LETTER LXIV.
To Mrs. Talbot.
New-York, Dec. 12.
I cannot leave this shore without thanking
the mistress of my destiny for all her goodness.
Yet I should not have ventured thus to address
you, had I not seen a letter—Dearest creature!
blame not your friend, for betraying you.
Think it not a rash or injurious confession, that
you have made.
And is it possible that you have not totally
forgotten the sweet scenes of our childhood; that
absence has not degraded me in your opinion;
and that my devotion, if it continue as fervent as
now, may look, in a few years, for its reward?
Could you prevail on yourself to hide these
generous emotions from me? To suffer me to
leave my country in the dreary belief that all
former incidents were held in contempt, and
that so far from being high in your esteem, my
presence was troublesome, my existence was
irksome to you?
But your motive was beneficent and generous.
You were content to be thought unfeeling
and ungrateful for the sake of my happiness.
I rejoice inexpressibly in that event which has
removed the veil from your true sentiments.
Nothing but pure felicity to me, can flow from it.
Nothing but gratitude and honor can redound
from it to yourself.
I go: but not with anguish and despondency
for my companions. I am buoyed up by the
light wings of hope. The prospect of gaining
your love is not the only source of my present
happiness. If it were, I should be a criminal
and selfish being. No. My chief delight is, that
happiness is yet in store for you; that should
heaven have denied you your first hope, there still
lives one whose claim to make you happy will
not be rejected.
