LETTER VII.
TO E. HARTLEY.
New-York, April 5.
You were to leave Philadelphia on Tuesday,
you told me. I imagined the interval
would be engrossed with business, and, therefore,
expected not to hear from you, till after
that day; but that day, and the whole week is
past, and no tidings.
This silence does not proceed from sullenness.
I hope, I persuade myself, it does not.
Whatever anger you have conceived against
me, let not that, I intreat you, make you ungrateful
to my father, cruel to your sisters,
unjust to yourself.
Letters have been hourly expected from
you, relative to concerns which you had in
charge. Have you neglected them? Have
you betrayed your trust? Have you suffered an
unmanly dejection to unfit you for this charge?
Have you committed any rashness?
Heaven forbid! Yet, what but some fatal
event has occasioned this delay? Perhaps,
while I thus write to you, you are....
Let me not think of it. I shiver with a
deadly cold at the thought. Thou art fiery and
impetuous, my friend. Thy spirit is not curbed
by reason. There is no outrage on discretion;
no crime against thyself, into which thy headlong
spirit may not hurry thee.
Perhaps, my last letter was harsh, unjust.
My censures were too bitter. I made not
suitable allowances for your youth; the force
of that attachment which you own for me.
Knew I so little of my own nature, and the
illusions of passion, as to expect you to act and
speak with perfect wisdom.
Would to heaven, I had not written that
letter, or that I had sufficiently considered its
contents before I sent it. It was scribbled
hastily, in a moment of resentment. Of that,
which I so acrimoniously censured in you, I
was guilty myself. I ought to have staid till
cool reflection had succeeded.
But, perhaps, we torment ourselves needlessly.
It is said, that the late storms have
overflowed the rivers, swept away the bridges,
and flooded the roads. Perhaps, your letters
are delayed from this cause. Perhaps, the
ways have been impassable.
Mr. Talbot has been abroad during the
morning. We expect him to return presently.
He may bring us letters.
No intelligence yet received! I am excessively
uneasy. Your friend is displeased. He
is almost ready to repent the confidence he has
placed in you. Nothing can justify your silence.
Your sickness should not hinder you from informing
him of certain transactions. Their
importance required you to give him early
notice of any disaster that might befal you,
and common prudence would enjoin you to
take measures for conveying this intelligence
by the hands of others, in case of your incapacity....
The coming of the post has been interrupted
only for one day. The reason why we have
not heard from you, can only be your not having
written. My thoughts are too much disturbed
to permit me to write any more. I will
lay down the pen, and dispatch this: perhaps,
it may find you, and produce some effect.
