 | Letters of Mrs. Adams, |  |
TO JOHN ADAMS.
Why, my good man, thou hast the curiosity of a girl.
Who could have believed, that only a slight hint
would have set thy imagination agog in such a manner.
And a fine encouragement I have to unravel
the mystery as thou callest it. Nothing less, truly,
than to be told something to my disadvantage. What
an excellent reward that will be! In what court of
justice didst thou learn that equity? I thank thee,
friend; such knowledge as that is easy enough to be
obtained without paying for it. As to the insinuation,
any thing very bad, I know thou dost not believe it.
I am not conscious of any harm that I have done or
wished to any mortal. I bear no malice to any
being. To my enemies, if any I have, I am willing
to afford assistance; therefore towards man I maintain
a conscience void of offence.
Yet by this I mean not that I am faultless. But
tell me what is the reason, that persons would rather
acknowledge themselves guilty than be accused by
others? Is it because they are more tender of themselves,
or because they meet with more favor from
others when they ingenuously confess? Let that be
as it will, there is something which makes it more
agreeable to condemn ourselves than to be condemned
by others.
But, although it is vastly disagreeable to be accused
of faults, yet no person ought to be offended
when such accusations are delivered in the spirit of
friendship. I now call upon you to fulfil your promise,
and tell me all my faults both of omission and
commission, and all the evil you either know or
think of me. Be to me a second conscience, nor
put me off to a more convenient season. There can
be no time more proper than the present. It will be
harder to erase them when habit has strengthened
and confirmed them. Do not think I trifle. These
are really meant as words of truth and soberness.
For the present, good night.
What does it signify? Why may not I visit you
days as well as nights? I no sooner close my eyes,
than some invisible being, swift as the Alborack of
Mahomet, bears me to you,—I see you, but cannot
make myself visible to you. That tortures me, but
it is still worse when I do not come, for I am then
haunted by half a dozen ugly sprites. One will
catch me and leap into the sea; another will carry
me up a precipice like that which Edgar describes
in Lear, then toss me down, and, were I not then
light as the gossamer, I should shiver into atoms;
another will be pouring down my throat stuff worse
than the witches' broth in Macbeth. Where I shall
be carried next I know not, but I would rather have
the smallpox by inoculation half a dozen times than
be sprited about as I am. What say you? Can
you give me any encouragement to come? By the
time you receive this I hope from experience you
will be able to say, that the distemper is but a trifle.
Think you I would not endure a trifle for the pleasure
of seeing you? Yes, were it ten times that
trifle, I would. But my own inclinations must not
be followed,—to duty I sacrifice them. Yet, O my
mamma, forgive me if I say, you have forgot or
never knew—but hush, and do you excuse me
that something I promised you, since it was a speech
more undutiful than that which I just now stopped
myself in. For the present, good bye.
I hope you smoke your letters well, before you
deliver them. Mamma is so fearful lest I should
catch the distemper, that she hardly ever thinks the
letters are sufficiently purified. Did you never rob a
bird's nest? Do you remember how the poor bird
would fly round and round, fearful to come nigh, yet
not know how to leave the place? Just so they say
I hover round Tom, whilst he is smoking my letters.
But heyday, Mr. What's your name, who taught
you to threaten so vehemently? "A character besides
that of a critic, in which if I never did, I always
hereafter shall fear you." Thou canst not prove a
villain, impossible,—I, therefore, still insist upon it,
that I neither do nor can fear thee. For my part, I
know not that there is any pleasure in being feared;
but, if there is, I hope you will be so generous as to
fear your Diana, that she may at least be made sensible
of the pleasure. Mr. Ayers will bring you this
letter and the bag. Do not repine,—it is filled with
balm.
Here is love, respects, regards, good wishes—a
whole wagon load of them, sent you from all the
good folks in the neighbourhood.
To-morrow makes the fourteenth day. How many
more are to come? I dare not trust myself with
the thought. Adieu. Let me hear from you by
Mr. Ayers, and excuse this very bad writing; if
you had mended my pen it would have been better.
Once more, adieu. Gold and silver have I none,
affectionate regard of your
| Letters of Mrs. Adams, | |