trials to which I had subjected
my fortitude, and consoled yourself with thinking
that adhering to my new scheme, was productive
of misery. I say, that you consoled
yourself with this reflection. In your eyes, my
character was estimable in proportion to the
reluctance with which I performed what was
just. Your devotion to me was fervent in proportion
as the performance of my duty was
attended with anguish and suffering!
Edward! are you, indeed, so sordid as to
reason in this manner? Are you so blind as to
account this the surest road to my esteem? Are
you not ashamed of your infatuation and absurdity?
I need not disguise or deny my unhappiness
from any pity to you, or through the value
which I set on your esteem. You exult in proportion
to my misery. You revere me in
proportion as my sentiments are mean and
selfish! I am to be upbraided and despised, in
proportion to the fulness of that enjoyment,
which, the approbation of my conscience, the
sense of doing right myself, and of conferring
good on others, has given me!
Let me constantly hear from you, respecting
your movements. I am in hopes that time
and reflection will instil into you better principles.
Till then, I shall not be displeased, if
your letters be confined to a mere narrative of
your journey.
Adieu.
